Lola
Back in the Magnificent Days, on the Isle of Lewis, there lived a housewife called Lola who may or may not have been my great, great, great grandmother. (Great + great + great = magnificent, ergo the Magnificent Days. Look it up in Wikipedia; it’s right there.) At any rate, it was back in days of either yore or lore, one of the two; and if consonants should get mixed up occasionally through the mists of time? Well then, so be it. Yes, so be it.
(Smokes pipe thoughtfully, nodding.)
Lola MacLeod was a study in contrasts. One eye was brown, one blue. Her petticoats were of finest French silk yet she wore great man-boots and scanties made from Highland-cowhide from far-off Inverness. They itched and chafed something dreadful but that was as nought to a woman like her. She laughed at chafing – Hahahahaha! she thought. She mooned at itching, cackling wildly. Cackle! she thought.
She taught Sunday school but once tore out a man’s throat with her teeth for saying that silence is golden. She could win both the village best eggless-sponge and tractor-pulling competitions in the same day. She cried over sonnets and babies stillborn but, if there was a emergency outbreak of warts anywhere on the island, she could, without blink of either coloured eye, gore a passing rabbit with a spoon to harvest its wart-curing appendix juices. Lola was loved and feared in equal measure. She was also dumb as a post.
You see, Lola had never spoken a word since her husband, Wee Kenneth, had been lost at sea. Often the villagers would see her wandering out on the black sea-battered rocks to weep silently and alone, as the gulls skirled and screamed around her and occasionally did their business on her biannac.* The villagers would see her raise her arms in supplication as if to ask the world, the heaving, roaring sea, e’en God Himself: Why? Why? And sometimes she’d let the salt-tacked blast take the thin shawl from her thin shoulders to the same watery grave as Wee Kenneth’s – her own brave Coinneach Beag.** Then would mothers lead their children away saying, don’t look, darlings, you’re too young to know of breaking hearts. Come away now, come away!
All children loved her, and all animals, save for the rabbits. The children would follow her through the village and although she couldn’t speak to them if they misbehaved, she could still give them a good tongue-lashing with her much-feared Spaniard’s-tongue-on-a-walking-stick stick.
The story goes that a visiting Spanish Captain got a bit too Spanish with her one night at a ceilidh so she took a pair of pinking-shears and with a mute howl of fury (which she managed to convey silently with her terrible rolling eyes), she cut his tongue out. The Spaniard fell in love with her immediately, of course. He’d never met a woman with such fire before – but alas the poor wretch could no longer roll his rrrs in a sexy way and she was unimpressed with his gurgly cooing.
He sailed for home the next day with a starey, starry look in his eyes, sorrow in his heart and great gobs of blood and tongue-bits in his mouth. Lola was a fair woman though and in return for his tongue, she had given him some kippers and a lock of her hair (leg) according to The Law of The Book which mandated “an eye for an eye and some leg-hair for a tongue.”
And, do you know, to this day, in Southern Spain, the children still eat red frothing sherbert and smoked fish paella, and ritually shave a goat’s legs on the Feast Day of Great Lola of The North. Church bells ring and, for a moment, two great sea-faring nations are united again in lore. Or yore. One of the two.
So Lola’s fame spread far and wide and pretty soon kings and princes had heard of her wisdom, her half-savage bravery and her fierce loyalty to a dead husband. This really turned the kings and princes on and pretty soon they all wanted to marry her.
Mmm-hmm, oh yes. The Tales of Lola are great and many. Maybe one day I’ll tell a few.
((Sighs. Coughs. Puts out pipe. Filthy habit))
*biannac – sort of head-scarf or covering.
** Wee Kenneth
March 30th, 2007 at 6:53 am
Hey, my grandmother was called Lola! She was somewhat crazy, what with the knitting in her sleep and such. Not as crazy as this Lola. I wish I had a much-feared Spaniard?s-tongue-on-a-walking-stick stick – would come in mighty handy with the neighbourhood rapscallions. I like this Lola, I believe that any woman who can cut a lock of leg-hair is one to be respected. Did she ever remarry?
March 30th, 2007 at 7:37 am
Umm… dude, a lock of LEG hair? Wow. Impressive.
March 30th, 2007 at 8:42 am
More! More! More! Put that pipe back in now!
March 30th, 2007 at 8:59 am
you can’t stop there… go tell us some more!
March 30th, 2007 at 10:56 am
Coinneach is Kenneth, and Coin?n is rabbit. Coincidence? I think not.
March 30th, 2007 at 12:24 pm
Sigh, see how much more beautiful the world can be? Not a single rhyme, romance and blood letting. That’s why I love it here. That and the tay.
March 30th, 2007 at 2:02 pm
Clearly much of your great-great etc grandmother’s genetic code has stayed dominant. If anyone can think “Cackle!”, it’s you dear Sam.
