Diane Stringam Tolley's Blog: On the Border

Former Maid Hits the Jackpot!Diane Stringam Tolley, Fiction Reporter
Beaumont —   It’s true. Occasionally, everything just works out!
Daughter of a late, well-respected local businessman, Cindy was raised with wealth but had fallen on hard times.Though we couldn’t get an interview with the girl, herself, neighbours report that she was unfailingly sweet and cheerful.She had to work hard, but she did so willingly, her positive attitude a positive inspiration to co-workers.“She was always so kind to all of us!” said one of her co-workers, known only as ‘Jack’.“Y-y-yes!” another co-worker, Gus-Gus, put in. “Even the new arrivals, like me. She treated us all real special!”Her co-workers couldn’t comment on the exact order of events that led to her good fortune, saying only: “Everyone chipped in to make it possible. We were just so happy to help her. It was well-deserved!”One co-worker, on condition of anonymity, hinted that Cindy’s life had not been very easy. Citing “Family troubles”.“Apparently, she didn’t get along with immediate family members,” she said. “A surprise, because she was so sweet! We were all quite flabbergasted that she and the other female members of her family experienced such animosity. I guess it’s just a fact that not everyone, no matter how kind, gets along with everyone else!”

Apparently there had been a bit of consternation and some hair-pulling over an invitation to a much-anticipated party.

“But Cindy was made of tough stuff and determined to attend, despite hints of ‘unsuitability’ from her relatives.”

Those ‘female relatives’ appeared to have made Cindy’s attendance difficult—even conspiring to ruin a new party dress.

“She was quite distraught,” says our source. “Fortunately, I had the foresight to plan for such an event.

“I was able to provide our girl with something suitable—maybe even superior—as quick as a wink!”

And those efforts certainly paid off. Cindy made quite a remarkable—one could almost say a ‘royal’— impression.“She had to leave before the party wound down, and in so doing, lost a personal item or two… “But still, when answering her co-workers' questions, she was glowing with praise for the party and the organizers.”Praise that she continued to spout, even as her regular work-a-day world was once again thrust upon her. “I’ve got that in my pocket,” she is quoted as saying. Though some speculate she meant something else.There was some mention of a dust-up over the return of her belongings by ensigns from party organizers, but with what she had pocketed, all this was soon sorted, and Cindy was quickly on her way.Now a new life and a new home awaits her—along with a beautiful, budding romance (wink, wink)—and all this reporter can think to say is: Hooray, Miss Cindy! With your co-workers, I congratulate you!From cinders to a crown! Surely the stuff of magical fairy tales! Every woman's dream. Well...mine, anyway.
Today is Fly on the Wall Day!When, with my Blog Sisters, we post what's been going on in our minds, homes or hearts! Or maybe something...pithy.You've read mine.Now go and read my Sisters'.You'll be glad you did!

Karen at Baking In A Tornado

Marcia at Menopausal Mother 

It started with a bridge.Okay, maybe not with a bridge, but with the troll that lived under it.

Or maybe with the three goats that simply wanted to get across.

Let me start again . . .

There were once three goats.

Better.Brothers (or Billys) by the name of Gruff.

They lived in a meadow at the foot of Cold Mountain. Beside the Whispering Woods.

Near Clearwater Stream.

You know the spot.

It was lovely there. Plenty to eat.

Shelter from the occasional storms.

Really fresh, cold water.

Yep. Lovely.

All fall and winter, the three of them ate the lush grass and did goat stuff.

Finally, as summer was just starting peep out along the branches of the trees and creep up into the crevices of Cold Mountain, Big Billy Goat Gruff, hereinafter known as BB, made a momentous proposal.

“Hey, bros! Why don’t we go up the mountain and eat the new, green grass that is sure to be growing there!”

Now, you have to know that, for three goats who hardly—okay, never—went anywhere, this truly was an ‘out-there’ suggestion.

The other two thought about it for .68 seconds.

“I’m for it!” Little Billy (LB) said excitedly.

Middle Billy (MB) shrugged. “Why not? I probably won’t be getting any calls from my publisher any time soon, so what have I got to lose?”

“Let’s do it!” LB took off at a run.

Little brothers. Am I right?

The other two followed at a more sedate pace. Well, MB did.

I think it was BB’s turn to do the dishes, so he was a bit behind the other two.

It should come as no surprise that LB reached the stout, stone bridge crossing Clearwater Stream quite a bit ahead of the others. Without even pausing to consider the possible ramifications involved in crossing an unknown—albeit local—landmark, he started across.

Trip-trap! Trip-trap! Trip-trap!

Okay, that probably doesn’t accurately describe the sound made by four small goat hooves on the aged wooden decking of a local landmark.

Go with me on this...

LB had just reached the center of the bridge when something happened.

Something big and loud and scary.

And no, it wasn’t a broadcast of the most recent out-of-control political discussion.

Although that would be equally frightening...

No. It was a troll.

One who had taken up residence beneath that very bridge.

And we all know that, in a troll world, possession is 9/10s of the law.

Actually, more like 35/36s.

“Who’s trip-trapping on my bridge?!” the troll shouted, leaping onto the bridge.

Do you think this comment suggests another sound may have been acceptable?

What are your thoughts . . .

“Eek!” LB replied. Then, in a shaky ‘little-goat-brother’ voice, “It is I. Little Tinesy Billy Goat Gruff. The littlest, tiniest, not-much-meat-on-him goat in the Gruff family of fine goats.”

The troll blinked. “Umm . . .”

LB rolled his eyes and decided to simplify. “Don’t eat me!”

“But you’re on my bridge. And anyone caught trip-trapping over my bridge gets eaten!”

See? There’s that ‘trip-trapping’ again. Am I right in thinking LB would have done just fine if he’d—I don’t know—salsa danced across?

“Oh, but I’m just so wee,” LB said in his tiniest, squeakiest voice. “There’s not much to eat. You’d lose more calories than you gained. Like eating celery. All work. Small reward.”

The troll stared at him.

LB sighed. “My bigger, fatter, tastier brother is right behind me. Why don’t you wait for him? Much better meat-to-bone ratio.”

The troll thought about this for a moment, then finally shrugged. Why not? “Fine,” he said. “But stick around, just in case.”

LB didn’t wait for the troll to clarify, but trip-trapped the rest of the way across and out of sight.

The troll ducked back beneath the bridge.

A few minutes later, MB appeared. Seeing no one and nothing untoward, he started across. Trip-trap! Trip-trap! Trip-trap!

Notice how it’s a little louder? That’s called Bigger Font.

“Who’s that trip-trapping over my bridge?!” the troll shouted. He leaped onto the bridge in his finest ‘I’m-a-troll-and-I’m-awesomely-scary’ fashion.

MB and the troll regarded each other. “It is I, Middle Billy Goat Gruff,” MB said in his most polite voice. “Is there something I can do for you?” 

“You can bring me lunch!” The troll laughed his most troll-like laugh. Which, you have to admit is pretty rough and creaky and...okay, yes... scary.

