RUDIMENTS, pt. 792
(past and present and future too)
I always needed exemplary
things in my life. I never
had any, so I made my own.
Each step I took, therefore,
was done with some plotting
and some reflection. The most
accidental thing that has ever
happened to me, fortunately,
I guess, was getting creamed
by that train. It set my life on
a different path, scattering all
my things and getting me back
together after I'd restructured
it all. I was working blindly
too, in a shade.
-
One thing I did learn was how
I didn't have to shout things
from treetops, or rooftops.
There were other ways to
get points across - I didn't
really ever have to address
anyone, though I did anyway,
unless they came to me first.
I never wasted a moment's
energy on dealing with losers.
I've noticed still, here locally,
you can find them in pairs,
usually, one stating a lie, and
the other swearing to it. Yeah,
trees get cut. OK, fine.
-
I sometimes liked washing my
hands in blood - country cow
and chicken blood. I can bet
a thousand dollars that no one
reading this has ever done that,
but, I can attest, it's a startlingly
spiritual thing. A real stunner.
There were times, around the
Leona Meat Market (more like
a factory) when the killing days
were busy. It was a real sad
place for me, and made me often
just want to go home - I got
pretty sick of people selecting
their cuts of meat, getting things
all nicely wrapped in white,
waxy paper, and then bragging
on about how good it all tasted.
Some times there were, at
Warrren's mid-day farm meals,
that they'd announce the name of
the cow, or heifer, or bull, or
whatever, we were 'dining' on.
The waxed paper, from freezer
to stove, was most often marked
with a name : 'Daisy,' 'Mary,'
'Jake,' or 'Mope.' Physical
characteristics, walks, attitudes,
etc., of the cows often became
their names.
-
Leona was little place, on a map
anyway. Just a dot nearby, where
some roads crossed and this one
family, long-time dwellers, had
a meat-rendering plant, a
slaughterhouse, a farm, some
trucks, and a whole operation
that had been going for years.
Back in New Jersey, when I was
growing up, my aunt and uncle
lived in Leonia, up by Fort Lee
at the George Washington Bridge.
I used to think funny stuff about
that - Washington and all his
troops, on the run, fleeing the
British, guarding their positions,
scampering madly along the
Hudson to stay safe. And now,
there's a bridge there, after all that
fighting, death, turmoil, and
retreat. Named after him too.
Anyway, that Leonia had an
'i' in it. This did not.
After things like that got into
my head, slaughterhouse, meat,
animals, I knew I was deep into
animals, I knew I was deep into
another culture; it seemed one
without elites. I'd just come from
a NYC outsider status, another
culture again, much the same
in that fashion of being outside
of it, but one with just about
nothing but elites. Strange
dichotomy to that situational
contrast. My head was sometimes
just a running dream. I remember
getting up one day, a Saturday,
late for me and with nothing
going on, and I looked out the
window and there's this girl or
young woman, quite a beauty,
sauntering by in the field across
the dirt road, at her own, solitary,
slow, and singular pace, on
horseback. I was immediately
lost. What was I seeing? Is this
a normal apparition around here?
Those sorts of questions can sure
broadside a person. She did
eventually come over, on the
horse. We met and greeted; wife,
kids, me, new lodgings, etc. Turned
out she was the grown daughter of
the man and lady up atop the other
hill and they stabled her horse for
her and she'd come over as often
as possible, to tend to her horse,
ride it around, run, trot, saunter.
She'd grown up there, and knew
everything and everyone around,
mostly. 'Cept us, of course.
After that, I'd see her around now
and then, and her horse. She drove
some kind of Ford station wagon,
Country Squire or something. I
never found out any more about
her, husband, kids, all that. Just
the horse story and the dedication
that entailed. I did get wordy/friendly
with her Dad after awhile. Called
him Jenkins, when I talked about
him. To his face, it was Roy. He's
one of the new burials up on that
graveyard hill I wrote about,
right up the top of my house's
hill, which - from the other
direction, was also his. He was
an old Navy guy, from what I
saw by the decals and stickers
and things he had around, and
he was probably maybe 50 by
the time I met him. I never did
meet his wife, 'cept at a distance,
to wave or nod as they drove by.
If they chose to drive in the 'other'
direction from out of their house
a ways off, it would bring them
along past us, on the dirt road.
-
It was funny how I'd gotten
amassed myself in the middle
of all these worlds. It was like
being in the middle of some
creation maelstrom, things
blowing around, getting started,
other things dying. Dreams and
memories passing as they crashed
right into new things I'd never
heard of before. Like a lady on
horseback in a field of wild
things. Who would have thought?
Not I. Or not me. Or whatever
anyone wants to call it. Back in
Avenel, last I knew, it was Mr.
Hill who drove a Country Squire.
He was a regular hard-working
guy, at one time my Scout-Master
too, on all the camping trips
and Summer-camp weeks. I'd
see him each morning passing,
on his way up to Merck, in
Rahway, where he worked. He
had a son, Bobby, my age, and
then a bunch of daughters,
three or four maybe. I forget.
For me, growing up, that was
life. And now, a tiny part of
that life, well, a representation
of it anyway, in that image of a
Ford Country Squire, was all
changed over and had different
meanings. The world sure had
a funny tempo - things changed,
as I did, and no one ever really
recognized the core. The core,
I mean, of what a person really
was. As Humans, we only
grab like a small portion of
all that Life has going on at
any one moment, In essence,
everything is perfect, and the
greater spirit takes it all in
has maintains control - a great,
broadening stillness that's the
world and creation. But, the
fidgety human? Only grabs
the smallest part, makes snap
judgments, calls things out,
stops processes short. All the
while, unbeknownst unless
recognized within grace, a million
other things make up the moment.
When the eye sees something, it
sees the totality; we may see a
hand, or a few fingers, but the
greater working mind, in that
genuflected instant, sees the
entire person - past and
present, and future too.
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