March 30th, 2007 at 2:43 pm
Carolyn, knitting in her sleep? God, I can’t even get talking in my sleep right. That’s amazing. Did she know if she’d dropped a stitch?
Lola did “marry,” in a sense, again, many, many times, although not in a churchy kind of Heaven-sanctified way. More in a middle of the peatstack, whiskey sanctified way. But I’m sure the angels smiled all the same.
theotherbear, Legend says she could French-braid her leg-hair by her mid-teens. It was a fashion the Vikings brought over apparantly and considered tres lovely on a lassie. Her legs were swathed in glorious, shining manes of richest auburn, envied by all other women, and a lot of the men.
Primal sneeze, the pipe is just a prop for lorey stories, I’m afraid – my real passions are crack cocaine and mild cigars. I know it’s a bit anti-social but would anyone mind? Look, I’ll stand downwind or here in the corner, hows that?
birchsprite. Many are the tales of Lola, but for now she rests as my children seem to want some sort of breakfast or something. Damned impertinence.
Kav, you clever, clever man, you have indeed spotted the sub-plot and thematic unity if the tale. I totally meant for that to happen. Totally. Who will be first to spot the bunny-motif? I thought. Yes, I did.
fmc, I figured I’d been causing your ears to bleed too much with me pomes, lately, darlin’. “She’s got running and challenges ahead,” thought I, “The lassie needs all her strength. Cease and desist with the pohtry!” And so I did. I do make a good cuppa tea, don’t I? And I put shortbread on doiles when comp’ney comes around.
Kim, all the females genes stayed dominant in the Hebrides. We’re like the Amazonians in sensible clothes up there. Cackle’s my second favourite thought.
March 30th, 2007 at 5:12 pm
My favorite thought is “Cack!”
March 30th, 2007 at 5:46 pm
Apart from her hairy legs, I don’t know what they see in her. I expect she needs a good grooming to calm her down.
March 30th, 2007 at 6:12 pm
Andraste, it is today – you’ve got your personal assessment thing, dontcha.
Nanas, she was a famous beauty – that’s what they saw in her. Damn I forgot to say that, didn’t I?
Right everyone, listen up, LOLA IS A FAMOUS BEAUTY!!
March 30th, 2007 at 7:16 pm
Better leg hair, than underarm hair I should think. That’s the part they don’t tell you when you read Repunzel. Anyway, I thought the name “Kenneth” had it’s origins in the Norse “Knut.” Is “Coinneach” a seperate Gaelic name or is it also derivitive from the Vikes?
Sorry to interject a etymological question and muck up your otherwise fine post and comment thread.
Cheers.
March 30th, 2007 at 7:22 pm
“tongue bits”
so wrong.
I often cackle silently. It’s both exhilarating and stifling (since I usually end up choking on my own air).
March 30th, 2007 at 7:47 pm
Rand, we learnt in school that Coinneach came first and Kenneth was the Anglicised form of it, the first occurrence of which was Kenneth McAlpine, the first king of the Scots in the 9th century. He was the bloke who united the Picts and the Celts at Dalriada to make the kingdom of Scotland. It means “handsome”. The surname Kennedy however, just a few short letters and a world of hurt away, means ugly-head or bumpy-head!
Kara, “It?s both exhilarating and stifling (since I usually end up choking on my own air” Hmm yes, we lost a few Tory MPs in the 80s like that. Autoerotic asphyxiation was what they were calling it back then, but I’m almost entirely sure this is not what you mean. 99.99% certain. Oh yep, yes.
Glad you liked “tongue bits”. That’s my favourite bit too.
March 31st, 2007 at 2:15 am
Thank you, dear.
I should note, the Official Elder Son is named “Kenneth.” Of course, for years he’s thought that’s his middle name, the first name being “Dammit.”
Cheers.
March 31st, 2007 at 5:34 am
The Dalriada are God’s chosen alright, I mentioned them/us in a post around St paddie’s day as a concession to being a bit Irish.
You don’t get weemen like Lola, thats LOLA, Lola anymore, that tongue on a stick sounds a little tasty like a corndog.
March 31st, 2007 at 7:23 pm
Sam…wondering if you inherited any of dear Lola’s traits? By your description she seems quite a force to be reckoned with. I can’t help but wonder what she was like before her dear Wee Kenneth was swept away…any insight you might share? Consider me fascinated.
April 1st, 2007 at 5:59 am
What did you have in that pipe?
“The surname Kennedy however, just a few short letters and a world of hurt away, means ugly-head or bumpy-head!”
That would explain the Kennedy clan. I have rarely ever seen heads that big and knobbly. No wonder that gunman managed to take JFK out; how could he have missed, with a target that big?
April 1st, 2007 at 1:02 pm
Sam, this is fab. It would make an amazing cartoon strip.
You should set up a myspace page and narate some of these stories.
April 1st, 2007 at 4:58 pm
Is there anything sexier in this wide world of ours than a woman with hairy legs that doesn’t speak?