“I’d be happy to,” said MB, still in his ‘I-don’t-know-you-but-why-can’t-we-be-friends?’ voice. What is it I can get you?”

“YOU!” The troll shouted gleefully and started forward.

“Oh, you don’t want to eat me!” MB put up a hoof to ward off the large, and decidedly over-eager troll.

“I don’t?”

“Oh, no! I’m much too small and puny.”

The troll frowned. “You look pretty good to me.”

“Well, trust me, I’m not. I’m in terrible shape and I never eat a proper diet. My BMI is through the roof! You can do much better.”

The troll looked around. “How?”

MB leaned closer. “Okay, I probably shouldn’t tell you this,” he said conspiratorially, “but there is another goat right behind me who is MUCH bigger than I am. And he works out. Totally eats right. Low fat. Low sodium. If you eat him, not only will there be more, but it will be much better for you!”

The troll pursed his huge troll-lips thoughtfully. “Okay,” he said finally. “But stick around, just in case.”

MB nodded and, completely ignoring what the troll asked, skedaddled.

Once more, the troll took up his patented ‘troll’ position beneath the bridge.

This may be a good time to explore the whole ‘troll-beneath-the-bridge’ thing. I mean, why on earth would one choose to live beneath a bridge? Damp to wet conditions pretty much constantly. Noisy, as the whole ‘trip-trapping’ would suggest. Subject to the whims of the weather. Fishermen.

I mean, really?!

And another thing, what makes him think it is HIS bridge? Does he have title?

Did he, you know, pay someone for it?

These are questions that need explanation.

Back to our story . . .

BB arrived. Assuming his brothers were trip-trapping happily further ahead, he leaped onto the bridge and started across.

Trip-trap! Trip-trap! Trip-trap!

Yow! He certainly is a big fellow.

Once again, the troll shouted, “Who’s that trip-trapping over my bridge!” And made a truly spectacular appearance on the mountain side of the bridge.

I don’t know about you, but I’m scared . . .

“It is I! The Big Billy Goat Gruff. And what makes it your bridge?”

See? I’m not the only one who is wondering.

“Ummm . . .” said the troll.

“Never mind. What do you want?”

“Lunch!” the troll shouted, pouncing.

But BB was very large indeed. And had a fine, large pair of horns to go with his enormous size.

Quicker than you can blink, he had used those horns to toss that old troll right over the side.

Okay, you’re right, the chances of the old guy getting hurt were probably quite slim.

Truth to tell, it was his ego that took the brunt of everything. First of all, he’d been soundly defeated by a goat. And secondly, as he was going over, he screamed like a little girl.

I’m not lying. He did.

He hit the stream with an enormous splash, then waded to the bank and pulled himself out. He stood there for a moment, turned and looked up at BB, silhouetted against the afternoon sky, then sighed and started walking. Down the stream and out of sight.

BB nodded and finished crossing the bridge.

The three brothers spent a happy, lovely summer on the slopes of Cold Mountain. Growing fat on the rich grasses and just generally enjoying themselves.

As the weather began to cool, they once more made their way back down the mountain to their old meadows.

They did exhibit some caution when crossing the little bridge, but the troll hadn’t returned.

He was happily ensconced under another bridge further downstream. Finding new goats to annoy.

Some trolls never learn.
Once a month, my blog sisters, Karen and Marcia, join me in sharing what's been going on in our hearts and minds and homes.I have to admit it--it's a lot of fun!You've read mine, now go and see what they have been up to!

Karen at Baking In A Tornado

Marcia at Menopausal Mother

 

Across the land, to one and all, the famine had a grip,And rich and poor alike were in the famine’s membership,And Widow Bette and teenaged son (named Jack, for all who care…)Were skating rather closely to the edge of starved despair.
In desperation, Bette told Jack, “Take Emily...” (their cow)“…and sell her.” (with the proceeds, they would get along somehow),Obedient, the young man took the cow and started out,Not knowing that the strangest tale was just about to ‘sprout’.
A stranger stopped the lad a mile or so along the way,And asked him ‘whither, he was to’ on such a lovely day,Jack indicated Emily and told him what was up,And why Jack had embarked upon this personal ‘roundup’.
I’m sure you’ve heard the story: how our Jack endorsed the sale,A cow for ‘magic’ beans. You know, a mistake of grandest scale.How his disappointed mother threw those beans out on the lawn,Then cried herself to sleep believing all her hope was gone.
You have to know those beans grew up. A stalk into the sky,And Jack thought he'd explore (and have adventures by and by),He climbed up to another land, where all folks were immense,And there he pilfered lots of stuff--in situations tense.
That boy, he needed stealth, because you know, our little JackWas just the size and shape to be a giant’s midday snack,It didn’t stop him stealing, though it kept him on the run,Whene’er he heard the giant’s voice say, “Fee! Fie! Foe! And Fum!"
Then finally, he took the item Giant treasured most,  (For evenings when relaxing or when parties he would host…)A magic harp, the player of the sweetest music e’er,Whose loss would surely fill our giant’s heart with deep despair!
The harp cried for his ‘Master!’ as Jack began to bear him hence,It spurred our giant on to a more feverish defense,He followed our young thief right down the beanstalk growing there,And where the boy did lead, he neither thought about. Or cared.
But Jack was quick and reached the bottom. Turned and grabbed his axe,Kept nearby for such things. (Now we've reached the tale's climax!)When swinging frantically, he fin’ly chopped the stalk and all,Not even mighty giants could survive that nasty fall.
Then Jack and Mom were happy as a family could be,With all the stuff Jack stole they both could live quite comfortably,Now I’ve heard theories claiming that the Giant stole them first,The larger thief or small. Opinions? Who d’you think was worst?!

Today is Fly on the Wall Day, where my sister bloggers and I get to talk about what's been going on in our hearts, minds and lives. I chose poetry. Because...reasons.

Go now and visit my sisters!

You'll be so glad you did!

