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> Home Made Tales, The journey
peter.howden
post 12th Sep 2020, 10:58am
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The Good Samaritan?

Like a sack of tatties, the old man dropped to his knees, utterly disbelieving the sight of his faithful mutt, just lying motionless at the side of the road. The dog had been excited while he and his elderly master, coming from the post office, the dog pranced off the pavement. Just at the moment, a fast-moving motor machine was passing. The driver had no chance to stop in time but swerved in a vain attempt but tragically failed.

As the aging man remained crouched down, staring apparently at nothing, a comforting hand reached out, gentle holding his shoulder. He turned around to see a face, which was not unknown to him, yet he could not quite place where he stayed. The taunt driver, almost crying , hurried towards the old man, in a desperate effort to console him. Both men mentally stunned as to what actually happened. Finally, the police became involved as witnesses tried to present their versions all at once.

The experienced policeman suggested someone should take the grieving aged man away from the horrible scene, as there was a café extremely near, buy him a good strong sweet tea to steady his nerves. The comforting hand beckoned to comply, leading the sobbing man to the café sanction. Once inside, he sat the elderly man down, ordering two strong teas. While awaiting the waitress to return, he told the old man his elbows of his jacket, were truly mawkit from the blood and tears involved. Encouraging the elder man to disrobe the garment, so he could make amends and rid the thread bearing sleeves of the manky grime.

Reassuring words passed from his lips as he assisted the senior man on with his jacket, followed soothing meaningless chatter. Within a minute or two, the Samaritan apologized for leaving ,but had an appointment and made good of his departure. The old man stood up, though still rather confused, returned to the accident scene, finding all the necessary duties had been completed, and his trusty old mutt had been taken away . All that was left was a couple of spots of blood, and a caring constable asking if aid was needed to return to his abode.

Entering into the home he shared with the dog, several tears fell from his already red eyes. Reaching into his pocket, he pulled out the money he had taken out of the post office before the accident. There was only £50… instead of the £100 he had withdrawn. He knew almost instantly that the Good Samaritan was a Briganer dipper. This meant he had not taken all the cash, only some… in an effort for his victim to believe ether he was mixed up, or somehow had used the cash.

The problem the distressed elderly mann faced, he knew who it was but could not say anything, having no proof. Sadly, silently…the old man closed his eyes, pretending he was in the woods walking with his faithful hound.
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peter.howden
post 13th Sep 2020, 03:20pm
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THE VILLAGE DREIMIRE;

Welcome… yes welcome to the village of “Dreimire”, settled in seclusion and protection of the craggy stanie braes, in the deepest part of the highlands…yet, we have all the hot spots that any Metropolis in the known universe has… with some added attractions which little are known about. Remember as you are entering our boundaries... watch your speed. We have up to the minute, on the spot speed cameras in operation, focused directed to our main street and thoroughfares…so you have been warned.

If one of our local pedestrians spots a speeding motorist, or cyclist especially the butcher boy, immediately they press a button on special constructed lamp post, alerting Mr Mc Deed, the undertaker to come out of his closet with his flash. As a deterrent, it appears to work with the sight of Ernest Hardly Mc Deed( he was to be Christened ‘Hardy’ but the minister had a lisp)...in a lum hat, naked and painted black from head to foot.... from what he is flashing... scaring the living daylight out of drivers....always surprisingly effective.

We are proud... proud as punch, for the excellent cuisine personified in the ‘Ghilie Dhu’ and garnishes from the simplest of ingredients, tailored to perfection, second to none and equal to any comers in Scotland or indeed the European market we hear so much about... as long as cook rose in a good mood. “Punch” himself is seldom allowed into the centre of the village these days, after the unmentionable happening involving pea soup and a unscripted ladle placed in unspecified quarters. It was judged to be totally unhygienic by the village elders.

There is of course the dreadful red-light district, the scourge of any urban area. It’s up there but we don’t talk about it down here. This seedy establishment is run by Hardly’s older cousin; Ambrosia Hardly Mc Deed; (same clergyman christened her). She acquired the rudiments of equipment, mainly thirty red bulbs, from an electric company holding a closing down fire sale. Although getting on in years, by some forty and fourteen spans in age, she can be very flirtatious, even voluptuous, under such provocative lighting. Has been known to send guest into unbridled genital procreative behaviour, at the mere sight of her tartan helm, lifted above Church standard decency. Sensuous is the display… or so I have been told.

The export trade from the village varies in amounts. We tried to grow our own tartan stones, which to all practice and purposes take forever to develop...as we can find no local person, living or dead, who can recall cropping such marvels. Still, after watching Weir’s way (An Outer Hebrides boy by his accent) on the only translation photo boxes in the village, and the now defunct Rolf Harris, we struck gold. Tartans to order all suits, skirts and thingymabobs…weaving cost extra…and can you see it yet?

