Some words on the dedication of A Warrior’s Tale:
The book is dedicated to Edward Bruce, brother of Scottish nationalist Robert (the) Bruce, on his appointment as “High King of Ireland and Scotland”.
In the thirteen hundreds (as with most centuries of the Second Millennium), Scots were battling the English for the right to seek and fulfill their own destiny as a nation. Meanwhile England, in self-vested magnanimity, sought to levy the tax of English civilization upon Scot and Irelander alike. Robert Bruce, a canny politico and all around rabble rouser, realized that war waged against the English would be better served if England were forced to fight on two fronts. Thus he sent emissaries across the North Channel of the Irish Sea to determine how Ireland could aid Scotland in his plan to open a second front versus the English. So Edward and a complement of cavalry made the crossing and levied havoc on the English contingent in Ireland in a series of lightning forays against them. Such was the success of his maneuverings, and such was the precarious position of the English in Ireland at the time, that the colonists yet loyal to the English crown were forced to withdraw to a relatively small piece of land in the area of present-day Dublin referred to as the “Irish Pale.”
Edward Bruce was an astute and fearless commander of cavalry, and to me he embodies the spirit of freedom and joy that I believe anyone can appreciate.
Further on Kings of Ireland and Scotland:
Ah, to be a king in Ireland and/or Scotland! However many of these Gaelic kings were either self-proclaimed or appointed by less-than-a-majority in the area within which their purview existed. It is kind of like the “King of the Mountain” game youngsters play – while one might unseat the reigning king at any given time, one’s rule is subject to the transitory nature of strength, wits, and balance which is an uneven foundation at the best of times, and like to change as the wind’s direction. So Edward may have been drinking with a few of his Irish buddies when the suggestion that he be proclaimed king, was offered, and received with less than rational insight. Or not. In any case, he is one of the heroes of my youth, and I hope to pay him tribute with AWT.
Friday, April 24, 2009
A Warrior's Tale
1
August 1961
From his perch high in the pine tree, he peered intently down on the field of battle. Though the sun had already fired the western horizon and set, he could still discern quite clearly the figures sprawled helter-skelter in the open corridor between forest and tall grass bordering the creek. He had chosen his vantage point well, before the firefight had broken out, knowing instinctively that safety was in height; safety, and also the ideal perspective from which to take the enemy. Once again he counted the bodies and came up one short. Wait, he reassured himself, let him make the first mistake. There had been seven enemy, of that he was certain; just as there had been seven in his group. Now there was just he and another left. And he was equally sure that the last enemy soldier would be the one to commit the fatal error: to try and reach his comrades that were wounded. It would be his final mistake.
His eyes swept the field of battle constantly, searching for movement in the grass that would betray his prey's location. For he knew now that they were no longer mere enemies, but hunter and hunted. He considered briefly the possibility that the one left had circled around him and might at this moment be approaching his position from the rear. This he quickly dismissed as being beyond his control. "If he is, I'm dead," he murmured to himself and returned to the business of surveying the landscape before him.
Dusk was rapidly giving way to total darkness and he squinted his eyes to determine if that might aid his reconnaissance. It merely seemed to distort and narrow his field of vision so he opened his eyes to their normal size and maintained his vigil.
It was his first night action. He tried to recall rules of night-fighting that he'd heard or read somewhere before, yet drew a blank. All right then, he'd make up his own, he reasoned: first rule - "Don't squint your eyes, 'cause you can't see shit."
He was sweeping his gaze from right to left when he noticed the fringe of grass move slightly about thirty yards to his left, just beyond a downed foe, yet there was no breeze. Rule number two - "Don't fire without confirmation of location," he spoke softly to himself, "for if you do and he's not there, once again dummy, you're dead."
He glanced both right and left of the movement, covering the field once more, and returned his gaze to the spot where the grass swayed all but imperceptibly. He slowly brought the stock of his rifle to his left cheek and sighted down its barrel. He was comforted by the feel of the stock against his shoulder for he'd fabricated this weapon himself. Just as he would take care of it, it would not fail him.
There was now a definite irregular undulation in the wall of grass and he was positive that his man was not only there, but that he was readying for the charge. He tensed slightly feeling the adrenaline rush, and became more alive with it.
Suddenly a figure exploded from its cover and headed straight for his fallen mate, rifle cradled across his chest, left arm outstretched. Instantly the injured figure half-rose and extended his own arm toward his sprinting comrade as the stillness of the night was rent by, "Da-da-da-dow, you're dead, Lephart!" The running figure crumpled to the ground and lay still as the wounded soldier sank back to earth.
"Yeeee-aaaaahh-hooooeeee!" shouted the figure in the tree and he swung ape-like from branch to branch finally gaining the ground.
"Draft's end!" he roared running out into the field as the ‘dead and dying’ slowly rose and began milling about.
James O'Brien, eleven years old and bursting with excitement, tore over to where his older brother Kevin was standing and looked up into his face. "How'd I do Kev," he asked, breathless.
"Not bad runt, we'll make a soldier out of you yet," Kevin replied with ill-disguised pride.
It had been at Kevin's insistence that James had been allowed to play the nightly neighborhood war game, Draft. Besides James, the youngest in the group was Pat Alexander's brother, David, nearly thirteen. But the fact that his team had won by virtue of James' cunning supported Kevin's confidence in his younger brother, and he was duly pleased though he tried not to show it.
Draft was begun when two captains chose up sides. The teams then scattered and hid or prowled the woods and nearby fields searching out their enemies. Once killed a soldier could not rejoin the battle until touched by a live teammate.
The next game James was killed off almost instantly, and as he lay back on the cool
summer grass he drank deeply from the sweet cup of success. He watched the stars wheel overhead and exulted in the fact that he'd be allowed to play Draft all the time now, having passed the initial test and O! wasn't life wonderful? His days of Cops ‘n Robbers and Cowboys ‘n Indians were a rapidly receding ghost of memory.
The game went very quickly and as the boys were choosing sides again, James heard his name called from off in the distance.
"Hey runt, that's Mom," called out Kevin, "best be gettin'. You know what she said." His mother had been reluctant to allow James to play with the older boys until Kevin had promised her that he would certainly watch out for his younger brother. However she'd elicited the promise from both of them that James would come home when she called.
"All right," mourned James, "see you guys tomorrow."
He lit out through the forest towards home his eyes continually moving from side to side, trying to descry potential danger in the shadows. The evening spoke to him, sounding a warrior's song.
Most likely be Indians, he thought, or better yet, highwaymen. He imagined scenes where he'd wreak havoc and utter destruction on any so foolish to attempt to waylay himself, James Edward O'Brien, hero without equal!
He crested the hill that formed the western border of the family property and immediately dropped to all fours and rolled swiftly behind a rosebush. He cautiously poked his head around the side of the bush and realized the fear that had been pulling at the back of his mind was all too real for there sprawled on the front lawn lay the beast, the porch light illuminating and exaggerating its enormous bulk; its great shaggy head resting on its trunk-like paws. James quickly thanked his stars that the night breeze blew into him for he was only fifty feet away and if the wind had been at his back surely the beast would have caught his scent even without raising its gargantuan head to sniff the air.