Karen at Baking In A Tornado

Menopausal Mother

It's time for this month's Fly-on-the-Wall post.When my sister-writers and I share what's been in our hearts, minds, and homes this month!My mind has been dragged down by events in the world.So I'm back with my Fairy Tales!I hope you enjoy!
There once was a sweet little girl. Hername’s unknown, but because she always wore a red-hooded cloak made by hermother, everyone just called her Red Riding Hood.Red Riding Hood (or RRH for shortand because I’m lazy), was always very happy to help her mother. And, byassociation, grandmother, who lived in the woods.One fine day, RRH, carrying a basketof goodies, was wending (Oooh! Good word!) her way to said grandmother’s houseto supply aid and/or sweet treats as needed.Along the way, she was met by a Wolfwho was not only Big and Bad (note the capital letters), but also could conversequite well in human.Sooo…not your normal wolf by anystretch of the imagination.He asked her where she was going, andRRH, being a bright, friendly, albeit naive child, told him.He smiled and waved her off, then,being Crafty as well as Big and Bad, took a shortcut through the woods,arriving at Grandmother’s just ahead of RRH.What transpired when he andGrandmother met is unclear. Perhaps he gobbled her up. Poor choice. Everyoneknows senior citizens are high in cholesterol and low in fiber.Ahem...Regardless of what happened, theirinteraction culminated in his weird donning of the elderly woman’s nightgownand sitting in her bed when the sweet, unsuspecting RRH arrived.There followed a dialogue consistingof questions (RRH) and answers (BBCW—see above) designed to suspiciously ferretout the truth.  And which ended with BBCW chasingRRH around the cabin.A local woodcutter, heading home forthe day, heard RRH’s shrieks, arriving just in time to see her bash BBCW overthe head with the aforementioned treat basket.Now, normally, this would have beenpassed over as a fairly amusing attempt to waylay someone as powerful as theBBCW.Except for the fairly heavy honeypot.If any of you have had themisfortune of dropping one of those suckers on your toe, you know the damagethey can do. Even at low speeds.This one laid the BBCW out pancakeflat. So flat, the bulge in the critter’s belly became noticeable. Did anyonebet on the ‘gobbled up’ story?You just won.The woodcutter, possessing—youknow—woodcutting…stuff…immediately slit open that belly and, what do you think? Out popped a very disgruntled and rather untidy, but totally alive Grandmother!Then the three of them found severallarge stones and filled that greedy belly with them. Because nothing says ‘fulland satisfied’ like a belly full of rocks.Then Grandmother, possessing theskills, sewed that old belly shut quick as a wink. (Of course blood, gore andcorrect bodily functions have no place in fairy tales.)The BBCW, when he awoke, felt fulland satisfied (see above) but extremely thirsty. He made his way to a nearbystream where he bent for a drink. But those wretched rocks shifted (they’requite unpredictable you know, rocks) and pulled him into and underneath theclear water.And there and then, the BB (not so)CW drowned.I’m quite sure that RRH, her motherand grandmother and even the woodcutter really didn’t want this for the BBCW. What can I say? He made poor choices.So, something to think about... Iflaziness and craftiness try to inhabit the same sphere, laziness will win. Oractually—lose.However you want to look at it.
Did you have fun?There's more!Go now to my sister bloggers.I guarantee you'll enjoy yourself!

Karen at Baking In A Tornado

Marcia at Menopausal Mother

If you enjoyed my take on Little Red Riding Hood, now's your opportunity to read more of these glorious childhood favourites filtered through my fractured mind!

Fixing the Fairy Tales

Now available on Amazon.ca and Amazon.com

My topic for March?What else?Pie!
Sing a song of sixpence,A pocket full of rye.Four and twenty blackbirdsBaked in a pie.
When the pie was opened,The birds began to sing.Wasn’t that a dainty dishTo set before the king?
The king was in his countinghouse,Counting out his money.The queen was in the parlour,Eating bread and honey.
The maid was in the garden,Hanging out the clothes,When down came a blackbirdAnd pecked off her nose.
They sent for the king’s doctor,Who sewed it on again.He sewed it on so neatly,The seam was never seen.or:There was such a uproar,That little Jenny wrenFlew down into the garden,And put it back again.
Okay, I admit that this poem/song was a great favouritewhen I was a kid.And I may or may not have recited/sung it ad infinitum et ad nauseum.But now that I am a mite older, I’ve had the chance toreally take a good, hard look!

Ahem…

Now, personally, I think it should start out with: ‘Singa song FOR sixpence’ because, according to a popular author of the earlyfifteenth century, giving someone sixpence for a song was, if not common, atleast accepted.

I know, I know. That would be an unacceptable number now—being both grossly inadequate and completely out of date.

But go with me on this…

A pocketful of rye could just be a simple unit ofmeasure—although what one bake-er would be able to bake for his (or her) bake-eeswith that much rye is questionable…

Now the next line was always the one that most fascinatedme. The baking of four and twenty blackbirds into a pie.

I probably don’t have to tell you how I beggedsoulfully demanded asked politely for Mom to bake blackbirds into apie for me.

Although I had no idea what a blackbird was.

Just a note: Now all I can think of is: feathers andbeaks (birds and I have a history there…)

And bird poop.
Moving on…

But she never did.

So all pie singing had to be done by me. Ad infinitum,etc. See above…

And all eating by some nameless/faceless king whoprobably got yummy pie-makings all over that money he was counting.

Now the Queen had the right idea. Vis-à-vis eating, thatis.

She was in the right place.

And eating the right things. (Although I always insistedthat Mom add peanut butter to MY bread and honey.)

But the maid really got the short end of the stick.

There she was—the only person in the story (besides thebake-er) actually…you know…working…

And what does she get for her troubles?

A pecked-off nose.

Can anyone say OUCH?!

Oh, yeah…me.

OUCH!

Okay, okay, yes. Her nose was seamlessly restored byeither the doctor or the less-likely Jenny wren, depending on which version youfavour, but still.

I broke my nose bouncing on my bed and you have to know that anything to do with damage to that appendage… HURTS!

And bleeds.

A lot.

So I’m thinking we probably will be looking at washing todo over.

Poor maid.

See? Short end of the stick.

Oo! Oo! I just want to put this out there: Said maid was,in all likelihood, hanging said clothes on a Clothesline. I’m not too sure of their efficacy in relation toactual—as the name suggests—clothes.

We’ll have to explore that later…

But clothelines make great jungle gyms…

And there you have it.

A day in the life of the Blackbird King and Queen andtheir long-suffering maid.

With at least 24 blackbirds. Plus or minus one thatobviously got away and started mutilating local personnel.

And maybe a bake-er.

Oh, and a doctor…or wren.

This was fun!

 

And just FYI: If you make me a pie with live birds in it,I’ll hand you a fork and napkin. Maybe even a plate.

But you’re eating it on your own.

Pi Night was a great success again this year.My daughter and I--with a little help from two granddaughters and several more super-excited teenagers--made 106.5 pies this year.We moved the event to our local church to see if more room would allow for more visiting time.And it did!A success on all counts!



I love Fly on the Wall days!Today is that time, once a month, when my blogging sisters and I give you a glimpse into what has been happening in our homes, at our desks and in our heads.I hope you enjoyed your visit here!Go, now and see what my two sisters have been up to.You know you'll like it!!!

Karen at Baking In A Tornado

Marcia at Menopausal Mother        

 This month, while our children and grandchildren up inCanada are suffering through -40 C (-40 F) temperatures and record snowfall, Husbyand  I, together with some friends, areenjoying the sun, sand and snorkeling in Tahiti. I know, I know it isn’t fair.But they are young and strong and we are...erm…less so.So I refuse to feel guilty!Here are some highlights! The very short pathway to paradise!
The aforementioned Paradise!

And at sunset...
A picture EVERYWHERE!

When Cousin Carmen suggests a change in the furniture,
I'm thinking...you know...moving stuff.
Beehive Ginger
Torch Ginger
Tourist.
Okay. Okay. Husby!
Doing what he loves most!

