Dear Friends –

D. Tybalt Oldman's nephew (Leo or Leon -- they call him both) sent this in response to some photos that I mailed him from NY. I acquired them from a local railfan with whom I chanced to strike up a conversation in the course of my employment. Leon is quite a good fellow, particularly in contrast with the rest of that collection of ne’er-do-wells he calls family, and he is the only one, so far as I know, to pay D the courtesy of an occasional visit.
-- A. Banfill.

Hello albert I thought I’d bring you up to date on uncle Ty. He was in pretty good spirits and seemed to be pretty much himself which was nice to see. He sends his regards and wonders when your going to get out of the hole. And I had to explain again that your sprung and as usual he rememberd once I told him.

Anyway I shoed him the pictures and he seemed quite interested of the shots from buffalo and recognized the grain elevators right off. He wondered about the big slaughterhouse but of course I didn’t know where that went, but expect its been tore down. Then some pics from outside of buffalo and he looked at them a long time and finally said salamancka, and that other old guy he sits with agreed, but said the yard was called bucktooth.

(I know that fellow, though I don’t think anyone knows his name. I certainly don’t! But he was full of stories about the area in the day. Like most geriatric prisoners he had invented the most elaborate genealogy, and probably convinced himself that it was true. – A.B.)

Ty said he remebered when just some old yard goats was all that was left of steam there, though there was a dead line of good locos off to the side destined for the scrap yard. The tracks are mostly pulled up now though some big cement towers remain and they aregued whether those were for water or coal.

They got to talking about the r-roads there, the B and O and the Erie and the Pennsylvania all met in that little town on the indian reservation. Two of the lines still run under different names, but the Pennsy got drowned when they built the dam 50 or 60 years ago. And I showed them the picture of the old right of way coming up out of the water west of town and that set them both off talking about it and the old valley and Chief Cornplanter and REd Jacket ect. Then they came a ghost story for Miss Fairweather (? I don’t know who this is) I don’t know if it’s a real story or if they just made it up on the spot.

But here it is for Miss F –

Chief Bucktooth had the town named after him, before they changed it. Bucktooth wasn’t his real name, he was named that by the palefaces cause of his big teeth. But in his later years he had quite a problem with drinking and then falling asleep on the rails, which is of course not a good thing. Fortunately in those days trains still had cowcatcher and he had a nack for getting caught on it or knocked out of the way or whatever as the train beared down on him but couldn’t stop, but he would get carried quite a way out of town sometimes. This ws the source of amusement to some though the rail crews really did not want to be responsible for killing the man as this weighted heavily on the engineers even if it werent their fault. And most folks indian and white got on pretty well and they wanted to keep it that way. But his habits got worse and it seemed like at least once a week or more he would be at it again, and some times it would be a couple weeks he’d be gone and they would think he was done for sure. But then he’d always show up again, usually walking back to town after his ride.

But then he was gone for good, and no one knew where, but some said he still rode the rails down that valley on a ghost train. Now I tell you that I’m a sucker for a good ghost story and they had me hook line and sinker once they got into that tale though I can’t do it justice. So they got to the part when they said on some moonlit nights in the fall, when old Bucktooth disappeared for good, you can still hear that train coming down the valley, and old Bucktooth on the cowcatcher letting loose an iriquoy battle cry, and here’s what you have to do...,

And I leaned forward for the secret, which was: You got to hold your head underwater for an hour or so!

And them two about busted their sides laughing, and everyone looking around in that cafeteria wondering what the noise was about but they just laughed and laughed, and whenever theyd slow down laughing one of them would say whooo whoooo! and the other would gurgle like someone doing a yell underwater And they’d be off and laughing again. And what could I do but laugh along? So I left Albert in prtty good spirits.

So that’s all I got for you today Albert, but it was nice to see Ty in better health and telling stories again, and that other fella got a passle of them too and may be I will get a little tape recorder like you say and get as many of them as I can. I talked to the guards about it and they said as long as it was just a recorder and the duty officer looked it over it would probably be alright.

Best wishes for you and good luck in your new job don’t go chasing after any wild women or sneaking on to airplanes ha ha.

