15 March 2007
Wee People
It is the day they slew Great Caesar on the Rostrum in the Forum, the Ides of March he was told to beware. I try to remember the moment when the Republic was sold down the river, and the Empire embraced. It is useful to recall that nothing is new under the sun, and all that will be has been done before.
We may come up with some new wrinkles; Khalid Shiehk Mohammed confessed to some interesting concepts at his trial down in Cuba, and his concepts of murder and destruction are grander than most, but still banal. He complains that he was abused while in custody, though the crimes he is alleged to have committed are true enough.
He styles himself as a sort of George Washington of murder, and I find him tiresome. I prefer to use the Ides as a timing mechanism for The Day, when it is time to dye the rivers green and the heathens out there pretend to be Irish.
I do not have to pretend, though real Irish have sniffed in disapproval that my quarter blood is that of the ones who could not deal with the fog and starvation and sailed away. Now that prosperity has come again to the Isle, they are entitled to think what they want. My people cast their lot in the New World, and married who they would.
In preparation, I had a drink with the leprechaun who visits at this time of the year, and when properly primed, drove the snakes out of the upper unit in Big Pink. They slithered down the stairs toward the pool exit, and when last seen, were headed across the parking lot toward the Methodist Church where they belong.
I was having my older son to dinner. I boiled the corned beef and the cabbage, and small new potatoes that our ancestors could not have afforded.
They say that the voyage across the Atlantic took thirteen weeks, which is an eternity afloat, even on a good ship. The Leprechaun looked up at me, saying: "There are no coincidences in life, or so I have found. One walks around a corner only to collide head-first with yourself, or your grandfather, or his grandfather."
I took a sip and though pensively. That would be the likely lad who was the first of my Mother's clan to walk on these shores. I do not know much about him outside of some army papers, though that is intriguing enough, and about the fierce-looking woman he married as a alternative to returning to his unit in the field in 1864.
I know that he was a strapping young man, six feet in height, with blonde hair and a ruddy complexion, with an aspect very much like my boys. His enlistment papers in 1862 state that he was born in County Kerry, and twenty years of age when he took up the profession of arms. He had a talent for dealing with horses, and patriotic was selected to be the regimental teamster between September 1863, and January 1864.
He was present at Shiloh, Corinth , Vicksburg and Jackson, and apparently saw enough of conflict. He met a likely lass in Nashville while on veteran's furlough, and did not go back to see any more of the elephant. They called him a deserter in the Company records, though I think he was smart to chose my great-grandmothers arms over those of steel.
I'm grateful that he lived, all the way to 1922. He would have seen his grandson, my grandfather, off to France, crossing the Atlantic the other way to deal with the Kaiser's likely lads. The line continued through those bad times and right down to this iteration of the celebration of the Saint whose church we do not attend.
It was nearly eighty degrees, Spring seeming to have lasted about thirty minutes and vaulted us into sultry summer. They say it will be cold again soon, and I looked down at the diminutive spirit to see if he might have some council on how to deal with the odd events of the heavens, and what might come of it all.
He scowled, which made the wrinkles on his face deeper and more severe.
"Green," was all he said, and "Beware." Then he was gone. I suspect he will be back. After all, The Day is almost here.
Copyright 2007 Vic Socotra
www.vicsocotra.com