RUDIMENTS 84.

RUDIMENTS, pt. 84

Making Cars

There are a few things that still jump

out at me as really aberrational. I was

in the middle of nowhere, working in 

an environment unknown to me, at first:

chickens to cows to pigs and sheep. We

walked around doing 'chores'  -  which

is what farmers call the constant, and

steady, routine of twice a day milling 

and everything else with it, that goes 

with dairy farming. It was never easy, 

and never anything that let a person 

just coast or skate along. The herd takes

constant attention, milk, manure, hay,

feed, drainage, cleaning, spreading the

manure onto the fields, planting those

fields later, tending to growth, turning

it into silage and feed, and then harvesting

the crop, whichever crop it was for that 

time period. And the farmer had his pick:

Spring wheat in one field would mean an

early harvest, and hopefully an early

payoff. Corn went until late September.

Some planted outside rows of potatoes,

other root vegetables, etc. A brilliant, 

green field of oats was another early-in 

crop; and it just went on. Besides that, the

machinery needed constant work  -  without

it you got nothing done. Oil changes, filters,

adjustments, replacement parts, all of that.

All work. The seed company representatives 

were always coming around 'Pioneer Company,'

and the others, pushing their brands of the

science-controlled genetic seeds they sold. 

I never saw much difference, but some did.

You wanted yield; hardiness; fast maturation;

strong stalks; good moisture. It was crazy. 

Everything seemed to count for something.

None of the 'money' ever really became 

money; it was just bank account transfers, 

bank notes and loans; but farmers had this

all figured out, and the local banks (back then)

knew the deal and money flowed. Seasonal

infusions, $16,000, maybe $20,000, which

would keep them going  -  seed, fuel, hired

hands, and the rest  -  until harvests began,

and the money started coming back in. Mostly

to the bank, but they'd get a 'draw' for the

usual paycheck kind of stuff. $200 a week

or something, for family, groceries, doctors

clothes, etc. This went on all year, season by

season, and I used to think THAT was the

real science of farming; forget the seed 

mixes. I was never a 'farmer' so I never had

to worry about it; though, as I said previous,

the bank was very liberal with me too, and

gladly floated 6-month notes for most any 

amount I asked. 6%, 7% interest on paybacks,

and they'd roll another one. It was crazy enough,

especially when you'd find yourself paying

the balance of the old one off with a part

of the new one. I never knew if these banker

guys knew any of this. They weren't the

sharpest pencils in the box sometimes. 

They were always pretty ugly, I thought, 

too, and really poor, cheap-suit, dressers.

Just another mystery. There's be barn socials

and hay-dances and fairs and all that, and sure

enough, they'd be there. It was like a bad old

Judy Garland or Mickey Rooney movie, one

of those 'hoe-down, damn, will-the -kids-make- 

it-through-their-troubles' kind of scenes.

-

The wives to all this, they were another scene

all together. Astounding. Wicked Witch of the

West stuff right out of Oz, sometimes. My own 

wife got mixed up  only a bit with these 'ladies'

of the church sometimes. Church Socials, or

community feeds, to feed the poor, and have

a lame dance or a tea or a party. Always

emulating something really bad  -  like an

imagined version they all kept of some prim

and proper version of royalty. Except to them

the Queen was maybe Elsie the Cow. That's

as far as it went. I've always felt (this is a

personal, parenthetical, aside) sex to be a

part of life, and Life was supposed to be what

they were always celebrating and upholding.

Only a few of these ladies were in any way

half-hot, ripe, happy 39 year-olds. I had eyes. 

I'd see it, and I knew who maybe could be

a thunderbolt in bed, back at home. But you'd

never see it from the behavior here. No one

ever got loose, there never being alcohol

around these ladies. There was one stiff,

a real drudge. She was the clerical secretary

of the local school, and her husband was

the big, crusty Minister at one of the fancy

stone churches over in Troy. About 6 or 8

miles off, down the hills and out towards 

Rt. 6. His name, get this, was Chauncey 

DePew, Reverend Chauncey Depew. She

was always just Mrs DePew. Not pleasant

to look at in any way  - short, dumpy, with 

bad bangs and horrible taste in clothes. Always

cranking about something; bad mood, a real

pain. She never much took to me at all,

nor me to her. Whatever. One year, whatever

year it was when the St. Louis Arch was

brand new (in Missouri, some 'Gateway

To The West' celebration on the banks of

the Mississippi), her and Chauncey took

a car-trip vacation out see the new arch.

You would have though she was going

to Paris, to visit the Louvre. Hell, to

buy the Louvre. She got all uppity and

high-and-mighty over the upcoming trip,

and their plans, and the 'exclusivity' of

their arrangements and travel. If you want

to count a '64 Chevy as exclusive travel,

well then, go ahead. I don't think Motel

6's existed yet, but I'm sure if they did,

these two rubes had their prayer books

with them and stayed in motel 2 and a 

half and loved it because they didn't

know the difference. 

-

You have to remember the era this all 

was in. Paychecks were spitting blood 

and people were being sent to Vietnam 

on a dime a dozen bus. Out there it was

considered a point of honor to have your kid

go, and if he got killed, even better. High

dudgeon, the body comes home in flags,

the church opens up, bells ring and peal,

and the poor sucker gets immortalized :

a photograph, in uniform, tacked onto a

colored construction paper in the local

lame high school glass-fronted bulletin

case. I never knew why did they that stuff.

It was a real tragedy to me. Talk about

graduating. I always told the kids to stay

back as much as they could. Nowadays,

everyone looks back on all this with the

proper music, (rock sound track, no less)

and the same talking heads who screwed

up the whole mess, and probably killed

your kid, get lauded for being reasonable 

and prescient while they fast-talk to cover

their mistakes before they die of their own 

old age. That what time does, you jerk, I 
always want to say, it passes and you die off. 
I hope you meet Corporal Wendell Jennings 
on your way to Hell, while he's waving you 
off from the other direction. Put that on 
your bulletin board.

-

My own war-fighting days were over then.

I had my 4F and screw 'em all. I'd fought 

my battles, left my ruins and people, met 

my own dead and dying. In the woods here, 

I was as good as disappeared, and thank you.

Those country-bumpkin kids around me, I

wanted to save them, keep them alive. But

it was a lost cause : Cambodia. Laos. Nixon.

Carpet bombing. The 'Christmas Offensive'.

These kids loved it all, they ate up all that,

and just went away. Blood is a good fertilizer.

Like a dead fish with the Indians, planted

with the corn. I guess.