Indiscretions

 

It was a dark and stormy night .  On the overland stage from York to London, the  deluge was so great that our stagemaster had decided to stop at a Postal Inn, as proceeding further in the rut-riddled mucky roads would be to risk a broken axle. So I, and my travelling companions, a Viscount and his Countess, disembarked for a night of refuge.  I did think it a bit odd that this couple were not travelling in private coach, not befitting their peerage, as I am sure they had several. But, there can be reason for everything as I would find out.  On this night where even the worst of Hades had sought refuge from the torrent outside, the Inn Alehouse was empty except for me .  My travel companions had elected to retire directly to quarters but I stayed to have a bit of beef and several quaffs of hearty Claret before heading upstairs to chambers.

In the room next to mine I could hear delicate giggles, sounds of obvious mirth.  I could not resist, and, even though not an action of any breeding, I put eye to keyhole.  What delicious pleasures lie therein.  The Lady was lounged on the bed, her travelling cape draped beneath her. She reclined, and I gazed upon her form downward.  Her dress was gathered up in her arms and my eye was drawn to her silk stocking being drawn down her shapely leg, revealing an alabaster sculpt worthy of the best artesian hands of Greece.  I was entranced.  The Viscount pulled down the silk until it barely grasped the end of her toes. I was ecstatic as I saw the remnant slip off the last toe, leaving her bare foot in his hand.  Oh, Joy !  He bent to kiss it and fondle her toes as she gave a delighted little cry.  I jerked in enraptured anticipation, and the old timber floorboard protested too loudly for the storm to conceal.  Before I could regain my position, their door jerked open with the latch catching me squarely in my eye.  With arms gaining purchase, I regained my footing, swiftly and awkwardly stumbling for my life into my own quarter, slamming and latching the door.  The expected knocking, pounding or  loud exclamations never came, and after a long period with ear to the door, I withdrew and tried to sleep through my unfortunate night.

Now, a new morning, I awoke with dread.  What confrontation awaited me for my indiscretions?  After prolonging my morning toilette, where I could see my newly bruised and purpled eye, I tried to think through any route to absolution to avoid a long journey looking into the flesh-burning stares of the Viscount, or an even worse fate.  Well, it had to proceed one way or another, so I unlatched my door and cautiously peered out. No one there. Then, I noticed a small silk bag strung on my chamber latch tongue. I extracted it quickly and withdrew again to my sequester. I opened the bag. Inside were 4 Guinea’s and a folded vellum.  The short note stated the bounty was my ransom for silence about the previous night’s episode.  Relief and wonderment.  Why would my silence be of value when they were the wronged party?  I expected a righteous indignation of monumental stature would have been my confrontation. Perhaps I did not understand the price of stature to landed gentry.  But I did not explore the issue, rather deciding to use part of my bounty to stay on for a few days, thus avoiding the awkward journey sitting across from the couple. 

Days later I resumed my journey and found that the stagemaster was the very same that had been our guide that fateful night.  To whet my curiosity, or perhaps reach some close to my guilt, I enquired as to how The Viscount and Countess had fared on their journey into London.  The Driver gave a chortle and smiled,  “That wasn’t the Countess with the Viscount,” he related,  “That was one of the Countesse’s handmaidens accompanying him to attend to the Countess at their London townhouse.”  I didn’t ask after them any further, fearing the stagemaster’s smile might be indication of his privy to the relationship, and I was already in deeper than I wanted.  But it sure gave credence to the old saying that travel broadens one’s outlook.  And it makes for the great story I‘m here telling to you, Yes?  And since you’re buying, how’s about another round, eh mate?

Letters to the Editor

To the Editor:   (Published NW Herald Sept 6, 2015)

Avant-garde phony intellectuals among us stridently defend a man’s right to “become” a woman while coldly trivializing the sale of an intact fetal cadaver, justifying that savage butchery with hollow rhetoric spinning the indefensible as “women’s health.” Josef Mengele, Margaret Sanger and Kermit Gosnell serve proudly on the board of directors of that twisted mindset, totally void of a moral compass or hint of conscience.

