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)
Click to buy The Human Race by Boots LeBaron avail at Amazon and Kindle.
Boots LeBaron's World 