[lit-ideas] Re: THE FARM: A TIME TRAVELOGUE (long)

This was beautiful, Mike.  Thanks for posting it.



> [Original Message]
> From: Mike Geary <atlas@xxxxxxxxxxxxx>
> To: LIT-IDEAS <lit-ideas@xxxxxxxxxxxxx>
> Date: 7/30/2005 4:12:12 PM
> Subject: [lit-ideas]  THE FARM: A TIME TRAVELOGUE (long)
>
> Prologue:  The second week end of August I revisited the farm I had once 
> lived on for almost 4 years from 1951 to early '55  These ruminations 
> proceeded.  I don't know why I did this except perhaps to conclude an 
> important part of my life.  Have no guilt about deleting it.
>
>
> After the war, the one we won, six of  my seven uncles, four of whom had 
> battled the Krauts and two the Japs ended up living with us in Memphis
for 
> various amounts of time from '46 through '48, (and that's not counting my 
> mother's parents -- god only knows when they came to live with us or why) 
> and all because my dad hadn't done the deed he shoulda-oughta and gone
off 
> to war like all good Americans did, preferring to stay home and make
bullets 
> for Dupont (for which he was draft deferred) rather than dodge bullets
made 
> by the Axis' Dupont counterparts -- or maybe Dupont was making bullets
for 
> both sides -- who knows?  business gets messy in wars.  But the upshot of 
> all this is that having stayed at home, Mom and Dad owned a house, and
thus 
> we became the stopping off place for all demobilized family members.  It
was 
> very, very crowded in our house for a while, but that was OK because we
were 
> very, very Irish at the time (much less so now).  I was only 2 through 4 
> then, so my memory is a bit hazy at best.  But I remember with amazing 
> clarity the morning I woke up fascinated by fire.  My younger brother
Tom, a 
> year and a half younger than me -- a surprise child, no doubt -- shared
my 
> small upstairs bedroom and was still sleeping in a crib.  I can still see 
> him fretting over the flames.  He's never had much of an aesthetic bent, 
> more the engineering type, which means that though he's understood stuff 
> I've never known existed, still I know the beauty of fire and he knows
only 
> the properties.  I tell myself that anyway.  Helps deal with the envy at
his 
> success.  I remember, or I think I do, waking that morning and lying in
bed, 
> imagining the flames and how exciting that would be.  I know I remember 
> sneaking into my parents' bedroom next to ours and taking a book of
matches 
> from the nightstand while they both slept soundly on a Saturday morning. 
> Returning to our room, I sat down on the floor, struck a match and set
fire 
> to my  bed sheet.  I remember sitting there, amazed at how beautiful it
was. 
> I remember him -- brother Tom -- screaming and jumping up an down in his 
> crib -- apparently upset by the unfamiliar sight of a bed on fire.  I 
> remember watching him, thinking: what's your problem?  My next memory is
of 
> great commotion.  My older brother had been sent by my grandmother to
wake 
> my mom and dad for breakfast, he had to cross our bedroom to get to mom
and 
> dad's and walked in just as the flames were started to get dramatic.  No 
> friend of theater, he lost it and went screaming through the house that
the 
> house was on fire.  Suddenly there was Uncle Mike and Uncle Harvey and my 
> father all pounding on the mattress with whatever they could find and 
> throwing the mattress out the window.  It was all quite exciting.  I 
> remember looking out the window and seeing the mattress smoldering on the 
> ground, sadly exhausted as though post-coital.  A great debate ensued
about 
> what should be done with me, I'm given to understand and I've been told I 
> received a royal whipping for that, but I don't remember it.  Pleasure
takes 
> precedence over pain.
>
> Then came grade one.  The only person I remember from that whole wretched 
> experience is Betty Bucannani.  She had buck teeth.  I remember that. 
Maybe 
> that's why I remember her, except that I also remember that I wanted so,
so, 
> so badly to be her friend, I don't know why, it may have only been her
name, 
> those dancing dactyls, whatever, she ignored me.  In fact, I can't
remember 
> us ever speaking to one another.  Some loves are too intense for words.
>
> Having successfully completed grade one and believing myself pretty much
in 
> control of my life, I was suddenly and rudely told that we were moving to
a 
> farm outside Pocahontas, Arkansas.  Goodbye, Betty Buccananni, my
darling, 
> my love, my life!  Had I been consulted about this, I'd never have
assented, 
> nor would any of us four kids.  So much for democracy and the noble 
> sacrifices of my six uncles trying to make the world safe for such.  40 
> million dead but that meant nothing to my parents.  We were moving and
that 
> was that.  I remember the morning we packed up the rented truck -- not
the 
> closed van types you see today, this was an open bed truck with wooden
fence 
> type sides.  That was early summer 1951.  It was the beginning of our new 
> family philosophy: the simple life -- a philosophy not yet communicated
to 
> the rank and file.  My parents were a full eighteen years ahead of the
rest 
> of country in returning to the earth.  I should have told my parents that 
> "the desire to be primitive is a disease of civilization", but I wouldn't 
> come across that quote from Santayana for another twenty years or so --  
> nevertheless, I suspected as much.  That should count for something. 
