January/February 1988
By the Mother Earth News editors
LAST LAUGH
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"A certain intelligence governs our universe, except in certain parts of New Jersey." — Woody Allen
Well sir, as I'm sure you recall (from issue 106), the rambling rail riders from Plumtree Crossing got themselves cold-roasted by the sophisticated, high-talking denizens of Boston. So much so that when they realized the train they'd hopped on was headed to New York City, they decided they just plain wouldn't get off. Instead they huddled for six hours, unwilling to budge from their seats, while the train sat motionless in the dark innards of Grand Central Station.
Finally, the engine pulled out, headed for—well, they didn't rightly know where it was headed for. That is, they were in the dark until a wild-haired gang of teenagers got on, wearing T-shirts that said things like "Don't you hate it when you wake up and your shirt smells like New Jersey?" and "New Jersey: Landfill of Opportunity."
Turned out, though, those young fellers were right friendly. In fact, when they heard the Plumtree Perambulators were looking for humorous tales about America, they practically fell over each other in their efforts to be helpful.
"Noo Joisy's funny," one said. "Ya know, brudda, like it's cawled da Garbage State insted of da Garden State."
"Yeh," another broke in. "Finstins, wha's Noo Joisy's biggest contribution to culcha? Pizza by da slice."
"An how cum allduh kids in Joisy take vocation class-cawsa den dey'll know wha jobs dey'll be outta."
"Uf caws, while youse guys is heah, I want ya shud go see da Mafia Memorial Cemetery—da Newark gahbage dump!"
The next thing the Plumtree Crossing Cruisers knew, the train had stopped at Secaucus and those kids were piling out, loudly yodeling a ballad in honor of their home state: "In Hoboken dere will be/Trash as faw as de eye can see./Garbage fuh you and garbage fuh me/In da garbage dumps of Noo Joisy." Even as they went out of sight, they were still singing: "When Oi die, please boiwy me low,/Wheh Oi can heah da petroleum flow./A sweeda sound Oi nevah did know/Dan dose rolling mills of Noo Joisy."
After the noice (I mean, noise ) died down,
Ott Bartlett spoke up—for the first time since the train had left New York. "Boys, let's not get off just yet." They didn't, either. They stayed on past Hoboken, Jersey City, Bayonne, Perth Amboy—past ghetto, skyscraper, refinery, barge. Eventually, though, the countryside changed. Trees replaced smokestacks. Sky beat back smog. Cows outnumbered cars.
Finally, the crew of somewhat surprised travelers got off at a little whistle stop called No Man's Reach—and found a country burg as pretty as bees in corn silk. The boys walked down to a local diner, ordered some specials that turned out to contain pleasingly down-home grub, and dug in like hogs on Sunday. Newt Blanchard was so perplexed by the sudden change that he grabbed hold of the first gent that walked by-fella by the name of James McLean, it turned out—to get an explanation. Jim kindly pulled up a chair and began to talk.
