by T.M.R.
The first snows of September were falling on How-Many-Syllables, Vermont, the day Fr. Dennis MacAuley -- crazy as a loon for months -- buried Margaret Roche. The 40 pushups he had assigned her for penance had proven too much for her frail old heart [see Putney's Palace, October 29].
Margaret didn't mind the 40 pushups that killed her. She had always felt that the heavier the penance, the better it would be for her soul. Now she was getting a chance to find out.
"Margaret died smiling," Fr. Dennis began his homily at her funeral mass. He lifted the lid of her coffin and peered inside. "And she's still smiling." He removed Margaret's jewelry and patted her down for loose change.
Margaret's eldest daughter, Mary Veronica Dolores-Veronica, broke down and wept.
"She was ninety-five years old, for chrissakes," said Fr. Dennis. "What were you expecting?"
"Now give 'em a Bible reading," whispered the voice of Shecky Greene, one of the many voices that gave Fr. Dennis advice. "Hurry up. I'm Jewish. I don't feel comfortable in here."
"Today's reading is from the Book of Putney," said Fr. Dennis. He cleared his throat. "And Putney sayeth unto Nathan, 'Nathan, you're corrupt.' And Nathan standeth erect and sayeth unto Putney with great pride, 'Thank you.' I forget the rest of the scene. The mass is over. Go in groups. Hold hands on the stairs. No peeking, boys."
"That's it?" said Mary Veronica Dolores-Veronica.
"That's it," said Fr. Dennis.
Shecky Greene whispered something to Fr. Dennis.
Fr. Dennis nodded. "And take the old stiff with you."
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RIP, Margie. You were a great old broad, a fine drinkin' buddy. I toast your never ending lust for a life less lived. I miss your liver and onions, I pine for your lyrical laugh.
ReplyDeleteRIP, Margaret Roach.
I was deeply moved by your parting words to Margaret. Her liver and onions were, indeed, to die for.
ReplyDeleteRus here. Sorry to be such a dullard with passwords and having "lost my 'keys'", etc. Let's see if this is now "post-able."
ReplyDeleteWelcome to the board, Rus. Interesting moniker. Wasn't Pope Quotidian VII the one who secretly married Barbara Stanwyck? And she didn't even know it?
ReplyDeleteOops, wrong Margaret. I knew "Roach," not "Roche."
ReplyDeleteThe liver and onions I referred to were not of the edible variety. Gimme sum liver and onions!
Rus, you cryptic degenerate! I know all about "quotidian7. Liver and onions would never suffice.
ReplyDeleteIs "liver and onions" a rock group? A song? A euphemism for something naughty? Help me out here. I can't keep up with you young people.
ReplyDeleteT.M.R., "Young" you say. Flattery will get you, well, somewhere (a ride to Garden Bay Manor in the '57 maybe. "No thanx!" you say? It's only a pinhole leak of CO up thru the floorboards. Makes one pleasantly lethargic). It was in '67 that the flip side of "age-vanity" first struck and it sure felt good. Delivering orders of Easter baskets near the Maspeth border for the florist/friend next door to Dad's store on "Rosey" & 61st, a Pennsy Pinky came bouncing towards me. Before I could react a kid's voice rang out: "MISTER! Could you get the ball?!!" I looked as snootily proud at that moment as Putney's skinny white employee did when he haughtily directed the slovenly endomorphic delivery boy to use the freight elevator. Back to the thread: Liver 'n Onions. Well, one who or that which lives is a liver, natch. Can't seem to get anywhere playing w/"onions" (esp. at work: Bobby Orzo commands, "Slice 'em, dice 'em, fry 'em, but don't make love to 'em!). Perhaps a poem with bunion, union (Andy Pandy's pronunciation of his Local 5 or 5000), grunion or Runyon. Okay, I'll zip it, at last (I feel like Soupy Sales' Talking Head in that box calling for Reba: much chatter, little hope of action). What would a person who lives with all body parts removed except his noggin be called? "Dead" yes, but if biologically possible, how 'bout "Uber-poly plegic" or Hasbean (not much else). Nighty-night.
ReplyDeleteGo on, make love to the onions. Make sure Bobby catches you, and you'll get alternate Fridays easy. He might give you alternate incarnations.
ReplyDeleteIn "Portnoy's Complaint," Portnoy tells how ... as a horny teenager ... he made love to the piece of liver his family later ate for dinner, so you have a literary precedent. Kosher yet.
Liver and onions, Laurel and Hardy. Let Harding from the nest try to explain it to you.
ReplyDeleteHit me.
Play it again, Sam, but this time with more cowbell. OH, untimely death.
Hit me.
I maintain that Christopher Walken remains our greatest living comedic actor.
(Red Buttons is dead, right?)
That's a nice poem, Pop. A hell of a lot better than some of the crap they print in magazines.
ReplyDeleteI fear that I've conflated two memories in the comment of 13 Dec. '10. Soupy's "hasbean" pal was situated in a potbellied stove. It was Senor Wences' crony who lived in a kind of cigar box and was consulted regularly during performances (usually on the Ed Sullivan show) by Wences' heavily accented question of concern: "Tsor'Right?" The dependable and reassuring response was invariably and rapidly returned by this particular talking head in a similar Spanish accent: "Tsor'right!!" Both question and answer were delivered in the brief second or two between Wences' zippy opening and slamming shut of the box. Let's hope this is not "the spring freshet that precedes the flood" as Ciannelli's Guru smolderingly warns in "Gunga Din". That is, if I start to conflate more 'n more memories until my jabbering mushrooms into a tsunami of conflations we'll know that that boorish guy Al Zheimer has invited himself to the P.P. party. Where's my Ginko Biloba?
ReplyDelete