James very slowly, painstakingly, crawled to the stone wall that edged the driveway. He reminded himself that the lives of his loved ones: Mother, Father, Grandfather, and yes, even his sisters, depended on his ability to vanquish his adversary. It was his intention to rise quickly, vault the wall and close with the creature before it had time to react. But as he straightened to leap, he stood nearly eye-to-eye with his quarry and it leaped the wall and knocked him to the ground. He could both smell and feel its hot, fetid breath as it pinned him effortlessly on his back and opened its great slavering maw. James reached out frantically for a weapon with which to immobilize his foe and gain precious seconds necessary to regroup and drive home his attack. Just as his hand closed on a stout stick, the hideous jaws descended upon him and James felt a wet, sickly-soft, sandpaper tongue grate over his face.
"No Angus, no!" he screamed as he wriggled out from under his dog.
Finally regaining his feet, James clapped the huge animal on the side of its throat and said affectionately, "How come I can never sneak up on your funny old bones, huh whelp?" The dog playfully nuzzled James' armpit and stared into his friend's face, trusting.
Angus had been James' for three years, ever since that crazy golden retriever of the
Alexander’s had jumped old man Keith's wolfhound bitch when she'd just come into her second heat. James recalled with a grin how he and Barry Jankiewicz had laughed until they’d cried watching Mr. Keith chasing the two dogs still locked in amorous embrace round and round his yard with a broom all the while screaming, his Scot's brogue thickened by rage and excitement, "Ya rake! Ya blackguard! Git on wit ya. O ma poor wee bairn!"
James had promised himself then and there that he would obtain one of the results of that union. It had not proved difficult. For when the litter was thrown there were only two pups and Mr. Keith had been anxious to "rid himself of the product of such an unholy alliance." None knew what became of the female pup, but James and Kevin had persuaded their parents that there was definitely a need for a dog in their home, and so Angus had come to stay.
Angus had the color and size of his mother but retained the features of his sire, so that he appeared, as James' grandfather often described him, "a grey retriever, aboot’ eight sizes over big."
As James absentmindedly punched the dog on its shoulder and began traversing the front lawn towards the stairs, the porch door swung wide, and the tall, trim figure of a woman was silhouetted in the doorway.
"Ah there ya are lad. Could it be that the noise of battle has taken away your hearin'? I called for you nearly half an hour ago," scolded the woman, the hard tones edged in humor.
"Aw Ma, we were right in the middle of a game, and I couldnta' left then or I'd a been killed off," replied James as he bounded up the stairs and into the house. Angus dutifully coiled himself into a ball and took up sentry duty at the front door.
"Oh to be sure. Save the world first and obey yer poor ould’ mither’ after. Is that the way of it then?" Kathren O'Brien, nearly six feet tall, auburn hair just begun to silver and possessed of all the proud beauty of the Highland hills from whence she came, had emigrated from Scotland in 1928 at the age of twelve to join her father. The father, Stuart MacDonald, had reportedly fled his homeland a year earlier short steps ahead of the constabulary who wished to question him about his Nationalist politics. There was also a story of the brawling cauldron that was Glasgow in the 1920s, and how Stuart had beaten a man to death over some kind of religio-social differences. There was still a trace of the Scots burr in Kathren’s voice attesting to a birthplace in the northern counties.
"There'll be fresh toll-house cookies for ya' on the table and milk in the icebox. No more than half a dozen for ya' an' then off to bed. And Angus stays outside tonight, d'ya hear?" But he was off like a shot through the living room and down the corridor that led to the kitchen, the aroma of fresh baking speeding his journey.
Kathren smiled and shook her head as she closed the door and set off towards the large room at the rear of the house that served as both kitchen and common dining area. She drew to an abrupt halt at the doorway and placed hands on hips. The Kelvinator door was opened wide, uncapped milk on the table, and James, his back to her, was busy stuffing cookies into his windbreaker pockets.
"Ahem," Kathren cleared her throat, which was all that was necessary to freeze James in the act of jamming yet another cookie into his already crammed pockets. "All right, my little man, there were twenty-four cookies on that tray. That's six apiece for yourself, Kate, Heather and Kevin. And when you go up to bed, which you'll do straightaway if I’m not mistaken, I expect the other children's shares still to be there," she chastised, though laughter once again crept into her voice.
"Yes Ma," replied James dolefully as he began to pull cookies from his pockets, "but some of 'em are broken and..."
"Eighteen on the tray right now young man or I'll let your good brother exact vengeance and there'll be no warrin' for my bonny soldier for a year," she threatened. "Now finish here and off to bed with ya' or I'll sell Angus to the gypsies." Ever since James could remember, his mother had finalized orders with the promise that non-compliance would result in the offender, or some one or thing that he valued, either being sold or given outright to gypsies. Though on some occasions James was not so sure that it would be a bad thing.
"Yes Ma," then, "Is Grappa a-cairtin' tonight?" he added, referring to Kathren's father's weekly card games with his cronies.
"That he is lad," she replied. "He'll be up in a while. Now don't be forgettin' to clean up after yourself."
"Does he know it's story night tonight?" this through a mouthful of cookies and milk.
"Aye lad, has he ever forgotten?"
"No, but if I forgot to remind you to remind him he might though," said James, his response intelligible solely due to familiarity.
"Would ya' na' eat and speak at the same time, James Edward O'Brien?" cried Kathren in mock anger.
"Sometimes I just have to, Ma. My head gets full of words and food at once and one of 'em’s got to come out," reasoned James as he finished his snack and began to clear the table.
"I'll clean here while you get ready for bed which means bath, brush your teeth, and shampoo that hair too," she stated, tousling his golden locks.
................................
It was tradition for James, his brother, and grandfather that 'cairtin' night for the elder was story night for the youngsters and Stuart MacDonald would excuse himself from his card game for half an hour to weave a story out of the threads of legends recalled from his Highland youth. It never failed James that after bathing, and just before he drifted off to sleep, his grandfather and Angus would slip into the room that he shared with his brother, and both boys would stare wide-eyed and slack-jawed as the old man would retell stories of Scots Giants, or 'the Black Douglas', or Angus Og MacDonald and his war galleys; tales steeped in the rich folklore of the Scottish Highlands.
As James immersed himself in the warm bathwater, he could hear his mother calling for Kevin and he absentmindedly calculated his chances of obtaining his brother's share of cookies. For lately Kevin, all of thirteen, had become concerned about his complexion and James was confident that if he worked it right, he would easily end up with three of Kevin's six treasures. Vastly pleased with himself he sank slowly beneath the water determined to stay under for a count of sixty; after all, wasn't he the greatest underwater free diver in the world?
.........................
James had nearly drifted off to sleep when he was jolted awake by the force of a body
slamming into him. Kevin had finished his bath, stormed into the bedroom, and launched himself upon the quiescent form on the bed, as was his custom.
