Medley of Fairy Tales and Fables

by Jenni James

  All the Daughters began to scream and duck to keep the birds from landing on their heads.

  “Oh No!” one of the daughters yelled.

  “Look out! Look out!” Colleen shouted to Mary Anne who was still standing. “It’s after you! “Duck! Duck!” One of the birds seemed to zero in on Mary Anne’s bouffant hairdo. To the bird, it must have very much resembled a nest. Mary ducked just in time but lost her balance and laid out flat across Jenny Peterson’s lap. Jenny was grossly overweight and didn’t have much of a lap so Mary efficiently rolled down her legs to the floor.

  Everyone began waving their hands and arms wildly to ward off the birds. Mrs. Thompson, the Camp Secretary/Treasurer, contorted so violently, she fell off her chair. Most shot to their feet in a panic. Two of the daughters lunged backwards, pushing Debbie Martin over her chair.

  “Ohhhh!” screamed Debbie as she made a vain attempt to catch herself. In doing so, she caught the corner of one of the card tables. Unable to hold her weight, it tipped forward, brutally launching the tuna fish casserole, jello salads, and quite a number of other food items through the air and into the crowd. When the Bronze-Headed Junco flew at Eva Jackson she whirled violently around, tripping over Debbie, planting herself headlong and face first into one of the cakes on the other card table, at the same time tipping over the punch bowl which dumped its entire contents into the display case, changing Brigham Young’s white shirt to a Hawaiian punch pink.

  Irena Sayers screamed madly as she made for the door, but slammed into Maggie Carter who was then forced into the stand of mannequins displaying the period clothing. Each went down like a row of dominos, adding to the flailing pile of bodies. Between the flying birds and the airborne food, most of the gyrating throng had slipped, tripped, or fallen on top of each other amidst a crashing array of wooden folding chairs, forming a bizarre collage that more resembled the aftermath of a battlefield than a serene DUP meeting hall. The building itself expelled a hot sigh of resigned exasperation.

  Still, above the chaos, the clear sweet song of the three little birds could clearly be heard. The Titmouse had come to light on top of the old Sears Roebuck and Company pump organ in the corner where it sang with great passion. The Bronze-Headed Junco landed on Emily Sorensen’s head where it pecked at the sesame seeds it found in the tossed salad that now graced Emily’s forehead and dripped from her hair. The third little bird, the Goldfinch, flew to the wall atop the big dark wood frame encasing the portrait of John Arkin—the town’s founder—and as it sat there, singing at the top of its little lungs, condescendingly defecated on John’s forehead.

  The trio sang in sync, with a gusto that would bring the Mormon Tabernacle Choir to envy. The sweetness of their charming serenade seemed now to draw everyone’s attention. In fact, in the mass of human debris, food, and wreckage, everyone stopped still and listened. The three little birds’ tune was so stirring it seized the moment. The entire gaggle was held firmly spellbound by a melody so true, so pure, that it seemed absolutely heaven sent. Then, as if on cue, the birds took flight again and after circling the room a couple of times, flew out one of the open windows.

  The devastation and mayhem was complete. Aside from the incessant buzzing of the flies, you could have heard a pin drop. All sat wide-eyed and motionless for a long time.

  Finally, licking a bit of cake frosting from her chin, Josie broke the silence and in her monotone voice, she said, “Well. There you have it. Mrs. Rasmussen’s bird hat.” And she primly sat down.

  Now this story and the hat, minus the three birds of course, made the rounds to other DUP camps until the Daughters lost all track of it. Nonetheless, the story has been told over and over many times by believers and non-believers alike.

  Some say there were only two birds. Some say there were definitely three but they were much larger. Others claimed they remembered the melody of their song was that of the old church favorite, I Stand All Amazed.

