42. JENNINGS

42. JENNINGS

On the back of a truck today

I saw a painted rear door which

read  -  the usual John 14:6 line,

'I am the way, the truth, and the

life; no one comes to the Father

except through me', whatever

the quote is, the truck guy had

it ever so slightly incorrect, in that

instead of 'comes' it was written

out as 'come'  -  for whatever

reason it seemed much harsher

in that fashion, more like a real

command than anything of a

gentle statement of Good Tidings.

I realized as I read that, how, in

whichever guise, defensive and

stern the message is, almost

perfectly made for the ancient

realms of thought from whence

it came. As if the newly established

powers, in asserting their new

predominance over things both

holy and profane, were drawing

the line already to assert that there

was no other way for the

common-person useless drone

to get to 'God' but through their

system of layered fidelities. All

of a sudden, once again, the

singular individual could not

(for some reason) reach his or

her internal and spiritualized

God except through the

cooperation and interdiction

of some huge, convoluted

system  -  which system was

'taking over' all things

and thought.

-

Perfect for Reverend McKnight

and all those Pennsylvania Baptist

people. They seemed not to think

about any other angle on things

except worship. And it was 'direct'

worship, yet somehow they didn't

think of that. They honored and

strove for Jesus, yes, but at the

same time, as I saw it, they

often were streaming directly

to God. Their sort of system

didn't have any of that other

stuff  -  like Catholics, the

sacraments and the flim-flam

of secret languages and the

myopically divided people

and spirits and all those levels

of saints and Heavens. But

they had tiered their own,

direct, system nonetheless.

It never seemed to have any

effect on the energy of their

worship. These ladies were

way into it all. It was the

craziest bunch I'd ever seen.

A really small, rickety, white

clapboard roadside church, a

little road but a road nonetheless,

on its own little knoll. The

church and the little building

next to it seemed almost to

defy sense by still standing.

Right next to it was the house,

I think, that once belonged to

the church, maybe from another

day, when the Minister lived

there. At present, than, it was

instead inhabited by one Verna

Beeman, a lady of about 40 or so,

with some six kids, varied fathers,

each, and no father present. They

used a variety of last names in

the house. She was Beeman. The

one, oldest, boy, whom I'd gotten

to know, sort of like a caretaker

father-figure (he was over a lot),

went as Mike Meehan. He's in

Texas now, where, apparently his

actual father lived. He went out

there, Mike did, and became a

State Trooper. Probably even

retired by now. I don't know.

Verna was nice, and she was

one of the chief 'holy-rollers' in

that little church  -  with the

nearness of the kitchen and

social room there, she was

always running the little

dinners and lunches, bringing

food trays to the sick and the

old and indigent. I realized early

on that because they DIDN'T

have all that dogma and

systemtized religion stuff

going on, it was more like a

social-welfare and group-help

organization than anything else.

Which was good, because in

those hills and hollows there

was always some group or

some family and kids in

trouble; hungry, poor,

without help but in deep

need, where violence was

present, where roofs leaked,

toilets were broken, cars

were gone. There were hilltop

people, huddled in their

decrepit and shabby trailers,

who sometimes had no means

of getting down off their hills

for months. No car. No initiative

either. They'd just wait  -  for

the arrival of help or foodstuffs

or anything of assistance. Driving

the schoolbus, I got to see a lot

of that, because most often the

school was their kids' only

sustenance, or the kids just

never came out to come to

the bus. Sometimes they'd

come out looking bruised and,

you could tell, roughed up

and fearful. I was supposed

to watch for that, and did.

There was no local police

force, only the cops down

in Troy, PA, some ten or so

miles off, and the PA. State

Troopers, which cars did

occasionally patrol the hills.

But any help needed was long

in coming. The church people,

especially in Winter, would

organize snowmobile patrols,

in and through all the known,

wooded spots, with food and

drink, blankets and supplies.

Winters were harsh and it was

known that people needed things.

Not everyone was friendly, you

must realize too. There was a

guy and family named

Jennings. He'd just as soon

shoot at anything coming up

his hilltop than talk. More on

him in a bit. Another guy,

named Claude Joslyn. He had

a family of four, living off

somewhere about a mile into

the woods, in a really horrible

trailer. I mean the pits. His

daughter was about 11 or 12,

named April. Sweetest little

kid, but aware just then of

her situation, as she grew.

Always embarrassed and sad,

never wanting to be seen. There

was no toilet left in the place, and

they'd 'go', I was told, right down

the floor, where Claude had dug

out a hole underneath, and a

hole in the floor. He'd clean

the outside hole into a

wheelbarrow every so often

and cart if off. His wife, the

mother, was a sorry sight : fat,

piggish, and more ignorant then

he was. I knew Claude some

from the schoolbus  route.

