Retreating with Stinky Feet: A Collection of Short Stories and Poems

By Martin Dolan

Once in a while, a story idea may come along that
is unique, plausible, interesting, and which may be
written as is; without needing to be edited again and
again, in draft after draft of unfitting exasperation.
Unfortunately, such an idea is the exception to the
proverbial rule for me. This first story about playing
sebastopal with cull potatoes happens to be just such
an exception. Most of my ideas have to be grasped,
bounced around and steeped for weeks or months in
the stale mouldering mush of my mind, in hopes that
someday they will all be written down in some form
of manuscript in blanca y negro.

M. D.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Xlibris US
• Release date: Apr 25, 2016
• ISBN: 9781514451526

Martin Dolan

The author has been a writer long way back then. Enjoys reading books and writing poetry. This book composed of compilations of poems and short stories that the author have writen and collected all these years.

Book preview

Copyright © 2016 by Martin Dolan.

Library of Congress Control Number:   2016900875

ISBN:       Hardcover         978-1-5144-5154-0

                 Softcover           978-1-5144-5153-3

                 eBook                 978-1-5144-5152-6

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the copyright owner.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to any actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

Any people depicted in stock imagery provided by Thinkstock are models, and such images are being used for illustrative purposes only.

Certain stock imagery © Thinkstock.

Rev. date: 05/26/2016

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Contents

Retreating with stinky feet

Just resting

I am not a real poet

La barbe du vieux

The Men of Yesterday

The Thief on the Cross

Julie

The First big snowfall

Our Lady of Knock

General Montcalm’s Story

Cousins were never safe

The Ribber of Geordon

The Paragon

My unrequited love

A toast to all married women of the Universe

Bed time

General Montcalm’s story (Part Two)

En avant àu ciel!

A levy of limericks

The Ten Commandments

The lord of the forest

The Old Man of the Sea

More limericks

A stable, a cave, or a tree?

Global warming

Snowflakes

A Eulogy for a Nun

Bumming smokes

Young love

My tractor

The mermaids’ song

The Widower

How I killed her.

The Bishop’s Candlesticks

The battle of the Keys

General Montcalm’s Story (Part Three)

A sunshiny day

The man with the corduroy vest

What little girls are made of

A Sunday in July

Down at the garage

I am sitting at my favourite table

The man on the road

The bath tub

Renting a cottage

What can I say

When hearts were trumps

The towels

General Montcalm’s Story (Conclusion)

To a Prostate

Reduce the grams

The ten inch flat bastard

A break in the storm

On the trail of the sasquatch

Adieu

To Nancy, who put up with me while putting the final stages of this work together.

AUTHOR’S PREFACE

T he Christian names and surnames used in the story ‘Julie’ were names of relatives and friends of the family of Margaret O’Regan, and are used in this book with her permis sion.

Except for certain biblical, historical and other very well known figures, all characters in the remaining stories, poems, etc. are fictitious; and so any resemblance to any person(s) living or dead, is purely coincidental. A number of stories, etc. are loosely based on events that really happened; but have to be classed as light fiction, with nostalgic overtones.

Permission to use poems by the person writing under the nom-de-plume W. H. Canonby has been given without restriction to me, Martin Dolan. I hereby give my permission to use these poems to CAT – 0 – 9 – TALES in Canada and to Xlibris in the United States. These said poems are now included in my own copyright – as is Margaret’s story of Julie. M. D.

RETREATING WITH STINKY FEET

I n early to mid October there usually occurs a brief period of exceptionally fine weather known as Indian Summer. It may last anywhere from several days to a week or more. It’s a time when most farmers like to dig their potatoes. It’s also a time adolescent boys hate to be cooped up in a schoolroom. Back in the days when so much of the work on family farms had to be done by hand, it was a fairly common practice to keep some of of the youngsters, boys especially, home from school to help with the digging; and to be envied indeed were those lucky boys so ch osen.

The actual ‘digging’ process was usually done by a horse drawn plough, or harrow, or in some cases, a mechanical potato digger. Most of the jobs given to us boys might be hoeing out those potatoes left behind in weedy grassy areas, and sorting them, picking up the best in buckets, or sometimes in wooden creels, and then dumping them into burlap sacks. The remainder, called culls, consisting of small ones, rotten ones, and cut ones, were put into piles to be used for playing sebastopal later in the evenings when the adults were busy hauling the sacks of potatoes home.

To play this game we would first have to build our ‘sebastopal’, a breastwork of sods and stones about waist high, and the width depending on the number of boys playing. On top of this we’d place our flag, a stick (or hoe) with an empty potato sack hanging from it, or quite often just a bare stick.

