My SHILLELAGH AND ME

Sometimes little old ladies are targets. For bullies and blackguards and such. Some doctors, many doctors in fact, see dollar signs when they see one. Which is another reason I stay away from them.

I seem to be particularly prone. In many dimensions. Lots’a guys don’t like what I write or what I say or that I am an outspoken out -of-the-closet atheist.

I’m also a quite noisy opponent of laws that allow private citizens to own assault weapon. Or the right to carry concealed or unconcealed weapons in public. I own a gun. A Smith and Wesson Saturday night special. Just my size, but I have a license. And  I don’t wear it in a holster on my thigh, or in my handbag when I’m out and about.

Still, today, I often find myself in the middle of a parking lot, surrounded by cars and interesting  looking thugs- for lack of a better word- and wonder if I’m going to get me and my shopping basket, filled to the brim with edible goodies, back to and into my car all in one piece. I have had the experience of meeting up with an outraged driver barreling up a narrow parking lot lane with who knows what kind of mayhem  in mind.

Which get me back to my roots. I’m Irish, Scottish and Welsh. Celtic. Fey. A born again Druid in one of my ms favorite fantasies. I really hate to be bullied and I stand my ground. Most bullies don’t understand such behavior and either back off or keep on coming. I know to stand still  and face a runaway horse or a  guard dog with a severe territorial behaviour syndrome. and have, so far, been lucky with the ones I’ve met.

But these are different times. Drugs, alcohol, jobless jerks and  just plain angry lunatics are out in force and number. You meet them where ever where you go.

And so Hammacher Schlemmer, one of my favorite catalog stores, came to my aging aid. I like to forget I’m 82 but a quick look in a mirror or the windows of a passing vehicle slams back  to remind me. “Hello, dear,” the reflection says. “You smell good but you ain’t getting any younger.”

Once I had a loutish lug confront me at my table at Talk Story Book Store-the furthest West book store in the country-to tell me I was dumber than a ‘Pollack’ and then sent me -through the mail-a wrinkle cream ad.

Anyway dear H & S saved me. For a pittance I could buy a genuine walking stick made in Ireland.

I’ve adopted a style. On a lone walk about I swing it forward and tap tap tap the ground. Then if see a potential marauder I pick it up and carry it in one hand like a club. “Come any closer,” she says, she’s a she and I’ve named her Macha, “and you’re apt to get a knock about the  head and shoulders. Don’t screw around with this scrawny old hen.

So far, taking a walk with a walking stick isn’t against the law.

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One Response

  1. we have a good photo to accompany this when it takes it course in dakinetalk blog!

    Like

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