THIS is a first for me, folks; I’m writing this song ‘live’, in much the same way as a sports commentator relays a match. For Hurricane Ellen is blowing like blue blazes outside my window.
She came on to blow about an hour ago, but now she’s gone up a few octaves and she has taken the seas up with her.
I have a first-rate view here in Cobh, a veritable royal box of a vista, which can be a bit frightening when you look out and see the awesome power of the elements.
Anyway, for the craic and maybe for the challenge, I contrived to write a song about the storm even as she screams.
I lived in Dunedin, Florida, for six years and hurricanes were a regular feature of life from about late September onwards. But you could be lucky too and might never taste their wrath.
If the hurricane is a bad boy, the tornado is a wicked devil altogether and by far more sinister and dangerous. But the way our climate is going, I wouldn’t be one bit surprised if they’ll be the next salute.
Ellen is now blowing like a demon. Storms of my youth, not surprisingly, tumble back along the years with the dint of the tumult
When we lived in Cór Aodha, Donnybrook, beautiful stately oak trees adorned the rim of Westgrove Lawn, directly opposite our council terrace. With a waist as wide as the length of our clothesline, these beauteous monsters cut a dash and pierced the heavens. My mother used to dread the storms; especially as my father used be away a lot working with the other Dagenham Yanks to support us. Ma reckoned if one of those conkers came down, not just our house, but the whole upper terrace, maybe seven houses in a row, would be scrunched to the earth.
But, in much they same way as she dealt with thunder and lightening and polio too, generous dollops of holy water seemed to do the business.
It’s early yet, about two and a half hours into the storm, and there’s venom in Ellen’s heart. Just another few knots could have chutes and slates churning around outside, ready to take the head off you.
But, in a few hours, it will be consigned to the safety of the past tense and maybe my mother’s remedy meantime might answer.
You can sing this week’s song to the the tune of that fine old Scottish jig, The Campbells Are Coming.