A question which has intrigued philosophers from the time of Adam ties in well with today’s hot debate on man in crisis. And it is this: If a man goes into the deep woods where no woman can hear him and says something, is he still wrong?
As my 30 years as a failed husband flash before me, I must concede that this is indeed so.
Handyman was supposed to be my forte. I do plumbing, electrics, telephones, toilets, put in windows, chase frogs, deal with dog dung, dead rats and cook.
Tomas changed all that. Brother Tony sent down a mixed Bajan-Guyanese team under the able command of Lawrence D. Suddenly, names like Troy, Brownsan, Ollie, Ninja, Terry and Brown pushed me into oblivion.
Lawrence is God’s gift to long-suffering housewives. Just mention your most far-fetched dream and consider it fulfilled. Unlike me, these fellows can find their tools. They sweep up, throw away scraps, don’t cut and contrive. My wife has never been happier. Now she won’t trust me with any job.
Worst of all, in all our years of marriage, she’s never complimented me on anything. Not one kind word to gladden the heart and make it all worthwhile. I figured those St Philip aristocrats are trained not to be demonstrative or show their feelings.
I was wrong. Far from not being demonstrative, she is now effusive, gushing even. “Oh, Lawrence, everything looks wonderful! Just what I’ve always wanted!”
Talk about low self-esteem. I feel like a dog. But, hey, there’s a second string to my bow – my music. In recent years, I’ve played sax with Kean Springer and Alfred Taylor, two guitars with John Moss, a Celtic group, Ridley Greene and the Bush Barristers, all of whom have moved on without me.
But Guataka was my passion. Wild parang music, great camaraderie, seductive maidens so wound up by the music they have to rush home to “check homework” as they put it.
Alas, reality set in. For the group to maintain its young, vibrant image, the scruffy old white man would have to call it a day. And, since mandolinists are in short supply, I suggested a pan man to fill the breach.
I did notice, however, that, over the years, scarcely a kind word was ever mentioned about my playing to gladden the heart and make it all worthwhile. I figured those Caribbean aristocrats are trained not to be demonstrative or show their feelings.
I was wrong. Young face-man David “Ras D” Straughn has stepped into the lead role with a bang. And now the ladies are effusive, gushing even. Should he hit, like, four notes on the pan, you will hear a Trini accent enthusing: “Allyuh hear pan sweet? Oh Gawd!” One singer now does “air-pan”, mimicking his moves.
It gets worse. After he starred with them in some YouTube videos, they want to change the group’s name to Ras D And The Guatakans. I never got to be Ras Hoad, although I have been called something similar.
And once when Guataka was slaying them in the aisles, a cute Bible-minded female summed up the position with a 1 Samuel 18 misquote: “Verily, Richard hath slain his thousands, but David his ten thousands!”
Depressing? Low self-esteem? You got that right. But, hey, there’s a third string to my bow. Am I not the original, rough-neck Lowdown, NATION columnist of many years?
Actually, no. The Lowdown column existed before me; I am only the present holder of that title. And, given how things are going, will undoubtedly be replaced by someone far more exciting. No matter, I’ve enjoyed the fun.
I couldn’t help noticing, however, that, over the years, scarcely a kind word was ever mentioned about my writing to gladden the heart and make it all worthwhile. I figured those NATION aristocrats are trained not to show their feelings or be demonstrative.
I was wrong. When the Healing Herbs lady introduced herself at that recent columnist meeting, she got tumultuous acclaim from the staidest of NATION veterans. Obviously, her “silent doctors” have restored some flagging members.I think I need to get a life.
Richard Hoad is a farmer and social commentator.