
                         Roanoke Times
                 Copyright (c) 1995, Landmark Communications, Inc.

DATE: WEDNESDAY, January 12, 1994                   TAG: 9401140357
SECTION: EXTRA                    PAGE: 1   EDITION: METRO 
SOURCE: Ben Beagle
DATELINE:                                 LENGTH: Medium

THE HYENA MAY GET THE LAST LAUGH

Shortly after the snowplow filled up the entrance to the driveway once I had finished shoveling it out, I began to write like Papa Hemingway again:

The old man knew that it had not been comfortable in the tent pitched on the stinking plain below the mountain where the great cat lay frozen. But now the snow had come many times to the Road of the Highfields, and he longed for the numbing heat of Africa.

That is the way it is. A man lies in a hot tent sensing the stinking breath of the hyena, longing for the snows of his youth. Now, the snows have come to the Road of the Highfields and he wishes again for the heat of the plain.

``It is the way it is,'' the old man said to himself. ``One can sense the stinking breath of the hyena even in the snow.''

Inside the house, the woman was wild-eyed with being pent up inside because she did not want to drive El Ciera on the icy roads.

``Alas, mujer,'' the old man said. ``I miss the hot plains of Africa to the degree that I would welcome a July day running behind the self-propelled La Honda, that estimable mower of lawns.''

``Talk not to me of thy problems, El Viejo,'' the woman said. ``If the roads do not thaw soon I shall become loco and think constantly, as thee do, of the great cat on the mountain.''

``Querida mia,'' the old man said. ``There across the Road of the Highfields stands El Jeep, a vehicle that has no fear of icy roads. It has two new tires on the back and will easily get thee safely to the Market of the Piecegoods and back again.

``It invites your hands on its sturdy wheel.''

``El Jeep steers oddly, viejo,'' she said, ``and I fear it will fall suddenly into a heap of rust and shame us all.''

``It is too bad,''the old man said. ``For it is the kind of vehicle epic poets would write about.''

``Si, viejo,'' the woman said. ``No doubt there are many words that rhyme with rust.''

``It is hurtful, mujer,'' the old man said. ``I think I hear a stinking hyena squawling in the woods.''

``Go find thee a great cat,'' the woman said, her eyes flashing contempt.

``It is too bad,'' the old man said to himself. ``I would go to the Market of the Piecegoods myself, but I do not have the courage.''

by CNB