Berowne's 128

(For Three-Word Wednesday and ABC Wednesday: "C" is for "Cordelia")

I wonder if I might submit a minority report on this week’s prompt.
The impact on human life of a pet is known by just about everyone; nothing is more comforting than having a dog greet you at the door.
But I wanted to say a few words about the pet that played an important part in my life: Cordelia.
As a dog, Cordelia had a few shortcomings. She never met me at the door. She never brought me the morning edition of the New York Times. She never had much interest in gnawing endlessly on a bone.
To be quite truthful, by just the minimum standards of dog-lovers, she wasn’t much of a dog.
That’s because she was a cat. (Remarkable how my post, by sheer chance, fit right into ABC Wednesday's topic this week.)
As we enter that stage of life known as “growing older” – which I guess begins at about age 28 :-) - many of us who live alone seek companionship. And a cat is universally acknowledged to be, for many, a possibly soul-satisfying companion.
Understand, I love dogs.
When I was younger, back during the French and Indian War, I enjoyed nothing more than running with my dog, tossing the frisbie to watch the spectacular catches, doing, in short, dog-and-owner stuff.
But now, as my friend Will Shakespeare puts it:
“My way of life is fall'n into the sere, the yellow leaf, and that which accompanies old age.”
I have joined that vast demographic known as “sedentary,” which is French for someone who sits a lot and doesn’t do much running and who tosses no frisbies.
And that’s where the cat comes, or came, in.

Cordelia was perfect for her role. Look at her. For one thing, she was beautiful.
And once I got used to the basic idea that my new pet was a cat not a dog, she made a fine companion and we got along beautifully.
I just had to accept that she would not be barking with enthusiasm, wagging her tail and leaping about when I returned home. Instead, she was, like, You’re back? That’s good. Forgive me if I curl up here again; I was having a nap.
Folks who do not understand felines say they don’t really feel the emotion of affection for their owners that dogs do. They say cats are independent and don’t really have such needs.
Ah, they could not be more mistaken. How strong was that need? Well, Cordelia needed to be with me: she did not falter, she had to come sit on my lap every time I read the paper or worked at my ‘pewter.
Let me tell you of the problem I had with her. I kept the bedroom door closed at night; she had the run of the living-room. I figured that way we’d both get a good night’s sleep. As the sun began to come up, and it came up at five am or so at times, she would come to my door with a message:
The child of morning, rosy-fingered dawn, has appeared! Up, up, time to start the day!
And she would loudly, and irritatingly, scratch the bedroom door to accompany the message. And I’d say, Keep your distance. Let me sleep!
Then I read of a device – ah, technology – that you could hang on the door, a device that made a loud, excruciating sound, a sound that could only be heard by feline ears; I, asleep in my trundle bed, would hear nothing.
It worked. From then on, she didn't touch the bedroom door, avoided it like the plague, and I slept uninterruptedly.
But the inventor of that noise-maker device didn’t know about Cordelia; she was not just a beauty, she was smart.
After a month or so she said to herself: Okay, let’s see, I hate that sound. But, thinking it over, it’s just a sound. There’s no danger involved. I’ll just ignore it and scratch away at that dam' door as much as before.
The end result? I gave up.
I kept the door open at night and she came to sleep on my bed. After all, spending the night with a beautiful and intelligent female is something I was usually in favor of, as a matter of principle.
(Submitted also to Sunday Scribblings)

Berowne's 127

(For Three-Word Wednesday and ABC Wednesday: "B" is for "Bizarre")

When I saw that number eight in the prompt, I thought great, it’s going to allow me to recount another of my heroic adventures during World War II.
Which turned out to be more adventurous than heroic. Among other things, I loaded a tanker.
Might not sound like much, but it was an adventure, believe me.

Tankers, in those days, were often loaded with airplane fuel. Not jet fuel, because we didn’t have jets; the fuel was gasoline, juiced up into a special aviation-octane type of gas. It was one of the most volatile and hazardous substances then in existence.
Here’s the story.
Because there was a war on, people who would otherwise be college kids working as grocery clerks – like me - were cut from their monotonous, humdrum existences and thrust into the war’s maelstrom.
Ship’s personnel were desperately needed so they made me a ship’s officer. I didn’t tell anyone that my training had been mostly how to stock grocery shelves.
So I found myself in the middle of a war sailing about in a tanker.
Somewhere in a place occupied by guys with stars on their shoulders, a decision was made. A large tanker, similar to the one in the above picture, needed to be loaded, and there would have to be a tanker officer in charge.
You see where this is going?