"I, Jamie Douglas, called the 'Black Douglas', once again have stolen into England to throttle the foes of Robert Bruce and Scotland," Kevin roared, mashing James' pillow into his face.
James, furious that he had let himself be taken unawares yet again, struggled vainly to unseat his brother. Just as he felt he was about to lose consciousness, the pillow was ripped off his face and Kevin leaped from the bed and stood in a half crouch in the center of the room, his eyes daring James to attempt any manner of retribution.
James locked eyes with Kevin and carefully gripped the edge of the quilt that covered his bed. In a flash he gathered the blanket and tossed it at his surprised brother who reacted by raising his arms to fend off the enveloping coverlet. But James followed directly behind the quilt and crashed into Kevin, knocking him to the ground. He then set about pummeling the wriggling mass beneath him.
"Ho-ho! What have we here?" the deep bass tones of Stuart MacDonald resounded off the walls of the bedroom.
Both boys, red-faced from exertion, scrambled to their feet and stood dwarfed before the figure of their grandfather.
"He did it again!" shouted James and he shoved his brother's shoulder.
Kevin whirled, tackled James, and they began rolling on the floor, immersed in the fury that only siblings are capable of arousing within each other.
Stuart MacDonald, well over six feet tall with a thick white mane and a physique of someone far younger than his sixty-eight years, threw back his head and laughed until the tears trickled down the crags of his weathered face. Then he took a step forward, grasped both combatants by the napes of their necks, and effortlessly disengaged them.
"Now-now, what gives?" he queried, his bright blue eyes crinkled in amusement.
"He called me English," shouted James and his eyes vehemently declared the accusation.
"Well now, there's a death-deserving taunt if I've ever heard one," said the old man
reasonably. "What have ya' ta' say for yourself Kevin Boru?"
"Sir, I was playing the 'Black Douglas', and well sir, he sleeps like an Englishman," blurted Kevin.
"Ah, I see then," said the grandfather as he stepped back and dropped easily onto James' bed, rubbing his jaw as if in deep thought.
"All this talk of James Douglas though, I don't suppose you've the time to listen to a story of Bonny Prince Charlie and the Battle of Prestonpans then, eh?"
Both boys immediately clutched at the old man their enmity forgotten, and begged to hear yet again the tale they already knew by heart. "Well, all right then," Stuart MacDonald, self-appointed head of the MacDonald clan in America, thus head of the O'Briens by right of age and marriage began: “In the Year of our Lord seventeen hundred and forty five, Bonny Prince Charlie, with just a handful of his supporters; aye, there were the foremost of his generals, James and Kevin MacDonal' , he intoned rubbing each boy's head in turn.”
As the youths lay back, each surrounded by a thick arm, they leaned against the stoutness of their grandfather, felt the coarseness of his woolen shirt, and smelled the heaviness of the earth that clung to his workpants. They closed their eyes and were transported back to the side of Charles, called 'the Pretender'. And both boys listened, drowsy, to the deep melody of the old man's voice as he described how Charles, aided by the mighty Highland Clans: the MacDonals, Rosses, Camerons, Lewisses, Harrisses and Walshes; after capturing Edinburgh, had answered Sir John Cope, the English commander-in-Chief's challenge, and gone to do battle at Prestonpans.
"Charles was concerned with his battle plan, for in previous skirmishes with the enemy, he would throw his Highlanders at the English line which would inevitably break and run before their terrible charge. But this time it appeared an impassable bog would force Charles to change his plans."
At this part in the story the old man would pause for effect and the boys would fidget in
anticipation. "But as the handsome young prince was about to turn in on the evening before the battle, a beautiful maiden from the nearby town of Firthlachie, called Kathren the Red for the color of her hair; great, great, great, great, great granddaughter of a fierce king of the Picts came to his aid."
"... great, great, great, great, granddaughter," both boys solemnly rejoined.
"An' she told the Prince that she would lead him through 'the Pans' for the price of a kiss," the old man continued. "So Charles, mesmerized by her beauty agreed, and ere the sun rose, Kathren had shown Charles and his men through the marsh and to a thicket just beyond the perimeter of the English camp." Here James yawned mightily, rolled over, and screwed his features into a mask of distaste, as his brother stared off at some vision in the distance. "Charles turned to give payment to his unexpected ally. He closed his eyes and as their lips met, Charlie swore he could taste the Nectar of Eden and when next he looked about him, the maiden had vanished into the swirling pre-dawn mists."
"Gathering his wits and his men about him, Charlie turned to the business at hand, and with a bloodcurdling cry echoed by all his merry band, with mace and sword and battle-ax, they set upon the English, and very few of their sleep-addled foemen escaped. Sir John and a handful of his men fled, and it's been said that when he rode into Dunbar ahead of his retreating troop, that he had the singular honor of being the first commander in military history to bring home news of his own defeat."
As Stuart finished his story, he saw that both boys had fallen asleep. He gathered Kevin into his arms and placed him gently in his own bed. "Night laddie," he whispered.
"Night Grappa," Kevin murmured from the depths of slumber.
He then turned to James and, tucking him in, bent over the sleeping youth and said softly, "‘night Jamie," but received no reply. For James, spirited off on the wings of his grandfather's tale, was heroically saving Scotland from the English led by the cowardly John Cope, while across the room his brother had just rescued a red- haired maiden of incomparable beauty and was returning with her to his castle.
Stuart MacDonald silently padded across the room and opened the door, admitting Angus. The huge dog checked both beds to insure that his charges were safe, and then turned two swift circles in the center of the room and sank to the floor.
"Guard ma' warriors well Angus Og MacDonald," Stuart called softly, and closed the door.
-------------------------
"Evenin' Kate," Stuart said as he passed through the kitchen on his way to the den.
"Dad, I've to pick up the girls shortly. Will you remember to break off and kiss 'em goodnight?" she called, which caused him to pause on the threshold of the room.
"To be sure, darlin', to be sure," he replied.
"An' ya dinna' bring Angus to the boys' room right?" she asked, arching an eyebrow.
"Now, would I be doin' a thing like that lass?" he threw back as he passed into the den.
"Only every night," sighed Kathren to the closing door.
-------------------------
Stuart MacDonald slid into his seat at the table amid a flurry of raises and counter-raises. The game was seven card stud, which along with five card stud and five card draw were the only games allowed at the weekly meetings that had been held for more than a decade. Finally, one man raised and called and another matched the bet spreading his three 'hole' cards - all spades - on the table with a flourish. Those cards mated with two spades he had showing on the table, constituting a flush. The first man smoothly scooped his 'up' cards into his hand with those ‘down’ cards he held and tossed them to Stuart, whose turn it was to deal.
"I pulled the full house that time, Irv', but you played the hand so damned well I didn't have the heart to take it from you," said Steve Carter, addressing the winner of the hand.
"I just knew something like that had happened, Steve, and I want to thank you from the bottom of my soul, ole' pal," he replied gathering in the coins from the pot. The men played nickel ante - quarter limit, not overwhelming stakes, but they played more for camaraderie’s sake than financial gain.
