When people ask why I write, I sometimes tell this story. An unknown lady called one week to share this: “Lowdown, I loved this fellow to a fault, gave him my virgin body, the best years of my life, let him have his way with me in devious places, whenever he wanted. Spent money on him, the dirty dog.
“And now he tells me it’s over. He’s got himself a younger woman, wants to father children. He figures I’m too old for that . . . . This morning I felt I had nothing more to live for, felt I would never laugh again. Then I read your column and it made me laugh, laugh out loud. You’re a good person, Lowdown, never stop writing. And thanks!”
That story is true in a way. I like to see people happy. But it’s an uncomfortable story in that many of us men, myself included, have for no good reason broken off with girls who loved us in similar fashion. And still today feel like dirty dogs for so doing.
Anyhow, I try to give a mention to people who don’t normally appear in the papers. Anna Went and her food (had some last Sunday); the folks at Sand Dunes Restaurant; Barbara, the conkie specialist; Lyn as in Guyana-style salt fish and bakes; my usual pepperpot suppliers; and Paula. Paula told me at the Sambrano party she wanted her name in the column. All I know about her is she’s hot!
But sometimes things go wrong. A friendly ribbing somehow gets interpreted as an insult and people get upset. That’s when I go into bucket mode.
I have this goat who every day seeks out an empty water bucket. Shoves her head into it and lies there contentedly for hours with the upended bucket on her head, letting the world go by. In this age of bombarding communication, it’s an expedient not without merit.
My sister in Canada, who is into gathering and disseminating Hoad news big time, gets uneasy whenever my columns hit a family pothole. She figures I should stick to safe topics like migrating birds.
Since it was a story about a very big bird that got me into my recent trouble, I’m not going there again in a hurry. I can tell you about a ramier pigeon though.
Said pigeon landed from out a coconut tree on my daughter’s head. She hand-raised it on a variety of fruit, expecting it would return to the wild. But obviously it’s a Bajan yard-fowl political ramier pigeon. For, turning its back on local bananas and such like, it now settles for nothing less than imported seedless grapes. Nor does it show any sign of leaving any time soon.
My sister-in-law suggests I check the Nation report on Chris’ key ministerial points. It isn’t easy, however, to find points on such a well rounded figure so instead I’ll turn to Froon.
The great Chinese philosopher Lao Tzu said: “A leader is best when people barely know he exists. Of a good leader who talks little, when his work is done, his aim fulfilled, they will say, ‘We did this ourselves!’” Ponder on that, peoples. If Tzu is right, Froon is da man!
I mean, Bajans complain about high taxes. Froon has quietly come to our rescue by making it almost impossible to pay taxes! Long lines at Land Tax, Licensing. I paid my driver’s licence but there was no one to update the card. Had to make another trip but it was worth it – the lady gave me a free demonstration on how to line dance.
Went to pay dog licences and the nice lady there told me no one had the key to the cash or records. “Come back and try again next week”. What a wonderful world, beautiful people!
Exhausted by the effort of writing this with my head in a bucket, I fell lifeless across the bed. Then three-year-old grandson Dom came home with the others. Insisted on force-feeding me raisins with a wet, slurpy hand. Raisins everywhere. Then he nearly drowned me with water from his little cup with the spout.
Enjoy your hang-gliding, white-water rafting, whatever. For sheer death-defying excitement, give me grandchildren any day!
Farewell to William Price, the soft-spoken psychologist who dared to speak out during the crucifixion of Dr Charles Schlosberg.
Richard Hoad is a farmer and social commentator. Email porkhoad@gmail.com