RUDIMENTS, pt. 981
(goodbye old paint, pt. 2)
When I talk of stepping back
into time, I need to ask also,
'Time?' What is time? Time
is appearances,and I think
that's all. (Or at least it appears
so). Here I am telling you the
facts and furies of thousands
of horses, while telling my
story of, at most, caring for
one or two workhorses at a
time. (Does that mean at a
'TIME?')...
-
This was all slow and plodding;
these weren't racehorses, nor
were the vendor guys in any
way sportsmen. This was a
tedious workday, a non-jovial
trek through streets and corners
to find some assigned location
from which to sell the most
base of foodstuff to those
walking past. The horses were
part and parcel of all of this.
-
How did all this go? Well, I
found some more information
that told me more about old New
York and all this horse business.
Endlessly fascinating - 'The
dead horses were collected
from street and stable, hauled
to a Hudson River pier, and
loaded for Barren Island (in
Jamaica Bay), which location
was in use for dead-animal
rendering. They were hauled
there on scows or an aged
schooner known as the 'horse
boat.' There the animals would
render their last service to
humankind through a process
of reduction that began as
soon as the boat docked. The
carcasses were lifted from the
deck, skinned, and gutted, and
the flesh was cut off and carted
to a boiler house. The carrion
was then placed (as reported in
the Brooklyn Eagle newspaper),
and boiled until every particle
of fat is taken from it. The heat
breaks down fat molecules,
which rise to the surface.
Skimmed off and congealed,
the horse fat was sold to
chandlers to make soaps and
candles. [By this means, the
horses, in death, helped to
illuminate the very shops and
homes they trotted past in life].
Bones were carved into buttons,
combs and knife handles, or
burned to make 'bone black'
used as a pigment and as a
filter in the sugar-refining
process. Hides were salted
down and sold to tanners.
Hooves were rendered for
glue. If there was a glut on
the island, or if demand
for products fell, carcasses
would simply be dumped
en route, fouling the shores
of the upper and lower bay
['and forcing those seeking
the delights of the water's
edge, to give up the pleasure
because of the hideous objects
that floated on the waves' (NY
Times)]. In May, 1866, actually
an inspection by the newly
formed Metropolitan Board
of Health, touring the scene,
in response to complaints
about horrific odors wafting
out for two miles, found
'thousands of dead animals
lying under the sun, sending
forth a highly offensive stench. '
The carcasses were 'washed
away by every high tide and,
becoming bladders, float up
and down the coast...' Yikes!
-
If history was time, then what
ever was the 'now?' I questioned
that too. Was the hammer and the
anvil I'd see at the horse-shoer's
place, was that now or then?
What sort of sullen history was
being kept under wraps? The
blacksmith shop? The wagon
wheels? When I'd go back to
Avenel or Woodbridge, there'd
always be some fool using
these old things for decoration,
a mere 'pleasance' to try and
evoke some old-times they
knew nothing of. The guy
at the ranch house, with two
wagon wheels out in front,
one on each side of his mailbox
post (as if it was rural-free-delivery
out on some paradise in the sticks).
A guy over by the high school
had 2 milk cans on his lawn.
What were these people thinking?
At that bullshit level, history
is reduced to stupid nostalgia;
'This is Great Grandma Kendrick's
weaving wheel and loom; she
made many of the family clothes
right from there!' I could see
any of that, next to candlabras
and household kerosene wall
lamps. All useless as history;
useless as nostalgia too, because
it's all been ruined. People now
are so vacant, the flames would
scare them, from the candles,
and just the thought of a lantern
lit by kerosene would have them
down in a frenzy of heat.
-
I never saw things more clearly
defined as when I'd leave one
world and enter the next, in
whichever the direction. The
one guy I knew, Gerald, an old
man filled with good intentions
but never having any way of
getting those intentions across,
and therefore often misread,
was the main character of my
little horse-career drama. He
liked eating peanuts, and it
seemed no one else did. So
they'd carp at the shells he'd
leave all around. Whenever
I could I'd sweep in his area,
just to keep some sort of peace.
If someone got on his wrong
side, over another peanuts
comment or by some general
complaint about something, it
often got under Gerald's skin
and the the whole time was
ruined. They never sent him
out because he was, for those
sorts of reasons, not good
with people. I used to think,
'Well it's not the circus, he
doesn't have to please people,
just hand them their stuff.'
But, he never was out - so
instead lots of times we'd
just be there, doing little
chores - or I would - while
he most generally just kept
the place in inventory order,
for sacks of feed, supplies, and
product by which to re-load
the carts. I guess he never had
a family, any number of these
guys were loners. Every so
often there'd be a surprise;
some really cute girl coming
by because she knew someone,
or on her way somewhere. I
used to like that a lot; girls
always kept me fascinated,
even there. Girls always
seemed to like horses too;
Gerald would say 'Cause of
their schlong. Ever see?'
That was never funny, but
I did use it a few times, later
on, in bar life when I'd have
to explain my train accident
injuries to some inquisitive
girl. I'd say I'd lost mine in
the wreck, and all they had
to replace it with was a horse
one. Funny, maybe, but it
never worked. The joke, jerk.
I'd never met anyone before
named Gerald, either. It never
seemed like a right name to me.
Then in 1974 we got a President
name Gerald Ford. Imagine that;
except that wasn't his real name.
His actual birth name was
Leslie King, and that's not
much better, but it has a
nice ring. Endlessly
fascinating too.
Get it?
No comments:
Post a Comment