Broken Walk

Today I took out my heavy twelve-pound hammer, broke apart the front walk. It did not yield easily, this walk. Sometimes, after a particularly hard blow with the long-handled tool, a good-sized chunk would free itself, make for a part of my face that usually doesn’t entertain rocks. No real injury, just disconcerting. Yes, disconcerting, I’d say. So the walk is broken up, with the big pieces residing in the back of the pickup now. Where they’ll go from there is anyone’s guess; the truck doesn’t steer so well--a major impediment to taking it out on the highways. I may be able to do something to free up the steering. Maybe not. In any case, I’ll widen the area of the old walk, make for a larger pathway out front, a more impressive entrance to the little house. I am trying to think of ways to make the place look grander than it really is-without overdoing it. So far I have no plans to install little cement statues of cupid flanking the entranceway. But that may change.

I read in the news that the Brits have found a way to discourage youngsters from loitering—especially around businesses, where they create all kinds of mischief. They turn on a device called “The Mosquito,” the nuisance machine emitting a high-pitched scream or whistle that the little blighters can hear, but that anyone over twenty-five cannot. The bobbies and store owners and anyone who doesn’t want the little guttersnipes around swear by the thing. It works wonders, they say. Once turned on, the noise chases the whippersnappers away, the urchins holding their hands over their ear as they run as far from the offensive noise as they can. There are mixed feelings about this, with the store owners saying that it is a wonderful way for them to carry on with their business, and the youngster crowd saying that maybe they shouldn’t be victimized by a screaming whistle machine—that, given their druthers, they’d just as soon do without it. So there is some controversy over this.

So back to the fable: The lion has been listening patiently to the beasts—wild and domesticated—as they complain as one about Reynard the fox. No one has a complaint about the pig or the goat or the hen, or anyone else for that matter. They’ve all come to badmouth Reynard. Finally his nephew gives a little speech, in the incomprehensible English they used in the woods back then. Here is the gist of what he has to say about his poor uncle Reynard: First, he says that his uncle hardly ever goes out any more, is mostly a recluse, has given up meat altogether, and relies on the charity of strangers for handouts. He stays at home and repents his sins, says his nephew, son of Reynard’s sister.
No sooner have the last words left his mouth than a goat or some other animal comes running. Arriving at the king’s court all out of breath, he holds up the carcass of a handsome hen.
“Look!” Reynard just bit this hen’s head off!” The timing couldn’t be worse. All of them gathered there knew this hen of course, knew that this was fairly typical of Reynard. All eyes turn towards the nephew.
The king has some stern words for the kin of Reynard, points to the hen, which no one has proved was Reynard’s work, says something to the effect of:
“So, Reynard spends his days in penance, huh? Just idling away the time, waiting for handouts, not even venturing out of the house much?”
He then orders that the hen shall have a dignified burial with some kind of ceremony as befits the hen’s high station in life.

I should point out that, although I’ve credited the entities that have created the work I reference, these same have mentioned that they believe the fable is in the public domain, no real harm in using it for academic or non-academic purposes--or to include in the random scribblings contained herein.