by John Gould
Always Uphill
A News item tells us the Meddle Department of the United States government has required the J. C. Penney people to call back a batch of bicycles. Something about these bicycles can come apart, and Uncle Sam is fearful people might get hurt. This may be a laudable function of today’s bureaucratic Omnisciency, but it doesn’t make sense in my recollections of boyhood bicycles. If J. C. Penney is putting out a bicycle that threatens the flesh and bones of the kiddos, J. C. Penney should get an A-plus for perpetuating the honest American traditions.
I never had a bicycle that didn’t come apart several times a day, always with dire disaster, and if there came a day nothing broke it made talk about the neighborhood. True, this was a bit ago. Just this summer a mother down the road told me she had a deal on with her young son—every dollar he earned she was matching with two dollars, and he was “working” on a bicycle. I never had a deal like that and I never earned a dollar. I earned money, but never a dollar. I mowed the lawn for one sea captain’s widder-woman, and she paid me ten cents an hour. I could mow her lawn in an hour. But if I hustled and finished the lawn in fifty minutes, she’d pay me but eight cents. I had quite another way to work on a bicycle.
I found my frame on the town dump. It had a twisted front fork, suggesting it had moved the immovable object, and also explaining why it was on the town dump. There was no problem. I stuck the thing in the big vise at Charlie Dunning’s blacksmith shop, and Charlie ran a length of iron pipe over the bent part and yanked back a certain amount of originality. He didn’t get it all, as he felt he might break something, so my bike had a list to starboard and I was never able to ride it no-handsies. But he did get the fork so the cones of a wheel would line up, and now I had to go and find a wheel. Thaddy Buker had one with eight broken spokes. It didn’t just rub; it bound up. But I could get spokes for it, so I gave Thaddy fifteen cents and took the wheel. Then I had to mow some lawns to get money enough to buy new spokes at the bicycle shop in the city. I tried to stretch the widder-woman’s lawn into twelve cents, but she shook her head and said she never paid more than ten cents.
I was lucky with the rear wheel. I found an old kitchen range buried under pine needles in the woods, probably all that was left of a chopper’s camp, and I carried the pieces home one by one until I had them all. About a mile. Then Benjy Gartley, who bought junk, took them and gave me a perfectly good hind wheel, coaster brake and all. It was perfect, except that it was smaller than my front wheel, and I always rode uphill.
The frame had a crack, which spread shortly and became a break. I couldn’t fix it until it broke off, so I rode around some in the constant expectation of taking a header when it let go. I did, and then I fixed it. I shoved a piece of water pipe on over the break, so the break was in the middle, and then I bored holes for rivets. Charlie Dunning, good friend of all us boys, gave his approval and said the job would last for years. Good as new.
Tires were a problem. None, then, had inner tubes, and each was shellacked to its rim. Had to stick them on, because if they moved on the rim the valvestems would tear out. When a tire sprang a leak, which every tire did, it was a major operation to get the wheel out of the fork, the tire off the wheel, and everything back again. So the make-do was to wind friction tape around the leak, wheel and all. This kept the Neverleek from oozing, and a wound-around tire would hold air sometimes. Neverleek was a patent product that came in a tube. The tube was threaded to fit the valvestem of a tire, and the tube of Neverleek was squeezed in. After that, if a tire leaked, it leaked Neverleek, and the tape helped stop that. Neverleek looked like molasses, and may have been. What I saved on new tires I spent for Neverleek and friction tape.
All of which was attended constantly by the J. C. Penney hazard Uncle Sam is now hoping to abate. Things did fall apart, and bicycling taught us how to fall at high speed and slide forty yards on the back of the neck. What would fine old Uncle Sam know about the abrasive quality of a cinder sidewalk of my youth, which would shred a pair of corduroy pants in a split second? And so we boys would pick ourselves up, and then pick up the separated parts of our bicycles, and we would carry them home in our arms. Now to find replacements, to dicker, to mow some more lawns, and then be back in business for the next disaster.
