All Entries in the "Fractured Opinion" Category
THE MOUSE ON THE BARROOM FLOOR
Some Guinness was spilt on the barroom floor,
when the pub was shut for the night.
Out of his hole crept a wee brown mouse
& stood in the pale moonlight.
He lapped up the frothy brew from the floor,
then back on haunches he sat.
All night long you could hear him roar:
Bring on the goddamn cat!
– Thanks to the Ouray Canavans for this ditty
Banshee Baby-sitter
My father was never canonized, but he acted in the capacity of usher at church every Sunday. Despite the fact that he was never sainted, or knighted for that matter, it was common knowledge within the halls of our Irish Catholic household that he exhibited great patience.
That virtue has not always been associated with the Celts or whoever we might have become over the centuries. According to his siblings my father had been a peaceful, forgiving boy who pretty much looked at the brighter side of life.
He would need all of these attributes.
The oldest of seven kids during the Great Depression, he served in India during World War II and returned to a United States that had just defeated the bad guys and was primed for the spoils of victory.
Enter Mae Sullivan. Wait. First, enter my mother Veronica Catherine. You see, she married my father in 1946 and he married her back that very same year. As was often the custom of the time along with her dowry came her mother. That’s your cue, Mae.
The Banshee….
She was only going to live with my parents until she got settled. After all, the culture shock of departing her native Brooklyn for the Ohio frontier (rampaging Indians and all) might have had adverse affects. It would be all right.
Mae Sullivan was one of those stocky, kind of pudgy Irish women. She stood about 5’2″, lost her husband (a New York cop) at an early age, and was no stranger to work. She had opinions on every subject whether she had bothered to collect any data on the issue or not. She loved to mow the lawn, flushed red faced at high noon, and get into other people’s dramas. I once remember getting up one morning to answer nature’s call only to return moments later to a bed already made up for the day. Thanks, Grandma.
From the time we were infants my sister Maureen and my brother Brian realized there were other people in the house besides our parents. There was Mae and, if you possess any imagination at all, there were all kinds of other folks running around.
“You can’t see them, but they’re right here in the room,” she would whisper. “There’s the little people and the wizards too. They won’t hurt good little boys and girls, now will they?”
That kind of talk scared the hell out of all three of us and, if the truth be known still gives me a bit of a chill. Saints and poets be preserved! It’s probably a blessing that Mae was a teetotaler or we may never have survived childhood.
Despite the inconvenience and the conflicts (the Irish sometimes disagree and often raise their voices to make a point) there were some advantages to having Mae Sullivan on the roster. No, she couldn’t cook but she always filled the freezer with ice cream and other treats. No, she didn’t help with homework, her paltry eighth grade education was a source of frustration to a woman who was highly capable and quite bright, in a sort of dull sense of the word. No, she didn’t create anything close to tranquillity in the household in fact her classic Irish temper fanned the fires of everyday tension
Children learn early-on that all adults are not really adults. They are just little kids in big people’s bodies. They cannot be taken at face value or blamed for failures of personality. Mae had grown up in a matriarchal family stuck in the 19th Century.
Now it was 1955 and my parents had traveled to Montreal for a little rest and recuperation, leaving Mae to care for the kids. She was thorough. She was capable. She was protective. She was one leaf short of a full shamrock…that’s right…and a couple of spuds shy of an Irish stew.
It was during these baby-sitting adventures that Mae Sullivan felt compelled to teach us about our Irish heritage. She did not let her limited knowledge of history get in the way either. She knew the Irish were the one true chosen people and that the British could be blamed for everything from the potato famine to a plugged up toilet. The stories originated from impulse dotted with mispronounced words and curious summations.
My brother and sister believed everything she told them, but they have always been a bit gullible. I listened closely intent on stopping her monologue to argue a point or confront an obvious embellishment. She never admitted to a thing and threatened to stop the story if I didn’t shut up. She never bulldozed our input with references to an early bedtime because she desperately needed an audience. She never suggested that dessert would not be on the menu for fear that she might not get any either. (There are some ground roes here: You can’t eat chocolate cake in front of children and not share.)
