RUDIMENTS 606.

RUDIMENTS, pt. 606

(cutting no corners)

Storms came and storms went.

Nothing much ever bothered

me up there, weather-wise. The

Winters were long and strong

and brutal, but it was all cool.

When you live way out in a

rural place like that, you do

realize you're on your own,

and since there's not much

else around you except natural

things, there's not much that

gets disrupted. Things like fire

and medical emergencies, a

heart attack, etc, you were

sunk - probably 35 minutes

at least before some sort of

organized help would arrive.

That's way too long for fire

or death to be forestalled. So

a form of fatalism was always

in the cards being played.

When the big snows came,

and they invariably always

did, the key was dealing

with isolation and managing to

squeak by. Trudging for long

times, if need be, to get to

others - places or supplies.

I've already made mention

of the snowmobile mercy

missions, but that stuff never

came our way. I can well

remember the screaming

winds rolling over the hill,

and I also remember those

nights when, even set at 62,

the thermostat would never

quit kicking the heat on. It

was tough imagining all

those dollars flying by me

for heat. Finally one time it

all got the best of me - we

drove out to Kennedy's

Country Store, out by

East Smithfield and Milan,

about 12 miles off maybe,

and bought a big old pot-belly

Franklin Stove for about

180 bucks, back then, and

I got it home and we dragged

it in and I punched a hole

into the chimney wall,

exhaust piped and puttied

it up, put some asbestos

flashing on the walls around

it (for intense heat deflection),

and for the next few seasons

solved my whole problem by

dragging home sled-buckets

full of pea coal, which I took

from the coal-hoppers I kept at

the school. I'd order in a ton

or two of coal for the hoppers

as needed. Served me well.

Primitive stuff, but good.

-

We had to make sure the toddler

didn't stumble into or blindly

walk into, the red hot Franklin

Stove, and, in the real cold we

just slept right there, near the

fire, on the floor, with blankets.

It all worked out. The worst of

it was one time we ran out of

fuel oil, and had no money to

refill. When my mother-in-law

back in Avenel got wind of that

tale of woe, she freaked and

called the Bradford County

State Police Barracks, telling

them that her daughter and

6-month old kid (and I guess

she mentioned me too. Guess),

were stranded and without

heat, freezing out there

somewhere near whatever

address she blurted out. Sure

enough, there was the Trooper,

at our door, in some weird

State Trooper all-weather

combat vehicle, telling us what

he'd been told, making sure we

were OK, and asking what we

needed, if anything. I said, 'Oh,

no problem; we're living off the

coal I've been stealing from the

school.' (No, I didn't really

say that). And then he gave

us the name of a the fuel oil

company in Troy which had

arranged already to extend

us credit for a tank re-fill,

provided I'd clear the filler

nozzle area, and the walk to

it, of snow. So, I did, and the

next day by about 4pm we

got a truck coming up

delivering fuel. Between

the truck tracks, and the

State Police vehicle tracks,

we were able to drive ourselves

out, with some care, and go

down to Troy and arrange for

and sign on, the fuel delivery

we'd gotten, at like 20 bucks

a month or something. I do

remember it was sold at 18.6

cents a gallon, and I think we'd

gotten 200 gallons. I forget.

Then I got this country-boy

half lecture about what a

dumb-ass move it was to run

the furnace unit clear out of

fuel like that, how a re-start

could be difficult, it might

need priming again, blah,bah.

I'd already had it restarted,

with no problems whatever,

but I just nodded along and

took my stupid Jersey-boy

verbal licking.

-

I used to think how odd it was

to get door-to-door service up

there, by State Police. When

those guys wrecked that Austin

Healy at my barn, and when

the fuel-oil thing arose as a

crisis, they (Staties) came flying

in as local police assistance. The

area of land up there was so

far-spread and within, and

without, jurisdictions, that I

guess they just covered the

areas involved, for everything.

They seemed mostly based in

barracks, Towanda, and then

Scranton. (About 80 miles

east). It was weird; the little

town cop guys seemed to never

leave whatever the town was

that it said on their car-door.

In this case, Troy. I never saw

them north of Route 6.

-

The politics of things out there;

there wasn't any. I never saw

one sleazebell type around trying

to peddle grease and lies about

anything. First off, he'd most

likely have been punched in the

head or clubbed and thrown

into the barn until he awoke.

People didn't take too kindly

to bullshit up there, and another

thing about rural living, unlike

here, was that men were men.

Not girls. They'd never get

involved in that horseshit in

the first place. It's only in the

settled lands that you get the

useless guys in shirts and ties

deciding they can make their

living off other people, and

manipulating and bobbing,

weaving, ass-kissing and

sucking like they do to 'pass.'

Like light-skinned black men

used to do (read Anatole

Broyard) to get by in that day's

white world - they'd 'pass' as

white, but still be courageously

black, and true to themselves in

other ways. Unlike these bleach,

and hamstrung limpers we get.

Or, as Winston Churchill put it,

far better than me, 'We have not

journeyed across the centuries, 

across the oceans, across the

mountains, across the prairies,

because we are made of sugar

candy.' But now, sugar candy

people are everywhere.

-

One time some guy up there said

to me, 'For someone so serious,

you're funny as hell! You should

do comedy.' I thought about it

for a minute, and said, 'Yeah; a

regular riot, that's me.' See, their

idea of comedy wasn't much I

could latch on to. My farmer

friend, Warren - one time we

were out in Burlington, along

Rt. 6, for one of those vehicle

registration/barbershop trips

at the Justice of the Peace's

place, and we passed a Russian

style, circular barn. Round.

I always liked them, they

looked really nice, and I

commented to him about it

as we (he) drove. He laughed

it off, and said, 'You know

why they make round barns?'

I said, ' No, why?' He said,

'So the farmer, when he's in

there milking, won't have

a corner to take a shit in.'

-

That was his idea of funny, yeah,

and maybe it was. I chuckled

along, not asking any follow

up questions like: 'Guys shit in 

their barns?' I figured if you

had to ask, the joke's ruined, 

and I didn't want to ruin his day.

I always had to be careful, like

I've said, about how I came across

and what I gave away - so in some 

sense like any happy idiot at a

party with people he doesn't

really know, I laughed just to

keep the peace. Sort of like

justice of the peace, but not.

-

Maybe I should have used that

old Groucho Marx one back at 

him. I always thought it was pretty

funny - 'Outside of a dog, you

know, a book is a man's best friend.

Inside a dog, it's too dark to read.'