Our share of cull potatoes would be divided between two teams of boys, (we never allowed any girls to play; and they all said it was a stupid game anyhow). Then one team hunkered down in behind the sebastopal to defend the flag; the other team starting off from an agreed distance which usually depended on the size and shape of the potato patch, attacked, hurling potatoes and trying to dodge all the potatoes being hurled back at them, in an attempt to seize the flag.

It was a game that required speed, courage, and a good aim since it usually ended when the losing side ran out of potatoes first. Most of the casualties consisted of scrapes, bruises, and the odd pair of broken glasses.

Of course, the game of sebastopal could be played anywhere, and at any time – in spring, with tiny clumps of sod or mud-balls (though the parents would seldom permit this); at the beach in summer, with tiny stones (again parents might disapprove for fear of injury): in winter, with snowballs; but the most favoured time of all was out on the potato fields in fall, during those wonderful days when boys might be kept home from school to help out with the potato-digging.

This game wasn’t just played in Newfoundland. According to Mr. Squires, the teacher (actually his name was Swyers, but almost everyone called him ‘Mr. Squires’ for some reason), it was also played over in Canada, and even in some places in the United States, Great Britain and Ireland, as well as other countries around the world mostly, but not entirely, countries that made up what we used to call the British Empire; the name itself being a slight mispronunciation, or perhaps a sometime variation of Sevastopal’, which was the site of a long and bitter siege during the Crimean War that had taken place some ninety or so years earlier.

The defenders would wait, just biding their time, until the attackers would begin their assault. Of course, it would not do to peep over the top too often, or for too long at a time.

Meanwhile, the attackers would be anxiously discussing their strategies: would they advance in a broad line abreast — or in single file? And, would they send up their hardest throwers in front — or keep them back in the rear? These, and other such decisions would have to be debated under the direction, and careful consideration, of their chosen field commander.

Then the siege would begin, with the attackers running as fast as they were able, and hurling potatoes and trying to dodge the potatoes being hurled back at them, yelling out the traditional battle-cry: Mast-pole! Mast-pole! Let’s go grab the mast-pole!

The defenders would jump to their feet to return fire, hurling potatoes with all their might, yelling: Retreat! Retreat! Retreat with stinky feet!

The air would then seem to be filled with the sound of potatoes whizzing and sometimes, if they had wormholes, whistling by, often clunking or splooshing against the sebastopal, as well as the occasional head or body.

I remember one year in particular, when any number of things sort of stuck out in my mind. We were gathered in a fairly large potato patch And had built our sebastopal on the upper end of the patch. It wasn’t a fixed rule; but we just liked to set up our fort on the upper side, if the patch was located on a slope or hillside so that the defenders would then be literally shooting downhill. To prevent squabbling over it, this had to be decided upon before we were divided into two teams.

That year’s crop of potatoes had been hit by ‘Black-leg’, a severe form of stem-rot. Potatoes infected by this disease might look quite sound, but their insides often a slimy, foul-smelling, sort of a mush; and pity the poor lad getting splooshed on the knees with one so that it all ran down inside his rubber boots; and he had no other choice but to retreat with very stinky feet indeed!

Such games are forgotten now, replaced by computerized video games, which I suspect is one of the reasons our present day youngsters are leading the country in obesity. Those who played sebastopal were leaner & meaner.

JUST RESTING

It’s winter-time and the land’s asleep

Under its blanket of snow,

In some places shallow, in others deep

Depending on how the winds blow.

All living things have now stopped to rest

And this is the way it must be,

Down in the warmth of the soil so blest

Lie the dreams of eternity.

Some folks rejoice, as they skate on the ice

Or ski down over the hills,

While others heave sighs, and say ’Twill be nice

To again see the daffodils’.

Martin Dolan

I AM NOT A REAL POET

I am not a real poet – and well do I know it,

Though I hope you’ve no cause to complain,

But with patience endure it – each time I ensure it,

When you read another doggerel quatrain.

Martin Dolan

LA BARBE DU VIEUX

Le vieux d’hiver il se porte une barbe

Longue et blanche

De neige et glace,

Mais le printemps il suivrai

Plus ou moins tard,

L’été il ferai chaud, et l’automne

Il nous enchanterons,

Alors, on reviendrai au vielliard.*

(Old man Winter wears a

Long white beard

Of snow and ice,

But Springtime will follow

Sooner or later,

Summer will be warm, and the Fall

Will enchant us,

Then, we’ll come back to the old man.)

THE MEN OF YESTERDAY

Their faces could tell the story well

Of working through the weather,

Their cheeks upraised and finely glazed,

And tanned like the finest leather.

Their hands were rough, callused and tough,

Yet gentle in their way

And were used to toil the sea and soil

From dawn ’til the end of day.

They were the men of the cove and glen,

They fished and logged and farmed,

Except twice or more in times of war

When called forth to be armed.

They have now found love in Heaven above,

Of that I am quite certain,

For their faith was strong at prayer and song

Until called behind the curtain.