My father was marginally amused by Mae’s ranting. He told friends that, sadly, she had been dropped on her head as a child. Then he told them that she had been a victim of an alien visit. We thought that was pretty innovative talk for the mid-50s. Her inability to operate a car, although seemingly inconvenient, was seen by my dad as a gift from some miraculous donor.
“The woman has successfully manipulated life so as to travel from childhood to senility without ever having been an adult,” he would say. Despite her intrusive eccentricity and his guarded annoyance they actually liked each other. At least we think they did.
One night while my parents were still in Canada, Mae told us about the banshee, which scared us more than The Boogie Man, King Kong, Red China, Vincent Price, Sister Stella (our grade school principal) and Rod Serling all put together. She swore she’d seen the banshee hovering above her own mother’s death bed.
It was a good story, although she borrowed heavily from primitive Catholicism, equating the banshee to heavenly visitors of a virtuous state, you know, like Mary, Joan of Arc, Grace Kelly…That wasn’t enough. Saint Patrick was a rabid Dodger fan who loved chocolate eclairs, and the wee people, not a bunch of Semitic shepherds, were in attendance at the holy nativity scene.
My grandmother went on to inform us that the savior never even set foot in Israel but that he was born in County Cork and was hung by the British after the Easter Rebellion of 1916. The Sinn Fein were the good guys, kind of like Boy Scouts with rifles and grenades. The Pope should be tolerated, she mused, even though he wasn’t Irish (and never would be).
The leprechauns were not to be taken lightly, and people who worked hard on earth would be taken care of in a heaven that served oyster stew, diet Coke, and corned beef and cabbage (with red potatoes) every day for breakfast, lunch and dinner.
Probably the most frightening account came during that parental pilgrimage to the Great North. Having grabbed hold of our small fry attention span with tales of dragons, Viking raiders, Saint Brendan, the Galway Races and Brian Boru she held tight.
“And did you know about the witches that take possession of the souls of infants?” she poked. “Mothers must watch their young, especially in the early days of life. Sometimes children go on for years not knowing that their souls have been stolen from them. Then…one sad day the child grows up and is not himself!”
“Not himself?” asked my sister. “How can someone not be himself. Who is he then?”
“We don’t know, but he’s not himself,” answered Mae getting somewhat agitated with the cross examination.
“He can’t be not himself,” said my brother.
“He is not himself, damn it,” stressed my grandmother, her round face growing red.
“Maybe he’s the man in the moon,” I offered, “or Oliver Cromwell!”
“Now that’s a strong possibility,” recanted Mae. “That could well be.”
I think I was her favorite.
“Nobody can be somebody else or he’s not the same person he started with,” snipped my sister defiantly. “Where did you get such a story? How can you scare us like that, grandma? Why would you expect anyone to believe it?”
“Because I said so,” responded Mae proudly, “and I’m your grandmother.
When my parents arrived home late that same night they found all four of us sound asleep in Mae Sullivan’s bed.
“Isn’t that cute,” my mother whispered. “They love their grandmother.”
Love her or hate her…At least that tough old lady might have a better chance keeping the bad fairies at bay.
Mae’s parents had come from County Waterford, on a boat across the Atlantic, abandoning Ireland because they were hungry. They traveled below since they did not possess funds for a more pleasant passage, coming into this country at Ellis Island. As of this morning, none of their descendants has forgotten that.
– Caiman Haleague
Woman Adopts 1200 Wild Horses
(Elko, NV) A Pitkin woman has adopted some 1200 wild horses from a wandering herd recently cornered in the Ruby Mountains south of here.
