Category Archives: Published Short Stories

Aug1

The Wonderful Whizzer of Og

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As told by Me, a Wandering Teller of Tales and Singer of Songs

In a world full of stories like a goose that lays golden eggs, frog princes, unicorns, and faeries, I’m going to tell of something you’ll find hard to believe, and to the best of my knowledge, is unquestionably true.

th6SO6I282 In a serene, and rarely spoken of, mountainous country in the interior of a vaguely known continent is a valley. From the bird’s eye view, this valley looks just like all of the many valleys on either side of it, except it’s quite a bit greener. The reason for the extra green is the part that you’ll find hard to believe.

One day, about two hundred years ago, a child was born to a, long thought barren, couple named Elle and Ferd. Their appearance was said to be Ogre-like but, to be sure, they weren’t Ogres. They did possess some of the lumpy characteristics and short, bent-over stature but; these were caused by centuries of manual labor in the fields and the isolation of their valley.

Elle and Ferd were members of a “kind” people that inhabited the middle valley of this mountain range’s series of valleys. Og valley people were rarely seen by anyone because a single two wheeled path passed by the entrance to each valley, which were like islands surrounded by mountains instead of water. All harvests were brought up the path to the only entrance of each island, and the harvests were picked up by sellers on their way the cities.
As far back as anyone could remember, the valley of Og out produced all of the other valleys both in size and the quality of the current harvest, whatever it might be. The reason for this anomaly was a closely guarded secret for decades.

Now that it is known, I can tell you, the Valley of Og’s bounty began a few years after the birth of a child.

Months before the birth of the boy, a dreaded Brown Tufted Honey Snatch, had entered the valley, made its way to the honey hives, ravaged them, and consumed the faeries’ entire winter cache’ of special honey.

Ferd discovered the destruction and quickly rebuilt the hives in time for the valley’s flowering season. The bees survived, the nectar was harvested, and turned into their special honey, averting a disaster for the faeries, and the people of Og.

The faeries were so grateful, they bestowed upon Elle and Ferd two gifts. One was the most precious gift the faeries could give. It was an enchanted child!

As the child grew, it was noticed where ever he whizzed, vegetation grew to enormous mass and height. Elle and Ferd, at first thought it was just their imagination, but as the boy grew up, so did their crops and trees. Enormously! The second gift from the Faeries.

Some of their neighbors noticed and remarked about the family’s continuous bountiful harvests. Elle and Ferd mentioned their discovery and what they suspected, to their neighbors.

It was decided “The Child”, would be loaned to the families that had land adjoining Elle and Ferd’s land, to see what would happen.

It worked! Each farm family produced the same amazing bounty. It didn’t seem to matter whether “The Child” whizzed directly on the specific plant or into the water supply for a whole crop. It worked! Everyone quietly celebrated the discovery. They wanted to keep their treasure a secret for as long as possible, for fear of exhausting the boy!

In the normal tradition of the valley, children were addressed as “Young Elle” or “Young Ferd” until their twelfth birthday. They were then named by making combinations of the name of their home, family, valley, or personality. It was decided to call the boy Wog to connect him with their valley. This is the name he would be known by, in the village and the valley, as long as the secret was kept. To the people, whose land connected to Elle and Ferd’s land, the boy would be known as ‘The Whizzer of Og’ (Wog)!

*****

The boy kept on growing and the amount of whizzing he could do in a day, increased. He was remarkable! Soon, the whole valley benefited from the lad’s ability. It became extremely difficult to hide the reason for the fortune of Valley of Og.

Alas, the tale of Wog’s abilities eventually leaked into the next valley. The Valley of Od heard the rumor about the whizzing boy wonder and decided they would like to be whizzed on too!
One day, accompanied by a wagon of his remarkable “Mead” supply drawn by a donkey (mead is a beverage made from honey, water, malt, and yeast), Wog by himself, as usual, was busy doing his business, and happily humming.

Now the Valley of Og rarely had troubles and did not know evil. Wog was a strong, young man, so no one ever thought he would need to be protected.

Wog had few friends. His whizzer, and the job it did, intimidated most people including the fairer Ogidites, so for the time being, Wog would just drink his Mead by himself, wait a few moments, hum and whiz on the crops. On a normal day, he would go home at dusk to get rested for the next day’s work, regular as clockwork.

In the twilight of this late afternoon, just before Wog normally would leave for home, was nabbed by several hooded beings that had snuck up on the humming Wog. They threw a blanket over him and whisked him to their valley in a two wheeled cart. He did not offer resistance, as he did not know how to resist. He lay, bouncing in the bottom of the cart wondering what was happening, and where he was going.

The next morning, Elle and Ferd, became frantic when they found Wog had not slept in his bed. His Mead wagon and donkey were not in their shed. Not quite knowing what to do, Ferd ran to his neighbors, and into the village, telling of his missing son. It was decided the first thing to do was to search the valley. Everyone turned out for the search. It wasn’t long before they came upon Wog’s Mead wagon and donkey, quietly standing where left, waiting for the return of Wog.

*****

In the next valley, that same day, Wog was introduced to the Od villagers. The leader of the hooded ones lied, and told his people that the “kind” people of The Valley of Og, had graciously loaned Wog to help them produce the greatest harvest they’d ever seen. The crowd cheered and set decorated tables for a feast and celebration.

Wog felt loved and wallowed in the attention. These Od people were throwing a party for Wog, something his village had never done.

The villagers in the Og valley had followed the two-wheeled cart tracks to the end of their valley, and found that the tracks turned left on the seller’s road. They left their valley and found it took another left into the next valley, the Valley of Od.

They went back to their own valley to plan. There were discussions by torchlight, meetings by candle light. They decided to enter the Valley of Od to recover their precious Wog.

Obviously, the secret of success, in the Valley of Og, was no longer a secret. They could call him his full name now. All of this uncustomary detective work and planning took time but, they managed to get ready for the retrieval attempt in a couple of days.

The morning after the celebration in the Village of Od, set out to see this miracle at work. The whole village followed “the hooded ones” and Wog to a field of strawberries close to town. Wog was supplied with all of their local mead he could drink.

There was stillness to the crowd, as the mead traveled. Wog began humming, and to energize the strawberry field, with a confident grin. At the sight and delivery pressure of his extraordinary whizzer, the crowd gasped at the wonder of it all. They had never seen such a thing!

