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I read somewhere that good writers borrow but great writers steal, so, purely in the interest of advancing my career, I feel totally comfortable – not to mention upwardly-mobile – in saying that now is the winter of our discontent.
So, if politicians are afraid to make fun of themselves, professional comedians – as in the way that nature abhors a vacuum – have happily taken on the task. As a result, stand-up comedians and late night talk show hosts regularly run roughshod over incumbents and candidates alike.
Call me a romantic, but the antiseptic aroma of chlorine just can’t compete with the, um, musky scent of the Piscataquog River I knew as a child, and the measly tweet of a lifeguard’s whistle is no match for the blood-curdling scream of a young man who is hurtling toward the water at warp speed, eyes closed in anticipation of the inevitable – striking the fictional wreckage of a B&M freight train that folklore placed somewhere beneath the pilings of The Trestle at Kelley Falls.
After a while – and perhaps this was due to the absence of the National Football – canal suicides developed into a macabre spectator sport.
Am I for it? Yes, but as a student of Manchester history, I am also quite aware of the mayhem that both freight and passenger trains have rained down on our community in years past.