The tanker in question was in Aruba. Today Aruba is a treasure, a beautiful vacation spot; in wartime it was a gigantic gas station, ships from all over were loading and unloading the stuff.
Since I was on someone’s list as a tanker officer, they decided to put me in charge of the loading.

Now, mind you, the regular job of calmly standing watch on a tanker at sea wasn’t all that difficult; you handled it pretty much as any other ship – staying on course, keeping lookout, trying not to screw up the navigation, etc. I could actually do that.
But loading a tanker? With aviation-octane gas? I was as qualified for that as I was for space travel – especially since there wasn’t any then. I not only didn’t know much about it, I had never actually seen a tanker loaded, from close up. I got a number of bizarre orders during that conflict, but this one beat all.
At first, all I knew was that I should report to such and such a tanker in Aruba. I showed up, bright-tailed and bushy-eyed, and my world started falling apart.
One fact of maritime life is that the officers of any ship who’ve been at sea for a month or two will do almost anything to get ashore. If a totally-unqualified 21-year-old shows up to take over, wish him well and take off fast.
Which is what the officers of that ship did.
By the way, the gas came up from the dock in a huge pipe and once started, thousands of gallons of it kept rushing in. Scary.
My crew for this loading operation was made up of an ordinary seaman, a kid of about seventeen, and one guy who actually knew about tanker-loading.
Aboard ship, people were then often named for their jobs. A radio operator might be known as “Sparks,” a signalman as “Flags,” etc. Well, this old guy was in charge of something important on a tanker, the pumps, so he was known, inevitably, as “Pumps.”
Trouble was, Pumps was elderly; he seemed to be in his early nineties, which meant that he sat in one place and never moved. And since he was born in Germany he spoke English with an almost incomprehensible accent.
Trying to help me, he talked quite a bit about “walfs.” Since I didn't know what those were it wasn't much help. It took me a while to understand he was discussing “valves” - valves were walfs - the things you turn to direct the gas flow.
I must tell you that you don’t just pump the gas into the ship; that would be too easy. I had eight tanks to deal with, four forward and four aft. I knew that I had to load the stuff into a forward tank, then shift the stream to a tank toward the stern, feverishly turning walfs on and off all the while.
I worked out signals with the young fellow; he handled the after tanks.
At first things seemed to be going well; I thought everything was hunky-dory. Well, it was hunky, for a while, but we never got to dory. Because suddenly, to my undiluted horror, I saw a mountainous jet of the stuff shoot high into the air. I had sent this constant stream of thousands of gallons of gasoline into a tank that was already nearly full. The highly volatile, even explosive, liquid was pouring all over the deck.
I nearly collapsed. I realized I was endangering the whole port of Aruba, with the other tankers in it; it could possibly turn out to be one of the biggest conflagrations of the war. Realizing this, I sat down pretty much like Pumps, unable to move.
Previously, I hadn’t been able get help from anyone ashore; suddenly the ship was filled with twenty or so guys who appeared out of nowhere and who were pumping foam and turning walfs all over the place. Two fire-boats quickly showed up and joined in with more foam.
Well, I didn’t blow the place up. Later, they had some sort of court martial; I was relieved to learn that I wasn’t blamed. The guys who sent a grocery clerk to load a tanker, however, had a bit to answer for.
(Also submitted to Sunday Scribblings)

Berowne's 126

(For Three-Word Wednesday and ABC Wednesday: "A" is for "addio")

The above prompt is perfect – it reminds me of the girl I met in Rome in World War II named Miss Mountain of Flowers.
I told the first part of the story last week; now let me tell the rest.
I had studied Italian on the ship on the way over so she and I were able to sit together on a park bench and have a fairly successful conversation.
When I learned her story, I realized that she was as intelligent as she was attractive, someone whom we back home would have called a girl-next-door type, who was desperately doing what was necessary to save her family because of the huge problems the war had brought.
For the past several years there had been no work for her father, little food for her brother and sister, and they had stood to lose their apartment. She had stepped up, becoming the family’s sole breadwinner.
She startled me a bit by inviting me to come home with her and meet her folks.
It was very interesting, though strange, to visit her place. I felt like the Gentleman Caller of “The Glass Menagerie” as I said hello to everyone. I was pleased to see they were friendly.
No one there would smoke even one cigarette of the carton of Lucky Strikes I contributed to the family’s economy. American cigarettes were coin of the realm, like cash. One pack could provide food and other necessities of life. Even one American cigarette could get some fruit or vegetables at a street market.
Suddenly her younger sister came home; she stood in the doorway and cried “Salve!” (“Hail!”) - pretty much like a younger sister in our country might come home and say “Hi!”
The kid sister’s arrival made quite an impression on me. In Rome, as you know, history is everywhere; the city has been around for millennia. I suddenly thought that two thousand or so years ago, Roman girls were coming home, perhaps in this very spot, and saying “Salve!” to their families, using that exact same word and probably with the same pronunciation.
However, to get back to my story.
Miss Mountain of Flowers and I retired, with as much decorum as the situation permitted, to her room. I was surprised by what I saw.

