RUDIMENTS, pt. 1,341
(at 'Black Walnut Hollow')
That hollow house, that house
in the hollow; I probably never
got over it but had rolled over
with Dad's persistence that I'd
NOT buy it. He was, in all
respects, most probably right;
I was dreaming and had no
clue of practicality. The 6
rooms of that house, on the
lower floor anyway, were not
really 6 rooms - three had
been closed off, because of
leaks and breaks in the walls
and windows. So, besides the
kitchen (a basic shambles in
any case) there were two quite
nonsensically marginal rooms
left. I never got to any heating or
water, or even septic operations.
For all I really knew the house
was a mysterious test-case for
idiocy and this Jankowsky guy
was merely testing my limits.
In any case, I sure wanted it,
and was glossy eyed over it.
While I saw it as endless
possibilities, they too saw it -
endless possibilities, to them,
of squandered money, lost
causes, eminently and dangerous
living, and something way beyond
my skills or budget. They were,
as it turned out, probably correct.
-
Just getting up out of that trench
of an approach/driveway would
have required a serious storm-ready
four-wheel-drive unit, of which I
owned nothing. Being snowed-in
for days during intense storms, or
rain and darkness, could have been
fatal (remember the 6-month old).
My wife, not being present, never
even saw the place - only heard
my hallucinogenic depictions of
what I (possibly) imagined. To her
it was a terror : unfinished gravestones
in a chipped-marble granite quarry,
probably with ghosts and spirits
flying around, and three rooms of
pure, broken-down confinement,
with crumbling walls all around and
a second story of joyless quarters
with holes in the floors and ceilings
adrift. Bats in the belfry, indeed!
I wasn't even sure if the place had
electricity. (Alas, pure men and
maidens, this was far, far behind
the days of WIFI and being fully
'connected.' It would have been
more like a beach-head for a
zombie invasion by the recently
dead than anything else).
-
So then, where did this all leave
me? Probably compromised and
adrift, but I little cared. We ended
up in that 'other' house we all
agreed upon. My father announced,
'Now we do some horse-trading!'
Jim's listed sale-price was $23,900.
My father would NOT budge past
17,500. (I'd never heard of 'horse
trading' before and really had no
clue what he was up to. It was like
arm-wrestling, in a way, and it
took the good part of the next day
to finagle back and forth - the
actual seller was Willard Brown,
another neighboring farmer, but
over the hill and well out of sight.
They were very nice people, the
Browns, and had us over for 'dinner'
to try and work this out. As it turned
out, the bank would only extend
$16,000 dollars for a mortgage on
the house; which was, in its way, a
break for me, and for my father's
price. We came up with a sterling
deal: Willard Brown extended us
a 'second' mortgage, to him, of the
closing costs and survey, to cover
the bank-gap, if I would agree to
$125 a month payable back to him.
That was cool and without having a
clue as to where I'd get that money,
or the bank mortgage money (which
was, I think, like 300 bucks a month,
on a 10-year mortgage; something
like that - short term and not real
bad), we shook on it all, the bank
agreed, and the deal was set. My
father and I drove back to NJ, each
half satisfied, and Dad never stopped,
once, talking about what 'we' had
accomplished in all this 'horse-trading.'
But, alas, no horse was forthcoming.
-
I got pulled over on the way home,
for 'weaving'. I made the 'mistake'
of telling that officer that I'd had
little sleep in 2 days, was tired, and,
yes, had probably been driving too
long. I got off with a warning, but
my father went ballistic on me for
'volunteering' such information to
a cop. His point was 'Never tell a
thing about your situation to a cop
unless you're absolutely forced to.'
I guess, OK.
-
Another funny thing, from my father,
was that, as we pulled through Scranton,
75 miles east of Columbia Crossroads,
he began reminiscing about his Navy
days. I was puzzled by it all, but he
said their R&R from the Naval Base
(somewhere?), was bus-trips to
Scranton - 'The biggest whorehouse
back then on the east coast.' If
Scranton could ever outdo NYC in
the poontang department, it surely
must have been something. I told
Dad he really shouldn't 'volunteer
such information unless asked.'
Ha! Got him back!
-
So, we got back to Inman Ave. and
NJ, and it was near to Halloween, a
holiday to which I'd never paid any
particular attention to, nor even ever
liked. Somehow, with the blinding
transformation of the entire stupid
block - houselights and pumpkins
and witches and ghouls - I was
struck by how much I hated it all.
It set me off. I realized how much
I disliked it there, and all those
dumb-ass Halloween kids and
decorations and putrid houses all
in a row. I wanted to just turn back
around and head again for those
wicked hills - Black Walnut Hollow
(I called it), or anyplace else but
Avenel, which had simply become
a shiny and bitter malfeasance,
like the growth on the end of
a witch's nose.
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