Far Muse
June 2009
Untitled (Commentary On Current Events)
By Ted Kalvitis
Untitled (Commentary On Current Events)
We've all had a song stuck in our minds that just won't go away. “Girl From Ipenema” is the standard, I guess, and since I learned about the customary Brazilian beach attire, this song has taken on a whole new meaning with a not unpleasant image. Anyway, since the collapse of General Motors, my nostalgist's mind has been stuck not on a song but on a radio skit—one that was never aired or even written. I've often said that society treats the insane by medicating some and publishing others. I understand that I'm testing the line here, but no, I'm not hearing voices.
Some Bible scholars suggest that the collapse of such solid institutions as GM is represented in prophecy as “the stars falling from the heavens.” This sounds like quite a stretch, but no more so than literal stars (whose density and size are many times that of earth) plopping down in Hackensack.
“Honey, what's Regulus doing in the driveway?”
“Oh, it fell from the sky last night. I think Betelgeuse is in the swimming pool.”
“Well, can we get it out of the way? I need to get to work.”
“You don't have to work today, dear; it's the apocalypse.”
“Are you serious?”
“No, Sirius landed at the Stedmans'.”
“Very funny. Well, guess I'll fix that screen door today.”
But that wasn't the skit that has been haunting me. I maintain that our economy isn't in a slump but that this is the new economy and we would do well to adapt and adjust. Talk of “jump starting” the economy is just a political playing card. To try to get things going again would be reminiscent of an Erskine Caldwell story where laid-off textile workers try to relive a more prosperous time by simply taking over an idle textile plant and going about their old jobs. Like them, we would be producing products that nobody wants.
Anyone who wants to work is working, though possibly at something less lucrative than their previous job. Those who prefer not to work are using the hype about a troubled economy as a manifesto to go fishing.* I kind of envy these folks in a way and feel that, perhaps, taking a page from their notebook wouldn't be such a bad idea after all. My present work status, by the way, is holding steady around “less swamped than usual.”
As for the building and sales of new homes, we all know that continued development is not ecologically sustainable. (My, that whole line of type only contained seven words—should I run for office?) I consider it to be far from tragic to see new houses unsold, perk tests back-filled, silt fence pulled up and corn planted over it all.
Most of us 50-somethings grew up in a era when the big steel mills still ran and Detroit was churning out multi-ton chrome and lacquer beauties. If you are fortunate enough to be in a position to do so, take a ride in a car from the 1930s, '40s, or '50s, and just feel the history. See the old machine shops and factories in the days before air conditioning, with acres of glass propped open to catch the breeze. See the red-hot crucible swinging molten iron over the “straight eight” engine block molds. See the smoke-filled offices and boardrooms.
But it's not real—not any more. Maybe it never really was. Perhaps the past 100 years or so wer very exceptional in history (we know that they were) and maybe we're headed for a reality that our grandfathers tried to tell us about in their broken English. “See all this—this world that you were born into—it's not real. Someday all this will get used up or you'll just get bored with it and not want it any more. The old days when you really needed to use your head and your hands and your back will return and you darn well better be ready.” More likely, he was just cussing me out for robbing his orchard—my Lithuanian never was all that good, though switches cut in my honor carried a universal message.
Oh, by the way, here's the radio skit that's been in my mind since GM went bankrupt:
George Burns: “Gracie, I heard that Jack Benny lost some money on an investment . . . .”
Gracie Allen: “No, not Jack . . . .”
Bing Crosby interjects: “Why I heard that Jack could pinch a nickel so hard that the Indian would ride the buffalo.”
(Laughter)
Gracie Allen: “Honestly, George, Jack Benny is about as likely to lose money as General Motors.” (More laughter)
Pessimists tell me that there's no Hope these days. That's something that I've learned to live with—there's no Crosby, either. But we can always watch Road to Bali on a cool, rainy June day like this.
Well, it's the next day and I'm feeling some regret at submitting the foregoing short, uninspired piece for Far Muse. Inspiration is hard to come by (for me) during an early June rain. There is not the fury of a summer thunder storm nor the deep, contemplative state that such weather causes in fall and winter. Just rain—not hot, not cold, here it is, on time, in just the right amount. Regulation rain that meets all the basic requirements of being rain but little else. Rain with a serial number.
I dropped Stephanie off at the school in Capon Bridge to pick up her school bus. The sky was just starting to brighten. The rain was falling steadily as I drove out of the parking lot. The sound of rainwater cascading into a storm drain caught my attention.
“Horton hears a who,” I chuckled. Now why did I say that? Oh, I remember—it's kind of like “Marvin found a hole.”
Marvin Miller, who I described in the Traveling Mechanic column some years ago, was an old-time mechanic who was just as comfortable working on a turbocharged diesel tractor as he was working on a Siegler oil stove. He often coached us youngsters at Baker Equipment, the local Massey Ferguson dealer, whenever our foreman, Vaughn Keiter, was busy on his own farm. Marvin was quiet and large in stature, with an unfailing sense of humor and wonder.
The town's wells had an unsavory iron content and, as the local water hauler and cistern filler Cleat Whitacre and his 1940s vintage Chevy tanker truck were nearing the ends of their careers, the town installed a fresh water system fed by a large mountain spring. Marvin became the town employee in charge of the water system. I often had the privilege of helping him.
I sat near this iron storm sewer grate trying to discern from the noise how far the water might be falling—and remembering the summer's day in 1979 when this spot was the talk of the town.
It was another hot day in the greasy, wooden-floored, un-air conditioned shop at Baker Equipment. We were finishing up work on a backhoe for a local excavator, Joe Boone. Joe, another quietly humorous man, stopped by to check on our progress. He mentioned that Marvin had found a hole near the school where some pavement had collapsed. The hole was apparently quiet deep, as a weighted twenty-foot string line remained taut when lowered.
I had noticed that the old timers who usually hung around the shop giving advice were absent. They had found their day's excitement elsewhere. Those present with the freedom to do so immediately left the shop to marvel at this natural, or at least historical, wonder. I had to wait until my lunch break.
The area is all concrete and asphalt now but back then I seem to recall a gravel town road, a grassy area, and tar and chip pavement on the school's parking lot and on adjacent state road. A small crowd had gathered as Marvin lowered the line once again to demonstrate the hole's depth.
Old timers, and some not so old, stood about discussing (and, at times, arguing about) what might have stood there prior to the school's construction in 1947. There were several suggestions made but the consensus, when finally reached, was that nothing of any consequence had stood on this spot. I don't recall specifically, but I think that it turned out to be an old hand-dug well, covered over with planks perhaps during the 1920s. Dirt had washed over the planks, and pavement was carelessly spread over it.
Some old movies help us to recall the days when people were frequently falling into these old wells. Usually, the well had either collapsed or was mostly filled with household trash, so the fall was often survivable. I remember hearing of some such instances personally way back in the New Jersey Farm Days. More recently, though, one appeared in a paved parking lot in Waterloo, Virginia, a few years ago. I was also warned about one at a jobsite near an old farm house foundation at Stephenson, Virginia.
I guess that most of these old wells have been found and filled in. Still, it stands to reason that a few remain. They're out there somewhere, near old stone foundations, in open fields or woods, maybe on a golf course or posh suburban lawn, or even a shopping mall parking lot. Waiting; silently, patiently, faithfully for . . . you?