Stuart deftly shuffled the deck and pushed a nickel to the center of the table as he announced, "five draw, triplets to win, ma' bonny marks." He swiftly dealt the cards, allowed a short pause for contemplation, and turned to the man on his left, "Ma' good Master Keith ?" he asked arching an eyebrow.
Benjamin Keith was a small, stoop-shouldered man, nearly bald, sharp-eyed and quick of movement. Together he and Stuart had stowed away on a freighter out of Glasgow harbor bound for New York City very few steps ahead of the Constabulary. They had worked the railroads for over thirty years and retired together three years ago. The two were inseparable.
Benjamin scanned his cards and darted a glance around the table. "I'll have one ta' fill ma' floosh’, please." He tossed his discard to the center of the table. "An' I'll open for a dime."
Stuart dealt him his card and focused his attention on the man to Keith's left, "An' what'll be Stevie Carter's pleasure this evenin'?"
Steven Carter was short like Benjamin, but rotund and heavy. He had a round, cherubic face and a fringe of fine white hair that rimmed his bald pate. His thick spectacles topped a small but slightly bulbous nose.
"I've a notion to keep these three-of-a-kind I'm already holdin' but just to make the game interesting I'll take four," he said, and he showed the ace of diamonds.
Stuart fanned four cards from the top of the deck and pushed them across the table. He then turned to the next man in the circle, "Cards, Owen ma' good man?"
Owen Campbell was one of two players who had not yet retired. Along with Irv Levine, he owned the largest drug and hardware store in the state. They were partners and best of friends. He was a large florid man with a wide, frank, expressionless face. He had lost an arm in the Italian campaign during World War II and this at first seemed to upset the balance of his body. He was, however, the most adept dealer in the group. He was also, though he didn't realize it, the only man with his particular surname with which Stuart MacDonald had even a nodding acquaintance. For Owen, being American-born, had no knowledge of the enmity between Scotland's MacDonald and Campbell clans which Stuart's upbringing had embedded deep within his soul.
"Two," Owen replied evenly, tossing his discards towards the pile.
Stuart dealt and turned to the man on his right, winner of the last hand, "An how many for the man that's takin' all our gold?"
Irving Levine was the youngest of the crowd, barely sixty. He'd a full head of jet black hair, and a great, black, walrus mustache, twirled at ends that nearly stretched from ear-to-ear. He had a fine mathematical mind and delighted in computing the odds of pulling a desired card. He was of medium height, stout rather than heavy, with expansive shoulders that bespoke twenty-five years of sweat and toil on the docks of New York City. When Stuart and Benjamin had first landed in New York, Irving had rescued them from the clutches of Immigration by masquerading as an official from Immigration's "Central Bureau" and convinced the inspector without ever having to produce identification such was his eloquence, that the Scotsmen were undercover operatives working an illegal alien smuggling ring. The inspector had believed Irving's story for he reckoned, in New York City's tightly knit ethnic cliques, why would an obvious Jew extend himself for two down and out Scotsmen? It was a question Levine could not answer himself other than he'd just felt the two were sound people.
After Kathren joined her father and the two of them, along with Benjamin Keith, moved to the interior of the country, Stuart and Benjamin obtained jobs with the railroad. Stuart purchased their land during the troubled war years of the forties and later, he and Kathren's husband, Michael, though only her intended at the time, built their home by hand.
It took fifteen years of persuasion, but Stuart and Benjamin finally convinced their benefactor to quit New York City and join them, "for a life of leisure, in a rural setting”.
Levine set his cards on the table and in his deep bass announced, "I'm pat.”
Stuart arched an eyebrow at his old friend, then dealt himself three. The wagering began in earnest. Though all bluffed outrageously, that was their inherent safeguard for none could tell whether the other's bets were deceptive or if they held a winning hand. So all trusted to intuition and Lady Luck, both of which served their masters erratically.
The raises came fast and reckless and the money changed hands frequently yet, at evening's end, because they all employed virtually the same strategy, it was seldom that anyone gained or lost more than ten dollars, which left them all content.
Within an hour of putting the boys to bed, the two O'Brien girls, Kate and Heather, returned home and the old man left the game to put his granddaughters to bed. This signaled the break for 'snacks' and the players gathered in the kitchen to grab cold beers and break the seal on a bottle of Stuart's blended Highland Malt. Once the old gents started to imbibe however, the level of card play plummeted substantially, and they seldom played for more than an hour or two after their break.
At game's end the players would sit for a bit and tell tales both short and tall from their past before ambling off for home. And Stuart would hail from the porch, "Godspeed and safe journey," to them all, then turn and walk quietly to his bedroom, switching off the remaining lights on his way and the house would be laid to rest for the night.
Editor's note: If you'd like to see more of this, mail me and let me know and I'll organize delivery.
August 1961
From his perch high in the pine tree, he peered intently down on the field of battle. Though the sun had already fired the western horizon and set, he could still discern quite clearly the figures sprawled helter-skelter in the open corridor between forest and tall grass bordering the creek. He had chosen his vantage point well, before the firefight had broken out, knowing instinctively that safety was in height; safety, and also the ideal perspective from which to take the enemy. Once again he counted the bodies and came up one short. Wait, he reassured himself, let him make the first mistake. There had been seven enemy, of that he was certain; just as there had been seven in his group. Now there was just he and another left. And he was equally sure that the last enemy soldier would be the one to commit the fatal error: to try and reach his comrades that were wounded. It would be his final mistake.
His eyes swept the field of battle constantly, searching for movement in the grass that would betray his prey's location. For he knew now that they were no longer mere enemies, but hunter and hunted. He considered briefly the possibility that the one left had circled around him and might at this moment be approaching his position from the rear. This he quickly dismissed as being beyond his control. "If he is, I'm dead," he murmured to himself and returned to the business of surveying the landscape before him.
Dusk was rapidly giving way to total darkness and he squinted his eyes to determine if that might aid his reconnaissance. It merely seemed to distort and narrow his field of vision so he opened his eyes to their normal size and maintained his vigil.
It was his first night action. He tried to recall rules of night-fighting that he'd heard or read somewhere before, yet drew a blank. All right then, he'd make up his own, he reasoned: first rule - "Don't squint your eyes, 'cause you can't see shit."
He was sweeping his gaze from right to left when he noticed the fringe of grass move slightly about thirty yards to his left, just beyond a downed foe, yet there was no breeze. Rule number two - "Don't fire without confirmation of location," he spoke softly to himself, "for if you do and he's not there, once again dummy, you're dead."
He glanced both right and left of the movement, covering the field once more, and returned his gaze to the spot where the grass swayed all but imperceptibly. He slowly brought the stock of his rifle to his left cheek and sighted down its barrel. He was comforted by the feel of the stock against his shoulder for he'd fabricated this weapon himself. Just as he would take care of it, it would not fail him.
There was now a definite irregular undulation in the wall of grass and he was positive that his man was not only there, but that he was readying for the charge. He tensed slightly feeling the adrenaline rush, and became more alive with it.
