In the beginning it was a hazy dark, a
small boat - really small, and overhead through faint translucent
clouds a moon trying to illuminate the man and woman and swaddled
baby lying on the stern seat and I was that baby seeing the moon and
hearing my father's muffled voice and the sounds of river water
smacking the wooden planks by my head, taking in the light in the sky
and the sounds of the night and all that remains in my memory is the
moon, the vagueness of a thing that was boat and sounds that were
data to be stored so that when I was three years or so and asked my
mom about them she shook her head in amazement that I remembered that
they had gone out onto the river in the dark of night to look their
illegal trap nets when I was about six months old. We had gone out
the Old Channel from the small cove that was called either Mae's Gut
or Abner's Hole, for I heard those names all my young childhood but
was never told which cove or feeder creek was which. And the Old
Channel suggested a new channel and indeed there was, dredged in one
of those depression-make-works for our county and where Anthony
Cameron's cow meadow came down to the shore the old channel wended
it's way through the marshy reeds to later join with the new channel
and open together into that magnificent river, the Northeast river
and which same originally had been intended to be called The Shannon
river and where now the meadow and the marsh are gone and a
development type of watering hole with its modern dead-ugly boat
shed that reflects the taste of its owner, and NautiGoose restaurant,
proclaim their sophistication to all the Pennsylvania navy that
define our noble town. Years later I learned that Anthony and Rigsy
and their sister were but tenants on land belonging to the McDaniels,
in particular a husband and wife that I called Aunt Louise and Uncle
Deedee although we were related only through a tenancy of our own
when we lived on their big old estate in the little house that my
father tenanted for supplying them firewood for the big house.
"Worst bargain I ever made", my father said often down
through the years. "I cut and piled enough wood to last the
winter and D.D burning that damn big fireplace to heat that old hulk
of a house went through the whole eight cords in a little over two
weeks".
All my memories of them are of two
avuncular older people that seemed to be the next step beyond a
mother and a father.
Tho' I was born at home on the street
that now leads down to the town's small park on the river at the time
it led down to Harvey's Wharf where old man Harvey held sway like a
back country Ymir, burning out competitors some persistent enough to
take two or three burnings, killing niggers at the end of a summers
work, cutting river ice in the winter, and selling fish beyond memory
at ten times on the taking until he eventually did what my Dad had
propheted and started killing people at random with his great old
shot gun until his grandson said " - don't shoot me grampy,
don't shoot!" and he didn't but turned the gun to his own
stomach and let loose with two rounds. However he didn't die and
lived out the remaining days of his life in the mental home in
Chestertown being a pain-in-the-ass to his surviving relatives that
owned property - along with Henry - all over the neck as they
couldn't sell it as easy as they might have done if he died more
quickly for his sins. So that was some of Walnut Street at the time
with none of the other residents there as dominant in character as
Harry, he with the big hand-painted sign - where now stands
another golden oldies home - with a big generic black and white fish
topped by Harveys (no apostrophe) Fish Market and obligatory pointing
arrow pointing in the same direction as the fish in case no one could
figure that out. for Boston and Aunt Birdie Hines, and Mrs Badey
could not come close to being a strange grown deity to a little boy
even though during the summer Mrs. Badey went up to Crouch’s little
store almost every evening and bought a pint of ice cream and ate it
all herself while we, my mom and dad and I would all share a pint
between us on those rare times that my dad would say "you scream
and I scream, we all scream for ice cream" and we would head out
from some house we lived in at the time for we lived in house after
house there in Perkinsville, we would head out on a twilight kind of
evening with the limpid pale dimming light and the perfect heat of
the day and the perfect breeze and a kind of feeling of time and
place that resides to this day in my mind that is the baseline of the
perfect kind of day and none ever comes close again for no matter how
pleasant, how perfect they all but my mom are gone and I have new
loves in wife and children and grandchildren but that young Skeets as
they called me in those pre-school years senses the newness and
embraces it but it is not the same world now as that one that came
before I realized that I was not the center of the universe, that
there was a beginning and an end for each one of us, that the play
going on around me was slowly evolving in unexpected ways, that death
was a presence off stage waiting for his lines, that I would change
and be one of those unknown beings that filled in the backdrop of
what I was watching all around me all the time for no matter how far
we walked reality kept filling in the background so that it seemed as
if I were creating the world without knowing how I did it - one of
three surviving streets - for one of the original streets that was to
run down along the creek never got past the draw-it-on-paper stage -
in that section of our metropolitan backwater of North East, called
Perkinsville by one and all, with Beech St being the nearest to Bat
Hollow where Shoat Harvey owned the store in which my father at one
time was setting on the electric cooler during a thunderstorm and
suddenly he landed screeching in the middle of the room a lucky
escapee from capricious lightning that had hit the power line, then
Walnut, then Cherry St which resisted paving the longest still being
a kind of puddly dirt and poor gravel while I was a kid. So thus
the country began with Cameron's farm a kind of country holdings
barrier holding the town at bay from the dominions of the McDaniels.