Moorea-Maiao next door.
Ditto!
One of the BIG reasons we travel!
Oh, yeah...and our eight-year-old neighbour does a thing...
2-time Polynesian champion!
Wow!And that's the first two weeks.Can't wait to see what the next four bring!!!Thanks for coming along!
Oh, yes...and our children and grandchildren are fine.Just fine. ;)

So now you've seen what I'm up to...Go and catch up with my blogging sisters!You'll be so glad you did! 

Karen at Baking In A Tornado

Marcia at Menopausal Mother                                  

From theDepartment of ‘Now You Knowthe Really Real Story’!

 

    I’m quite sure you’ve heard aboutthe ‘Fairy Godmother’ of Cinderella fame.

    I mean, who hasn’t wished, at somepoint, that they had a FGM (see above) who would swoop in and changeeverything?

    I know I have.

    Ahem . . .

    But do you know who the FGM reallywas? I mean in really real life?

    Well buckle up, Little Pup becausethis is the really real story . . .

    Most of the stories of the FGMstart, rightly, at the moment she appears to sweet little Cinderella in hermoment of utter despair.

    With me so far?

    Well now I need for you to comeback in time with me. A long way back. To when FGM was, herself, a young woman.

    And to do this, I will have to giveaway a secret.

    To be totally truthful, I told theperson who entrusted me with said secret that I was absolutely rotten atkeeping them.

    Secrets, I mean.

    And still she persisted.

    So it’s really not my fault.

    But I digress . . .

    FGM, or Merri as she was christenedat birth, was the youngest of twin daughters born to the king and queen ofClearwater Fall. The capitol of Fairyland. Or Fairydom. Or whatever you want tocall it.

    Yep. She’s a fairy princess.Surprised?

    Well, I was.

    Born just ten short minutes afterher sister Perri, Merri was destined to walk always in said sister’s shadow.

    But you know what? This neverbothered Merri. She was proud of her sister. When someone praised Perri, Merriwas no slouch in adding to it. And if anyone found fault with her, asoccasionally happens when one is in public life, Merri was fierce in herdefense.

    So the two sisters grew to happyyoung womanhood in the protected confines of Clearwater Fall, the city whichwas, itself nestled in the safe rolling hills of Fairyland. Or Fairydom. (Haveyou made up your mind yet which to call it? Well hurry up, would you? It takesa long time to write out both names . . .)

    Now, the two of them, though theywere indeed twin sisters, looked nothing at all alike. Where Perri was tall andslight with flowing blonde locks, Merri was shorter and more round, with thickbrown hair that would one day turn snowy white. (Think the FGM in the movies.They are surprisingly accurate!)

    But I am getting ahead of myself.

    Though Merri was, by nature, moreadventurous and energetic than her quiet, studious sister, they spent much oftheir time together, happily exploring the city and surrounding countryside, orexploring the libraries and surrounding educational systems.

    It made for an interesting life.

    On the day where it all started(think Cinderella, etc.) the two of them were in one of their favourite places.A bower deep in the Forest of Trees.

    You have to know that these people,though bright and cheerful and happy, really weren’t courageous or imaginativewhen naming distinctive features pertaining to their kingdom. Hence ClearwaterFall, where the clear water falls or the Forest of Trees. Which has a lot of…ahem…trees.

    Merri had just finished spinning atale for her much more romantic sister. A tale which involved, in no particularorder, a bevy of wood sprites, a dragon or two, a Prince, several frogs and atleast one mushroom. (And no, I’m not going to tell you that one.)

    The two of them were lost in theirown little worlds for a moment. Perri dreaming of her prince—or maybe hermushroom. And Merri thinking about the tools needed to fight a dragon. And/orthe aforementioned prince…or mushroom.

    The forest around them was, exceptfor the mad twittering of thousands of birds and bird-like creatures, quiet.

    That’s when they heard it—a manlyshout, followed by some equally manly splashing and what may have been a few derisive manly chuckles.

    Merri, paused in cleaning her nailsand turned her head toward the sounds. “Sounds like Gerrold has decided to tryfishing again.”

    Perri smiled. “After the last time?I don’t think so.”

    The manly splashing got louder andwas accompanied by several ‘glubs’ and at least one ‘help!’

    “Huh. Maybe we should dosomething?” Merri got to her feet.

    Perri waved a languid (real word)hand. “You go ahead. And tell Gerrold to use a fishing pole next time.”

    Merri laughed, then poking herhunting blade into its sheath, started off toward the sounds. She didn’t havefar to go. Just around some trees—and some more trees, she came upon the pond.And there, near the edge was a thoroughly soaked, entirely outraged, andsinking fast...man.

    Merri grabbed a stout length oftree branch and carried it over to the bank nearest the struggling man. “Here!”she shouted.

    The man looked at her, then at thebranch, held tantalizing close to him. Then he shook his head and sank beneaththe muddy water.

    “Oh, bother!” Merri muttered.Raising her voice, she shouted, “Perri! We’re going to need some help!” Thenshe dropped the branch and leaped into the water.

    I know you’re probably thinkingthat Perri, at last glimpse, looked rather lazy and ineffectual. But you haveto know that that girl can move. When properly motivated. And her sister’svoice, carrying just the right amount of ‘Yikes’ in it, could do it.

    Almost before you can blink, shewas standing on the bank exactly where Merri had been moments before, quicklymaking a study of the roiling water and surmising, correctly, where her sisterand whoever she was rescuing were.

    And what they, in all probability,needed.

    Uncoiling a length of rope she keptin her handy-dandy little hunting pack, she moved to the nearest strong-lookingsapling and, using a patented bowline (I knew you'd want to know) knot, quickly and efficiently tied itround.

    Then paying out the length of rope behind her, she made her way to thewater.

    Just as Merri emerged with a verysoggy and barely conscious manly-looking man.

    It was a simple procedure to tossthe end of the line to Merri, who slipped it under the man’s arms and tied ittightly. Then Perri began pulling in the cable while Merri kept the man on hisback and his head above water.

    In seconds, all three were safelyon dry-ish land.

    It was then Merri noticed what hadprobably contributed to the man’s inability to save himself.

    His hands were tied behind hisback.

    The man began to cough and hack andMerri rolled him on his side so he could (ugh) spit up some very nasty-lookingwater.

    As he did so, she took theopportunity to slash through his bindings, freeing his hands.

    Finally, he gasped and shudderedand rolled onto his back once more. Then he opened his eyes.

    Now you’re probably thinking that,if this story went according to other stories you’ve heard on stage or screen,the young man would immediately spot Merri, his rescuer, fall hopelessly inlove and…end of story.

    That’s not what happened.

    Oh, he spotted someone. And thewhole ‘falling-in-love’ scenario followed.

    Indeed.

    He looked up into thebluest, most amazing eyes he had ever seen.

    And said good-bye to his heartforever more.

    This is probably the place where Ipoint out that Merri’s eyes are hazel.

    I’m sure you’ve caught on.

    Yep. All of this happened to Perri.The one who never even got her feet wet.