Suddenly a figure exploded from its cover and headed straight for his fallen mate, rifle cradled across his chest, left arm outstretched. Instantly the injured figure half-rose and extended his own arm toward his sprinting comrade as the stillness of the night was rent by, "Da-da-da-dow, you're dead, Lephart!" The running figure crumpled to the ground and lay still as the wounded soldier sank back to earth.
"Yeeee-aaaaahh-hooooeeee!" shouted the figure in the tree and he swung ape-like from branch to branch finally gaining the ground.
"Draft's end!" he roared running out into the field as the ‘dead and dying’ slowly rose and began milling about.
James O'Brien, eleven years old and bursting with excitement, tore over to where his older brother Kevin was standing and looked up into his face. "How'd I do Kev," he asked, breathless.
"Not bad runt, we'll make a soldier out of you yet," Kevin replied with ill-disguised pride.
It had been at Kevin's insistence that James had been allowed to play the nightly neighborhood war game, Draft. Besides James, the youngest in the group was Pat Alexander's brother, David, nearly thirteen. But the fact that his team had won by virtue of James' cunning supported Kevin's confidence in his younger brother, and he was duly pleased though he tried not to show it.
Draft was begun when two captains chose up sides. The teams then scattered and hid or prowled the woods and nearby fields searching out their enemies. Once killed a soldier could not rejoin the battle until touched by a live teammate.
The next game James was killed off almost instantly, and as he lay back on the cool
summer grass he drank deeply from the sweet cup of success. He watched the stars wheel overhead and exulted in the fact that he'd be allowed to play Draft all the time now, having passed the initial test and O! wasn't life wonderful? His days of Cops ‘n Robbers and Cowboys ‘n Indians were a rapidly receding ghost of memory.
The game went very quickly and as the boys were choosing sides again, James heard his name called from off in the distance.
"Hey runt, that's Mom," called out Kevin, "best be gettin'. You know what she said." His mother had been reluctant to allow James to play with the older boys until Kevin had promised her that he would certainly watch out for his younger brother. However she'd elicited the promise from both of them that James would come home when she called.
"All right," mourned James, "see you guys tomorrow."
He lit out through the forest towards home his eyes continually moving from side to side, trying to descry potential danger in the shadows. The evening spoke to him, sounding a warrior's song.
Most likely be Indians, he thought, or better yet, highwaymen. He imagined scenes where he'd wreak havoc and utter destruction on any so foolish to attempt to waylay himself, James Edward O'Brien, hero without equal!
He crested the hill that formed the western border of the family property and immediately dropped to all fours and rolled swiftly behind a rosebush. He cautiously poked his head around the side of the bush and realized the fear that had been pulling at the back of his mind was all too real for there sprawled on the front lawn lay the beast, the porch light illuminating and exaggerating its enormous bulk; its great shaggy head resting on its trunk-like paws. James quickly thanked his stars that the night breeze blew into him for he was only fifty feet away and if the wind had been at his back surely the beast would have caught his scent even without raising its gargantuan head to sniff the air.
James very slowly, painstakingly, crawled to the stone wall that edged the driveway. He reminded himself that the lives of his loved ones: Mother, Father, Grandfather, and yes, even his sisters, depended on his ability to vanquish his adversary. It was his intention to rise quickly, vault the wall and close with the creature before it had time to react. But as he straightened to leap, he stood nearly eye-to-eye with his quarry and it leaped the wall and knocked him to the ground. He could both smell and feel its hot, fetid breath as it pinned him effortlessly on his back and opened its great slavering maw. James reached out frantically for a weapon with which to immobilize his foe and gain precious seconds necessary to regroup and drive home his attack. Just as his hand closed on a stout stick, the hideous jaws descended upon him and James felt a wet, sickly-soft, sandpaper tongue grate over his face.
"No Angus, no!" he screamed as he wriggled out from under his dog.
Finally regaining his feet, James clapped the huge animal on the side of its throat and said affectionately, "How come I can never sneak up on your funny old bones, huh whelp?" The dog playfully nuzzled James' armpit and stared into his friend's face, trusting.
Angus had been James' for three years, ever since that crazy golden retriever of the
Alexander’s had jumped old man Keith's wolfhound bitch when she'd just come into her second heat. James recalled with a grin how he and Barry Jankiewicz had laughed until they’d cried watching Mr. Keith chasing the two dogs still locked in amorous embrace round and round his yard with a broom all the while screaming, his Scot's brogue thickened by rage and excitement, "Ya rake! Ya blackguard! Git on wit ya. O ma poor wee bairn!"
James had promised himself then and there that he would obtain one of the results of that union. It had not proved difficult. For when the litter was thrown there were only two pups and Mr. Keith had been anxious to "rid himself of the product of such an unholy alliance." None knew what became of the female pup, but James and Kevin had persuaded their parents that there was definitely a need for a dog in their home, and so Angus had come to stay.
Angus had the color and size of his mother but retained the features of his sire, so that he appeared, as James' grandfather often described him, "a grey retriever, aboot’ eight sizes over big."
As James absentmindedly punched the dog on its shoulder and began traversing the front lawn towards the stairs, the porch door swung wide, and the tall, trim figure of a woman was silhouetted in the doorway.
"Ah there ya are lad. Could it be that the noise of battle has taken away your hearin'? I called for you nearly half an hour ago," scolded the woman, the hard tones edged in humor.
"Aw Ma, we were right in the middle of a game, and I couldnta' left then or I'd a been killed off," replied James as he bounded up the stairs and into the house. Angus dutifully coiled himself into a ball and took up sentry duty at the front door.
"Oh to be sure. Save the world first and obey yer poor ould’ mither’ after. Is that the way of it then?" Kathren O'Brien, nearly six feet tall, auburn hair just begun to silver and possessed of all the proud beauty of the Highland hills from whence she came, had emigrated from Scotland in 1928 at the age of twelve to join her father. The father, Stuart MacDonald, had reportedly fled his homeland a year earlier short steps ahead of the constabulary who wished to question him about his Nationalist politics. There was also a story of the brawling cauldron that was Glasgow in the 1920s, and how Stuart had beaten a man to death over some kind of religio-social differences. There was still a trace of the Scots burr in Kathren’s voice attesting to a birthplace in the northern counties.
"There'll be fresh toll-house cookies for ya' on the table and milk in the icebox. No more than half a dozen for ya' an' then off to bed. And Angus stays outside tonight, d'ya hear?" But he was off like a shot through the living room and down the corridor that led to the kitchen, the aroma of fresh baking speeding his journey.
Kathren smiled and shook her head as she closed the door and set off towards the large room at the rear of the house that served as both kitchen and common dining area. She drew to an abrupt halt at the doorway and placed hands on hips. The Kelvinator door was opened wide, uncapped milk on the table, and James, his back to her, was busy stuffing cookies into his windbreaker pockets.
"Ahem," Kathren cleared her throat, which was all that was necessary to freeze James in the act of jamming yet another cookie into his already crammed pockets. "All right, my little man, there were twenty-four cookies on that tray. That's six apiece for yourself, Kate, Heather and Kevin. And when you go up to bed, which you'll do straightaway if I’m not mistaken, I expect the other children's shares still to be there," she chastised, though laughter once again crept into her voice.