Leopld

In re: Albert Banfill:

Albert’s job in the “transportation sector” translates as “airport shuttle bus driver.” But it is a job, a requirement of his parole if he is to remain on the outside, so I suppose I should not look too harshly on his making the best of it. (I hope “making the best of it” does not progress into collecting left-over purses, luggage, etc. But Albert has no record of petty theft) It doesn’t pay much, but he does well in tips. His explanation for being in the casino might have washed had he not carried $20 in quarters in with him.

In Re: D. Tybalt Oldman:

I was granted possession of what papers DT had assembled in his current incarceration – all loose-leaf, scrawled upon with a dull pencil -- as well as instructions on where I might find a trunk full of other notebooks and paraphernalia. This came with pointed instructions that I was to publish his collected wit and wisdom “right quick,” with the understanding that I might get a cut of the royalties (if any). Getting the trunk of older material was more of an adventure than I imagined when I agreed to the task. A long ride through PA and into WV-Maryland border area landed me on a back country road where the illustrations of curves on the highway signs could not keep up with reality. Some “cousins” had been holding DT’s trunk in an outbuilding for the promise of $20 a month storage, payment on demand. Upon inspection, the price of redemption quickly fell as mice had nested inside. They settled for a twelve-pack of Old Milwaukee and a roll of wintergreen snuff, and parted with the suggestion that they might have knowledge of more of DT’s treasures when I had an interest.

DT’s scrawl barely qualifies as handwriting. The unnumbered loose pages are covered corner to corner with a smudged line of graphite that has been erased in places til the paper tore, or crossed out and written over until only a black smear remains. Nothing looks like text, much less poetry. His method seems to have been to first write the name of his latest interest at a random point on the page, then construct a pillar of rhymes above and below it, followed by some contrived nonsense hammered into a horizontal rhythmic frame. Some names, needless to say, worked better than others. He seems to have struggled quite a bit with Shelly, and couldn’t come up with much beyond belly and smelly (which he vigorously x’d out), telly(?), attempted something with “well he” before settling on any word ending with an E. Shelly was replaced by Michele (the number of L’s varying), with rhymes so similar to a Beatles song that one can only surmise that Lennon and McCartney unaccountably took a peek.

In answer to Fairweather, “Sadie” was easily rhymed with “lady” and some lyrical “hay dee hay dee hay dee.” The Delightful Miss Fairweather will also be gratified to learn that several works were started in her name (whether, heather, ever, clever, never, sever, weather), returning again to “Heather?” Perhaps he thought the full name is Heather Fairweather, but wasn’t sure. Molly has holly, the inevitable golly, and the improbable jolly. (In my limited and confused experience with women, I don’t recall many who would care to be called “jolly.”) Some names just stumped him. Lydia was painfully rhymed with “pity a.” One of his late attempts, apparently at political commentary, settled on Murtha (earth-a, worth-a, Bertha) but more easily switched to Jack (slack, stack, back, crack, etc.)

I don’t know if all these efforts were directed at specific women or if he stockpiled names for future use. Some pages start with a line of names more or less alphabetically across the top of the page with rhymes below: Abby, Addy, Allie, Annie, Alice (palace, malice). One name might call to mind several more: Hannah with banana and “understand-a”, “cute as a panda” etc. That gave way to Amanda, to whom he would “hand-a” indecipherable compliment, than back to Anna, Joanna, hosanna, Rosanna. And so on.

More to follow as time permits. All and sundry are welcome to contact me to learn if their name has been immortalized by the Bard of Rails.

G

Dear Friends—

Aren’t modern communications amazing? In search of employment, I walked into one of the new “casinos” as they are called, on a local Indian reservation, and before I was there for five minutes, or ten at most, a very nice lady and gentleman were at my side to escort me out and direct me to their employment office in a wholly different location. Unfortunately, the local constabulary was informed and I had to have a long chat with a judge, and several from the parole office. Consequently, I am behind by a day or two in our correspondence, for which I am most apologetic

But despite all that I am delighted to tell you that I am gainfully employed again, working in the transportation sector. Quite a change of careers for one whose training has always been in finance! But I’m meeting the most delightful people! I’m not sure if you all know, but I moved to western New York on the advice of some acquaintances, as the real estate prices and general cost of living are quite low (though the cost of fuel, as we all know, is just frightful.) The late winter was very disconcerting for me, as one whose spent his life in warmer climes along the coasts and the Caribbean, but we do what we must. Here in NY I came under the ministrations of G., who has been most helpful in making recommendations and transporting me from one place to another.