Hadn't 
> my own dear father scoffed at the idea of barbecuing on an outside grill 
> saying, "It took mankind a million years to learn how to cook indoors. 
I'll 
> be damned if I'll turn my back of that achievement."  I agree with him
now, 
> but at the time I wanted him to fit it.  To be like Ward Cleaver,
exemplar 
> of white, upper-middle-class American values.  As I look back on it
though, 
> Dad was exactly like Ward Cleaver, well, minus the wardrobe and the 
> certitude that Ward exuded.  But both were equally unflappable.  Where
Ward 
> was certain of his beliefs, my father was certain he had no beliefs. 
Where 
> Ward was bemused by his children's misreadings of life, my father was 
> bemused by all readings of life.  And whereas one could never imagine
Ward 
> getting June to undress, my father could regularly get my mother to shout 
> success.  He had his talents.
>
> My sister Tricie rode with mom in the Plymouth that was crammed with our 
> more fragile stuff.  Uncle Joe rode in the truck cab with Dad and us
three 
> boys were assigned to a small space in the back left for us like were
pieces 
> of furniture.  But we didn't mind.  We made a game of snaking through
voids 
> in the load, with the challenge of making it to rear.  Boxes always
stopped 
> us, alas, but it was a fun challenge for the two hour trip from Memphis,
fun 
> despite the recriminations over the rocking chair lost somewhere on
Highway 
> 69 when my older brother whom we called "Brother",  tried to rearrange a
box 
> that blocked his way, inadvertently sending the rocking chair over board. 
> About a mile from the farm, at the top of Sand Hill, we stopped on our 
> virgin trip to the farm to buy some emergency provisions.  Mrs Butler, a 
> stereotypical big-bosomed, ample-fleshed, loudly gregarious country woman 
> accompanied us out to the truck.  Seeing it, she laughed heartily. 
"You're 
> carrying it in on a truck," she said all jovial-like, "but you'll be 
> carrying out on your backs."  Then she laughed with an abandon that
through 
> the years I've come to believe springs from tragedy.  And true to her
words, 
> three years later, we did just as she had prophesied -- moved back to 
> Memphis in our black 1950 Plymouth sedan whose hood and roof and trunk
now 
> bore a thousand little dings from sheep hoofs.  Our clothes were about
all 
> we took back to Memphis with us -- that and one new brother, Pete, kid 
> number 5.  But the first year on the farm had been good.  The rains came
as 
> needed  The clover, the fescue, the alfalfa, all grew as green as God
ever 
> dreamed they could.  And ranchers from Texas, suffering a severe drought 
> there, were scouring the countryside trying to find farmers who would 
> contract with them for pastures to fatten their cattle before market. 
That 
> was right up our alley, since sheep graze closer to the ground than cows, 
> we'd let cows into a pasture first and our sheep would follow, none the 
> wiser.
>
> The Texas drought was a heaven send my mother believed.  It was God's way
of 
> blessing their commitment to simplicity and of giving her some extra cash
to 
> glamour-up the house.  And it needed clamoring, believe me.  It was as
old 
> as Arkansas and was a real, honest-to-god log cabin, stuccoed over
outside, 
> plastered on the inside. There were four rooms.  Two "large" ones across
the 
> front of the house, the living room and the bed room (for us 3 boys and
my 
> parents, though they often slept on a pallet in the living room.  I can't 
> imagine why).  Across the back of the house was a small kitchen and a
small 
> bedroom (my older sister's -- I've never understood how she merited
that). 
> The roof was corrugated tin on which the rain drummed a million fingers
and 
> under which the wind wailed like uulating women.  In the living room was
a 
> large pot bellied stove that heated half that room to eight hundred
degrees, 
> but left the rest of the house in a deep chill.  The walls in winter were 
> wells of condensation, and if you accidentally leaned against it, you'd
have 
> to change your shirt, it would immediately wick wet all through. 
Speaking 
> of wells, we didn't have one.  We depended on a cistern for water.  A
gutter 
> carried rainwater from the room to the cistern that adjoined the side of
the 
> kitchen.  It was housed in a slap-dash, shed-type construction.  The
cistern 
> itself resembled a concrete bottle of Guinness Extra Stout buried some 
> two-thirds in the ground.  Our family doctor recommended we have typhoid 
> inoculations if we were going to drink from it.  We did.  Both.
