Writings

27. Dec, 2017

Form a Posse!

Amongst the enjoyable Christmas activities, our daughter introduces us to the netflix series 'Godless' , saying, "it's got one of those people from Downtown Abbey in it."  We have quite a bit of fun with what Downtown Abbey might have been about until it's conclusively categorised as,

"That's the Kardashians, isn't it?"

In this Downtown Abbey, it turns out to be the erstwhile 'Lady Mary', now playing the twice widowed mother of a young boy and they have his Paiute Indian grandmother living with them at the ranch.  It's a good job the kid's chatty, as both the women are so inscrutably deep you'd hardly get a clue as to what's going on otherwise.  As the hero says, having just got through the obligatory  Clint stint of being shot and then brought back to life in their barn, watching her club a huge fish to death by the river:

"In'erestin' woman, your grandma." (I'm not quite sure what he based that on, but there was a lot of insightful staring going on between people). 

'Godless' was a western series full of ambiguous relationships - between hunters and hunted, the rescued and rescuers, horses and horse folks, brutality and caring (the villain being a kind of Fagin taking in lorst boys to his criminal gang), a lorra lorra landscape and some terrific lines done with classic, sardonic delivery.  Of the marshall's moustache, by which they shall know him when he arrives in town:

"We--ell now, a man needs somethin' to precede hisself with, don't he, as well as his reputation," 

and, a widder woman who had reverted to her maiden name, explaining,

"Arthur's dead, ain't he? Got no need for me to keep carrying his name around like a bucket of water."

She was wearing his clothes at the time, too, as there was a bit of another transformation going on.  The hooker with a heart of gold (and also, it turned out, the most gold) and she had become lovers in a town just filled with women, left behind when the menfolk died in the silver mine in one fell swoop.  They don't mess about in Godless, where, you can always be sure, there'll be a reckonin'.................. 

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Two teddies are now

Both in my keeping,

Gifts to toddler grandchildren, us.

When new, Bruin was purple, larger,

With a deep growl.

My brother's.

Teddy was smaller, fawn,

Mine.

He lost his growl after an unfortunate fall 

And a sink bath.

I loved Teddy with a depth which included emotional guilt.

I was jealous because Bruin was bigger and purple

And  my own ted  must never know of that.

I was the oldest but the girl.

Perhaps that played into who got which bear.

Bruin is no longer purple,

Faded after decades on my brother's windowsills,

At home and in his flat.

For a few years now, both have looked down from

The high shelf beside my daughter's childhood raised bed.

They leaned together, slightly forward,

As if wanting to come down.

I climbed up to get them the other day and soon saw why.

Both lambswool, moths have pecked their back legs into small

bald patches.

It's been a poignant time as my mother has lately died too.

I felt I had let them down, the two teds, 

Neglected while cherished still.

I've dusted them off and put them on the coverlet

Of the single bed below,

Where they seem more contented, two old men together.

Better now, their worn little faces seem to say.