Tag Archives: humour

Looking Back

As I have grown older and I am now embarking on a new decade, I find myself looking back. I am fondly reliving the things I did, wondering at the choices I made and remembering the incredible things I have seen. I have had a good life. But here’s the thing:  why am I looking back? It’s fun to reminisce but I should be looking forward and planning the next adventure. I should, but I don’t.

Now granted, due to my recent illness there are changes in my life that I’m having to get used to. And yes, that will probably take time. I’m not old! I’m older. I’m older than I was and not as old as I will be. At least that’s my story and I’m sticking to it!

I do find that when people reach a certain age (and that age changes individually) they seem to spend far more time in the past then they do in the future. I don’t want to be one of those people. I don’t want to get so lost in the joys and successes of my past that I miss out on making any new ones. That is so sad. I know individuals in their 70s, 80s and even the 90s who are making plans, enjoying life. They are actually living their life. They are not sitting on their proverbial laurels and wallowing in the past, they are making new memories! I admire that and I can’t figure out why I’m not doing it!

At this point I have to make a confession:  I am not a patient person. Oh, I love to sit quietly and read a book from cover to cover but when I do . . . do not interrupt! I find it difficult to watch a movie, unless it is incredibly engrossing, without doing something else at the same time. I expected to be able to do exactly what I was doing before I went into hospital. I’m also little thick. (I do hate the word stupid but sometimes I do a really good imitation)

My reality has changed. I’m not as strong as I was. I require more care, more assistance. So changes have to be made.  I can do that. Trouble is coordinating everybody else. I do have plans in my head I can’t quite get everyone else to see. But it is good. I just need to be patient.

And I really do need to stop remembering that idyllic weekend in northern Ontario sitting on a rock overlooking the lake. He was 6 foot two, curly blond hair, broad-shoulders, hands that . . . Good girls don’t kiss and tell!

He Said, She Said

I was walking down the street the other day, (yes, I say walking even though I’m in a wheelchair) and I heard something very interesting. I was not intending to listen to a conversation, but it is inevitable when large groups of people are together. The conversation went something like this:

“He’s going to kill again!”

“He doesn’t mean to, he doesn’t know any better.”

Now at this point it did cross my mind that perhaps this was a conversation for the police to hear. And yes, I slowed my forward motion just a tad so I could hear the rest of the conversation. Again, it crossed my mind that this might be a stupid thing to do as perhaps I didn’t want to be a witness to a crime? But Curiosity will always win. After all, I might get a great story out of this!

I did sneak a peek at the two individuals who were speaking. I might be called to identify against them. They seemed to be in their mid 30s, well dressed, well spoken (except for the allegedly illegal crime). They didn’t seem to be in any great hurry and it was the perfect day for loitering. I also wasn’t in any hurry and besides, Curiosity!

It was also at that point that I started to wonder about all the conversations we hear, whether intentionally or not and just how they affect us. This conversation got my creative juices on high alert. Was there a story here that I could tell (fictionally of course)? It was starting to sound like a movie of the week or maybe a series! I really needed to hear more!

The conversation continued and while I was enlightened as to the actual topic, I was also crestfallen. My creative juices had a little too much vinegar in them.

“I gave him a book on how to do it. He didn’t read the book.”

“He’s not a reader. He figures everybody should know how to grow tomatoes­, but he doesn’t.”

They were talking about tomato plants! I tried very hard not to be heard laughing as I went on my merry way. At the very least I got something to write about for my Sunday post. And I should not have been so quick to judge something I did not understand. I think that’s a little more common than we would like.

 

When Irish Eyes Are Watching

Father John Murphy stood back and looked at his church.  He was quite pleased with this tiny but perfect building that was his first very own parish.  He knew it was a sin but he felt great pride.

“Top of the morning to you Father Murphy.”

As he started to turn around Father Murphy ran through the list of names in his head that might belong to that voice.  “Ah yes, good morning Miss O’Dell.  It is indeed a lovely morning.”  The voice belonged to the ancient and diminutive local gossip. There were some who said she had been around for more than a hundred years.

“Are you settling in now Father Murphy?  Have you made peace with the locals?”

“I’m not quite sure I understand what you mean Miss O’Dell.  The local what?”

“Why the wee folk Father Murphy!  Don’t you know the truth?”  Before he had a chance to answer, Miss O’Dell answered for him.  “Oh, my goodness you don’t!  You’re from the ‘Americas’ and you don’t know!”

Without another word Miss O’Dell put a hand to her throat and turned away.  She was muttering to herself as she hurried down the main street and was quickly gone from sight.

Father Murphy was surprised at the reaction but he had too many other things on his mind to worry about.  So, he dismissed the incident and turned to go back into his office.  He still had Sunday’s sermon to write.