Martin Dolan

THE THIEF ON THE CROSS

Let us pause to remember the thief on the cross,

Begging sorrowfully to be forgiven.

His death, we are told, came not with a loss,

But a glorious promise of Heaven.

And his with the blood of the Innocent’s mixed,

When it fell in great drops to the ground;

So no-one could tell the difference betwixt,

Soaking into that most hallowed mound.

Let us pause to remember the thief on the cross,

Who sneered at our Lord in derision.

For this Savior who could not now save himself;

Was a fool, in his estimation.

Yet his with the blood of the Innocent’s mixed,

When it fell in great drops to the ground,

And no-one could tell the difference betwixt,

Soaking into that most hallowed mound.

Any judgement on this, we must not make,

But leave to the One up above;

We may not be judged for accomplishment’s sake;

But mainly judged on our love.

Martin Dolan

JULIE

By Margaret O’Regan

Margaret has a very gentle, tender, story to tell; and she tells it well, providing her own intro, and some insight into Newfoundland’s proud, but adaptive Miq Maq culture of that period.

M.D

T his is the story of Julian Basil Benoite (Ben wah)

She was born on the north side of Broom’s Brook, in the Codroy Valley.

Her parents were:

Thomas Benoite and Christina George.

Her sister Anne became my mother-in-law on Sept. 1st, 1954.

Her brother Andrew played his fiddle for my wedding.

Her brother Joe was accidentally killed while still a young man. He was crossing Broom’s Brook on the ice, carrying a heavy log on his shoulder. He slipped, and was killed instantly.

Julie, the girl in the story, was on a hunting trip with her family, and wandered from camp and was never found. Not a trace of her clothing, etc. was ever discovered, in spite of much searching.

We are left with only our imagination as to what Julie’s last days and hours were like.

Writing this story releases some of my thoughts about Julie.

I found, when her family talked about her disappearance, the questions I asked caused them much pain.

In my mind, at last Julie is at peace.

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OCTOBER, 1906

T he last days of Indian summer lingered like a benediction over the Codroy Valley in the fall of 1906. The deep blue sky spread its smoky haze on the dark browns and mixed greens of the surrounding hills. Splashes of red and gold told where a maple and birch tree held on to its last dying leaves. Indian summer was nearing its end and winter was on its way.

It was late Sunday afternoon in the square, wooden farm house on the north side of Broom’s Brook, where the Benoite family lived. Tom Benoite and his Mic Mac wife Christina were busy with last minute preparations for their annual fall trip to the southern hills to hunt caribou. Their two teen-aged sons Joe and Andrew were going; and, for the first time in her life, ten year old Julie was allowed to go. Fifteen year old Anne was staying behind with her grandmother on the farm. Two Hall men, friends of the family, were to join them further upriver. They were expected to return on Friday.

The Hall men joined the family as planned, and the light-bottomed dories skimmed easily over the smooth waters of the Grand Codroy River.

Julie was enjoying the boat ride, and looked about trying to see everything. Flocks of geese took to wing as they rowed by, honking loudly and flapping their heavy wings. Ducks quacked and squawked in protest, and flew upriver to land with a spray of water in a quiet cove. Her father would sing or whistle a tune as he pushed his oars. Julie reached over the boat’s edge, and flicked her brother Joe. He grinned at her, as he tried to keep up the rhythm of his father’s rowing.

The strong rowers made good time, and by late afternoon had reached the shallow waters of Gabriel’s Point. They beached and secured their boats, and shouldering their packs, walked inland. Evening stars were appearing in the clear sky when they reached the first crude shelter that served as a camp. They ate a quick meal and retired for the night.

By dawn Tuesday morning the hunters were ready to continue their journey, when, to everyone’s surprise, Julie declared she was going no further; she wanted to stay right where she was, and no amount of coaxing, or cajoling, could change her young mind.

This proclamation of Julie’s upset the whole camp, as they could not spare the men or the time to return home with her. After much debate, they went to the hunt without her.

Julie was a thin, wiry girl. Her dark, intelligent eyes shone with mischief. Straight brown hair framed her oval face. Her small straight nose was sprinkled with freckles. She was good natured and pleasant, independent and very stubborn. She was quick to learn, and was a good help to her family. Her parents knew she was dependable, so had few qualms about leaving her alone at camp; and after all, they would be back in a short time.

The clothes Julie wore were home-made, from the blue cotton dress that covered her flannelette underclothes, to the grey home-knit sweater, to the brown home-spun coat that came just below her knees. Long woollen stockings and ankle-high leather boots covered her legs and feet; today she wore her brother’s toque on her head.

Julie was going on eleven, and had no fear; left alone in the camp of spruce and fir logs did not bother her. She was at home here; and to pass the time, she explored the forest and its grassy