John Henry - Part Eight

John Henry

Part Eight

            Accountability... in the antiquarian world... is of little bother... because...  ‘it’s about the stuff’.  Accountability... of an antiquarian... to an ‘employer’ is... ‘Like what are you talking about?’.

            It’s about the stuff; the antiquarian world is ABOUT THE STUFF.  Antiquarians, in their pure expression, ‘don’t care’ about anything else because ...there is NOT anything else ‘in the world’ except THE STUFF.

            Accountability...for the stuff...; ABOUT THE STUFF... is a different matter.  BEYOND the duties of job (being an antiquarian)... it (‘about the stuff’) is the purist expression of ‘accountability’ for an antiquarian.  ‘About the stuff’ to an antiquarian... THEY BANK IT... in both senses; a ‘take it to the bank’ AND ...rake its (‘about the stuff’) embers together into a compact nestle of monstrous radiant heat before thee.  And they... present BOTH, when queried, WITH PRIDE and the mindful ...monstrous radiant heat... that ‘they are right’.  THAT becomes traditional type accountability that ...an employer... may BANK (in both senses) while the antiquarian is TOO caught up in their ‘purist expression’ to notice or care.  They are ‘cloud nine’ in the middle of the ‘just the facts please’ ‘stuff-less’ “yuck” that is the ‘outside world’.

            I was seated in the stuffy office.  With the paralegal.  And her yellow legal pad.  Her cup of coffee.  Her pass-off glance at me.  Her new shoes.  Her ‘in an hour I can go to lunch’.  Her cell phone on.  Her... waiting silently as I was (“with me”) for the lawyer to “step in” (her words).  Two worlds collide?

            Stepping in... he stepped.  No coffee.  No jacket.  Shuffled shirt and tie (BB-OCBD and crisp BB ‘all silk’) looking like he just left a floor trade of Pacific Rim currency at a global connected inter-office brokerage work station that was just keeping ahead of ‘sunset’ ‘in Europe’.  He... cared... ‘about the stuff’?

            “Just the facts please.”

            I did that; the five word mantra of this estate’s third property content’s description; “Upper Middleclass Baby Boom Child Rearing” with a “Nothing to worry about or bother with.” landing at the end.

            “Good.” He said ...and looked at his watch.

            “Except”.

            He looked up.

            “I found a good painting”

            He looked at me

            “in there.” I said.

            Up comes the ‘bulleted list’ (Part Six).  The woman was writing something on her legal pad.  I told the story of ‘finding’ the painting.

            Then I said “At first I was sure I discovered the painting but now I am sure one of the heirs has been aware of the painting for a while”.

            That’s what I was hired to do; find the painting and report the discovery.

            Skipping to nearly the end of the bullet list, the lawyer said “How much is it worth?”

            I go to the very end of the bullet list and say “There are variables; actual problems, that effect realizing the full worth of the painting.”

            “What IS the full WORTH of the painting?”

            “It depends on managing the variables”

            “What are they?

            Returning to the bullet list I step down it backwards; “The value of the painting as art... but also the heritage of the painting and the history of the painting”.

             “Determine its worth?”

            “Effect realizing the full worth”.

            “That is?”

            “Quite a spread if done right.”
            “Done right?”

            “All the ducks in a row:  Great art, great heritage, great history.  The painting is in fantastic original condition.”

            “So its worth more?”

            “To the market.  Original frame too.  That’s real good.”

            See what’s happening here?  I ...ME.. am... well... slipping away INTO the antiquarian’s ‘purist expression’ ‘about the stuff’... so as I become a verbalized gush of enthusiasm about the painting I... ‘loose him’ (the lawyer and ‘worth’).

            The woman is writing this down?  She is.

            “SO what IS IT WORTH?”

            “Ah, well... right now... with what you know?  Like.  How about twenty-five K.”

            “What do I know?”

            “Nothing.  That’s a variable.”

            “Variable?”

            “The more you know that HIGHER that number could go.”

            “Worth more?”

            “Right; properly done”

            “Done?”

            “Sold... MARKETED;  properly presented to the market.”

            “Oh.... you can do that?”

            “Me?  I do that?  No:  It’s not my painting.”

            “Oh.  Right.  THEY do it.”

            “Right...”

            “Right WHAT?”

            “Well... they don’t know what I know.”

