Three Little Pigs, Lego Version

Thanksgiving story 2

I was helping with a Lego camp and tailored the story to what I saw and heard that week (and so can you, feel free to make changes. 😉  These are my additions to the familiar tale, with wolf huffing and puffing and blowing houses down.  I wrote down these “bones” of the story for a friend and thought I should record and share it.

1st pig liked comic books, filled his backpack with his favorites plus a candy bar and soda.  Traded comic for straw, “Have to give something to get something,” and built straw house. Offered to share comic with wolf, who instead wanted “piggy for lunch.” Ran to brother’s house.
2nd pig had computer game, chips, and juice, let man with sticks play games while he built house, offered to let the wolf play Tetris, but no. Both run to . . .
3rd pig, heaviest backpack, filled with grains, apples, and water . . . and Lego bricks!  He built a strong Lego house with locking door and clear windows and chimney, near a stream, where he planted grain and apple seeds.  Three pigs safe inside house.

I wanted to end with the wolf showing up at Lego shows to learn to build a catapult, and the campers were fine with it, but the visiting little sisters insisted there had to be “wolf stew” from wolf falling down the chimney.  They were right; the menace has to be GONE at the end of a story.  “No one ever saw that wolf again.”

When I told stories to a friend’s high school class, a smart-alec made a comment about “3 Little Pigs” so I included it in the mythology lineup, pointedly saying it was in response to his request.  I’m ornery, but I also like to point out how to change the old tales to fit new interests.  I couldn’t think of a Lego story until I picked up on the fact that true aficionados refer to them as Lego BRICKS. 😉
Lego fun

JacKaLs GHosted

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“Aunt Mary, you’ve been blocked,” my niece explained. “There’s nothing wrong with your computer.” 

“What?  How? Why?” 

 Jill had told me when she was very young, “I don’t know it all, but I know some things,” and she did.

 “Hard to know the why, but how to block is easy, even though it’s the highest level of “distancing” on social media.  If you need just a little distance, you can “unfollow” someone and go to their page to read posts only when you want to.”

I nodded. “Glass of wine in hand to prepare for my nephew’s angst-filled posts.”

“Right, and they won’t know you’ve done this, especially if you check in now and then.  Next is ‘unfriend.’ This might be noticed, as you will disappear from their list of friends.  They can still see comments and posts as “friends of friends” and you can see theirs. Blocking is the most extreme, usually reserved for scammers and trolls. If you can’t see anything at all, it means they’ve blocked you.”

At first I hadn’t realized what was happening when a “friend” disappeared on Facebook. Sometimes I’d see four comments in a row with none in between, like a person talking to herself.  Some people do set comments to “friends only” so if we don’t know that person, we won’t see her comments. Technical difficulties, glitches in the system?  Then I read about “ghosting,” blocking friends as one would the scammers who “like your pretty smile.”  It’s the electronic version of “cutting them dead” in old books on manners.  

My niece explained the process and offered consolation. She reminded me of my mother’s warning that “two girls can play nicely together, three or more will fight.”  She called it the JacKaL Effect, but never explained the odd capitals, initials perhaps?

“Really, if they are mean, you are better off without them. You’d never have done that to anyone, and you’ll never really trust them again. Move on,” and I did. Cyber-friendships were ephemeral anyway. It’s not as if it was happening in real life, until it was. 

Real-life blocking began, reasonably enough, with law enforcement enforcing  restraining orders and witness protection.  Then someone hacked the technology, and soon there were seemingly empty desks at work with work getting done, empty seats in theaters and restaurants that one couldn’t manage to sit on, involuntary weaving on sidewalks to avoid invisible obstacles.

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It all came to a head for us one Thanksgiving when the youngest niece started crying, “Grandma, make them stop! Make them stop being mean and talk to each other.  It’s rude to ignore people.”

Jill, always practical, asked, “How can we fix it? I know, let’s take roll. Raise your hands if you can see Beth.” Everyone could.

“Who can see Grandma?”  Everyone.

“Who can see Uncle Joe?” Ben’s hand stayed down. 

“Ben, could you say something positive about Uncle Joe?  Anything? Anything at all?”
“Well, Uncle Joe taught me to fish.  He was very patient, even when my hook caught on his cap.”

“Uncle Joe, tell me something you like about Ben . . . please?  Just one thing?”
“Well, Ben is very bright . . . and helpful.  When my old car wouldn’t start, he helped me fix it.”

