STORY:
The Rail
I was drafted into the service in the summer of 1966 and inducted in the fall. I suppose they could have placed me in any branch but the bigger call at that time was for the Army. I was 19 years old and very much an immature home body. After one year at the local community college they decided not to invite me back for the fall semester. During that year of college I learned all about broken hearts, playing pool on small tables at the local taverns and drinking enough to make a blur of the memories. I also learned I was not cut out to be an Accountant.
Did I mention drinking? There was enough pathos in my undirected life to fill a couple of old style country and western albums. The only thing I fell short on was fighting and jail time. I've always been more the lover than the fighter.
The actual induction happened in Buffalo, New York. I can't recall how many people were there that day but I do remember standing in lines for everything. There was a lot of "sorting" going on and some rudimentary medical physical processing as well. The crescendo was the swearing-in ceremony where after repeating "I" we all inserted our own names in a fractured hodgepodge and then echoed a pledge to uphold the constitution against all enemies with honor in relative unison. Some were more enthusiastic than others.
Until that day I had never taken a train ride other than the Rochester Subway when I was a Cub Scout. Shortly after that the subway was scrapped and the byways were converted in part to what became known as the Inner Loop and the "Can of Worms" highway interchanges. That's progress all right.
So we boarded a train on the evening of my induction for an overnight ride to Grand Central Station in New York City and then Grey Line Busses to finish the ride to Ft. Dix, New Jersey.
The memory in the poem is about riding the train in the middle of the night right through the heart of my hometown, Rochester, laying in a sleeper compartment, listening to WBBF on my transistor radio and realizing that I could not and was not getting off that train and going home for quite a while. I listened until the familiar station signal was just static and then listened a little longer hoping it would get strong again. It did not and I don't remember sleeping much on that ride.
The Road
The second tale of the poem happened in the summer of 1969. Not quite sure how it came about but there we were. Three guys from Rochester (some might say hippie types) taking a tour of the country in a beat-up old VW Bus. By the time we got to Detroit the only way we could start the bus was pushing it and popping the clutch. I was glad there were three of us. We drove, ate and most nights slept in the van.
I remember a few legs of the trip. Passing through The Black Hills National Forrest of North Dakota in pitch dark and suddenly noticing huge Bison roaming free right next to the road. Very startling if you are not expecting to see such a sight. I mean they are huge!
Somewhere along the way we got word of a big music festival back in New York. A bunch of great bands were going to be there with several thousand fans showing up for the bash. We were not going back for it though. Who ever heard of Woodstock anyway?
I remember having a strange encounter with a guy (I want to say his name was George), again in the middle of the night, outside Kanab Utah and stopping at a bar along the way. Some gentlemen with unfamiliar twangs in their voices asked us if we were in town looking for a hayin' job. We weren't sure we heard them correctly and asked them to repeat the question, which they did with a little more clarity and emphasis on the "haying" part.
Apparently the process of cutting and bailing hay (thus haying) was quite labor intensive and I suppose we looked like we needed work. We politely answered no and got out of town pretty quickly laughing all the way over the misunderstanding.
The next day or so we made our way to Las Vegas. Back in the day it was a much smaller city than it is today. The classic casinos and "The Rat Pack" of entertainment were in full swing. Circus Circus was the newest in town and we spent some time seeing all that they had to offer, for free that is. Since we didn't take a hayin' job in Kanab we didn't have a lot of cash for gambling.
Again late at night we left Las Vegas heading for California. As we began our assent over the mountains the road was pitch dark and in the rearview mirror we could see the lights of Vegas glowing so brilliantly it was just amazing. We pulled over to the side of the road too look at the glimmering energy of the city, but the real show was the stars on a totally clear night. I can't remember if there was a moon in the sky or not, but the weight and pulse the blanket of stars provided was totally overwhelming. It was stupendous to say the least. We didn't know what to expect from California but it was exciting to think about it as we launched our van off the desert floor and into the mountain pass.
POEM:
Two Tales
01/02/12
A passage on the night train ride to Ft. Dix
clink clank rhythm of metal wheels on cold rails
and side to side sway of sleeper cars
a soothing pace but no rest
so unaccustomed to being on my own
to watch by moonlight
the mesmerizing spacing of the telephone poles
and dipping rising refrain of weather weary wires.
Broken white lines on a midnight stretch
of unlit desert highway
leaving Vegas lights behind
like a jewel in a pitch black pot of berry wine
with so many stars there is no twinkle but
a pulse that beats in every possible direction
feeling safe in the toasty Mojave womb
so overwhelmed we were giddy with it all
heading west for a coastal rebirth
we cleaved the La Madre Range.