    And to make the story even lesslikely by today’s story-telling standards, Merri was totally okay with it.

    By now, you’re likely wondering howon earth this manly young man ended up in the lake.

    Without his swimming costume.

    And in a vastly inconvenientposition to actually…you know…swim.

    Well, it turns out that he wasinduced into going on a hunt by some rather unsavoury ‘friends’ (I use thisword facetiously) who wanted, not his company or his hunting expertise, but hisfortune.

    Their idea, as closely as I canpiece it together, was to have him simply disappear.

    Which never happens if you’ve heardany of the stories told by thetravelling minstrels. I mean, am I right? The dead bodies always float to thesurface and are discovered. And the bad guys are then also discovered and cometo sticky ends.

    Truth.

    But in this story, the dead bodywasn’t quite dead enough to refrain from telling tales. The ‘friends’ werebrought up on charges and the whole thing just basically caused a nine-dayswonder.

    The sticky end happened too.

    And then the manly youngman, whose name was Peter—or Pete as his real friends called him—married Perriand all was well in the world.

    Oh. Something else you probablyneed to know. Fairies—really real fairies—can change their size. Yep. The truthis that, originally, they were quite normal sized. Human normal sized. But, asthe real humans and other creatures took over more and more of the surroundingcountryside, it became convenient for them to…shrink. Take up less space. Beless noticeable.

    So a fairy and a human (becausethat’s what Pete was) getting married was, not only possible, but entirely…erm…possible.

    And a year of wedded bliss later,they welcomed their firstborn daughter. Whom they immediately named Ella (Youcan see where this is going).

    Merri was asked to be the sweet little half-fairy,half-human girl’s godmother. Something she accepted with alacrity (also a realword meaning, roughly, eagerness).

    And that’s the true story of justwhere the FGM came from.

    The really real story.

    You’re welcome.

Welcome to Fly on the Wall!The once-a-month challenge to catch you up on what has been happening in the lives and/or imaginations of my amazing writing sisters and me! Did you enjoy this?Well, let the fun continue by visiting my sisters!You'll be glad you did!
Karen at Baking In A Tornado
Marcia at Menopausal Mother

 

Did you enjoy FGM?Well, there's more!Now you can find all of my totally unasked-for commentaries in my new book, Fixing the Fairy Tales !Not a serious word in the bunch. I guarantee you'll laugh!

