RUDIMENTS 1160.

RUDIMENTS, pt. 1,160 ('Carthage must be destroyed') In one of those 'this is because I say it' moments, I was a Roman Centurion. 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 drive breaks out of its control parameters, 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 and hone 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 wasn't much frivolity to the sort of constant working and 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 Warren'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 that was sticking out already, and just began pulling - apparently easing the 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 Warren did finally show up, it all seemed just like any other new calf birth scene. - My own on-the-scene dedication and reaction, at that moment, was probably as unscientific as could be. But it all worked. Like the Roman Centurion I'd imagined me 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!"