"Yes Ma," replied James dolefully as he began to pull cookies from his pockets, "but some of 'em are broken and..."
"Eighteen on the tray right now young man or I'll let your good brother exact vengeance and there'll be no warrin' for my bonny soldier for a year," she threatened. "Now finish here and off to bed with ya' or I'll sell Angus to the gypsies." Ever since James could remember, his mother had finalized orders with the promise that non-compliance would result in the offender, or some one or thing that he valued, either being sold or given outright to gypsies. Though on some occasions James was not so sure that it would be a bad thing.
"Yes Ma," then, "Is Grappa a-cairtin' tonight?" he added, referring to Kathren's father's weekly card games with his cronies.
"That he is lad," she replied. "He'll be up in a while. Now don't be forgettin' to clean up after yourself."
"Does he know it's story night tonight?" this through a mouthful of cookies and milk.
"Aye lad, has he ever forgotten?"
"No, but if I forgot to remind you to remind him he might though," said James, his response intelligible solely due to familiarity.
"Would ya' na' eat and speak at the same time, James Edward O'Brien?" cried Kathren in mock anger.
"Sometimes I just have to, Ma. My head gets full of words and food at once and one of 'em’s got to come out," reasoned James as he finished his snack and began to clear the table.
"I'll clean here while you get ready for bed which means bath, brush your teeth, and shampoo that hair too," she stated, tousling his golden locks.
................................
It was tradition for James, his brother, and grandfather that 'cairtin' night for the elder was story night for the youngsters and Stuart MacDonald would excuse himself from his card game for half an hour to weave a story out of the threads of legends recalled from his Highland youth. It never failed James that after bathing, and just before he drifted off to sleep, his grandfather and Angus would slip into the room that he shared with his brother, and both boys would stare wide-eyed and slack-jawed as the old man would retell stories of Scots Giants, or 'the Black Douglas', or Angus Og MacDonald and his war galleys; tales steeped in the rich folklore of the Scottish Highlands.
As James immersed himself in the warm bathwater, he could hear his mother calling for Kevin and he absentmindedly calculated his chances of obtaining his brother's share of cookies. For lately Kevin, all of thirteen, had become concerned about his complexion and James was confident that if he worked it right, he would easily end up with three of Kevin's six treasures. Vastly pleased with himself he sank slowly beneath the water determined to stay under for a count of sixty; after all, wasn't he the greatest underwater free diver in the world?
.........................
James had nearly drifted off to sleep when he was jolted awake by the force of a body
slamming into him. Kevin had finished his bath, stormed into the bedroom, and launched himself upon the quiescent form on the bed, as was his custom.
"I, Jamie Douglas, called the 'Black Douglas', once again have stolen into England to throttle the foes of Robert Bruce and Scotland," Kevin roared, mashing James' pillow into his face.
James, furious that he had let himself be taken unawares yet again, struggled vainly to unseat his brother. Just as he felt he was about to lose consciousness, the pillow was ripped off his face and Kevin leaped from the bed and stood in a half crouch in the center of the room, his eyes daring James to attempt any manner of retribution.
James locked eyes with Kevin and carefully gripped the edge of the quilt that covered his bed. In a flash he gathered the blanket and tossed it at his surprised brother who reacted by raising his arms to fend off the enveloping coverlet. But James followed directly behind the quilt and crashed into Kevin, knocking him to the ground. He then set about pummeling the wriggling mass beneath him.
"Ho-ho! What have we here?" the deep bass tones of Stuart MacDonald resounded off the walls of the bedroom.
Both boys, red-faced from exertion, scrambled to their feet and stood dwarfed before the figure of their grandfather.
"He did it again!" shouted James and he shoved his brother's shoulder.
Kevin whirled, tackled James, and they began rolling on the floor, immersed in the fury that only siblings are capable of arousing within each other.
Stuart MacDonald, well over six feet tall with a thick white mane and a physique of someone far younger than his sixty-eight years, threw back his head and laughed until the tears trickled down the crags of his weathered face. Then he took a step forward, grasped both combatants by the napes of their necks, and effortlessly disengaged them.
"Now-now, what gives?" he queried, his bright blue eyes crinkled in amusement.
"He called me English," shouted James and his eyes vehemently declared the accusation.
"Well now, there's a death-deserving taunt if I've ever heard one," said the old man
reasonably. "What have ya' ta' say for yourself Kevin Boru?"
"Sir, I was playing the 'Black Douglas', and well sir, he sleeps like an Englishman," blurted Kevin.
"Ah, I see then," said the grandfather as he stepped back and dropped easily onto James' bed, rubbing his jaw as if in deep thought.
"All this talk of James Douglas though, I don't suppose you've the time to listen to a story of Bonny Prince Charlie and the Battle of Prestonpans then, eh?"
Both boys immediately clutched at the old man their enmity forgotten, and begged to hear yet again the tale they already knew by heart. "Well, all right then," Stuart MacDonald, self-appointed head of the MacDonald clan in America, thus head of the O'Briens by right of age and marriage began: “In the Year of our Lord seventeen hundred and forty five, Bonny Prince Charlie, with just a handful of his supporters; aye, there were the foremost of his generals, James and Kevin MacDonal' , he intoned rubbing each boy's head in turn.”
As the youths lay back, each surrounded by a thick arm, they leaned against the stoutness of their grandfather, felt the coarseness of his woolen shirt, and smelled the heaviness of the earth that clung to his workpants. They closed their eyes and were transported back to the side of Charles, called 'the Pretender'. And both boys listened, drowsy, to the deep melody of the old man's voice as he described how Charles, aided by the mighty Highland Clans: the MacDonals, Rosses, Camerons, Lewisses, Harrisses and Walshes; after capturing Edinburgh, had answered Sir John Cope, the English commander-in-Chief's challenge, and gone to do battle at Prestonpans.
"Charles was concerned with his battle plan, for in previous skirmishes with the enemy, he would throw his Highlanders at the English line which would inevitably break and run before their terrible charge. But this time it appeared an impassable bog would force Charles to change his plans."
At this part in the story the old man would pause for effect and the boys would fidget in
anticipation. "But as the handsome young prince was about to turn in on the evening before the battle, a beautiful maiden from the nearby town of Firthlachie, called Kathren the Red for the color of her hair; great, great, great, great, great granddaughter of a fierce king of the Picts came to his aid."
"... great, great, great, great, granddaughter," both boys solemnly rejoined.
"An' she told the Prince that she would lead him through 'the Pans' for the price of a kiss," the old man continued. "So Charles, mesmerized by her beauty agreed, and ere the sun rose, Kathren had shown Charles and his men through the marsh and to a thicket just beyond the perimeter of the English camp." Here James yawned mightily, rolled over, and screwed his features into a mask of distaste, as his brother stared off at some vision in the distance. "Charles turned to give payment to his unexpected ally. He closed his eyes and as their lips met, Charlie swore he could taste the Nectar of Eden and when next he looked about him, the maiden had vanished into the swirling pre-dawn mists."