Time after time, Wog went back to the supply of Mead, drank, waited and whizzed to the cheer of the crowd. When he felt his job was completed, with a little shake of his whizzer, and a nod of his head, to the hooded group’s leader, Wog and his entourage went back to the village to await the results. The villagers were stayed up all night excited and noisy. There wasn’t a celebration for Wog that night, but he was kept comfortable in a shed.

A young, handsome Od maiden, alone attended his needs. She brought warm blankets, food, and fresh straw for his bed. Not a word was spoken, but her attention was given in wide eyed wonder and admiration.

Wog could hear the celebration and wondered where the Od villager’s attention he’d received the night before was! He eventually reasoned they were waiting to see the results of his talent. Then, he would be their hero, and forever celebrated in this valley.

*****

Early in the morning of the next day, the people from the Valley of Og quietly shuffled into the Valley of Od, with their farm implements held high above their heads, silhouettes in the dawn. Fighting was not their nature, but this had to be done, as “The Whizzer” was needed back at home. New crops had been planted. Time was short. Bravely, they marched on!

A crowd gathered outside of the shed, and Wog was escorted out. In anticipation, there was controlled, nervous applause.

To the field of strawberries they went, the back of the crowd straining to see in the dawn light. As they approached the strawberry field, the throng slowed. Something was wrong! At the corner of the field, they came to a dead, silent stop and stood still.

The whole field of berry plants was wilted. Wog had never seen anything like it before.

The owner of the field yelled something, high pitched, with an attitude. The hooded ones and the gathering of Od valley people grumbled and began to mill about angrily.

Wog was approached several times by different groups looking for an answer. All Wog could do was look astonished, shrug his shoulders shift his eyes from the people to the field and back again.

Soon, the groups of villagers began to suspect the legend was untrue. Wog had failed and didn’t have any magical powers or answers. The disappointed gathering headed back toward their village mumbling, while the hooded ones gathered in a circle meeting. Wog was left standing, alone, again.

The “hooded ones” agreed, the legend of Wog was not true, for he had destroyed an entire strawberry field in one evening. It was then decided; the Valley of Od no longer had a need to keep him. They got their two wheeled cart and escorted Wog to the end of their valley. Well, almost to the end of their valley! On the way, they met the armed villagers from the Valley of Og.

Abandoning the cart and Wog, they ran for their lives toward their own village. The cart, Wog, and an unremarkable pile of straw in the corner of the cart were happily escorted home by the group of successful Og warriors.

The return of The Whizzer of Og, as Wog could now be known, was the second celebration Wog had seen in three days. This time it was his own kind, his own village, with people who knew his abilities. There was a lot of hugs and smiles between Wog, his parents, and amongst all in the Valley of Og.

Wog noticed the self-celebration by the farmers of Og. He also remembered that before he’d been kidnapped, few people talked to him, and he had made few friends. They were friendly of course, and smiled, but, other than having him whiz for them, most didn’t want to have much to do with Wog.

The leader of Og took Wog by the arm and helped him up into the cart that brought him back from his ordeal. The bundle of straw in the back corner exploded and out came the little Od girl. She ran into the crowd, a trail of straw drifting to the ground behind her.

The look of surprise on the leader’s face was quickly dismissed by an irritated shrug of his shoulders, as he was anxious to get back to his prepared speech.

He proudly raised Wog’s arms in the air as you would raise a trophy. Everyone cheered as he was displayed.

Then, Wog surprised them. With all of his courage, Wog spoke up. He never spoke up, but now, he finally had something important to say. The leader of Og stepped down to give Wog the audience.

He first thanked them for bringing him back home. He then told them about how the people of the Valley of Od held a party for him when they thought he would be able to make their crops as bountiful as Og’s crops. Then, when he failed, he told them how they quickly turned against him.

He told the silent crowd, that the Odidites did not love Wog for who he was, but only for what he could do for them.

Wog asked the people if this was how they felt?

There was complete silence while the people of Og measured themselves.

One person somewhere in the crowd started a chant. Overcoming their shame, two, and then three spoke up. Soon everyone was applauding, cheering, and chanting “Wog, Wog, Wog!”

The handsome little Odidite, with straw in her hair and an admiring smile, took one step out of the crowd toward the wagon. A surprised Whizzer smiled back at her then quickly regained his composure. While the crowd was cheering, Wog stepped down from the wagon to hold her hand. The Governor of Wog stepped back up in the wagon.

As the leader of the village and the Valley of Og, he declared a festival every year, on this day, from now on, to celebrate the gift of Wog. He shall be called fully “The Whizzer of Og” and, his name shall be proudly displayed on a sign at the entrance to their valley. It shall declare:

The Valley of Og

Home of The Whizzer of Og

Population 1103 +1 Great Whizzer

There was a secret kept by the Og Valley fairies!

Why did Wog’s talents fail in the Valley of Od? Why did his ability work so well in the Valley of Og?

The secret of course was the second gift from the faeries, I didn’t tell you about.

The Mead was made with the faerie honey from the hives that Ferd had repaired. That honey was enchanted. The more Wog whizzed on the flowers fueled by the mead made from the honey, made from the flowers he whizzed on, the more powerful his whizzing became.

This enchanted honey plus the extraordinary talents of the child, combined to create the magic for the Valley of Og, and one of the greatest stories ever told.

*****

That’s not the end of the story!

When The Whizzer introduced the little Odidite to the people of Og, she was accepted into the community. She was the first of another valley accepted by the Ogidites, as far back as memories could remember.

The Whizzer of Og and the brave little Odidite were inseparable. Elle and Ferd added a room for her, and in essence, she became their daughter.

Time passed.

There was a celebration in the Valley of Og. The pair of Wog and Mow (Mate of the Whizzer) were joined forever.

(More time passes.)

The sign at the entrance to the Valley of Og now reads:

The Valley of Og

Home of the Whizzers of Og

Population 1105 + 1 big whizzer and 4 little whizzers

All of this because of a kind man’s good deed and a thank you from the Faeries.

(I reserve the right to add a couple more of the little whizzers to the Valley of Od at a later date)

Jul25

The Prancing Cha Hooa Hooa

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For years, I’ve been watching the trained humans, following their dogs down the street to make the turn into the wash for the ‘duty call’.

 There were short ones and tall ones, chunky ones and skinny ones pulled along by their dogs on the quest for ‘the spot’. Some kept their eyes to the ground, while others nervously looked about, as if on their first mission.

 I often pitied them, locked into the twice daily routine. I’d even occasionally wondered if they had a life or if they patiently paced between the kitchen and living room, waiting for the timing to be right.