There was a new bicycle there, rather like the one in the above picture, but it was a much better version – shinier, more impressive, a spanking bright red and silver beauty.
I was fascinated.
Someone thought enough of this girl to give her a great new bike in wartime. But how did they get such a thing?
I would have thought that in the six years of war no country in Europe would have been able to turn out such a bicycle.
She told me the story.
She had been given the bike when she was fourteen, just before the war came to change everything. Because of the turmoil in the streets of Rome at the time, she had never dared take it downstairs and ride it; she was sure that someone would take it from her.
It belonged in the sun, but she kept it in the shade in her room all those years. She polished it regularly, waiting for the day when the war would end and the future would be limitless and peace would return to the streets of the city. She was not a child any more – she was a young woman of twenty-one years – but her great ambition was to be able to take it downstairs and try it out.
The war was horrible, so many thousands – millions – of lives lost, so much tragedy. This was, in contrast, a very unimportant story. But I couldn’t help feeling that this too, in its small way, was a poignant tale:
A girl who kept a beloved new bicycle in her room for seven years, waiting for the day when peace would come so she’d be able to ride it for the first time.
We got to know each other well, in a few days. We became friends.
The Great War had ended, but communications must have been tangled because the Japanese somehow never got the memo. The battle raged on in the Pacific, so I had to say addio and leave.

She gave me a picture of herself taken before the war, back when she was enjoying a day on the beach at Rimini. She wrote on the photo:
“A te il ricordo. A me la gioia di essere ricordata.”
“To you the memory. To me the joy of being remembered.”
I still feel, after all these years, the strength of il recordo.
(Submitted also to Sunday Scribblings)

Berowne's 125

(Also for Three-Word Wednesday and ABC Wednesday: "Z" is for "Zesty")

The scene above reminded me of how tough farm work can be.
Fortunately things came to a halt from time to time when the farm hands could get a little R&R, rest and relaxation, before heading back to their chores.
Suddenly I remembered some tough work I was involved in a few seasons ago, a little job known as World War II.
That’s when I got to know about the marvelous system known in the military as R&R.
Though I had spent most of my three and a half years’ service in the South Pacific, I found myself in Italy as the European war wound down to an end.
In Rome I was given three days of R&R.
Why do I use the word “marvelous” to describe such a thing? Well, look at it this way.

If you visit Rome today, imagine a stay in the Hotel Excelsior, one of the great hotels of the world. I have to warn you it’s expensive; the price per room runs from “small fortune” to “forget about it.”
But what can one expect?
Since 1906 princes and maharajahs, presidents, dictators and celebrities have enjoyed this world-famous seven-layer-cake of a hotel, with its oriental rugs and crystal chandeliers and whatall, located right smack on the prestigious Via Veneto. You can easily walk to the Spanish Steps and the Villa Borghese gardens.
In other words, Motel Six it ain’t. :-)
So I got three days of R&R at the Excelsior Hotel. I knew it must be an important hangout because I was told Goering had stayed there a year or two before. I have always lived with a basic principle: if it was good enough for Goering it should be good enough for me.
As for the price, get this. They charged me one dollar for my room – and that included three zesty Italian meals a day. Zesty meals in a zesty city. You wonder why I have such fond memories of the deal known as R&R?