Even the most staunchly devout agnostic/atheist thinkers subscribing to an ordered social fabric acknowledge the despicable/destructive nature of this sort of sick existence. Let’s hope so, because the overwhelming majority of so-called God-fearing Americans across the fruited plain cower in fear, somehow duped into believing they remain forever powerless to reverse and soundly defeat a willful insanity destined to destroy a once great nation.

William G. Parrot

McHenry

To The Editor:  ( Published NW Herald Sept 14, 2015)

William Parrot (“Argument indefensible,” Sept. 6) once again has fallen in love with his own multi-syllabic, obscure words – words about as clear as Wallace Stevens’ poetry.

From me, Parrot’s letter gets an “F” for supplying insufficient facts to support an unclear thesis.

However, if it is his intent to rant against legal abortion in the U.S. and also against the use of the resultant cells for research, then I have some very clear advice for him:

If you object to Roe v. Wade, then work to repeal it; that is, unless you are simply a windbag that blows across the U.S. every four years during presidential elections. Better yet, begin lecturing your heterosexual counterparts on abstinence. Thus, no sperm and egg will have a chance to meet and create that sticky problem to which, I think, you refer.

I know that it takes two to tango; but, for eons, women have led in the “saying-no” dance. Now, Mr. Parrot, if you and other men will take your turn on the floor and are successful in simply saying, “No,” problem solved as far as I can tell.

Jan Bosman

Woodstock

 

Published Comment

just folks 5ptsFeatured
50 minutes ago- Ms Bosman writes a very cogent and succinct response to Mr Parrot, who evidently has conduit to the  thinking of all "avant garde intellectuals," or "devout agnostics.."  Perhaps Parrot , like Kim Davis, hears voices from a higher plain .  I have no voices to guide me, but I can recognize the smell of bullshit. 

Me- The Sea

 

Shame.  You seem to know it no more.  You have spoken reverence to Me for eons.  You called Me Guo pu, Tangaroa, Neptune, Doris, Kanaluo, Idirgijengel, Njhord, and Poseiden. I received your prayers , your sacrifice, and your offerings.  I thought eternally I could reward you with my bounty, My beauty and My being.

I thought you had respect that My lofty mountains, My deepest canyons, My forests , deserts and even My angry volcanos which are home to more living things than populate your puny lands ?

Those that lived by My grace used to have respect for Me.  I was lore and legend. There was awe and inspiration from Me .

Now, I cry for vast islands of flotsam that gather as cancers on my  glistening skin. My tears flow copiously for my leviathans struggling in plastic netting ,or bounteous schools of marine life taken from Me beyond any hope for replenishment.

I grieve for fluids I stood as sentinel over for eternities, now drawn forth from my belly and spilled back into my realm by the careless who have appreciation only for the weight of their purses.

Aquatic clarity has become occluded.  My gardens die here, great reefs are destroyed and in my bosum My deepest flocks die because of temperature changes at my core. Slowly yes, but surely I diminish in sanctuary.

You delight in my shores, the beauty of sun off me .  “Oh, that sea air,” you relish. And then throw your garbage into my face. How callous.

Huge float factories skirt upon  my vastness,  with captures for hungry masses. But also are taken  the lives of the unwanted like seals and dolphins, and sharks and turtles, all deaths that go unmourned and worse, unnoticed . . . except to me when you throw their carcasses back.

Please know I am no more eternal than you.  This may not seem easy to grasp as I have always “ been.”  I was before and will be after.  But I can die. I am dying-  A death due to the disease of “You”.  Like all other things, you cannot take, take, take, and expect there will always be more.  You cannot keep dumping garbage  into Me and expect Me to remain  crystalline.  The wage you will pay for your pollution is death. Mine first and then yours, because we are tied and cannot exist without the other.  

So the time has come.  As My resplendence astounds your vision looking upon me,  think also of being part of My preservation.  It will come down to your decision and the teaching of it to yours and of your efforts to keep, guard and treasure My resource.  My majesty “from sea to shining sea”  depends entirely on y-o-u. 

-Jerry Wendt 2015 

The “Gods” of “Me”-  Tangaroa- Maori Australian, Guo Pu- Chinese,  Doris- Greek,  Poseidon- Greek,  Kanaloa – Hawaiian,  Idiragijengel -Inuit Alaskan, Njoprd- Norse, Neptune- Roman.