 I would see Dobies, Boxers, and Labs handled by the slightest of females. These teams seemed to be under control most often. Sometimes, these women controlled two or three of these beefy protectors at a time. There would be no muggings on this street today.

 Then there were groups that went out in between the working dog packs. I have witnessed fully grown, hairy armed, tattooed, retired men, bravely strong arming their team of Pekinese, Toy Poodles, and Cockers. I quickly avert my eyes or go inside so I would not embarrass those guys with my staring. After all, they were just trying to survive the humiliation one more time.

 *****

 I’ve been married for thirty eight years. In that time, I only bought one dog, and that was a poor attempt to satisfy my partner’s strong nesting instinct. I figured a puppy would suppress the urge, and we could stop at two human children, one of each.

 Of course, this brilliant plan failed, and she continued to produce. We ended up giving that dog away to needful schnauzer people because of the move we made to Tucson.

 During the following years, pets found us, a floppy eared rabbit appeared one day, and an endangered desert tortoise made it up the driveway to our front door.

 Awesome, the solid black, green eyed cat walked into our life, an absolute pleasure!

 We named her Awesome because, she ran the neighborhood. Other cats would come by and pay homage, and coyotes only howled in admiration at Awesome’s royalness. She told us when she wanted to come in for a visit, and then, she let us know that she’d had enough and wanted to go back outside for the evening. She loved us, and we loved her.

 A few years later, her heart failing, I had to put her down. The vet said she was over fourteen years old, which is good for an outside, desert cat. It broke me up so, I promised I would never have another pet. Then, a couple of weeks ago, away from Tucson to take care of some business, I received a phone call from my wife. We’d been adopted by a dog.

 On her way back from her South Dakota vacation, they saw this dog alone at a rest stop. While they were there, other cars stopped, but the dog kept its distance. When our Chevy was the only vehicle left at the stop, my daughter told my wife they couldn’t leave it there. The coyotes would kill it.

 With that, my daughter knelt down close to the pavement; the dog ran to her, my daughter got in the Trail Blazer, and in came our next pet, a four pound, long haired, toy Chihuahua. There wasn’t name tag. Deciding it was a male, they named it Max for Maximilian, I think.

 Several days later, I arrived home and was met by Max. Later that same day, after a trip to the vet, Maximilian was discovered to be Maxine. Now, my wife is a nurse that has had four kids, one of one and three of the other (my baseball players). My daughter has had a son. There are parts, and then there are parts missing. Sorry, I don’t dare say anything more about this!

At first, Maxi was terrified of me. When I did get close, she would crawl low with her ears down, stop, and then roll onto her back in the time honored, submissive manner animals display. That was the first thing I liked about her. She’d established me as the Alpha. The other two females in the house have not picked up on this yet.

 After a week, still a little nervous, Maxi was beginning to realize that I was a kind ruler, and warmed up to me a bit. I lightened up a little, and she played a little, and well, you know how it goes!

 I was informed that because I was semi-retired, and the two women had to work (awe shucks), I, as a writer (not a real job), was in charge of Maxi while they were bringing home the bread.

 My time had come. History will now show that Ronald D. Drobeck, hunter, fisherman, outdoorsman, and all around testosterone guy was now the custodian of a four pound mouse that sounded like a squeak toy when it barked.

 Bringing this confession to a close, I have to tell you of the first time I put Maxi on her leash and she took me for my first walk.

 Peering left and right down the street, I saw no one. I felt the time was right for my first time out with ‘the mouse’. I mean, there wasn’t a car, a kid, a bird in the sky, or Fido anywhere. I ventured out.

 I walked with my head and eyes down a little, determined that Maxi was not going to pull me as I’d seen happen to so many men. She didn’t pull. She pranced, PRANCED alongside of me, head up and proper, as if showing off what she had on the other end of the leash.

 With my attention on the prancing Chihuahua, I failed to notice the blue Ford Focus that had slowed and crossed over to my side of the street with the window down. It was Gracie, my neighbor, owner of two fuzzy, barky little dogs that I had made fun of in the past.

 “Well, Ron Drobeck, I thought it was you! What’s that on the end of that leash, and why did you hide your eyes when you recognized me?” She grinned with a twinkle.

 “Hi Gracie. Of all the people to be driving by at this moment, it just had to be you.” I said with dramatic effect. I blurted, “This is Brutus, and he’s only one week old, and he’s going to be huge some day!”

 We threw one liners at each other for a few moments. Maxi got impatient with the lack of attention, and started to pull toward home.

 Gracie knew, took pity, and gracefully ended the conversation by saying, “It looks like she is ready to go home! Go ahead; I want to watch that little hind-end trotting down the sidewalk.”

 I turned and headed home with Maxi doing her tight, little prance next to me. I was happy to walk away only slightly wounded, and a small bead of sweat on my forehead.

 I was almost to the front door when I realized that I didn’t know whether Gracie was talking about the dog or me! I quickly pivoted, only to see the Ford disappear into her garage.

Jul20

The Hunt for Ol’ Blue

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One eye opens, and I’m facing the clock. I’d set the alarm for five thirty, but I was so excited, I’d been waking up with one eye every hour since two. The comforter was snug up against my neck, and it was warm and cozy. Of all the mornings for everything to be warm and cozy, why did it have to be this one? I had an appointment to hunt for Ol’ Blue!

I slid one leg out from under the covers to test the air. It was cool but doable. I have to do this or call it off. Ok! Here we go!

Hit the floor, cold, cold, cold! It was five steps to the bathroom and turn on the light. Gees it’s bright. Done.

I’d laid out my clothes on the chair because I know how slow my brain is the first thing in the morning. First, put on the socks, to get rid of the floor contact. Now, on with all the rest of the stuff and pull my Vikings sweatshirt over my head. Done.

I went down the stairs along the wall edge because the steps didn’t creak on that side. I don’t need to wake the whole family at this hour! Next, I had to go into the kitchen, to retrieve the stuff I had packed for breakfast and lunch, from the fridge. Oh gees, bright light. Close the door, quick! I put a note on the fridge that told everyone where I was going, signed it “Little Jack” and stuck it on the door with a smiling broccoli magnet. Now, onward!

The door to the garage is to the right. Slowly and quietly I turned the handle and managed the two steps, down into the garage, without making a sound. I opened the door to the old Chevy pickup my dad let me drive. The truck smelled like burned oil mixed with other odors collected from a lifetime of hard work. These were good smells, all of them!