Sylvia Hoofe, animal rights advocate, and heir to a lavish genetic oats fortune, said that the animals are to be transported to Colorado this morning. Despite grumbling from the town she plans to care for the horses in her small backyard on Quartz Street until good homes can be found.
“Sylvia has already begun construction on feeding troughs, barn doors and fence,” said longtime business associate Utts “Fried” Rice, of Ohio City. “She was down here in town buying materials all weekend. I’ve never seen her so exited, except perhaps when her cat had kittens back in 1978. Yesterday she told me she’s going to hire about 150 trainers.”
At that high-minded student-teacher ratio Hoofe can easily qualify for tax credits and a federal grant which should cover feed for at least a week. After that the fate of the horses is unknown.
“They’re better off here in Pitkin with me than standing around in some railroad box car bound for the dog food plants in Sparks,” said Hoofe over last Wednesday’s edition of the New York Times. “What else could I do? After pleas from everyone from the Butane Society to the governor’s office I couldn’t just turn my back.”
Hoofe isn’t afraid of taking on the responsibility either. Between fighting off critics and checking her emails she’s reportedly working at a seven and twenty-four pace. Her regular 16 cups of coffee per day has jumped to 25 and she’s lost 9 pounds since last night. Friends say they expect that she’ll settle down as soon as the primary phase is completed.
“She’s a real spark-plug,” adds Rice. “Her energy is endless. Already she has named over 400 of the animals.”
“Sure, the adoptions will change my life but that’s a good thing. I need a challenge and besides, I got tired of going to the bar every day at noon. If things turn to…ah, bad, I’ll just leave town. Hell, I’ve got silly little quasi-Victorians in dinky, undiscovered towns all over the New West.”
The move is particularly queer considering that when Hoofe was 6-years-old she was deathly afraid of horses, in fact all herd animals. It was back during those formative years that a composition brood mare vindictively stepped on her kicking foot and her business end was savagely gored by a Peloponnesian- Brahman Bull in the space of three hours.
Later that week while recovering from her injuries, she watched in suspended horror as her brother Billy Buck Hoofe was side-swiped by a cutting horse he was riding near Cody, Wyoming, landing over in Montana before the mail, the next afternoon.
“It ain’t easy being me,” chided Hoofe, climbing into her $125,000 Hessian-built, Montevideoan Henway. “But it’s probably easier than being someone else.”
It is estimated that more than 100,000 wild horses roam the Great Basin, compromising desert shrubs in parts of Nevada, Utah, Idaho, Oregon, Wyoming and California. Round-ups are held periodically when the animals pose a nuisance or when local cowpunchers get bored chasing their own mounts. Sometimes the horses, especially those deemed incorrigible, are destroyed.
The adoption is the largest of its kind ever recorded unless one counts the Naturita prairie dog migration of 1983 when some 1.6 million of the rodents moved to Canada in protest over the U.S. invasion of Grenada. – Uncle Pahgre
Marx Brothers Film Fest Set
(Taylor Hallway) The WSCU Film Club will host The Lighter Side of Karl Marx in conjunction with Communist Days at Western on April 23. The series of rare film portrays the founder of Communism as a happy-go-lucky German living in London during the end of the Industrial Revolution.
“Rather than working his tail off in a sweat shop to support his family Marx opted for a life of poverty while penning Das Kapital in chains on the tobacco-stained kitchen table,” said Dr. Lorraine Engels, first chair of the Embellished History Department here.
“People think of Marx as some hard-nosed revolutionary when in fact he was a party animal to the max. His fondness for the ladies was fodder for gossip as far away as Liverpool. Talk about petit bourgeois! To other philosophers he was the rigid, bearded prophet of doom but to the ladies he was just Lil’ Karlo.
In addition to films regarding the rise and fall of Marx, a series of short pieces will fill out the dance card. These quickies focus on the family life of Joey Marx, Karl’s younger brother and owner of Proletariat Boutiques, a chain of upscale work clothes shops in England.
