Dreariness
Dreariness
Oh the dreariness of twenty-two
years coming down that street,
summer, fall, winter and spring,
winter being the worst.
The potted plants
so carefully tended so
carelessly thrown. who cares
when one is enraged at the
futility of life?
My thoughts wandered
to another time and another
place. A place far removed
from dreariness. I remembered
the magazine images of the
ovens and skeletons left from
the burning of the Jews. the
smokestacks in the distance
spewing smoke reminded me
of those pictures as I trailed
the Puerto Ricans migrants
on my bicycle in albion.
Smitten I vowed
to follow him, that one
who stood out, handsome
and charming, laughing
after a day of labor in
a most foreign land,
to there, to Puerto Rico.
Children have no prejudice
or preconceived notions
you know. I thought of him
and the magical unknown
Puerto Rico often.
Mother and me
moved back to Pt. Breeze.
Back into the home on
Pt. Breeze road. I was twelve then,
and didn't understand stirrings
that begin in the heart and
traveled down to one's toes.
we were all carefree then
and innocent.
And in one early spring
the empty three story
mansion down the road
became filled and the
bunkhouse behind it filled with
single men, unattached and
looking for fun, in Pt. Breeze.
White migrants from Florida
coming with the Davis family.
There was Herman, the the eldest,
and his wife Kay and their three
year old daughter. And Roland,
single. There was old fella, Roland and
Herman's daddy. And their
momma, both too old to do
any picking.
I knew nothing of poverty
then. I knew nothing of hatred
or looking down upon others.
they called me wildcat. I loved them.
Their boss, Mr. Wilson owned the
fields they worked in and the
mansion they stayed in.
I joined them every summer
picking cherries, taking with me
a sandwich and a mason jar filled
with ice and kool-aid wrapped
in layers of newspaper. Fifty cents
for a half-bushel of cherries
was the pay.
When they went into town I'd
sneak into the bunkhouse, creep
into the mansion, play on the organ
and wander and wonder about these
people who worked their way up
north picking produce all the way
in order to make a living. They had
no thoughts of dreariness, instead
their faces were etched with sun
and weariness.
I flirted shamelessly with J. R.
in the bunkhouse. He, with his
sly crooked smile had other
thoughts. He picked up his banjo
and ignored this wildcat. He and the
bunkhouse boys all knew better
than to mess with a teenage wildcat
in a Yankee state where most
looked on these pickers
with disdain but eagerly took their
hard-earned cash.
As summer rolled into fall, the
apples heralded the end of
the season and the end of the
Davises and the bunkhouse boys.
There would be nothing left but the
empty mansion and bunkhouse
for me to wander through all winter
and to wait for the snow to stop
blowing in off Lake Ontario
and the return of the Davises.
I thought at the time that
Florida was closer and more
doable than Puerto Rico. And so
I asked, and when I asked,
mother thought and thought.
I begged and begged. please,
let me go to florida with the Davises.
But she thought and thought until
her silence told me all I had to know.
and all I didn't want to know
about dreariness.
= new reply since forum marked as read
