Posts Tagged ‘ BLARNEY ’

A CHANCE MEETING WITH MY FAVORITE LEPRECHAUN

THE HUMAN RACE

 

  

A CHANCE MEETING WITH MY FAVORITE LEPRECHAUN

 

Not too long ago,

I was walking down the street minding me own business when

when I heard a rustling of leaves coming from high in a maple tree.

When I looked up, there was Francis Archibald O’Leary with

that waggish face beaming down at me.

He was trapped, clinging to a spindly branch that barely supported his portly Leprechaun frame.

“Top of the mornin’, chappy!” hecalled, tipping his topper.

Up to that point in my life,

I had been a logical kind of guy who believed that elves, mermaids, gremlins,

pixies, brownies, even gnomes were figments of our imagination. But I must admit that

I’ve known my share of Leprechaunic folk the size of Billy Barty.

So there high above me was Francis, oozing blarney winking down with

impish green eyes magnified by bifocals.

As sure as St. Patrick drove all the snakes from Ireland, I had

never met a more whimsical character than the one whose coattail was

was caught in the branches.

“Before you forsake me,” he pleaded, “would

you be up to doin’ a kind deed?”

I shot him an skeptical glance.

“Wouldn’t you agree, it’d be unmerciful

to leave a body trapped in a tree on such a fine kite-flying day?” he rattled on.

“How’d you get up there?” I asked.

“Would you believe I was tryin’ to getcloser to heaven?” he snorted.

“If I help you down, will you give me an interview?” I asked.

“Yer pullin’ me leg,” he howled.

As I began to walk away,” he hollered after me:

“Unless yer interested in talkin’ to the descendent of Ireland’s King Timothy O’Leary?

That’s me, you see!”

No sooner did I help him down that he pushed

out his double chin and tossed me a cockeyed smile.

“Timothy O’Leary was not really a King,”

he explained showing no guilt. “He was more like the

chief of a clan in County Cork. But King

Leary did exist. And his same blood

trickles through my veins and those of

my sons, Shawn, Kevin and Bryan. They

are all sturdy lads.”

“Just where on the Emerald Isle do you

hail from?”

“Sad to say, I’ve never been to

Ireland. My father, Timothy

raised nine of us on an estate in Cambridge,

Mass. where he was a groundskeeper.”

“Are you truly one of the Little People?” I asked.

“Not only am I the largest leprechaun in the world,

I’m the only one with an engineering degree; one

who works with rainbows, pots of gold, taxes,

and has an enchanting wife named Allie who teaches

college calculus. Just think of me as an overgrown

elf with supernatural powers. That’s me!”

That spiel was the beginning of a friendship

that lasted far more than a blink of an eye.

Before we parted, I asked, using tax lingo,

“Francis, would you be up to granting your

rescuer three promissory wishes?”

“Brace yourself,” he said puffing up his

chest and pouching out his belly:

“May the road rise up to meet ya. There’s

one… May the wind be always at yer back…

And here’s me favorite: May you be in heaven

ten minutes before the devil knows yer dead!”

Right there in front of me, Francis vanished

in a puff of smoke leaving the scent of

Irish Spring in his wake.

Francis Archibald O’Leary was truly a happy soul.

Right now, I’ll wager he’s at a place, far above

the maple tree, shuffling his twinkle toes,

dancing a jig. The sight of him will surely cause

old St. Peter to open wide his gates.

And, may I add, leave the many friends he

left behind with heartfelt memories.

Toodleoo, old pal.

In Irish, that means good-bye.

 

— Boots LeBaron —

 

(Frank, a physicist and former U.S. Marine,died on Valentine’s Day last year when I wrote this story.

He was born in Cambridge,Mass. in 1927)

http://www.amazon.com/Human-Race-Boots-LeBaron/dp/1494218526/ref=sr_1_1?ie=UTF8&qid=1458011225&sr=8-1&keywords=boots+lebaron

 

 

A PRE ST. PATRICK’S DAY MEETING WITH A LEPRECHAUN.

