What's the Message Here, Did You Get It? A Areal-life Story of the Day.

Messaging, as seen through the eyes of an author and poet, on the roads as traveled in one lifetime

He remembers it well, as a young boy in grade school, and hating the bell. For always ringing them “back to class” as a tool. While messing around with a bunch of other rowdy boys one day, and shunning the girls who wanted to play. You know them, those who always wanted to join in on the boys’ games of the day. But then again. He was to have noticed a conversation going on between the headmistress and her, yes, the head tomboy, as it occurs. That’s her there, in a blue uniform dress. Beware! One of the girls vying hardest to participate in boys’ games, I guess. The conversation was to have continued on the inside too when classes resumed minutes later than him and you. The headmistress wanted to use the little incident as a teaching tool. The young girl had gone in and made a complaint to her about something which she said, one of the boys had said to other fools. She was sure of it. Somehow, I couldn’t shake the feeling that that boy of whom she spoke was none other than yours truly, sweet and kindly, Sonny old me. Going up in smoke. The boy had said something which, in her view. Was a forbidden thing that should not be said by anyone such as him and you, ever. Certainly not by boys their age and the clever. Luckily for him and us, and for all concerned, yes, go on and cuss, if you want. But, first and foremost, listen up and learn. Don’t bother with that because, as it is -Kern. Miss wasn’t too far away from the happening. In fact, she was close enough to have heard clearly everything like that which the boy had said, to him and them. Out of the open in his head, to go around and spin. On rims? No. And although it might have sounded quite like that thing as was heard. Popping into an inquisitive girl’s Earshot-head, and in sync with her version of things as she had said. It wasn’t what the girl thought she heard. Teachable moments like these weren’t going to go unused with miss –mi bred. So Miss, as soon as she got the rowdy bunch settled down in class, like this. She ventured into telling boys what she’d called a wartime story of sorts. Real or imagined, though? One is not sure to this Day’s Inn glory oh. Did she make it up just like, for the desired purposes? Possibly so. “The battle was raging,” she said, in boys’ hearing while gazing at the chalkboard from where it was read, for their learning. Right there in primary Ed. The captain needed help to forge ahead. He called for a young corporal. Sent him off to go pass a message along to the Marshalls, or to the base, as was the usual. “Tell them”, he said. “Tell them to send reinforcement, we’re going to advance”. However, by the time the message got to the Marshalls at the base. It said something quite different from that, to their taste. “Send three and four-pence," it said, “we’re going to a dance.” Needless to say, they would have lost that battle at once on the bay. Or sometime later on, that very day. Be sure to first get the message right and then deliver it the way you got it, the right way. This is the takeaway here -my dear. Watch the video: … My next lesson for you, from somewhere in the messaging world and lessen anew, was to come about not long afterward. Growing up in the 60s, 70s, or 80s in small-town Jamaica -you see. Without the use of the telephone for most folks and me. Messages travel on legs above the knee. Mostly on the legs of fast young runner boys like us, and yes, she. Sometimes. Via mail too, sometimes. Or by way of the telegram man, on the bus Ted lines. But mostly on air, like: Cleveland, Errol, Aston, B…you, pickney bwoy, come yah to mi, mi dear. Or, come here this minute. Run guh dung a Mass Chopin. Tell him seh… This is the norm of getting a child’s attention, and getting her, or him, into action, and useful service according to dad and mom. Wherever there are so many children in the home that the parents can’t always remember who is who. And that was almost every home, every time for you. They’ll just say. Pickney, or hey, you bwoy, cum yah. Or, at other times, they may be heard saying it this way; come here, as it would be better said in the queen’s most beautiful language school over there. Or, go there. And boys go off running bare, footed. Bearing important messages for them and humming, as such pickney did. Most of which pickney doesn’t even understand most of the time -man. To the boys and us, they were like codes that grownups and grownups alone could decipher I’d supposed. But it gets the job done for the grownups