by Jon Katz
Chapter Two
BEDLAM O I remember when a lad, The people here were very bad; They fought, they swore, they guzzled rum, And Bedlam it was called by some. West Hebron in Song! by Lafayette Smart and the Rev. John Fisher; sung by students of the West Hebron Academy, March 31, 1874
T HE BEDLAMS CORNER VARIETY STORE SITS AT THE INTERSECTION where Route 30 from Salem hits West Hebron and comes to a T. Its been there for several lifetimes. In 1878, I read in a local history, it carried its owners celebrated steel-pointed handmade potato hooks, along with parlor stoves, agricultural tools, clover seed, and groceries. In 1911, crowds of farmers gathered to see its new electric-powered lights; lemonade and ice cream were served. For a while, the store housed the local post office. West Hebron (as opposed to North or East Hebron, all of them part of regular old Hebron) lies about an hour northeast of Albany, the kind of small town thats vanished from general consciousness-but which is full of small dramas nonetheless. The ferocious survival struggles of its embattled and dwindling farmers are wrenching to witness, and so is the inexorable exodus of the towns children. The population of the larger town of Hebron peaked in the early 1800s at about 2,700; its roughly half that size now. Bedlams Corner-gateway to West Hebron-is important to the town, a tiny, dark, cozily atmospheric shop, its front window decorated with an American flag and a neon beer sign. Inside, the row of counter stools, tin ceiling, and ancient globe lights dont seem to have changed for decades. Its shelves and narrow aisles are crammed with what used to be called sundries-milk, local papers, groceries, and chewing tobacco, with a closet-sized hardware department in the rear that sells nails and automotive supplies. You can arrange to have your dry cleaning picked up and delivered, or to have your film developed. You cannot, however, find skim milk, whole-grain bread, or anything containing soy. The store matters for the obvious reasons-its a ten-mile drive for a roll of toilet paper otherwise-but its also the source of almost all important town news and gossip. In the morning, the Big Men in Trucks stop by, leaving their trucks idling while they grab some coffee; if they have time, they plop down at the counter to yak about the weather, hunting, or the trials of raising kids. More than one elderly widow or widower comes in at some point during the day to make a tiny purchase and find some company, which the stores staff generously provides. This is the sole surviving business from West Hebrons heyday as a thriving commercial and agricultural center. Newcomers like me, inquiring into its history, are startled to learn that a century ago this crossroads and its immediate surroundings supported seven stores, a hotel, an opera house, three blacksmith shops, two mills, a railroad depot, a power plant, a cheese factory, a meat market, wagon and harness shops, and two barbers. Hence the nickname, which lingers years after the reasons for it have vanished. The name Bedlam comes from Bethlehem, specifically the Hospital of St. Mary of Bethlehem in London. Originally dedicated to treating the poor, it began to admit the citys growing number of lunatics in the late 1300s. Bethlehem got shortened, over several centuries, to Bedlam. In the late 1600s the hospital became a bizarre tourist destination, as audiences came to witness the spectacle of the mentally ill. By the eighteenth century, visitors paid a small fee to enter the building and laugh at the patients, many chained in their cells. The crowds grew so large and unruly that Bedlam came to stand for chaos and disorder. Theres nothing chaotic in the hamlet these days, a tribute to the impact of the automobile, the decline of the family farm, and the way jobs migrate to coastal and urban areas. But the sleepiness has its appeal, at least for people like me, who arent looking for work. West Hebron sits along the Black Creek, a meandering stream fed by a potent waterfall. I count about fifty buildings now, stretching in a line from the store: modest old millworker houses, a few grander Victorians, the two churches, the town clerks office and the headquarters of the Hebron Volunteer Fire Department, a few trailers and shacks. From my farmhouse porch on warm fall Sundays, I can hear the hymns wafting up from the Presbyterian church below, and see the volunteer firefighters converging when the siren sounds. I missed the towns bedlam period, but Ive imported some of my own. MY THREE PUREBRED BORDER COLLIES CAUSED QUITE A BIT OF discussion at Bedlams Corner, where they often waited outside in the truck as I picked up a few cans of dog food or (Sundays only) The New York Times. People admired their sleek beauty and, thanks to cable television, often had seen dogs herding. But they were a curiosity in a town where dogs lived very different lives. Ellie, for example, a shaggy brown Disney-cute mutt, was the West Hebron town dog. She wandered from one house to another, escorting an elderly couple on their morning walk, greeting visitors, monitoring traffic in and out of