8594. MY MONEY'S ON GOD

MY MONEY'S ON GOD

The gridiron guys are betting again,

getting ready for the ins and the outs.

The way they talk you'd think they

owned the team, or played.

-

Especially when they begin using that

special 'we'. Inclusive 'we'. Yeah, let

me see them eat some dust.

-

The story goes, God had a fingertip

control at the tip-off, and steady hand, 

and a very wide, deep, swell to His

passing arm  -  thrown deep, everything

got caught. No fumbles. And he didn't

much play a running game. It was

all long pass, high arc. What didn't

make it to the end zone here, became a

new game starting somewhere else. 

-

 If I was a betting man, my

money would be on that.

8593. THINGS ARE DIFFERENT NOW, #164

164. FARM BOY

By mid-September it was

harvesting time for the corn

crop. Corn grew everywhere.

The local farmers grew it, it

seemed, in every field nook

and cranny they could find.

Along with hay, it's really

what got their cows through

the Winter, and every other

day too. Corn was (cattle corn),

of vital importance. As silage,

after it was chipped and

chopped and blown into the

silos, fresh, it would  -  over

time, and with the weight

of itself, piled up, and heat,

begin to ferment. By end

of season, when the silage

was getting pretty empty

(usually sometime close

to the middle of Spring,

when the cows could go

outside and begin eating

the new growth and grasses,

etc., instead of the stored

up silage) it was all almost

like booze  -  a heady,

alcoholic fermentation

which could sometimes

be enough to make a

cow woozy. They liked

the stuff, and a buzzed cow

is something to see, yeah.

Deep silage had the coolest

smell  -  like an elixir, sweet

and boozy too. Night-train

express for cows. (Night Train

Express is the cheap, street

booze the bums drank  -

major nasty, super strong,

known to blot out the brain

with extended use. It's still

sold, still around, but I don't

know what anyone drinks

these days). When corn-

harvest time came, Warren 

(Warren Gustin was one 

of the neighboring farmers 

I worked for, for 'milk 

and meat'  -  as it was put, 

meaning food and supplies  

-  no money. Most of

whatever I'd need  -  nails

and tools, some gasoline,

milk, butchered meat, etc.  

-  They just sort of took 

me on as a family member. 

I'd walk over there, about 

5:30 am, to get the farm

day started, and be busy 

until maybe 8 or so, then 

go back, if nothing else 

came up, about 3, for 

the afternoon and evening 

stuff. It sounds dreary, 

but it wasn't and it all 

worked out. Because 

of the Hurricane Agnes 

flood, which pretty well 

wiped-out Elmira for 

over a year, and Whitehall 

Printing too, I had no 

other work.The only 

cash I generated was a 

$4200 a year contract 

to take care of the local 

schoolhouse (now a car 

junkyard, oddly enough) 

and 10 or so bucks a day 

driving a school bus 

around at certain times), 

anyway  -  Warren and 

I, for the field work, 

had an agreement that

I could make my own 

decisions about hat to 

do and when, so I had 

the ready control of his 

tractors, and truck, and 

cars too  -  all part of the 

reciprocal agreement. 

Plus, whenever I chose, 

I cold eat over there, 

with them. I didn't do 

that often, but sometimes 

I did. It was like eating 

with The Waltons, an 

old TV show about that 

stuff  -  about 8 people 

too, and me; big family  

-  even had a Grandpa.

I'd jump on a tractor 

(John Deere) when I 

felt like it and just 

start cutting the rows 

and rows of acres of 

corn. It was the greatest, 

most solitary thing I'd 

ever done : the big old 

power plant beneath me, 

the roar and grumble of 

the tractor, the steering, 

the bumps and ridges 

(they had no suspension, 

rode rigid, except for the 

sprung seat). All around 

me, higher than my head, 

or even, was the natural, 

strange, outside-of-ordinary 

experience of moist and 

noisy corn plants going 

down. I'd be towing a 

huge cutting blade that

would swipe down the 

plants, row by row. The 

tall corn plants would

remain where they fell,

maybe a day, maybe two,

so as to dry out just a bit.

