Its a grand time of year all together, whats with the sun driftin’ back and folks puttin’ the Seasonal Disorder Afflickshun
back in the closet fer a nother few months.
Youconners has burnt off there blues, March has snuck out like a lamb, and I bet you can pritty near get to work and back without even puttin’ yer hi beems on.
But now we got that foolish Daylite Saver Time to deal with till somewheres around Hallow’ean.
Lordy that burns my biskits! It dont save a speck of daylite, jest steals it from the mornin’ when yer nice and fresh and tacks it on at nite when yer dog tired and need some shut eye.
Its best not to get Unkle Walt goin’ on that subject, unlest you got lotsa time and a few blood presshur pills to spare.
“Its sposed to help farmers, but what good is to be gropin’ under a hen fer yer breakfist with an hour left of dark thanks to some office boy thats too lazy to get outta bed at a descent hour?” Walt rants evry year.
“And if the dang guvamints gonna take an hour off of us evry Spring, they shud at least pay intrest and give us an hour and a haff back come Fall.”
Dont know that hes got much of a point on that, but it turns out he was rite that I had’nt otta go razzin’ Eva about what all she dont know about farmin’.
I figgered I had got away with the whopper about weaner pigs. Then I told ‘er that canners and cutters are the folks in a meat packin’ plant that put bully beef in a tin. If the cutters cant cut it then the canners cant can it, I said.
Well she did’nt buy that. She went strait to the computer and put on the googles and found I was pullin’ her leg on the hole kitten caboodle.
“Rodney Doherty, you got more guts than a ten-cent fish” she says. “If you think you can put one over on this old gal, jest you wait till April Fool Day.”
What she dont know is no body can pull off a practickal joke as good as a Spud Islander, and the Doherty clan is known fer pullin’ off some doozys.
One I recall best was when Daddy and Unkle Walt was lads back in the 19 and 30s. The last nite of March they snuck down to the recktry and hung a bunch of ladys daintys on the line.
Poor Father Monahan was near onto 80 years old, and so mortifyed he did’nt set foot outside all week. But come Sunday mornin’ they say he give out his most rousin’ sermon in years.
About how forgiveness is fine and good, but if was up to him there’d be a partickularly warm recepshun in the afterlife fer certain young fellers he wud’nt name from Dingwells Pond.
Walt aint been to Mass ever since.
Yer pal,