the variety store. Sometimes she napped in the middle of Route 30. People here make a point of tolerance-what you do in public is everybodys business, and what you do on your own property is nobodys. But there was an understanding about Ellie: when she dropped by, you were expected to be hospitable, to offer food and water and a warm place to spend the night. You also understood that she would never stay. She belonged to everyone and no one, a Ruby Tuesday of dogs. Ellie reminded me at the outset that the dog culture upstate is very different from the one I knew back in New Jersey. Almost all Hebron dogs are mixed-breeds, and Ive never seen one walked on a leash. People often let them out when they leave for work in the morning and bring them in when they come home at night. Dogs are never trained in the formal sense, at least not beyond housebreaking; they learn as they go. When they misbehave, they can generally expect a swat or kick in the rear. Missing from the lives of local hounds: gourmet treats. Doggie day care or playgroups. Agility classes. Obedience trials. Competitions of any sort. The whole idea of a fulfilled dog. Even, sometimes, basic veterinary care. People in town comparison-shop when their dogs are sick enough to need a vet-and mere lameness, vomiting, or droopiness doesnt qualify. The vet in Salem wanted a hundred and seventy-five dollars to neuter my dog, a mechanic explained to me. He found a clinic in Granville that would do it for $125, so he went there. A lot of people wouldnt have bothered at all. It isnt that Hebronites dont love their dogs; they do. But their view of animals in general, and dogs in particular, is more philosophical. Dogs are sweet, but they come and they go. They live at the periphery of family life, not at the epicenter. They arent best friends or soulmates, and they are definitely not children. They may not even sleep indoors, or want to. Backyard doghouses are common, and one brown mutt-maybe part wolfhound-would only sleep in the back of his owners red pickup, no matter how cold it got. We feel bad, confessed his owner, but he goes crazy inside the house. If its below zero or raining or snowing, I make him a sort of lean-to, with a sawhorse and a tarp. Sometimes when I come out in the morning, the whole things covered in snow. The dog didnt seem to mind. There are some serious breeders tucked away here and there, but purebred dogs are still exotic, a city guys way to acquire a dog. When people in town want a dog, they call the county shelter, or find a stray at the back door one day, or pick out a puppy when a farm dog has a litter. For all these differences, Hebron has plenty of dogs, and they look both happy and healthy, if on the scruffy side. Im sometimes embarrassed when I open my pantry cupboard and see the stacks and bags of bones, biscuits, and dentally approved rawhide chews that my dogs gnaw on, supplementing their diets of lite dog food. My crowd, admired as they were, came from a different solar system, from the planet Flatland. IN THE WEEKS BEFORE WE COULD MOVE IN, ID BEEN BUSILY preparing, meeting my neighbors, finding the helpers Id need, from vets to handymen, laying in supplies. Id need a farm truck, for instance. You wouldnt want to befoul your primary vehicle with hay, sheep poop, or (if bad luck hit) carcasses. So I was on the lookout for something sturdy and-mindful of my wifes admonitions about the state of our finances-cheap. On a drive to Argyle, down a long dirt road miles from anywhere, I came across Sheldons Used Trucks, a two-trailer complex with several trucks in various stages of decay, three of which had goats tethered to their bumpers. They ranged in price from $886 to $4,823, as Sheldon explained to me when I stopped, intrigued. He expl
ained his marketing strategy: You put a round number, like three thousand, on it, people think its expensive and give you a hard time. But you put a real specific price on it, then they think theres gotta be a reason. He seemed proud of his technique. Sheldons newest truck was a 1993 Dodge Ram with no front tires. The others had broken axles, cracked windshields, scraped paint, and a crayoned slogan on each windshield: We Are Negotiable! Just out of curiosity, if you dont mind my asking, how many trucks do you sell in a year? I asked, noticing the empty acreage on each side and the sparse passing traffic. Sheldon, his big belly bulging out of a T-shirt, a John Deere cap framing his ruddy, bearded face, gave me an appraising look. Marlene, he yelled toward one of the trailers. Theres a guy here who wants to know how many trucks we sell in a year. Is he from the IRS? came a voice from the inside. You from the IRS? I told him I wasnt. He says he isnt, Sheldon yelled. And hes got some of those sheep collies in his truck. There was a giant satellite dish behind the trailer. Another Discovery Channel watcher, I guessed. If hes from the IRS we sold four trucks last year, the voice answered. If he isnt, we sold five. I wrote Sheldons phone number on a scrap of paper, but decided to broaden my truck search. Next on my scarily long list of things to do/buy/contract for