RUDIMENTS, pt. 1310
(the emperor of nothing, pt. TWELVE)
Any accumulation of memory is an
interesting combination of things.
Youth, idea, memory (for sure) all
mixed together in a combination of
retrospective judgements that, in the
end, do flavor the outcome. If History,
is, as they say, written by the victors,
memories are written mostly by the
survivors. How many can remember,
as I do, all those 1950's neighborhood
fathers who could whistle loudly through
their teeth - loud enough to call the
kids in at 7:30? Some of the fathers
used their fingers, in their lips, others
did not. My friend Jim Yacullo's father
was the absolute best at this - he had
the loudest most shrill, on-demand
whistle I'd ever heard, and he thought
nothing of using it, at any moment. I
don't think that is seen much anymore,
and I even wonder if today's kids even
know of what I'm making mention.
They're all more like hibernating bear
cubs that individual humans.
-
Now, going back (with that information)
to thinking about Jack Stove, I was
determinedly interested in somehow
ferreting out from him more information
about his youth and growing up. Bronx?
He didn't seem at all like a Bronx guy.
There were none of the usual mannerisms
or attitudes that go with that territory.
My other friend, the guy I mentioned,
Bob, on the other hand still bears all
the hallmarks of his Linden, NJ, tough
boyhood...and loves to recount things
to me over and over. It's all good. I
like the old Linden stories. I like
remember the old Linden Stove
Company, and the radiator shop, and
all that stuff by the railroad tracks,
where one side of St. George Ave. is
Roselle, and the other side is Linden.
Bob tells good stories (he was born
in 1937), of those old Linden days
He's been up here now for near 35
years, but still bears the Linden
characteristics I can recognize.
I'm not sure how that is, and it
may just be totally subjective on
my part. This Jack Stove fellow,
the little I know of him, fits
somewhere far outside of both
Bob and the tractor guy (Ken)
I mentioned in the previous
chapter. He's a born and bred
local, and he can probably fill
me in one every tree, barn, and
blade of grass along Perkins
Pond Road. Jack Stove? Nothing
of that nature at all - he has a
distance and a sort of mystery.
-
What's the difference? Why do I
bring this stuff up? Only to swell
my own inquisitive nature. Some
guys just like to hide out; do
things secretly, stay alone. In
the woods like that, Stove must
have had a hundred things in play.
Cars. Dogs. Teen kids. Outside
buildings. I just got to wondering
about all of it. I remembered my
days in Columbia Crossroads I
was a bit like that but I was only
21 or so. Local farm kids latched
on to me, and my wife, and they
were soon enough always around.
High school kids. I was something
new and different; they'd never seen.
Kids are weird, the stuff they do, all
without responsibilities or accountability.
We had guns around, always plinking
things. A few junk cars out at the barn,
we'd line the roofs up with beer and soda
cans and bottles, and just blast away.
Blasting at anything, from I don't know,
200 feet away? 100? We scattered quite
a few bullet holes, everywhere. A 1960
Mercury, peppered. Some mid-60's
Chevy, same thing. I remember a
Corvair back there too. I guess we
made a lot of noise, and everybody
was mostly stupid. One time, my
wife was away for like 4 days, and
the kids wanted to have a birthday
party for one of the local girls, and
her friends. I said sure. A guy comes
in with them, Jim Watkins, about 28
maybe, older than the others. He'd
recently been released from some nut
house in Clarks Summit (I was told),
and a few beers in him was all it took
to relapse into the most-bastardy
person you could imagine. The girls
come over, bearing their own, big and
decorated birthday cake. For some
reason (these were country/farm girls,
mind you), they came dressed as hookers
or quite nearly (It was 1972). The night
went on OK, maybe for about an hour,
before all hell broke loose. Jim lost
his composure, got way drunk and
began prancing around on the girls,
and the dumb girls played along. Then
the other gents chimed in and before
I knew it I had trouble on my hands.
Big trouble.
-
Crazy Jim took offense at my interference,
trying to clear them all out, get their cars
out of area, send them all home (and
dressed) - he went ballistic. The kids
freaked, they all fled, and Jim turned
on me and my house - overturning
chairs, whomping on me, and just
causing a real melee. I fought back
for a quick minute, but knew I was
done for. Thankfully, he just kind of
gave it all up and left. One of the kids,
the one who was 'closest' to me, came
back in his Mercury Comet, and tried
and helped straighten everything out.
Same kid who, another time, after I'd
told him and his friend to leave (they
were lighting up in my garage), got
so upset that on the way out, spinning
his tires, he went sideways into the edge
of my pond came back wailing about his
car and how sorry he was and he'd never
do it again, etc. We chained his car out
of the mud/pond with a tractor. All was
well, fortunately. Another time, the three
kids asked if they could use my barn area
to work on cars; I said OK. Next thing I
knew, the State Police are at the barn,
rounding up the three kids. Some guy
named Bob Satterlee had been banging
Mike's sister. That didn't sit well with
Mike, so they went and took Bob's
Austin Healy 3000 (a fairly nice car),
brought to the yard, and proceeded
under the guise of 'repairs, to butcher,
wreck and otherwise defame it. Bob
reported it as stolen, led the Staties
right to where it was. I had to plead
(truly) an ignorance of the entire
project, and they were all brought
up on charges.
-
Hell of a deal, those country boys and
their country living. (Last I knew, in
the 1980's, Mike was a Texas Ranger
or State trooper, in Texas, where he'd
gone to live with his dad. Small world).
It all got me to thinking about stuff,
meeting that Jack Stove guy, and just
really wanting to compare notes about
old things; just to see what he'd come
through.
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