The father of D.D. and Alex, who started McDaniels boat yard, had
come down gunning duck on the bay sometime at the turn of the century
to the 1900's and seeing hundreds upon hundreds of acres of land
going for pennies on the acre had quickly bought up a goodly portion
of the waterfront from Harvey's holdings on the edge of town down to
where the boat-yard is now adjoining New Connaught Mannor though I
don't doubt if there is nary a soul living there that could call it
by name , and running back into the ridge of the neck in some huge
holdings of land where now the high school resides, and sundry
developments including a damn golf course surrounded by a series of
row houses blessed with the name of condominiums or some such ilk.
and writing this I think of root words and condom and how the condom
catches the sperm and how condominiums catch the influx.
When I was but a few day's old my
father bundled me up against the cold and the early snow and carried
me across said Walnut Street, through the vacant lot, across Beech
and through the cow pasture to the old even then farm house and
proudly showed me to the Cameron's. I believe I was possibly three
days old for quite soon thereafter, perhaps the next day, the lady
tending to my mom at the time as sort of a poor man's nurse - I can't
imagine how much she might have made in that time of the great
depression, perhaps a nickle a day - told my dad how fantastic a baby
I was as I never wet a diaper yet. In one of his lightning rages he
threw her out the door, ripped off my square cloth of home made
diaper and saw that I had no opening in my penis from which to
urinate - a caul-like membrane of flesh was fastened tight across the
urethra. He ran the several blocks to the doctor that had delivered
me, Dr. Collins himself, who returned with my father and proceeded to
take a large sewing needle dipped in iodine and puncture the
membrane. Some number of days of urine along with the blood of the
sudden wound gushed forth spraying them both as I joined in in
anguish and relief I'm sure. Hearing this story years later gave me
several long years of worry in my adolescence. I was very slow in
physical maturation looking about 12 when I was 15, not to mention
being only about five foot two or so and weighing soaking wet
possible eighty pounds. No beard like fuzz graced my smooth face,
and when we had to shower after sport, with some ten to fifteen wild
and horny boys crowding into one large shower stall, groins covered
in manly curls, I tried to hide away with my still smooth skinned
little nubbin looking like I had wandered in from the elementary
school. One friend in particular. Bootsie, asked me if I jerked off
much, and I said yeah now and again, and he said do you come yet? and
I said yeah it feels really good, and he said no I mean do you shoot
stuff out the end? and I didn't know what he meant, no real sex
education - or books - back then. When I finally figured out what he
meant - "No, not cock cheese. Come! (no spelling of cum then),
It looks like a big haulk-full-of-snot" and that it was what
made babies, I started thinking about that caul that was punctured
when I was four days old. Had Doc Collins stuck the needle in far
enough, were there two holes and I only had one, would I ever have a
girl friend and get married and have children. I checked this out a
lot, several times a day for several years until finally I did the
real cum. Then I had to feel guilty about doing it for I didn't have
any excuse for doing this delicious hidden shouldn't do-it thing.
Like a smoker I quit for good every time. But even though my fathers
introduction to sex-ed was to tell me that playing with your self
caused you to go crazy and be put away in the nut house down to
Chestertown I chanced it on the off chance that I'd somehow only
become dumb and not be able to do math. Then around tenth grade I
got a pimple on my forehead and this sent him, my dad, into a frenzy
of screaming at me about playing with my self like a damn sex crazed
nigger and all I could think was the neighbors could hear and my mom
could hear and I just wanted to disappear into some void, I wanted
to tell him it was only one pimple the kids in school even girls had
pimples, lots more than me and I started thinking did girls do what I
was doing did they do it a lot to get all those pimples. I wanted to
ask our Phys-ed teacher Mr. Miller (he lived to be a hundred by the
way) about it for he seemed to be the only adult that ever came close
to telling us about the mysteries of sex.
You boys listen to me he would say
"Play with it when you feel that way and don't get some girl
pregnant" and nobody else would even come close to talking about
It. Unless it was my dad when he was mad and ranted on about - but
that's enough of that for now cause at this time in the story I'm
still only a pre-school little kid telling you about my memories of
things and the memories of what I was told then.
Another real memory vagueness of my
great father bending over a crib to look for his marbles and me at
the time wondering did my dad play marbles when he went out and up
the street to some place called Uptown. And in that crib was my
baby sister - who died at age six months when I was two. And this
snippet of time clarified when I asked him later did he find his
marbles and it turned out to be Marvels, his rare pack of store
cigarettes which had fallen from the chest pocket on his white dress
shirt and spilled into baby Alice's crib. There is no picture in my
mind of either my sister or my mom but he was already that stern
figure always with his white shirt, sleeves rolled up his slim but
powerfully muscled arms and the dark dress pants, both pressed and
spotless when he went Uptown with a clean and pressed handkerchief in
his right rear pocket. Not to blow his nose, a quick finger stopping
one nostril while he blew the other clear served that purpose. The
handkerchief was for display in a sense but mainly to quickly wrap
tightly around his right fist for the quick blow to someones jaw.