before Bedlam Farm was operational: fencing. You couldnt have fifteen sheep wandering around town. I solicited names. Some of the best craftsmen lived just across the border in Vermont. I was still learning how to talk Vermont. As when I called Shane Becker, a highly regarded fence builder near Bennington. Yuh. Is this Shane Becker? Yup. My name is Jon Katz, and I just bought a farm over in West Hebron. I need to fence about ten acres for some sheep. Silence. Do you do sheep fences? Yup. Could you do mine? I guess so. More silence. So, whats the process, Shane? I ventured. How does this usually work? Silence for a good ten seconds as he digested the question. Well, the way it works, he said, is I build the fence, and then you pay me. Okay, I said, giving up. Whenever youre ready. Apart from a chat about sheepdogs, this was the longest conversation Shane and I would ever have. On my own side of the state border, getting anything done is likely to involve the Great Rolling Conversation-a.k.a. Country Bullshit. Even the simplest tasks involved a ritualistic series of exchanges: information gathering, anecdote relating, strategizing, reminiscing, arguing. I loved it, and was getting good at it. To me, bullshit has always been an art form, a skill to hone and celebrate, one of the few gifts Ive had from childhood. Take hay. It might seem a simple thing to order enough hay to see a small flock through a tough winter, when the grass could no longer provide nourishment. It wasnt. Step One in getting the Great Conversation rolling: you either stopped in at the nearest Agway farm-supply store, or raised the topic over sweet-potato fries at the Burger Den in Jackson, or went early in the morning to any Stewarts coffee shop/gas station/convenience store, the favorite stop of the Big Men in Trucks. Country Bullshit encompasses many issues, from weather to trucks and guns to tales of silly Flatlanders moving in from New York and doing stupid, inexplicable things. Get your deer yet? is one way to kick off plenty of bullshit during hunting season. Among my other favorite sayings is, Its been here long before you were born and it will be here long after youve gone. An all-purpose phrase, it came up a lot while I was trying to figure out how to prop up my flocks future shelter. It seemed to me that my tottering barn, which was here before I was born, would stand until it didnt-which could happen at any time, and I didnt want to be inside it when it did. But that kind of sentiment is dismissed as Flatlander anxiety. Country Bullshit values calm and stability; it takes the long view. To find hay, therefore, I started the process at a Cambridge coffeehouse called Bean Heads. I loudly told Bill, the proprietor, that I was looking for hay. Before he could respond, three customers were already sidling over, chiming in. I was grateful for advice. People upstate have spent a lot of time explaining things to me. The trick, Id found, was to concede ignorance. If you admitted you were clueless and threw yourself on their mercy, the locals were happy to help out. To do otherwise was to be branded arrogant and hopeless, and then you were on your own. Not so fast, said a grizzled farmer, evidently dragged away from Stewarts by his coffee-loving son. Hed sized me up instantly as a dumb-ass Flatlander, and he was eager to get things rolling. You want round or square bales? First or second cut? How big is your barn? How many can you store? An argument instantly broke out about whether I needed the big round bales or the smaller square ones. The round bales lasted longer, but they were impossible to move around without a tractor. First cut meant the hay of late spring, second cut meant hay from late summer (and sometimes there was a third). More nutrients by far in the second cut. Hold out for that, the farmer announced. Disagreement, though, erupted from the other two guys. Bill, who used to sell farm equipment, muttered that hed never found two farmers who agreed on anything. The discussion soon ranged far afield to include the dietary habits of dairy cows and the outrageous price of everything, feed in particular. The talk left me and my hay far behind, so I took my coffee, slipped out, and drove over to Stewarts, just down the road. The farmer and his son pulled in right behind me. In seconds, about a half-dozen men in trucks had mysteriously convened and were peppering me with questions: How many sheep? How big a barn? What other feed was I thinking of buying? Oats? Corn? Did I have water access near the barn? People coming out of Stewarts joined in, recognizing people in the crowd, adding their own horror stories about bad hay or wet hay, the dangers of ordering too much or of getting caught short and having to scramble. Soon, to my amazement, a truck pulled in stacked with hay, as if summoned by the gods of bullshit, and the farmer offered to sell it to me on the spot and drive it right on up to Hebron. But the old farmer wouldnt hear of it. What? You gonna sell him first-cut hay for sheep? And he was clearly skeptical of this hay, anyway. He pulled a handful from a bale, pinched it, chewed on a few