>
> I remember the morning the sheep were delivered.  Dad had ordered one 
> hundred ewes and one ram.  That lucky old ram.  But the truck showed up
with 
> two hundred ewes and two rams, someone had gone out of business before
their 
> stock even arrived.  Or so the driver said.  He talked dad into accepting 
> the other hundred at half the cost.  So the business suddenly doubled in 
> size.  I think my parents would have objected to my use of "business" to 
> describe their enterprise.  It was more a vocation to them.  And most
likely 
> of my mother's invention.  She was the Romantic,  dad, the Sardonicist. 
> Amazing how little they fought.  But I remember one morning my mother was
in 
> a fit, throwing silverware into the drawer, rattling dishes, slamming 
> drawers shut.
>     "Get out," she shouted at us boys, "get out. Go outside."
>     "But it's cold outside," I shouted back.
>     "I don't care," she screamed back.  "Get out of here. Go clean up the 
> farm."
>     "Clean up the farm?" Brother, my older brother, sought clarification.
>     Mom was holding a sauce pan in her hand at that moment and she
suddenly 
> went into a rage, banging it on the pot bellied stove like a maniac and 
> shouting, "Get out, get out, get out."  We grabbed our coats and went 
> without further ado.  It was bitter cold.  Why didn't our sister Tricie
have 
> to stand out in the cold?  Life is so unfair.  We made our way to the
barn 
> where bales of hay were stored.  In no time we were rearranging the bales
to 
> create tunnels and secret rooms.  The bales were heavy and took all three
of 
> us to move them about.  The work kept us warm, and having a mission that 
> required cooperation, we ceased the bickering and fighting we'd been
engaged 
> in all morning.  In fact, it was one of the best days ever spent on the 
> farm.  Thanks, Mom.
>
>  The first year was good.  But then the second year saw the Texas drought 
> move into Arkansas.  The next two years of drought did us in.  It was a 
> shoestring operation from the beginning, after all.  Even if the first
year 
> had been repeated ten times over, the eleventh would have undone it all. 
> The importance of capital in a capitalistic society -- Economics 101. 
Plus, 
> none of us kids were committed to simplicity, we'd have made demands. 
Would 
> have wanted running water and indoor plumbing.  Would have wanted 
> television.  Would have wanted air conditioning. Would have wanted
stereos, 
> microwaves, washers and dryers, hair driers.  Heat in every room. 
Toasters. 
> Blenders. Eventually even microwaves.  There was no way we would have let 
> our parents live their vision of the simple life.  In 1955 we moved back
to 
> Memphis and dad returned to the dreary, meaningless industrial jobs he
had 
> always known and that suck the joy out of most or our lives. But, hey,
think 
> of all the things.
>
> Fifty years later I returned to the farm.  Actually it was my third trip
in 
> fifty years.  The first trip was 16 years after moving, away.  My sister, 
> who had married her Pocahontas high school sweetheart, settled in 
> Pocahontas.  I was there in 1971 for the funeral of her husband who died
of 
> heart failure at 35.  Death-minded, I visited the farm.  Cows grazed in
the 
> pastures and looked suspiciously at me, but there was no one living
there. 
> The house was still standing, as were all the outbuildings, including the 
> outhouse.  I was amazed that that hated, rickety, spider infested, mud 
> dauber domiciled, stink hole of a building could have endured the years,
yet 
> there it was in all in ignominy.  But I was most amazed that there were 
> magazines and newspapers in the house that dated from the time we had
lived 
> there.  It was being used as a second barn, we were the last people to
know 
> those walls, hear rain drumming the roof, know the eerie whine of wind in 
> the attic.  The last to love it and hate it and feel some bonding with
it. 
> Using it to store hay seem a kind of desecration of my parents' one stab
at 
> a meaningful life.
>
> The second trip was sixteen years later (1987) when my father was dying
in a 
> hospital not far from Pocahontas.  He had retired to Cherokee Village, a 
> town located on the Trail of Tears, where dear old Andrew Jackson drove
four 
> thousand Indians from Tennessee to their death and thousands more into
exile 
> into that great garden oasis, Oklahoma.  I once asked him didn't it
bother 
> him to know such crimes had occurred on the very ground beneath his feet. 
> "I didn't invent Europeans," he said with a shrug.  "Don't blame me." 
Again 
> it was death that brought me back to the farm.  The house was gone, it
had 
> burned.  Lightning?  Most likely.  But I like to think it was from 
> spontaneous combustion -- from the stored hay.  Nature's poetic-justice
way 
> of stopping the desecration.  I was surprised how deeply it saddened me, 
> even though it was a kind of desecration, still as long as it stood,
well, I 
> apparently was taking solace in that.