            “What do you know?”

            “About the (art) value of the painting.  They can find that out.”

            “The value?  It’s worth?”

            “No; VALUE.  The better it’s VALUE as art the more its WORTH.”

            “Oh.  Right... right.  That means?”

            “It’s heritage.  In the family.  And the history.  OF the painting.

            “Effects the...; how much it’s worth?

            “A lot.”

            “A lot?”

            “On this one; this painting.”

            “How much is a lot?”

            “Well... how about a hundred K.”

            “A hundred K?  One hundred thousand.”

            “Maybe more.  Depends.”

            “More?  Depends?” he says and looks at the woman writing.  “Who knows about this?”

            “This?  The painting or its art value?”

            “Worth... Its art value?”

            “I think the heir thinks she knows its got the twenty K plus value.  She doesn’t get it at all past that.”

            “Past that?”

            “The depends; the history... proper preparation for the market.  She doesn’t know about any of that.  I think she plans to take the painting out of there.”

            “Out of there?  She can’t do that.”

            “Want to make a bet?”

            “Well... WHO knows about this?”

            “Me... you... and then her... sort of.  I know it best.  You I just told.”

            The lawyer looks at me.

            “Face it; you don’t know about this.  Even if I tell you twice.”

            “I don’t?”

            “It’s an art thing.”

            “You and your art things.”

            “It’s about the painting:  This is about the STUFF.  It’s not about me.”

            And I was done.

            And left the office.

            And did not hear from the lawyer about this (the estates, the properties and the painting)... ‘ever again’.

            I sent my bill... and was paid... promptly... with that bill including photocopies of the expense receipts... with those including the one for the club sandwich and....

            And....

            ‘Zero’ happened.

            But I knew ...that... was not... ‘what was happening’ to ...the estates, the properties and... the painting.

John Henry - Part Seven

John Henry

Part Seven

            To never see “ever again” the PEOPLE of this estate... is OK by me.  ‘Characters of the estate’ I would like to say but I never became engaged enough to have them ...become characters... to I.  SEE the painting again becomes the... footpath... ‘to I’:  I SEE the painting again... along a footpath that... wanders from three halos noted and NOW ‘are glow’ on that footpath.  These halos noted are ‘my mistake’, the ‘AND’ questions... developing from the discernment... by I... following the ‘mistake’... that Sara/Sue ‘knows’ about the painting.  These ‘AND’S’ are then linked to the third halo of ...let I call them... the bulleted listing of MY position ...to-on-about... (?)... ‘the painting’.

            In order to properly get rid of my mistake... I did not drive away from Albany and ‘go back’ to Vermont.  No... and although only a skimpy hour or so had passed ...since... I ate the club sandwich... I drove back into Albany to... go to Van’s Vietnamese restaurant on Central Avenue and... of core purpose to I... I drove there by driving DOWN Clinton Avenue... to North Lake Avenue and then maneuvering into a parking lot between the two avenues and ‘next to’ Van’s.

            I went to the restaurant.

I ordered a shrimp bun (Bun Tom Nuong).

I ate that while bemusing myself ...to myself... about my mistake ...so thereby erasing that mistake.

Paying, tipping, toileting and then departing... ALL THE TIME ‘taking in’ and ‘appreciating’ the setting and it’s sights... that actually have little to do with the restaurant but ...HAVE A GREAT DEAL TO DO WITH washing my whole self of a WASP estate’s painting... found in an old high school girl’s bedroom.

How and why can this be washing?

The Clinton Avenue of Albany is NOT a well to do upper middle class WASP residential enclave.  That Avenue peels-off-left from Central Ave. and ...in old... abandoned... urban sprawl...; deteriorated and desperate... nineteenth century - Civil War and earlier... GLORY it goes ‘down to the river’ with ‘untouched’ garret after garret after cellar after three or four residential floors after back yard ‘pens’ and ‘privies’ and ...:  It is an antiquarian’s paradise of ‘abandoned’ ‘old’ ‘estates’ traveling straight to the river for miles.  THAT’S HOW, why and WHAT I... seek to... like a bar of soap in the shower’s soap hole... WASH WASP AWAY.  The restaurant is the... in the center of it... dining novelty; the bun is a good bun.  I always go there.  It is a singular source for Vietnamese dining... in a 100 mile radius of the region (?).  BUT:  It is Clinton Avenue that is the ‘antiques show’.  Oh... I do know well... and can tell tales of... the ‘things’ that I have found ‘along there’.  Such a straight line of old abandoned garrets I-the-antiques-dealer simply cannot ‘see’ elsewhere.  And the best features?  No one is ‘ever there’ and... nobody cares.

