Don Quixote
Old windmills have always captured my attention. I’m not sure why. Perhaps it’s because they tend to be out in the middle of nowhere, isolated from the corruption of the city. Lonely sentinels, standing guard over some forgotten thing, or maybe some forgotten time. They are intriguing for the hidden story that they hold. Who put them there? When? Why. What is it about them that have caused there creator to turn his back abandoning them to the ravages of time and weather? Once proud and tall these windmills have now become rusty, broken and bent, remnants of another time.
A time I missed by twenty or thirty years I think, back when more people lived outside the cities then in, a time when people knew the first names of everyone at the grain elevator. When the center of town was still the center and it was alive. The town square still held the court house. You could see two monster movies on a Saturday for dime at the bijou. There was a five and dime store where inside for the price of quarter you could sit down at the soda counter and for a few moments wash your cares away with a root beer float. In front of the local gas station, you would find a few old farmers who for the price of an ice cold coke and game of checkers would part with the wisdom they had harvested from the earth. Old and leathery they smile at you as sitting down you move your piece. Their faces are lined roadmaps of where they have been and what they have seen; the lines tracing across the sun brown skin leading to the corners of the eyes and mouth. Those eyes twinkle with mirth and the smiles comes easy to the broken in faces. Rough worn hands move a piece in response, hands that are bent and broken from a lifetime of coxing life from the earth. Conversation flows easily. Every turn of phrase contains a double entendre that sinks into your psyche taking with it the accumulated knowledge of these men. You’re enveloped in the blue haze and heady aroma of pipe tobacco and rolled cigarettes. Pieces move back and forth quickly as you talk. You hear the murmurs of agreement and disagreement as moves are made and pieces taken. Hank, the station owner walks out; silently watching while wiping greasy hands on a greaser red rag. After what seems to be an eternity you move a piece and quietly say “King me.”
Nods of approval and quiet chuckles at the expense of their peer come from the old men watching. These professors of the earth have seen many a checker game and know that this one will soon be yours. Just a mater of time. Time. A currency not lightly traded by these men. You have passed the test though, been accepted and found worthy. The hiss of tires on pavement followed by a double ding from within the repair bay signal the arrival of work for Hank. Taking the last piece you lean back in the creaky chair, basking in the glory of defeating the accumulated wisdom present. You take a long pull on a sweaty coke. Fading sunlight glints off beads of water. A soft breeze brings the smell of fresh cut alfalfa and fresh baked apple pie from Mabel’s Dinner. In the distance you can hear children laughing and the rattle of a far off train.
That breeze continues across town carrying with it the sights and sounds of the age. This lost piece of Americana. Carries it out to the edge of town where the buildings and homes give way to the endless prairie. Once wild it has now been tamed and is a patch work of fields and farms. All of them dotted here and there with windmills. Those windmills turn their solitary eye into that wind. They soak up all that goes on around them, silent observers; historians of an age that will soon pass. An age to replace by suburbs, strip centers, shopping malls and mini marts. A new age where people become isolated by their technology. Where you can climb in the safety of an air-conditioned automobile. Never have to put down the window for a friendly wave or a “hello” as you pass a neighbor. You don’t know their name. Fields have been plowed under, windmills knocked down. The town center is dead, store front windows white washed. “For Rent” signs neatly in place.
I sometimes think that the only things to stand against the advance are the windmills. Those quiet guardians of time, now bent, broken and rusty. Those windmills are in a silent battle with gravity and the vines and creepers that cover them and struggle with them. Caught in a desperate attempt to return them to the earth they have watched over. Those windmills will nothing to do with it. Stubbornly they stand against time, nature and progress; Knights of a world now gone. They make their chivalric last stand.
