Dear Blog Reader and Limerick Writers.
Yes siree it is that time again. Each year at the end of July the lovely Miss Beverly in recognition of Doyle Hoover’s (her father) birthday, calls together the tribe an others in the limerick challenge. Doyle was a dairy farmer by calling and a limerick writer because farming didn’t fill every moment of his waking hours. Actually, have you ever milked 40 cows two times a day for 40 years? I haven’t either. But I did a stint (evenings only) for 5 years from seventh grade until I made my escape after high school. That two hours (or 4 hours 2x a day) every day leaves one with an internal dialog that takes years of counseling to make go away. Doyle turned his internal dialog to good by working on limericks that he would share. Some he shared with everyone. These G and PG versions were cute and delivered with a grin and twinkle in the eye. The bawdier versions were delivered with a twinkle and impish grin from ear to ear.
Limerick isn’t only about a short five line story with rhyme. It is a slave to cadence: AABBA if you read the text books. And the words have to fit together with a certain rhythm. I was working on a limerick exhorting more participants last Saturday night. I had the 9 syllable first line but it would not work. The rhythm was all wrong. It wouldn’t work until I found another 9 syllables to fit the correct rhythm. I think that dairy farming uniquely trains a person for writing limerick. Not only are you in a barn with no one to talk to for 4 hours a day, freed to let your mind wander, you are in this environment surrounded by machinery that counts out a beat with the cadence of a militant metronome. The machine is called a pulsator. It is complicated and and explanation will not get us closer to the announcement of our winner this evening. Just know that listening to it day after day you would know all there is to know about meter and rhythm.
So Doyle was unambiguously trained to write and enjoy limericks. He knew that they were not only created for his own enjoyment but for the enjoyment of others. It is a shame that we didn’t know enough to write them down or tape them for posterity. We can only shine a dim candle on his craft by whole heartedly throwing our oar in the water and giving it our best shot. Next year’s theme cliches?
And best shot it was. Thank you everyone for your efforts in this year’s. Over 40 limericks were submitted, and you did great. But this is a contest. No participation trophies here. (Or is that participation pie) There was a log jam at the top, and in the end one did rise to the top like cream in Doyle's bulk tank.
This year’s theme “animals” provided fertile ground for these budding bards. In judging them, I was struck by how many of us had our worlds expanded because our parents didn’t participate in “fixing” our animals. It seemed like our cats were particularly reproductive. Fat cats becoming thin in bedrooms and out at the barn. There were super pigs, and an animal called a squabbit. I must say when a practicing pharmacist starts writing about squabbits it may be time to step away from the dispenser. I'm just saying. There were surprised and dying ground hogs, and grand champion steers. Dogs were well represented from Iowa to a drool covered frisbee catching, tree climbing Busy and one who likes getting stuck on a retaining wall. While some pigs saved free falling damsels in distress others were my personal heros named bacon and sausage. Who knows? They maybe frozen in aisle B.
Enough of the drum roll of suspense, let’s get down to it.
Honorable Mention;
Danielle Grandholm
Watching Busy climb trees like a fool
Was fun to do after school
That dog loved to fly
Up that tree really high
To catch the frisbee smothered in drool
Cindy Pyle
Sam Ting was my favorite cat
One summer she became quite fat
I took her upstairs
Both parents unawares
On a towel in a box she sat.
So after hours did loom
I worried about my doom
I confessed to my dad
But he never got mad
Yes, her kittens were born in my room
Lyn Ellis
We once had some pigs that were pets
Can we keep them daddy? Oh let’s
We knew what they were
By their new monikers
Sausage and Bacon, you bet.
Stephen Warner
From all around these parts
We’re bombarded with cow farts
The methane does rise
And the poor ozone dies
So we all bake in the sun like tarts.
Joyce Young
Being hauled where gloved hands would pluck her
That sly hen evaded the trucker
Dad gave her a lift
Fine eggs she did gift
And to that rig she clucked, “I’m free, sucker.”
Jim Rogers
In a lifestyle that’s suited to me.
I haul animals in my truck you see.
In boxes galore,
I deliver to the store.
You will find them in frozen aisle B.
Bill Hoover
On my Oliver Tractor, I was dishing.
Fat groundhog didn’t know he was risking
Heavy crescent wrench in hand
Babe Ruth swing I did land.
Home run or Dead varsity it’s a WIN thing.
Congratulations to all of the honorable mentions. You did great. Keep practicing and working on it. You were so close. Maybe next year will be your year.
As I wrote earlier, there are no participation awards. There is only one pie eater here.
Congratulations Stephen Warner
On the course, I golf is a squabbit
The cross of a squirrel and rabbit.
I try but I fail
To grab his red tail.
But I never quite seem to nab it.
Steve, like I said, if you are seeing squabbits you may want to step away from the pill dispenser. Great story, funny, structure and rhyme. Good work.
Until next year, when the lovely Miss Beverly puts out the call for your finest limericks . . .
Take care
Roger
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