Waves
and more Waves ©
By
Michael Casey
Well Taylor
Swift has just given me a rushed rendition of her latest album, whatever it is
called, I was too busy squeezing my spots to hear exactly what she said. So she
stood where the Christmas tree will be in just 5 months’ time and sung it for me.
She knows I don’t stream so she flew over to give me a personal rendition, her
bloke lives in UK after all, and it killed two birds with one stone. Then she
did a bit of dusting, the high dusting, she is rather tall after all, especially
if I lend her my high heels. Then I gave her a cup of tea, the cheap stuff from
Tesco, she’s American she can’t tell the difference, and a slice of my home
made cake, I don’t trust my daughters’ baking skills, so it would have gone in
the bin otherwise, Totoro our cat refuses to eat it. Then we air kissed and she
was gone in a puff of Fairy Dust, it’s some perfume Celine flogged her.
Now
where was I, I’ll open the window, Fairy Dust does not appeal to me, why do
ladies wear such rubbish, CK One is good enough, I can steal the litre bottle
from their voluminous bags, it’ll last me a year, CK One, perfect for fat silver
haired writers in shades from Birmingham England. But don’t tell Taylor what I
said about Fairy Dust or she’ll cry, Celine won’t mind, she’s an old mate of
mine, but that’s another story.
Waves
that’s what I was going to talk about today before I’m off to Saint Judes
Chicago for Mass, no I don’t have a private jet, do you think Taylor would let
me on hers? I should cocoa, with a flake in. Taylor will come and sing and dust
for me, but get on her plane? I should cocoa, besides they’d have to strap me
down, and I only allow straps when I’m role playing, but I never discuss my own
private predilections, what shade of grey is my hair anyway?
A wave
is a motion on the sea, and that’s why you get sea sick and puke over the rail
on the ferry to Kerry. Have you noticed
too why sailors spit first before they throw the left overs over the side?
It’s to test the wind, otherwise what they throw will come back at them, then
their bell bottoms will be full of left overs, so spit first, throw second. Simple
really. My Maternal grandfather was actually in the Merchant Navy so my mother
told me, and if you look at Cromane Lower Kerry Eire on the map you’ll see that
you can spit from the house and your spit will land in the sea.
From the
strand there you can make pebbles skip on the sea over the waves, next stop,
USA. This really is one of the most beautiful places on God’s earth, if you Google
Earth you can see it for yourself, opposite is Inch and the Dingle peninsula
where Ryan’s Daughter was filmed long ago now. So when I go to Ireland that’s
the rush, the wave of emotion I get, I am coming home. This is where my mother
was born. Sadly it’s too long since I was there, but the memories of waves of laughter
and love remain.
Emotion is a wave, it springs up from inside, how
deep, how far until it breaks the surface and roars up the beach to crash on
the sands that are your heart depends on who you are. Cromane Lower Killorglin
County Kerry Eire is the place to visit, and if it’s beauty does now move you
then you are already dead. So imagine what it was like for mum and for dad too
to come to Smethwick in 1944, compared to the beauty of Kerry. Though dad did
appreciate the pubs on every street corner he was a lad of not yet 23 then, and
working in a steel works every foundryman did.
We also
wave at people we love, long waves, short waves, suppressed waves that end in
tears in tissues. Nobody saw my parents off from Kerry and they were greeted
with DDT when they arrived from the fresh air of Kerry to Britain’s shores
still at War. Parents and Grandparents wave at end other through windows as
they leave, or through Covid 19 plastic defences. The Internet has leapt forward
and all our lives have changed as we wave at each other via WhatsApp, we notice
how old we all look via the Internet. Or we lie and say just how beautiful they
are, with hair like Hippies, but grandpa says this is how he was in the 60s.
Sound Waves
join us all, the Radio has returned with Community and people being united as
the music plays, a captive audience maybe. You even have 12 hours of my Audio
on my Typepad if you want to hear my real voice, not the voice you imagine as
you listen to me here on the screen. So waves of sound save our souls as we
endure the boredom of Covid 19, back in 1944 my dad had to be a fire watcher at
night, just in case any Nazi bomber got through. I did hear a tale about Cape
Hill but was that a tale or a mixed up memory. Only those in their high 90s
will know for sure, such as my mother’s still living friends. Though I do know
USA army did hide in Warley Woods prior to Dday, and one street was driven through
for the tanks, but local history buffs will explain it all to you.
So the waves
move up and down, the waves of emotion driven by the sands of time that are
History. Until all our sand has ran out, we have no more time, people wave us
off at the graveyard, Covid 19 restrictions permitting. We awake on the other side
of Death, we are walking on a beach at Cromane and we can see, finally see past
the waves and see who made those other set of footprints in the sand. You meet
your Lord.
