Subject: Olives and the Irish
From: Cecilia Baader (ceciliaann@hotmail.com)
Date: Mon Jul 17 2000 - 16:56:00 GMT
Good afternoon, fish.
This one is going to fall under the category of pure speculation, grasping
at straws, building castles out of clouds, but if I'm right, it's an
interesting connection.
In the course of my recent reading, I came across something about ollavs.
What is an ollav, you say? Well, it's an Irish term, and not being Irish, I
had to look it up. The Irish ollav is defined as a Professor or learned man;
a master in some art or branch of learning.
Oh, you're probably thinking. That's really great, Cecilia. But what does
it have to do with the price of tea in Dublin?
Well, when I came across the unfamiliar term and was trying to think of what
it meant, the only connection that I could make was Viola's
mispronounciation of olives in the pre-Catcher Holden Caulfield story "I'm
Crazy".
This was on my mind as I looked up the word and then, upon reading the
definition, I thought that I might dig out the story and see if it perhaps
had any bearing:
"Ovvels," Phoebe said. "Olives. She's crazy about olives now.
She wants to eat olives all the time. She rang the elevator bell
when Jeannette was out this afternoon and had Pete open up a can
of olives for her."
"Ovvels," Viola said. "Bring ovvels, Holdie."
"Okay," I said.
"With the red in them," Viola said.
I told her okay, and said to go to sleep. I tucked her in, then I
started to go back where Phoebe was, only I stopped so short it
almost hurt. I heard them come in.
[Truncated for brevity and in an attempt to adhere to copyright laws...]
When they were all done with me I went back to the kids' room.
Phoebe was asleep, and I watched her awhile. Nice kid. Then I went
over to Viola's crib. I lifted her blanket and put her Donald Duck
in there with her; then I took some olives I had in my left hand
and laid them one by one in a row along the railing of her crib.
One of them fell on the floor. I picked it up, felt dust on it,
and put it in my jacket pocket. Then I left the room.
Just as an aside, ancient and medieval Ireland, according to some histories,
was settled five times-- the first four by different groups of the Greeks
and the last by various invasions of the Danes. (The oldest remaining
history of Ireland apparently alludes to this.) Some have even posited that
the Irish are the Achaens of the Iliad and the Odyssey-- they who went to
war with Troy over fair Helen. Ulysses, then, would have been an Irishman.
A man who was without equal, the Odyssey says, in cunning and discernment.
An ollav, if you will.
I don't think that many would find it amiss to describe Holden's journey as
a sort of an Odyssey. (I'm sure, as a matter of fact, that people have
probably written papers connecting the two.) And at the completion of his
journey, after all of the recriminations are settled, Holden goes to the
crib of his littlest sister, and *with his left hand*, carefully lays out
the olives she so desires. Left hand of course pertaining to action of the
soul and right hand pertaining to logical action.
Hoping, perhaps, that the little one can profit somehow by the knowledge
that he has gained the hard way? And when he drops one and it's marred by
dust, he retrieves it and puts it in his pocket. Knowledge gained isn't,
perhaps, always so pretty?
And what's with the red in the middle? Viola is adamant on that one. She
doesn't want any hollow olives. It's important that they have substance.
It's a thought, anyway. I vaguely remember the appearance of olives
elsewhere . . . does anyone remember where? Does it support or disprove my
theory?
Regards,
Cecilia.
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