August 29, 2009
Writing you from this cheapo chair, bought from a Goodwill store in rural New York and still smelling like a clean, dry grandmother’s house, is a pleasure. The chair is in our living room, a large, old boiler-heated room in beige. You can’t tell from inside the room whether we’re in Syracuse or Binghamton or Cortland, but when I look out the window it’s pretty obvious we’re in Tully, NY.[1] This town has about 867 people, but we’re not even inside the city limits. We live in a cornfield. The house looks like it was set down here somewhat accidentally, as if an outtake from the Wizard of Oz. You can see Jacqueline’s kids’ school from the upstairs windows (Drew’s 13 and will be going to the middle school; at 9, Jackson will be going to Tully Elementary). There is a large flat grocery distribution plant a few cornfields over, several crucifixes from the churches emerging like periscopes from the corn—and lots and lots of green.
The fields are striated, now that we’re in the last inch of August; the farmers have peeled back alternating swaths of alfalfa. The combines are coming for the corn, and the whole scene reminds me of that sort of magical painting style of rural scenes by that Iowan painter Grant Wood. We’re in a valley about five miles wide with hills on either side that rise away to the east and west. Everything slips north and south between these ridges: the river, the railroad, the interstate, the minor highways. Cut east and west, though, and it gets weird. And interesting. You go through several geographical anomalies caused by the glaciers. This region is where they stopped, dropped their gravel, dug deep plunge pools, and created a series of hills that look exactly like ships turned upside down, their keels exactly the same arc.
Everything is possible. Getting your hair cut here, going to the doctor or dentist, eating at a family-owned diner, going to the bank, the library, the used bookstore. You can’t go to the local bars—there are none. There is a good meeting on Wednesday nights, however. At school I have a gym and a pool, and work is now only 15 minutes away—for the first time in ten years, my commute is shorter. Jacqueline has uncomplainingly stretched her commute out to 50 miles each way. In fact, there has been very little complaining in this whole venture. Leaving schools, families, neighbors, close friends, houses and all that has been a difficult. GF (GirlFriend) and I grew up in our respective towns and have ligatures there. I’ve been in Syracuse since 1983—and now that seems long ago. They play music from that era on the oldies stations now! It’s not fair! So this is a season of exhilaration and extremes. The mental soundtrack is tearing a worn sheet into dishrags. That making-by-ripping—that’s what it feels like lately. Not bad, just bit changes, lots of bits.
Even making a new life is possible. Buying a house in Tully is possible. Getting married is possible. Fall is possible. Writing is possible. The line between what’s possible and what’s inevitable is blurry. We are going to practice steering by bright rural stars.
Oh, and I didn’t mention the train, which runs next to the house and scares the hell out of me daily. It’s only mournful and soothing from a distance, through the rain, when you’re holding a steel guitar. Up close it is very much like God’s own two-note soundtrack for the Apocalypse.
[1] David Franke and Jacqueline Deal. Formerly of 361 Rt. 11 South, Apartment 1. Tully, NY, but now in our new house at 793 Tully Farms Road, a very cool place if I say so myself!