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It's time for this month's Fly on the Wall where my writing sisters and I share what's in our homes and hearts!And my thoughts, together with those of most of the Christian World are focused on the Saviour.This story is longer than my usual.I hope you enjoy it!
Jesse: The Boy Who Gave
“Jesse! Come, son! Your father and brothers havelong been about!”Jesse opened his eyes. Just over the low wall onthe far side of the roof from where he lay, the horizon was flushed a deep pinkas the sun approached its rise. Even as he watched, the golden ball peepedabove the horizon, sending a gleam of light straight into his eyes.“Jesse!”“Yea, Mother!”“Say your prayers, son, and wash yourself. Yourmeal is ready.”Jesse closed his eyes and offered his usualmorning prayer, then pushed his coarse mantel away and, grabbing his littlestick, got to his feet, standing up on his strong right leg and allowing hissmaller, weaker left to merely dangle. For a moment, he gazed at the beauty ofthe sunrise and breathed the cool, pure air of another harvest day.Moving to the ewer and basin, he washedcarefully, then fastened his girdle securely and hurried down the stairs asquickly as his one good leg would take him.His mother and older sister, Anna, turned fromthe fire and smiled at him. “Let me re-wrap your bandages, son, then Anna willwash your hands so you can eat.” His mother knelt and lifted the hem of histunic. She tugged at the bandage that covered his withered leg from small,misshapen toes to mid-thigh, then straightened and nodded to the low tablewhere warm breads, herbs and fresh cheese were laid.Jesse held out his hands to be washed by hisolder sister, then sat and began his meal.A few minutes later, his mother set a smallbasket on the high table beside the fire. “I have food here for your eveningmeal, son.”He nodded as he slowly got to his feet. Oncebraced against the table beside his mother, he began to wind his turban aroundhis head. Seeing the usual barley loaves in the basket, he sighed. “The son ofmy uncle had wheat loaves for his meal yesterday.”His mother smiled gently. “We have food to eatand a warm and safe place to lay our heads, son. Your father and brothers haveplenty of labour in the fields of your uncle and he has even found work for youwith your clever mind for figures. Let us never show discontent over what theLord has given us. Many are not blessed as we are!”He sighed again. “Yea, but...”His mother placed gentle fingers over his lips.“Hush, son. The Lord has blessed us richly. We have enough and to spare. Let usnot raise our voices except in thankfulness.”Jesse looked down into the small basket as hismother pulled a coarse cloth over its contents. He frowned and, pulling thecloth back, counted the loaves and fishes she had placed there. “Five loaves and two fishes, Mother? If you are concerned with showing gratitude,perhaps ‘twould be better to give to the poor who knock at our door than togive extra to your son.”His mother smiled again. “Yea, son. Your generousnature serves you well. And I have kept plenty for that purpose. Perhaps youwill have a chance to do the same for the people with whom you work today.”Jesse frowned, then shrugged. “Mayhap.”“And you will eat and you will be satisfied.” Hismother put her hands on his shoulders and looked into his face. “Be strong as aleopard, light as an eagle, swift as a deer, and mighty as a lion to do thewill of thy father who is in heaven this day, son.”“I thank you, Mother.” Jesse picked up his basketof food and placed his crutch firmly under one arm. Then he smiled and noddedto his mother and sister, and hobbled through the open door and into the narrowlane.Jesse’s six-times weekly walk to his uncle’slands was usually a calm and quiet amble along peaceful roads. He enjoyed it. Itdidn’t tax his strength and the fresh air was invigorating.But today, everything was different.Throngs of people were hurrying along the usuallyquiet road, talking together excitedly.One particularly large group came up behind him.The man in the lead moved closer. “Might we pass you, young sir?” he askedquietly. “We are in a great hurry to reach our destination.”Jesse nodded and stepped to one side.As the people hurried past, he called out. “Whereare you to in such haste?”“To see the master, the great prophet whom somecall The Messiah!” a young woman called out as she aided the faltering steps ofthe man beside her. “He sits today in the desert,” she pointed. “He promisessalvation to all who gather to Him!” She glanced down at Jesse’s crutch.“Salvation and healing.” She gripped the arm of her companion more firmly andwhispered gently to him. “Come, Father. We are nearly there!”Jesse stood at the side of the road and watchedthe people go by for a moment. A prophet? The Messiah? Salvation? Healing? Whatsort of healing?He thought about it for a moment, then thrust hischin forward. He, too would seek this prophet. This healer. Clutching hisbasket tighter, he followed after them as quickly as he could.The sun was halfway up the sky, signalingmid-morning, when the people he had been following joined a far larger group. Thisgreater gathering had seated themselves on the dusty ground and were listening intentlyto a man wearing a white and brown striped mantle and seated on a little,raised patch of ground.Jesse watched the young woman and her more feeblecompanion find places to sit nearby and immediately turn their attention to theman in the striped robe.This, then must be the prophet she spoke of. Themaster.Though he was some distance away, something in his quiet manner drewJesse’s gaze. The words he spoke, though not loud, could be plainly heard.Perhaps a trick of the landscape. Perhaps carried by the slight breeze.Jesse’s heart seemed to leap within his breastand he shivered with…something. Excitement? Awe?Recollection?Perhaps a bit of all.He quietly sat down in the dust, crossing hiswithered leg over his good one and putting his basket in his lap. Then he laidhis crutch carefully beside him and was, himself, soon absorbed by what the manwas saying.“Blessed are the poorin spirit: for theirs is the kingdom of heaven,” the man said. “Blessed are theythat mourn: for they shall be comforted. Blessed are the meek:for they shall inherit the earth.”Jessefrowned. The poor in spirit? The mournful? The meek? All were…blessed?Themaster went on, “Blessed are they which do hunger andthirst after righteousness:for they shall be filled. Blessed are the merciful: for theyshall obtain mercy.”Hisnext words went through Jesse like a bolt.“Blessed are the pure in heart,”he said. “For they shall see God.”Actuallysee G-d? How is it possible that mere mortal man would be able to see theFather of Heaven and Earth?Theman went on, speaking of peacemakers, the persecuted and the reviled. “Rejoice,and be exceeding glad,” he said. “For great is your reward inheaven: for so persecuted they the prophets which were beforeyou.”Jessefrowned. Rejoice in persecution?Themaster called each of them the salt of the earth, then said, “Ye arethe light of the world. A city that is set on an hill cannot be hid. Letyour light so shine before men, that they may see yourgood works, and glorify your Father which is in heaven.”Formuch of the day, he went on, speaking words that seemed to glow with light andwarmth as they found a ready place in Jesse’s heart.Withthe day waning, the master stopped speaking momentarily as a few men approachedhim. With them, he quietly discussed something that appeared to be of greatconcern. Several times, they turned and indicated the mass of people stillsitting patiently, waiting for the words of peace and comfort to continue.Jessethought about the things the master had said. Was it important to be meek andlong-suffering? And the council to let his light shine. To serve and to share.Unexpectedly,a picture of his mother flashed into his mind as he had last seen her—holdinghis basket of warm food and urging him to be generous with the people he metthis day.Jesselooked around and smiled slightly. Where would he start?Themaster shook his head at something one of the others said. Then he lightlypatted his companion on the shoulder and moved him gently aside.“Arethere any among you who are sick or afflicted,” he asked. “Halt, lame, deaf,dumb? Come forward and, by your faith, you shall be healed.”Jessesucked in a breath. The ‘healing’ the young woman had spoken of. He looked downat his withered, useless leg. And could the man possibly mean him? ‘By yourfaith’, the man had said.Didhe have faith?Ashort distance away, the young woman rose and helped her father to his feet.Then the two of them made their way slowly through the throng toward the man inthe striped robe.Ayoung man seated next to Jesse plucked at the sleeve of his tunic and indicatedthe crutch lying in the dust between them. “He means you, brother,” the youngman said. “Go. And be healed.”Healed?Jesse’s breath seemed to stop in his throat. Could it actually be possible?“Go!”someone else whispered.Jesselooked around. Several people were smiling at him and nodding. A couple of thempointed toward the master.Theyoung man next to him stood up. “Please, brother, let me help you.” Strong handsgrasped Jesse’s arms and pulled him to his good foot, then handed him hisstick. “Go!”Stillclutching his basket and with his stick once more braced under his arm, Jesse finallybegan to make his way forward.Theway wasn’t easy. People were packed in tight and there was very little space tomove. They shifted as much as they could and sometimes that was very littleindeed, but eventually, Jesse was able to join the group gathered immediatelyaround the master; one of the last to do so.Aman in the line just ahead of him turned and smiled at Jesse with one dead eyeand a face twisted by old, hideous burns. Just ahead of that man, another mancarried a child who appeared to be legless.Jesselooked down at his own sound leg and its withered companion. Among thiscompany, he was blessed. Should he stay and seek the help of the master?Awoman paused beside him, breathing heavily and pressing one hand to her breast.