In the box were my fishing rods, tackle, a coffee can of night crawlers, and an old cooler I use to throw the fish in when I’m heading home. That smell we don’t need in the pickup. With myself and my lunch in the cab, I started the truck. It started on the first turn. That worked well. Clutch, out of reverse, into first, and I was on my way. Here I come pond. I let out a low, slow breath. It doesn’t get any better than this.

Five miles out of town and I had to turn right on the gravel road with the silhouette of the flying goose on it. I drove another mile to the crossroad and then straight over the cattle guard for another half mile.

I’d arrive at the end of the lake where there was a pool at the bottom of a spillway that controlled the outgoing lake water. This was my favorite fishing spot in the whole world. Only a few of us fished here because most people wanted the fancy paved roads and boat dock next to the store.

I’d worn out the seat of many a pair of perfectly good cutoffs sliding down the slime on the spillway in the late summer. That’s when the water speed is just right, and the slime builds up from the warm of the summer sun. Those of us, who know and were familiar with the pond, knew of the fish that came over the dam above the spillway in the spring. Some of us knew about the fish that would wait at the bottom of the spillway for their dinner. One of these critters was a huge catfish we named Ol’ Blue.

You could see him from up on the dam. He would make a slow patrol past the rocks in the spillway wash. We’d sneak up on him with nets or baited hooks, but it seemed like he’d feel us coming. He’d turn and slowly swim toward the middle of the pond and disappear, ghostlike. Today, I was going to get him.

As I drove up to the woven wire fence that kept cars and trucks away from the spillway, I turned my headlights off. The sun had not appeared yet, but there was a glow. It created a strange light. Even though the horizon was bright, fluorescent pink-orange, the light down on the pond was misty black-blue. It was unearthly quiet. There was not even a breeze. Quietly, I opened the door to the Chevy. The light did not come on because it had burned out years ago and dad had not bothered to replace it. I didn’t even fully close the door. I let it latch only to the first click.

To start with, I only took one fishing rod. I put a night crawler on the hook at the top of the spillway because I didn’t want to fumble around down there in the dark. I am so clever and smart; a fish doesn’t have a chance. I would come back up the hill later for the rest of the stuff. I slowly felt my way down the path and then went through the little zigzag gate. I hit the reel on my pole on one of the gate posts, and it caused a little “ting”. In the silence of the morning, it sounded like a church bell to me. I stopped. All was quiet.

I proceeded down the path into the mist and the darkness. A chill rushed up my back. I didn’t know whether it was the excitement or the cold that had settled down at the bottom of the spillway.

The path leveled out a little. I was still five feet above the surface of the pond. The mist hung to within two feet of the still water. I climbed down closer to the pond and sat on a rock at the water’s edge, waited and listened. All was quiet!

Birds startled above me as they awoke and discovered I was there. The sky above was turning to light, and mist began to move with the little breeze that was kicked up by the sun.

The mist had risen to about four feet above the water when I saw it. There was a wake cutting across the almost still water, sideways to me. My stomach knotted, but I shakily half-stood, moved the click button on my old bait casting reel and let it fly. There was a “wiz” and then a plop. The bait landed ahead of the ‘V’ being cut in the water as the mighty fish swam. The tension on the line changed because the bait was sinking to the bottom. Then it suddenly straightened out!

The reel went “sizzzzz”! I had him. I had Ol’ Blue. I set the hook like my dad taught me and felt the pull and the tail beating. This was going to be good. This was going to be really good. The fish headed for the other end of the pond and then turned left. He went as far as he could go, and then turned back. I reeled the line in only to have him take it back out again. Ten minutes we fought. I began to wonder whether I was man enough to chew what I’d bitten off. Then I realized, I didn’t have a net!

“Sizzzzz” went the line again. This time it was to the right. I started walking up the path that way, gaining line all the way. Closer and closer I came. I felt the fish getting tired, and I knew I had him. I walked across the rocks to the water’s edge. The line was straight down from the tip of the pole. A couple more cranks and I might be able to grab him by the lip or gills, like I’d seen my dad do so many times. I lifted the rod to the full length of my arm, and the fish remained below the surface, invisible.

Just a little more, a little more, I see him. Splash! Snap! I ended up on my seat. Dazed a little bit, I slowly began to realize what had happened. I never had Ol’ Blue. A three-foot carp had taken the bait before Blue could even get to it. Exhausted, I just sat there for a long time.

The sun had fully risen, and the mist had gone away from the pond’s surface. I sat quietly on the bank for so long, the birds had forgotten I was there. The water babbled over the edge of the spillway, and then a ghostly figure started cutting a ‘V’ along the rocks at the edge of the spillway. As it got close enough to spit on, Ol’ Blue lifted one eye and a whisker out of the water, studied me for a moment, turned, and disappeared into the dark depths of the pond.

© Copyright 2011 gottagosee (UN: gottagosee at Writing.Com). All rights reserved.
gottagosee has granted Writing.Com, its affiliates and syndicates non-exclusive rights to display this work.

Jun24

The Thinkin’ Tree

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         It was late in the spring and only the north side snow drifts remain. An acorn drops to the soft, moist ground and rolls into the sunlight past the tree’s shadow horizon. The little acorn is the hope of a magnificent oak tree; a mother tree that is standing alone in all her majesty, overseeing miles of rolling prairie.

      th4E4WJTTE A prairie dog with two pups in her den gathered the seed and stores it in her cheek pouch for later use. Cheeks and belly full, this mother bee lines her way back to the larder and her babies.

       In a nest placed high on a canyon wall, two young eaglets extend their necks and beaks skyward in anticipation. Below them, a swiftly moving stream roars, fed by the melting, high mountain snow.

       Mom golden eagle flies across the river carved chasm toward that waving prairie. She needs to find the next meal for her children’s insatiable appetite.

      Circling, her incredible sight detects motion. She measures the distance, speed, and direction of the victim. She stalls, gathers herself, and starts her hunting dive. The distance is closed quickly. At the last moment, the prairie dog screams the “eagle alert” and accelerates to try and reach her burrow before the eagle can catch her.

       The distance to the entrance is just too far and the speed of the eagle, too fast. The blow of the talons knocks the victim from its feet. The eagle flares its wings and quickly grabs the prairie dog. Four hard wing beats, and the limp prairie dog is on its way to the cliff side nursery.

       The still warm meal was delivered to the screaming offspring. Everything was devoured, except the fur, some bones, and the cached acorns. This waste was thrown overboard as the eagle did her nest keeping to keep the flies away and prevent diseases. The leftover fur floated in the updraft away from the nest, and the acorns bounced down the sides of the canyon. All but one acorn lodged in the stones and rocks on the slant of the canyons bottom. One acorn hit a boulder at the bottom and ping ponged into the white foam of the life giving stream.

       On it went, up and down, riding the rushing water, getting caught in an eddy and escaping again. It rode the water through the canyon, all the while soaking up moisture and gaining weight. The force of a quick turn in the stream tossed the little acorn up onto a sandbar at the river’s outer edge. The small, pulsing waves pushed and pushed. Finally, as high as the acorn could go, the water washed sand over the seed and buried it.

      During the “dog days” of summer, the river receded, and the high sun warmed the sand. The little acorn warmed enough to sprout roots and take hold. It had to grow and build its roots quickly, or the next year’s runoff would wash it away.

       The summer suns and moons passed over, and the little seed grew two feet tall with roots that firmly anchored deep. It was a child worthy of its parent. It’s mother’s legacy to its offspring was to be strong and a survivor. If the prairie tree only knew, how proud it would be of her little vagabond.

       Then, one cool day in the fall, a young boy nicknamed “Josh” was wandering along the relaxed streams shoreline. Shiny, polished rocks, amazingly shaped shards of wood, and other interesting treasures could be found here when the water receded in the fall.

       The sun was getting low in the sky and the boy turned to head home. When he ‘about faced’ to retrace his steps, a proud two foot tall tree caught his attention. He’d often heard his mother say she’d like a shade tree by the back porch. It could shade the porch while she was doing the laundry on those hot summer days. Reaching down, he gently pulled the tree from the sand and carried it home.

       After supper, while sitting on the back porch in the evening breeze, his mother asked the boy how his day had gone. She noticed the pile of his collected treasures on the top of the old wringer washer, and asked where he’d found it all. He told her of his walk along the stream.

       Each collection is a mother’s reminder that she has a normal and curious boy. She knows not to throw this fine stuff away because these are her collection of precious memories.

       She asked about the tree. He told her, it was for her shade over the back porch. Giggling, she explained that they had better plant it before it dried out and died. So, they dug the hole for the tree together and planted the little oak tree in the agreed upon ‘perfect spot’.

       Summers went by; the tree and little boy grew. The good soil and rain from the downspout on the house gave the little tree more than enough to achieve the magnificence of its bearer. So it did. One strong limb had grown eight feet off the ground. It became the home of a rope and board seat swing.

       His mother loved to sit in the swing and slowly push back and forth with her feet while his dad sat in an old rocking chair up on the porch. The rope would creak, and the rhythm of the swinging and rocking would provide a relaxing end to the day. His parents would run out of talk, tire, say “goodnight”, and go in the house. The screen door squeaked open, and slammed closed.

       Joshua was left to sit by himself on the board swing, listen to the night sounds, and think.

       He had educated himself as well as he was able in this little town. After school, the owner of the local drug store and soda fountain would allow him sit in the corner by the magazines and read everything for free. He’d read of worldly things, people, and places. Sometimes he would forget about time, so the soda fountain lady would have to remind him to go home for supper!

       The boy grew in body and mind. His dreams and knowledge fueled his ambitions well beyond the boundaries of this little town. After he had finished High School, he took classes at the community college satellite and received an associate degree in fine arts.

       Then one morning, all sameness stopped.  His parents found him up, bags packed, and a twinkle in his eye. They asked what he was up to. He told them what they feared but knew had to happen with him. He had to leave in order to grow. He was going to move to the state capital and find a job, and go to college.

       They asked how and when he’d thought of such a thing.

       He told them, “I made up my mind last night, on the swing under the thinkin’ tree!”

       They felt this day was coming, but didn’t say anything to each other. He had been quiet the last couple of weeks. They know he came from good stock, and did need room to grow.

       As he answered, a bus horn sounded outside. He kissed his mom, shook his dad’s hand, and grabbed his suitcase. Carrying a piece of toast in his mouth, he said something about coming home every other weekend, as he ran through the doorway.

       They watched him get on the bus. Through the open bus door, they could see him give his ticket to the driver. They could see his silhouette walking toward the back of the bus trying to find a window seat on their side of the bus. When he found one, he smiled a big smile and waved.

       The bus kicked up a billowing cloud of road dust as it rolled toward the rising sun.

       In his pants pocket, he had a “good luck” acorn from his “thinkin’ tree”. A grandseed from the mother tree was rolling again, a vagabond.

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© Copyright 2011 gottagosee (UN: gottagosee at Writing.Com). All rights reserved. gottagosee has granted Writing.Com, its affiliates and syndicates non-exclusive rights to display this work.

 

 

Jun22

Near Death by Broccoli

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      For all of you that follow my life closely and worry about me, I’d like you to know that I’m O.K.!

       The stir-fry doggie bag that my wife brought from “girls night out” almost got me, but I saved myself. 

      She’d ordered stir fried Chicken and Scallops, knowing that I loved fried scallops, and she would not be able to eat it all. It was mixed with Chinese noodles, rice and several kinds of vegetables.

       Because it was late and I’d already eaten, I asked her to transfer the leftovers from the Styrofoam into a Ziploc container and put it in the refrigerator. I thought about them all through the next day while I was at work. Scallops are expensive and a real treat for me.

      That evening I decided to have the treasure for supper so, I cracked the lid a bit and put the container in the microwave for three and a half minutes. The dinger went off; I shook the container and put it back in the microwave for another one-half minute. There was a little steam coming from the cracked cover so I emptied the contents onto a plate, ready for the feast.

        That’s when I saw them. There were three pieces of broccoli half hidden and lurking beneath the noodles, carrots and zucchini. I screamed and quickly ran to the sink. So as to not waste time, I grabbed a used silicon spatula from a plate on the counter top and quickly flipped the largest piece into the disposal.

       The other two pieces were smaller and I flicked them with my right pointer finger into the sink and then hit them with the sprayer. They circled around the sink once and then washed into the disposal with the large piece. I hit the switch and heard the cry and gurgle of the disposal motor and its contents.

       I turned off the disposal and water, picked up my plate to examine it and saw in my vision off to the side of the plate, the large piece of broccoli was trying to crawl out of the hole. 

      I hit it with the spatula and ran the disposal again. I turned the disposal off, watched and listened. There was no movement, only silence. 

      After trying to see down the disposal through the rubber collar and satisfying myself it was empty, I re-examined my plate hoping that none of the juice from the broccoli had seeped into my scallops.