"Gathering his wits and his men about him, Charlie turned to the business at hand, and with a bloodcurdling cry echoed by all his merry band, with mace and sword and battle-ax, they set upon the English, and very few of their sleep-addled foemen escaped. Sir John and a handful of his men fled, and it's been said that when he rode into Dunbar ahead of his retreating troop, that he had the singular honor of being the first commander in military history to bring home news of his own defeat."
As Stuart finished his story, he saw that both boys had fallen asleep. He gathered Kevin into his arms and placed him gently in his own bed. "Night laddie," he whispered.
"Night Grappa," Kevin murmured from the depths of slumber.
He then turned to James and, tucking him in, bent over the sleeping youth and said softly, "‘night Jamie," but received no reply. For James, spirited off on the wings of his grandfather's tale, was heroically saving Scotland from the English led by the cowardly John Cope, while across the room his brother had just rescued a red- haired maiden of incomparable beauty and was returning with her to his castle.
Stuart MacDonald silently padded across the room and opened the door, admitting Angus. The huge dog checked both beds to insure that his charges were safe, and then turned two swift circles in the center of the room and sank to the floor.
"Guard ma' warriors well Angus Og MacDonald," Stuart called softly, and closed the door.
-------------------------
"Evenin' Kate," Stuart said as he passed through the kitchen on his way to the den.
"Dad, I've to pick up the girls shortly. Will you remember to break off and kiss 'em goodnight?" she called, which caused him to pause on the threshold of the room.
"To be sure, darlin', to be sure," he replied.
"An' ya dinna' bring Angus to the boys' room right?" she asked, arching an eyebrow.
"Now, would I be doin' a thing like that lass?" he threw back as he passed into the den.
"Only every night," sighed Kathren to the closing door.
-------------------------
Stuart MacDonald slid into his seat at the table amid a flurry of raises and counter-raises. The game was seven card stud, which along with five card stud and five card draw were the only games allowed at the weekly meetings that had been held for more than a decade. Finally, one man raised and called and another matched the bet spreading his three 'hole' cards - all spades - on the table with a flourish. Those cards mated with two spades he had showing on the table, constituting a flush. The first man smoothly scooped his 'up' cards into his hand with those ‘down’ cards he held and tossed them to Stuart, whose turn it was to deal.
"I pulled the full house that time, Irv', but you played the hand so damned well I didn't have the heart to take it from you," said Steve Carter, addressing the winner of the hand.
"I just knew something like that had happened, Steve, and I want to thank you from the bottom of my soul, ole' pal," he replied gathering in the coins from the pot. The men played nickel ante - quarter limit, not overwhelming stakes, but they played more for camaraderie’s sake than financial gain.
Stuart deftly shuffled the deck and pushed a nickel to the center of the table as he announced, "five draw, triplets to win, ma' bonny marks." He swiftly dealt the cards, allowed a short pause for contemplation, and turned to the man on his left, "Ma' good Master Keith ?" he asked arching an eyebrow.
Benjamin Keith was a small, stoop-shouldered man, nearly bald, sharp-eyed and quick of movement. Together he and Stuart had stowed away on a freighter out of Glasgow harbor bound for New York City very few steps ahead of the Constabulary. They had worked the railroads for over thirty years and retired together three years ago. The two were inseparable.
Benjamin scanned his cards and darted a glance around the table. "I'll have one ta' fill ma' floosh’, please." He tossed his discard to the center of the table. "An' I'll open for a dime."
Stuart dealt him his card and focused his attention on the man to Keith's left, "An' what'll be Stevie Carter's pleasure this evenin'?"
Steven Carter was short like Benjamin, but rotund and heavy. He had a round, cherubic face and a fringe of fine white hair that rimmed his bald pate. His thick spectacles topped a small but slightly bulbous nose.
"I've a notion to keep these three-of-a-kind I'm already holdin' but just to make the game interesting I'll take four," he said, and he showed the ace of diamonds.
Stuart fanned four cards from the top of the deck and pushed them across the table. He then turned to the next man in the circle, "Cards, Owen ma' good man?"
Owen Campbell was one of two players who had not yet retired. Along with Irv Levine, he owned the largest drug and hardware store in the state. They were partners and best of friends. He was a large florid man with a wide, frank, expressionless face. He had lost an arm in the Italian campaign during World War II and this at first seemed to upset the balance of his body. He was, however, the most adept dealer in the group. He was also, though he didn't realize it, the only man with his particular surname with which Stuart MacDonald had even a nodding acquaintance. For Owen, being American-born, had no knowledge of the enmity between Scotland's MacDonald and Campbell clans which Stuart's upbringing had embedded deep within his soul.
"Two," Owen replied evenly, tossing his discards towards the pile.
Stuart dealt and turned to the man on his right, winner of the last hand, "An how many for the man that's takin' all our gold?"
Irving Levine was the youngest of the crowd, barely sixty. He'd a full head of jet black hair, and a great, black, walrus mustache, twirled at ends that nearly stretched from ear-to-ear. He had a fine mathematical mind and delighted in computing the odds of pulling a desired card. He was of medium height, stout rather than heavy, with expansive shoulders that bespoke twenty-five years of sweat and toil on the docks of New York City. When Stuart and Benjamin had first landed in New York, Irving had rescued them from the clutches of Immigration by masquerading as an official from Immigration's "Central Bureau" and convinced the inspector without ever having to produce identification such was his eloquence, that the Scotsmen were undercover operatives working an illegal alien smuggling ring. The inspector had believed Irving's story for he reckoned, in New York City's tightly knit ethnic cliques, why would an obvious Jew extend himself for two down and out Scotsmen? It was a question Levine could not answer himself other than he'd just felt the two were sound people.
After Kathren joined her father and the two of them, along with Benjamin Keith, moved to the interior of the country, Stuart and Benjamin obtained jobs with the railroad. Stuart purchased their land during the troubled war years of the forties and later, he and Kathren's husband, Michael, though only her intended at the time, built their home by hand.
It took fifteen years of persuasion, but Stuart and Benjamin finally convinced their benefactor to quit New York City and join them, "for a life of leisure, in a rural setting”.
Levine set his cards on the table and in his deep bass announced, "I'm pat.”
Stuart arched an eyebrow at his old friend, then dealt himself three. The wagering began in earnest. Though all bluffed outrageously, that was their inherent safeguard for none could tell whether the other's bets were deceptive or if they held a winning hand. So all trusted to intuition and Lady Luck, both of which served their masters erratically.
The raises came fast and reckless and the money changed hands frequently yet, at evening's end, because they all employed virtually the same strategy, it was seldom that anyone gained or lost more than ten dollars, which left them all content.
Within an hour of putting the boys to bed, the two O'Brien girls, Kate and Heather, returned home and the old man left the game to put his granddaughters to bed. This signaled the break for 'snacks' and the players gathered in the kitchen to grab cold beers and break the seal on a bottle of Stuart's blended Highland Malt. Once the old gents started to imbibe however, the level of card play plummeted substantially, and they seldom played for more than an hour or two after their break.
