12,048. RUDIMENTS, pt. 793

RUDIMENTS, pt. 793

(the slow burn)

There used to be a guy named

Edgar Kennedy, in films of the

1930's, late era, I guess. His

specialty was the 'slow burn.'

That was about it, he wasn't

goo for much else; no emoting,

no drama. He was simply this

half-comedy guy they'd throw in

whenever they needed someone

of his character, for comic-relief,

or some repeated side-reference

by the camera within the film.

The idea of the slow burn was

the accumulated frustrations 

of small annoyances slowly 

building until this Kennedy

guy would crack  -  evidenced

by the grimacing and contortions

of his face, and then the explosive

give-out of frustration and ire.

It was funny to watch, though

it became soon predictable,

and then mannered, and 

boring. Such is fame  -  and

anyway he made an entire

career out of it.

-

Sometimes I could envisage

myself getting like that; but

it never really happened. I

always managed to keep things

in check. One time, living in

Elmira, there was a whole

rash of occurrences on a three

day Memorial Day weekend,

that almost drove me nuts, but

I just laughed it off. A friend

and his girlfriend, both living

in the San Francisco area -  

actually a weird little town

called Benicia  -  called one

day. It was a Weds. evening,

as I recall, with the Memorial

Day weekend a few days away.

They were calling from some

diner somewhere, about 100

miles away. They'd been driving

cross-county, had their dog

with them (an Irish Setter, a

breed you don't much see 

anymore. Funny how breeds 

lose favor, fall off the radar, 

and fade. Like Afghan Hounds

too  -  never much seen now).

They asked if they could stop

over, re-group, stay a few days,

and then figure out what to do.

We said, sure, OK. Got some

food and wine and stuff, knowing

already what they liked. He was

kind of one of those wine-snobby

guys: Napa Valley influence, and

all those California wines. Always

going on about dryness, after taste,

slate-echoes, remnants of fruity,

all kinds of wine-junk. To bug 

him, I used to put my ear to the

wine glass, and say things like,

'Yes, yes, definitely, I can hear

it too!'

-

So, they arrived. They were

driving a maybe 1965 International

pick-up trick, all packed up for a

cross country drive. Bench seat,

dog snuggled in too. Once they

arrived, they didn't look much

worse for wear; certainly not

traveled-out, as I'd soon learn.

Weds. finished up, they bedded

up for some rest. Early the next

morning, I hear the garbage men

outside, apparently having a 

rollicking good time over the truck

in front of my house. I could

understand, a bit  -  people in

Elmira didn't see much out-of-the-

ordinary stuff. The truck was all

loaded up and packed for overland

travel, thereby looking a tad

safari-like, but what had caught

their attention was the water-bag 

on the front bumper. I forget what

it was called, Camel-Pouch or

something. People used them

for cool water, as and if needed,

for the trips over the Rockies.

Like an emergency pouch of

water,  10 or 20 gallons maybe,
if and when needed. It was a lined,

heavy canvas, and had a bold, 

reddish image of a nice-looking

camel (logo) on it. I thought 

it was neat, but it threw these 

garbage guys over the edge, 

laughing, and at 6:30am too.

-

Well anyway, we hung out, 

went over to the College, got 

some food, drank some wine,

talked travel sights, cars; the

two females enjoyed it all, as

did all of us. The Red Setter,

however, another story. My 

dog was OK with it all, but 

their dog was nuts. Probably

travel-crazy by that time. 

They were in the yard, the two

dogs, plenty of room to roam.

But the setter was bizarrely

out of control, barking, yapping,

snarling along the fence, etc.

So my friend tied him up,

with about 8 feet of rope, to

a sapling type tree we had

back there, probably 8 or 10 

years old. We went inside to

eat (mealtime) and when we

got back outside, that little tree

was nowhere to be seen, except

for some sheared and torn

remnant of a trunk sticking

just barely out of the ground.

The dog had calmed down

nicely, however, and the two

were just laying there, resting

near to each other. He'd thrashed
it, ripped right from the ground.

-

My friend get the bright idea

(Travel-weary ? not him), that

after a night's sleep what he'd

most like to do  -  with us along  -

is set out the next morning,

early, (that's 2 dogs, Kathy and

our son, him, and his girlfriend)

for Niagara Falls, (some 400 miles

off, I'm guessing, northwest. Look

at a map), see the Falls, visit the

Canadian side, get back in the

car (my car; we were to use my

large wagon, since we needed

the space), and then continue,

for the remainder of the weekend,

to NYC, and then back. Well, 

hot damn, thought I, if that

isn't a tall order. I asked a few

questions  -  lodging, money, etc.,

but he was ahead of me and

had it all figured out. Parent's

house in NJ, to provide all.

So, yeah, we got it rolling.

-

Later that day, whatever time it 

was, we got to Buffalo. Into

some park, with a picnic area.

This guy was fastidious about

eating, lunch, wine again, etc.

We got to some picnic section,

got a table, and he brings out

from one of his bags in my car,

his Coleman camper-stove! Some

Campbell's beans cans, a cold

package of hot dogs, and rolls,

and all the other little junk 

needed. We had a pretty nice

little lunch there, dogs rolling

about, everyone happy. Then

his dog goes wild all over again,

and takes off after some father

and young-son team walking

along. Not biting or anything,

but running, noisy, and all

needed for scariness. He bowls

right into the little kid, sending

the tyke sprawling. The kid's

wailing, the father's gone ballistic,

and the battle-lines were drawn.

I just stayed there, enjoying

my hot dog, while the California

guy was over there calming all

this down and trying to placate

the flaming dad. The ladies too

went over, to sooth the poor,

scared kid. My son and I just

sat there, licking mustard, as it

were, with our own dog in place.

-

It all got straightened out; no

police, no anger, no damages.

Back into the car. Getting lost

in Buffalo, by the way, is a

bummer. We finally made it

out OK, and got to the Falls, 

American side. They wouldn't

let us over the bridge, ID's and

all were OK, but the dogs were

somehow not worthy of Canada.

No inoculations, no doggie

paperwork, whatever. I didn't

care; the Falls already bored me.

I hate all that rainbow-misty

postcard junk. My friends, 

however, were determined. 

They said we could walk over 

the bridge, but no dogs. (Walking

to Canada had always  -  you

understand  -  been one of my

life wishes; Not). So, we park 

in the American side parking 

lot and (against my better

judgment) leave the dogs in 

the car, suitably ventilated, 

and it wasn't warm out, etc. 

(and back then people weren't 

so crazy about all that stuff 

anyway). We walked the 

bridge over to the Canadian 

side; went to the misty falls;

saw the old generating stations;

the Midway of Junk the Canadian

side had going  -  wax museum,

cotton candy, clowns, trinkets,

sno-globes, Niagara Falls underwear,

you name, they probably had it.

I'd about had it by then; I'm 

guessing, two hours, maybe an 

hour and a half  -  and we still 

had a long way to drive.

-

We got back to the car. My 

dog was soundly asleep in the

rear, station-wagon portion. The

setter, however, had torn up

the seat, gnawed the corner

of the dashboard, whatever that

plasticy stuff was they'd started

using back then instead of metal,

and, apparently, pawed something

apart underneath the dash. Ha. Ha.

I tried laughing it off, but was pissed.

The car started, we managed to get

heater tubes back on (he was a car
mechanic, by the way), and together,

nothing was leaking, and all seemed 

good enough.

- 

**pt two next; across the state, eastward,

to NYC, and NJ too! (American side).