As a community, we have few one or two at the last count, of the new-fangled moving screen box in the corner of the communal hall…or the pub. Of a night, only one seedy programme we capture goggled eyed viewing is, the Glasga “Thingumhisgig”. ‘The laird O Ccoocaddens’ proudly displaying Scotland’s best

With good fortune, we do not suffer from hoodlums or graffiti except for Madam Mayor; with slogans of “Votes for women”, is rather set in her ways and in the past. There is a superb youth programme, run by Willie Hardly Mc Deed, who is proud of his Danish ancestry, giving special care to blond wee boys. With great personal pain, tries hard putting a little Viking culture into each of them, whenever the chance arises.
It’s just the simple things in life, gives pleasure to the gratified inhabitants of “Dreimire” village
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peter.howden
post 16th Sep 2020, 07:28pm
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Hector, Beth and two soups;

Gazing on Beth innocently, as being a piece of living magic, Hector was a lost pup longing for her, at the tender age of 11 odds. He could hardly sleep in the darkness for her face cast almost constantly, introducing her features as paramount through simplest thoughts or actions during that summer splendour.

Beth had every quality a lad could wish for; drifting swept silky brown hair, so desired by style magazine photographers. Deep dark brown eyes to beckon the wildest of soul, hinting a magic smile to enchant a defeated devil, because of her natural innocent allure. Her walk defied gravity, as if strolling with the Gods themselves. Her voice echoed sweetly, to soften any discerning ear, but pierced the most resilient heart to become a willing slave, to her every whim, a beauty personified.

Hector was new to this game of passion, nevertheless entered it with the vigour of a seasoned Romeo, and the private presumption of a master ails Casanovas… even with Great Expectations, but never quite reached the qualifier (11 plus or otherwise). Observing Beth, formed a life of its own emotions…but unfortunately, at a distance

These unreturned expressions were paraded for the world to see the simple adorations and factual affection… but Beth was totally unaware. Each time she made entrance to the street they both lived, the sun shone through the heaviest rain to brighten up that moment. Graceful Beth would be seeming not only floated along the ground, but dance to wherever she wished to be. All Hector could do, was no more than stare.
He found himself timing to be at her close when he thought she was due out, not wish to waste one second or moment being with her. There was a problem…seen only as a friend, for she neither realizes he yearnings, nor ever encouraged him in any way, which was a bit of a hindrance to his affections. It became even more difficult when he discovered she acutely fancied dashing Gordon Campbell.

This boy had always been a thorn in Hector’s side, right from the first day meeting him in the street. He was good at everything, and anything he ever tried. To name any sport he did not excel in school, and you would be hard placed. He had the audacity to be good looking to boot, but the bested thing of all was….he was so dammed nice? He would make up excuses for trouncing Hector, when once again, beat the pants off him, (not literary, as it was still against the law, and anyway…. he’d probably wipe his ass with that too ?).

Having no choice than to accept his immeasurable fate … looking on from afar, hoping against all hope she would miraculously change her mind and view him in hero’s romantic light. Hector had no choice but to do something constructive so to fill in the lonesome time.

He decided to make a new bow and arrow out of garden canes, just like all the kids but he would slave to make it so well…Beth would look on and wonder…. but he inwardly knew, and if he were here, would tell you this…. Gordon Campbell(two soups) always made the best one…of anything?
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peter.howden
post 19th Sep 2020, 01:36pm
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Hector and Mr Swan...Market gardener Extraordinary (1/3)

During the summer admiring Beth from afar, Hector reflected on a few several holidays previous, while staying in his sister’s home, quite close to the River Clyde in Uddingston. Hector was sent for fresh vegetables, to a Mr Swan’s large market gardens, which led to two adventurous vacations, allowed to help around the wonderland from day to day.

What an excellent figure of man Mr Swan was. He was not the tallest of tall, in fact his height was around 5 feet 4 inches, or a muscle-bound Mr Universe, but immensely strong of wirily stature, plus owning a red beard to shame Rob Roy. He could run faster backwards than Hector could full pelt forward. There was a rare kindness about him, honest and comforting. Mr Swan was the one who introduced Hector to the fact there was more than one type of relationship, and defiantly more types of complicated ladies…and men.

His pipe blew smoke continuously, coupled with his thankfully forgetful habit of leaving his half glowing pipes, dotted all over the place, with several different stages of shags and moistures, leaving sublime distinctive aromas, was opium to Hector’s breathing senses, which can still muster today, and right now, at the twitch of his nose. This is the scent Hector regularly hungers for, because of a distinct bouquet of varied seasonal earthy growth... mixed with tobacco of his splendid pipes. Mr Swan told a variety of stories in an exciting and educational way, without boasting... and when he was finished, you would wish you could have been there.

He spoke of his crossing over to the vastness of Canada, on five separate occasions, always by boat, with his first trip over in 1930. He would run every morning around the deck, and he used to race this young fellow, who turned out to be the number one athlete for Great Britain, in the August commonwealth games being held in Hamilton Canada that year. He apparently beat him most times, but, as Mr Swan stated, it was probably because the poor lad did not have his sea legs yet. He was not being a bragger, as he related his findings while working planting or pruning something within his market garden.