            From the ‘bottom’ of Clinton (where ‘urban renewal’ HAS ‘been done’), I wandered north on the west side of the (Hudson) river to Schuylerville.  The ‘no one is there’ (from the antiquarian vantage) continues up the river on this, the New York side too.  I was WASP washed and mistake free by the time I ‘headed east’ across the Schuylerville bridge.

            The actual mistake was a vanity that probably amounted to nothing.  Simply, when I said ‘John Henry’ I was being TOO ‘informed’ and TOO ‘of knowing’ as an utterance about the painting.  I should have... in Sarah/Sue’s presence, been more ‘what?’ ‘huh?’; a play dumb.  BUT the subconscious epiphany of it being a true ‘John Henry’ was an internal ‘too much’ for me and I ...was TOO indicative of my ‘I know’ by saying ‘John Henry’.  NOT THAT THIS was ever consciously picked up on by Sarah/Sue but ...unconsciously... it WAS for she did... from HER vantage... forth come about the painting in a manner salted and peppered slightly with HER feeling (undeclared) that I ‘know’.  THAT is my mistake; giving out THAT ‘information’.  In the end, while eating the bun, I ‘it didn’t matter’.  THAT’S because she already (from her perspective) was WAY AHEAD of me ‘on’ the painting.  She, for example, ‘knows’ ‘how much it’s worth’.

            That’s where the ‘ANDS’ come in.

            I snuffed the mistake well:  “It’s a nice little painting.” I say.  She then lead me on the footpath through the ‘ANDS’.  My clam shell remained closed tight.  She supplied the ‘What do I do’:  I ‘got out of there’.

            Once out... I held safely the ‘what is this painting’ and ‘how did it get there (to the CAMP).  She didn’t have to tell me... and... she could not (can not)  tell me... because SHE... doesn’t know ‘these’.  I do.  Those ‘ANDS’, odd as they be, gave me special insight into this painting

            It is funny how things-of-self take odd turns.  Here, I have special insight into this painting because of ...going swimming when I was very young.  In Maine, in the foothills of the White Mountains and these mountain’s continuance across Maine, are found a recluse of streams that ‘come down from the mountains’.  They are small and remote; in wilderness locations.  Their waters are ice cold, ice clear and ice pure.  The ideal for swimming are small, remote, ‘unknown’ ‘pools’ of this water usually found right below a ‘falls’ (and I mean a rather small ‘falls’; more of a rippling drop over ‘some rocks’)... that due to the spring flood torrents... has ‘carved out’ a ‘pool’ that is ‘big enough’ and ‘deep enough’ (six feet) to ‘swim in’.  From ‘the earliest that I can remember’ to NOW I ‘have been swimming in them’.  I know where they are and ...go there... to swim.  This life long action has been matured as I age because:

            I have never been able to ‘find’ an ‘anywhere else’ that ‘has swimming like this’; ice cold, ice clear, ice pure... IN the remote and private ‘down the mountain’ setting (‘nothing else up there’).  That includes me ‘trying’ places in... places... like “WYOMING”.  With this Maine mountain ‘pool’ swimming under my belt as ‘known’, I, due to the lack of ‘others like it’ have actually ‘studied’ it.  This means I having a perpetual rumination about ‘it’ AND a noting of ANY source of reference to IT.

            ONE of the reference sources is ...American 19^th century PAINTING and PAINTINGS of the ‘pools’.  This is because the ‘pools’ are, from my swimming and study, known to me to be unique AND... AND... AND... ‘difficult to capture’ in photographs and PAINT.  Camera ‘shots’ are insanely ‘fall short’ of ‘capturing’ the natural charms.  A painting... for most efforts... gets bogged down in failing to capture the obsessive natural details that nature enshrines these pools with.  FEW if any artists succeeds in ‘capturing’.  Asher B. Durand’s own obsessive painting skills point toward the inner-eye portrayal I seek.  But he didn’t actually paint ‘there’ (the ‘pools’).  Through study and admiration I sought and seek painters and their paintings.  And I ‘found one’; a painter who did ‘try’ and ‘paint’ the ‘pools’.