“Isaught well with you, sister?” Jesse asked in a low voice.Shetook a rather shaky breath. “It soon shall be!” she whispered back, shiningeyes on the man at the center of the group.Slowly,the line of people wound its way closer to him. As they drew nearer, Jesse wasable to see more clearly what was happening.Aseach person approached him, they were warmly embraced and greeted by name. Thenthe man put his hands on the person’s head and spoke softly.And,without fail, that person was healed.Jessesaw arms and legs appear where none had been before. He saw the feeblestraighten. One small child gazed at her mother in wonder as she heard thewoman’s voice for the first time. An elderly man who had been led through thethrong by a younger man, removed the bandage from his eyes and turned from thankingthe healer to look into the young man’s face, staring at it as though it wasthe most glorious sight he had ever seen.Therewas a stir as someone approached carrying a small figure bundled up in a coarsemantle. Limp hands and ashen cheeks would indicate that this child was farbeyond the help of any mortal man, but, as with the others, the healer put hishands on the little one’s head. In moments, the child was sitting up, smilingand pushing at the now-restrictive mantle.Jesse’sheart seemed to swell within him. Healings. Raisings from the dead? It was asthough he stood in the presence of G-d, Himself!Hecaught his breath on a sob, feeling suddenly humbled. Worthless. Tears stainedhis cheeks. He gazed now at the man in the striped robe with reverence wherebefore had been only awe and wonder.Reverence.And love.Hekept his eyes steadily on the healer, and as the line decreased in size, slowlymade his way closer.Whenthere were but two people ahead of him, a couple of the man’s associatesappeared.“Master,”one of them said.Theman in the striped robe turned to him questioningly.“Master,we need to send these people away. Many of them have been here all day and wehave nothing to feed them. They must go into the surrounding villages and findfood.”“ButI have not yet completed the work,” his master told him.“Theywill be here on the morrow,” his other companion said. “Master, you are tired.Let us send the people away so they can eat and you can rest.”Hismaster paused and Jesse felt his heart stop.Hewas so close!Thenthe master smiled. A tired smile, but one filled with love. “Good brethren,” Hesaid quietly. “I would first be about my father’s business. Then I will retirewith you.”Jesselet out the breath he didn’t know he had been holding.“Thereis still the problem of what to feed the people,” the first companion said.“Castthrough the throngs and see if any have ought to contribute,” his master saidas he turned back. He took the little, legless girl into his arms. “Sarah, mydaughter!”Jesseclutched his basket tighter, thinking of the few loaves and fishes itcontained. He would love to share. But how many of this throng of thousandscould possibly be fed on so little food?Themaster stood the little girl on two strong legs and hugged her again. “Go,daughter. Remember this day, when your faith and that of your father…” henodded to the man beside the girl whose face was wet with tears, “…healed you.”Thelittle girl nodded eagerly and she and her father turned and began to maketheir way back through the people.Jesse’seyes blurred with tears of his own. He blotted them on his sleeve. “Thomas, my son.” The master had his armsaround the burned man. “Long you have carried these scars.”“Yea,Master,” Thomas said. “Yet I know that, in thee, all things are possible. Eventhe healing of a sinner such as I.”“Sogreat faith, Thomas.” The master smiled and put his hands on Thomas’ head andagain, Jesse’s eyes swam with tears.Andthen, it was his turn. The master’s eyes were on him. Wondrous eyes filled withendless love and acceptance.Withoutconscious thought, Jesse started forward, his own eyes on the master. TheMessiah.“Master,this should be the last. We must be off.” One of the companions was back. “Wecan find no food and the sun sets. The people will be forced find their way inthe dark.”Themaster nodded. “We would not want anyone losing their way in the darkness.”Jesseheaved a sigh of relief. One more. Him.Justthen, someone bumped into him and he stumbled and nearly lost both his crutchand his basket. Grasping them tightly, he turned.Thewoman who had come up behind him was clutching her chest, her face grey.Withoutthinking, Jesse set down his basket, reached for her arm, and pressed her aheadof him. “Here, sister. Take my place!”Themaster looked at Jesse and smiled, then placed his arms about the woman.“Emily, my daughter,” he whispered.Inmoments, Emily was on her smiling way and the master’s companions were pullingat his arm, trying to get him to follow. “Now, Master,” one of them said. “Letus be off.”Jesse felt the tears sliding down his cheeks.Sadly, he picked up his basket and then turned to leave.“Jesse.”The quiet voice seemed to wrap around his achingheart. Tugged it. He turned.The master was standing, looking at him. His armswere wide.Dropping his crutch, Jesse stumbled forward. Thearms closed about him and, for a moment, he thought his heart would burst withjoy. Somewhere, a choir of voices was singing. Angelic, heavenly voices.Then, the sound of his own sobs.“Jesse, my son.” The quiet voice was continuing. “Youhave carried this burden for so long. Lay it now at my feet. Give up your sinsand be healed by your faith.”Jesse looked up into the kind eyes. “I do. Iwill.”His left leg tingled. He looked down. Onesandaled foot. One bare. The bandage that had bound his withered limb lay in asmall heap in the dust. With wonder, he lifted that leg. Felt it withastonished hands. It was as whole and healthy as the other.He looked up into the master’s face. “How…how isit possible?”The master’s smile seemed to pull his heart fromhis breast. “By the power given me by my father and in His name, son. And byyour faith.” His smile widened. “Now, go and share what you have found!”“I will!” Jesse started to turn, then swung back.“Who are you, Master?”Again that smile. “Who say you that I am?”Jesse felt his brow pucker. “Are you John theprophet? He who is called the Baptist?”The master’s eyes filled with tears. “John, whowas my brother, is with us no longer. He has finished his work.”Jesse’s breath was squeezed from his chest. Hestared at the master. “Dead?”The master nodded. “Called home.”“But could you not . . . the child you raised . .. could you . . .?”He shook his head sadly. “John, who was theBaptist had finished his work.”“And you are John’s brother?”He smiled through his tears. “I, too have come todo the Father’s work.”“Has the Father, Himself come to dwell amongmen?” Jesse’s voice was filled with wonder.“I am the Christ, Jesus. My father hath sent meand I am here to do His will in His name.” The master smiled. “And glory beunto Him.”“Then, ‘tis true. The prophecy of a Savior sentto deliver the world.” Jesse felt strange. As though he couldn’t quite getenough air into his lungs.“Master. We must be away!” The companions hadreturned. “The hour grows late and the people must find food!”“I have food!” Jesse cried, suddenly.Jesus turned to his companions. “You hear? We areprovided for.”The companions frowned at Jesse, their eyesseeking and stopping at the small basket he held. “How?” one of them asked.The master tugged at the cover and looked down onthe small offering. Again he smiled. “It is enough. Bring me baskets.”And then Jesse witnessed yet another miracle inthis long day of miracles as Jesus the Christ blessed and broke the few loavesand fishes into fragments and filled basket after basket after basket.The master’s servants distributed the food andJesse watched as the heaping baskets were passed from hand to hand. Withgladness, all the people received and they began to eat hungrily, praising G-das they did so.Soon all had been filled.What was left was gathered up, and finally, 12baskets brimming with pieces of fish and bread remained.He looked around and smiled. “It is well.”Shortly after that, Jesus the Christ and hiscompanions disappeared into the gathering gloom. Then the people, too, began todisburse.Jesse, clutching his small basket now brimmingwith food started along the road.“Ouch!” He lifted his left foot and examined thewelt left by a sharp stone. “If only I had a sandal!”Then he began to laugh.Several men stopped beside him. “Something amusesyou, brother?”Yea,” Jesse said. “This morning when I awoke, Ihad only one useful leg. Now, through faith and by the healing power of Jesusthe Christ, I have two. But, upon feeling pain in my new foot, I instantlybegan to wish for something more.” He shook his head slowly. “I fear it willtake the rest of my life to root out the ingratitude that so quickly besetsme!”The men smiled and continued up the road.Jesse followed them, walking easily on two stronglegs for the first time.Velvet darkness surrounded him as his little homecame into view. The front door had long been shut, but light glowed in the onewindow. Jesse hurried toward it.Gently, he lifted the latch and pushed the doorwide. “Father? Mother? I have returned.”His mother rose from her seat by the fire.“Jesse! What were you about? You never arrived at the house of your uncle! Ihad feared you the victim of highway robbers!”His father loomed up behind her. “Welcome home,son.” He shook his head mournfully even as he smiled at Jesse. “I am gratefulfor your safe return.” He glanced at his wife. “But I am also certain you havemany things to explain.”Jesse set his basket on the high table.His mother glanced at it, then smiled at Jesse.“Son. Did you find the opportunity to share with those in need?”Jesse smiled back as he laid his crutch besidethe bowl. “Yea, Mother. Let me tell you the story.”
Now go to my friends and see what's happening in their homes, thoughts and lives this month!I guarantee you'll enjoy it!

