'T'was
only the song of a bird
By
Brian McNaughton, New Zealand
Introduction
We
have had a wet and cold spring day and so I have let
my fingers do a little writing. So often I read only
serious writings or portents of great doom and darkness
from my ilk (I have multi-infarct dementia).
Would
you believe that most of my wife Jean's and my days are
spent with great glee and laughter as we picture how
we must appear to those who are not in the know.
I
am starting to do some silly things now and if it was
not for an overactive sense of the ridiculous, I could
be getting into deeper problems. I enjoy laughing at
myself and am definitely not ashamed to have others laughing
with me. In fact, if it was not for the emphasis Jean
and I put on the lighter sde of our problems, we would
be getting into a darker area that we would rather not
acknowledge at this time.
So
I invite you to smile with us.
(See
Brian's other pieces, Who
am I?, The Weather
Forecast and A
Poem from the Night.)
'T'was
only the song of a bird
It
was a typical cold and frosty Southland morning as I
wrapped up warmly and scuttled out the front door to
get the paper from the corner store. The grass was crisp
and erect leaving me with a distant nostalgic feeling,
and a light foggy haze shrouded the hedges and covered
the spiders webs with jewels.
All
was in order except that in my haste for the news, I
had forgotten to put my glasses on. Not to worry, it
was only a short distance and I was walking.
I
love dogs and there sitting quietly alongside the lamp
post on the opposite side of the road was a big gentle
looking dog.
"What
a good dog….beautiful boy…enjoying a frosty
morning?…..see you later. Bye!" (I am nothing
but chatty first thing in the morning...just ask Jean.)
I
got my paper and of course chose the other side of the
road to go back home so as to continue this most impressive
conversation with my new friend.
Imagine
my chagrin when Fido turned out to be a 'klensack' tied
very neatly with two ears at the top leaning contentedly
on the lamp post. I looked furtively around and thankfully
saw nobody in the street, then made home as fast as possible
This little charade I would keep to myself!. Now, where
on earth did I leave my glasses?
Spring
has now sprung. There are flowering bulbs everywhere
and many tasks needing undertaken in our extensive gardens.
It is pruning time and I was working in a rather large
rose garden that borders onto a stand of broadleaf and
totara trees. It is a delightful spot as sun filters
though and the birds sing their chorus.
On
this particular morning the birdsong was very quiet as
I started work with my secateurs Slowly, as I became
more absorbed in my work I became aware of the birdsong.
Just one little fellow was chirping merrily even though
I could not quite make out where he was.
Being
a chatty type of bloke, as I have already mentioned,
bird and I had a most delightful and absorbing conversation
for some time. It was a bit like being in the confessional…knowing
a presence but not being able to see it. Our communications
halted as I stopped my pruning. All was quiet and I was
sorry to have lost my talkative companion.
Imagine
my embarrassment when on cleaning my secateurs the birdsong
resumed. Yes, what I thought was the most beautiful sound
in the world was only a pair of clippers badly in need
of oil.
I
am beginning to ask myself the question..."Who is
it that is not quite there?"
Just
to conclude this damming account of my mental state...
Yesterday
I foolishly volunteered to iron the sheets and pillow
cases. Much advice was hurled at me. Fill the iron with
water. Don't fill the iron…Use the table, it will
be easier…Just iron the top end of the sheets...Iron
all of them...etc....etc.
Damm
it, I was just trying to help.
To
cap it all, there were peals of laughter and smart remarks
as I tried to work out how to plug the iron into the
telephone jack beside the table #####
I
found it difficult to work out how to iron flat a king
size fitted sheet. I recon anyone would. So I worked
it out that if I put the sheet on the bed I could iron
it in situ. Good idea?
Again
the howls of derision, but I went ahead as planned. On
went the sheet, the iron was still hot so here goes.
My side went well but as a steam iron cools, it starts
to leak water. I did not know that but that reality gave
me all the revenge I needed.
It
was Jean's side that became wet, not mine.
What
a perfect ending to a rather challenging day.
Jean
says someone should come and take me away. Do I have
any takers?
© Brian
McNaughton 2002
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