A record, a friend once said had been played so much that it had worn thinly down. When he said this I imagined the record itself thinly worn down. A delicacy found in a worn down record played over and over in his younger years. Stimulating his developing mind. Just as I have read books that I can't even remember reading nor the details but somehow the pages have been torn and paled yellow from being handled and moved time and time again.
My uncle George, a delicacy himself, was always determined to find the most obscure abandoned houses. And with crowbar in hand, we would get into them and explore their mysteries. I remember one two story with an old dresser turned over. It wasn't the safest idea. Exploring unknown territories where you feel eerie and fascinated. The creaks in the wooden planks beneath your feet, the hanging pieces of wood with cracks that let light through along with stairwells. My father or an uncle would always lead the way making sure the structure was stable enough for us to enter or climb. There would be scraps of newspaper torn and yellowed or books mixed in with dirt on the floors. My uncle George had the eyes of a hawk and if there was some antique or piece of crap, rest assured, he would find it.
Not only would the crap be found - it would be neatly tucked away by George's hands and taken back to the cabin (a family vacation enigma in itself) as an additional unnecessary knick knack added to an already overwhelming collection. Along with his consistent nailing of nails for him to hang his hat or jacket on. After George's death, there must have been hundreds of rusted nails pulled from the knotty pine walls during my parent's renovation period. George was the true Buddha master. Without any knowledge or spiritual enlightenment - he simply was a Baltimorian reincarnation of an Italian Irish Buddha. How this happened is beyond me. But he would give his time and his patience and his smile unconditionally. George would always arrive on a late Friday night. Most of the family was already asleep either on two bunk beds or sprawled out on mattresses scattered along the floors. Like floating soft white boats underneath the cool breeze of ceiling fans. He would come in quietly at two am and turn on the lights and say in his mega phone mouth way, "Alright, wake the fuck up everybody!" And we woke up and the cabin stirred and the kitchen was declared open.
My uncle Allen, who looked like Buddha with his big gut and shirtless torso called George "Chef Boy R Dee," because along with George, came thawed out pizza dough balls, fresh Italian cheese and yellow cans of tomato sauce. And pizza would be made. You would think the man would pass out in exhaustion after working a ten hour factory shift and driving the three hour trip down route 301 in the middle of the night.
But as I age, I am discovering more and more about the absolutes. The absolute possibility of what humans are truly capable of. If we just listen close enough we can hear such - even in the most unimaginable ways.
~Emily Loren Moss Ferrell
written 09/26/2010 12:55 am est
