The Killeen clan originated in the west of Ireland, primarily in the three Atlantic seaboard counties of Clare, Galway and Mayo, where they went by the moniker O’Cillin. The Killeens had many curious traditions, one of them being that each husband was required to write a song for his wife when she reached her 67th birthday. To hear the song, the wife would dress in fetching raiment, take her husband into her bedchamber and feed him oatmeal scones. The husband might get a little booty call if the song was really good.
Though we don’t observe all the old Irish traditions around here, the 67th birthday paean is a rigid requirement. Since Siobhan, my own wife, turns that age tomorrow, I have whipped up a little number to celebrate the day. I hope she likes it. I’m really looking forward to those scones and, well, you know….
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| Above: Siobhan with nieces Ashleigh and Kathleen. Below: with a needy pal. |
Limousine
I met you one day on the farm,
I’m sure I was typically warm;
Your hair in a braid, your demeanor was staid
And you didn’t ooze buckets of charm.
But life’s highway is long and it winds
Through the hilltops of happier times;
And as weeks fall away in life’s clever ballet,
Sometimes we do change our minds.
Your work kept you coming around;
One day you arrived at sundown….
Reached into the air, pulled a pin from your hair
Blonde tresses came tumbling down.
Limousone, limouseine, limousine,
Just think of the colors we’ve seen
As we rode through the sky on a natural high
In our magical myst’ry machine.
We married in Vegas one June
To the sounds of an old Elvis tune
And drove off in the sun for a thirty-year run
And a Grand Canyonesque honeymoon.
We’ve been to the top of Half Dome,
Seen the glories of old Yellowstone,
Drove the Road To The Sun and before we were done
Genuflected at Zion’s White Throne.
Limousone, Limoseine, Limousine,
Just think of the colors we’ve seen
As we rode through the sky on a natural high
In our magical myst’ry machine.
And when The Fates tell us it’s time,
To slow down our journey sublime,
We’ll aim her out West without any regrets
And drive to the end of the line.
Limousone, limouseine, limousine,
Just think of the colors we’ve seen
As we rode through the sky on a natural high
In our magical myst’ry machine.
And now that our sweet song is done,
Here’s a tip from a satisfied lover:
Though you might try like hell, you simply can’t tell
A very good book by its cover.
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| At the school Science Fair; with Stuart Bentler, Jr. |
Origins
When Siobhan Ellison was a mere pollywog in the great pond of life, she already knew her fate. An animal lover of the first magnitude (with more than a slight tilt to equines), she would someday become a veterinarian, a person who heals their wounds, calms their nerves and keeps them on the path to health and prosperity. She never had a doubt, never wavered in this objective, and eventually earned her degree in veterinary medicine at the University of Florida at the tender age of 31. She then joined an Ocala large animal practice and eventually went off on her own, driving the length and breadth of three Florida counties to ply her trade. Her northernmost regular was Bill Killeen’s farm, just off the shores of Orange Lake, fortunately for him. The first two years there, Dr. Ellison helped get 29 out of 30 mares in foal. Bill wasn’t crazy about this new vet at first, but 97% mares in foal when the industry average is 67% will warm a guy up in a hurry. Besides, sometimes she brought popsicles.
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| Frolicking near Ponte Vedra in The Days of Long Hair. |
Out With The Old, In With The New
Now in these times, Bill was blessed with a very nice girlfriend named Betsy Harper, a clever and energetic young woman who taught high-school, owned her own dance-exercise studio and was still willing to go watch The Rocky Horror Picture Show at midnight. Bill took her to the thoroughbred races in Miami several times and Betsy was so taken with the place she eventually moved there, leaving Bill with a hole on his dance card. Siobhan was a possibility but she seemed a little severe, arrayed as she was with a single long braid, workmanlike vet outfits and a stern demeanor. Then one day at the end of a visit, she unleashed her hair, which fell almost to the top of her rear end. Shallow farmers like Bill are stunned and bewitched by such incredible transformations. Dr. Ellison moved to the top of Bill’s wish list. A couple of weeks later after several sleepless nights spent waiting for mares to foal and too many dinners at a greasepit down the road, he called her and asked what she had in the refrigerator. “I’ll find something,” she said, accomodatingly. From such moments are great romances stirred. The First Supper was in 1985. They’ve been together ever since. Two-thirds of the tresses are gone but the memory lingers on.
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| Aiding and abetting a mysterious stranger. |
You Say Tomato, I Say Tomahto
They say opposites attract, and in this case they might be correct. Bill derives from rowdy Irish stock, while Siobhan was born in crusty old England. Siobhan is of the cup-half-empty philosophy while Bill is an over-the-top optimist. Bill operated an emporium which dealt in drug paraphernalia while Siobhan never lit up so much as a single joint. Bill drives a little fast on occasion and will usually try to beat the train to the crossing, while Siobhan unerringly finds the slowest lane of traffic. The two of them did have one thing in common, however, a considerable interest in the thoroughbred horse industry. You have to start somewhere. Baby steps.