"Never start a fight, but if one is forced on you always get the
first punch in. A really good-one! You should be able to dim their
lights on that first punch and if not they'll realize they can't take
it and that'll be the end of it." As far as I know he rarely
instigated any type of brawl, but he liked them like later one of my
good friends a little younger than I, Mike Holmes - and not his real
name Mike for he was christened Molly but never call him that -
liked the dominance he could bring to a fight. Pleasant, but quick
to temper, quick to forget but loving that dim their lights approach
to the world around them - both unable to temper the call to drinking
the water of life either. If one drink was good then why not twenty
or thirty more to hold the demons of life at bay. People like the
Holmes, the Russels, and some good other Irish names seemed to hold a
mutual regard for each other most of the time but even with them it
never stood in the way of a quick disagreement about most anything
and then it was Katie-get-your-gun.
I almost feel ashamed to put pen (ah
dream on old man it's a damn computer you're putting this down on)
the fact that I cannot to this day recall any vivid picture of my
mother, before I was in about the third grade when I remember her
setting at the upright piano playing for long intervals of melody
either from memory or from music sheets it made no difference, and
even in this faded photograph of my mind she is vague in appearance.
My father I can remember from early days, teaching me to read, to
write, to do arithmetic, taking me to bars, taking me to the woods to
cut wood, taking me in some old row-boat to catch fish, taking me
along the shore down past the old marsh to the cove at Shady Beach
where my fisherman uncles bach'ed it in an old shanty their nets
scattered in heaps and piles along the beach, the smell of tar being
a smell that still makes me feel that incredible sense of this is
what the world is like, taking me to pick berries although these
trips were always accompanied by my mom and they would pick water
buckets full of blackberries and strawberries and huckleberries
depending on the season all growing wild in profusion in Cameron's
fields and in the deep woods and strawberries in particular at the
Old Ball Diamond where later when the war started it became a lumber
mill and then abandoned and now just serves as a wooded bushy field
as one turns into North East Isles and I choke silently with laughter
at the old Arundel Pier now serving as the home of this cluster of
'town houses' I guess they call them and nice enough when I went into
one looking out onto the marshy area that borders Stoney Run (and
maybe this - Stoney Run is Mae's Gut - but then maybe not I'll have
to ask Marshal Purner) but to me they look like a blight of
construction gone mad from the outside, and taking me on miles long
early dark of early morning hikes along creeks and the river setting
muskrat traps by the hundreds sometimes leaving me alone in silent
foggy mists of clearings while he waded thigh deep in some creek
plunging his bare arms to the shoulder into the icy waters of winter
so that his trap would be placed just right in a muskrat lead or
leading me across frozen mini-ponds in the marshes where I could not
keep upright on the incredibly slippery ice his trousers freezing in
chunks around his legs and him laughing at me falling spinning ' like
a hog-on-ice boy'. We ate muskrat about once a year in January or
February and I can tell you that it was good, wild meat was good,
rabbit, squirrel (though he never shot a one for Charlie Snyder or
some one would give us a bunch from time to time. Charlie who made a
single shot 22 sound like an automatic he fired and loaded so
quickly, and his pride was not to shoot the squirrel and ruin some of
the meat but to bark it, to hit so closely to the squirrel that the
ricocheting bark or shock wave killed the squirrel or so the story
went) and very rarely deer meat - for deer were scarcer then, my dad
telling me that he could remember when there were none in Elk Neck,
and that the first one ever seen was on the edge of town on the old
elk neck road caught in a fence and people came from up country and
everywhere just to see it - and for what ever reason he never seemed
to like hunting with a gun. I don't think he ever owned a gun till I
was in my later teens so the muskrat were trapped with spring-traps,
as evil an invention as man has made to crush some poor muskrat or
whatevers' leg and have it laying in pain for hours through dark
night or in tidal waters that would after hours of suffering come
rising in and slowly take its misery away. and often we found a
sprung trap with a muskrat leg gnawed off at the first joint so that
some poor frenzied beast would be hobbling bleeding away to die most
certainly for in all the hundreds of catches he never caught a three
legged muskrat or weasel. When my dad lay dying years later in Union
Hospital he weakly told me he knew this was his punishment for all
the pain that he had inflicted on those dumb animals. "If I had
life to do over I would never do it. I'd never set a single trap"
but whether it was god or the universe that was inflicting the pain
he never enumerated. And his motto for belief was "I'm like the
man on the roof-top who starts to slide off the roof and cries aloud
'God Save Me' and about then his clothes snag on a nail halting his
plunge to the ground and he looks up to the heavens and says 'Never
mind now'" and as is the way of life that too is now my take on
the mystery of it all.
If you want to read farther then you'll have to leave a comment.
Marvelous. Check out the McKinney website that I have started.
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