Artifacts…an old car

Artifacts a country story from an old blog 11/09..the car is still here but there is less of it

old decaying car
old decaying car

In any environment, there may be those pieces of human history left over that try to tell their own story.  On the property here, there are neat things: glass bottles piled in a heap; large boulders that line hedgerows between farmland; and four abandoned cars.

The cars are placed throughout the property,

when you reach the pink car, you know you have almost reached the southern end of the land.  Closer in, toward our house, is the decaying car featured in the picture.  You may not even be able to tell it is a car.

Since the beginning of my life here, I have made up stories about who sat in these cars, and why they were dumped in these spots.  Through the mist of time, I recreated Bonnie and Clyde or their 1940s, 50s, 60s counterparts and had them running in the middle of the night to our house where they paid the owner to dump their car.

“Nah,” said my husband, “this is just what people did with trash back in the day, put it on the farmland.”

Then one Sunday night, I would say circa 2000, I cannot remember now, a phone call came at 10pm.

“Sir, this is the state police office.”

“Yes, what can I do for you?”

“Does your son have access to some old cars?”

My husband’s son lived out-of-town then. “Yes,” replied my husband.  “Why?”

“Well, he apparently gave one of the license plates to this young man we have just pulled over, do you know a Bud D?”

“Ok, that is possible, Bud D, is his friend.”

“And, this license plate belongs to a man wanted for killing a very important person a few decades back, we will be over to check out the cars tomorrow.”

“Oh,” replied my husband and hung up the phone.

“That was weird” and he told me the story.

We were both gone the next day and no note was left signifying the police stop.

The cars looked unmoved.  Nevertheless, what I learned from that is something like the old statement about paranoia, “just because you make it up, doesn’t mean it isn’t real.”

The artifacts around us tell a story. This car has been here since before my husband moved here in 1979. We no nothing about the specific owner, not even the name.

©claireaperez

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It is really lovely here, but it is also messy

In 2008, I thought it might be fun to write a blog.  I did not get around to it until 2009. I found this tonight on my computer.

My old homeland is the suburbs and if you live in the suburbs, or have lived in the suburbs, you can just imagine how discombobulating all this country life can seem to a born suburbanite.  But as I look back, I have to say that I’ve learned a lot about the cycle of nature and processing bio-mass here.

photograph of our Boxer Phoebe among the daisies
Phoebe among the daisies
reflection
reflection

Blogging~this is what

Tazz & Honey Bunny
cats 2006

I would have posted in September 2008.

September 4, 2008

Below are the peaches that have fallen from the tree. The peach tree stands next to our house and this is the 2nd year in a row it produced. I picked several and sent my husband off to work with 5 containers, I will also take five this afternoon.

When I look at the peaches, I feel duty and obligation: duty to clear them out and obligation to use them for something good: donate the ones that are edible, pick the beauties still on the tree and freeze them. These are tough times; the earth has been good to us, and wasting the peaches seems a sacrilege.

Peaches
Peaches

The picture above is of my cats, Tazz and Honey Bunny. They are often in the basement under a heated light because Tazz’s age led him to incontinence. Tazz doesn’t know it yet, but he needs a flea treatment. His bedding is airing outside. I went downstairs with the big ol’ shop vac to begin the flea fleecing and one minute into the procedure, the lights and vac went dead. This morning the fleas were going to be gone for good.

The procedure includes vacuuming up all the remnants of the pine shavings (sustainable kitty litter), numerous cobwebs that have accumulated since Christmas 2004, or whenever it was I vacuumed last, and a lot of random dirt…hoping to start with a clean, dry slate. When the lights went dead, I retrieved my reading glasses and a flashlight, opened the electric box and began switching away to no avail. There is other work to be done, no use wasting precious time on this endeavor.  I’ll just leave it for Ram;-)

I think that is when I really saw the peaches by the basement door calling me. The next job also called, dumping the kitty litter. Back when I lived in suburbia, I just bagged it up and sent it on its way. Too expensive here, weekly I clean out the kitty litter boxes and take a garden cart full of “crap” down to our own little recycle area. We use the pine shavings to help shore up a pond so at least we do not waste plastic and landfill space.

The picture on top is of Phoebe. A little boxer, large in size. She is the tenderest of our animals, naïve, does not really know about evil in the world, and just laps up the love. She is hopin’ and a prayin’ I’m going to take her out with me so she can finish the Gradew left by the neighbor’s dog in the yard, sampling it earlier wet her appetite.

So that is my life in the country today. Not quite as it is pictured in the glossy mags except for one thing. It is soothing here. I look straight a head at a wind that gently rocks orange and yellow sunflowers, a white butter moth flits around, and in the distance a pond, a body of water surrounded by trees, still in this moment, listening to the sustained late summer sounds.

©claireaperez@gmail.com

Note:  November 2014, RIP Phoebe and Tazz

My Child, You are the devil’s stool!!

You get old and you realize there are no answers, only stories.  Garrison Keillor

St Patrick's 21st Century, adobe water color, source below
St Patrick’s 21st Century, adobe water color, source below

 Link to St. Patrick’s picture, source Wikipedia commons.

This is St. Patrick’s Grammar School, the one my grandfather, Harry J. Lagonegro, an Elmira businessman and co-founder in 1912 of the Arctic League*, attended with Hal Roach, the famous Elmiran who produced the The Little Rascals comedy series.  According to my Mother, they became life-long friends because they were  outsiders, my grandfather was Italian and persona non grata in an Irish Catholic milue and Hal Roach was protestant.

At this same grammar school, my Mother, years later, with some real Irish blood in her, attended grammar school during World War II.  I later attended religious education here. It is now, residential apartments.

This is the story…

sitting at my Mother’s kitchen table Saturday, I mentioned I might like to write a book about my public school teaching experience: the high school I taught at recently closed.

“Well,” boomed my Mother, “you will have to start with my getting hit with a yardstick in grammar school!”

“What?” I replied.

“Yes, one day Sister took me out into the hall, whacked me on the arm with a yardstick and screamed, ‘You are the Devil’s stool, You are the Devil’s stool.’

My mother started to laugh…”That is what I heard, but, of course, what she really said was  ‘You are the Devil’s tool, you are the Devil’s tool.’ “

My mother was born in 1931  and three of her five brothers were soldiers in World War II.  She went on to tell my husband and I that when she was having a bad day, she’d start sniveling a bit, and say, “We got a letter from my brother yesterday.”  I surmise this kept some of the yardsticks away.

Recalling a different incident and not specifying whether it was before, or after, her whacking, my Mother said,

“I was so naïve, one day Sister asked the class if anyone had any old yardsticks they could bring in for her.”

 My Mother continued, “I enthusiastically raised my hand and brought one in for her.”

My Mother raised her eyes to heaven as it to say, can you imagine.  Yes, I can, women always at the ready to be helpful, and teachers that abused authority so badly the logical counterbalance was to take their authority away.

*Arctic League-The Arctic League began in 1912 as a group of baseball fans who met regularly at Harry J. Lagonegro’s cigar store at 157 Lake Street. 

©claireaperez@gmail.com