  There has been no end of speculation as to what really happened in that old one room schoolhouse on that muggy August afternoon. Although this story, or some facsimile of it, will forever be a part of the building’s history, perhaps only the Oolite knows for sure. Did those three little birds actually come alive, or was Josie or someone else playing a trick on everyone? Or did the birds simply fly in from outside?

  The consensus of opinions seemed to be that—well—it was time for those three cute little birds to be resurrected.

  That’s what I believe. If it’s not true—well—it ought to be.

  Lawrence Gardner

  For over 40 years, Lawrence Gardner has enjoyed a challenging and rewarding career in the entertainment industry as an Artist, Producer, Director, Actor, Writer, and Filmmaker. Now, in his ripening years, as energy wanes and introspection and rumination occasionally set in, he has settled into what he considers the most unrestricted and creative of all artistic endeavors he has ever experienced; creative writing! He hopes his readers will delight in his creations at least as much as he took pleasure in crafting them.

  The Pied Pipers of Ham Bone Inn

  By Marla Workman

  For Jason Workman, my step son, for helping me figure out one dilemma that had me stumped in writing a part of this story.

  The Pied Pipers

  of Ham Bone Inn

  T he Saturday morning sun glinted off the silver bike making its way up the hill on the old half gravel, half broken pavement road. The wheels slipped a little as each pedal circled with effort. Ginger McNand was running out of breath as she pedaled laboriously up the road leading to an old abandoned-looking cement building that she had found on a bike ride after the first Waterton flood five years earlier. It’s here that she found a kind, wise old friend who was willing to fix her bike tire the first time she explored this old road and got a nail in her tire. She had learned that he was usually a bit of a tease, appearing and disappearing whenever he wanted to. She figured he had to be a magician or, by his lilting accent, maybe a leprechaun. As the grade leveled out, Ginger let her pink tennis shoes slide off the pedals, and dust puffed up as they hit the dirt road. She took three deep breaths and waited for a moment for any sound. A shadow passed quickly over her shoes. She almost missed it.

  “Mister O’Connell,” she called. “Was that you?” She waited fifteen seconds (a long time for a seventeen year old) and she gazed around at the nearby trees. “Come on, I know that was you. Answer me!” called the red haired young lady in blue jeans. She wiped the beads of sweat off her forehead with the long sleeve of her white knit shirt. Then suddenly she heard a thud behind her and she almost dropped her bike. She quickly looked around and there he stood, the small gray haired man with the dust settling around his feet.

  “What do you want, girl?” He asked curtly.

  “Don’t scare me like that!” Ginger gasped as she put her hand over her already rapidly beating heart.

  “Sorry, Miss McNand, what brings you all the way out here?”

  “News about the flood problem.”

  “But I don’t have a flood problem, Missy, remember? Ginger remembered him telling her a few years before that the big hill between him and the town and the mountain blocked the water and when the snow cap on the mountain melts, he feels safe in his big treehouse that he built after the earthquake took down the old motel up behind this old café. Even if the flood somehow came around this big hill, it wouldn’t reach him up in that huge tree.

  “But I know you care about the people in town. Do you want to know what the city leaders decided to do to stop the flooding for good?”

  “What?” asked Mr. O’Connell. “How can they stop a flood that has happened every year for the past five years and runs down every street of Waterton?”

  Ginger dismounted from her bike and as she did, her knee hit the handlebar pouch and knocked a book out onto the ground. Mr. O’Connell bent down and picked it up and asked, “What is this? ‘The Pied Piper of Hamblin?”

  “I checked it out of the school lib
rary. Have you read it?”

  “Oh yes, It’s a fine lesson.” He handed her the book and she slipped it back into the pouch.

  She parked her bike against the old building and looked down at Mr. O’Connell and asked him, “Can we go in and sit down this time?”

  “Oh, yes. Come on in.” He gestured for her to follow. He wore a green shirt and pants on his small body. Ginger had been tempted in the past to ask him if he were really a leprechaun and almost chickened out this time as well, but she was determined to find out if what she thought was true.

