timelessness
Winter skirling through the heartland of South Kildare.
The young laird stands at the high window in the west wing of the Chateau De Healy.
(Young lard, surely? - Ed note.)
The noble Heelers, for it is he, watches the flurries of snow blowing across the fields.
His mood is bleak but not forlorn.
He is thinking of the timelessness of snow.
Years ago he had planned to write a television series about the poet Ben Johnson.
The series would have opened with a scene where Johnson as a young man is pelted with snowballs in the streets of London, and rages at the children who've pelted him.
The series would have ended with Johnson as an old man being pelted again, who knows but by the grand children of his earlier assailants, and laughing at the good of it.
It rhymes.
Visual poetry.
Ah me.
I am my own biggest fan.
And as I watch the snow today, I remember the reality on which my Ben Johnson is based.
Me as a young man striding down Main Street Naas and spying two kids out of the corner of my eye, lining me up for some snowballs.
I'd turned.
"If you throw those snowballs at me," I snarled, "I'll break your faces."
As I walked away at least ten snowballs impacted severally with my ruffled dignity.
Funniest thing ever.
But here we are.
At the window in the west wing.
The Mammy appears at my shoulder.
"What are you at?" sez she.
"Thinking about the timelessness of snow," sez I.
"Are you mad or what?" sez she.
"Not in dispute," sez I.
She pauses, caught suddenly by the same sight from the window which is holding me.
"I remember a heavy fall of snow here in Kilcullen back in the 1930's." she muses. "Old Mister Lawlor was cycling down the street with his bowler hat on. Snowballs were coming at him from every angle. Finally a snowball hit the bowler hat and knocked it over his eyes."
"Hmmm," I murmur. "It's kind of reassuring in a way. To think there are street urchins in every era. Did he fall off the bike?"
"I'm not sure," sez the Mammy. "We were laughing so hard, I dropped my snowball and didn't see what happened next."
The young laird stands at the high window in the west wing of the Chateau De Healy.
(Young lard, surely? - Ed note.)
The noble Heelers, for it is he, watches the flurries of snow blowing across the fields.
His mood is bleak but not forlorn.
He is thinking of the timelessness of snow.
Years ago he had planned to write a television series about the poet Ben Johnson.
The series would have opened with a scene where Johnson as a young man is pelted with snowballs in the streets of London, and rages at the children who've pelted him.
The series would have ended with Johnson as an old man being pelted again, who knows but by the grand children of his earlier assailants, and laughing at the good of it.
It rhymes.
Visual poetry.
Ah me.
I am my own biggest fan.
And as I watch the snow today, I remember the reality on which my Ben Johnson is based.
Me as a young man striding down Main Street Naas and spying two kids out of the corner of my eye, lining me up for some snowballs.
I'd turned.
"If you throw those snowballs at me," I snarled, "I'll break your faces."
As I walked away at least ten snowballs impacted severally with my ruffled dignity.
Funniest thing ever.
But here we are.
At the window in the west wing.
The Mammy appears at my shoulder.
"What are you at?" sez she.
"Thinking about the timelessness of snow," sez I.
"Are you mad or what?" sez she.
"Not in dispute," sez I.
She pauses, caught suddenly by the same sight from the window which is holding me.
"I remember a heavy fall of snow here in Kilcullen back in the 1930's." she muses. "Old Mister Lawlor was cycling down the street with his bowler hat on. Snowballs were coming at him from every angle. Finally a snowball hit the bowler hat and knocked it over his eyes."
"Hmmm," I murmur. "It's kind of reassuring in a way. To think there are street urchins in every era. Did he fall off the bike?"
"I'm not sure," sez the Mammy. "We were laughing so hard, I dropped my snowball and didn't see what happened next."
posted by heelers | 5:21 PM
2 Comments:
I think your Mom and I would get on quite well!
Adrienne, you're scaring me.
J
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