Getting his son and daughter

our for school wasn't always

easy, plus they often stunk.

The school department

eventually got him out

for me, as a means of

assistance, to be a helper

with the school-cleaning

stuff and the coal-furnace

maintenance. Like welfare

work, to give them something.

They paid him a few bucks to

'work', as it were, but it wasn't.

He hardly functioned, got

everything wrong, and was

always a problem, but I never

squealed on him. He'd always

say how much he wanted to

make enough money to be

able to take his wife and kids

down to Florida, for Disney

World, or whichever Disney

place is there. Besides that,

he always wished to see the

girls in kibinis.' Yep, that

was him, 'kibinis.'

-

One time, it was a fearsome,

cold Winter snowstorm, with

temps for days, everything

closed up and impassable. The

area around us, all the people,

were sure they'd (the Joslyn

family) would be found frozen

and dead in their trailer. No one

was really sure even what they

did for heat. A snow-mobile

caravan was headed up by

someone, (I had no part in this,

having neither a snowmobile,

nor, frankly, a real concern),

and when they got there with

food and things, all was fine.

I was never sure what exactly

was going on. If it all was that

bad, why someone just didn't

take them in for the duration,

or even arrange for authorities

to take them away. It all just

kept recurring  -  how do people

people get to live like animals,

like that  -  no food, no toilet, etc.,

and raise kids like that too? It

never was clear to me, unless in

some weird, twisted wish, they

dug the drama, or maybe really

wished these people, and others,

would die. Otherwise, lift your

Christian hands then and do

something. I don't get it.

It certainly wouldn't happen

today, around here anyway.

The whole deal would be

carted away. I don't know

what it's like now out there,

but it's got to be different.

-

Claude's probably still there, I'd

bet.  My age, he too is now a

sort of strange old man, if he's

there. I'd love to find out, and 

find out what happened to April, 

and her little brother, and her

mother too. It was all so very

curious when I first came upon 

it. I'd never seen or knew situations

like these. Totally foreign  - and

hard for me to figure. I often 

operate with my heart, leaving

value judgments or conclusions

behind, just to embrace the person

and their situation. I know I did

for them, and for others too. I

used to lie for Claude. He didn't

do a damn thing right, except one

day shoot a distempered cat that

was really ailing and sick in the

schoolyard dirt. Lifted it up, 

walked it out back, and blew it

to smithereens with my .22 pistol.

Anything else, he was all goof and

error. Even changing and puttying 

a window was beyond his ken. But 

I always said he did well, and 

whatever, just to keep them going.

-

The Jennings guy, Jim or Jack, I 

forget, he was a certified madman; 

crazed and rude. His little kingdom

was a wooded hilltop settlement, 

something maybe that had started 

out as a house trailer, but over

the years expanded, by means of 

plywood and studding, into other 

extensions of sheds and things. He

once drove an overland truck, but 

had gotten hurt and sued for a good

enough settlement; money they 

lived off. A few kids, entering their

teens. There was also a little, teeny

wife, who squinted. He had no

intention of ever letting a schoolbus

atop his hill. The other drivers, in

fear, over the years, for their lives,

would sit way down the bottom 

of the hill the twenty or whatever

minutes it took for the kids to 

come down. If they didn't, they'd

 just drive away. Nobody would 

miss the kids, and no one wished 

them around anyway. I walked up

there one day, just parked down

bottom and hiked up, to him in 

the yard. Not being shot at, I

started talking, fast. 'My name's 

Gary, when school starts this year 

I'll be driving and they tell me 

now I've gotta' come right up 

here, to this turnaround and get

your kids for school, about 7:30

each day, and get 'em back about

3. Ain't no choice here for me, so

I'm gonna' be doing it. Got that?

OK then.' He was as dumbfounded,

I guess, as I was. Laughed at me 

and just said, 'sure, sure.' As it 

worked out, they came over the

next Saturday, just snooping

around, in a big old car of some

sort. My wife made some food,

they stayed, he and his wife was

all, no kids, we ate some, hung 

around, and it all got real pleasant. 

Friends forever, and people said 

I was the only person they'd ever 

known allowed up on that mountain. 

It wasn't a mountain, just a twisty

hill road. He saw an old car on my

property that he wanted. Asked

about it. I agreed; we traded for a

gun and a little blow-torch thing.

He got the car. As it turned out, 

his little wife was the cutest, 'efliest,'

little talkathon, in love with stuff;

and he, well, he was just a big

buffoon, and a know nothing to

boot, but turned out  -  once you 

got past his gruff and opinionated

nastiness, the nicest guy in the 

world. The scene looked bad, but

it never was, and everyone had just

gotten them all wrong. As it all 

ended up, the kids were fine, the 

schoolyear was OK, and I ended 

up, pretty much, wanting in my

own way, to be just like him.