They make a stand against an enemy that has taken on its own singular presence, a twisted reincarnation of Don Quixote. Roles reversed it is now the windmill who is Knight and Don Quixote has become the “giant” of time and change. Who will win, the odds favor Don Quixote this time around I fear, though I shall not help him. I will not empower Don Quixote. I will not tilt against these windmills. I would rather leave them as reminders, cenotaphs to a time now gone.
cdl
A time I missed by twenty or thirty years I think, back when more people lived outside the cities then in, a time when people knew the first names of everyone at the grain elevator. When the center of town was still the center and it was alive. The town square still held the court house. You could see two monster movies on a Saturday for dime at the bijou. There was a five and dime store where inside for the price of quarter you could sit down at the soda counter and for a few moments wash your cares away with a root beer float. In front of the local gas station, you would find a few old farmers who for the price of an ice cold coke and game of checkers would part with the wisdom they had harvested from the earth. Old and leathery they smile at you as sitting down you move your piece. Their faces are lined roadmaps of where they have been and what they have seen; the lines tracing across the sun brown skin leading to the corners of the eyes and mouth. Those eyes twinkle with mirth and the smiles comes easy to the broken in faces. Rough worn hands move a piece in response, hands that are bent and broken from a lifetime of coxing life from the earth. Conversation flows easily. Every turn of phrase contains a double entendre that sinks into your psyche taking with it the accumulated knowledge of these men. You’re enveloped in the blue haze and heady aroma of pipe tobacco and rolled cigarettes. Pieces move back and forth quickly as you talk. You hear the murmurs of agreement and disagreement as moves are made and pieces taken. Hank, the station owner walks out; silently watching while wiping greasy hands on a greaser red rag. After what seems to be an eternity you move a piece and quietly say “King me.”
Nods of approval and quiet chuckles at the expense of their peer come from the old men watching. These professors of the earth have seen many a checker game and know that this one will soon be yours. Just a mater of time. Time. A currency not lightly traded by these men. You have passed the test though, been accepted and found worthy. The hiss of tires on pavement followed by a double ding from within the repair bay signal the arrival of work for Hank. Taking the last piece you lean back in the creaky chair, basking in the glory of defeating the accumulated wisdom present. You take a long pull on a sweaty coke. Fading sunlight glints off beads of water. A soft breeze brings the smell of fresh cut alfalfa and fresh baked apple pie from Mabel’s Dinner. In the distance you can hear children laughing and the rattle of a far off train.
That breeze continues across town carrying with it the sights and sounds of the age. This lost piece of Americana. Carries it out to the edge of town where the buildings and homes give way to the endless prairie. Once wild it has now been tamed and is a patch work of fields and farms. All of them dotted here and there with windmills. Those windmills turn their solitary eye into that wind. They soak up all that goes on around them, silent observers; historians of an age that will soon pass. An age to replace by suburbs, strip centers, shopping malls and mini marts. A new age where people become isolated by their technology. Where you can climb in the safety of an air-conditioned automobile. Never have to put down the window for a friendly wave or a “hello” as you pass a neighbor. You don’t know their name. Fields have been plowed under, windmills knocked down. The town center is dead, store front windows white washed. “For Rent” signs neatly in place.
I sometimes think that the only things to stand against the advance are the windmills. Those quiet guardians of time, now bent, broken and rusty. Those windmills are in a silent battle with gravity and the vines and creepers that cover them and struggle with them. Caught in a desperate attempt to return them to the earth they have watched over. Those windmills will nothing to do with it. Stubbornly they stand against time, nature and progress; Knights of a world now gone. They make their chivalric last stand.
They make a stand against an enemy that has taken on its own singular presence, a twisted reincarnation of Don Quixote. Roles reversed it is now the windmill who is Knight and Don Quixote has become the “giant” of time and change. Who will win, the odds favor Don Quixote this time around I fear, though I shall not help him. I will not empower Don Quixote. I will not tilt against these windmills. I would rather leave them as reminders, cenotaphs to a time now gone.
cdl
2 comments :
Very well spoken. I love the imagery and imagination to it. I miss it as well.
Okay, I finally was able to sit and read through that whole thing (my attention span sucks) and you are amazing.
I cried.
I could picture everything you talked about. I remember it. I lived it even though I lived in a much later era, but I remember loving to go down to the grain elevator and talking to Uncle Percy and Sil. Listening to all the old farmers stand around the counter at the elevator with their mugs of coffee discussing the crops and herds. I miss that. I miss knowing all the people by name...and having them know me by name and who all my family was. Even if at the time it was annoying because I always got in trouble ;)
You have an amazing way with words. And much much more depth in your head than even I give you credit for.
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