       At this time, I am reporting the stir fried scallops were delicious and I survived but, it was close. One must be on his toes at all times!

At this time, I’ve written eighty some odd short stories and poems. I’m going to rotate them through this web site to keep it fresh. Hopefully, I’ll have other forms of entertainment drift through as I learn to use this site. At least twelve of the short stories will be published in a future book called Ron’s Shorts! LOL…..couldn’t resist!

 

Jun8

The Stories Those Walls Told

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      I haven’t been home in thirteen years. The little mid-west town, of now forty five hundred, felt strange, nostalgic, nauseatingly exciting.

     “I need to slow down!” I said to myself. “It’s only Twenty here.” The sign went behind me on the right. That speed limit hadn’t changed.

I stayed to the right as the “main drag” curved to the left. The cemetery was straight ahead. It’s guaranteed to be where I left it. I think my home town has lost enough people now, that the names count in the cemetery equals the “above ground” that are still living here.

Just before the cemetery’s wrought iron gate and the wrought iron overhead that says CEMETERY, is a sharp left by-pass that puts me back on the highway through town.

I must have used this turn-around five-thousand times in my ’53, sometimes searching, sometimes with my date close by my side.

Whoa, there’s a Casey’s Quick Stop, and there’s one of my classmates sitting out front in his coveralls having a soda pop. He’s supervising the traffic today.

To myself, “Slow down, idiot! You are going to be contributing to the deputy’s retirement fund like the people you read about in the mailed newspaper.”

Back in Tucson, if you don’t drive fifty-five in the forty-five mph zone, someone will run right up your tail pipe.

Two stoplights? We have two stoplights! There’s the one at Main Street and now, one at the highways intersection. It seems strange to stop where I’ve never had to stop before. Oh well, I waited for the green and drove on to the west edge of town.

“There it is The Town House Supper Club.”

The now chipped and hail damaged road sign at one time announced:

Now Playing Wed, Fri, Sat

JB and Soda

Smorgasbord Every Fri  5-7

     It was a standing joke that I was the “da” in the name. The club owner/band leaders initials were JB, and the piano player Doug, quickly claimed the “So”.

Our band had a chance to go on the road so, the business was sold. It survived about a year. After twelve years of every Wednesday, Friday and Saturday with our band, it died the slow death of loneliness.

I heard someone turned it into an antique barn for a while, but the steakhouse was built on a slough and the building began to sink in one corner. I think it was suicide.

“Pull in. No, don’t pull in. Oh damn, I pulled in.”

They’re hauling everything out.

Look! They are rolling out a worn down piano.

It’s, it’s the one Doug played. There’s the pink “Teddy Bear” decal on the side.

Who would have believed this would be happening the one moment I pulled into memory lane?

(I hear in my mind)

Don’t wanna be….Your Teddy Bear.

I fell in to a burnin’ ring of fire!

     That old piano was always a bit out of tune. But, this was good because, it made our music sound a little bit honky tonk which, added to the ambience of the place. It must have sounded ok because we packed the house with the best, hardest playing, and hardest working people in the world for a pile of years.

I walked up to the open front door of the now empty building. I didn’t get two steps in, and I could smell the stale beer smell that came up from the floor or out of the walls and ceiling.

At first, I thought it was the silence allowing the music in my memories to fire off at a tremendous, deafening pace. Then, I could see vapors of the dancers, dancing in front of me and my drums, and grinning. I could hear the echoes of the class reunion in the party room to the left. I thought I heard my name mentioned somewhere in that reunion crowd.

It was more than just memories. The place was talking to me. It almost seemed like a homecoming celebration was going on. When the dancers stopped to look in my direction, my heart began to pound.

I’m watering up. I gotta go.

“I told you not to come out here!” I consciously said to myself, scared.

As I turned to leave, I kicked an old beer bottle that must have come out of hiding during the emptying of the building. This, a real, tangible, noisy ghost had managed to hide from everyone else until this moment.

It spun and tumbled across the dining area, then skidded across the dance floor right through the dancers. The dancer’s eyes followed it as it came to rest against the riser of the old stage. When it hit, the brown bottle stood on its bottom with the label facing me as if to salute, Grain Belt Beer, another relic.

I don’t even remember going through the doorway.

I do remember the bead of sweat on my upper lip and the tremble in my hand as I put the key in the ignition.

Jun2

The Tale of Clyde, the Exhausted Rooster

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Part One

No one knows for sure where he came from. He appeared at dawn on a Monday, standing atop the tallest barnyard fence pole.

As the tip of the sun broke the horizon, he stood, a black shadow against the blazing sunrise. He stretched his neck twice it’s size and pointed his beak straight up; his bright red comb stood out like a warning flag. Never before was heard anything as magnificent as the sound that poured from this beast’s throat! The single, masterful crow caused the startled milk cow to scramble to her feet. The pigs snapped their heads up from the feeding trough and the piglets scrambled for their mom. The whole sun seemed to spring above the horizon as if it had been waiting for the sound.

Twenty-one prize laying hens tried to leave the chicken coop through one little hole, all at once, to see what could have created such a siren. Finally arriving, around the corner of the barn, wearily trotted Clyde, the yard rooster. He’d been resting in the loft after staying up all night in the chicken coop, guarding and maintaining his house.

One huge Red Rooster jumped down from the tallest fence post in the yard, strutted ten struts and then stopped, poised as if to give everyone a chance to see. His full name was Rojo Grande El Magnifico, but they just called him Rojo Grande for short. Rojo Grande stood dead still. He slowly inspected the twenty one plump, orange, champion laying hens all lined up as if waiting to be inspected. He brought one eyebrow up to widen the view in that eye. He l i k e d what he saw.

It was then Rojo Grande spotted the rather disheveled, yellow brown yard rooster. There was a quick turn of his head and a single strut. Nothing stirred. Two more struts and the hens started a low volume, slow, warning cluck. They could smell roosterosterone and feel the tension in the air.

This is where the sleepy, exhausted yard rooster made his mistake. He took a slow, cautious step toward Rojo Grande and looked him straight in the eye. As the Clyde’s foot touched the ground, there was a flash and a red blur. Taken by surprise, Clyde was in the air fighting desperately, his feathers flying loose everywhere. As Clyde touched the ground five feet from where he originally was, his instincts took over and he ran as fast as his wings and legs would take him in the opposite direction of the blur.

In the middle of the yard stood Rojo Grande El Magnifico, his chest held high and comb up, straight as an arrow. The hens were cackling excitedly.

