That story of the derelict gift shop was sad, Beatrice told me as we stood in her yard on Sonsie Farm. We were feeding her poultry. Beatrice idly prodding a dry cow-pat with a stick, but that was Godfrey, he would talk to anyone, I reminded her, talk of anything but beets.
Oh Beatrice dear, have you any idea what became of Sarah, his mystery friend? She was so rugged, and he was so very fond. Well, I know she took his carved Hobo-Stick to the camp at Greenham, then on to Africa where she taught for five years…I found a letter from her that Godfrey never opened, tucked in his cook-book, in the Invalid Meals section, which he never used. I also have never opened the odd letter..I do not think we ever will…He and I once discussed being PECULIAR-
Godfrey sat deep in my old turquoise chair, comparing poems we had chosen to share. He read mine, “The Salmon Carcass” I read his “Ballad of Mrs Puchalski”. Then he rose with a sigh, made us both cups of tea, and Godfrey got down on bended knee. Worzel?, he asked me, has anyone ever called you peculiar? Peculiar,yes I have been called many a name, being left handed, plump to fat, raised in a junkyard by Mrs Gibberflat. But peculiar, no I have never been called that.
Godfrey told me,” as a lad I was oft singled out, for verbal abuse, because I spoke only in rhyme”. ” Called Naff, Gundy-Guts and peculiar ,odd though most of the time.” Frequently cuffed on the head by my mother”.What is wonderful about you and me- is that being peculiar has given us our poetry!!.
I agree dear Godfrey said I, look where we are, we have come so far because we are peculiar. The nasty things we were called and heard, turned our hearts to the open road, strong dislike for beets, love of the written word, love for the word and our peculiar Whirled..Thank You from Godfrey