12,091. RUDIMENTS, pt. 803

RUDIMENTS, pt 803

(a talent to wrangle)

I had trouble with a lot

of things  -  often unable to

accept them without a total

understanding. Some of

the matter was that all of

the matter didn't always

fit  -  like finding a greeting

card in the Horror Aisle.

It always appeared to me

that people accepted things,

even as they didn't understand

them; thus continuing the

generation of a false reality.

Conclusion : Not my problem.

Did that make it invalid?

-

I wasn't sure. I'd never built

a house, or done carpentry.

I'd never figured to learn

how rooms are constructed,

 or windows hung. It used to

amaze me to be around guys

who seemed to have been

born with all that as second

nature, a born already-in-place
knowledge. On these farms,

there'd be things going up

all the time  -  out-buildings

and sheds, auxiliary rooms

on houses, even new houses

occasionally. These men would

just mull about, between other

chores, thinking over procedure,

where to dig this and that, how

deep this should be, what width

here, the floorboards, and the

sash. (I liked that word, never

knowing quite what it was;

something to do with hanging

windows). No one ever had

just one concentration, which

I noticed right off too. They

would farm, and then also

be able to build a house, or

dig a well or dig out a cellar.

I'd seen that too, under an

existing house! All of a

sudden a backhoe would

appear. 'You have that too?'

I'd say, incredulous at all

this equipment. This was

all good  -  but on the other

hand, and at the same time,

the question of aesthetics

never arose and the things

they built oftentimes came

out butt-ugly and not very

gracious. I think again it was

that 'utility' bent  -  they were

all of that 'get it done and use

it' mindset. One problem was,

a lot of the places they lived

in, and to which they were

connecting these new things,

or building near to anyway,

were gracious old structures

for that other day of that other

world, say the 1880's, when

things were really built  -

heavy and strong, with a

powered grace and appeal

about them. Their new stuff

didn't always mix well, at

least not to me. My eye, in

seeing these things, was

always immediately able

to see the differentiation

between two worlds there.

They never cared, however,

as long as it was done. I

realized later on this was

a lot about money, plain

and simple. Years later, in

Princeton, I'd walk down a

block and most any of these

houses, long in place, no

matter what they were getting  -

a new window, a new frontage,

an extension or an enclosure,

a dormer, even a walkway,

there'd be a sign on the lawn

for the contractor, AND, as

well, one for the architect or

the architectural firm. Every

item was first designed and

measured for implementation.

All of that took big bucks,

which obviously the local

Princetonians had willingly

spent. Farmers such as these

in Pennsylvania, however  - 

the Scrimp Brothers, let's call

them all  -  would never have

done that. Worlds apart from

each other, and separated by

40 years too. What it meant?

I didn't have a clue.

-

There are many things a person

doesn't even know about. As in

this instance, of building things,

it was only many years later it

was explained to me locally, in
these Jersey suburbs, how unions  -

in this case the Carpenter's Union  -

makes sure that the jobs and the

'quantity' of the jobs are assured.

They run a Carpentry School

kind of training center, for the

new guys coming in, and for

updates and refreshers and all

for the working guys. They buy

into the local establishment, by

those means  -  facility, jobs, the

enforced politics of phone-banking

for supported candidates, etc. In

doing all this they maintain, as

steady-to-go, a working relationship

with the local powers in place.

Campaign contributions, and

more, go into securing the

continued growth of projects

and proposals to keep these

carpenters all busy. So, when

people go about yelling, 'Stop

all the construction, we're too

built up already, the roads are

choked, and we're angry.' They're

also hopeless  -  unless they're

throwing the same amount of

insider money and dust-of deals

and trade-offs that these unions

and Town Halls are rigging, none

of it will stop. It's part pay-off,

part incentive to keep it going.

When they say 'You can't fight

City Hall,' they mean that, but

also they don't. You can influence

city hall  -  in lots of ways - but

you can't outright fight it. I

never for once thought that

any of those farm guys had any

throwaround power. I don't think

these farm guys ever organized 
for anything, and I never saw any 
outright political consciousness 
going, (even though the old legacy 
days of Farm Progressive and Farm

Labor parties used to cause a big 
hub-bub, and even get people
clubbed and slaughtered),

either local or state. Everything

was a given, and  -  because of

the nice isolation we all shared 

- people just ended up doing

what they wished. It's hard to

understanding the other guy's

whining, if you've not yourself

experienced his confining.

-

If a bunch of regulators ever did

show up, those farmer guys would

have rolled right over anyway, and

did what they were told. There was

never any real incentive to resist.

Anything. It was just that up there

the idea of power politics had not

yet advanced to the point that some

local fellaheen would have seen it

as an opportunity for raking in

some cash, starting up a budding 

political career locally, and at the 

same time lording all over others 

so well. I'd imagine it's always been

like that, even in small places; a small 

man in a large role in a small place 

takes  on added dimensions, moreso 

than if  he was a big man in a big

place, at which point it all overwhelms

his or her meager grasp of momentary

things, and falls apart for them.

It may take two to tango, but it

takes talent to wrangle.
-
I was living  -  and I both felt it and
knew it  -  a sort of Mark Twain 
existence, in that my own ridicule
and joviality towards this stuff took
on a sort-of curmudgeonly curious
comedic bent while making deadly
serious points to which no one listened.
And I was doing it right there too in 
a location and area he'd lived in and 
was buried in. It was a gift, to me.
I always had trouble imagining that
as mere coincidence. I felt it meant
much more. As if it as a tribal, roadside
altar, I'd often go to his gravesite and
sit there, 'mulling' about, in much the
same ways those farmer guys mulled
over their next building project. I
was hoping to build a temple, and
a new man, and a new Kingdom.