My Grandpa D was a funny sort of guy. He'd whistle tunes, sing snippets of songs, dance little jigs. He coined interesting and inventive swear words and dubbed Hazel, a neighbour, 'Hazel the witch' - all with a twinkle in his eye. It should be stated, Hazel was not, in fact, a witch. Just a rather unfortunate looking old maid named Hazel, who happened to have a pointy chin and sadly wiry grey hair. To the best of my knowledge, and despite Grandpa's best efforts to convince otherwise, Hazel also did NOT ride a broom.
One of my fondest memories was listening to him recite poetry. The man could remember a vast amount of lyrics, poetry, and passages of stories. I did not inherit this gift and promptly forget peoples names, movie plots, what I had for dinner yesterday, license plate numbers, birthdays and a host of other things that might be considered useful to recall. My absolute favourite was when he'd recite limericks. I'd beg for the same one's over and over. Loving his delivery, his cadence and the ever present mischievous smile twitching at the corners of his mouth, ready to erupt into laughter.
Grandpa, do the one about the girl who drank lemonade.
You mean, the girl from Lynne?
Yes, that one.
Okay, let me see if I can remember how it goes. 'There once was a girl from Lynne, who was so exceedingly thin, that when she assayed to drink lemonade, she slipped through the straw and fell in!'
To which my Grandmother would always respond: LORNE!
Today Ethan brought home a printed off copy of some limericks he's been working on at school during his language arts class. This boy of mine, who fought tooth and nail against the idea of writing, in every sense of the word. This boy who after grade one decided that because he couldn't work as fast as the other kids, he was a 'know nothing'. This boy who frustrates the hell out of most adults, is writing. And not, like he has in the past, exclusively about blowing up the school. He's writing witty, funny, macabre limericks.
There once was a boy named Red
Who liked to sit on his head
He sat there all day
Till his face turned all grey
And now poor Red, he is dead.
There once was a big, smelly skunk
Who liked to sing opera and punk
He sang it too loud
He lost his big crowd
Some poeple said that he stunk!
There was a rather large waiter
Who served hamburgers and taters
He tripped on a chair
Food flew through the air
And his belly left a huge crater!
Maybe limericks are one of those things that skips a generation. Like twins and the laundry gene. Whatever the case, I've a feeling Lorne would be smiling too if he were here.
