Work Left Unfinished

I had a favorite place to hide out when I was a kid. I couldn't hang around my house because my parents were always thinking of something productive for me to do. I didn't revel in productivity. My goal as a kid was to survive to the next day without expending any mental or physical energy today. That was my mantra. Other kids dreamed about someday being lawyers, baseball players, politicians. I dreamed about how I could transform a warm summer day into a way of life, rather than a respite from the winter storms.

Luckily, I found a place to escape, only a few hundred yards from my house. It was close enough to easily walk to, but far enough away from home base to be able to vanish into the environment and be one with nature. I really didn't care about nature, but I appreciated its camouflaging capabilities, and especially its unflinching acceptance of my basic need to hide away from the responsibilities of the day.

The place was nondescript to the uninitiated. It was a little spit of land which was defined by an apple orchard and two unfinished basements. The apples were good for eating during the summer and the two basements were good hideouts.

My greatest pleasure was sitting on a concrete stoop that surrounded a stairway leading down into one of the basements. That's where I would sit and endlessly chain smoke my Pall Mall cigarettes. At that time, in the early sixties, it was considered cool to smoke. Everyone smoked in those days. In fact, my peers told me that if you didn't smoke, you weren't a man. I never figured out that particular correlation, but decided early on not to overly test that unwritten, but, never the less, somewhat believable treatise.

My buddies would come by occasionally to pass the time with me. I was only seeking solitude, but always enjoyed short interludes which allowed me to communicate with others who occupied the same restricted phylum.

Johnny Pelz, whose father owned the land, would drop by almost every day. Rudy Baker was a frequent visitor. But, the one who tended to share that space with me the most was John May, who lived in the barracks which butted up against this piece of property. John was a unique individual. I didn't know much about his background other than the fact that his father worked at a dam which was thirty miles away and, for some reason, he decided to force his family to live in those God forsaken barracks which were occupied by those who had few or no other housing opportunities.

John and his family didn't have much, in terms of pecuniary accouterments. But, one thing that they did have was an overabundance of pride. For example, John's shirts were obviously second hand and bought at the local thrift store. But, his mother would press them with an iron and create formal creases along the shirt sleeves and the back of the shirts. He would make it a point to show me those creases. Somehow, he was proud that his momma took the time and energy to do the best she could to make those shirts look as good as they could be. I never worried about such things, probably because my shirts were bought new at one of Fairmont's downtown department stores. So, I couldn't see the significance of his shirts. Now, many years later, I can discern the reasons for that behavioral manifestation. But, then, I was only puzzled by his pride.

Anyway, during the summer, I usually sneaked up to that area every day. I always sat on the same stoop. I always smoked one Pall Mall after the other. Sometimes, a contemplative mood would envelope my consciousness and I'd start to muse about the significance of these unfinished basements. I often thought that those basements could be metaphors for my own life. My life was certainly unfinished. There was some hope of building a fine house on a good foundation, but, certainly, that outcome was uncertain.

The contents of the basements reminded me of my mind. It was cluttered with useless facts and figures, tidbits of fragmented information and only a hint that the material stored there would eventually be used for something productive or, at the least, pleasingly aesthetic on some level.

But, those moments of contemplation only lasted for a few microseconds. After those infinitely small increments of philosophizing, I would immediately change my mental course and begin contemplating the possibility of finding and nurturing a career which involved no need for physical exertion and only a paucity of neuronal activity unrelated to sloth and the peace associated with the efficacy of finding something for nothing.

But, many years later, I found the true meaning of those unfinished edifices. After having moved away from Fairmont for several years, I came back on a visit and ran into Johnny Pelz. After meeting up and talking about the good old days when we were both teenagers, I happened to ask him about those two basements. He told me that his father had finally finished both of them. On one basement, he had built the family home. According to Johnny, it was a beautiful house with skylights and plenty of bedrooms for all of the kids. And, he converted the other basement into a garage apartment and was renting it out.

I asked Johnny how he felt about living in a brand new house after all of those years living in the WWII barracks. He said, "What are you talking about? My dad didn't finish the house until after I graduated from college. I never spent one second in that place. I spent my whole childhood living in a dump and then just when I move out of there, my dad moves into this new place with a new wife and several step kids."

I was astounded. I said, "So, you never spent a day in the new house?"

"No."

It was then that I knew why I was always somewhat disconcerted by those unfinished basements. They really didn't represent anything to me, other than a subject opportunity to muse about on a lazy summer day. However, they represented everything to Johnny. Those basements represented his unfinished dreams. He had wanted the opportunity to grow up in a house that he could be proud of. He had wanted a house that his friends could enjoy.

But, for twenty one years, he had accepted living in the barracks and making the best out of it. However, now he realized that it didn't have to be like that. He could have had that dream house growing up. He could have felt pride in his environment and his dad. Now, he only feels resentment and disappointment. An opportunity had been lost. A character had been needlessly shaped by forces which didn't need to be.

Yes, I've thought about those basements and what they meant to me. But, now, I also think about how that unfinished business shaped a man's life and cemented his view of the world.

As a postscript, I should say that Johnny wasn't broken by this unfinished business. He was able to eventually learn from it and be a better man for experiencing it. But, it still hurt.