Denis Lehane: Turbine talk the stuff of nightmares

The wind turbines were restless again last night, so restless that I could not sleep.
Denis Lehane: Turbine talk the stuff of nightmares

At three in the morning I went downstairs and made myself a bowl of cereal. I sat at the kitchen table and peered out at the monsters.

They have a red glow by night, just in case in the hours of darkness you need reminding that they are still around.

I listened to them rumble. But soon I found the rumble was replaced by a whisper. And then all of a sudden, the whisper took on the form of words.

Unbelievable as it sounds, I now heard words floating through the air coming directly from a wind turbine, and the words were, “Denny old stock, ’tis the wind turbine here.”

Sort of like Robert Redford in the film ‘The Horse Whisperer,’ I could now understand every utterance.

I sat there transfixed by what I was hearing, was I going mad entirely, I asked myself? But of course I wasn’t. I’m as sane as the next man. And again from afar came the call of the turbine. “Denny, ’tis me, the old wind turbine, would you ever go back to bed?”

Well, in the finish, I couldn’t stand it any more and shouted back, “Turbine, you old hoor, sure ’tis all your fault that I’m up in the first place! You have my night’s sleep ruined, yet again!”

I was mad you see, and I felt at three in the morning, ’twas better come straight to the point.

“Yerra,” replied the turbine, whispering again, “sure I’m sorry, but ’twas only that there was a mighty gust of wind about a half hour ago, and I decided to make the best of it. I drove on regardless of the late hour. I’m sorry,” says he, “but sure ’tis no fun for me either.”

And to make a long story short, the wind turbine then went on to tell me of its own misery.

When it was being manufactured, it had presumed that it was going to be the engine of a high flying jet.

“Yerra, I thought I’d be attached to some jumbo hurtling the likes of Rihanna to her home in the Bahamas. I thought I’d lead a right glamorous life, but instead I find myself plonked here on this hill, sitting on top of an old shaft, halfway up to the moon.”

And with that, the turbine began to sob.

“How tall am I?” asked the turbine. “Am I hideous entirely?”

“Oh, God,” says he, “have I upset many people? Have I the country ruined?”

And to be honest with you, I didn’t have the heart to tell him the truth. So I bowed my head and munched through another spoon of my Rice Krispies.

Then, changing the subject, I queried, “You must have a mighty view up there, what can you see?”

“Oh, I can see everything, you don’t miss much at this dizzy height. And Denny,” says he, “I can see you have some mighty neighbours, but alas you’re not a very good farmer at all. You’re making a fright of mistakes.”

And then the turbine told me where my missing slasher could be found, and he also told me that my ram was very active back in October.

“Bar one uppity ewe, all your sheep should be in lamb,” the knowledgeable old turbine informed me.

“You should get rid of that uppity ewe,” the turbine insisted, “she sticks out like a sore thumb.”

“Well you should know, Turbine,” says I, as I made my way back upstairs, “and you the greatest sore thumb of all.”

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