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Monster Media 1994 #1
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1994-02-03
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░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░BLESS ALL IN THIS PLACE░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░Allen Ruffin
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This is a very tiny town, some 200 plus, the smallest
incorporated community in Maryland. Because it featured
importantly in a Civil War battle the day prior to Antietam, it
is on the National Register of Historic Places, and many homes
are individually registered with the county. Some of the log
cabins that form the bases of homes predate written history.
New Year's Eve, most of the Newcomers, as we are known to the
locals, gathered at the largest and most impressive manor
resotred by a Newcomer. Many walked. As we now outnumber the
old timers, it is more or less safe to go out at night. Most
wore everyday clothes--sweaters, jeans, corduroys, sneaks or work
boots. The rooms had been lit by candles as was the path from
the parking area between the house and the barn. Fires popped
cheerfully in shallow fireplaces, sending sparks to singe the
heart-of-pine flooring as they had done for almost 200 years.
Conversation was muted. Gossip about the old timers in
one room, football in the kitchen, intellectually stimulating in
the front room. Outside, horses whickered, dogs barked greetings
to new arrivals, cats wandered about rubbing against trouser
legs, and goats eyed the porch roof which is just about two feet
too high. They are planning a ramp as soon as the ground thaws.
The occasional passage of a redneck vehicle on the twisty
mountain road just beginning the ascent beyond the stone walls
was marked by a resounding crash as it went over a newly molded
speed bump. As the bed went up, beer flew everywhere. As it
came down, the suspension bottomed with a satisfying crash,
followed by curses muttered darkly as the truck occupants
staggered about in the snow and ice trying to retrieve their
valuables.
In a yearly retrospective, the daily newspaper had
reported that the mayor, one of the older residents supported by
the 'necks, had remarked that the speed bumps the newcomers had
fought for over several years to slow traffic through town hoping
not to contribute more pets and children to the road kill, seemed
to slow drivers a little. "At least," she had been quoted, "It
makes them think that maybe we want them to slow down." As we
chortled over each crash, we reminded each other of that remark.
Small children had been bedded on the floor in a front
room office, and slept undisturbed by the glow of a computer
monitor and the occasional beep from a fax machine and whir of a
laser printer. Older ones raced up winding, steep back
staircases to explore mysteries of the old attic and secret
closets. As the party progressed, the peaceful sense was
disturbed occasionally by the sound of a flush toilet. Ha.
Those old timers accused us of wanting to abandon electricity and
indoor plumbing and go back to cobbled streets. Well, the
cobbled streets would be o.k.
As the grandfather clock in the front hall, across from
the hand-carved stairway rail and panelling, reached toward
midnight, a cry went up.
"Who is going to ring the bell? Who has the church key?.
Where did you put the damn coats?" The minister of the only
still-functioning church in town produced the key, coats were
found in the attic where the children had hidden them, and in a
mad exchange of. "No, that's not mine. That's it--the plaid
one. Isn't that your hat?" the crowd went to the street and
across the intersection where two spired churches sat side by
side. One still in use, the other abandoned by its parishioners
in some political dispute--half of which built the second. The
abandoned church is now owned by the town's Historical Society.
It has been their tradition to ring in the New Year on its great
bell, while the two smaller bells of the church still in use try
to keep up.
The kids all dashed into the two churches, carrying
candle lanterns to find their way up the rail-less staircases
into the belfries. Adults stood about outside, newcomers by the
churches, old residents on the other side.
Precisely on the stroke of two minutes before midninght,
the first mighty "BONG" rang out. Then another. Then some weak
clanks from the other belfry. Then firecrackers began to explode
behind the post office. An old timer wandered over from the
other crowd and said to me, "We used to ring the number of the
years on that bell."
The priest, holding a brass candle lantern and wearing a
tall, old-fashined beaver hat, wandered by and, hearing the
remark, said
"Hey. You know, back in 1972 the state passed a law that
you couldn't ring a bell unless you had hired a licensed
bell ringer? Did you know that?"
"I was the bell ringer for this church."
"Yeah? I know, I know. I had a parish in the city then.
We advertised for a licensed bell ringer, and in a few days
this guy shows up had no arms.
" 'You're a licensed bell ringer?' I asked him.
" 'Sure am,' he said and showed me his license.
"How do you expect to ring a bell, you've got no arms?
" 'Take me up in the belfry, and I'll show you.'
"Well, we climb up into the belfry, and this guy gets way
off in the back, starts running, jumps at the bell, and hits
it with his head. 'BONGGGGG'. 'How many times can you do
that?' I ask him. 'Just watch,' he says, and does it again.
But, when he tries it again, he misses, goes over the rail,
down to the roof, slides down and falls to the ground.
"Few days later, another guy shows up and has a bell
ringer's license. He has no arms. Well, the sexton and I
go up into the belfry with him, and sure enough, he takes a
big run, jumps at the bell, hits it with his head.
'BONGGGG.' Backs off, staggering a little and shaking his
head. 'You all right?' I ask him. 'Sure,' he says, and
starts running reeeal fast. Jumps at the bell, misses it,
goes over the rail, clean over the roof and down into the
parking lot.
"The sexton and I climb down, and there he lies, all broken
like. Not breathing.
"'That looks a lot like the first guy that tried out for the
job,' the sexton says.
"No, I don't think it's the same guy. But, he sure is a
dead ringer."
I asked the priest if this was a true story, but he just
smiled at me out of one side of his mouth. He had been to
Russia last summer and knew how to do these things.
The old timer looked at me, and looked at the priest who
was swinging his lantern back and forth, and walked back to the
other side of the street. The newcomers tried not to laugh too
loudly, and managed to muffle it, mostly, as the children came
dashing out of the churches screaming and jumping as the last
reverberations of the bells died in the valley. A single gun
shot was fired somewhere down the street, and a plain blue car
that had parked at the curb during the ringing turned on its
lights and slid off. Down the street, the roar and screech of a
neckmobile taking off at speed was heard, followed by the crash
of a suspension bottoming after the speed bump at the other end
of town was struck.
Things change.
**********
I know you all think I make these things up.
Happy New Year Day from the somewhat peaceable, mostly, tiny,
little picturesque but inhabited by saints town nestled in
Pleasant Valley between Catoctin and South Mountains, near the
mighty Pot-O-Mak river.--Al.
-end-
Copyright (c)1994 Allen F. Ruffin