Monday, April 10, 2006
A Curly and Disturbing Tale
Recently Lindsay and Emily posted about dead animals and it brought up memories from my childhood.
Ahh yes, I remember those ripe and lovely summer days immediately after the passing on of Mr. Possum. I believe that Mr. Possum, being depressed and having nowhere to turn, decided that the woes of this life were not worth living and so he took chances for the adrenaline high that momentarily took away his feelings of loneliness and sadness that brought on his depression.
This happened in the days before knowledge of Xtreme sports had reached the general populous, which limited his search for the thrill, though his financial hardships also contributed to limiting his activity. He tried bicycle jumps and motocross, and was just getting into Supercross when, after climbing into a paperbag with Mr. Skunk, to huff himself into a high on his fumes, he came up with an idea for a new thrill: Mr. Possum would streak (a condition born more of nature than design) on the road in front of my house, running in front of cars and trucks, and looking for the ultimate thrill -- The Mac Truck.
He streaked in front of a Volkswagon Beetle and then a new Ford F-Series and then a motorcycle (traffic was running a bit slow). As he was recovering from his most recent crossing, he saw it: a glorious Freightliner, bearing down on him. If he had not allowed his boredom to force him in front of the motorcycle, he would have had more energy, more speed, but, alas, his energy depleated, he could not let this chance pass.
Out he ran . . . heart racing, marsupillian lungs sucking in air with all their might but failing to get enough to stop the aching in his chest. Now he passes the first wheel, now the bumper . . . he hears the ominous crunch of gravel as the tire approaches and he uses his last surge of energy to push himself outside its edge . . . as relief surged through his small and unattractive body, a schoolbus smashed him flat.
Now, Mr. Possum sat in the road outside our house for months, spewing the stench of rot and decay, but no one wanted to risk joining him his fate to arrange a proper burial. There he sat, slowly deflating until all that remained was a worn and weathered coat in the far lane.
Then one day, a work-crew began to prepare our street for painting. “At last,” we thought, “Mr. Possum will receive the burial he deserves. Some say that it was a street sweeper that placed Mr. Possum in the exact middle of the street, others believe that it was the truck that was painting the lines, but, either way, that is where Mr. Possum was when the line was painted: Right in the middle of the road, where the yellow line belonged. And so Mr. Possum’s sad story ended with the symbol that so adequately matched his love of adventure: a racing stripe.
Ahh yes, I remember those ripe and lovely summer days immediately after the passing on of Mr. Possum. I believe that Mr. Possum, being depressed and having nowhere to turn, decided that the woes of this life were not worth living and so he took chances for the adrenaline high that momentarily took away his feelings of loneliness and sadness that brought on his depression.
This happened in the days before knowledge of Xtreme sports had reached the general populous, which limited his search for the thrill, though his financial hardships also contributed to limiting his activity. He tried bicycle jumps and motocross, and was just getting into Supercross when, after climbing into a paperbag with Mr. Skunk, to huff himself into a high on his fumes, he came up with an idea for a new thrill: Mr. Possum would streak (a condition born more of nature than design) on the road in front of my house, running in front of cars and trucks, and looking for the ultimate thrill -- The Mac Truck.
He streaked in front of a Volkswagon Beetle and then a new Ford F-Series and then a motorcycle (traffic was running a bit slow). As he was recovering from his most recent crossing, he saw it: a glorious Freightliner, bearing down on him. If he had not allowed his boredom to force him in front of the motorcycle, he would have had more energy, more speed, but, alas, his energy depleated, he could not let this chance pass.
Out he ran . . . heart racing, marsupillian lungs sucking in air with all their might but failing to get enough to stop the aching in his chest. Now he passes the first wheel, now the bumper . . . he hears the ominous crunch of gravel as the tire approaches and he uses his last surge of energy to push himself outside its edge . . . as relief surged through his small and unattractive body, a schoolbus smashed him flat.
Now, Mr. Possum sat in the road outside our house for months, spewing the stench of rot and decay, but no one wanted to risk joining him his fate to arrange a proper burial. There he sat, slowly deflating until all that remained was a worn and weathered coat in the far lane.
Then one day, a work-crew began to prepare our street for painting. “At last,” we thought, “Mr. Possum will receive the burial he deserves. Some say that it was a street sweeper that placed Mr. Possum in the exact middle of the street, others believe that it was the truck that was painting the lines, but, either way, that is where Mr. Possum was when the line was painted: Right in the middle of the road, where the yellow line belonged. And so Mr. Possum’s sad story ended with the symbol that so adequately matched his love of adventure: a racing stripe.
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Sadly, Ty is not making this up. I can, having lived in the same charming little Cape Cod house at the time, verify that the story is true.
Well, I'm not sure about the thrill-seeking bits, or if the vehicle of Mr. Possum's final demise was a school bus--although memories of our crazy bus driver lend creedence to the theory.
The line-painting bit? Completely true. There was a racing stripe right down the middle of poor Mr. Possum's carcass. Ty and I fought over who had to get the mail because Mr. Possum's final resting place was uncomfortably close to our mail box.
Mom kept threatening to take a picture and send it in with a letter to the editor of the town newspaper, but I don't think she ever got around to it. A pity, that.
Well, I'm not sure about the thrill-seeking bits, or if the vehicle of Mr. Possum's final demise was a school bus--although memories of our crazy bus driver lend creedence to the theory.
The line-painting bit? Completely true. There was a racing stripe right down the middle of poor Mr. Possum's carcass. Ty and I fought over who had to get the mail because Mr. Possum's final resting place was uncomfortably close to our mail box.
Mom kept threatening to take a picture and send it in with a letter to the editor of the town newspaper, but I don't think she ever got around to it. A pity, that.
Good one. My mom and I got a good kick out of it. On what are you writing your thesis? Would love to read it.
New Testament quotations of Epiphanius (an obscure Greek father) of Salamis (i.e. Constantia on Cyprus), as a tool for exploitation in early Byzantine Christianity.
BTW I saw your old OC apartment last week. Ahh, the "good old days."
BTW I saw your old OC apartment last week. Ahh, the "good old days."
And that, dear friends, is the short answer.
What have we learned today, children? NEVER ask Ty what his Thesis is about!
What have we learned today, children? NEVER ask Ty what his Thesis is about!
HEY, it took me MONTHS to work it down that far.
Besides, the real danger in the current blog is commenting on my almost biblical use of the historical present in my story.
Was it part of a Sea Voyage Narrative (Robbins).Was it part of one of my sources(E. Haenchen, I think)? Was it used for vividness (traditional Classics view)? Was it used as an indication of plot flow (Osburn)? Or was it an unconscious refrence to Bill Cosby's Russell My Brother . . . (me). The last is the most likely case for my useage but the biblical writers were most likely not familiar with Dr. Cosby. For them, I think option one is excluded by immediate context, two and three are ruled out by inconsistent use, therefore, until another option presents itself, the penultimate answer will have to suffice for their writings, though I am not quite convinced.
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Besides, the real danger in the current blog is commenting on my almost biblical use of the historical present in my story.
Was it part of a Sea Voyage Narrative (Robbins).Was it part of one of my sources(E. Haenchen, I think)? Was it used for vividness (traditional Classics view)? Was it used as an indication of plot flow (Osburn)? Or was it an unconscious refrence to Bill Cosby's Russell My Brother . . . (me). The last is the most likely case for my useage but the biblical writers were most likely not familiar with Dr. Cosby. For them, I think option one is excluded by immediate context, two and three are ruled out by inconsistent use, therefore, until another option presents itself, the penultimate answer will have to suffice for their writings, though I am not quite convinced.
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