RUDIMENTS, pt. 1,336
(Kilmer House is now yellow)
Summing up, capping up. putting
a final note to an ending - all very
depressing stuff. Here I am, Lord.
Have with me what you will. In
all the steps of my life, I always
thought I was stepping rightly.
-
Who knew then what I know now?
And, in any case, whoever cared?
One day, in my motorcycle days, I
got a phone call, at the little office
kept for ABATE and newspaper
business, from the Joyce Kilmer
House, in New Brunswick. I'd
always heard of 'Joyce Kilmer'
but never quite figured it out -
'Joyce' was a guy, a WWI era
poet actually, who once wrote
'I think that I shall never see a
poem as lovely as a tree....' So, as
it went, a reputation had gotten
constructed for him, as an American
poet of a very certain and rare type;
a quality no one could really put a
name too. Certainly not me. Was he
fey, elite, gay, snobbish, genteel,
effeminate, what? And who in the
world, and why, would someone from
Joyce Kilmer House be calling me?
-
In New Brunswick, as it turned out,
was the house wherein the young
Kilmer had lived his boyhood. It
was, in the 1990's anyway, a very
nicely kept and preserved white house,
unfortunately - because of modern
roads and construction, etc., sort of
isolated by itself on a cramped and
leftover corner near to and beneath
a railway trestle, some siding, and a
busy turn. In any case, the place
was nice. He'd grown up there, I
think, and they'd kept his house and
some personal things, artifacts, writing,
etc., of his there in a sort of museum
format. The guy who ran it (I went
there to follow up on the call), was
an elderly, thin and wiry, old-style
guy; of and by himself, he maintained
and tended to the place as if it were
his own, and obviously curated a deep
and abiding interest and reverence
for this poet who wrote about trees.
-
Kilmer was killed at some battle
in France, in WWI, by a sniper's
bullet. His little family (5 kids), had
a house in Mahwah, NJ - and he'd
enlisted, with some enthusiasm, for
his fated role on the war. In any case,
the boyhood home, in New Brunswick,
became the 'shrine' to him, not the
Mahwah, NJ place. He had attended
both Rutgers, and Columbia, I think it
was, but New Brunswick kept claim
to him. At one time New Brunswick
was a solid, reputable town, a county
seat, a transportation, rive, and canal
hub for central NJ farm produce,
roadways, commerce, banking, and
lawyers and clerks - all the little
workers who went into an administrative
town. Plus the input of the large and
busy Rutgers University activity, their
observatory and telescope for the
Heavens, and - as well - a large
contingent of religious places, folk,
and organizations. A real 1880's hub
of what once passed for old America;
mostly now all down the toilet. The
place today is one huge dive bar; filled
to the brim with third-worlders and
itinerant Hispanics, trending illegals,
landscape crews, endless babies and
their mothers, junk shops, noise, smells
and foodstuffs. The physical parts of
New Brunswick - the housing and
infrastructure - is a shambles. Nothing
befitting, for sure, the sort of effete
snobbery of which Kilmer (the 'Joyce'
of his name was given to him in honor,
at birth, of a local preacher with the
last name of Joyce) was representative.
The roadways are jammed, highways
ring it, and low-crafted street-types
swarm the bodegas and plazas. It's a
bad scene, and I've not yet even gotten
to the 'university' crowd, mostly now
just, essentially, 13th-graders, more than
knowledge-seekers or real students.
I imagine the Kilner grave must be
built with a swivel incorporated into
it, so many times must he have already
'rolled over' in his grave.
-
I met the guy, we talked a bit, and it
turned out that the reason he'd called
was because he wished for me to cover
(in my newspaper) and be in attendance
at, on a motorcycle, a Memorial Day
(upcoming) re-dedication in Highland
Park, of a Doughboy and World War I
statue (which still stands) along Rt. 27,
where it triangles and meets with,
Woodbridge Ave. I went to see; it's
a nice statue, and one which I'd passed
a thousand times. What it seems, as he
explained, was that Kilmer, living in
New Brunswick, would take a daily
walk, as an adult of drinking age, I
guessed, across the bridge - the old,
wooden, bridge, that once spanned
the Raritan River there and connected
thereby New Brunswick and Highland
Park; each, in those days, still busy
river-hubs. There was a large hotel
there, on the Highland Park side, to
which porch Joyce Kilmer would
walk, take his seat, must and have
a beer or two. This guy, in his own
heartfelt way, thought that this
Kilmer presence should also be
celebrated, at the statue of WWI's
Doughboy, and in honor of Joyce
Kilmer. So, he wanted some other
presence there - thus me, and any
other biker guys I could bring along.
-
It rained that morning, early on, but
by 11, on the still wet streets, and not
having been able to roust up any other
interested riders, it was myself, and
me alone who was in attendance, and
on a wet motorcycle. Well, it turned
out, certainly a surprise to me, that
the local Elks, Moose, VFW, American
Legion guys, etc. all HATED this guy,
who was a constant thorn in their
side over getting presence and honor
for Joyce Kilmer in any and all of
the WWI memorials and dedications
that occurred. It was unbelievable. The
'solemnity' of the occasion withered
in the catcalls and shout-downs of this
old guy trying to, perhaps, do some
justice to the tree-poet and his memory
and presence, in line with the war dead
and the memorial being re-dedicated.
-
It was embarrassing, even crude. The
poor guy took it all on the chin. I guess
he was used to it. When it was over, he
apologized for the behaviors I'd witnessed,
said it always went on, and also said he'd
just keep on trying. We parted, and I never
saw the guy again. By the way, the Kilmer
House is now painted yellow.
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