            This was John J. Enneking.  He ‘painted’ the ‘pools’ and, in my studied opinion, did a pretty good job of capturing the ‘pools’ ‘like I swim in’.  The reason he painted ‘these’ is because ‘he was up here’ (in Maine).  He ‘had a summer place’ ‘up here’.  So would have actually seen the pools, gone swimming in the pools (?) and ‘tried to paint them’.  He had a studio in Boston.  John Henry Twachtman had a studio in the same building.  He visited Enneking at his summer place in Maine.

            Enneking ‘painted’ ‘on the lake’ above his summer place.  Too.  The lake is where the CAMP is.  IF one went to the lake in 1876 to 1880... one ‘could not miss’ the farm turned “CAMP” ‘on the lake’.  Twachtman visited Enneking in Maine ‘up there’ too.  He painted ‘up there’ too.  The railroad station had stage service going right past Enneking’s summer place to ‘the lake’.  That’s how ‘it’ (the painting) ‘got up there’:  Twachtman, visiting Enneking, went to the lake, TO THE CAMP, probably stayed there and... painted the little painting ...of the camp’s back yard... in the back yard.  He then had it framed inexpensively in the village at the head of the lake... and gifted it to the owners of the “CAMP” where he been staying... as a sort of hospitality payment (Twachtman was ‘always a little short’).  They; the NEW OWNERS (from Albany, NY?)  of the farm turned ‘CAMP’ were socially compatible with Enneking and Twachtman.  They all; artists and summer people would have ...had a swell time... on the lake... in the summer... at the “CAMP”.  The painting would have hung in the CAMP ever after with no one paying any attention to it for... at least one hundred years.

            I know this because I go swimming there.  I know the ‘pools’.  I know the paintings of ‘pools’.  I know the painters who were ‘up there’.  I know the lake, the paintings of the lake and the painters who were ‘on the lake’.  I know the history of the “CAMP”.  I know the CAMP as it is today.  I know the subdivision of the CAMP property.  I know about the robberies.  I know the painting was ‘moved’ (‘removed’?) from the CAMP.  I know that the painting depicts a nocturnal moon lighted view of the rear of the CAMP just beside the  second well in the back yard and is a view from right beside the shed attached to the barn that is ‘where you come out of the woods’ (now a dirt road going to the other camps ‘along the shore’).  I reviewed all this while I ate my bun at Van’s.  That’s why I said “John Henry”.  It was a mistake.  It didn’t matter I concluded.  Then I went home.  I called the lawyer’s roost and made an appointment to ...have, again:

            “A woman at the roost wrote all that down.” (Part One).  That’s where the bulleted list comes in; the what am I ‘hired to do’...

             About this painting.

            I saved the receipt for my bun at Van’s.

His Two Wells

His Two Wells

“The old well
Sits full of water

Where I can see it.

The new well

Is up from it

And I can see it too.

Although that well

Is full of water too

That well’s water

Is not as old

As the water in

The old well.

That well was there

When my great-great-great-

Great-great-great-great

Grandfather moved here

From Dover, New Hampshire

To live with his grandparents.

His great-grandson’s son

Dug the new well

After the Revolutionary War.

The water in that well

Is not as old as the water

In the old well.

This is in addition to

That well’s water

TASTING not as old too

My great-great-great

Great-grandmother

Always said

They say.”

John Henry - Part Six

John Henry

Part Six

            I walked across the room to stand before the painting.  I said nothing.  I stood in front of the metal desk.  I looked at the painting.

            ‘Looked’ is NOT what I was actually doing.  ‘Before’ (in front of) and ...WITHIN... the painting... and its frame... is the better representation of the barrage of multi-tier scrutiny I was mentally ...cascading (as does a waterfall)... at ‘it’.  My breath rate was restoring.  My eyes were absorbed in detailing.  My heart rate was elevated.  My mind’s eye was forming... affirming... confirming... reforming.  It was picking up, putting down, turning over, reaching in, wandering beyond, spell casting for more and absolutely check listing all this down the professional balance sheet within me that is ‘back there somewhere’.  I glowed... within the radiant glow of the painting before me.