Then I'd come back with

the tractor, towing a 

harvester rig too. It would

lay its daggers along the

ground, pick up the cut

corn plants and feed them

into the chopping blades.

The harvester had a tall

directional smokestack

sort of thing, adjustable 

for height and direction, 

and when connected it 

would then blow the 

chipped and harvested

corn, by this time all

little chunks, into the

silage wagon running 

alongside me  -  if 

another tractor was 

along  -  or behind me,

if I was pulling yet

another wagon. Once 

the wagon got filled 

up, it was back of the 

barn with the wagon, 

and it was again blown 

along, this time into

the silo top, slowly 

filling it up for the 

upcoming cold season. 

The fermentation of 

the new, wet crop of 

silage would begin.

-

This was all pretty magical

stuff for me, and I grew

constantly amazed at what 

I'd learn and see and do.

I'd never had an education

of this sort at all. No tricks,

just straightforward work,

but a real and solid work, 

the sort of work that had 

grown this country up

from nothing. It used to

make all that frothy 

department store and

amusement stuff look

like nothing to me. Pure,

waste, people doing 

nothing. It was as if  -  

unless you experienced

this kind of process and

work  - you had no real

hands-on experience of

what life was about, its 

work and its struggles.

Each day we'd shovel 

out the feed for the cows 

and cattle  -  there was 

some beef cattle being 

raised too, for butchering 

and selling as rendered 

product. It wasn't all

and always dairy  -  

from the little door hatch

at the bottoms of the silo. 

It was last, as I said, if 

done right, for 7 or 8 

months, as you eventually 

reached the boozy bottom  

-  and about time to begin 

the process all over again.

(No one ever wanted a 

failure. No one could 

afford it; but sometimes 

there were silage failures. 

It happened  -  usually 

to dumb or drunk or 

sloppy farmers, those 

whose all other habits

were bad too. You could

tell; it was always the same

sorts of guys). What could

go wrong? Mildew. Rot. 

Moisture. It could all 

almost turn to poison, 

and then you were stuck. 

Sick cows. Having to 

buy feed, for months,

probably with money 

you never had in the 

first place. Selling

cows, losing product. 

Real bad.

-

Before the corn, in later

July, and August, there's

be haying. Or the cutting 

of other crops   -  some 

guys grew oats  -  large 

beautiful fields of an 

ocean-colored green-blue

that just shone in the sun. 

A beautiful shimmering

field of glory. In the 70's 

other guys were trying 

soybeans. Back then it 

was touted as a wonder 

crop to grow; high protein,

great food future, and all.

Some people tried it; seems 

though it never really 

took off. Fields of alfalfa

and timothy, and other 

grasses, they all had to 

be cut, and then baled.

All automated, towed-

with-tractor stuff, just 

like the corn, just not as

mysterious. Hay-baler 

machines, cutting blades,

great swipes through the

standing fields, the baling 

machine pulling up all the

cuttings and then square

packing then in bales, 

already tied with string, 

all machine done. One 

guy would be driving 

the tractor and three 

or four of us, walking

behind a slowly-driven

pick-up truck or

hay-wagon, would 

have to stoop to pick

up each of the bales (they

were unceremoniously

spit out onto the ground

as finished bales of hay)

and throw them up onto 

the truck or wagon, while 

another one or two people, 

on that wagon or truck, 

would tightly stack and 

position the bales. A 

truckload could be 

200 bales, guessing. 

Then, back to the barn

barn, to the 'elevator' 

ramp, which was a 

mechanized chain 

drive that would pulley 

up each bale, after we

again handled and 

lifted each one, 

maybe 20 pounds

each, the 'wetter' and 

newer the hay was, 

the heavier too. This 

hay-elevator would 

carry the bales up to 

the hayloft, top part 

of the barn with a 

top side door, where 

again we'd have to

handle and haul and 

carefully stack each 

bale  -  all for the long,

upcoming Winter and 

Spring, until next 

growth  -  food and

bedding too, the hay 

was.  It took care, 

and some knowledge 

too. No drunks or fools 

please. If the hay was 

too wet, or stacked

incorrectly, as it 

simmered and made 

heat, an air current left

open by mistake  -  

leaving a gap or a 

channel  -  could 

spontaneously

erupt the heated and 

almost cooking hay 

as that air current passed

along it. It would/could 

ignite, of its own accord, 

make a flame, and

take down a barn, 

and cattle, to smithereens. 

