01 June 2011
Story #410
R. Linda:
Here it is. I just opened it. The woman has nothing better to do than tell tales about me Da, and plan my life or invade it. Oi!
Dear Gabriel (me one an only sonny boy who I be still countin' on ta move in wit when yer faather kicks da bucket),
I be writing real slow fer ya son, I know ya ain't a fast reader, so taken dat ta heart I be. So here be wot has me this Sunday mornin', it be yer faather, your grandfaather and yer brother-in-law that no good Donnel person or, wot ever his real name be.
Las nite, da tree of em' went out carousin' at O'Lanahan's Pub dey did. Dey gave me sum excuse dey was goin ta look at some sheep fer sale, but I said to yer faather, 'Wot fer do we need sheep? We ain't got no yard ta speak ah, and we liv in da middle of town.' But yer faather had it in his mind dat I would like sum real wool and da only way to have real wool was ta buy a sheep AND he has it in hiz head dat I could make a fortune knittin' Aran sweaters ta send over da pond to YOU sonny boy, ta sell so's yer can make a decent livin' instead ah pushin' a pencil all day an doin' nuthin'.
But back ta las nite. Da tree of em bought a sheep dey did, only dey dun't remember where dey left it. Dey stopped after purchase at O'Lanahan's to celebrate, an' dey lost not only da sheep but time. Dey fergot why dey had stopped off an' on da way home one ah dem noticed dey wuz up by St. Mary's cemetery, an' a stone wall and field full a headstones made one ah dem remember dey had bought sumthin but couldn't remember wot, just dat it should be in a field with a stone wall.
So da fools jumped over da stone wall and sat on it lookin at da gravestones tryin ta remember, when yer brilliant brother-in-law wots his name said ta da utter two, "Lookee dere dis Kevin Clancey, God rest his soul, lived ta da ripe old age a 73."
Not ta be outdone, yer grandfaather piped up, "Well, dat ain't nuthin' lookee dere, John Slogum aged 95 died of the pneumonia, poor man."
But yer faather, God help us all, stumbled over to another stone and said, "Good God, dis man lived ta 145 years old!"
The utter two were amazed and asked fer the name. Surely dis was sumthin it was, an' surely dey had heard of this old geezer. So yer faather lit a match an' read out ta dem, "Miles."
"Wot be da last name?" Grandfaather urged.
"Yer faather lit another match, leaned down, an' read out, 'from Dublin.'"
Yep, dey wuz all taken wit dat dey were. Not one of em' understood dey wuz readin' on a road marker da dolts.
More n' more I be tinkin yer faather needs him a holiday. I tink instead o' waitin' till next October fer our annual visit we should make us a permanent move to yer house. We ain't bringin' grandda if I kin help it, but if we haf ta, I can turn yer office inta a nice comfy room fer 'em.
I'll be in touch, darlin' boy.
Love and hugs, yer little grey-haired, apple-cheeked Mam.
P.S. An' remember Gabriel wot yer sainted grandmaw used ta say, "Put a begger on a horse an he'll ride ta hell."
Yup, what I have to look forward to now. Gees, the woman!
R. Linda:
Here it is. I just opened it. The woman has nothing better to do than tell tales about me Da, and plan my life or invade it. Oi!
Dear Gabriel (me one an only sonny boy who I be still countin' on ta move in wit when yer faather kicks da bucket),
I be writing real slow fer ya son, I know ya ain't a fast reader, so taken dat ta heart I be. So here be wot has me this Sunday mornin', it be yer faather, your grandfaather and yer brother-in-law that no good Donnel person or, wot ever his real name be.
Las nite, da tree of em' went out carousin' at O'Lanahan's Pub dey did. Dey gave me sum excuse dey was goin ta look at some sheep fer sale, but I said to yer faather, 'Wot fer do we need sheep? We ain't got no yard ta speak ah, and we liv in da middle of town.' But yer faather had it in his mind dat I would like sum real wool and da only way to have real wool was ta buy a sheep AND he has it in hiz head dat I could make a fortune knittin' Aran sweaters ta send over da pond to YOU sonny boy, ta sell so's yer can make a decent livin' instead ah pushin' a pencil all day an doin' nuthin'.
