12,100. RUDIMENTS, pt. 807

RUDIMENTS, pt. 807

(deaf though a thousand trumpets bray)

Those early years of air raid

drills remained in my head.

Second grade. It was bizarre.

In School 5 the classroom was

in the front, facing Avenel Street,

through which large window area

I gazed endlessly. I was taken

away in fancy each day. Directly

across from where were the early

day equivalents of Avenel

landmarks, in a young kid's

mind anyway. Of course, off

to the left, Murray and Martha's

Candy Store, with the old ice-cream

sign above the doorway  -  Sealtest

or Dolly Madison; one of those;

next to that, where there's now

some sort of tax office, was a

meat market, Joe's, I think it was,

which business later grew itself

and moved to the other corner as

the new 'Shop Rite' - which in

about 1957/58 was just about the

hottest new concept around. The

American 'Supermarket' concept.

Goods you handled yourself,

shopping in well-lit aisles, with

carts, though an array of products

and displays which any denizen

of east Europe, had they seen

it, would have cried over. Later,

it was Cascade Cleaners. Then

right next to it, about 1960, there

was a bakery/donut shop  -  no

baking done there, it was just

all delivered in daily from other

local bakery supplies and sold

fresh. Two ladies ran it, and it

lasted maybe a year or two, As a

kid, 10, with my friends, awaiting

buses there for our Saturday

bowling league ride, we'd go in

there and get our 16-cent jelly

donuts. Next to all that, seemingly

forever, was the dry goods and

'notions' shop of Mrs. Kuzmiak.

Her husband was dead, and I think

they each were old-time Avenel

people. They lived at the side

of the store, in the same building.

-

All this is sort of still there, won't

be for long, and it's rundown

and ramshackle besides; yet, in

its own  and very truthful way

it stands as sentinel witness to

the truth of what once was. There

was never any real 'noise' here,

nothing of consequence. It was

just a place, a perhaps-location,

more in the imagination than

anywhere else. No matter now,

it's been pillaged and plundered

and allowed to go to seed so that

'better' replacements could be

processed in by the same doormat

brains who give 'History' afternoons

of your old towns. Decrying the

loss of what they've just cut off.

Foghead and Broad Basin  -  those

are about the only two towns they

deserve. Swampland animals most

often die off; but these you can't

even hunt.

-

Mostly, I just kept quiet; kept quiet

about all things. No one cared about

hearing from me anyway and all I

saw was too inconsequential to give a

damn about anyhow. It was about this

time, maybe 9 or 10 years old, that

my father suddenly began searching

out the occasional old Navy buddy.

First it was some guy in Garwood

or somewhere; nice new home,

pleasant people. Then there was

some fellow in Pittsburgh  -  name

completely forgotten but his name

back them was often on my father's

lips. We never went there, but he

came to Avenel one time, with

his own little family. Mostly, all

grotesques. I always hated all

that, the introductions, the way of

being shown as Dad's best apple,

the grand 'Son' everyone should

have. And my sister too. The same

went for her. One time, shocker 

of shockers, we went to visit 

somebody  -  I totally forget who,

but it was my sister and me  -  and

this guy had like a maybe 14

year old daughter. Just the one kid.

My sister and I, still quiet younger,

sat there and the girl got up, to

do something, and she swung

her leg up, sort of over us and

within our sight-line (she was

wearing a loose dress) and she

had nothing on underneath it 

and all we saw as the big clump

of dark hair. We both went 

wide-eyed, looking at each other

like, 'What was that?' It was one

of the strangest scenes I've ever

gone through; funny as all get

out now, and each time that 

memory crops back up I can 

only chuckle. And I do. The

memory came up today as

some guy that I met was saying

how much he liked my long

scraggly beard...and how he'd

have one too but he can't grow

any decent facial hair. And then,

with regret, he added, to underscore

what he meant (I guess), 'Hell,

I can't grow hair on my balls!'

-

So, I think if life is anything, it's

a long string of memory bells

hanging out in the air somewhere;

bells which are apt to ring, and

ring loudly, when any sort of 

breeze or wind or flurry goes

by to rustle the air. So few,

oftentimes, even know what 

to expect : and I'd bet there

are times when even the God,

who is supposed to know all 

things, doesn't quite know 

what's coming through.

That's Art. Or that's where
Art come it  -  allowing the
truer creation of other realms 
and other places. Someone
asked me once what it is, and
what it meant, these images I
sometimes paint and draw.
My response was : 'Those are
places I want to be at, go to,
visit, see.I know I can't get
there, so I just draw them,
and that's enough to
make me happy.'