every time on the nose, that’s for sure. … My next such lesson was to come about when a dear old family friend had died. Imagine it. Him and his family lives two township districts away from yours, on the other hillside. Just a gaze, a shout, and a half-loud earshot away from the blabbermouth of the day. The valley between those two is yet another town or village where one may stay to figure things out for you. Always in a position to be able to eavesdrop on other people’s conversations. Or to be volunteering to share some of theirs in either direction. Quite conveniently situated they were to be a party to it, or, to be meddling in everything there and therefore. Which may or may not be as friendly a thing as it should have been. Only depending on one unsettled matter, one unresolved family-quarrel or two, or three maybe. Not proper for my papa, and she, that baby? Too tangled a web for the minds of the young such as us too. Like, you and me, to understand in those times. Anyways, let’s move along to better days, or worse. It so happened that the family friend died that night. As was the norm in those places, times, and fields of corn. As soon as the breath was to leave the body warm and lying, there. Or when the in-house announcement was made ready for the flying, clear. Somebody was sent to go fetch somebody else. One who always knows these things and nothing else, and who has got to have and give the last word off their tongue to them and you. To get it into the hearing aid of the family home to view. Whether or not she’s a physician, and she never was one. The next move from there is to go and announce it abroad -oh Lord. This is where the message gets to traveling on the airtight head chord. The announcer, usually the loudest of the loud-mouthers in the village square. Or anywhere else in the township over there. She is who gets to go spread the news far and wide. On the wings of the windy tide, to go out and get used. Send abroad now the news. “Mark Cole dead oh!” That's what we heard floating in on the windy show. Then came the loll, low tone chatter, and whispers. The somber moment to pick up again all those dropped jaws of theirs-mister. And to try to digest what was heard and of course, some reflection too, on how the man had lived with them and you. Before the tick-up buzz, which is to be the follow-through, to most of them, and guess who? Yes, aunt Sue. Now, on over to his house goes all walking shoes. This may last throughout the night and on through until way after the burial weeks later, even. As soon as the buzzing was to get started, though. Little Billy Joe was heard to have chimed in soft and slow. Like a late echoing partridge from the windy message of moments old cartridge, falling off the original call of his. “Mass Cole dead oh,” he said. Echoing what he’d heard, or thought that he had heard coming in upon the windy chords to hit a note strumming upon their hearing aids. Grandfather was quick with the rebuking rebuttal, rebutting him on that one -pal: no, don’t say that you hear me! A sign of respect for the dead buddy you know, and family. And towards the man who was his dear friend, not me. But then. Moments later, the grandfather himself couldn’t resist the temptation -Sir. So it would have seemed. He couldn’t suppress the urge, not in your dream. He was heard saying almost in a whisper, but mimicking grandson’s timely mock-minister. He who was mimicking the first-come, yeah, that call, coming in through the wall. “Ass hole dead oh,” whispered grandpa, in the hall. In times like these, a laugh can be the greatest of remedies, and that’s what that was meant to be. Did lighten up the moment somewhat. More or less like a hot fart coming in from somewhere nearby a hot heavily meat-laden fork, would. The point here is this: the message was out and riding on the wind. By tomorrow this time. No matter where in the world the family and friends of Mark Cole may happen to be staying to shine. They would have known the story. The news would have reached home to them already, and you wonder how? Telegram, that would be how, perhaps. One of the more sophisticated means for doing so at the time. On top of word-of-mouth. Yes, no lying about, of course. The telegram man too? He was a “who-is-who” around those parts, no doubt, but. … Then came the day when Sonny boy’s own dear grandfather, too. Had decided to take a walk out in those types of shoes. The last traveling shoes. He was an old man, had lived a full and good lifespan, as measuring instruments of the place and time was to suggest. Yes, that one was the best. About a week earlier, he was admitted to the