Of course, in 1945 the place wasn’t as dazzling as it is today. I wanted to take a bath – it had been a long time since I had had a real bath – but there was no soap in the room. I phoned the switchboard operator.
“Signora,” I said, bravely trying out my rudimentary Italian, “niente sapone qui.” I hoped this meant there wasn’t any soap here in the room.
She did not differ. “No,” she replied wearily. “Niente sapone.”
I seemed to detect a tone of voice implying, there’s been a war for six years, you dope; naturally there’s no soap. Bring your own soap.
Anyway, that evening I went for a stroll on the Via Veneto. I don’t smoke but I was entitled to cigarettes from the ship’s stores and I had been told they would come in handy, so I brought a carton of Lucky Strikes with me.

(I was later told, tongue in cheek, that you could then have been elected mayor of a sizable Italian village for a carton of American cigarettes.)
Suddenly out of nowhere a pretty girl was at my side, strolling along with me. She had either been drawn by my rugged masculine good looks – or by the carton of cigs. (Probably the latter.)
With her poor English and my poorer Italian, we had an enjoyable conversation. She even broke out into song, delivering a charming version of an American hit song of that era.
She sang: “You’ll nevair know joos’ a how mooch I mees you. You’ll nevair know joos’ a how mooch I care.”
She told me her name, Santa Montefiori. I thought it was beautiful; it seemed to mean “Holy Mountain of Flowers.”
I realized I was falling in love with Rome.
If you’d like to know about my subsequent adventures with Miss Mountain of Flowers, I’ll try to cover that in a future post.
(Also submitted to Sunday Scribblings)

Berowne’s 124

For Three-Word Wednesday and ABC Wednesday
It was a few years ago that I published my Ophelia post; I’m glad to have this chance to run it again.
In the play “Hamlet,” Ophelia sings:
“Tomorrow is Saint Valentine’s day,
All in the morning betime…
And I a maid at your window,
To be your Valentine.”
Now, why would Ophelia sing such a song? It wasn’t Valentine season – what she sang made no sense.

Beautiful Ophelia is portrayed in the early scenes as a demure and dutiful daughter, but she suffers one traumatic event after another. Prince Hamlet, the man she loves, brutally rejects her, and she later learns that her beloved father has been killed by that very man. It is all too much for her – she goes insane. The loss of her sanity perhaps serves as a buffer against her life’s misfortunes.
The sequence of Ophelia’s madness is one of the most powerfully dramatic scenes Shakespeare ever wrote.

Demure Ophelia, now totally disheveled, comes before the King and Queen, who are horrified at what they see. She’s babbling, speaking nonsense:
“They say the owl was a baker’s daughter.”
Interesting point. Shakespeare projects a sense of unity here because in his plays when jesters, fools, clowns, and as far as that goes genuinely crazy people, come up with bizarre, nonsensical speech, there are often good reasons for what they’re saying.
For example, Ophelia, making her transition from sanity to madness, is probably remembering a legend she had been taught as a girl about the importance of generosity.
It seems that, years earlier, when Jesus Christ was visiting Britain – which, by the way, is a bit of a stretch because you can be pretty sure he never did – he was wandering about, as he was wont to do, and he got hungry. Short on cash, he stopped by a bakery and asked the daughter of the baker if he could have just a crust of bread.
The daughter reasoned that she and her dad were operating a business, not a charity for vagrants, so she turned him down.
Well, because of her stinginess (and also perhaps because the person in question was, after all, the Messiah), she was turned into an owl. A lesson for everyone. Who would want to be turned into an owl? (As the owl itself might say: Who?)
In addition Ophelia, in her lunacy, sings some, for her, indecent ditties:
“Then up he rose and donn’d his clothes
And op’d the chamber door.
Let in the maid, that out a maid
Never departed more."

Later, Ophelia dies by drowning. When the body is made ready for burial, her loving brother says:
“Lay her in the earth
And from her fair and unpolluted flesh
May violets spring!”

(Also submitted to Sunday Scribblings)

