The Rural Voice, 1983-06, Page 58OVER THE BACK FENCE
I haven't time
for love
It's a regular pain, spring is. You can
never get a damn thing done. The
weather's always all over the map and
this year it's been a natural disaster,
raining one day and sunny the next and
pouring like the dickens the day after
that. It's enough to make you forget
which way is up. Besides that the trees
don't know whether to bud or turn up
their toes. And the geese are flying in
circles. It's when your life is in this state
that Cupid always strikes.
I got separated not long ago. I don't
recommend it despite the fact it's all the
rage right now. If you're big on living
alone and thinking you're a teenager after
forty, it might be for you. But go slow, it
ain't all it's billed.
For reasons other than the weather I've
been floatin' about in a Great Blue Funk.
It slows rae at the chores. I even quit
whistlin'. Now this Cupid -thing's hit and
I'm acting like a blind colt in the chicken
house. I stumble into things, forget to
shave or brush my teeth. When I do shave
you'd think I was skinning a rabbit -while
it was still running. I look like it, too, as if
I'd brushed my face with a wet red paint
brush. Oh, well, them's the breaks, I
guess.
I took the half -ton into town to pick up
the mail and forgot I had the cement -mix -
Michael McEwan, 7
er hitched on at the back. I nearly made it
through the gate at the end of the lane.
Now I've got to pick up a new gatepost
somewheres.
I met this lady, see. A special sort she
is. A vibrant, lively thing. Frisky, too.
She danced the feet off me. I've been to
dances before. Fact is I rarely miss one,
they are fun, you know. I know half the
ladies there. They're married to my
friends. The other half are married to
somebody else and a few are unattached.
Like most of the guys I usually get up the
nerve to ask for a dance after the third
brew and I try to shuffle about like I do it
for a living. The only one fooled is me.
Anyway, whatever happened last Sat-
urday this one lady asked ME to dance. I
wondered what her angle was but didn't
have the nerve to ask. She was different.
Pretty in a special sort of way and she
carried herself with a superior sort of air
like she knew what she was about. I
found myself thinking about her after I
sat down. I was still thinking of her when
I danced with someone else. And again
the next morning at chores. I've managed
to keep her out of my thoughts with rye
whisky, but it took all week and I had to
hire the neighbour to do the chores.
Keep smilin'. _
Tom Maplewood, originally from the
Ottawa Valley is a Stratford resident and
freelances as a writer of humour. The
name, Tom Maplewood is a pseudonym.
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THE RURAL VOICE, JUNE 1983 PG. 57