In a small way, he helped to build the railways through “The Rockies”, worked at mining, also employed in the brothel and cheap bars as a bouncer. If money were hard, and it often was, by all accounts, he would sleep rough. He was one of the thousands of drifters, in and out of all types of work. Yet…he always said, travelling abroad... was the making of the man
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peter.howden
post 20th Sep 2020, 07:38pm
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Hector and Mr Swan...Market gardener Extraordinary(2/3)

Mr Swan, engaged as a market gardener, groundkeeper, all round worker come anything, for the old Glasgow Council, who owned ‘Clydenuek House’... and fields between the ‘Clyde, Blantyre farm Rd, leading up to the old bridge over the river. Hector, under his wing, was so lucky spending hours, almost every day around the big hoose, and the stables in Kylepark drive, with enormous glass hot-houses, filled with amazing sublime moments, during the two long summer months

Just before Hector’s first visit, Mr Swan had been instructed to employ an architect, along with an overpass building firm, to erect a bridge over a fast flowing stream running into the river Clyde. The estimates proved to be one hell of expensive exercise, under their estimate . Mr Swan dismissed their services, then with draughtman basics, finished all the drawings and models himself. Contacted a couple of friends high up in Ravenscraig works to construct in sections, while he began to lay foundations himself. After locking ,fusing and welding each section in place, completed the steel bridge. The whole episode took seven weeks, at a fraction of the amount first recommended .
The house faced the river and at sunset, was just pure magic, highlighting the driveways pebble mixture of golden brown, and pearl of white. The garden consisted of flowers he could not pronounce, or remember, loads of blackberries, gooseberries and three large greens, so soft to walk on. A small wood between the house and the main road heading for the Haughhead Bridge, held bluebell displays in the spring. The bonny river was a cool sight anytime, however, on a summer night it shone its own element of wonder.

He taught Hector how to play open bowls, watch and appreciate his surroundings and animal habitats, no matter where he may be. Mr Swan demonstrated how to shoot a gun in safety, even let Hector hold his shot gun when it was unloaded. His philosophy on shooting was, “you don’t have to be John Wayne, just point it at what you want to hit, then pull the ‘trigger’, but never ever kill, just for the hell of it. If you can convince yourself there is an alternative way, then don’t do it.

Mr Swan cultivated Hector to always set his own challenges ...not your neighbours, or societies or the world... Don’t let anyone use you… stand straight, then dance to you own tune. Mr Swan final quote... if you can get through life without deliberately hurting someone else, then you’ll do all right…but, you have your work cut out complying.

It took Hector a while, to figure out what the astonishing red bearded man meant…but Hector got there…or so he believes.

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peter.howden
post Y'day, 07:20am
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My Chronicles 21/09/2020

Aunt Becky is fine at the moment, but very frail, as the staff take extra care checking regularly of her comfort. Paying money into her personal account, became a problem even though the home and I are with the same bank. Once again Fergus,(Toni’s main man) came to the rescue by using his internet knowledge to solve the problem. I always feel like a wee schoolboy, when he is expertly trying to explain my mistakes.

Although acting to the essential rules of lockdown, Due to sunny weather for a couple of days, Rebecca had many a visitor, flowers and loads presents delivered on the day, and the day before the milestone birthday. Nikki and Emma came to the garden on the 17th, as a chance for us to say goodbye to Emma, before they travelled up to Aberdeen University, for Emma to settle into her rooms. Also, they cunningly left the mutt, at our home for a 36-hour stretch.

Eva(the canine)had never been outside the comfort of her own home in the five years with Nikki, so the pooch was bamboozled and fretting for most of the day and night. In the evening, trying to catch it once it saw me lifting up its lead, was akin to a Charlie Chaplin movie. Once out and some 100 odd metres…it stopped dead, refusing to move. The mutt is strongly built, but having been a rescued dog, previous dreadful issues…most probable gravely treated, she is very panicky. Back home, we attempted to leave the hound in the kitchen, however she made sure we knew she was not happy. Taking the easy way out, transported her bedding into our bedroom… the cur fell asleep quite quickly. When Nikki and Simon returned next evening, Eva was pure delighted, wagging her tail and jumping with sheer delight.

“All we seem to do?”, ‘She who must be obeyed’, said rather downheartedly, “is reminisce into the past!”. As we talked of the confinement, and necessary restriction, it became obvious, having each other, we are more fortunate than a hell of a lot of people, because we have family and close friends, who keep in touch as best, they can

Perhaps I’m scatter-brained, but… Each time I recall by look back, I cannot help but smile, for to win or lose, to have a dream of any sort, believing and nourishing it, walking the walk, talking the talk, allowing it to flourish in daylight …even when peoples think… and tell me, my heed is full of Jorries and wee motors, is worth every breath…every single moment…of my existence
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