THE HUMAN RACE

TOODLEOO TO MY OLD PAL FRANK O’LEARY (1927-2015)

 

Not too long ago,

I was walking down the street

when I heard the

 rustling of leaves

coming from high in

a maple tree.

When I looked up, there was

Francis Arichibald O’Leary with

that waggish face beaming down

at me. He was clinging to a spindly

branch that barely supported

his portly Leprechaun frame.

“Top of the mornin’, chappy!” he

called, tipping his topper.

“And the rest of the day to yerself,”

I said after a moment of hesitation.

For up to that point in my life,

I had been a reasonably logical guy

able to distinguish fantasy from reality.

At an early age, I came to believe that

elves, mermaids, gremlins, pixies,

brownies, even gnomes, were all

figments of our imagination,

conjured up to make human existence

more entertaining — dramatic.

Yet, there clung Francis with a

cluster of shamrocks sticking out of

his hatband, winking down at me

with a set of impish green eyes

magnified by bifocals.

Since I had met my share of leprechauns,

as sure as St. Patrick drove all the

snakes from Ireland, I’d never met one

who was more whimsical than Francis whose

coattail was caught in the branches.

“Before you forsake me,” he pleaded, “would

you be up to doin’ a kind deed?”

I shot him a skeptical glance.

“Wouldn’t you agree:  it’d be unmerciful

to leave a body stuck up in a tree on

such a fine kite-flying day?” he asked

“How’d you get up there?” I said.

“Would you believe I was tryin’ to get

closer to heaven?” he snorted.

“If I help you down, will

you give me an interview?”

“Yer pullin’ me leg,” he howled.

“Maybe you’re right,” I said.   As I  began to

walk away,” he hollered at my back:

“Unless yer interested in talkin’ to the

descendent of Ireland’s King Timothy O’Leary.”

He pressed a thumb to his chest.  “This is me!”

The minute I helped him down, he pushed

out his double chin and explained with a

cockeyed grin, “Timothy O’Leary was not

really a king.  He was more like the

chief of a clan in County Cork.  But King

Leary did exist.  And his same blood

trickles through my veins and those of

my sons, Shawn, Kevin and Bryan.

They are all sturdy lads.”

“And where on the Emerald Isle do you

hail from?” I asked.

“Sad to say, I’ve never been to

Ireland.  My father, Timothy raised

 nine of us on an estate in Cambridge,

Mass. where he was a groundskeeper.”

“Are you truly a leprechaun?” I asked.

“Not only am I the largest leprechaun in the world,

I’m the only one with an engineering degree; one

who works with rainbows, pots of gold, taxes,

and has an adorable wife named Allie who teaches

college calculus. Think of me as an overgrown elf with

supernatural powers. That’s me!”

That spiel was the beginning of a friendship

that lasted many years.

Before we parted, I asked, using tax lingo,

“Don’t I get three promissory wishes, Francis?”

“Brace yourself,” he said taking a deep breath.

“May the road rise up to meet ya. There’s

one… May the wind be always at yer back…

And here’s me favorite: May you be in heaven

ten minutes before the devil knows yer dead!”

With that, Francis vanished in a puff of smoke.”

He was such a happy, unpredictable soul.

Passing away on Valentine’s Day

was so befitting the one time U.S. Marine,

aerospace physicist who dabbled in programs

 ranging from the  Atlas ICBM propulsion

system, analysing military ground support systems,

to kibitzing beach city politicians who for years

tolerated his magnificent blarney.

Right now, I’ll wager he’s gettin’ ready

to celebrate St. Patrick’s day,

dancing a jig in some cloud in the sky

far above the maple tree. That

performance, spiced with a touch

of pure O’Learyism will generate

enough razzmatazz to cause old

St. Peter to open wide his gates.

And leave the many friends he left

behind with heartfelt memories.

Toodleoo, old pal.

In Irish, that means good-bye.

 

— Boots LeBaron —

 

Love from Boots, JoAnne, and family.

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