For Three-Word Wednesday, Magpie 123 and ABC Wednesday

One of the advantages, if there are any, of having reached an advanced age is that one was alive when great historical events took place.
I remember what a shock it was for those of us in the military when they exploded the atomic bomb in ’45.
Putting aside the moral question of whether they should or should not have done so, for me, after nearly four years’ service mostly in the south Pacific, it meant that I’d finally get to go home.
A few years earlier, in the American film industry, there was also a huge explosion, almost equaling the atomic bomb in importance.
It was titled “Citizen Kane.”
As I’m sure you know, there are those who claim that this movie was the greatest film ever made.
As a guy very interested in cinema I tried to learn all I could about Orson Welles, the young genius who made the picture. I know, “genius” is a term that should be used sparingly, but the more I learned about this wunderkind the more I thought it might be appropriate.
I mean, come on. An established, and sought-after, professional theatrical producer-director while still a teenager? Responsible for wildly innovative Shakespeare on Broadway…
Not to mention his radio production of “The War of the Worlds,” the most famous broadcast in the history of radio, which scared the bejasus out of thousands of Americans who heard it and who were convinced that very unpleasant not to mention ghastly critters from outer space had come to pulverize the general population and they had landed in Grover’s Mill, New Jersey.
But topping all this was the atomic bomb I mentioned earlier, the film about Charles Foster Kane.
I studied Welles’ career for years and I have come to a reluctant conclusion. Let me explain.
In the years after “Kane,” Orson made other films. I saw them and I was puzzled.
Movies like “Touch of Evil.” When I saw his later motion pictures, I found myself asking, Orson Welles made this? Of course, I realized Welles was hampered by film industry front-office types, but even so the difference in quality was striking.
Then I had a Eureka moment, I read about how “Kane” was made.
For his first movie, Welles found a script-writer who was writing radio plays for “The Campbell Playhouse” named Herman J Mankiewicz. The idea was to write a sort of expose of – you might even call it a taunting of - William Randolph Hearst, and Orson told Mank, as he was called, to come up with a first draft of a screen play.
Mankiewicz did and Welles worked on it.
“Citizen Kane” was not an Orson Welles film; it was an Orson Welles-Herman J Mankiewicz film. Perhaps because I was a script-writer and taught script-writing for years, I was impressed that the motion picture industry accused Orson of greatly underplaying the Mankiewicz importance to the success of the movie.
Mind you, I’m still one who claims Welles was a genius. The script aside, it was he who whose distinctive directorial style created a marvelous new, for the time, film experience.
In these days when X-rated movies are considered to be almost middle-of-the-road, it may be hard to remember a time when Orson’s film style was regarded as revolutionary. There were his unforgettable camera angles and his wildly innovative use of sound (which he had learned during his days in radio). The fact that he knew little about how to make a movie turned out to be an advantage.
He wanted a long shot with the background and foreground both in focus; he was told such a lens didn’t exist. Build it, he said; and they did.
I’m with those who believe that “Kane” is one of the greatest films ever made, but it wasn’t just Orson’s movie; it was an Orson Welles-Herman J Mankiewicz co-production.
(Also submitted to Sunday Scribblings)

Magpie 122

For Three-Word Wednesday and ABC Wednesday
Mad Men in the Mud
Ron: Okay, enough of this chit-chat. Remember, Phil Irving, who we hope to God is going to be a new client for us, is coming here tomorrow. Believe me, this will be sort of the Olympics for this agency – go for the Gold!
Blake: Just as background info, Phil Irving’s first name isn’t, by the way, Philip. His parents were from the old country and they named him “Felix.” Felix Irving. So he uses “Phil.” Naturally, there’s a temptation to make a joke about Felix the Cat; avoid that at all costs. He also hates the phrase “the mud guy,” which competitors call him and which we must also avoid. He markets excellent products, especially the “I-Deal Galoshes,” which happen to be very successful and profitable; they could pay the salaries of quite a few of us in this agency for years.
Ron: The “I” in “I-Deal” of course refers to Irving. As you probably know, his slogan is “Wet and Wonderful: The I-Deals, THE Galoshes for 21st-Century Mud!”
Blake: Good God, will he expect us to use that? Can’t we come up with something a bit more – euphonius?
Wendell: Well, euphonius guy I know, so you work on it. (Chuckles)
Blake: How does that help, Wendell?
Ron: There’s some bad news. He wants us to put both his wife and his - er - friend to work in the same commercial.
Wendell: Wow.
Ron: Enough of that. Now, here’s our little list of “don’ts” for tomorrow when Irving’s here. No reference to the famous Cat. No use of the phrase “mud guy.” Try to act like top professionals, not people wandering about in a fog. And let’s make an effort to show great interest in the contributions of both Mrs. Irving and Phil’s friend Miss Mullen – er, what’s her first name?
Blake: Candee; she has two “e”s at the end.
Wendell: Bet that’s not all she’s got at the end.
Blake: How does that help, Wendell?
Ron: By the way, Edna, Mrs Irving believes she has a career as a writer. She wants to write the copy for the commercials. Uh – you have anything to say to that?
Edna: As head of the copy department, I’m speechless.
Ron: Don’t worry. It’ll be a struggle but here’s how we handle it. We say how much we look forward to working with her. After you get her scripts, try – I mean really try – to use some lines of hers in what you write, so she gets the idea that she was at least seriously considered. I hope that will satisfy both her and her husband.
Edna: For me, it will be like trying to write with manacles on my wrists.
Wendell: Which we may yet get around to.
Ron: And there’s another bit of bad news. Mandee – er – Sandee..?
Blake: Candee.
Ron: Yes, Candee. She would like to be the voice-over announcer.
Wendell: Holy guacamole! How do you plan to handle that?
Ron: Oh, I have a plan. I got to be the head of this agency by knowing how to handle just these types of emergencies.
Blake: I’ve been in this business for thirty years, made hundreds of commercials. Never, and I mean never, have I worked on a commercial which had both the client’s wife and his girlfriend in it.
Kit: At any rate, I’ve put together a whiz-bang Powerpoint to show him.
Ron: Powerpoint? You’re going to present a slide-show to illustrate how we make commercials? I'm too lenient with you guys; I told you to make a sample commercial.
Kit: There wasn’t time. Hey, it’s going to be a great presentation. It will knock his galoshes off. It’s got some great music and some faux animation in it.
Wendell: I just hope we don’t wind up with a faux paycheck.
Blake: Ron, have you ever thought of just standing up to Irving and saying, Sir, we are a top professional advertising agency and we will do a great job of promoting and selling your product. We’ll continue to do a great job if we don’t have to hire a client’s relatives and friends. Have you ever thought of that?
Ron: Have you ever thought of not eating?