Baking In A Tornado

Menopausal Mother

And however you and your loved ones celebrate this beautiful season, I wish you joy and happiness!

Thank you for being my friends!                            

Withapologies to Dr. Seuss…Itwas my favourite story when I was growing up.Let’sface it, my imagination just filled in any troubling (ie. frankly impossible) potholesin the plot.Stilldoes, in point of fact.Ahem…Hortonwas an elephant who lived in the jungle. Friendly and kind-hearted, he wasnearly always the first to offer help when needed—even when said offer may be alittle…complicated.Onthis particular day, Horton happened to be walking past the nest of Mrs. Mayzie,a bird who lived in the neighbourhood.Mayziehad laid an egg and the euphoria of anticipating her ‘blessed event’ had, howcan we say this judiciously?...erm…worn off.Shewas ready for someone else to take over so she could take a well-earned (in hereyes) break.Anunfortunate word when talking about an egg, but let’s just go on from there,shall we?Now,I will admit that it took a little convincing, but soon, Mrs. Mayzie (that lazybird) was winging her way to Palm Springs ‘for just a day or two’ and Horton—heof the several lovable tons—was sitting in her tree, gently keeping her eggwarm and comfortable.Let’sthink about that for a moment, shall we? Firstly: An elephant. In a tree.Andsecondly: Said elephant sitting so gently on a bird’s egg that it wasn’tcrushed into an eggy nothingness.Now,I probably don’t have to tell you that five-year-old Diane swallowed this storywhole.Dianeof later years filled in a lot of potholes (see above).Backto my story…NowHorton, because he was loving and dependable, or, in his words, "An elephant's faithful, onehundred percent!" stayed on that Lazy Mayzie’s egg for nearly ayear.He suffered through storms, ridicule andfinally hunting season and not once did he falter in his task.I keep wondering what he ate. (Can one ordertake-out in a jungle?)Thehunters who had discovered him during the aforementioned hunting season, ratherthan do anything hunter-ish, decided they might make a bit of money off him ifthey dug up the tree—elephant, egg and all—and hauled the whole kit andkaboodle to a circus.Whichthey did.Therefollowed an arduous trip through the jungle, over mountains and across heavingseas.Idon’t know about you, but when I’m anticipating a ‘blessed event’, the lastthing I want to be doing is crossing heaving seas.Gulp.PoorHorton could do nothing else but endure. And finally, he, his egg, and his treereached their new home.Inthe middle of a circus.Where—you’veprobably guessed it—they were instant draws.Peoplecame. They stared. They discussed.Theymarvelled.Nowthis will probably come as no surprise but coincidentally, Lazy Mayzie’s ‘day ortwo’ Palm Springs spa was just down the road!Whowould have guessed?Andour sweet little mother-to-be just happened to be in the mood for some big-top entertainment.Imaginethe surprise when she and Horton clapped eyes on each other.Ofcourse, Mayzie probably would have simply faded happily back into the audience,except that, at that very moment, the egg—that very egg Horton had been sittingon for 51 loooong weeks—started to hatch.AndMayzie, now that the work was all done, decided she was ready to be a mom.Wordswere exchanged–well, mostly screamed—and by Mayzie.AndHorton, he of the perpetually loving nature, backed down the tree and out of hisegg’s life.Andthat’s when things really went sideways.Well,for Mayzie, that is.Becausethe bird that hatched from that egg…Well,that bird looked remarkably like Horton!Yep.Littletrunk and ears and tail.Ofcourse, it also had wings and bird feet, but one can’t have everything.Andeveryone—including the ‘chick’—proclaimed Horton the parent.AndMayzie had to be content with…nothing.Ifound this so satisfying as a child. I mean, she hadn’t done any of the work.Why should she get any of the reward?Andyou know what?Istill think that.
Fly on the wall is our chance, once a month, to share what has been happening in our homes, lives and imaginations!We're so happy you could visit!Now hurry over and see what my sister writers have been up to this month!

Baking In A Tornado

Menopausal Mother                                 

Withapologies to Dr. Seuss…Itwas my favourite story when I was growing up.Let’sface it, my imagination just filled in any troubling (ie. frankly impossible) potholesin the plot.Stilldoes, in point of fact.Ahem…Hortonwas an elephant who lived in the jungle. Friendly and kind-hearted, he wasnearly always the first to offer help when needed—even when said offer may be alittle…complicated.Onthis particular day, Horton happened to be walking past the nest of Mrs. Mayzie,a bird who lived in the neighbourhood.Mayziehad laid an egg and the euphoria of anticipating her ‘blessed event’ had, howcan we say this judiciously?...erm…worn off.Shewas ready for someone else to take over so she could take a well-earned (in hereyes) break.Anunfortunate word when talking about an egg, but let’s just go on from there,shall we?Now,I will admit that it took a little convincing, but soon, Mrs. Mayzie (that lazybird) was winging her way to Palm Springs ‘for just a day or two’ and Horton—heof the several lovable tons—was sitting in her tree, gently keeping her eggwarm and comfortable.Let’sthink about that for a moment, shall we? Firstly: An elephant. In a tree.Andsecondly: Said elephant sitting so gently on a bird’s egg that it wasn’tcrushed into an eggy nothingness.Now,I probably don’t have to tell you that five-year-old Diane swallowed this storywhole.Dianeof later years filled in a lot of potholes (see above).Backto my story…NowHorton, because he was loving and dependable, or, in his words, "An elephant's faithful, onehundred percent!" stayed on that Lazy Mayzie’s egg for nearly ayear.He suffered through storms, ridicule andfinally hunting season and not once did he falter in his task.I keep wondering what he ate. (Can one ordertake-out in a jungle?)Thehunters who had discovered him during the aforementioned hunting season, ratherthan do anything hunter-ish, decided they might make a bit of money off him ifthey dug up the tree—elephant, egg and all—and hauled the whole kit andkaboodle to a circus.Whichthey did.Therefollowed an arduous trip through the jungle, over mountains and across heavingseas.Idon’t know about you, but when I’m anticipating a ‘blessed event’, the lastthing I want to be doing is crossing heaving seas.Gulp.PoorHorton could do nothing else but endure. And finally, he, his egg, and his treereached their new home.Inthe middle of a circus.Where—you’veprobably guessed it—they were instant draws.Peoplecame. They stared. They discussed.Theymarvelled.Nowthis will probably come as no surprise but coincidentally, Lazy Mayzie’s ‘day ortwo’ Palm Springs spa was just down the road!Whowould have guessed?Andour sweet little mother-to-be just happened to be in the mood for some big-top entertainment.Imaginethe surprise when she and Horton clapped eyes on each other.Ofcourse, Mayzie probably would have simply faded happily back into the audience,except that, at that very moment, the egg—that very egg Horton had been sittingon for 51 loooong weeks—started to hatch.AndMayzie, now that the work was all done, decided she was ready to be a mom.Wordswere exchanged–well, mostly screamed—and by Mayzie.AndHorton, he of the perpetually loving nature, backed down the tree and out of hisegg’s life.Andthat’s when things really went sideways.Well,for Mayzie, that is.Becausethe bird that hatched from that egg…Well,that bird looked remarkably like Horton!Yep.Littletrunk and ears and tail.Ofcourse, it also had wings and bird feet, but one can’t have everything.Andeveryone—including the ‘chick’—proclaimed Horton the parent.AndMayzie had to be content with…nothing.Ifound this so satisfying as a child. I mean, she hadn’t done any of the work.Why should she get any of the reward?Andyou know what?Istill think that.
Fly on the wall is our chance, once a month, to share what has been happening in our homes, lives and imaginations!We're so happy you could visit!Now hurry over and see what my sister writers have been up to this month!

Baking In A Tornado

Menopausal Mother