Unchecked fire. I know;

I've seen it. No fun. So, 

that was only a part  -  

all work, no play, 

makes Jack go away?

8592. SURREPTITIOUS BERENGUER

SURREPTITIOUS 

BERENGUER

Well, then the light of another morning will

soon be here as I get drunker than this again.

One more jaunt down this crooked alley between

two streets, the 23rd and 24th streets, I think,

I can get away with. The lampblack guy behind

the Chelsea Hotel he'll let me in. His girlfriend

goes by Chadrala, I think it was, can't remember,

close to Shangri-La but different. Why can't they

just be normal anymore  -  like a Karen or a Kathy.

There's a chestnut horse barn out around the corner  -

not the horse, it's not chestnut, but the barn there

is for the chestnut vendors when they bring in the

carts  -  reload, new charcoal, new boxes of raw

chestnuts to toast. And it's not really a barn either,

but this is New York and that's how they call things.

Kind of by use. It's a place like a barn if it were a barn.

Where horses go to eat. I don't know. How'd this all

get started? I was drinking way too late. All those

people, claiming to know my name, start singing

some birthday song when all I wanted to do was

go home. Now nothing, just this. I'm small and

enraptured and tired and bored. And drunk.

8591. HUMMINGBIRD

HUMMINGBIRD

Stays in place, seeming.

Flutter. Pace. Go.

8590. WINTER

WINTER

I have made notice of these

things: the wind that hisses the

rain back, the missed mark on the

side of each man, the herald at the

gate. There is no avoiding, none.

-

The waiter at table is spinning.

He holds glasses and a cloth.

Outside the window, the 

promenade leads in 

from a garden.

-

If this were another time of year,

I'd expect flowers and something

quite pleasant. As it is, all I get are

snows, and all they give is ice.

8589. ANNE FRANK VISITS NEW YORK

ANNE FRANK 

VISITS NEW YORK

With neither a Chesterfield nor

a Homburg, just standing near the

corner, watching. I was taken by

surprise. In her hands, that Eden

Hat she should have had was gone.

That soak-faced, happy little smile,

instead, having replaced all that,

with only good intentions; just

looking for all things wise

and gentle and happy.

Why?

8588. THINGS ARE DIFFERENT NOW, #163

163. EYES ON THE PRIZE

There were tractor names

I quickly grew to love.

Massey-Ferguson was my

favorite. What a beautiful

product name. Allis-Chalmers

was another. They did merge

eventually. But there were

some Massey-Ferguson

models around Columbia

Crossroads and Troy, PA  -

where a dealer was  -  that

were stunning. A few from

the late 1950's (really only

12-or 15 years old, nothing

for tractors) that were pure

visual delights. I immediately

found myself at a crossroads

(not pun, not Columbia)  - in

that these things were tractors,

man, tractors. Not 'Visual'

delight crap.  Utility. Use.

Work. Right off, that was

my conflict. In a hardware

store, looking at the beautiful

shapes and forms and certain

finishes on shovels and

hammers. Here, in this

countryside of work and

toil, use and need, I could be

seen surely as a crazy-man.

Aesthetics in Farmville?

Nutso. I had to learn to

rein all that in  -  these people

had no idea, had a completely

different viewpoint, and just

did not look at things in that

fashion. Be careful, buddy, be
careful, you'll blow that nice

cover you've established.

-

Everywhere there were

tractors. The old ones,

beautiful relics, if no longer

running, were often to be 
found just tucked in sheds,

behind barns, under covers.

