Before you even start reading, I ask your forbearance!

Prologue to the post: when I was a young yard ape of 6-7 years old, a favored aunt told me a nursery rhyme, of sorts. One of the reasons she was so favored in my eyes was that she was a free spirit. Were she alive and in her twenties these days, she’d be of the cut of Paris Hilton and Britney Spears.

Now, the post: Understanding that, and further clarifying that I was her only nephew for a number of years (and therefore sufficiently spoiled by her wonderful, unfettered attention), she recited to me the tale of Mr. Newton and Mr. Martin.

I still remember the day when she conspiratorially asked me, glint in eye and looking around to make sure we were alone (i.e., out of earshot of my parents), if I’d heard of Mr. Newton and Mr. Martin. Caught up in her sense of excitement and intrigue, I eagerly admitted that I’d not. At which point she launched into a theatrical production worthy of Hallmark in the recital of Mr. Newton and Mr. Martin.

     Mr. Newton sat a pootin’
          upon a pile of hay.
     Mr. Martin came a fartin’
          and blow’d it all away!

To this day, many decades later, Masters Newton and Martin remain an integral part of my life and psyche. I am intrigued at how many times in a given month that I actually find myself quoting the prose. Mind you, it’s not a constant; I may go months without a thought of the duo. Then, something will set off the synapse in my brain that holds Newton and Martin in check, and out they come!

At this point in my life, what I find to be fascinating is that a tome to the windy twins has stuck with me so tenaciously. I suppose that this testifies to the power and strength of love — my aunt loved me with wild abandon, even sharing her “rowdy” spirit with me, her young nephew. I can only hope that I have this strong of an influence in the lives of others.