“The Joey Marx section of the festival is not endorsed by flick enthusiasts here since it is comprised of vague landscapes and terrible home movies collected by Vladimir Lenin during the Bolshevik uprising in St Petersburg in 1916.
Recent findings as to the daily life of Karl Marx may yet serve as an further embarrassment to the left side of the family. Just yesterday afternoon researchers linked the Father of Communism to a kosher luncheonette that was allegedly operated by Karl and his half-brother Eddie “Haptz” Berg, in Leipzig during the first days of the new century. Marx later claims in a manifesto that he rejected a life of capitalism while Eddie insists that, due to a hole shortage, they could not secure a reliable daily bagel delivery and were forced to close the doors.
– Tommy Middlefinger
The Poker Game From Hell
The following was whispered to me in perfect pentameter by a large black bear that I met in the alley one winter night behind Duckett’s Market in Ouray. Why the bear chose to share the story is still not clear.
Jimmy John Card and pal, Chip McCann
sat at Callahan’s table, dealing out bum hands.
The green felt was honored, a tenderfoot from France
Who brandished fine cutlery and a gun in his pants.
Through shuffles and side bets throats cleared, poker stares
Drinks all around and in the fourth chair a bear.
That was me…the fourth player disguised in a cloak
though my hairy exterior, suspect when I spoke.
But first human misgivings about cheats and bold liars
were confirmed by my chip stack and their gold dust desires.
It started out friendly as the cards came around
and the chatter subsided as the wagers laid down.
It was Card with three aces and the Frenchman with four
that started the ruckus, accusations and more.
Then a blessed distraction of dance hall girl charm
kept the well armed bartender from sounding alarm.
The Frenchman collected while Card bit his lip
and the lady departed with a drink and a tip.
Let Charley sit in, squawked an anxious McCann
Five’s a crowd said the others, poker faces in hand.
I grabbed the deck quickly, calm invited, cards shuffled
crisply, dealing them out, smoothing feathers just ruffled.
This time it was Card who raised up the bets
at each turn he went higher, it was he and I left.
What ya gonna do, bear? chided Card through his cigar
I’m staying I growled. Let’s see the last card.
I couldn’t believe it—Lady Luck’s hand of fate
with the nine of spades down I had pulled a small straight.
You’re cheatin screamed Card, when he saw all the spades.
I stared back at his pistol and death’s felt masquerade.
Now hold on a minute! checked McCann with a stare
This bear here is honest his spades fair and square.
And Card was placated though the loss was a jolt
and under the table he fingered his Colt.
Again cards were delivered and the bets were laid down
Plastic angels with wishes, nothing showin’ but frowns.
The pot’s right, and healthy, let the winner surmise
all the players were drooling at the sight of the prize.
I’ll raise ten said the Frenchman and have no regrets
Hold your horses said Card, the pot’s not quite yours yet.
Card’s hand was one color all diamonds in fact
The Frenchman held three queens, backed up by two jacks.
When the cards hit the table it was Card that first drew
his silver revolver provoking the coup
and McCann pulled his rifle out from under his seat
and fired close range then made a retreat
The bullets dropped Card who had time to react
and his effort on target hit McCann in the back.
The Frenchman then gazed at Gehenna’s plastic treasure
as a bullet tore through him then one more for good measure.
It ain’t me that shot Frenchy, was the bartender’s finger
that pulled the slick trigger—no reason to linger.
The saloon crowd ducked down so the spittoons confide
while I grabbed up the money and made haste for outside
Swiping the pot was not much of a chore
the tin-horn bartender shaking, while he cleaned up the floor.
Three dead men were the bounty, their souls with Old Scratch
and a black bear with money makes quite a nice catch.
I took every penny and bought drinks for my friends
who couldn’t believe I had come to such ends.
Now my fortunate windfall is down to one stack
and I’m hoping that devil don’t want his money back.
– Melvin Toole