I used to wish I had a million

dollars dedicated just to

buying up all that precious

old steel I'd see. Tractors

everywhere. Stuff I'd never

heard of : 'Silver King', which

had ceased production in 1957

or so, and which was basically

a Chrysler/Plymouth tractor

brand but which lost a legal

battle over use of the name;

'Minneapolis-Moline', which

also ceased any production

about '57 too  -  a huge,

blundering beast of tractor

force and power-plant. Like

the snorting hot-rod of its

agri-day; 'Ford', and

then, almost humorously,

'Fordson', which was a

smaller tractor, squat,

muscular, tough, that Henry

Ford named for, well, his

son!; 'John Deere', of course;

'Farmall', a brand name which

was everywhere around, they

seemed tight, tall, and strong,

always in red. Everyone had

one; 'New Holland', another

brand I loved; 'Case'; 'Oliver',

always green, and a great

brand; and then there was a

really nice one, seldom seen,

but around some  -  'David

Brown'. I never knew much

about that brand, but saw a

few, really nice. By the

mid-'80's, things had started

changing: Volvo, Kubota,

and  some other Japanese

names. There's even a

'Porsche' tractor around.

I was fascinated by all that

heritage, all those old names

from the American past  -

'the plow that broke the

plains', as Virgil Thomson

put it; the way the engines

just hung out there, open to

the air, on most anyway, built

into the really rugged frame;

the weird metal seats, those

two little turn-wheels, real

low and small, way out front.

The fenders, and the lights on

the fenders, when that all started

happening, or like car-style,

lights and stuff began to be

built into the fenders. Turn

signals. Beeps. By the time

all the new, really modern and

expensive stuff began coming

out, most farmers around me

were going broke and there

wasn't really any call  -  nor

any large enough farms for

that sort of thing - 300 acres

around there was about tops.

The newer tractors were being

built more for out on the Great

Plains, the thousands of acres

per farm or irrigated wheat or

soy; big time stuff where the

tractor guy was out for the day,

riding on the field  -  hot sun

and weather. The new rigs

had cabins, gauges and dials,

windshields and wipers too;

radios, even air conditioning  -

just like a big-time semi-trailer

or car. All those old tractors

of my own heart were as

outmoded and primitive as

spit. No matter  -  that's where

all things were for me.

Though that had little to

do with this, there was a

wonderful US Resettlement

Agency, Farm Bureau, 1936

Depression era film out, by

some guy named Pare Lorentz,

with music and a soundtrack

by composer Virgil Thomson.

It was called 'The Plow That

Broke the Plains', and it had

long before taken my spirit

and pulled it back from the

dead. Great narration, with

wonderful music and pictures.

How to transfer any of that

into the farm aesthetics of

1973? Well, that I didn't

yet know. I just watched

and kept quiet.

-

I grew, also, to love wood  -

there are some old barn panels

and wooden sheds and the

like, where the aged and

lingering patina of the old

wood has turned the just-so

side of a curled black/brown

that has to be seen to be

believed; that has hardened

and curled itself just enough

to show the decades; that

has pulled against, and

sometimes dislodged, the

primitive, nativist nails

which had held it in

place; and where the grain

of the very wood itself

has separated into planar

segments, drying apart

from each other, widening

and splitting, while yet

remaining secure and

in place. I've seen large

barns and old sheds that

literally lean, 8 or 9 degrees,

I'm guessing, to one side

or the other, bending

into the landscape around

them, forcing nothing but

reciprocating all, and where

the doors and jambs still fit

and function, at almost weird,

funhouse, leans. Buildings

that have broken their own

glass windows with the slow

twist and turn and pressure

of the slowly falling world

they are in. The creak and

the groan of old lumber.

The snap of sundering.

-

It was like that in most

every direction  -  I was

in the very situation I'd

imagined  -  a pleurisy of

the lungs could have been 

no different. Constriction,

Difficulty breathing. All

the new things presented to

me were demanding to be

accepted on the most literal,

boring levels  - so as to be

'going along', but to me they

each presented completely 

different and deeper and

more meaningful levels, 

about which I couldn't say 

a thing. I felt like Andrew

Wyeth painting 'Christina's

World' and gazing at a 

young 'model' girl in the 

field with people only 

seeing it as an artist

appreciating the scene  -  

while actually he was 

head over heels with 

the poor, crippled girl 

before him. Man, was it

ever something else.