Grandma, the patient crocheter of lace and mender of boo-boos, continued Jill’s work with each person at the table, coaxing everyone to remember good things and acknowledge loving gestures, reminding all of what family was.  When there were no more shimmering gaps around the table, she had everyone join hands to say grace again.  Then she brought out the pumpkin pie and whipped cream, the cheesecake, and the cherry pie that was Beth’s favorite.  Gaps might still exist on (anti-)social media, but Grandma love can fix everything important.

I asked Jill if it would work online.  She winked and said, “Not worth the bother. Just mentally thank them and let them go.”

Smart girl!  

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We are each of us angels with only one wing, and we can only fly by embracing one another. Luciano De Crescenzo

 

 

Balloons, the “Not Welcome” Sign

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At Lou Fusz Subaru with Fran the Prius. Thanks, Matt
Balloons, the “Not Welcome” Sign
Fran’s the Prius’s New Adventure
My little Prius, Fran, is so confused. We headed out for oil change and inspection, but stopped much too soon, at an unfamiliar place.
“Wait, this isn’t right!”
Oh, oh, I should have explained. “Yes, it is. It’s where we’re going now.”
“Noooooo! We ALWAYS go to P’s Toyota. It’s where I started. It’s where I always go! Even the tow truck knows that.”
Actually, it goes back much further, more than thirty years of total customer loyalty to those who’ve helped me through rough patches. I remember winning deluxe tickets to a Cardinals game, which Donna took Mom to. Easy access even for Mom’s wheelchair, and she had a great time. Yeah, grateful for that, and a few months later, for their finding time to fix my Tercel so I could get to the hospital to see her. They had said there were no openings, but then found time. Did someone skip lunch? I had bonded with Fran for a year, every time I brought the Tercel for service, and was so happy when a new “floor model” meant I could buy her just when I needed to.
“Well, this is where we’re going today. You’re good at adapting. Remember going to Louisville on just one tank of gas? and Texas? and Jonesborough, TN? It’s just an oil change and inspection. Let’s see how it goes.”
“Why?”
“There are balloons at P.T. and I’m allergic to latex. The nice techs took me home last time, and I paid by phone, but it’s not the same, and when I called to ask for the safe environment I’d been promised, the mis-named customer service guy yelled and was insulting.”
“Oh, that’s not nice.”
“No. I’ve heard he has a reputation as a bully. Most oddly, he kept saying, ‘I know who you are.’ I wish I knew what he meant by that. He also compared a request for no balloons to the absurdity of cutting down all the trees in St. Peters because of pollen allergies.”
“Not nice at all. Okay I’ll try . . . wait, you aren’t trading me for a Subaru are you?”
“No, I hope you keep going for a long time. Oh, and you’ll like this: they have a car wash. Spa day!”
“Will we ever go back to P.T.?”
“Let’s see how this goes. It would take a sincere effort to change their ways, and probably, as one of the laid off teachers responded when asked if he’d come back from his new district, ‘Only if the new guys are really mean to me.’”
So far, Fran and I are happy at Lou Fusz Subaru, close to home, courteous staff, and competent and fair. I’ve remembered that my Corolla came from Lou Fusz in Kirkwood. My sis says Fusz is another branch of our Fussner family tree . . . so it might be a bit of a homecoming after all.
Thinking of a commercial with very cute kids and the punchline, “When you’re the best, you don’t need balloons.”
Thinking also of my first boss at Prudential saying, “The most expensive advertising is poor customer service” . . . and the best, value beyond measure, is being good to your customers, 35+ years of building a great relationship tossed in the trash by one ill-tempered bully.
When you decorate your business with latex balloons, you might mean to be festive and fun, but you are signaling “off limits/danger/not welcome here” to those of us with a latex allergy.
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Uncle John Halloween Stories

Halloween Pranks

One October Saturday afternoon, Grandpa stopped by the blacksmith’s shop to have a tire shunked on his wagon.  As he worked, Ed were tellin’ Grandpa how he were fixin’ up a real nice-lookin’ buggy to put up on the roof of his shop, but he ‘lowed as how he were gonna have to take it apart to get it up there.

Grandpa looked at the buggy and reckoned it weren’t such a big problem.  “Tell you what,” said Grandpa, “you be doin’ just as I say, an’ your buggy will git up there without no trouble or work for you.”

“How you gonna ‘range that?” puzzled Ed.

“I’ve got it all thunk out.  Now every night before you close shop, you put that there buggy inside, and every mornin’ you take it out and wipe it off good so it be all bright and pretty, sittin’ there for all to see.”

As Grandpa was leavin’, he spied some almost-grown boys over in front of the drugstore, watchin’ the ladies go by.  Grandpa ambled over and started jawin’ with them.  “Yep,” he told them, “I remember well when I used to chase after the women, but for the life of me, I can’t remember why.”