            I had already seen the signiture and moved on to fussing with my critical eye to confirm the gilt gold goddess; the frame holding the painting.  Roaring around the gold rectangle my eyes wrapped the goddess frame as “perfect-real-untouched-original”.  Galloping faster my eye probed the frame’s inner edge for the dusting wear it purveyed to me so required NO scrutiny past the ‘wear-is-there’ ‘where it should be’; along the frame’s bottom inner edge.

            Then, with head cants back and forth to create the quickest of subtle refractions, my eyes parleyed the painting’s surface to ‘see’ it ‘flat’ and thereby show that its surface was ‘flat’ (opaque), ‘dry’ (not shiny) and showed no disturbances such as ... restoration, cleaning, re-varnishing and... more...  but bringing to my eyes TOO... the ‘old’, ‘old soiling’ and ‘original old surface’.  Sneaking my eyes to the painting’s edges I affirmed the dust soiling ‘build up’ along the frame edge on the painting; the proper residue created from a century of dusting with ‘never out of the frame’ terminal moraines of plowed dust at these edge cracks.  My vigil was rewarded with only affirmation of the most desired state; ‘painting untouched and undisturbed ...in original frame’.

            The next horror hoop leap is the ‘be sure’ and I did that with the ‘YOU TOUCHED IT’ horror hoop leap of boldly lifting the whole framed painting off the wall with a calculated ‘up, up, out’ gesture of my right hand riding my right arm and AWAY from the wall came the framed package.  Before ‘anyone could say’ I had turned my body slightly to the left and presented the now room lighted back of the whole to my rascally eyes to SEE the old nail heads after... old nail heads (holding the painting into the frame), the old oxidized brass hanging wire, the dust filled ‘in there’ frame-canvas meet cracks and the requisite ‘dust dirty’ top (edge) of the canvas-in-the-frame upward to the top of the frame... ‘dust dirty too’.

            Back on the wall the framed painting package went seconds later with my careful and well practiced ‘trick’ of angling the bottom well out from the wall to assure I ‘push’ the hanging wire back onto that wall so to ‘catch’ the hanger as I slide the painting down in one ‘seconds’ of motion ‘DONE’.

            Done TOO this ‘it’; the discovery of the painting.  Done but twenty seconds ‘in’.  Well... probably nearly a whole MINUTE from the starting block departure at the doorway to the ‘it’s hooked’ sensation memo from my right hand as I ...hung the painting back up...:  “THERE.”  “DONE” I BE and said to myself still standing BEFORE the painting with my eyes returning to ‘general appreciation’ mode AND... suddenly I aware too... that eyes are ‘on me’.

            I must highlight these last ‘twenty seconds’ before I head back into professional Hell.  I must highlight that wholeness; the discovery of the painting and the seconds of that discovery.  The distant discernment, the approach, the pillaging with the eyes and  the then forward from there... onward to the final ‘hang back up’.  THIS... be the very ‘it’ of ‘my all’; the ‘what is it’ of my antiquarian-be-I.  It is these skimpy airless seconds of discovery and the affirmation of the discovery that ...as a tingling in my finger tips and the mystical out-of-body self view... are the it of I and ‘antiques’.  Fleeting tiny private seconds of ‘I only’ discovery ARE IT for I.  Once done; discovered and the... professionally affirming that discovery... in those tiny seconds... the wholeness of it all... for me... is over.  I am completely and delightfully at home with this distillation.  I understand that this is the it of all of this for I.  I take each one; the twenty seconds of an art discovery... just for what that glow is and ask no more.  I am, too, at one with it ‘being over’ for ever... ‘now’.

            What happens next is the thump on to the ground at the bottom of this playground slide ride of discovery.  My ride over, I am dumped on the ground... back into the ...elementary and boring... mechanics of the discovery... for ever... with no return to those moments of discerning discovery

            Ever.

            For.

            Ever.

            I am... ‘stuck there’; at this ‘in a kid’s bedroom’ ‘in an estate’ WITH SOMEONE watching me... and the rhapsody of ‘that’

            For.

            EVER.

            “You like the painting?” came a woman’s voice from the doorway behind me.

            “Ah... OH YES... I auto-blurted.  But... ‘BOOM – GRIP’.  I caught my ‘in mid gush’ and... my clam shell closed.  Tight.

