July 4, 2019, prompt: In 99 words (no more, no less) write a story using your choice of microhistory from Keweenaw National Historic Park. Be historical, funny, or flagrantly fictional. Choose a character, time, place, or event. Be as creative as you want in telling the story (for those doing serials, how can you meld this into your own storyline?). Go where the prompt leads!
The Tale of Michael Finnegan “There was an old man named Michael Finnegan He grew whiskers on his chinnegan Along came the wind and blew them inegan Poor old Michael Finnegan, beginegan!”
The strains of the rhyme reached Michael’s ears, and he smiled, rubbing his hairless chin. It had been no secret that he’d never been able to grow a beard. At first, it frustrated him. No one took him seriously. This fresh-faced whippersnapper, arriving from Ireland, wanting to do business. And the kids made up this silly rhyme that used to annoy him. Not now. Beard or no beard, he’d made his fortune!
What Happened To The Troll? “Who’s that trip-trapping over my bridge?” Troll thought. He was way beyond the whole growling at the trespasser stage now. It had been quite fun to start with. His dad had reminisced about this bridge all the time, though he was loathe to go into much detail about why he left. “Dastardly goats!” was all he would mutter if they ever talked about his past home. Still, before he passed on, his wish was to see his old home once more so the family took him. Troll was entranced by the beauty of the bridge. It was a beautiful stone arch, spanning over a babbling brook, and the grass appeared to have taken over a bit. “Well, that’s not gonna help a troll know when a meal is passing, is it?” Dad muttered. “The grass is going to muffle all the hoofsteps!” TrollI decided then and there, that this would be his new home, when it was time to venture out alone. It was a great place to live. No one really disturbed him much, and the fish was fresh and plentiful. All great, except for the goats. There was a particular set, who took great joy in making a right racket when crossing from one side to another. It was like they were trying to goad him. Multiple times a day, they would trip-trap over the bridge, and Troll started out by calling, “Who’s that trip-trapping over my bridge?” The only answer he got was a bleaty giggle, then the sound of hooves scurrying away. Troll gave up answering after a while. Then, one day, he had a visitor. Instead of crossing the bridge, a small goat kid had slowly stepped his way down the bank and stood, staring at Troll in fascination. “Who are you? Go away!” Troll wasn’t used to company. “I’m Billy,” the goat bleated, “Billy the Kid. Are you the Big Bad Troll?” “I might be,” Troll answered, “Why?” “My grandpa Big Billy Gruff talks about you all the time.” “Me? But I don’t know your grandpa.” “Oh. But he said you were long gone, and that after he’d sorted you out, there was no way you would have ever come back. I just wanted to see for myself.” “Hang on – could it be my dad he’s talking about? My dad used to live here a long time ago, but he would never talk about why he left.” Billy giggled, in his bleaty way. “That’s cos he was butted out!” “What? Butted out? But he was the greatest Troll ever. No. You must be mistaken. My dad didn’t like goats, I know that much, but there’s no way a goat defeated him!” “I think you need to meet my grandpa.” A few days later, Billy called down to Troll, “Oh Mr Troll, my grandpa Billy wants to see you!” Troll had been snoozing, so he rubbed the sleep away from his eyes and traipsed up the bank, to be confronted by the largest goat he had ever seen. “Hmmm,” the large animal slowly trip-trapped around him. “You’re quite like him, but he was definitely uglier.” “I beg your pardon! I’m the ugliest Troll out there, I’ll have you know!” “Ugly, yes, but not the ugliest. That was definitely your father. Rude chap he was.” Grandpa Billy gave a loud bleat, “Little Billy! Middle Billy! Trip-trap over here, quickly! You need to see this!” Troll looked over to see two other large goats approaching them. “Him!” the smaller one bleated. “Big! I thought you said he wouldn’t be back!” “That’s not him, Little,” the middle sized one bleated. ”I’d know him anywhere. This one looks, well, cleaner.” Troll had always prided himself on his Troll-like appearance. He may have been ugly, but no one could ever say he was untidy, or dirty. He pulled himself up straighter, chest out. “Right,” Grandpa Billy looked at him. “So, what are you doing here? I thought I made it clear to your father that there was to be no trolling to be happening here on our bridge? We don’t appreciate threats to eat us up. And if you have any ideas, you should see my son, Kid’s father. He’s bigger than me. The horns on that boy! Makes me proud. I only sent your father flying down the river. A butt from my son would send you into space!” “Er, look, Mr Grandpa Billy sir, I don’t want to cause any distress. I don’t know what happened with my dad and you, but I assure you, I just want to enjoy the bridge and the scenery. I won’t bother you.” “But you’re a Troll! You want to eat us!” Billy the Kid shuffled closer to his grandpa, not having realised the danger he’d put himself in, approaching this dangerous creature. “Eat you? Oh, my goodness, no! I don’t eat goats! I decided, quite early on, that it would be a pescatarian life for me. A bit of a disappointment to my dad, I was, but no. I never liked the taste. You’re perfectly safe with me.” Big Billy guffawed in his bleaty way, “A pescatarian Troll. Whatever next?” And that’s how it came to be that the Troll and the Billy Goats Gruff ended up living in peace. If you go there at certain times of the day, you’ll see Troll, calmly fishing for his supper, with Grandpa Billy grazing at the grass along the bank, and Billy the Kid prancing around, trip-trapping over the bridge. It’s really quite a serene sight.
