RUDIMENTS, pt. 1,061
('Carthage must be destroyed')
In one of those 'this is because I
say it moments,' I was a Roman
Centurian. But, a contrarian
centurion never went far in
the Roman legions, and I was
slain for my insubordination:
Leading a revolt of legion
stable-hands from the side
of the Landowne March. One
day I awoke, remembering all
that, and it took me right over
to the shell-stalls in the old
flea market stands. I knew I
was searching for something,
something internal that was
becoming pressing, but I
knew not what it was. It's
like that when one is 'driven.'
And I was driven - but once
that drives breaks out of its
control parameter, most of the
effort bleeds away into a sort
of no-results nothingness. in
fact, when you come right down
to it, everything is nothingness,
but the idea of the schools and
colleges is to take that sense
of nothing and at least stack
it andhone the point of it, so
as to do 'something' by which
the established societal order
bestows praise or advancement
or money or position. Which,
in all essence, is the entire point
of most people's lives. I never
had that final clink, and would
just wander away.
-
In 1972, up in Pennsylvania, each
of the people I'd meet, and farmers
and such I'd work with, were always
headfast into their tasks. As far
as occupations go, you need to
remember that 'farming' entails
the sort of year-round, 24/7 sort
of work upon which animal lives
depend,and livelihoods depend,
as well. A large farm could have
6 farmhands to assist. It didn't
happen often that there were 6,
but you'd often see farmhands'
homes, in some proximity to the
main house, or not. Sometimes
off to the side, or around the next
dirt road even. Or the obligatory
trailer, somewhere near. The
farmers had, after time, sons,
and daughters too, who, by the
time of 12 or 13 years old, were
as helpful as any other hired
farmhand. It was a hard deal.
with the main farm, or the
business of the farm, and real
estate, usually going with the
first-born son. Sometimes then,
the younger brother or brothers
became farmhands, with
shared property, or with a
home being built for them,
somewhere on the old family-land.
Often enough, some sort of a
dissension was present, by the
rank distribution of the family
possessions and land. But, it
seemed, people got over it, except
in a few more wicked cases. Those
left, the working brothers, were,
as I noted before, always very
head-into with their work and
efforts. There was't much frivolity
to the sort of constant working anf
reworking that farmwork is. Or
was - I don't really know what
the level of farm-toil is any longer,
with new mechanization, climate
controlled and air conditioned
tractor cabs, etc., let alone all
the newer efforts of computerization.
I'd figure now that a lot of must be
present - for milk and cooling
and temperatures and storage
inputs and dating, for things like
silage-aging, freshness and use.
Maybe they just sit back and press
buttons, though I doubt it.
-
Most of the time a farmer was, or
tried to be, his own blacksmith,
his own laborer, and even his
own veterinarian, to a degree. It
was economics if nothing else.
The manner by which they did it -
I noticed - was merely through
observation. When something
happened, the first time (most
things repeat), the vet would be
called and the farmer would
watch carefully the process;
after which, if something of the
same recurred, he'd follow the
base procedure he'd witnessed,
trying to get it done on his own.
They all had ins and familiarities
for vet medicine and the sort of
communal help which brought it
forth. Most of the times, it worked.
A lot of it got haphazard. I can
recall one time, in Waren's barn,
doing my assigned chores and
awaiting Warren's arrival to the
barn from some sort of Sunday,
larger-family gathering they
were having, up at his house,
and I heard the beginnings of
large animal groaning and the
noises of difficulty - one of the
cows was birthing and the calf
was not 'exiting' correctly. It
wasn't looking good, so I took
a nearby rope length and tied
it to the portion of the calf
freshening, and just began
pulling - apparently easing
te process enough so that it
did eventually just plop out in
the usual crumpled and bloody
mess. The cow mother then
goes right to work licking and
cleaning the new calf, which, on
spindly, wickedly frail, looking
legs wobbles up and supports
itself to begin the process of
sway and walk, etc. But, in any
case, when Warrn did finally
show up, it all seemed just like
any other new calf birth scene.
-
My own on-the-scene dedication
and reaction,a t that moment, was
probably as unscientific as could
be. But it all worked. Like the
Roman Centurian I'd imagined,
my being, I took the scene around
me and found a control...A new
acquaintance of mine, the other
day, came over the hill to visit,
along with his dog, Cato. I asked
if the name was from the Roman
Senator of old. He said Yes. (As
it turns out, I learned from seeing,
his library and interest is History,
the Civil War, and the Punic Wars
too). What caught him, and brought
him to using that name, was Cato's
old quote: "Carthage Must Be
Destroyed!"
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