A Gift For Joey
Page 2
Following are two stories included in my children’s collection, Seven and One Tales for Young Readers. The first is about a grandfather who tells his grandson tales that always seem to come up just short of an ending. The second is a tale of a cat becoming a king through unusual circumstances.
GRANDPA’S STORIES
My name is Jake. I live with my mom and grandpa. One day Grandpa was helping me shovel snow. Well, Grandpa was doing more talking than shoveling. Grandpa talks a lot, and tells a lot of stories. There’s one problem, however—he never finishes them!
“Once, when I was your age,” he was telling me, “we had a terrible snowstorm. The storm buried everything for miles around. It snowed for ten days and ten nights. The cows needed milking, so I burrowed a tunnel to the top of the snow. When I broke through, I was as high as the barn roof and could touch the weather vane. I started digging back down to the cows, but then heard a low, menacing growl behind me. I slowly turned. Four famished wolves had me cornered, and were ready to pounce when—oh, are you done shoveling already, Jake?” Grandpa asked. “Well, I guess I can tell you the rest of the story another time.”
Grandpa went back into the house and I never heard the rest of the wolf story.
Another day, I was telling Grandpa how far I had to ride the bus to school.
Grandpa said, “When I was your age, we had to walk to school. My sister Penny and I had to walk twenty miles without shoes. We had to swim a mighty river, too. I still remember those wicked, green crocodiles and their snapping jaws. I would throw a stick into the river just so they would chase it. Then Penny and I would swim across. But one time, this smart old croc’ did not chase the stick. When we jumped into the river, he lunged right at us. He opened those huge, ugly jaws, and was just about to clamp down on Penny when—oh, here comes your bus, Jake,” Grandpa interrupted himself. “I’ll finish this story some other time.”
Again, Grandpa never did.
Sometime later, I asked, “Grandpa, why don’t you ever finish a story?”
“Never finish a story?” Grandpa answered, surprised. “Don’t I?”
“No,” I said. “Never.”
“Well, I can certainly fix that. Here’s a story that has a perfect ending.” Then, he told this tale:
“When I was your age, I saw a picture of the great pyramids of Egypt. My friends and I decided to build one for ourselves. We had no stones, so we used grass and sticks instead—and it looked awful. Just as we finished, a hideous swamp creature appeared. It seems he thought the pyramid looked awful too, for he knocked it over with one swipe of his huge, hairy hand. Then he grabbed me, opened his gruesome mouth and—is that your mother calling, Jake?” Grandpa stopped to ask. “Well, we better quit gabbing and go see what she wants.”
At last, I decided not to listen to Grandpa’s stories anymore. When he began to tell one, I would say, “I have to go now, Grandpa. I can’t stay to hear a story. Maybe some other time.”
I did not feel good saying that to Grandpa. He always looked so sad when I did.
One day, I came home from school and saw Grandpa in his favorite chair, reading a newspaper.
“Hi, Grandpa,” I said. Grandpa did not respond. He was pretending not to hear me. I said, “Would you like to tell me a story, Grandpa?” Grandpa still said nothing.
I went closer, pulled down his newspaper, and looked him in the eye.
“Then, I will tell you a story,” I said. “When I am a grandpa, I will have a grandson too. I will tell my grandson wonderful stories. I will tell him about snowstorms and hungry wolves. I will tell him about crocodiles and pyramids and swamp monsters. My grandson will always want to hear another story, even if it has no ending. The end.”
When I finished, Grandpa smiled. “What story would you like to hear, Jake?”
“I want to know what happened with the wolves, the crocodile, and the monster who did not like your pyramid.”
“Oh, that’s easy,” said Grandpa. “I warned the wolves to stay back because I had just eaten onions. Well, one thing a wolf cannot tolerate is onion breath, so they backed away and I escaped. The crocodile was easy, too. My sister Penny had an old wooden ruler. When the crocodile lunged, I took it from her and tapped him on the snout. That must have hurt his feelings, because he swam away in a big old huff. As for the hairy swamp monster . . . hmm, that was different, very unusual. I could do nothing about him. There was no escape. He had me in his grip, opened his mouth and then he—he—now, let’s see, what did he do?”
“Oh, come on, Grandpa,” I urged. “What did the monster do?”
Grandpa looked straight at me and winked. Then he chuckled and said, “The monster opened his mouth and cleared his throat. Then, just when I thought I would be swamp monster food, he began telling me a fantastic story. He told me about one terrible winter when it snowed for ten days and ten nights. Well, he had to go milk the cows, so . . .”
Grandpa continued the story and I was happy to keep listening. I think I know the ending to this one, but with Grandpa’s stories, you never can tell.