Kilkenny was a small village on the northernmost point of Northern Ireland.  It is said that the old ways are still practiced in Kilkenny and people guard their privacy well.  Father John Murphy was indeed from the ‘Americas’ but both his parents had been born just a few miles down the road from this tiny village.  He had been raised hearing stories about this idyllic section of the world and when he joined the church, he had let it be known that he would love to someday have a parish here.  It took many years but his wish came true.  Unfortunately, his parents didn’t tell him all the stories about Kilkenny.  But then, he didn’t know that.

Several hours after his encounter with Miss O’Dell, Father Murphy was working on his sermon when his housekeeper entered his office with a cup of tea and a few biscuits on a tray.

“It’s time for a break now Father Murphy.  You canna work your fingers to the bone.  You need sustenance.” She spoke as she placed the tray on his desk.

Father Murphy looked up from his work a little confused.  He had been working intently and hadn’t heard Mrs. Finnegan come into the room.

The woman who had interrupted the good Father’s work was formidable.  She had been involved in the upkeep of the church for the last 47 years and it was doubtful she was ever going to retire.  She knew how things were to be done and made sure everyone else knew it too, including the resident priest.

“I heard you had a wee chat with old Miss O’Dell,” continued Mrs Finnegan. “They say she has the second sight.  You would do well to pay attention to her words.  Do you want more than two biscuits now?”

“Um, yes, no, I think two biscuits will be just fine Mrs. Finnegan.  How on earth did you hear about my conversation with Miss O’Dell so quickly?

‘Now Father Murphy you have to understand that there are very few things in this village that I don’t know.  I have a network you see.”

“Well then maybe you can tell me where my pens are.  They all seem to have disappeared.  I’m down to using pencils that are much too dull.”

“Did you say all your pens are gone?” Mrs. Finnegan studied the young priest for a moment.  “Well now, they’re starting early with you.  You would do well to make peace with the locals.”

Before he had a chance to react Mrs. Finnegan flicked her cloth at an imaginary piece of dust and left the room closing the door behind her.

Father Murphy sat back in his chair and shook his head.  “What locals!”  He burst out.  But there was no one there to hear him, or was there.

Absentmindedly he reached out for one of the very delicious biscuits.  Mrs. Finnegan made them fresh every morning and he looked forward to them with his tea at just about this time every day.  What his hand closed on was not a biscuit.  It was wet and soft and quite unpleasant! He quickly dropped it and stood up, staring at the offending item.  It smelled too.

“Mrs. Finnegan!  Mrs. Finnegan! Could you come here please!”  He tried to keep the panic out of his voice.

Mrs. Finnegan must’ve been right outside the door as she was there within seconds. “Ewwwwwww they gave you a mud biscuit!  You are lucky, the last priest they gave him a dog turd! You’d better make peace in a hurry because it will escalate from here.”

Ever the efficient housekeeper Mrs. Finnegan picked up the offending item and made to dispose of it outside.

“Wait”, said Father Murphy as he wiped the mud from his fingers.  “I need to know what’s going on.  I keep hearing cryptic comments about making peace with the locals.  What does that mean?”

Mrs. Finnegan smiled.  “I’ll be right back.  Sit down and I’ll explain everything.  I just want to get rid of this first.”

Father John Murphy sat down behind his desk, in his first parish in the village of Kilkenny and wondered just what he’d gotten himself into.  He had heard stories but he’d always thought they were just that, stories.  They couldn’t possibly be true.  Not now, not today.  Such things just didn’t exist except in myth and legend.

“Oh, we exist.”

It was a tiny voice and Father Murphy wasn’t even sure he actually heard it but when he turned around, he saw a flicker of movement just at the edge of his peripheral vision.  He wasn’t even sure he had actually seen it.  But if he had, then that meant . . . it was the locals.

Mrs. Finnegan bustled back into the room with a fresh plate of biscuits.  “If you don’t take your eyes off these you will actually get to eat them this time.”

“It’s true then?  I thought it was only in legends and myths”

The housekeeper made herself comfortable in a chair across the desk from the priest and helped herself to a biscuit.  “You really didn’t know then?  I thought your parents were from near here?”

“They never told me.  They did act a little strange when I told them I was taking a parish here.  Why do you call them locals?”

“They were here first.  We come and go, but they are always here.  And they are always watching.  My advice to you, don’t make them angry.  They’re cute and adorable in stories but the reality is much different. Farmer Bellamy had cows that didn’t give milk for three weeks because he made a crass comment about the locals.”

All Father Murphy could do was shake his head.

Mrs. Finnegan continued, “You said you mislaid all your pens, have you noticed that your shoes aren’t where you put the night before and your toothbrush is always upside down in the glass?  They’re giving you a warning.  Be nice to them.  And they’ll find you fresh blueberries every morning.  They might even clean your shoes when you’re not looking.  And one more thing, St. Patrick’s Day is coming up so you might want to be extra special in your sermon.  They like that, the leprechauns do.  Because you know they’re always watching.”

The end