[lit-ideas] Re: THE FARM: A TIME TRAVELOGUE (long)
- From: "Andy Amago" <aamago@xxxxxxxxxxxxx>
- To: lit-ideas@xxxxxxxxxxxxx, "lit-ideas" <lit-ideas@xxxxxxxxxxxxx>
- Date: Sun, 31 Jul 2005 08:45:25 -0400
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.
>
> ------------------------------------------------------------------
> To change your Lit-Ideas settings (subscribe/unsub, vacation on/off,
> digest on/off), visit www.andreas.com/faq-lit-ideas.html
------------------------------------------------------------------
To change your Lit-Ideas settings (subscribe/unsub, vacation on/off,
digest on/off), visit www.andreas.com/faq-lit-ideas.html
Other related posts:
