Dear Old Grandad von Possum

In his early years, Grandad fancied himself a bit of a falconer. When he returned from the wars as a young man, he brought with him an accipiter trivirgatus, a marvelous crested goshawk with black stripes on his belly.  He was given the English name of Windbreaker, a loose translation of original Hindi word which meant "the scent of dusk on the river Ganges." Windbreaker would fly for hours at a time, always returning to Grandad's outreached forelock. "Never needed no protection," Gramps would say, "that bird landed on me with the gentleness of a dove." 

Uncle Weddy always told me the story of when he was about nine years old, and Grandad got it in his head that Windbreaker should mate.  He sent away to India for another accipiter, only to have a male arrive by mistake.  The second bird was named Uncle Oscar (after Oscar Wilde) and became fast friends with Windbreaker, so much so that when an appropriate female was corralled from a breeder in Sussex, the two males attacked the poor queen mercilessly, plucking her to within an inch of her life.  "Couple of right tough poofter birds, those two were," Uncle Weddy always laughed.  "Never had no use for 'em in the Queen's army, of course, but as birds, well, nobody's business but their own, I suppose."  It was all short-lived, as Uncle Oscar ended up on the wrong end of a train tunnel while flying about one midwinter's eve.  "After that, Windbreaker, magnificent bugger that he was, became just a shell of himself."

Of course, Windbreaker passed long ago, and Grandad never felt like he could relate to another bird, and his interest in falconry waned as the textile business occupied more and more of his life. Still, since his retirement, he has begun talking more of his "old birds," and often he summons the nurse chickies around his bedside to "sit on me forearm" for a while, remembering the his might days as a warrior for the empire and proud companion of one of nature's greatest creatures of the air.

It's a shame they don't let grandad visit more often...he so gets a thrill out of running through the gardens, chasing the disapproving rabbits through the copse, calling "Onward, Windbreaker, you sick, smelly pipeswaggler, take down that glorified sneering rodent!"  Of course he never catches up with them, and ends up quarrelling with the help as they try to escort him back to the grounds for his nightly meal of kibble and a tumbler of spiced rum to put him to sleep.  Such are the vagaries of age.  Oh, sweet fortune forfend that I should be one to grow old alone, forgotten, dreaming of homosexual pets and living for the thrill of a meaningless chase. 

Comments

[Subhangi]

LMAO! You're good, man.

[momof2kitties]

I repeat my CO comment: "BerthaS FTW! w00t!!

and, note to self: No more drinkies whilst reading this blog. Makes for a messy monitor...

[Subhangi]

A teeny fact though - the Brits never used the word "Hindi", they used "Hindoostani". :P

[Marilyn]

Another chapter in the von Possum saga! Yay!

[Dogbreath]

Bertha's, you take my breath away.

[Ermine_Violin]

I have 2 heroes - You and Teho!

[Katrina]

Dear Berthaservant-

I admire your writing skills. I admire you choice of words in describing our step father. I admire many things about your blog. I guess I admire you, as all of these things are part of you!

Best wishes to you, there re still beautiful things in the world, and the trick is to be open to them as they come along. You seem to have mastered the trick.

Another of the walking wounded, proudly walking,
Katrina

[Gail]

"Poofter birds"!!!!!!!!!!!!

"Rule number five, naow Poofters!!! Yer not a Poofter are ya, New Bruce?"