AS I SAW IT

[Leslie]

AS I SAW IT


When she called me in for lunch I told her I thought it was because the wood was old. She didn’t show a lot of interest, but she never does, not my wife, not in my hobbies.
“I think the wood has grown hard with age,” I said to her.
“Not like you then,” she answered dishing up potatoes.
I smiled, because I thought she was suggesting I’d mellowed over the years. She noticed the smile.
“I meant in the head – soft in the head,” she blew through the steam rising off the spuds.
Took my smile away. Didn’t spoil my appetite though; I’m used to her attitude. I tucked in.
“It is old wood, though,” I reminisced as I manipulated knife and fork – I’m quite handy with tools.
She continued to chew, responsive as a ruminating cow.
“Walter made that table for his final handicrafts exam,” I carried on, ‘cause my own voice echoing around the room was more friendly than the atmosphere of boiled potatoes and cabbage trembling to the squishing of her mastications.
Walter is our son and he’s been married twenty years now so you can see how old the table was. The joints were giving out and we didn’t really have a use for it any way; we’d offered it to Walter but he didn’t want it either so I was taking it to pieces – you never know when a piece of timber might come in useful.
I’d spent ages sawing down the length of the table-top; my arm and shoulder were aching from working that saw up and down. That’s why I thought the wood must have hardened with age, ‘cause it shouldn’t have been such hard work.
Which was rather like the job I was having chewing the chicken meat from the ‘drumstick’ on my plate. I remarked on it.
“The chicken’s tough, “ I said. “ Judging by this leg the bird must have taken part in a few marathons before they caught up with it. Probably like the wood, got tough with age.”
My wife replied, “Humph,” and carried on chewing.
“I’m having trouble chewing it,” I explained.
My wife replied, “Humph.”
“It’s remarkably tough for chicken,” I declared, feeling that my predicament deserved a more sympathetic hearing.
“More likely your teeth are worn out,” she answered briefly and resumed her masticatory pollution of the aromatic silence..
Why should my teeth be more worn out than hers? We’d eaten the same meals for the past forty-five years. Could be a difference in the dentine, inherited genes and all that. Mind you, she was probably coping with the meat better than I was because her jaw muscles were stronger, they certainly got a lot more exercise than mine ever did.
She’d given me an idea, though: if my teeth were worn out and making heavy going of the chicken perhaps the same sort of trouble was afflicting the saw – it was pretty old.
Right after lunch I went out and treated myself to a new saw. What a difference! I was down the length of that table top in no time and wasn’t in need of a new arm at the end of it..
Taking some of the panels apart I discovered tongue and groove joins. There was neither need nor purpose in slicing off lengths of tongue, but having those new teeth and some wicked thoughts I did enjoy doing so.

[Danté]

Leslie,

I enjoyed this. You have some great vocabulary and humour here, I especially enjoyed the teeth and with the sawing and how it is all interwoven, it seems poetic to me.

I look forward to reading further work if you decide to post any.

cheers

Danté

[Leslie]

Thanks for comment. Am trying to complete another piece but that handicap called work is getting in the way.
Please note that the odd bit at the bottom of that page ( abouth the unpleasantness within) is not of my manufacture and certainly undesirable.