As Clyde watched from his perch in the hayloft, Rojo Grande let one masterful cluck loose. Twenty-one prize layers immediately headed for the hen house to do their job.

Rojo Grande El Magnifico stood alone, master of the farmyard.

Part Two

One warm, lazy day late in the summer, it seemed as if the Earth had stopped breathing. The air was dead still. The clouds were not moving. There was a silence that almost never happened in the normally noisy farmyard.

The animals that had been napping felt something unusual and perked up their ears. They stood, eyes widened, and began to search. The hens, normally pecking, stopped and looked toward Rojo Grande and then upward toward the loft!

Clyde felt the vibration change. He jumped up on his long spurred legs and walked with curiosity to the loft door. As he did, some straw was accidentally kicked over the edge of the doorframe. It floated straight down. There was not even breeze enough to make it float in any direction other than down. This is very strange because windless days in this country were extremely rare.

From the top of a stand of Elm trees on the west side and just outside of the rail fence, the slight rattle of the driest leaves could be heard. The breeze that caused the leaves to move had jumped over the rail fence and into the farmyard. The tiniest of whirlwinds appeared and kicked up enough dust to define itself. The bottom of the tiny twister danced first left, then right and sometimes seemed to circle while the top remained steady and traveled in a straight line through the barnyard. Everything in the yard watched it as it exited through the gate on the east side of the yard. There was again, silence. One older hen took a tentative retreating step toward the chicken coop. She knew something was up!

As that hen’s foot came back to the ground, a terrifying screech ripped the silence and shattered any calm left in the farmyard. The sound came from behind and above that Elm stand. Nothing was seen immediately, but another screech tore through the air.

Then Demus appeared. His four-foot wide black wings were set in a swift and calculated dive. His talons extended to capture his reward. Demus had one of the prize-laying hens in his sights.

The animals in the farmyard knew Demus. His arrival terrified and sent every one of the animals scattering to whatever haven was near. The older hens tended to run toward the hen house in a straight line. The younger hens ran in a much more panicked, confused and indirect way. The newest even ran in circles. This was the effect Demus intended when he arrived with his screech and sudden appearance. Confusion and surprise are his friends and although he’d never succeeded getting his supper in this farm yard, his tactics had been successful many, many times in other yards on other farms.

Demus had never been successful on this farm because of his nemesis, Clyde the yard rooster.

Clyde was this farm’s guardian. He was there the first time Demus attacked and Clyde defended the farm animals with ferocity every time.

On this day, Demus had been observing the farm yard from very high. It was his habit to circle unseen in the sky to find his target. He didn’t see Clyde and probably would have by-passed this farm if he had. What he did see was a strutting Rojo Grande. This was a new addition to the farmyard and an opponent Demus had not tested. Maybe there would be a nice fat hen from this farm today. He would find out.

As Demus sped over the top of the Elms in his surprise attack, he located his target. Off to the side of his sight, Demus watched for Rojo Grande El Magnifico’s inevitable defense. The rooster was easy to spot. He was the largest red thing moving in the yard. Demus continued his attack dive.

Expecting a side attack from Rojo Grande, Demus braced himself as his talons closed upon the slowest and largest hen in the retreating flock. Surprised to actually make contact and grab the hen, he had to look up suddenly to judge his escape with such a heavy and undefended surprise. As he looked up, Demus saw a red flash going out of the yard gate ahead of him. Astonished at his success, Demus miscalculated the weight of his prize, the speed of his unimpeded attack, and his direction. Wings pulling hard and just missing the side of the barn, his escape path took him very close to the open loft door.

There was a yellow brown flash and the side attack he’d been expecting from the red rooster earlier, arrived. It was Clyde, the yard rooster with his long, three-inch leg spurs.

Demus dropped the hen at the tremendous blow and plummeted to the ground with the yard champion firmly attached. They hit the ground in a cloud of dust, mixed with the screaming sounds of defense and the furious sounds of attack. It was a blur of wings, feathers, beaks, talons and spurs. The dust ball of battle rolled gradually into the middle of the yard. From every corner of the farm yard, the other animals watched the melee.

Suddenly, they separated. The separation surprised both. Slowly backing, Demus turned with damaged wings and pride, flapped several tortured wing beats and rose, just clearing the Elms.
Clyde, watching the sudden departure of his opponent, could barely stand, wounded and exhausted. The animals left their hiding places and approached him. From the hen house paraded twenty-one prize-laying hens. Clyde counted and counted again. All of the hens were there, one more time. As Clyde straightened himself up, he took a step toward the stairway to the loft. The animals cleared a path for their protector. Up the stairs he went, wearily hopping up one step at a time, one step and a pause, one step and a pause. The animals watched as he appeared in the doorway of the loft. Compacting himself in a rooster ball, Clyde shortened his neck so his head rested on his body and he closed one eye. He was one exhausted rooster!

What ever happened to Rojo Grande El Magnifico? At the last sighting, Rojo Grande was seen running down the road in the opposite direction of the battle and would never be seen here again. Legend has it that he found another farm yard where he could strut his stuff and impress some unsuspecting hens. Then there was another farm and another. Hopefully, he found a place where he will never have to deal with the evil Demus or a Clyde, the Exhausted Rooster!

The End of Part Two

Stay tuned for more adventures of Clyde, the Exhausted Rooster! Coming soon to a Writing.com near you!

Dec17

Grandma’s Upright Grand (a Christmas Story)

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Grandma’s Upright Grand

It was late afternoon by the time we left the house, the Rambler station wagon packed with suitcases, bedding, gifts, and boxes of food. My Dad could not close his business until the last customer left his store at five, so he’d packed as much as he could the night before.

      Mom finished wrapping gifts and baking during the day so as to be ready when Dad pulled into the driveway at five-thirty. With the sun sinking fast, we were ready and helped carry everything out to the rear of the station wagon. Dad would fill what few spaces were left and off we’d go.

      With Dad driving and mom in the front seat, we three kids, in full winter gear, including mittens, were squeezed into the back seat, tight. There were no complaints. As a matter of fact, it was exceptionally quiet. We’d done this before and were about to do it again.
We were on our way to Grandma and Grandpa’s house for Christmas!

      Their house was on a farm near a little town that only had one bright streetlight at night. The town was about three and a half hours away from our house in the city. As long as it was still daylight, there would be constant scenery change going past the Rambler side window. A few miles and dad would turn on to a highway. We could go faster on the highway so what we saw would change faster. Soon there would be miles and miles of snow covered farmland. As the sky turned black, little lights would pop up here and there, and then go past.