For Three-Word Wednesday, Magpie 120 and ABC Wednesday

("U" is for "Ungrateful")

I was immediately reminded of someone by the above picture – the Fool.
(In Shakespeare circles, when you say “the Fool,” it usually means you’re talking about old King Lear’s personal jester.)

As I’m sure you know, back during the Middle Ages and right on up to Renaissance times, if you were big enough, politically or aristocratically – or if you were just plain rich – you usually had one of these guys in your employ.
Your own David Letterman on your payroll, cracking wise on command.
The grand personages of that day would regard the jokesters almost like pets; they were usually tolerant of anything the fools might say so often they’d say things no one else could get away with.
They were expected to make slyly quasi-insulting remarks about their masters. Queen Elizabeth, who owned a couple of them, once rebuked one of her fools for being insufficiently severe with her.
Certainly, in the vast collection of unforgettable characters Will Shakespeare created, King Lear’s Fool stands out.
You know the story. The old King, getting to the age where he knew he’d soon be cashing in his chips, didn’t just resign; he gathered his family around him (three daughters) and divvied up his kingdom so they'd all get a share. Each girl had to prove her love for him first.

He got a rude surprise when two of them, Goneril and Regan, who had spoken most emphatically about how much they loved the old guy, managed to forget all about that once they got their hands on the real estate. These two fictional characters have come to be famous over the years as exemplars of ungrateful children.
A large portion of the play has to do with what happened to King Lear after that, with his faithful Fool at his side, the jester constantly reminding him of how dumb it had been to give away his kingdom – and with it his fortress and power.
Fool: “Mark it, Nuncle. Can you tell how an oyster makes his shell?”
Lear (wearily): “No.”
Fool: “Nor I, neither. But I can tell why a snail has a house.”
Lear: “Why?”
Fool: “Why, to put his head in it – not to give it away to his daughters and leave his horns without a case.”

Old Man Lear began to get pretty irritated with the constant biting comments, but he knew that no matter how difficult things became his faithful jester would stay with him, no matter what, when almost no one else would.
Fool: “That sir which serves and seeks for gain
And follows but for form,
Will pack when it begins to rain
And leave thee in the storm.
But I will tarry; the fool will stay,
And let the wise man fly.”

As for King Lear, there’s a mist out on the heath as he wanders about, and it turns into a violent storm. He has his jester with him; the Fool is almost like a bulky package Lear carries with him every step of the way.
As I’m sure you’re aware, we have pretty much the same situation today. Leading politicians and candidates often have what might be described as jesters on their staffs, writers who are charged with providing droll remarks so the candidates will come across as good-humored, folksy types.
Lately, however, it’s almost as though they don’t understand the basic principle. From time to time these days, it’s the political candidate, not the hired writer, who acts the part of the Fool. :-)

(Also submitted to Sunday Scribblings)