I don’t recall Hans ever being angry with me, but I do remember that the poor guy was bored with some of the outings we took because of my work. Then, again, he did correct some of my expressions I’d picked up in my childhood.
My mom immigrated to Canada from Russia and picked up English and French. I picked up some of her sentence structures. Although Hans had immigrated to the U.S. from Vienna himself and English wasn’t his first language, he spoke and wrote it perfectly. Let’s face it, the guy was smarter than me — and funny — and I’m sure, at times, I did tax his patience.
Poor Hans accompanied me to many events I had to cover. The other day when I found this poem and reread it, I laughed. I hope you get a kick out of it too.
P A T I E N C E .
When she says ‘who’ instead of ‘whom’ I do not send her to her room, I patiently correct her once, or twice, or thrice. She’s not a dunce. And tell her when it’s ‘may’ – not ‘can’. I am, indeed, a patient man.
When she invites me to a bash and all I get is turkey hash and then, for breakfast, Decaf, brewed, have I complained, lamented, sued? Invoked the bible, the Koran? No, I’m indeed a patient man.
When I was dragged to ‘Dead Man’s Gulch’, that gross, dung-aggregated mulch of cinematographic Kitsch. Was I observed to gripe, to bitch? No – come and go, ten blocks I ran I am a very patient man. By God, I am a patient man.
When she broke up my mountain weekend when manage-editing had freakened my well deserved week’s recreation with job-caused crass abomination. Did I kick her in the can? No – I’m a very patient man. I am, indeed, a patient man.
A favourite blog of mine is: smalltownmusing.wordpress.com. In her blog, Jaya often shares old, delightful tales which I enjoy. I’m jealous. I wanted to share some too, but found I couldn’t remember them. I must have heard some, but they’re lost somewhere in those numerous, old files in my brain and I can’t seem to find them. So today I decided to write about a forgotten story.
A FORGOTTEN STORY…
Too bad the story was forgotten. It may have been a nice story, warm, sensitive, perhaps even amusing. We’ll never know because, unfortunately, the story was forgotten.
Who forgot it will never be known, but it must have been a very uninspired person. Perhaps more than one person forgot the story because surely if it was a really nice story, more than one person must have known it. Maybe they all forgot it at the same time.
Was it about a dragon? A knight in shining armour? A circus? A young girl? Was it sad? Or happy? No one knows. How could they. It was, after all, forgotten.
And who cares? Stories are a dime a dozen, but a nice, warm, sensitive, perhaps amusing story like this one? Why don’t I remember it?
No, it should not have been forgotten. It is a shame it was, but it was — by me.