Llanelli Turk 'Cariad'

Chapter Ten . Women Lunatics

'The Harvest Moon'

Chapter Ten

Women Lunatics

*This chapter 'Women Lunatics' is in screenplay form held by a Los Angeles agent to be made into a film. (Copyrighted).

My Father was a good man, so I was told, a few dozen times, around the time of his funeral. He had a good send-off. Saying that, I wonder what a bad send-off would be like. For me, it would be no one showing up, not even the wife. The day was not exactly a funeral day, weather wise. It was warm and sunny and on a Monday. - What a dismal way to start one's week. By Friday it's all forgotten about, 'life must go on' as they say, except for my Mother and Henry and Me, of course.

My dad's passing on changed us all...

We were all going through our own crisis in one way or another at the time of father's death. Mum with her menopause and perplexing moods. Henry with his LSD experimenting, and related psychoses. And poor me; horny, acne'd, slightly confused with being 14 years old, and above all, in a desperate need of attention and guidance. I had lost my sense of direction; all the things a father should give his growing son. I'm being a melancholic man and all the world surrounds me, but I'm not going to be that man, because I've listened to all the good voices of my short past; Uncle Hugh, Daddy, Sister Angela and dear Mr. Tarpin, rest his soul... I reckon his souls somewhere in India, as a novice Hindu or Buddhist monk or maybe enjoying a pint of good old heavens brew together with my dad...

Who knows?

'THE FAULT, DEAR BRUTUS..., IS NOT WITH OUR STARS..., BUT WITH OURSELVES...! I shouted at the top of my voice from the top of a tree in the middle of Lone wood. The crows looked duly at me. They were my only audience.

He was, of course, the 'bestest father in the world', and that comes from my heart and mind with fond memories in tow, and tow them I shall, until it's my turn to depart this cosmic spot of dust we call earth, or to be more precise, soil.

One early memory I have, actually the earliest - without the need of a hypnotherapist; who would if the fee were right, take me to the time I was in the Napoleonic war. ...Is of me at only three years old sitting up bored in my old black Victorian style pram, not at all interested in the row of rattling gollywogs, which I had already half squeezed to death. To my horror they wouldn't go away, they just dangled there staring at me. The only thing I liked about them was that they were black. Their colour matched my pram. ...So there, I was sitting up in my pram looking at the sad black-umbrellered-whispering people, standing around a freshly dug hole. Their grim-faced, double-chinned, downward glare made me wonder. What is down there...? Is there somebody trying to come up from the hole...? Is it a trap...? Then they bent down and stuck their hands in the soggy, filthy wet dirt. With a small hand full each; they threw the dirt down into the hole.

'What the heck's going on here', I must have thought.

Whoever or whatever is down there, they don't seem to like.

The answer my friend, was blowing in the wind, as some nice chap on the radio would sing. - Why? After all these years, I didn't care to ask someone. Maybe I was afraid of a harsh reply, because of the religious overtones. When I did finally find out, or in my case was shown the answer, it suited me down to the 'ground' as it simply reminds us of our mortality - that 'you are dust, and to dust you shall return', reminding us of the shortness of human life, for it is said; 'Earth to Earth, Ashes to Ashes, Dust to Dust'. According to the Bible, God said these words to Adam (Genesis 3:19). Therefore, to me these words, spoken at my father's funeral were the most 'down-to -earth'.