RUDIMENTS 699.

RUDIMENTS, pt. 699

(the quiet life)

It's funny sometimes how things

run. Mentally it may be better to

just let things go, and move on,

and forget them, but sometimes, as

a weird form of lava, they pop or

ooze up out of some kindred deep 

that is uncontrollable anyway. There's

not really anything you can do about 

it, and if you're any sort of a creative

person it becomes raw material.

For this, that, or something. That's

always been my favorite part of

life - and I'd really hate to give it

up. Even when I'll, someday, have 

to. Can you even imagine eternity?

-

Those houses, the new ones, along

Inman Avenue and Clark Place

and Monica Court, and a bit of

Madison Ave., too, they were

built basic and okay. I'd guess.

There must have been codes and

inspections and all of that. But,

none of the houses had storm 

windows or screens or storm doors

and screen doors; and of course

what we grew to learn as 'aluminum

siding' had not yet arrived. None

of us kids knew anything about

any of that. However, one of the

first new encounters we got was

with some guy named, or called,

'Whitey,' Just that, one name. He

never much talked at all, and he'd 

come every day in his (also white)

work truck, stacked as it was with

ladders and tools and - each day -

enough supplies of storm windows

and doors and all to do a long day's

work, maybe two or three houses.

Whitey had somehow contracted

for (probably) at least half of the

new homes - to install the storm

windows and doors. This was also

long before the days of colored

or white aluminum, so everything

was of a raw, metal grey. It all

stayed that way for years, eventually

aging and pitting, and by then with 

all the newer modern and lighter

aluminum and other versions of

style and color, it was probably

all redone again as people began

getting some money, and aging.

It's funny how people age 'upward,'

seemingly getting more and more.

These things were all the same,

and Whitey was doing them all.

We were told simply to leave him

alone, stand clear, don't bother

or startle him, leave his things

alone, etc. Never knowing why, 

we then never actually bothered

him, but he was around a long 

time. I later found out, when I

was older, that Whitey was a

war-veteran, shattered and

shell-shocked, a nervous 'nervous

breakdown' victim of his war

experiences. Any little thing

startled him or, in today's

parlance, 'freaked him out.'

Today's world I guess treats that

stuff all differently - gives aid

and assistance and refuge. But

to this Whitey got his; and what 

he got was a sort of quiet charity 

work as acquiescence, as an 

acknowledgement of his presence

and silent valor, still running. He 

could go on, do his work, get 

paid, and no one would be the 

different. The storm windows 

needed doing, as did the doors 

and grills. (Years later, in the

seminary, I read a book by a guy

named Louis DeWohl, entitled

'The Quiet Life.' I was always

reminded back to Whitey. His

was a kind of quiet, wandering,

dedication to task. No words).

-

Each of these storm doors, by the

way, at the front of the houses,

had a metal grill, like a protective

design grid for the lower glass.

And in the center of each one,

worked boldly into the scroll,

was the last-name-initial of each

family. It became very odd to see;

almost funny. Going right down

the block, all the same, and each

one had a different letter at center.

M for Mulligan. B for Boyd.

I for Introne. W for Walker. it

was, perhaps, meant as some

effort for comfort and calm, to

'home in' like that on one's own

place. Every so often, a house

would sell and new people would

come in - the Scarfettis would

somehow move into a house with

a front door still bearing an R

for Ryan. That posed the dilemma,

and the slow pleasure of watching

what they would do about that.

I also remember how long my house

had that old, original, grey storm

equipment, and the front door that

went with it; with the 'I,' - and 

long, long after most others 

had gotten rid of theirs.

-

What 'class' was any of this? I

wondered. America was classless,

they'd tell us. That was about as

untrue as any other lie you could

come up with. That there, right

were I lived, was 'Class One.' And

it was only that - lower, lower

middle, able to make the mortgage

and not much else - at first anyhow.

Everything was the same; a level

of fairly uneducated people, most

all war vets, with their tales and

stories still running in their brains;

mostly small urban folk, Jersey

City, Newark, Elizabeth, and such - 

though not always. There were

Pennsylvanians and Wisconsonites

too, placed here by job or marriage

or whatever. That was geographics.

The economics of it all, however,

never much changed. Again, at

first. Ten years or so on, different

things began happening. Jobs and

money grew. Better cars and trips

began occurring , ownership of

different things segmented all

these people into another weave,

varied sub-groups. The Holiday

Lake people (swim-club in Edison)

with that sticker for parking, on

their rear right window. Those

with Summer rentals or lodgings,

Lavalette and Avon-By-the-Sea;

two Jersey Shore places both then

accessible and affordable. Boats

began showing up, trailered into

the yards and driveways. Sheds

and pools, etc. Other guys went 

right to work, expanding the home, 

having the attic space converted, 

or the basements finished, for bars 

and lounges downstairs - pool tables

and card-playing rooms, TV's and

snooker. It was all a secret economics

by that time; some had more, others

didn't, but no one really let on. There 

was still, nonetheless, a certain 

sameness to everything.

-

There was one Summer, I guess it

was 1958, because Edsels were new

and they had one (everyone gawked

at that!), a family about 4 houses

from mine just upped and moved

to California. I forget where; I want

to say Alhambra or Cupertino, but

my memory is beat. (It sticks in

my head because a local girl in

grade school with me also left

for California, oddly enough, and

her last name WAS Cupertino.

Carol Ann, to be exact). No

matter. This family was the

Bertini family, and the day or

night before they left there had 

been a sort of send-off party for

them. And, yes, the very next

morning there they were, in their

car, Mom and Dad and two kids,

about 8 or 10 years old maybe,

and their big, fancy car was

hooked to their trailer, with

what belongings they were 

taking. Up the road and out

to Route One and points west.

Everyone waved, and they drove

off. It was pretty amazing, as

it went. I'm told by others that

they actually returned to NJ again, 

their California experiment

having failed. But I know no

more of that saga.