hospital in Port Maria, somewhere down by the Bay area. About five miles away from their home base I’d say. That was where they used to stay, “back-a-yaad”, someone else might be heard saying it that way when they’re called to pray. Saturday morning is Sonny boy’s turn to go visit Grandpa at his new hospital home. Walking was the main mode of transportation, down. As you already know that one, or run. So walk on soldier, or march, or run which was the first and quickest to come to the start. Sonny boy did them all. He got there to the grim announcement that grandpa was dead. He died last night sometime after midnight, the said announcer person, had said. Now, blowing the bugle from here won’t do, that won’t cut it this time for you. Not with all those mountains, valleys, and high uphill climbs. And sonny boy himself had not developed that kind of calling voice as yet, as mine. Never did, as a matter of fact to the skid, so. As you’d guessed, the foot runners’ role is now in effect. Only, no running this time for him, and you, and me, no need to. A casual walking pace will do when everything you want is coming to or at you, and later on down the way too. Uncle, his son. Was working for a bus company, Mac-Caughley’s bus company yes, that one at the time. Plying a route from Kingston through Spanish Town, Linstead. Uphill climbs to Guys Hill, then passing you by near Gayle, through Dressekie, over more mountains, and down towards the northern sea coastal lines. On through Oracabessa, Galina and on through to port Maria, yeah, the bay area, of course. It’s about a two to two and a half-mile journey from the hospital to the market house in Port Maria Bay where the bus route terminates and stays the whole day. Until the return trip back the other way. The bus terminus is situated there. Sonny boy is footing it where? Yeah, there also. To go meet up with an uncle who’s already on the go to come to meet up with Sonny boy and me there, and you, slowly so. Not too far into the journey, Sonny boy ran headlong into someone’s buddy, from the hometown. One who was heading back the way home. Sonny boy told him what had happened and asked him to deliver the message to the family for him. Not that Sonny boy, had to. What for? He would have told them anyway –Sue. It’s just the way things are, and you? They parted ways. This was as important a mission as a country boy would ever get to partake in, in those days. So there was a pep in Sonny boy’s steps, stepping to a tune, both ways. Got to the terminus before the bus, and him. But not by much, sweating. How surprised Sonny boy was to be hearing from his uncle that he had heard the news already. From Dressekie, as a matter of fact, steady. Yeah, rock steady -baby. Until this very day, although Sonny boy has grown away. Seen and heard a lot of things to say, like, to say the least. Is now an old man himself too, older than them and you. He’s still having trouble a lot understanding that, one or two. How on earth did the message get around so fast, in those times and conditions to the start? It did though. Nowadays, everybody has a calling device in the palm, nearer to the ear, or there, than the arm. Yes, and everywhere else to stare. But ask them for the important information you want. Few can find it a place to plant. They’re talking though, and calling around, messaging everyone about everything. Or nothing at all, I mean. I’ve got one too, but I’m very slow in calling for you. For a darn good reason true. You already know that everybody else is calling already, or will be, soon. So why bother? You’re only likely to get in other’s way and clog up systems anyway. Do yourself and us all a favor. Give the darned thing a break to savor, it ain’t that important -mate. … Here’s another message for you, the new-look “Manley” book is out. It’s a book that Amazon/Kindle is proud about, proud to bring you the new Manley book. How to train a wild puppy dog named Manley. Go take a look. Anyway, that’s it for today. Thank you. ⁓⸪⁓ Here I am, talk king nonsense that may, or may not begin to make cents, or even a few dollars , but if you haul her at me from be hind de white collar wash 2 a shine fence, with a doll or, even two to go and tell the L out of your b... tell them two link me up and go tell someone else a boat #dis poem. Which is a nonsense poem, that could b quite something for another day. Hey, one more thing b 4 I've got 2 say good buy and go on to my, oh, mine. Don't leave me a loan here two cry, b sure you book market and come back a gain, quickly. Bring a friend to share hits after hits with them, ten queue. Let's get mediocre and done. With you.