Funny thing, and probably J. C. Penney and Uncle Sam don’t know this, but after the high-wheeled bicycle, the new kind was called a “safety.” The safety eliminated the dangers and disadvantages of the old high-wheeler. I still heard the word “safety” for a bicycle when I was a boy, meaning a bike just like mine. And what would Uncle Sam do about the grave dangers of the carbide lamp? A little can of carbide and a drip of water made a gas that burned with bright white light, and on the front of a bicycle this shone enough so night riding was reasonably safe. Marty French’s carbide bicycle lamp blew up on him and took the side off his father’s barn.
The Noisy Woods
Some poet named Raymond Henri undoubtedly composes in an urban environment, and he has favored us with some verses called “Silence in a Wood.” He enlarges on the dearth of noises in a forest, assuming as city slickers are wont to do that there in the sylvan dell and the bosky copse the whine of the fire engine and the shrill whistle of the policeman and the honking and grinding of traffic are lacking, so everything is quiet. He tells us, poetically, that the faint rustle of leaves stirring in the breeze are “sighs.” Before I finish, I plan to explain about one of those sighs. No doubt the delusion that the countryside is peaceful began with ancient Horace, whose city mouse bemoaned the rural lack of “crowds and stir.” Pshaw! Give me the hardened city-ite who can sleep with his apartment window open against the hullabaloo of torrential traffic—one who snores through jackhammers and buses shifting gears—and I’ll stick him in a bedroll by a wooded dell and prove that a bug-eyed insomniac can be made in one boisterous night. There’s little silence in a “wood.”
Well, it isn’t a wood—it’s “the woods.” One goes into the woods and one comes out of the woods. You can’t see the woods for the trees. The woods is full of them. And if you think that delicate little sigh is the murmuring of rustling leaves, be assured it’s far more than that—it’s the turn of the tide. A hundred miles from the ocean the message comes. And if the night is fairly quiet, this sigh will waken any sleeper whose ear is tuned. The force involved is truly astronomical—sun, moon, the universe, the oceans, a vast movement. Far away, somewhere, whatever it is that swings the stupendous pendulum will hit the cycle on the button, and everything that was going that-a-way will turn and go this-a-way. The incredible suction that begins is by no means a coastal matter. Farmhouse windows far from the tide will have the curtains stir as the air shifts, a dying fire on a hearth will puff some smoke, a shed door may squeak on a rusty hinge, and the poplar leaves will stir. People who understand will say, “Tide turned!” and it is so. But hardly a sigh; it is a gasp, a heave, a gulp, and it throws into reverse a force immeasurable.
But the turn of the tide, so far from the ocean, is a sound that is truly perceived rather than heard. There are other sounds like that—the drumming of a bull partridge is one. As part of his matrimonial affairs, the cock grouse will stand on tippy-toe and begin to beat his wings against his body. Slowly, he beats faster, and in the end is making a whirr. In the woods, it sounds like a drum beat developing into a flourish. And when afar, it sounds perhaps close by; when near, it seems at a distance. And if you are a poet and have never heard a grouse before, you will probably assume somebody is trying to start the reluctant motor on a camp water pump, perhaps on a lawn mower. It is possible, if you approach with care, to creep up on a pa’tridge in this absurdity. When he gets through thumping himself, he seems to be punchy, and in need of a good rest. Stay still with patience, and you can watch him get ready again and go through the foolishness another time. His wife is somewhere around, sitting on a nest of eggs.
The noises of the woods never keep a woodsman awake. But take somebody out of the madding crowd and sti
ck him in a tent up-river! The embers of the campfire have been covered with wet pine needles to make a smudge that will entertain the mosquitoes, and the whine of the mosquitoes is noticeable. The frogs along the stream are croaking splendidly now, and up the bog a stake-driver is pounding out his goodnight cal-ooooomps in rhythmic delight. The guide, who has taken this chap on his vacation, is now well asleep, lulled by the woodland sounds he knows so well. The surge of the waterfalls just upstream plays background to all else, a drop of maybe fifteen feet that orchestrates the twilight with the enthusiasm of a Niagara. Swooping to investigate the frogs, a dusty hooty-owl fetches up to perch in a pine and go hoot-toot-hoot-toot-hoot-toot-hoot-toot for a half hour, being pleasantly answered hoot for toot by a friend back in the timber. If the owls subside, then can be heard the loon in the lake above the waterfalls as she berates her husband in the manner of a Middle Ages heretic being boiled in oil. His reply usually brings the chaps from the city to a sitting posture. Oh, did poet ever lie listening to the noises of the woods and wonder what is out there in the leaves? ’Tis a bunny rabbit, and now, just for fun, he kicks his hind legs on the ground. Thump!