  They entered the front door using his key. It would have been fun for her to jump through one of the four big broken out picture windows, but out of respect for his property she followed him through the door and under the old sign that read “Ham Bone Inn”.

  “Have you had breakfast, Miss McNand?”

  “No, Sir, but I’m okay.” She sat in one of the booths of the old café. She noted that the place was surprisingly clean despite the broken out windows.

  “But you have to taste my new Danish recipe.” He put two icing covered rolls on two small plates and set them on the table she was sitting at. He then went into the old walk-in refrigerator and brought out two pint-sized cartons of milk.

  “I don’t want to eat all your food,” Ginger said as she took a big bite of the danish.

  “I have enough food to feed every child in town.”

  “Where did you get all the food?”

  “I make bakery goods for the grocery store.”

  Ginger licked some frosting off her fingers. “Mm, and this one is really good.”

  “Thank you,” he couldn’t help a proud smile. “When the grocer comes to pick up my baked goods, he brings me supplies like flour and also some groceries.”

  “Why do you call this the Ham Bone Inn if it’s no longer a café?”

  “No one comes up the old road anymore since they built the freeway, so I have no dining customers. I don’t mind, though. I love baking. It keeps me alive and I keep the old name for historical reasons.”

  “Speaking of history,” she cut in,” I noticed in the pictures on the wall that you look the same today as you did fifty years ago. I’m going to have to be blunt and ask you – are you a leprechaun?”

  “A leprechaun, ha ha,” he laughed. He looked into her hazel eyes and she could see that he knew that she knew. “Okay, you have discovered my secret. I suppose now you will tell everybody.”

  “Oh no,” said Ginger. “We are friends so I won’t tell if you don’t want me to.”

  “Please don’t,” Mr. O’Connell begged. “I would be captured and dissected like a lab rat.”

  “Ew,” Suddenly Ginger felt uncomfortable and afraid of the unknown. What can leprechauns do to people? She thought to herself. “I should go,” she said out loud and started to get up.

  “Wait Missy,” he held his hand like a stop signal. “I have no intention to harm you. We are friends.”

  She settled back in her seat and took another bite of the danish cautiously. “So that’s how you suddenly appear. What’s it like to be magic?”

  “Well,” Mr. O’Connell said, trying to think how to describe magic, “It’s like there is a thin wall between those who have magic and those who don’t. On my side, magic is easily understood and on your side, it can’t be explained. Like when you arrived here, I was up in a tree by the road. I jumped and air currents spun under my feet to lower me gently to the ground.”

  “But I looked right at the trees,” said Ginger. “So, why couldn’t I see you?”

  “Just as the magic in me caused the air to spin under me, the sunlight was spinning around me. It created an invisible screen. It’s really quite simple, but without the magic force within me, it wouldn’t happen.”

  “It sounds like some kind of magnetic field,” Ginger surmised.

  “What a clever young lady. You see me as a small man. But leprechauns weigh twice as much as a full grown human, so my density increases my bio magnetism.”

  “Now you’re sounding like my biology teacher,” Ginger smiled.

  “That’s because it really is explainable,” he said. “Speaking of school, I thought you had band practice every Saturday morning?”

  “I skipped it today.”

  Mr. O’Connell knitted his eyebrows. “You won’t get into college by skipping school things.”

  Ginger replied, “I don’t know if I want to go to college. I’m tired of school.”

  “Well, I can’t speak for your parents, but they want you to, don’t they?”

  “They want me to go to Grandville Junior College ‘cause it’s only fifteen miles away. Oh, speaking of Grandville, I forgot what I came to ask you: some of us kids were across the street from the school yesterday, at noon hour recess, doing stair step exercises at the Town Hall, and the city council’s windows were open. We heard the city leaders talking to a man about the flooding.”

  Mr. O’Connell looked on with interest. “Who is the man?”