Phoar!
What part of the rabbit do you use for the warts again? I’m asking for Kim.
April 1st, 2007 at 6:16 pm
Sorry, but I have to disagree with apprentice – words alone paint a better picture.
?ist liom nom?id – Is ? an post seo mo rogha na seachtaine. An bhfuil sceitim?n? ort?
April 2nd, 2007 at 4:56 am
Rand, Kenneth is a fine name for your boy. I’ve never met a Kenneth I didn’t like. The etymology of Dammit is more obscure. it comes from the Russian damallovit, “to rue”, by way of China, New Zealand and Barbara Bush who is said to have said it around 60 years ago now. Aides, who knew already the baby would grow to be president, thought that unpresidential and so “George” was put on the official birth certificate.
Knuds, every culture has it’s fair-food. In The Magnificent Days in the Hebrides it was tongue-on-a-stick. Cow tongue usually; the Spaniards could usually run away more quickly than this one.
Joel, well (blush), I must admit I have been compared to Lola on many occasions, both pre and post Wee Kenneth. Apparantly I have aspects if her in the in-love years: vacant, moony eyes and a slight happy dribble. In the love-lost years I inherited a tiny acorn-shaped pewter vial with her tears in them. They say they were her tears, but who can really know. I can say they tasted salty. Wha? I only tasted one teardrop! In the spirit of historical enquiry! There’s at least 7 left.
Sparra’, I had Grade A Columbian castor sugar in my pipe, baby. Oh yeaaah! You’re right, some of the presidents have had exceptionally knobbly heads: Lincoln and, as you say, Kennedy; and George Bush’s head is just one great big knobble. Almost entirely cartilage, so they say – those who’ve seen him up close.
Apprentice, don’t you have to have all kinds of fiddly equipimament for that? Is it expensive? It might be fun though and i have a birthday coming up.
Docs, “Phoar!”. You know if you shouted that out in St. Andrews all these posh golfers would duck. As well they might when a famously beautiful, island woman passes, the wind streaming out her leg-hair behind her making all men crazy with desire.
Primally Sneezy, tapa leat! I don’t know how you to thank-you in proper Irish so my paltry shards of Scottish Gaelic will have to suffice, but that’s really cool of you. I’m dead chuffed by that! Chuffedness is on me. Cheers!
April 2nd, 2007 at 3:38 pm
My education was flawed! This is the first I’ve heard of the “Tales of Lola”. I blame the nuns – always praying and such – no time to teach the important stuff!
April 2nd, 2007 at 7:53 pm
Oh how I wish we had a Lola in the family. Not only does she sound awesome, but I would have another name option for the coming girl.
April 2nd, 2007 at 10:02 pm
Just testing!
April 3rd, 2007 at 7:46 am
Your test comment isn’t showing, Pat. You’d better try again.
April 3rd, 2007 at 8:16 am
Ah thank Heaven we are still compatible! Alas not with dear doccie – the rest I’m still testing. But enough of my troubles. How smashing to have a GGGG gran who is a tongue fetishist. That’s very difficult to say. Because didn’t she beat the children on the tongue. God I could never catch mine to beat them anywhere and had to throw knives which missed. EEn now one of them is expected so I wa fergiven. Do you spit with your pipe? I’ll bet it has a lovely smell. Mmmmmh!
April 3rd, 2007 at 10:18 am
Pat, how inconvenient. We shall communicate here until the matter is resolved.
April 3rd, 2007 at 10:56 am
Sam- Go raibh maith agut.
April 3rd, 2007 at 9:20 pm
Jali, too much praying and you become prey to all sorts of madness. Never look a nun directly in the eyes.
Mom101, Lola’s a lovely name, I agree, but unfortunately she was a showgirl, from the hottest club north of Havana, and she shot a man. And then there’s the whole Humbert Humbert thing. The name’s got too many negative associations which is a real shame, cos it’s nice.
Pat, testing? Did you take blood? Do you have the results? What’s wrong with me? O God, I’m dying, amn’t I?
Primal Sneeze, how much do you know? Was it a false positive? A real positive? I’m pretty sure it’s not the measles cos I’ve had my jabs but what could I be dying of? For the love of the Lord, man, tell me!
Pat, what are you saying? Is this code? Is it fatal? Will it hurt? O Mortality!
Docs, you’ll look after me, won’t you? Send me comfort Irn Bru and McGowan’s 10p toffees?
fmc, aha! Would you look at all these redundant letters! We’re not an awfully economical lot are we, we Celts! Go raibh maith agut yourself, m’darlin’.
April 5th, 2007 at 11:55 am
Go raibh maith agut . is it dirty?
April 5th, 2007 at 6:28 pm
Docs, it’s filthy.
April 6th, 2007 at 1:41 pm
You could be dying of a Friday, Sam. Happened to my neighbour. He died of a Friday. At 10 to 1. His bookie shop was closed that weekend as a mark of respect.