" it would be fanciful to suggest that Kilgraney telegraph poles
were the inspiration for
'The Tin Drum' or that we were directly contacted by the author"
Nobel prize for Literature 1999
Excerpt from The Tin Drum
" it would be wrong to suggest that Kilgraney was singlehandedly responsible for Gunter Grass being awarded the
Nobel prize for literature"
can you please
simply supply me
with a telegraph pole ?
But now it was Monday afternoon and my grandmother was sitting by the potato fire. Today her Sunday skirt was one layer closer to her person, while the one that had basked in the warmth of her skin on Sunday swathed her hips in Monday gloom. Whistling with no particular tune in mind, she coaxed the first cooked potato out of the ashes with her hazel branch and pushed it away from the smoldering mound to cool in the breeze. Then she spitted the charred and crusty tuber on a pointed stick and held it close to her mouth; she had stopped whistling and instead pursed her cracked, wind-parched lips to blow the earth and ashes off the potato skin. In blowing, my grandmother closed her eyes. When she thought she had blown enough, she opened first one eye, then the other, bit into the potato with her widely spaced but otherwise perfect front teeth, removed half the potato, cradled the other half, mealy steaming, and still too hot to chew, in her open mouth and, sniffing at the smoke and the October air, gazed wide-eyed across the field toward the nearby horizon, sectioned by telegraph poles and the upper third of the brickworks chimney.
Something was moving between the telegraph poles. My grandmother closed her mouth. Something was jumping about. Three men were darting between the poles, three men made for the chimney, then round in front, then one doubled back. Short and wide he seemed, he took a fresh start and made it across the brickyard, the other two, sort of long and thin, just behind him. They were out of the brickyard, back between the telegraph poles, but Short and Wide twisted and turned and seemed to be in more of a hurry than Long and Thin, who had to double back to the chimney, because he was already rolling over it when they, two hands’ breadths away, were still taking a start, and suddenly they were gone as though they had given up, and the little one disappeared too, behind the horizon, in the middle of his jump from the chimney. Out of sight they remained, it was intermission, they were changing their costumes, or making bricks and getting paid for it. Taking advantage of the intermission, my grandmother tried to spit another potato, but missed it. Because the one who seemed to be short and wide, who hadn’t changed his clothes after all, climbed up over the horizon as if it were a fence and he had left his pursuers behind it, in among the bricks or on the road to Brenntau. But he was still in a hurry; trying to go faster than the telegraph poles, he took long slow leaps across the field; the mud flew from his boots as he leapt over the soggy ground, but leap as he might, he seemed to be crawling. Sometimes he seemed to stick in the ground and then to stick in mid-air, short and wide, time enough to wipe his face before his foot came down again in the freshly plowed field, which bordered the five acres of potatoes and narrowed into a sunken lane. He made it to the lane; short and wide, he had barely disappeared into the lane, when the two others, long and thin, who had probably been searching the brickyard in the meantime, climbed over the horizon and came plodding through the mud, so long and thin, but not really skinny, that my grandmother missed her potato again; because it’s not every day that you see this kind of thing, three full-grown men, though they hadn’t grown in exactly the same directions, hopping around telegraph poles nearly breaking the chimney off the brickworks, and then at intervals, first short and wide, then long and thin, but all with the same difficulty, picking up more and more mud on the soles of their boots, leaping through the field that Vincent had plowed two days before, and disappearing down the sunken lane. Then all three of them were gone and my grandmother ventured to spit another potato, which this time was almost cold.
She hastily blew the earth and ashes off the
skin, popped the whole potato straight into her mouth. They must be from the
brickworks, she thought if she thought anything, and she was still chewing
with a circular motion when one of them jumped out of the lane, wild eyes
over a black mustache, reached the fire in two jumps, stood before, behind,
and beside the fire all at once, cursing, scared, not knowing which way to
go, unable to turn back, for behind him Long and Thin were running down the
lane. He hit his knees, the eyes in his head were like to pop out, and sweat
poured from his forehead. Panting, his whole face a tremble, he ventured to
crawl closer, towards the soles of my grandmother’s boots, peering up at her
like a squat little animal. Heaving a great sigh, which made her stop chewing
on her potato, my grandmother let her feet tilt over, stopped thinking about
bricks and brickmakers, and lifted high her skirt, no, all four skirts, high
enough so that Short and Wide, who was not from the brickworks, could crawl
underneath. Gone was his black mustache; he didn’t look like an animal any
more, he was neither from Ramku nor from Viereck, at any rate he had vanished
with his fright, he had ceased to be wide or short but he took up room just
the same, he forgot to pant or tremble and he had stopped hitting his knees;
all was as still as on the first day of Creation or the last; a bit of wind
hummed in the potato fire, the telegraph poles counted themselves in silence,
the chimney of the brickworks stood at attention, and my grandmother smoothed
down her uppermost skirt neatly and sensibly over the second one; she scarcely
felt him under her fourth skirt, and her third skirt wasn’t even aware that
there was anything new and unusual next to her skin. Yes, unusual it was,
but the top was nicely smoothed out and the second and third layers didn’t
know a thing; and so she scraped two or three potatoes out of the ashes, took
four raw ones from the basket beneath her right elbow, pushed the raw spuds
one after another into the hot ashes, covered them over with more ashes, and
poked the fire till the smoke rose in clouds - what else could she have done?
My grandmother’s skirts had barely settled down; the sticky smudge of the
potato fire, which had lost its direction with all the poking and thrashing
about, had barely had time to adjust itself to the wind and resume its low
yellow course across the field to southwestward, when Long and Thin popped
out of the lane, hot in pursuit of Short and Wide, who by now had set up housekeeping
beneath my grandmother’s skirts; they were indeed long and thin and they wore
the uniform of the rural constabulary.
An answer as to how "grape-vine" came to be used figuratively to mean "an informal person-to-person means of circulating information or gossip"
This originates in the USA. In the early days of telegraphy,
companies rushed to put up telegraph poles,
some made none too well and some actually using trees rather than poles. To
some, the tangled wires resembled the wild vines found in California, hence
a Grapevine. During the US Civil War the telegraph was used extensively, but
the messages were sometime unreliable, hence the association of rumour on
the grapevine. The phrase first appeared in print in 1852.
Another reference states:. “…grapevines were associated with telegraph lines somewhere along the line, for by the time of the Civil war a report by ‘grapevine telegraph’ was common slang for a rumor. The idea behind the expression is probably not rumors sent over real telegraph lines, but the telegraphic speed with which rumor mongers can transmit canards with their own rude mouth-to-mouth telegraph system.”
From the “Encyclopedia of Word and Phrase Origins” by Robert Hendrickson (Facts on File, New York, 1997).