NOT WHIPCREAM SEASON
By turkey season of 1994 we were in our new house. I took some time off from Asser and Assoc. and gutted the place. Underneath the asbestos and crappy paneling was the original church carraige house. It was post and beam construction and definitely worth saving. What i originally thought was a tear down, became a rennovation. Mrs. Y crashed at her friend Keith McNally's (Lucky Strike, Odeon, etc) place, worked at Vibe and came up on the weekends. I went into hunt and demo mode. I was in hog heaven. There was a 120 acre farm owned by the Parker family (Concord hotel) right across the street and a beefalo farm owned by an old farmer (Ray Gilkey) who Junie Bogart knew and introduced me to. I could walk right out the door, load the gun and listen for gobbles from my driveway.
I hadn't cut my hair nor beard (that had turned white) in the previous two years and looked more like a hillbilly than the hillbillys. The last thing I wanted was for my neighbors to see me as a city slicker. Just like moving from SF to the EV as an art dealer, or going to seminary or even being in a rock band, it's always a good idea to hit town as the thing you want to be percieved as. I saw myself as a local and was accepted as such. Because I immediately began work on the house and church, that had sat fallow for so long, my neighbors were friendly and appreciative. "What a good job you're doing." they said.
When I went back to work I commuted. I got up before dawn, and hit the woods. On a good day i could shoot a turkey before 6:00am, be on the job site on the upper east side by 8:30 am, and home in time to watch the sun set. Oh yeah, the place faces due west. Mrs. Yummy was pleased. I also, was one happy man. Little things like parking my truck in my own driveway, the silence at night, land to hunt, and the vibe of the structures, more than made up for the isolation. It didn't matter that you couldn't get a cappucino or take out, politics leaned far to the right and when i asked the slackjawed girl at the local custard stand for whipcream on my root beer float she informed me- "Sorry sir, whipcream is not in season." None of this mattered. I felt I was finally home.
I hadn't cut my hair nor beard (that had turned white) in the previous two years and looked more like a hillbilly than the hillbillys. The last thing I wanted was for my neighbors to see me as a city slicker. Just like moving from SF to the EV as an art dealer, or going to seminary or even being in a rock band, it's always a good idea to hit town as the thing you want to be percieved as. I saw myself as a local and was accepted as such. Because I immediately began work on the house and church, that had sat fallow for so long, my neighbors were friendly and appreciative. "What a good job you're doing." they said.
When I went back to work I commuted. I got up before dawn, and hit the woods. On a good day i could shoot a turkey before 6:00am, be on the job site on the upper east side by 8:30 am, and home in time to watch the sun set. Oh yeah, the place faces due west. Mrs. Yummy was pleased. I also, was one happy man. Little things like parking my truck in my own driveway, the silence at night, land to hunt, and the vibe of the structures, more than made up for the isolation. It didn't matter that you couldn't get a cappucino or take out, politics leaned far to the right and when i asked the slackjawed girl at the local custard stand for whipcream on my root beer float she informed me- "Sorry sir, whipcream is not in season." None of this mattered. I felt I was finally home.
posted by mike osterhout at 8:44 AM
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