>
> Now it is 2005, 18 years since my last visit.  I decided it was time to
do 
> it again.  No connection to death this time, except perhaps intimations
of 
> my own mortality.  The road to the farm, Dalton Route, leaves Highway 90
at 
> an angle.  When we lived there, Dalton Route was a narrow, gravel road, 
> poorly maintained and often deeply rutted.  In summer, by July at least,
the 
> trees that lined both sides of road were coated in a fine brown dust --
not 
> just the leaves, but the branches and trunks too -- it was other-worldly
to 
> anyone not accustomed to such dust.  I can only remember four farmhouses 
> between the highway and our farm gate when we lived there, even if my
memory 
> is failing me, there were certainly no more than one or two others.  But
now 
> there were forty at least.  And not farmhouses, thank you.  These were
all 
> wealth-bragging houses.  Where Dalton Route split off from the highway,
in 
> that slice of land there was a tree not far from the road with a
claw-foot 
> bathtub lodged high in the branches, dropped off apparently by some
passing 
> tornado that no one living there could remember.  It had always seemed to
me 
> a sacred icon, not of God's power but capricious Nature's.  "See this 
> bathtub set in a tree?  I"I'll place you in it if it pleases me."  I
looked 
> with much anticipation, but the tree was gone.  In its place, a new 
> hospital.  A trope of man's attempt to rule over nature?  Don't you just 
> love all these tropes?  Dalton Route was no longer called Dalton Route. 
It 
> was named Country Club Rd.  And it was paved.  And there was a factory
that 
> factored something, I don't know what, opposite the hospital.  And three
or 
> four dozen new houses in the mile to the farm gate.  The farm gate was
now 
> opposite the Pocahontas Country Club.  And just down the road was the 
> Country Club Estates development.  I didn't go in there.  Neither could I 
> drive on the to farm road.  It was locked all stock and barrel.  So I 
> climbed the fence and descended the hill.  I probably haven't told you
that 
> it is a very hilly farm.  And I probably haven't told you that Mom named
the 
> hills. There was St. Mary's Hill,  St. Joseph's Hill,  House Hill and 
> Copperhead Hill.  The farm was named Te Deum.  What amazes me is that 
> neither mom nor dad was particularly religious.  I ascribe it to 
> ethnicity -- Irish bullshit.  The lay of the land is absolutely gorgeous
--  
> the prettiest I've ever seen in Arkansas.  The hills are all wooded and
the 
> vales all pasture.  A creek cuts the farm in two.  The farm road from
Dalton 
> Route (Country Club Rd) wound around St. Joseph's Hill and Copperhead
Hill 
> and down and across the creek and up House Hill -- a least three quarters
of 
> a mile.  God it was so beautiful.  There were no buildings left on the
land. 
> No cows either, that I saw.  But it hadn't gone weed, someone still
cared. 
> I suspect it was being held for development.  Land to be divided into
lots 
> for retirees from Chicago and Des Moines and St. Louis.  I sat on a rock
on 
> Copperhead Hill and guessed that this was my last visit to the farm.  I 
> wanted to hate those people who would, as Joyce defines sentimentalists, 
> "enjoy with incurring the immense debtorship for a thing done."  But what 
> the hell.  Let this land be loved by more than cows -- a species-centric 
> statement I know and acknowledge that maybe cows love ten thousand times 
> more than any of us is capable of -- but I'm a human and I want humans to 
> know and love this place, which none really have for 50 years.  I sat
there 
> remembering how in the dusk, killdeer would sweep over the fields like 
> hot-shot pilots crying their plaintive call and scooping up insects by
the 
> cropful.  How when the sheep were dying in the fields, the vultures would 
> gather on the fence posts and circle the farm on wings that only an angel 
> could out grace.  Such hideous, ugly birds -- such astonishing,
incredible 
> beauty in the air.  Vultures should be the icon of God, not the crucifix.
>
> When I first sat down to absorb the farm.  I was disappointed that none
of 
> it seemed to remember my name.  There were trees there that should have 
> remembered me, but then I couldn't remember their names either.  Time
heals, 
> it severs, it obliterates, it moves on.  I wanted to be 7, 8, 9 years old 
> again, to feel the immediacy that I knew then, then when I knew without 
> introduction the names of the spirits of every tree and rock and weed and 
> wind that I encountered.  But it wasn't that way.  I was like seeing
someone 
> you know you know but just can't remember the name or the context.  You
nod, 
> knowing that that person was once important in your life and had things
been 
> different, well, then, you'd be different.  I kissed the ground.  Thanked
it 
> for the secrets it told me and went home.  Back to the land I belong to
now. 
> Taking from my parents not the simple life, rather life, simply, whatever
it 
> brings.
>
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