            “It’s SIGNED.” said the voice.  The voice had eyes.  I had felt ...and still felt those eyes... like a hot laser pointer... sweeping across my shoulder blades at the top of my back.  I didn’t heed this warning

            “Yes; John Henry.”

            (MY MISTAKE!)

            “No.  It’s SIGNED  TWAH...”

            “Twachtman; John Henry... TWACHTMAN

            “Oh... THAT’S RIGHT.”

            “Right”.

            (Mistake continues).

            “But.” she says

            (Recover fool).

            “It’s a nice little painting.” I say.

            “I love it.” she says.

            “You should.” (Internal data release:  Trouble; this is not WASP complacency.  Alert:  MORE GOING ON HERE.  Alert:  SHE KNOWS THE PAINTING.  Alert:  Process data.  Go forward carefully.  Skillfully:  “I wonder how it got here.”

            “Here; my room?  I brought it here”.

            “Oh.  Very nice then.”

            “It is.”

            “It is... YOUR painting?”

            “Mine?”

            “Your painting... or the ESTATES painting?”

            “Well I’ve always liked it.”

            “Yes.  I do to.  But:  Is it yours?”

            “Well I has been.  No one else cares about it.”

            “Oh.  I see.  You have the painting.  Here.  But its part of the estate”.

            “Not here; this house.  It was in the house in Maine.”

            “The main house.”

            “The Maine house”.

            “Right.  You got it there?”

            “No; I took it out after the robbery.”

            “Robbery?  The main house?

            “No: the CAMP robbery.  I took the painting after the robbery.”

            “Oh.  The painting was originally in the camp?”

            “Yes.  It was always there in the front room.  I took it.  It’s of the BACK of the CAMP.  (SHE IS RIGHT! I internalized).  I always wanted it and didn’t want it stolen.  I brought it back here.  I still lived here then”.

            “Oh.  Ok.  The painting was originally in the camp.  You took it out of there.  Brought it here.  So... it is yours? Or still the estate’s?”

            “The estate’s?”

            “Part of the estate.”

            “Oh well.  I guess it could be.  But I’ve always considered it mine; my painting.  I’m going to take it to the house (her home locally with her husband and children).  I just haven’t yet.”

            I didn’t say anything more.  There was trouble brewing:  The painting IS part of the estate I could understand.  She DOES have the painting... in her bedroom... and considers it hers... I could understand.  I... am her quandary-to-be?  I could understand this... but she does not?

            How could that ...her quandary I be?

            It be... because I just bird dogged a ...John Henry Twachtman painting... ‘in an estate’ just like I was hired to do.  What, then, do I do?

            And just how much does SHE know about this painting?

            AND...:  Just what is this painting.

            AND...: What is it doing here.

            AND...; How did it get... to the CAMP.

            AND...:

            Internally I conversed: “I don’t think she understands what just happened here:  I FOUND A GOOD PAINTING.  I was hired to do that.  The painting... doesn’t have anything to do with her.  She doesn’t own it.  The estate does.

            And... again:  Just how much does she know about this painting?

            And... again:  What do I do?”

            I found the painting.

            I was hired to do that.

            I discovered the painting.

            I was hired to do that.

            I understand the painting.

            I wasn’t hired to do that.

            I understand the painting’s history.

            I wasn’t hired to do that.

            I understand the painting’s heritage.

            I wasn’t hired to do that.

            I understand how valuable the painting is.

            I wasn’t hired to do that.

            I understand how much the painting is worth.

            I wasn’t hired to do that.

            I understand the problems of realizing the worth of the painting.

            I wasn’t hired to do that.

            “HOW MUCH do you think IT’S WORTH?” came from the woman standing in the doorway as I... completed the full turn of my back upon the painting and... the first step start of my walk away from the painting... back to that doorway.  This question hit me in the chest like a sawed-off shot-gun blast.  I took it ‘no problem’.  My clam shell was closed tight.  My orange cones of ‘go forward carefully... skillfully’ were deployed.  I walked straight into her - by her – past her – out into the hallway- toward the NEXT BEDROOM door.  “Oh I don’t know you’ll have to get it appraised I guess.” I said in my lightest brush-by tone.

            “I FOUND a LOT of different VALUES for HIM”.