But back ta las nite. Da tree of em bought a sheep dey did, only dey dun't remember where dey left it. Dey stopped after purchase at O'Lanahan's to celebrate, an' dey lost not only da sheep but time. Dey fergot why dey had stopped off an' on da way home one ah dem noticed dey wuz up by St. Mary's cemetery, an' a stone wall and field full a headstones made one ah dem remember dey had bought sumthin but couldn't remember wot, just dat it should be in a field with a stone wall.
So da fools jumped over da stone wall and sat on it lookin at da gravestones tryin ta remember, when yer brilliant brother-in-law wots his name said ta da utter two, "Lookee dere dis Kevin Clancey, God rest his soul, lived ta da ripe old age a 73."
Not ta be outdone, yer grandfaather piped up, "Well, dat ain't nuthin' lookee dere, John Slogum aged 95 died of the pneumonia, poor man."
But yer faather, God help us all, stumbled over to another stone and said, "Good God, dis man lived ta 145 years old!"
The utter two were amazed and asked fer the name. Surely dis was sumthin it was, an' surely dey had heard of this old geezer. So yer faather lit a match an' read out ta dem, "Miles."
"Wot be da last name?" Grandfaather urged.
"Yer faather lit another match, leaned down, an' read out, 'from Dublin.'"
Yep, dey wuz all taken wit dat dey were. Not one of em' understood dey wuz readin' on a road marker da dolts.
More n' more I be tinkin yer faather needs him a holiday. I tink instead o' waitin' till next October fer our annual visit we should make us a permanent move to yer house. We ain't bringin' grandda if I kin help it, but if we haf ta, I can turn yer office inta a nice comfy room fer 'em.
I'll be in touch, darlin' boy.
Love and hugs, yer little grey-haired, apple-cheeked Mam.
P.S. An' remember Gabriel wot yer sainted grandmaw used ta say, "Put a begger on a horse an he'll ride ta hell."
Yup, what I have to look forward to now. Gees, the woman!
Gabe
Copyright © 2011 All rights reserved
Copyright © 2011 All rights reserved
I STILL want to know what happened to the sheep!LOL
ReplyDeleteYou'll be changing your blog name to the Apple Cheeked Mam Letters soon! I love them, keep them coming.
ReplyDeleteAre we related? This sounds a lot like my old mum. Oh and they probably ate the sheep, that's what I would have done, mutton and Jamesons good to last bone I always say.
ReplyDeletei thinks da sheepie be at me house
ReplyDeleteWell, that solves that mystery.
ReplyDeletesoooo, you gonna change the blog name? huh? LOL
ReplyDeleteYou saw that did you? Nah never. What would I do without me Muse?
ReplyDeleteshoulda put the sheep in the pot with potatoes and onions! And Mr. Gabe, what would that dish be?
ReplyDeleteBaaa Gabe, sounds like your relatives met up with Babbra from the UK. Only they ate her? Perfectly good fishnets gone to waste, tsk.
ReplyDeleteForget the fishnets! A perfect Saturday night DATE!
ReplyDeleteExactly what he meant there Muse. Geez you two.
ReplyDeletePardon me. I thought he was lamenting the loss of the tights!LMAO
ReplyDeleteI would could get used to eating sheep. I haven't had a good leg o' mutton since ... since ... since the crew threw me and Babbra overboard!
ReplyDeleteWas just a joke! Why would you change the blog name? No worries Mobit, you be famous now! We all be following. That should tell you something.
ReplyDeleteWhat does your mom mean by put a beggar on a horse and he'll ride it to hell? Where did that come from?
ReplyDeleteI googled the proverb. Look it up, it's out there!
ReplyDelete