strands. I could almost hear him thinking that this Flatlander was just foolish enough to go for it. I politely declined. The consensus-it had been an hour and a half since I mentioned hay at Bean Heads-was second-cut square bales, and Danny Thomas on Center Cambridge Road was the clear favorite for the best hay. Like many Washington County farmers, Danny Thomas was much too busy to be reachable by telephone. He was up before dawn, out till dark, and early to bed. I called countless times and finally left a handwritten note in his mailbox saying I wanted four hundred square bales of second-cut hay, and if he couldnt provide them, would he please call. Knowing how business is done in the county, when I heard nothing back I could safely assume Id get good-quality hay delivered on time. Which still left the matter of a farm truck. Paula and I were spending our last bittersweet weekend together in the cabin, something wed done too rarely in the years that Id owned it, when I found a likely candidate. We were driving down Route 22 when I swerved over to an auto-body shop, mesmerized by the sight of a giant red truck with yellow running lights and a FOR SALE sign. Ernie, the owner, had been spray-painting an old Corvette but materialized speedily. The Silverado, he said, was a classic, vintage 1982. He was asking $3,500 for it. It was a beautiful thing, massive and strong, with two gas tanks, a lost farm truck in need of a farm. Paula, sitting out in my Explorer while I talked to Ernie, was undoubtedly groaning about another $3,500 when we could hardly afford the farm itself, the hay, Shanes fence, and the other Bedlam Farm expenses gouging deep holes in our financial stability. I loved the truck, though. It was the mother of all pickups. It would haul rocks, hay, firewood, and trash, and it would sit proudly like a beacon announcing there was serious stuff going on at Bedlam Farm. Only a serious man would have such a serious truck. Ernie invited me into his inner sanctum. That your wife out there? She dont look too happy. She wasnt, I explained. Money was . . . an issue. Well, shes special. He was talking about the truck, of course. She wont let you down. You can have her for three thousand. We shook on it and I said Id be back once I registered her in Ft. Edward, the county seat. Paula was now walking around and peering suspiciously at the truck, scowling. Ernie wiped his hands on his T-shirt and offered to hel
p. I know how to talk to women, he said. A brave, if foolhardy, man, he strolled outside. Listen, honey, he told her. Its a good truck. You can trust her. She shot him a look that could have bored a hole through his skull, but all she said was, Looks like some rust on the fenders. Well, it is an 82, he said, retreating quickly. Shes a tough one, isnt she? he muttered to me, preparing the paperwork. Yes, I said. She was. WHEN MOVING DAY CAME, IN SEPTEMBER, I COULDNT SHAKE A sense of dread, of flailing in waters over my head. On that foggy day, the farm and its pastures were shrouded in mist and rain. The house, vacant, was eerily quiet. I heard creaks and groans, strange sounds from the basement and skittering in the ceilings. The house carried an air of history and gravity. It was a working place, with lots of mementos left behind-a pit for slaughtering pigs, rusting metal collars that once held dairy cows in place, a tiny milk house, where cans were left for pickup. You had the feeling of much hard labor there, many lives lived. Id spent a restless night with the dogs, staying with kind friends in Vermont, and now, waiting for the moving van, I started to panic. What was I doing there? If we could barely afford the cabin Id just vacated, how could I possibly afford this vast empire of decaying old buildings, new fences, and all the other alterations I still urgently needed to make for the flock of sheep soon to arrive? Orson, Homer, and Rose had no such anxieties. They were in dog heaven, tearing happily through the barns and pastures, down the wooded trails, pursuing an apparently robust population of rodents. But anxiety was hitting me in waves. Paula was back in New Jersey, Emma working in New York, and I was alone on this vast property, watching swarms of bees pour out the open windows of the pig barn. I had really done it this time. I could hear some sort of beeping alarm coming from the house-to do with that elaborate water filtration system in the basement, maybe. I also noticed the basement door, swollen from summer humidity, banging in the breeze-but I couldnt shut it. I felt paralyzed. I couldnt shut the door, couldnt figure out what was beeping. I just paced, mumbling nervously, realizing Id made a mistake, another of my reckless moves, another lunge at change for changes sake, rather than accepting my middle-class destiny. I could just put the place up for sale, I thought, and get most of my money back. Paula would be relieved, even delighted. I just wanted to go home and see my wife and kid. I was interrupted by a green pickup pulling up the driveway. A barrel-chested man climbed out and walked up the porch steps: Don Coldwell, a retired millworker who now