Mulled Vine

She approached cautiously, her eyes focused intently on my clay tablet: “What are you doing, Kriah?”

I looked up and smiled at my young wife, “I am writing.”

She furrowed her brows, “Writing? What is that?”

I invited her to sit down but she declined, so I replied, “I try to record the things that happen so that our children may read of them.”

“Children?” she snorted. “At this rate we’ll be lucky if we last the winter. Why can’t you be like the other men who hunt food or grow crops for their families? We have nothing but the rags we wear!”

I did not know what to say, and the silence hung heavily between us until she sat down and rested her head on my shoulder, “You bring me much shame with your dreaming, Kriah, but you are my husband and I your wife; will you show me the meaning of these shapes you write so I may understand, and one day, perhaps teach our children?”

You’re insane he said, so I says, how do you know?

He says, because he is not insane and I’m not like him.

So I reply, how do you know you’re the one that’s not insane?

He smiles and points to the people around him. Because, says he, he’s like them and we outnumber you.

He had a point, but then I had the keys to the asylum and I guess at the end of the day, might is right.

At least that is what the voices tell me.

“Eh Miguel, how long we been walking in dees desert?”
“I donno Pepi, but I ees very tired and hungry. I teenk wees gonna die in dees place.”
“Eh Miguel, what dat over deh? I see bacon hanging in a tree. Can eet be real?”
“Pepi, be careful, I don’t tink das a bacon tree. Dees a dangerous place, full of bad gringos.”
“Eh Miguel, you worry too much. I’m gonna get me some bacon.”
“No Pepi, come back. You gonna die! Ees not a bacon tree. Ees a ham bush.”

“Never trust a dog to watch your food.”
-Patrick, age 10

“When your dad is mad and asks you, ‘Do I look stupid?’ Don’t answer.”
-Hannah, age 9

Never tell your Mom her diet’s not working.”
-Michael, age 14

“Stay away from prunes.”
-Randy, age 9

“Don’t pull Dad’s finger when he tells you to.”
-Emily, age 10

“When your Mom is mad at your dad, don’t let her brush your hair.”
-Taylia, age 11

“Never let your three-year old brother in the same room as your school assignment.”
-Traci, age 14

“A puppy always has bad breath–even after eating a Tic-Tac.”
- Andrew, age 9

“Never hold a dustbuster and a cat at the same time.”
- Kyoyo, age 11

“You can’t hide a piece of broccoli in a glass of milk.”
-Amir, age 9

“Don’t wear polka-dot underwear under white shorts.”
-Kellie, age 11

“If you want a kitten, start out by asking for a horse.”
-Naomi, age 15

“Felt-tip markers are not good to use as lipstick.”
-Lauren, age 9

“Don’t pick on your sister when she’s holding a baseball bat.”
-Joel, age 10

“When you get a bad grade in school, show it to your Mom when she’s on the phone.”
-Alyesha, age 13

“Never try to baptize a cat.”
-Eileen, age 8

(Source Adullamite)

The curtain drew back and there he stood, a 280 pound thug in a tutu, with large, hairy arms and fists like hams. His head sat neck less upon an immense torso but strangely that is where his size ended, for his spindly little legs completed the unlikely picture with the daintiest feet you ever saw – it was a miracle he was even able to stand up. His stage name was Twinkle-Toes and dancing was his passion, thundering many a night around his room to the theme of Swan Lake. But alas, as so often in life, his dreams exceeded his abilities and he was an appalling dancer.

So we sit here, his friends and general acquaintances, applauding with false exuberance, honesty being a painful, unattractive alternative.

The chill wind swept across the wild, heathery glen, tugging at our inadequate clothing like ghostly fingers of long dead kilted warriors.

“Surely this is not the place, Sean,” she pleaded, “so desolate?”

I squeezed her hand tightly, “Up there on the rise, my uncle’s shepherd hut. I know tis not much to look at, Mare, but it will be our new home, I promise.”

She rested her other hand on the little bump that could no longer be hidden and sighed, “Ah well, come on then, we’ll catch our death out in this cold.”

I wrapped my arm around her and kissed her forehead, looking back for just a moment at the little village in the distance where the evening fires were being lit, sending fine whisps of smoke swirling into the lonely, frosty heights.

‘Viagra’ is now available

in powder form

for your tea.

It doesn’t enhance your sexual performance

but it does stop your biscuit going soft..

(Sent in by Adullamite)

Wrinkles wound deep furrows along his face, itself a crumpled memory of handsomer years – his eyes had however not lost their bright luster and twinkled at me now with good humour. “Don’t mind me, me boy. I’m just messin’ witcha.”

I smiled tentatively in response, my young ego more than a little bruised at his insightful mirth. “You’re right of course, Grandpa. She is a pretty fine lass with broad, child-bearing hips, but tis her mind that entrances me.”

The old man laughed out loud: “A young man who loves a woman’s mind more than her hips? Well now I’ve seen everything.”

To all my American (and Canadian) friends, some of whom have no idea that Thanksgiving is not widely celebrated outside these countries: Happy Thanksgiving!

Coincidentally I am reading (wading through) Philip Roth’s “American Pastoral” and just yesterday read this superb little passage:

“And it was never but once a year that they were brought together anyway, that was on the neutral, de-religionized ground of Thanksgiving, when everybody gets to eat the same thing, nobody sneaking off to eat funny stuff – no kugel, no gefilte fish, no bitter herbs, just one colossal turkey feeds all. A moratorium on funny foods and funny ways and religious exclusivity, a moratorium on the three-thousand year old nostalgia of the Jews, a moratorium on Christ and the cross and the crucifixion for Christians, when everyone in New Jersey and elsewhere can be more passive about their irrationalities than they are the rest of the year. A moratorium on all the grievances and resentments, and not only for the Dwyers and the Levovs but for everyone in America who is suspicious of everyone else. It is the American pastoral par excellence and it lasts twenty-four hours.”

My Love is like a wild, Irish rose, her hair red like the ancient sunsets, her eyes the colour of forbidden emeralds, and her skin, ah her skin: lovely to the touch, soft as down and flecked with gold.

She stands in the doorway, looking at me, her man, and I remember the first time we met, how our hands touched, and then our lips – it were truly love at first sight. There is fire in her eyes and it makes my heart want to leap and do a little  jig.

“Jimmy O’Connell!” she says, “ye feckin’ useless man. Will ya not get up off yer arse and take out the garbage like I told yous? Why did I not listen to me old ma?”