Atticus Finch
Without Prejudice
Had to help my grand daughter with her English assignment the other day. To Kill A Mocking Bird, in a five minute synopsis over the phone. And I recalled in the telling the essence of the man, Atticus Finch. A decent small town layer in the American South who quietly portrays everything that is decent and noble in a man. A good man.
Atticus is hero worshipped by his daughter, Scout. The 3 young children in the story, run the dusty streets of the small town, her and brother Jem and friend Dill. It won the Pulitzer Prize and is one of the most famous novels ever written. Atticus is portrayed as a gentle, bookish man with glasses. His wife has died leaving him a single father. The book is about Prejudice, Racism, love, honour truth and beauty, told through the eyes of the little tomboy Scout.
It's a wonderful book and as I gabbled the synopsis to my grand daughter on a mobile I realised she should watch the Movie, first. To gain her interest as she is 16 and that age these days are more visual in learning. It took a few days to find the movie and watch it but I had peaked her interest. The next time we spoke it was of the story.
She didn't really understand the Boo Radley part so I explained that to her. That Boo was also a victim of Prejudice but he came to be the one, that saved Scout and Jems's lives one Halloween Pageant night. It always makes me laugh when Scout is dressed as a ham and grumbling about it on the way home.
The character of Atticus Finch says everything about what every little girl needs. A wise and loving Dad. A decent Dad that makes her admire him just because he is the person he is. There is no lack of love in the Finch household. When he speaks to his children it is with dignity, respect, he is the Gentle Man and Gentleman. He is Gary Cooper and cowboys everywhere.
He is the Man Who Shot Liberty Valance, all sherrifs and policeman, firemen, doctor, nurse, paramedic, Doctors Without Borders, he is the Man who "Helps". Just an ordinary man, a simple man, but one to rely on when the chips are down. He chases off a lynch mob. Ignorant people that are in awe of the law but also are willing to take what they see as justice into their own hands.
He fights the racism and prejudice he sees around him, simply as he sees it as "wrong"
I can imagine Gregory Peck, the actor that plays Atticus as being just like his character, tender, warm, affectionate, funny, strong, a gentleman. The cowboy hero of little girls like me. The laconic, the slow drawl the old fashioned courtesies of doffing his cowboy hat and calling women, Maam.
I was brought up in the era of the western. The cowboys and Indians I played as a kid, dressed as Annie Oakley outfit resplendent with gleamin six gun holsters, a suede skirt, a suede vest and a hat. I asked for that outfit at 5 and received it that Christmas, I was sooooooo excited.
My Dad loved every western thing on the radio and TV. Hopalong Cassidy, The Man Who Shot Liberty Vallance, The Alamo, all the Spaghetti Westerns (which my Irish boy took me to see for my birthday one year at The Astor) Clint Eastwood was gorgeous when he was young, almost beautiful, with his slouched gunman stance.
The Cowboy was the Everyman hero to me. Taciturn, slow in gait, slow and quiet in talking, gentlemanly in gesture. All women want a Cowboy in their lives. As a little girl I dreamed of a farmhouse, old and weather worn, a verandah all around it. Trees in the back, to shade the kitchen on hot summer days. Large, old, with polished floors worn smooth by years of footsteps.
A central corridor with timbere doors off to the sides. A kitchen that always seems amber tinted, summer or winter. In the winter tinted amber by flames from the open fire with convection stove attached. And in Summer tinted amber by the sun in stripes escaping the edges of the blinds. Muslin blowing inwards from fresh warm breezes.
And I in apron and jeans am baking something with apple in it. Apples I have gathered that day from the orchard. A casserole bubbles on the stove top, meat from the sheep he slaughtered, potatoes and carrots from the vege patch, rosemary from the herb garden. There is a walled garden out the back, a "sun spot", herbs drying in the sun and onions, garlic, sweetening the air with their eye watering scent.
I will gather them in a cane basket, along with some freesias and daffodils in the Spring. I will feel the warm breezes on my bare arms and shiver with delight and remorse. One part of me dazzled by the newness, the freshness of Spring, the remorse of thinking.
" How many, more ??"
How many more springs to lie on the soft grass at night, gazing up at the pinpricks of light in the black velvet curtain of sky. Talking to the children of wondrous things, the vastness of the Universe, the meaning of stars and that all life came from a dead star, supposedly. Jokes and singing and acting out charades by firelight.
And he will be there, lying beside me, my Cowboy. the open range his horizon, the animals and crops his work and at the end of the warm night, we will put the kids to bed and dance slowly around the kitchen. He will have a sunburned neck and I will burrow into him like a small animal seeking warmth.
We will have some golden oldie channel on and waltz to it and talk of our day, nuzzle each other and go out on to the back verandah. We will look over the farm and the rolling hills now in darkness, old couches and a porch swing. We will rock together as we sip some whisky from jam jars, the whisky warming our bellies and firing up other parts of us.