Siobhan had built a small house in Fairfield--about equidistant between Gainesville and Ocala--on five acres of land, adding another six acres later to accomodate a fast-growing community of horses, goats, dogs, cats and whatever surprise the neighbors might leave at her front gate. Driving hither and yon for the bulk of the day while she built up a solo vet practice, she was content to spend the rest of her time savoring the peace and quiet of her realm. A weekend in Maui was inconceivable when your clientele consisted of hundreds of horses which could quickly fall prey to any one of innumerable illnesses or bouts of bad fortune. Bill, on the other hand, was used to flying to New York City on business several times a year, jetting off to various spots in Mexico or paying a visit to the old homestead in New England. For ten years, the scale tilted Siobhan’s way and the onyx peddlers in Puebla sadly pondered the fate of their old pal, Bill.
As time passed, it became apparent to Siobhan that a young female vet unaffiliated with a large practice could advance just so far in a good-old-boys bastion like Marion County. When Bill and Siobhan’s racehorse, Vaunted Vamp, came along and rang up $420,000 in the space of four years, she returned to the University of Florida, obtained a PhD and established a lab on her property to diagnose and contend with a latter-day disease called Equine Protozoal Myeloencephalitis. Siobhan’s new business was extremely successful, freeing up her time and the opportunity for additional extra-curricular activities. Alas, she still didn’t want to go on vacation. Don’t worry, though, Bill had a plan.
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| Prior to hiking the Grand Canyon's South Kaibab Trail. |
Call Of The Wild
The snow sits happily on the mountain, surrounded by friends and family, visited by the occasional skier, content with its sunny lot. Then one day, a shot rings out, a rumble erupts and the white stuff finds itself head-over-heels in flight, enjoying a rollicking roller-coaster ride downhill, a thrill it never expected to experience. “Why haven’t we done all this before?” the snow wondered. Why, indeed? Perhaps because there was no one to take that first shot, to get the snowball rolling, to instigate The Big Change. Bill, it happens, had only one bullet in his gun, but it was a big one. “Let’s go to the Grand Canyon,” he said.
Now, if there is one place that rouses the interest of the near-dead, the deplorers of motion, the olympic couch potato squad, it is the Big Ditch. Siobhan roused from her apathy. “I’d go there!” she said, brightly. And just like that, the age-old curse was broken.
This, of course, led to twenty more years of exploration and excitement, clambering to the top of Yosemite’s Half Dome, sloshing through the multi-tiered waters of the Zion Narrows, slipping and sliding over Glacier N.P.’s snowy approach to the Hidden Lake Trail, crawling through narrowing caves at Mount St. Helen, creeping over icy glaciers in Alaska. What doesn’t kill you makes you stronger the sages tell us, but those near-death experiences can make you woozy.
There’s little better, however, for the husband-wife relationship than a fortnight of close companionship facing down challenges, exploring new vistas, experiencing some of the rarest beauty on Earth. It’s a different kind of romance, a land where expectation and actuality sometimes collide, a feast of the senses and more. As the inimitable Mary Davis put it, “A walk in nature walks the soul back home.”
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| Hussy Hitchhiker desperate for a ride in Death Valley. |
Will You Still Need Me, Will You Still Feed Me When I’m 67?
Siobhan Patricia Ellison, approaching 67 years, has done pretty well for herself. A house in the country surrounded by loving pets, four UF degrees, a thriving business of her own and a fan club of grateful horse owners across the country whose animals she has saved when no one else could. Not to mention, her primary hobby these days is trying to save the life of a good friend with ALS using her own special combination of science and witchery. He’s doing pretty well, by the way, for those of you who have been asking. Not many ALS cases pilot their own planes to La Jolla and back just for the hell of it, as this one did recently.
Oh, and then there is the greatest outside yoga facility in Marion County, or perhaps anywhere, conceived, constructed and landscaped by her own wits. If you come by for stretching and meditating any Tuesday afternoon, you may be privy to some exquisite limoncello from her own private stock, the stuff of Siobhan’s two-tree orchard, and as good as any. Yoga is at 3:30 or 4:00, check your local newspaper. You don’t even have to bring a present. Just bow politely and kiss her signet ring.
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| On Bunsen Peak, Yellowstone National Park with valet. |
That’s all, folks. Happy Birthday, darling dear….
(I asked her which corny loveydove name she preferred. She said both.)
bill.killeen094@gmail.com
