{"id":453,"date":"2008-01-18T19:02:04","date_gmt":"2008-01-19T00:02:04","guid":{"rendered":"http:\/\/www.irawagler.com\/?p=453"},"modified":"2008-01-18T22:49:53","modified_gmt":"2008-01-19T03:49:53","slug":"fragments1","status":"publish","type":"post","link":"https:\/\/www.irawagler.com\/?p=453","title":{"rendered":"Fragments…(#1)"},"content":{"rendered":"

photo-2-small.JPG<\/a> <\/p>\n

\u201c. . . a stone, a leaf, an unfound door; of a stone,
\na leaf, a door. And of all the forgotten faces.\u201d<\/p>\n

—Thomas Wolfe, \u201cLook Homeward, Angel\u201d
\n________________________________________<\/p>\n

—Aylmer: early 1970s—<\/p>\n

His name was Henry Palmer. Tall, toothless, beak-nosed, nasal-voiced, stooped and painfully skinny, old and bald, he eked out a meager existence by taxiing the Amish in his ancient rattletrap black sedan. <\/p>\n

He was far from a safe driver, and it\u2019s a miracle that he never had an accident while transporting passengers in his car. My earliest memory of riding in a car was as a passenger in his, on the dust-clogged gravel roads around Aylmer.<\/p>\n

Henry was a WWI vet. He ran away from home when he was fourteen, lied about his age and joined the Army. Fought in the mustard gas-blanketed fields, the rat-infested trenches of that terrible conflict. After his return, he never married. He lived like a hermit in a decrepit little shack in the remote hills a few miles outside the small village of Richmond.<\/p>\n

On the dash of his car was one of those little vinyl sticker labels you can punch out letter by letter, with his name. Whoever gave it to him had misspelled it; the label read \u201cHenery Pamler.\u201d He never knew the difference. I suspect he couldn\u2019t read. Or write.<\/p>\n

When I was in the fourth or fifth grade, we heard the news at school one day. Some-how, fire had broken out in Henry\u2019s shack the night before, and in a fierce but brief inferno, it had burned to the ground. He hadn\u2019t made it out. We stood around in tight little knots, discussing the tragedy, knowing it couldn\u2019t be true. <\/p>\n

It was true. Almost too shocking, too vast, too overwhelming for our young minds to comprehend. The thought of the old man collapsing in the smoke and heat and flames, alone and unheard. And that we would never see him again.<\/p>\n

The county buried him, I suppose. He had no one. No family. No kin. No one to mourn him or mark his passing. He was the last of his line. Any shreds of personal history he might have accumulated reduced to ashes with his body. And that\u2019s why we now briefly honor the memory of who he was, before even it disappears, fading unnoticed into the encroaching mists of lost time.
\n_____________________<\/p>\n

—New Holland: 2007—<\/p>\n

\u201cThat your truck?\u201d she asked in a raspy voice as I emerged from Sheetz early one morning and walked to Big Blue, bleary-eyed and sipping my coffee.<\/p>\n

I glanced at her, a rather plump, amply proportioned forty-ish, cigarette smoking bleached blonde, giving Big Blue the once-over while standing beside her powerhouse Mustang. Sleek beautiful car. Late model. Looked like it could burn some tires and move. And a shimmering electric blue.<\/p>\n

\u201cYup,\u201d I answered. <\/p>\n

\u201cI like it,\u201d she said.<\/p>\n

\u201cThank you. I like your car, too,\u201d I replied, \u201cespecially the color.”<\/p>\n

She chuckled, a full-throated rasp as she opened her car door. \u201cThanks,\u201d she said. \u201cYou know what they say. Great minds think alike.\u201d<\/p>\n

I couldn\u2019t argue with that. Not that I would have.
\n_______________________<\/p>\n

—Aylmer: around 1973—<\/p>\n

\u201cThe Purdy girls lived back there,\u201d he said. \u201cTwo sisters, they had a little shack and some buildings back behind the woods there.\u201d <\/p>\n