And hand in hand we will cross to the brass bed with it's patchwork cover and lavender scented pillows and sink slowly into it's middle, cuddling naked like two little puppies, best friends, lovers and we are content. We love our tribe, our farm, our peace, our animals and each other xxx
Had to help my grand daughter with her English assignment the other day. To Kill A Mocking Bird, in a five minute synopsis over the phone. And I recalled in the telling the essence of the man, Atticus Finch. A decent small town layer in the American South who quietly portrays everything that is decent and noble in a man. A good man.
Atticus is hero worshipped by his daughter, Scout. The 3 young children in the story, run the dusty streets of the small town, her and brother Jem and friend Dill. It won the Pulitzer Prize and is one of the most famous novels ever written. Atticus is portrayed as a gentle, bookish man with glasses. His wife has died leaving him a single father. The book is about Prejudice, Racism, love, honour truth and beauty, told through the eyes of the little tomboy Scout.
It's a wonderful book and as I gabbled the synopsis to my grand daughter on a mobile I realised she should watch the Movie, first. To gain her interest as she is 16 and that age these days are more visual in learning. It took a few days to find the movie and watch it but I had peaked her interest. The next time we spoke it was of the story.
She didn't really understand the Boo Radley part so I explained that to her. That Boo was also a victim of Prejudice but he came to be the one, that saved Scout and Jems's lives one Halloween Pageant night. It always makes me laugh when Scout is dressed as a ham and grumbling about it on the way home.
The character of Atticus Finch says everything about what every little girl needs. A wise and loving Dad. A decent Dad that makes her admire him just because he is the person he is. There is no lack of love in the Finch household. When he speaks to his children it is with dignity, respect, he is the Gentle Man and Gentleman. He is Gary Cooper and cowboys everywhere.
He is the Man Who Shot Liberty Valance, all sherrifs and policeman, firemen, doctor, nurse, paramedic, Doctors Without Borders, he is the Man who "Helps". Just an ordinary man, a simple man, but one to rely on when the chips are down. He chases off a lynch mob. Ignorant people that are in awe of the law but also are willing to take what they see as justice into their own hands.
He fights the racism and prejudice he sees around him, simply as he sees it as "wrong"
I can imagine Gregory Peck, the actor that plays Atticus as being just like his character, tender, warm, affectionate, funny, strong, a gentleman. The cowboy hero of little girls like me. The laconic, the slow drawl the old fashioned courtesies of doffing his cowboy hat and calling women, Maam.
I was brought up in the era of the western. The cowboys and Indians I played as a kid, dressed as Annie Oakley outfit resplendent with gleamin six gun holsters, a suede skirt, a suede vest and a hat. I asked for that outfit at 5 and received it that Christmas, I was sooooooo excited.
My Dad loved every western thing on the radio and TV. Hopalong Cassidy, The Man Who Shot Liberty Vallance, The Alamo, all the Spaghetti Westerns (which my Irish boy took me to see for my birthday one year at The Astor) Clint Eastwood was gorgeous when he was young, almost beautiful, with his slouched gunman stance.
The Cowboy was the Everyman hero to me. Taciturn, slow in gait, slow and quiet in talking, gentlemanly in gesture. All women want a Cowboy in their lives. As a little girl I dreamed of a farmhouse, old and weather worn, a verandah all around it. Trees in the back, to shade the kitchen on hot summer days. Large, old, with polished floors worn smooth by years of footsteps.
A central corridor with timbere doors off to the sides. A kitchen that always seems amber tinted, summer or winter. In the winter tinted amber by flames from the open fire with convection stove attached. And in Summer tinted amber by the sun in stripes escaping the edges of the blinds. Muslin blowing inwards from fresh warm breezes.
And I in apron and jeans am baking something with apple in it. Apples I have gathered that day from the orchard. A casserole bubbles on the stove top, meat from the sheep he slaughtered, potatoes and carrots from the vege patch, rosemary from the herb garden. There is a walled garden out the back, a "sun spot", herbs drying in the sun and onions, garlic, sweetening the air with their eye watering scent.
I will gather them in a cane basket, along with some freesias and daffodils in the Spring. I will feel the warm breezes on my bare arms and shiver with delight and remorse. One part of me dazzled by the newness, the freshness of Spring, the remorse of thinking.
" How many, more ??"
How many more springs to lie on the soft grass at night, gazing up at the pinpricks of light in the black velvet curtain of sky. Talking to the children of wondrous things, the vastness of the Universe, the meaning of stars and that all life came from a dead star, supposedly. Jokes and singing and acting out charades by firelight.
And he will be there, lying beside me, my Cowboy. the open range his horizon, the animals and crops his work and at the end of the warm night, we will put the kids to bed and dance slowly around the kitchen. He will have a sunburned neck and I will burrow into him like a small animal seeking warmth.
We will have some golden oldie channel on and waltz to it and talk of our day, nuzzle each other and go out on to the back verandah. We will look over the farm and the rolling hills now in darkness, old couches and a porch swing. We will rock together as we sip some whisky from jam jars, the whisky warming our bellies and firing up other parts of us.
And hand in hand we will cross to the brass bed with it's patchwork cover and lavender scented pillows and sink slowly into it's middle, cuddling naked like two little puppies, best friends, lovers and we are content. We love our tribe, our farm, our peace, our animals and each other xxx