  “Somebody from Grandville who owns a huge heavy equip-ment machine called a ‘Trencher’. They told him about the earth-quake five years ago that blocked the streams that carry the spring run off to the river. Instead, it goes right through our little town. The man said he could dig a trench between the mountain and the town that would reroute the water to the river. He said his price was reasonable and the city leaders said, ‘go ahead’.”

  Mr. O’Connell asked, “That’s nice, but why do I need all this information?”

  Ginger explained further, “When our mothers heard about the big project, they became alarmed that the younger kids might want to play in the trench while it is unstable and unsettled. I wanted to check with you first, Mr. O’Connell, and present my solution. You own the field across the road, right?”

  Mr. O’Connell nodded with a half grin.

  “Well,” continued Ginger confidently, “I was thinking that we babysitter kids could bring the younger kids here on Saturdays and keep them away from the sound of the digging that might attract them and,” she emphasized, “instead of our usual watching kids on the school playground while their mothers had a housecleaning-catch-up day, we could have them play soccer to keep them busy.” Ginger paused smiling, “Well?”

  “Okay,” Mr. O’Connell countered. “I will say ‘yes’ if you will do me a big favor.”

  “Sure, if I possibly can.”

  “Will you please talk to the man with the trencher and tell him I need him to do a job for me here on my place. One dig with that machine and I could have a new root cellar. My old one caved in with the earthquake. I’m willing to pay a man who charges a fair price.”

  “Couldn’t you just wave a magic wand and dig your own cellar?” asked Ginger.

  “Alas, Missy, I don’t have enough power. It takes several leprechauns to do a big job like that. So, will you ask for me?”

  “Yes,” said Ginger. “And I’ll show him how to get here.”

  “Did you catch his name?”

  “I think it’s Joe Hale, if I remember right. I’d better get going. Goodbye, Mr. O’Connell. See you soon.”

  “Goodbye, Missy.”

  “When you call me ‘Missy’, it makes me sound like a young child and I’ll be eighteen in two months,” she complained.

  “Why, sure enough, young lady. You will very soon be attracting the eye of a handsome young man.”

  Ginger blushed. The metal of her bike squeaked as she jumped on it and started down the old broken up road. She stopped and looked back at her magic old friend and asked, “Would you ever use your magic to help me if ever I were in trouble?”

  “Yes, of course I would, my friend, but I would not display my magic abilities so that everyone would know that it was my doing and you cannot let anyone know if I do happen to help you.”

  “I promise, I would never,” said Ginger, “‘Bye”.

  After checking in at home and doing her Saturday chores, Ginger hopped on her bike and headed out to
the west end of town, the part nearest the mountain. As she cleared the last of the houses, she spotted a red pick-up truck in the distance and a man unloading road cones. She approached slowly until the man saw her. She stopped for a second, then continued.

  The man called out, “Hello, do you live in Waterton?”

  Ginger called back, “Yes, I do. Do you know Joe Hale?”

  “Why, that would be me. How do you know my name?”

  She laid down her bike and walked up near the pick-up. “I heard it at the town hall. I have a question for you, unless I should be talking to your boss about another job.”

  “Ask away, I am the boss.” He smiled and reached for more orange cones.

  “Oh, but you’re so young.”

  Joe stopped unloading and looked over at Ginger. “My folks helped me get a business loan so I could buy this trencher and start my own business, so I am looking for jobs so I can pay it off and not lose this fine machine. What job do you need done?”

  She noticed, as she approached, how strikingly handsome this young man, Joe, was in his construction hat and with muscles bulging under his t-shirt. Something new and exciting began to stir within her core. She blinked to get her thoughts organized. She was close enough now to see his deep blue eyes and for the first time in her teenage life something new happened – his smile took her breath away and she had to fight for a moment to get control of her speech. Unbeknown to her, her days as a child just ended. Even the tone of her voice became warmer. Her inclination was to turn and run and forget the whole thing, but she had made a promise.