Gord Brackenbury, a local logger and roustabout hauler, was talking to my Mom and sisters about the Carl Sansburn farm Dad had just bought. I hung around the edge and listened to him talk. Short and rotund, Gord chain-smoked and was all but stone deaf. And it was whispered about the community that he sometimes drank to excess. He could never remember my name and just called me \u201cJunior.\u201d <\/p>\n

\u201cThat was when I was a kid,\u201d he continued in his slow amiable drawl. \u201cEverything\u2019s gone now. Can\u2019t see any sign of any buildings. As far as I remember, they never got married.\u201d<\/p>\n

Later Mom was telling Dad. \u201cGord Brackenbury said two sisters lived back there behind the woods, and they were so pretty. He remembered that so clearly after all these years. How pretty they were.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cNo, Mom,\u201d my sister Rachel interrupted, \u201cPurdy was their last name. He didn\u2019t call them pretty. Purdy.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cOoh,\u201d said Mom.
\n_____________________<\/p>\n

—New Holland: 2007—<\/p>\n

A summer Sunday morning. I stood in line at the counter at Sheetz with my morning cup of coffee. The lady ahead of me had two cups, and ordered a couple of packs of smokes. The clerk fetched them. Then she wanted lottery tickets. They both walked to the far end of the counter where the tickets were sold. <\/p>\n

She was thin, probably in her fifties, with a hard worn face and the chronically tired look of the hardscrabble poor. I waited impatiently as she made her lottery ticket selections. Five of this, three of that, blah, blah, blah. Where was another clerk when you needed one? I set my coffee on the counter just off to the side of her items. <\/p>\n

Finally she was finished with her picks and they came back to the register. The clerk rang up her purchases. She paid with a couple of twenties and walked out. I motioned to my cup of coffee. <\/p>\n

\u201cOh, she paid for that,\u201d the clerk said. \u201cI rang up everything on the counter. I thought it was hers.\u201d I thanked him and took my coffee and walked out.<\/p>\n

She was sitting in the passenger\u2019s seat of an old half-rusted Chevette, about the ugliest little car ever made. A fat scruffy-faced man I assume was her husband sat squeezed behind the wheel. His great bulk flowed over onto her seat. They were scratching the lottery tickets she had just bought. I approached her side of the car. <\/p>\n

\u201cExcuse me,\u201d I said politely, \u201cbut I think you just paid for my coffee in there by mistake. I had it sitting on the counter and the clerk rang it up with your stuff. I\u2019ll gladly pay you.\u201d I offered a dollar bill.<\/p>\n

She looked at the bill hungrily, then quickly glanced over at her husband. He hesitated for less than a second. Then he waved his hand generously. \u201cNo, no, you can have it. That\u2019s all right,\u201d he said.<\/p>\n

\u201cAre you sure?\u201d I asked. \u201cIt was a mistake. I\u2019ll gladly pay you.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cNo, no,\u201d he insisted. \u201cWon\u2019t hear of it. That\u2019s all right. You can have it.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cThen thank you very much,\u201d I said. \u201cThat\u2019s very kind of you. I appreciate it.\u201d <\/p>\n

Cigarette smoke billowed from the ugly little Chevette\u2019s windows as I walked away.
\n______________________<\/p>\n

—Aylmer: early 1970s—<\/p>\n

The \u201cEnglish\u201d farmer and his teenage son stood there in their bib overalls in our barn, checking out a milk cow Dad had advertised in the newspaper.<\/p>\n

\u201cIs she sound?\u201d The farmer asked suspiciously. \u201cIn good health?\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cAs far as I know,\u201d Dad answered.<\/p>\n

\u201cWell, is she or isn\u2019t she? Not as far as you know,\u201d the farmer retorted. His son looked on and listened, drinking it all in. \u201cYes or no. Is she or isn\u2019t she?\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cAs far as I know,\u201d Dad answered again. \u201cYou can see her. You can see she\u2019s healthy. And as far as I know she\u2019s sound.\u201d<\/p>\n

The farmer grumbled and growled a bit more. But he bought the cow. For Dad\u2019s asking price of $400.00.
\n___________________<\/p>\n

