RUDIMENTS, pt. 873
(advertised on the side of barns)
I always seemed to be
wanting things to connect,
but the more I lived the
more I realized it wasn't
about that at all. It had
been determined (at some
point and somewhere)
that life was supposed to
remain messy, and
disconnected. People
on the outs for years,
just again getting together
later in life, to put aside the
petty-in-hindsight things
that had kept them apart,
and then one dies, suddenly,
just like that. It's all over,
all the reconciliation and
happiness. Family members
at odds, stay that way, and
remain so right to the end,
and then, over a coffin,
there are all those tears and
it all comes out. Too late,
and for nothing. It's just
how things are. We're so
busy all our lives weighing
feathers in the balance, that
we forget what real heft and
weight is about. A lot of this
kind of stuff led me to just
back away from the normal
interactions of life, in a sort
of Asperger's Syndrome of
my very own. Hey, Mac, I
don't mingle real well, okay?
-
Up in Pennsylvania, as I've
related, there were plenty of
ornery outcasts, a horde of
little John the Baptist types,
living in, figuratively, caves.
The fire was always burning
in the entryway, its soot and
smoke having blackened the
entry rocks and smudged up
the walls. But, there was always
some sort of lantern or smudge
pot on, so the door was always
open. Your choice, your chance.
I always took the chances. Any
number of these mountain guys
turned out to be real cool and
interesting people, if you could
get past the crust. This was about
1971, and they all pretty much
somewhere kept a car, an old,
maybe 1956, Ford or Chevy. Just
to get around when needed, for
supplies, or for what they always
called 'provisions.' Interesting
use of a word, I thought, and
right off, when I heard it in that
context I knew exactly what
it meant - in the Latin sense.
Pro-vision, yeah, who's not
for vision; but that's not the
meaning. The combo word
that it is, in Latin, is about
the same maybe as our word
'foresight.' It's kind of saying,
'seeing ahead' or, more literally,
'for-seeing' what you'll be needing.
Interesting. The largest outlay
for these guys seemed to be
tobacco, most often. Red Man
Chew, and cigarettes. Regular,
long-leaf chewing tobacco was
one of the banes of existence
up there. It was advertised on
the sides of barns and other
places - a sort of brutally
bitter juice gets brought out
of the wet leaves in your mouth
as you chew them. It's all like
coated with molasses or something
to, so you get this sickly-sweet,
heartburn inducing, black/brown
spit always going on. All the
farmers, or many of them anyway,
they were always chewing and
spitting. Right in the middle of
a sentence, hell, in the middle
of a long word, they'd just lean
over a bit, and spit. The stuff
came in a soft pouch, so it rolled
up easy, for your pockets or
wherever. Nice little foldover
top - nothing special at all. It
lasted, generally, a day or three,
and you bought another. Like 75
cents maybe. I myself did it for
a time, but it was massive murder
on teeth and fillings too. It was
country-cool though to be toddling
along atop a tractor, or milking a
cow, and just chewing this junk
and spitting around. I know it ruined
one or two of my teeth, and fillings,
back then. I began doing it again,
actually, years later as a Biker, but
other guys were always pissing and
moaning that I was getting my
flyaway spit all over them some.
I soon quit; it was all for effect,
but the effect was pretty lousy.
(That's funny to see those two
words together, pretty, and lousy.
I wonder what's with that? is there
a lousy pretty too?)….
-
Up in the country, no one cared
any about the stuff I was just
talking of - they just went
ahead and, if that was their wont,
they did it. There wasn't any
consideration taken about others.
Pants were always all manured
up and smelly like a cow. Barn
boots ended up being boots for
everywhere, not just the barn.
Only proper people worry about
stuff like that - mud and manure
and all sorts of nasty muck. Same
thing went for your flannel shirts
and work jackets. if they still had
arms, they were good. Buttons
mostly didn't matter, nor did a tear
here or there where you'd snag it on
something. That always happened,
and along the barnyards and in the
barns and silos and haylofts, there
were always hooks and chains and
cleavers and saws and things all
about, jagged and dangerous, and
you always ended up running into
something that would cut you up.
Or tear a coat or shirt or jacket.
Nobody ever got tetanus, or lockjaw
or even died, but there were always
nasty items and things piercing skin.
You just covered it over and stayed
to the task. Farming itself was a
dangerous deal - and then in the
off-times, if they weren't shooting
each other by mistake in the woods,
they were shooting at each other for
messing with the wife. There were a
lot of raw, rugged Lotharios up there.
I think that's what you call that stuff.
Romeo's too effete to call it, tights
and honor and chivalry and all that;
no way.
-
Those guys, the cranky ones, up on
Pisgah Hill, they were the ones to
watch out for, always on the prowl -
I think that came from no lady
companionship - always ready
to swat you like a fly. Flies don't
swat, no, but I'm meaning to say
they'd swat you like you WERE a
fly, OK? I think electricity was still
new to many of these guys, and a
powered saw or a chain saw just
made them laugh. Until of course
some one of them got crushed or
wrecked up when a tree they were
cutting came down on them. Or
they fell reaching too far out
while trying to saw. Oops,
wrong limb! Cops made them
laugh too, and the school
administration type people,
and the preacher guys when
they came around, and the tax
guy, and all that. It was all a lot
of fun - some of my best times
and best conversations were with
a few of those crackers. I wonder
about them now. A few years
back, I took a few days and went
out there, stayed in some motel
along the side of Route 14, and as
I went up Pisgah, it was all paved
and different; the shacks were
all gone, many trees were just
clearings now, and up to the top
was some Park Ranger crap with
a few big bullshit history markers,
and some Indian character I bet
they'd made up - Chief Pis-a-Gaha
or something - and a whole story
about his looking out, with a sob,
over all his lost lands AND they
have like a 12-foot statue of the
supposed chief, and next to him
some gigantic eagle too! What
a USA crock. I wanted to spit my
Red Man chew right in their faces.
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