made Adirondack chairs and did carpentry. Id stopped at his workshop to buy the two chairs on the hilltop behind the house. I didnt recognize him immediately, but I remembered his convincing handshake, his calloused fingers and steady gaze. This, I thought, was one of those men who go off and hold the line for people like me in places like Vietnam. Don was, in fact, a proud former Marine (the Corps flag flew in front of his house in the hamlet). He had the air of a man youd want beside you when trouble came. We had spent a few minutes talking when I bought my new chairs. Youll like it here, hed told me. We keep our doors open and our guns loaded. What were the guns for, I asked, if the doors didnt need to be locked? City people and coyotes. Now he was on my porch, giving me a piercing stare and asking what was wrong. Startled by the question, I mumbled something about waiting for the movers. Why, do I look bad? You look a little funny, he said. Disoriented, maybe. He asked what the beeping was, went inside, and located a smoke detector in need of a new battery. Only then did I realize just how discombobulated I was: Ive replaced smoke-detector batteries a million times in New Jersey. Why didnt I recognize the same sound here? Over the next few minutes, Don took charge. He took the basement door off its hinges and put it in his truck bed, saying he was taking it home to plane it and would bring it right back. When he returned in twenty minutes, he brought me a melon and some soup, in case I was hungry. (I was.) Then he patted me on the back. Take it easy, he said. This seems strange now, but it will be okay. Just give it a few weeks. I decided to believe him, and thanked him about twenty times for stopping to buck me up. He shrugged and moved toward his pickup. Hey, were a small place in the middle of nowhere, he said. It means something to be a neighbor here. If you need anything-anything-you call me and Ill be here. And he drove off as the moving van came lumbering up my dirt road. IN A FEW DAYS, I WAS ONE OF THE LOCALS STOPPING AT THE Bedlams Corner Variety Store with my dogs. Two sisters, Mary Zeller and Barb Worthington, own the place. Theres a FOR SALE sign in the window, has been for years. Everyone in town would love Mary and Barb to stay put, but theyre resigned to the stores changing hands one day. They are strong-willed women. Shortly after I moved in, the town was stunned by an armed robbery. A guy in a mask walked into the variety store brandishing a handgun. Mary, alone in the store, was less scared than furious. She gave the guy some money, then pulled the mask off his face, recognized him, and chased him out, noting his license plate as he sped away in his too-colorful-for-anonymity pickup. In the following days, almost every male in Hebron stopped at the store to scold Mary for taking on an armed criminal. But the robber, arrested the next day, was awaiting trial. I just got mad, Mary explained. Now when I drove down for a paper, coffee, or a can of dog food, everyone in the store knew who I was the minute I walked in. Hey, youre the guy who bought Jesse and Ralphs place. Youre the dog guy, said one of the Worthingtons one morning, shaking my hand. How did you know that? I asked, surprised as always. He chuckled. Who else could you be? Another morning, an elderly woman having coffee smiled and said, You were up early this morning, walking those sheep around. Your little dog is coming along real good. I must have looked nonplussed. Oh, I can look up and see the sheep from my kitchen window, she said. Its great to see animals up at the old Keyes place again. When she had time, I sat down at the counter and had a cup of coffee with Nancy Fortier, the sole employee, who seemed eager to hear tales of the dogs, donkey, and sheep. But, then, she heard a lot of stories each morning. While we talked, the Big Men in Trucks pulled in, wisecracking with her and one another. Though I was an obvious Flatlander, they were unfailingly friendly and generous. You a religious man? one big man asked me one morning. Not really all that religious, I said carefully. Why? You will be soon, he said. Every time you drive down that hill in the winter, youll be saying a prayer. Everybody in the store cracked up. Though I was not a Big Man in a Truck, I played one in my red Silverado. I registered it at a shockingly friendly Motor Vehicle office in Ft. Edward, put on my new plates, then put the three dogs in the giant backseat and pumped the gas pedal. It rumbled to deafening life. The radio was set to a country music station, and the first lyric I heard was, You can watch your movies, Ill take my NFL. I went roaring into town, the other men in trucks tipping their caps as we passed, the dogs sticking their heads out the windows. The truck was a behemoth. It took a long time for the brakes to check in, and the roar from the engine was guttural. But it was great blasting along Route 30, windows cranked open, the dogs of Bedlam Farm taking to the road. I stopped at the Stewarts in Salem to fill up the left gas tank, which cost $36. I decided to wait a week before filling the other one.