Or, has poet ever heard a pair of porcupines making love in the upper branches of a tree? Sometimes they talk politics, too. They make an incredible bedlam of sound, squawks and squeals, grunts and groans. Midnight is about right. Most people hearing porkies for the first time refuse to believe it’s porkies, and think bears. But bears sound more like loons, and do their yelping on the run along the ridges, so there is a crashing noise too. One of the really good noises in the woods is that of a bull moose coming to splash in the stream. From the bedroll, the sound approaches and is cumulative, like a Central Vermont freight train coming down the White River Valley. It always seems to be headed straight for the bedroll. First, the poet will hear the cracking of twigs, and then the snapping of limbs as the monster runs into spruce trees. The thunder of hoofs. When the beast reaches the stream, he does his splashing, and in good time returns to his business up on the ridge. Now would be the time for the poet to arise, light the gasoline lantern, which hisses incredibly, and set down his wing-ed words about the silences of the forests.
No good night in the woods is perfect without a treesqueak. Perhaps all the other noises have been absorbed or endured, and the poet at long last is about to slumber. The treesqueak is an aggregate of demons, fays, trolls, kobolds, and poltergeists that sits up in a tree and rubs two limbs together. A small breeze suffices, but things are better with a wind. Just when a treesqueak gets doing his best, along comes a raccoon that tips all the tin dishes into the water pail. Oh, yes—sometimes a pair of flying squirrels will entertain. They make little slapping noises when they land. The porkies are still at it.
Poems about silence in the woods are made by poets who have never been there.
Season’s Knell
Some years ago a lady reader wrote to ask if the seasonal flights are led by a goose or a gander—probably because she was curious, since this was before the Equal Rights Amendment was thought up. I answered the letter, but not the question—geese are like the happy, bounding flea and even close by the beholder is dubious. When a flock passes over, the keenest eye will see little difference. I stood this morning (as I wrote) and watched a flock of Canada geese lift off our Back River and move with great cry into the day’s formation, and I smiled about that woman’s letter.
’Tis a brave sight. Our Back River must have some feed for migrating geese, but I’d sooner think they come in here to rest. Our Canada goose nests, or has been known to nest, within the United States to the west’ard, but those we see on our Atlantic flyway in the fall are heading south for the winter all the way down from the Arctic and sub-Arctic and the gaggles are in great number. I’d guess maybe two-three hundred in this flock this morning. The hullabaloo of the takeoff will beguile the viewer to the exclusion of minor details, so I watched in sexless admiration. A goose is a goose. And I doubt if it matters and I doubt if anybody knows.
From my observations, a flight of geese seems to have a constant shift of command. These flocks that visit me overnight have come a long way. The Gaspé, Baie de Chaleur, at least from Prince Edward Island. It was a long day, and they are tired. There seems to be organization, but there also seems to be confusion. There’s a lot of talk, as if weighty matters were being discussed. This eases off during darkness, although some chatter goes on all night, and then in the morning we hear the volume gain again. Just before takeoff the honking swells, and since there must be a leader, whatever signal he or she gives is made against a considerable tumult. With great splash and honking and co-honking, the flock rises from one side, so the last to fly have waited a time. But the takeoff is nonetheless all together and all at once, and off they go in a total disarray. They rend our dooryard with whoop and halloo because they aren’t more than ten yards above our rooftop. They rise quickly, however, and are well in the air in a minute or so. The honking fades, but we can still hear it after the birds have disappeared into the south. There comes a point when the chorus suggests a lonely hound baying the moon.