      As it started to snow, the pop up lights out of the side window were getting harder to see and had the illusion they had little halos around them. I heard Dad tell Mom that it was about thirty degrees out, and the road was turning white. He could still see tracks from a car that was somewhere ahead of them so, we were still all right. Driving in the snow was a skill you just developed in this part of the country.

      When we met a car coming from the opposite direction, its headlights made the snow look as if it was going sideways. The sideways snow would try to hypnotize you and then suddenly disappear as the car passed. The dark, the sideways snow, the hum of the engine and the warmth of all those clothes made us very sleepy. Soon, it made the three and a half hour trip seem like one hour. We only woke up when Dad turned right on to the little towns “one light” main street.

      Through the town and just a little bit more, we would turn right again. It was the driveway to Grandma and Grandpa’s. It wasn’t very far and just over a small hill.

      There it was. A place of special magic; where snow covered tree limbs overhung the driveway and blinking multi-colored lights surround the frost outlined windowpanes. I could see into the house because the shades were up. There were two faces, one high, one low, watching for us.

      The car stopped. I don’t know why, but everyone just sat in silence for a moment. You could hear a little hiss caused by snowflakes hitting the roof of our car.

     The flashing Christmas lights, gentle snow falling, lack of motion, and silence was Christmas card like, peaceful and very relaxing until someone’s stomach growled! We all laughed! It was mom……

      ….. Suddenly the screen door flew open on the house and out from the back porch poured a grinning Grandpa and Grandma. They were running a Grandma and Grandpa kind of run, trying not to fall on the fresh snow. They didn’t even have coats on and were breathing out steam!

      Grandpa opened the back door on my brother’s side and pulled him right out of the car. As I watched with mouth open, my door opened and my cinnamon smelling Grandma had me. She squeezed me so hard, I couldn’t breathe.

      Our littlest brother in the middle was heading over the top to the front seat. Grandpa quickly caught him by the britches in mid-flight, and out the door he went. The problem was, he is so light, when he let go of the seat, it threw Grandpa off balance and down into the snow they went.

      This brought Mom and Dad out of the car quickly. My other brother and I thought it was a game and piled on top. My mom screamed for us to get off. Her loud order scared us so much, we quickly got off Grandpa, who then rolled to a sitting position laughing!
Ok, so now we’re all out of the car, laughing! It all happened fast and that was pretty much the end of peaceful relaxing.

      Dad walked to the back of our station wagon and had just opened the fold down door, when another set of headlights turned in to the driveway. The bright lights blinded all of us for a moment as it pulled up right behind our Rambler. Then those doors flew open, and our cousins, from another city farther away than us, piled into the drive way with the rest of us.

      There were four girls, and their Mom and Dad. I remembered them from last year because even though they were girls, they knew how to run, sled, and throw snowballs just like regular guys!

      The sisters were all a little older than me. My Mom said they won all kinds of awards for poem writing and stuff like that. I didn’t know you were allowed to be good at both at the same time!

      Everything got unpacked and brought into this farm house that had raised five kids in its time. Grandma and Grandpa worked hard to provide for their family, and the land had been good to them, so they built on to it as the family got larger. So, the house had plenty of room for everyone to be comfortable as we all spread out to our assigned places.

      My brothers and I were in one of the “upstairs bedrooms”. The only way to get to those bedrooms was up a wide, worn, oak stairway that had a huge ‘slide down’ banister on one side and wall paper with tiny blue flowers and pictures on the other side. Each step had it’s own creak, a noisy procession as we all headed to our rooms.

      The first thing you noticed as you opened the heavy oak doors was the rush of cold air trying to flow down the stairwell. There were what they called “registers” in the floor of each second story room, which allowed a little heat to float up from the first floor rooms.

      My Dad told me that sometimes, it got so cold in his bedroom that the drinking water on his light stand would freeze during the night. He remembers pulling his clothes into bed with him to warm them before he would put them on to go to school. He also told me, with a wink, he did not waste much time in the bathroom up there either.

      I mentioned the stairway up, so I could tell you about coming down it. After unpacking, I came down that stairway that emptied into the family living room. One of my favorite memories occupied that room. A room that flashed with fireplace light
There stood GRANDMA’S UPRIGHT GRAND. It was one of her prized possessions. It was here, flashing lights, trees, presents, and troubles were all forgotten, and magic would begin. The family and their families would gather around on Christmas Eve, and Grandma would make music come out of that piano. Her fingers would bend, and her arms would move back and forth. She would read the dots in that music book and everyone would read the words and sing Christmas songs. I couldn’t read, but I’d hum until it came to a part I knew. Nobody cared. That was good enough for them.
At some point, Grandpa opened a beat up black case and pulled out his fiddle. The music seemed to liven up when his fiddle started to sing. Although Grandpa’s fingers didn’t move real fast anymore, the expression on his face made it feel like the tempo picked up.
Christmas Eve was a day of snowballs, sledding, sliding, feeding the animals still left on the farm, and eating. The music was the Grande Finale of a long day. The traditional last song of the Grand Finale in this house was Oh Little Town of Bethlehem. My favorite part was about the Star. It was something about “how still we see thee light!”
I was pretty young when I was told about “The Star”. I can’t remember when it was, but a little boys imagination is a wonderful thing.
That night, after the singing was over and everyone went to bed, I thought I heard something outside. I went to my “upstairs” bedroom window to see if I could catch Santa Clause delivering presents. Catching Santa flying is a little boy priority and for a moment, I thought I had him. To my surprise, it was not the sleigh and reindeer I saw.
Through the floating snow, I saw a single bright light with a halo around it. I knew I was looking at “Thee Star”.

“Oh little town of Bethlehem, how still we see thee light!”
Yes, I had it wrong. It should have been “how still we see thee lie!” I really thought they were singing “how still we see thee light!”
It’s been many years since the trips to Grandma and Grandpa’s. I, of course, learned to read music and became a musician, a writer and many other things yet still, hang on to pieces of my warmest childhood memories as most people do.
I still sing that line the way I originally thought it was, and I still walk out on the porch on Christmas Eve, wherever I am, to see if I can see “thee light” and capture a small piece of the magic around “Grandma’s Upright Grand”!
Merry Christmas Everyone!
© Copyright 2011 gottagosee (UN: gottagosee at Writing.Com). All rights reserved.
gottagosee has granted Writing.Com, its affiliates and syndicates non-exclusive rights to display this work.