Okay… I have to admit it… I don’t always know everything…
Google Image
A couple of weeks back, I had to head into London for the first of a two day training course for work. It was a pretty straightforward journey, though the walk from the station to the venue was fun, with my phone map taking me on a merry ride!
I do like having the day out to learn new things with other like-minded professionals, and was excited at the prospect of the second day out, which was yesterday.
Then I got an email to say the venue had changed.
It was still London, but East London, and that meant I had to find a different way of getting there.
All the route planner apps gave me long winded ways to arrive, insisting that I had to leave at the crack of dawn and take 6,000 different tube trains, to get there for 8.30am (yes, 6,000 is a bit of an exaggeration, but what’s a little retelling without a bit of embellishment?) ready for registration.
I sat and chatted with my Bro in Law (BIL) and Hubby Dearest about the best way to get there, as nothing was making sense to me.
Giphy.com
Even my BIL was confusing me, with routes that would need 2-3 changes.
Hubby Dearest calmly said, “It’s fine, you just need the fast speed train then one tube…”
But was I listening?
No.
I sat studying a map for ages, my BIL getting more and more excited about how I could get there, and if I wanted to take a train at half past very early, I could join him, as that is when he usually goes.
But I was trying to avoid the overly early start…
I thought the train station would be the best place to go. They would give me the best route and train times in the kiosk.
Hubby tried to stop me going, but it was pointless, after all, I know best.
So Lil Princess and I went and spoke to the first ticket lady, who didn’t know where either Shadwell station, or Whitechapel were! She then pulled up the train app on her phone (which I had already looked at) and gave me a great route that included about 5 changes!
Lots of help.
Oh, and the advice I get a train to a specific station and take a 5 min walk to Bank tube station… when the actual station that is near where I would disembark was EmBANKment! That would have been fun if I’d listened to her!
I decided to try the actual ticket office, and the guy there was very helpful and friendly, but the same as the first woman I had spoken to. No clue as to how to properly advise me.
So, I turned back home, disappointed that I was in no better a position.
Hubby sat there, with his foot up (still being partially hoppalong at this moment) and said “So, have you found a good route?”
Sheepish Ritu
I admitted that I was nowhere nearer to knowing where I was going than when I left.
Then he calmly pulled out his phone and showed me a tube map. “Here. You get the fast speed train, like I said, then the pink line there, do you see, the Hammersmith & City line, and it takes you straight to Whitechapel. One change, and you’re done. And it’s fast speed so you don’t have to be up too early.”
He had been right all along… But I just wouldn’t listen, would I?
The journey was great, in the end. I caught a train at 7.21am and was at the venue dead on 8.30am! And home by 5pm.
Perfect.
I may just listen to him a little more, once in a while…
It’s Tuesday, and that means Colleen’s Tanka Challenge! Of course, just providing a couple of words would be far too simple, so we have two words, yes, but we can’t use them! Only synonyms allowed!
Except it’s the first Tuesday of the month which means
This one is dedicated to me this week… so tired after looking after an ill child, multiple training courses, noisy animals, and a lot of broken sleep…
Pixabay Image
Tired Can't wait To lie down And close my eyes Head hitting pillow Drifting into slumber Hoping for a solid sleep With no nasty interruptions No cat mewling at me for his food No children with raging temperatures No husband needing my attention Just me, snuggled up in my bed Oblivious to the world Refreshing my body My mind and my soul Ready to face Anything The world Throws.
But I Smile Anyway... 