I informed our mutual friend Mr Oldman of my new locale and he was, needless to say, quite envious, and then launched into an exhaustive recollection of the rail yards of Buffalo, NY. He displays, unfortunately, those symptoms of senile dementia familiar to many. He can recall in astonishing detail events and situations of forty and fifty years ago, particularly as related to railroads, where to hop a train, and so forth, but often loses track of where he is at the present moment or how he arrived there. The result is, of course, some quite sad conversations as the whole painful tale of his incarceration must be recounted another time. If only there were some mechanism whereby his many generous friends could make contributions toward his continued well-being and maintenance if, and when, he ever sees daylight again.

On that imploring note, I bid you adieu another time.

I remain, your humble servant,

Albert Banfill

In response to a question yesterday by “The delightful Miss Fairweather” (Mr. Banfill’s term), some improved information on DT’s travels and motives prior to his most recent incarceration. Some of this information was gathered via a recent phone conversation with Mr. Oldman and some from his occasional companion Albert Banfill. DT, who established a number of identities on public and closed internet bulletin boards over the years, apparently rather recently established presence on a public board, listing is place of residence on one occasion as “Pornotopia” and in a second, “Californication County.” The latter term is easily traced to a recent popular song. The former term, so far as I can determine, originated with Walter Kendrick in his work in the history of pornography, The Secret Museum. It seems more likely, though, that the term originated independently among some of his "cousins" -- I have not been able to sort out the complex family connections -- who make some putative claim to be “producers” in the adult film industry. The most notorious of these, Reginald Rufensor, aka “Red Ruffansore,” is currently under federal indictment for copyright violations and mail fraud. Charges from the IRS on tax evasion are reportedly also pending.

In any event, Oldman while in California had established a number of relationships on public bulletin boards and private "chat rooms." Mr. Oldman typically cultivated a persona of a younger male with some putative romantic interest in female respondent. Coincident with these event, a former (or possibly present) spouse, one of several, located Oldman in his California residence and he found it convenient to leave the state via the Union Pacific railroad. Something of a comic adventure followed, Oldman landing in the midwest in the company, unfortunately for him, of persons with connections with the Texas law enforcement community. His present incarceration followed.

In the unlikely event any reader would wish to "catch up with" Mr Oldman, his "blog," as it were, may be found at

my curent stint

In his current situation he is not permitted direct access to the internet, and thus cannot make any new entries; he is also loathe to provide me the appropriate password so that I may make new entries on his behalf. Thus the blog appears to be inactive until further notice.

I think it worth noting the uneven quality of these writings, all of which were composed during the holiday season of 2007-2008 during the early part of his present incarceration. Though prison authorities point to his indulgence in contraband alcohol etc. as the culprit, I am of the opinion that some underlying pathology may also be involved, as his alcoholic intake in prison could hardly match his formidable intake while at large. His writings in that latter term, while often idiosyncratic, are positively lucid in comparison to the quite bizarre spellings and circumlocutions he displays in his prison writings.

(At the encouragement of his parole board, Albert wishes the following "to be read into the public record." G)

Dear Friends,

In clarification of my previous missive, in which I may have cultivated a misunderstanding that I was in possession of any properties of Mr D. T. Oldman: such is not the case. Dr G. has been provided durable power of attorney by the State of Texas to take possession of any of Mr. Oldman's few and widely-scattered personal properties and to execute such financial obligations as may be required.

I hasten to assure you at the outset that I have seen the errors of my ways, and that any and all funds which may have been accrued as a consequence of those actions leading to my rendition have been restored to their rightful owners, and I beg with any good-hearted souls in the world to please, please stop forwarding your personal information to me in hopes of gaining some small portion of the remaining funds from that off-shore casino so recently closed as a consequence of those actions taken by the U.S government. The final disposition of those remaining funds remains a matter of some legal interest but I assure you no longer have any say in the matter, so please, please stop sending by phone, mail, or internet exchange, those bank account and social security numbers.

As I am making a clean breast of it, let me assure you that I had absolutely nothing to do with those recent, quite patently fraudulent, publications or releases by Reginald “Redd” Ruffensor (in association with his brothers Roderick and Leopold), any suggestions to the contrary notwithstanding. I assure you that any use of my name in association with that fraternity of notorious scofflaws was done entirely without my knowledge or consent.

I remain, your humble servant,

Albert Banfill