            “Oh.  Good.  It’s nice.” I said and kept going... to the next... and next... bedroom.  And then I was done.  We went down stairs to the living room.  The two men with their arms folded were still standing there.  Their wives were there, sitting down.  The executor was there.  We exchanged ‘I am done thank you’ pleasantries and I ...stepped toward the front door and... Sarah/Sue was still standing at the bottom of the stairs and ... ALL, including her, seemed absolutely delighted that I was about to leave after having only been there about thirty minutes.

            OUTSIDE into the fresh air I went... and heard the door closed behind me.  I have never seen any of those people... ever again.

John Henry - Part Five

John Henry

Part Five

            Returning to and repeating the very beginning of this tale, I now feel the “My, my.” of my arrival two minutes early at the Albany property... after eating my club sandwich at the Gateway Diner... makes more sense.

            “My, my.” stood this property before me  ‘Who is here and what do they want?’ ...is next.  USUALLY that ratio query is from an unknown-to-I ‘them’ about... I.  The vaguely defined action of I ‘walking through’ traditionally leaves all eyes of those ‘there’ on I and... ‘what I do’.  As I appear to do very little ...and do that at a quick pace... and then leave... that’s about as far as the ratio query gets.  Usually... and IF... there is a direct ratio query from within the ‘them’, a ranking member OF the ‘them’ ‘handles it’.

I... never (?) have to engage that ratio query from my vantage for I am... ‘just looking at the stuff’ and ‘not the people’ and ‘am gone’ VERY SOON.  Most of the time.  Occasionally I have a ‘two properties’.  Rarely ‘three’.  When I ‘walk through’ more than one property for an ‘estate’, I usually have repeated contact with a ‘ranking member’ of some sort, usually an executor.  We shake hands, smile, exchange pleasantries and ‘I’m gone’.  I sort of remember them but do not have to.  I remember them more if there is a ratio query that is deflected from I to them.  Others there; usually heirs with their entourage, posse, children and/or LAWYERS... I ‘don’t remember’ because ‘that’s not my business (problem) EVEN if they try and make it a ‘my problem’.  Usually even that effort; a ‘to be my problem’, is negated when... out of my sight and hearing... a ‘‘Who is here (HE) and what do they (DOES HE) want?” is ...explained... ‘to them’.  ‘Explained’ IS a stumbling block in this; two third party perspectives talking about what I’m doing?  But I’m ‘not there’ ‘for that’.  In fact, almost always what I am doing DOES ‘get explained’ WITHOUT me ever having to ‘engage’.  Therefore... I don’t remember the people... just ‘the stuff’.

            Except when there is more than one property and the ‘I met them before’ makes repeat appearances usually among others who are ‘there for the first time’.  SO... and saying “MY, my.” I went to the door and was greeted ...by the oldest sister (?) executor heir who... we hand shaked, smiled, and ...I was lightly introduced ‘around’ to mostly ‘never seen’ AND a couple of  ‘I think they were’ AND a woman who WAS ‘there’ and... ‘there too’... ‘I remember’.

            “Sarah” I think her name was... I... ‘caught’.  Though it could have been “Sue”.  I wasn’t trying to catch ANYTHING.  But I... did concisely recall that she was ‘there’ at the coastal mansion and ...was ‘there’ ...at the “CAMP”.   And THERE; at the “CAMP”, she had actually followed right along with the executor and I as we ‘did’ the barn and outbuildings.  And... she followed my flashlight beam just about everywhere I pointed it... I recalled ... TOO.

            “Huh.” I said to myself meaning she ‘made a long trip out here for this’ but  actually found out (‘caught’) that the ‘long trip’ for her was UP THERE (to the Maine properties) for she ‘lives around here (Albany area) somewhere’.  I ‘caught’.

            So meet and greet was over.  A couple of men with folded arms and wives in tow were ‘new’ to me but:  Off I went... on ‘walk through’.  ‘My eyes roaming’ was my out of the slot optimistic cruise status and that... went down hill REAL FAST.  HOPING that the first and second visited properties ...and the internal ruminations and spirit chases I had engaged about them... would be the tip-of-iceberg beginnings of an antiquarian sleigh ride to ...grandmother’s house FULL OF ANTIQUES... I... began making go-in-reverse revisions to that RIGHT AWAY and... never altered that.

