RUDIMENTS, pt. 1,102
(polymath and wanderlust)
About the biggest bridge you'd ever
see in the Pine Barrens was a double
wide, people bridge over some limpid
stream. Most often, it it was a road,
the road for vehicles just went down,
with a gentle dip, into the waterway,
if it was small enough, and pulled all
right back up the other side. Even then,
there wasn't much of that. I always
feared for the frogs and turtles, or
whatever kind of water-life was there.
Getting squished. The large, and the
paved, roads, well-designed, always
seemed parallel or adjacent to water,
and not through it. That was always
pretty unique. There were, as I made
a previous mention of, large lakes and
ponds, places for swimming and for
camping. Most everything of that
nature was led into by paved road.
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It was only, really, deep into that
large unknown area of the huge square
that the barrens were, where all these
sand-road convergences occurred. A
person could be tooling along for
some fifteen minutes, and all of a
sudden come to a crossing; of four,
yes, yes, sand thoroughfares. It was
almost possible to imagine, if it was
developed, where the gas stations
on opposing corners would be facing
each other, and where the 7-11 would
be, the curbing and parking, and even
the darned traffic light. Of course, none
of it existed, but it was all patterned as
if some conjectural 'future' stood just
outside of reality and, with 200 or so
people, could actually materialize
into being. (Maybe that was the
'other' bridge that I visualized too;
the one within the Pine Barrens that
always led to the other side, the other
version, of things. Once I crossed
that 'bridge' (of thought anyway) I
sensed that all the other things did
NOT necessarily need to happen -
the roads, the rows of condos and
cheaper, subsidized housing, the bad
water, runoff, cars, greases and heat,
the haughtiness that comes with bad
attitudes and false pretenses. It didn't
happen there, and that kept my faith
alive).
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I've never been into any of that
leisure sports stuff that took up so
much of other people's time, but
the incident I related when I nearly
ran out of gas down there and the
guy in Chatsworth wouldn't sell
me any all stemmed from one of
those instances when someone
asked me to do something for
them and I said yes. My friend
was going to meet his own friend,
down at some paint-ball range just
off the area of the Pine Barrens,
out along some equally desolate
road. It was one of those tournament
things, in paint-ball; some sort of
competition where ranked teams
were going to fight it out, pretend
killing each other (like videogame
tourneys today) by splattering
their attack opponents with the
blood dyes and fake paints of the
competition. He needed a ride
down there and would ride back
up with his friend (provided he was
still alive?). To kill the afternoon,
we explored that old cranberry camp
I've written about. He was pretty
impressed. Eventually, and after
the gas fiasco, I dropped him
off at the killing fields, and it all
worked out. The juxtaposition of
the Pine Barrens and all their
saintliness to me, and the nearby
paint-ball simulated slaughter
acreage, I thought of as pretty
funny. Weird how all sorts of
baser human things, like the
paintball scheme, can coexist
with the high and the exalted
splendors of our world. One of
them has to have a come-down,
I suppose. There were a lot of
things I always liked there; stuff
that, for New Jersey, was rare.
The people that live in Jersey, as
used as they are to what's around
them, don't always notice. Like,
for instance, power lines. The
telephone poles down there were
mostly thin, spindly things, if
they were there at all, and often,
after 20 or 30 years, I'd guess,
they'd sort of dried out and gotten
crooked and twisted a little, with
the few wires they carried, still
intact. There was nothing like
up in the larger suburban areas:
wires and poles everywhere,
crisscrossing with transformer
boxes and all, up on the poles.
Real busy, cluttered, and heavy
looking. In the pines, it was as
if it was still 1928 - a few wires,
skinny poles, and a 'let's see if
this works if we hang the wire
here' kind of approach. Another
thing was the driveways. Any
houses there were - and there
were enough in certain spots -
hidden; you hardly even saw them
or even realized they were there.
Unlike suburbias with their crazy,
massive, and optic lawns, the houses
were set back, way back, like 150
feet or more. Little, flat homes,
with a long, sandy driveway, trees
and shade. No one really cared
about all that suburban crud with
flat lawns, marine-cut grass, and
fancy entries and lights. There'd
be some dumpy old rural mailbox
out along the street, sometimes
even in groups of three or four,
and little else. It was real private
living, and no one got overly
nutso over the externals. Like
the way it ought to be. If someone
needed a shed or a barn, they
made their own, pretty much.
I never much saw any people
either. I don't know who lived
around there, or if they had sons
or daughters, or what went on.
There were a couple of churches,
but nothing big deal there either.
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One last thing: There was a place
out there, along the road from
Chatsworth to Rt 72, or whatever
it was, called 'Hedger House.'
Like the Pick-A-Lilly, it was a
Biker Bar, at least it was whenever
we were there, since we were on
motorcycles and made it one. I
never was there on any off-time
from that. It was nice, a tad less
raucous, and dangerous, from
the Pick-A-Lilly, but still nothing
you'd write a postcard home about.
It was old, and nice, had about
maybe 50 acres of land, a few
shelters and coverings, beer stands,
horseshoe areas. All the usual
outdoor sots of drinking-place
attributes you used to often see
around; sort of like the old Maple
Tree grounds in Avenel. Motorcycle
parking was anarchic. You just did
what you wanted, but always had
to make sure your kickstand, after
a few hours, wasn't to sink in
the sand and have your bike
topple over. That happened time
enough and, along with trying to
successfully get out of the place
with a fair drunk on, maybe even
seeing double, it all made for some
interesting exits. Watching 2 or 3
'inebriated' motorcycle guys huffing
to pick upright a toppled bike is a
comedy routine to be sure. Even
without cops.
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