But during this takeoff and before any flight pattern is formed, a flock seems to have no particular leader. There is jockeying for position. A bird on ahead will fall back; one behind will move up. And even after the classical V begins to shape up, there is changing here to there, back and forth. There seems to be doubt in the first airborne minutes as to which goose should fly where. I surmise flying geese take turns being leaders.
And while ’tis, indeed, a brave sight—there is a sadness. The departure of the Canada goose is the knell of the season. They have their way of knowing, which the Whether Bureau does not, and one day they are gone and the next day we have ice in Back River. Up they rise and off they go, and the wind shifts. Put away the lawn mower and take down the snow shovel. Summertime friends. But as they honk and rise, they make their promise—when the ice is gone and the air is warm and the grass is greening, they will be back.
So they will. When next I hear a honk, male or female I wot not, I’ll probably be planting the sweet peas. That will be nice.
Putting Us On?
A goodly bunch of us boys was in Marty Potter’s barbershop and close shave emporium the other forenoon, and I was in the chair when Goopy Groober, the town cop, stuck his head in the door and said, “You open today, huh?”
“I’m open,” said Marty.
“Good,” said Goopy, “I’ll noise it up and down the street.”
“I shall be everlastingly grateful,” said Marty, and I said, “What was all that about?”
But before Marty could expatiate in his customary horticultural verbosity (flowery language), the door opened and in came Randy Oliver to say, “You’re open today, eh?”
Marty nodded and said, “Take a seat and I shall attend to your heart’s desire in a prompt and efficient manner ere long.”
“Where was you all day Monday, Tuesday, Wednesday, and Thursday?” asked Randy. “I came by to get a haircut and the door was locked and nobody knew where you were.”
“That’s right,” said Marty.
“Well, where was you?”
“I been wondering about that, too,” said Rufus Toothaker. “I needed a haircut bad for the church supper, and had to go to the thing looking like a busted bale of hay.”
Father Everett Greene, retired vicar of St. Andrew’s Church, laid down his crossword puzzle at that and said, “I noticed at the church supper that you needed a haircut, but I understood, because I’ve been trying to get one myself during this prolonged hiatus.” He turned to Marty and said, “Did you enjoy your vacation?”
Marty snipped about my ear for a time before he answered, and then he chose his words and he said very slowly, “I am the unwilling victim of bureaucratic interpretation. I am not allowed to keep my shop open for the convenience of my customers and the good of the public in general—if I do, the Social Security people say I’m working too much and they cut off my gravy. I�
�ve done my best to explain to them that I’m not necessarily working or making money just because my shop is open; I tell them a good part of my time is spent sitting around waiting for trade. I’ve read that 1938 Reader’s Digest so many times I wake up in the night repeating the articles. But I make no headway at all—long’s the hasp is undone on the screen door I’m stuck. So I’ve got to close up to keep them happy, and it so happens that I’m available this morning. If you don’t like my arrangement, go tell the Social Security people.”
“They told me it was earnings,” said Randy. “I got to tell ’em how much I earn, but they don’t ask me how long it took to earn it.”
“True, true,” said Marty. “But you speculate and work under your hat. You don’t have a shop with a front door on it and the hours posted.”
“Funny thing,” said Father Greene, “that this subject should come up in my presence. I am involved in it to a very special degree, even more than Marty. I can assure you that Marty is perfectly justified in a closing down his butchery to mollify the absurdities of the bureaucracy.”
“Now you’re just making fun of me,” said Marty.
“Not at all,” said Father Greene. “You see, when I became a senior citizen and retired from the altar, I was immediately accorded the generous benefits of governmental largesse. I got my first check and it pleased me a great deal. Then I got a printout communication telling me I had to go to the Social Security office and explain my situation. The young man asked me if I prayed very much.
Father Greene paused, and then went on. “I said yes, that I did. I said I had got into the habit during the years of my priesthood, and that it was not an easy thing to desist now that I was retired. The young man seemed astounded at this, and he told me I would have to stop praying altogether. He said that praying, with me, was work, and as long as I wanted to draw my benefits I’d have to be retired completely. Strange consequence when it’s a federal offense to pray.”