Potpourri
a collage, a snippet of a shelved short story, and a snapshot
Deep Feeling Dangerously Unexpressed
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Woe, destruction, ruin, and decay; the worst is death and death will have his day.
William Shakespeare, Richard II
Democracy is ragtime on the corner.
Gil Scott-Heron, “Winter in America”
When he first hears the sound, Gerry thinks maybe a carpenter is out hammering on a wall. But the retorts are too hollow, the syncopation off. More like call and response. A pair of woodpeckers knocking at a tree? Not likely. But as he crests the hill—Bella nosing somewhere in a bush, the old house on the corner now in sight—he recognizes the sound. The new young couple is out playing paddle ball.
An odd sound in this solidly middle-class neighborhood but in accord with the manse they’ve been refurbishing—one of the neighborhood’s original show houses—going on now for year or more. Big house, little house, back house, barn. He used to chant that as a boy. Such a New England concept here in this mountain south town. But there you go. Out of place enough to make it a tad garish; a Disney whitewashing of an old house left to ruin.
The story goes, the widow was a quasi-famous violinist whose sons built a recital hall for her to play in. The town’s cream of the crop filled the seats. But then she stopped playing and, soon after, the hall’s lights went dark. Now it’s more like a reality tv showboat showcase. And it does look like a huge boat at night, its three floors of lights stacked bright in the dark. When Gerry comes around a corner in his truck, back from the corner store, six-pack on the passenger seat, the whole thing swings into view like a cruise liner. He half expects Fitzgeraldian jazz to be seeping out of its windows.
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Tops, North Salem, NY flea market