            What I ‘walked through’ was an antiquarian nightmare.  I was within in a large, well-to-do ‘quality people’ estate that was ...appropriately... full of ... ... ...  whipped vintage WASP ‘we raised five (seven?) children here from 1951 to 1972 SEE ALL THE STUFF IS STILL HERE and THAT IS THE ONLY STUFF ...that’s here.  IN TOTAL... including NO ART... NO decorative arts... NO rare books... and EVERY KID’S BEDROOM ‘just the way they left it... AND all the ‘trashed’ furniture and whatever iota in the shared rooms and spaces..., attic, basement, garage... TOO.

            In addition to ‘having nothing’ ...the stuff that was nothing was ‘pummeled’.  What does that mean?  EVERY TV EVER was stuck somewhere, not working, not ‘good’ and not touched in decades except for the ‘newer ones’ that ‘do work’ “but we don’t get cable here”.  Like that... but down to the... kitchen utensil drawer still having “ALL MOM USED” including the can opener that opened every can of tomato soup and/or spaghetti-o’s (here used in it’s generic symbolism)... .  TOO their credit I heard not a murmur from ANYONE of baby boom ga-ga about ANY OF THIS.  As there was no evidence of, for example, a hidden cache ...of each and every lunch box used by each and every kid... I ‘they threw out too’ so ‘what was left’ was ONLY appropriate WASP debris with ‘no hoarding’.  The rooms were neat.  And ZEROS.  The Furniture was neat, clean, shabby and ZEROS.  The hoarder stuff was conspicuously not there with only the stupid regular stuffs like ‘fireplace equipment’, book shelves, electric floor lamp, prints in frames of... ‘who cares’, carpeting on the stair’s landing, door mat, cat door, plastic dish rack, family china purchased the same day as the second TV.  And both “Made in U.S.A.”.  And evermore... with ‘mostly kid’s clothes, a minimal of old shoes, no tools, an old lawn mower, a flower pot or two and... endless children’s bedrooms upstairs... in addition to the... “MASTER BEDROOM”. 

            That had a chest outside of it in the hallway.  It was a 1950’s dark composite veneer hardwood... Chippendale bandy leg style... ‘chest of drawers’.  The lines were good, the construction cheesy, the value ZERO.  The master bedroom had a ‘their bathroom’ next to it.  Next to that bathroom was the ‘children’s bathroom’.  These had not been updated since the mid-sixties.  The whole house was ...going to be... gutted... to the shell... by ‘anyone’ ‘who buys it’ ...I noted to myself... AS I left the master bedroom and started down the hall way to review the “OUR ROOMS”.

            I was rolling.  I was going to be out of here in fifteen minutes.  I was going to be back in Vermont in an hour.  I was going across the hall to the second “SCAN IT” children’s bedroom with the executor and Sarah/Sue in tow.  I was ...A... OK.  The executor’s cell phone starts ringing.  She answers it   She excuses herself and walks back up the hallway talking to someone.  She has received continual cell phone calls all the time and every time I’ve been around her.  I don’t care at all.  I continued to the room and do the ‘stand at the doorway’ scan with Sarah/Sue behind me.  I cross down the hall to the next bedroom. “This is my bedroom” I hear Sarah/Sue say behind me.  I don’t give a rat’s ass whose bedroom it is I’M OUT OF HERE.  I step to the door way.  I scan.

            I slow way,  way, way down.

            Across the room, hanging on the wall, above a 1960’s high school kid’s metal desk... I see a painting.  It is an old painting in an old (plain Victorian) gold frame.  The painting is of a moon lighted landscape with a turbulent ‘Starry Night’ type deep, moving and murmuring nocturnal moon within clouds and a Prussian blue star specked universe... above a sea surf motion of moonlighted grasses in the foreground before an in-a-shadow rear view of  the back ell of Victorian homestead... with one little window... with one little lamp glow... murmuring out of that window... too.

            I believe two things about a painting being good:  It should take my breath away when I first see it.  And:  I should feel the energy of the paint... instantly.  These should happen at a ‘normal’ viewing distance.  If these do not happen... at a normal viewing distance... I am not viewing a good painting.  From my in-the-doorway ‘normal view’ distance, I was viewing a good painting.  I KNEW I was viewing a good painting.  I was slowing way, way, way down.  I was not leaving in fifteen minutes.  I was not going to be in Vermont in an hour.

            Or actually...:  MAY BE I WAS.  I mean; the painting wasn’t THAT GOOD.