—Lancaster: 2008—<\/p>\n

I sat there at a little table in the center of the mall, sipping my usual cup of half-decaf, half-regular. Watching the Saturday afternoon post-holiday crowds. An elderly black gentleman with a neatly trimmed mustache approached and asked if he might sit in one of the three empty chairs at my table. I waved assent.<\/p>\n

He carried a cup of regular coffee and a small expresso cup, which was empty. He poured coffee from the large cup to the small cup and drank it. I looked puzzled.<\/p>\n

\u201cIt\u2019s the way we drink coffee in my home country, in these small cups,\u201d he explained haltingly, with just a bit of an accent. \u201cSo sometimes when I get homesick, I come here and drink it like this.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cWhere is your home country?\u201d I asked.<\/p>\n

\u201cEthiopia.\u201d <\/p>\n

\u201cHow long have you been here?\u201d <\/p>\n

\u201cNineteen years,\u201d he said, lifting the expresso cup and slurping its contents in one gulp. \u201cAnd I\u2019ve never been back to visit.\u201d
\n________________________________________________________________________<\/p>\n

I am spending a few days this weekend at the Horse World Expo in Timonium, MD, manning a company booth. It\u2019s always kind of fun to get away from the office for a few days, do something different. I see a lot of vendors once or twice a year, at these Expos. We always kid each other and catch up on the past year. <\/p>\n

horse-show1.jpg<\/a><\/p>\n

Speaking to prospective customers, mostly horse people, gets to be quite draining. By the time the show is over, I\u2019m pretty much done. No more. I always resolve that whatever my future lot may be, it will not include owning or having anything to do with horses. Never, never, never.<\/p>\n

A word to my nephews who are skiing on the vast slopes in Wyoming or Utah or some such exotic place, at an upscale resort. Have fun. Don\u2019t break a leg. I sometimes grumble that no one ever tells me anything. Had I known that four of you, all big strong, strapping muscular young men, were passing right through Albuquerque, NM, I might have suggested that you stop there and see an old acquaintance of mine. Or you might call him a former friend. Just to say \u201chi,\u201d of course. And perhaps one or two other choice words and phrases. Maybe you could still stop there on your way back. I hear he likes to hang out at “Jack in the Box” restaurants.<\/p>\n

YOU ARE WELCOME TO POST A COMMENT ON THE LINK ON THIS PAGE ONLY.<\/p>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":"

\u201c. . . a stone, a leaf, an unfound door; of a stone, a leaf, a door. And of all the forgotten faces.\u201d —Thomas Wolfe, \u201cLook Homeward, Angel\u201d ________________________________________ —Aylmer: early 1970s— His name was Henry Palmer. Tall, toothless, beak-nosed, nasal-voiced, stooped and painfully skinny, old and bald, he eked out a meager existence by […]<\/p>\n","protected":false},"author":1,"featured_media":0,"comment_status":"open","ping_status":"open","sticky":false,"template":"","format":"standard","meta":{"footnotes":""},"categories":[1],"tags":[],"class_list":["post-453","post","type-post","status-publish","format-standard","hentry","category-news"],"_links":{"self":[{"href":"https:\/\/www.irawagler.com\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/posts\/453","targetHints":{"allow":["GET"]}}],"collection":[{"href":"https:\/\/www.irawagler.com\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/posts"}],"about":[{"href":"https:\/\/www.irawagler.com\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/types\/post"}],"author":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/www.irawagler.com\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/users\/1"}],"replies":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/www.irawagler.com\/index.php?rest_route=%2Fwp%2Fv2%2Fcomments&post=453"}],"version-history":[{"count":0,"href":"https:\/\/www.irawagler.com\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/posts\/453\/revisions"}],"wp:attachment":[{"href":"https:\/\/www.irawagler.com\/index.php?rest_route=%2Fwp%2Fv2%2Fmedia&parent=453"}],"wp:term":[{"taxonomy":"category","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/www.irawagler.com\/index.php?rest_route=%2Fwp%2Fv2%2Fcategories&post=453"},{"taxonomy":"post_tag","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/www.irawagler.com\/index.php?rest_route=%2Fwp%2Fv2%2Ftags&post=453"}],"curies":[{"name":"wp","href":"https:\/\/api.w.org\/{rel}","templated":true}]}}