At game's end the players would sit for a bit and tell tales both short and tall from their past before ambling off for home. And Stuart would hail from the porch, "Godspeed and safe journey," to them all, then turn and walk quietly to his bedroom, switching off the remaining lights on his way and the house would be laid to rest for the night.
Editor's note: If you'd like to see more of this, mail me and let me know and I'll organize delivery.
Wednesday, April 15, 2009
An Oldie, but I trust, Goodie
The Little Mister said to me
as we did walk down by the sea
Oh Father, wise and dear and stout
Why is the sea not filled with trout?
In lake and stream
does yon trout flourish
yet in salty seas
trout may not nourish.
And so we off
and set about
in search of brown,
and speckled trout.
Monday, April 13, 2009
Aspen RFC top in North-West Division
A not-so-happy result for DHRFC on the Saturday as they were soundly beaten by a powerful, trundling Aspen pack, and its canny, opportunistic backline complement.
Gentlemen of Aspen RFC laid claim to the top spot in their division with a resounding 31 – 5 victory over Denver Highlanders at a windswept Jacobs Park. Repeated forays into the Highlanders half saw prop David Howard across and away at the sixth minute for a 5-0 Aspen lead. Two Leif Gibson penalty attempts into the teeth of a merciless, buffeting wind fell short, and Aspen were well-served as wing Merritt Johnson crossed for a converted try midway through the first period. Relentless Aspen pressure saw Howard through again at halftime for a 17 – 0 Aspen lead.
Denver fought back, putting wing Ryan Diehl away, and drawing to a 17 – 5 margin at 68 minutes, and looked to be hunting the comeback. But Aspen responded quickly when center Andy Nichols crippled a fulsome Highlander backline attack, as he thieved a searching, far-slung, prayerful pass, and returned same 70 yards for a 24 – 7 Aspen advantage. Nichols finalized the scoring at the whistle with a try as Aspen picked up the bonus point and looked toward their Glendale match next Saturday with confidence.
Gentlemen of Aspen RFC laid claim to the top spot in their division with a resounding 31 – 5 victory over Denver Highlanders at a windswept Jacobs Park. Repeated forays into the Highlanders half saw prop David Howard across and away at the sixth minute for a 5-0 Aspen lead. Two Leif Gibson penalty attempts into the teeth of a merciless, buffeting wind fell short, and Aspen were well-served as wing Merritt Johnson crossed for a converted try midway through the first period. Relentless Aspen pressure saw Howard through again at halftime for a 17 – 0 Aspen lead.
Denver fought back, putting wing Ryan Diehl away, and drawing to a 17 – 5 margin at 68 minutes, and looked to be hunting the comeback. But Aspen responded quickly when center Andy Nichols crippled a fulsome Highlander backline attack, as he thieved a searching, far-slung, prayerful pass, and returned same 70 yards for a 24 – 7 Aspen advantage. Nichols finalized the scoring at the whistle with a try as Aspen picked up the bonus point and looked toward their Glendale match next Saturday with confidence.
Saturday, April 11, 2009
Got Game Today!
My rugby club, Denver Highlanders RFC, play the Gentlemen of Aspen RFC today for first place in our division. Though I'm a wee bit old for action on the pitch, that doesn't stop those old saturday-morning, pre-game feelings from flooding my senses: I step outside, the smell of the crisp, spring air invigorating; the early morning chill causes a thrilling shiver disproportionate with the tolerable temperature; a glance at a somewhat overcast sky tells me it will be a good day for high ball if the wind visits a place different than Denver today; and the soft sounds of early morning belie the thunder in my heart.
I'm off early to work with our group of 5-9 year olds prior to the Senior's match, seeing today's players in the youngsters and vice-versa.
Oh, happy, healthy Saturday for one and all! Go you Highlanders!
I'm off early to work with our group of 5-9 year olds prior to the Senior's match, seeing today's players in the youngsters and vice-versa.
Oh, happy, healthy Saturday for one and all! Go you Highlanders!
Thursday, April 9, 2009
Hello
I am a writer. My favorite forms of literal expression are fiction and poetry (which I call lyric fiction), though I have written non-fiction pieces. I’m writing this blog in support of a proofreading and editing website – http://www.waetc.com – where I work processing copy. For the past twenty years or so I have worked with students and members of a sports organization, Denver Highlanders RFC, generating cover letters, resumes, and also creating newsletters. I like to think of the cover letters and resumes that I’ve written as non-fiction, and the newsletters that I’ve authored as a mix of fact and fantasy with the edges of each form of writing overlapping and blurring clearly.
I have two passions: my family, Claire, Geordie, and Candace; and rugby (Union not League!). As this is my initial attempt at blogging, I’ll commit to weekly submissions, but that interval may change as things develop.
What follows is verse I wrote for my daughter, Claire.
I have two passions: my family, Claire, Geordie, and Candace; and rugby (Union not League!). As this is my initial attempt at blogging, I’ll commit to weekly submissions, but that interval may change as things develop.
What follows is verse I wrote for my daughter, Claire.
The Bears of Claire
Where’re you off to Bears of Claire?
I can’t find you anywhere.
I’ve looked here and I’ve looked there.
I think I’ll look behind the chair!
Sometimes my Bears play tricks on me
And sometimes Bears I cannot see
So then, you know, my task is such
To find those Bears I love so much!
If I were Bears, where would I hide?
Hmmmm … in the closet, deep inside?
Beneath my shoes, behind my clothes?
No Bears are here, that dim space shows.
I’ve searched the house, to no avail
On top of things, under that pail.
I’ve searched for Bears both far and wide
I think I’ll go and look outside.
What’s that right there – Oh! Can it be?
My Bears of Claire come back to me?
A furry paw juts from that tree
Hiding Serge and Truck and Emily!
We hug and kiss so tenderly
And then appear in front of me
Amaya, Maya I can see
And Emily’s sidekick, tiny Lee
My Bears of Claire are back with me
My heart and soul are filled with glee
It feels so good, for can’t you see?
These Bears, they are my family!
Cheers,
BD
Where’re you off to Bears of Claire?
I can’t find you anywhere.
I’ve looked here and I’ve looked there.
I think I’ll look behind the chair!
Sometimes my Bears play tricks on me
And sometimes Bears I cannot see
So then, you know, my task is such
To find those Bears I love so much!
If I were Bears, where would I hide?
Hmmmm … in the closet, deep inside?
Beneath my shoes, behind my clothes?
No Bears are here, that dim space shows.
I’ve searched the house, to no avail
On top of things, under that pail.
I’ve searched for Bears both far and wide
I think I’ll go and look outside.
What’s that right there – Oh! Can it be?
My Bears of Claire come back to me?
A furry paw juts from that tree
Hiding Serge and Truck and Emily!
We hug and kiss so tenderly
And then appear in front of me
Amaya, Maya I can see
And Emily’s sidekick, tiny Lee
My Bears of Claire are back with me
My heart and soul are filled with glee
It feels so good, for can’t you see?
These Bears, they are my family!
Cheers,
BD
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