Then castin’ his eye ‘cross the street, he remarked, “Ed sure is proud of that buggy of his, so afraid something is gonna happen to it, he can hardly sleep nights.  But I reckon it’s safe enough, even with Halloween just about here.  Now when I was a youngun, given half a chance, we’uns would have that there buggy up on old Ed’s roof for him and the whole town to admire.”  With that, he sort of winked and went to fetch his team and wagon so as to be home in time for supper and chores.

Halloween fell on a Saturday that year, and about sundown Grandpa was back at Ed’s shop.  Ed was fixin’ to close shop, so Grandpa lent him a hand, tellin’ Ed, “Forget about the buggy and let’s be amblin’ over to the Plug Nickel for a couple of beers.”

After a few hours and a sight more than a couple of beers, they departed for the Log Inn for a bit of food.  Passin’ the shop, Grandpa said to Ed, “See, I told you I’d get that buggy up there without no sweat.”

Lookin’ up to the roof and seein’ the buggy right where he wanted it, Ed haw-hawed an’ had to admit that Grandpa was a slick customer right enough.  “Come on,” he said, ” the food and drinks are on me.”

Christmas Stories and Memories

Merry Christmas!  I have some bits of decoration out, enough to make me happy,  and I’m thinking of baking a little, maybe for Monday’s Story Swap at McClay Library.  In my teaching days, everything waited for the start of Christmas break — my cards were more accurately New Year’s cards.  The calendar really doesn’t matter as much as the sharing love.

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“I will honour Christmas in my heart, and try to keep it all the year. I will live in the Past, the Present, and the Future. The Spirits of all Three shall strive within me. I will not shut out the lessons that they teach!”  ― Charles Dickens, A Christmas Carol

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When we were little, my parents put up the tree after we went to bed on Christmas Eve, for a magical Christmas morning surprise.  When we got older, we helped put it up, earlier in the season, but not TOO early.  Dried out trees are dangerous, and in that little house, the tree also made things crowded, but so very festive, in the front window greeting all who went by.  My favorite ornaments were the handmade ones and the glass icicles.  I remember one made at school, a little scene inside half an eggshell, with cut-outs from Christmas cards, a twig, and sparkles.

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Never underestimate creativity — and fie on those who say things like “You have too much time on your hands.”  We all have the same 24 hours per day and some use it to make beauty! . . . or at least attempt it . . .

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One year the gingerbread house would NOT stay up and the great-nephews were impatient to eat, so we declared it a FEMA site, decorated the ruins, and consumed the delicious wreckage.  Tasted good, but for eye-candy how about these . . .

http://www.cakewrecks.com/home/2016/12/11/sunday-sweets-a-gingerbread-jam.html

May all your holidays be bright!

Here are two stories from my dad and also some more from Chuck Larkin, who helped me put my dad’s stories together in little books.

http://www.chucklarkin.com/stories/Christmas_1.pdf

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Big Shot and Bingo Go Coasting

by “Daddy John” Fussner, collected by daughter Mary Garrett

One fine, cold day, Santa’s factory was running full speed.  Nothing went wrong, and the toys were coming into the packing room very fast.  The packers were working as fast as they could and were able to keep the supply wagons rolling.  Big Shot and Bingo were  pulling four or five wagons at a time behind their toy tractors.

The wagons were stacked high with bright packages for Santa’s sleigh, but before loading, they had to be stored in the big warehouse.  Every package had to placed just right so it would get put on the right load in the right place for Santa to get it when he came to  a certain boy or girl’s house.  How would you like it if your toys were put on the wrong load and ended up in some far-away land, halfway around the world?  It hasn’t happened yet, but only because Santa’s helpers know their job and try hard to do everything right.

With the toys piling up faster than they could move them, Big Shot and Bingo got a little careless.  They didn’t know that the Head Man Brownie had help coming.  Big Shot and Bingo started down the hill from the factory to the warehouse, each pulling four wagons.  Faster and faster they went, until they were going so fast that their feet flew off the pedals, and they were coasting.  When you coast down a hill with a toy tractor, and four loaded wagons are pushing you, you move fast!  The hill got steeper, and the speed got faster until Big Shot and Bingo thought they were riding jet-powered tractors.

Arriving at the warehouse, they zoomed in the open front door and zoomed out the back door just as fast.  They picked up more and more speed as they went further down the hill.  Most roads going down steep hills have a turn at the bottom.  This road had to turn to miss the big lake.  Big Shot and Bingo came to the turn in the road and went straight ahead, out across the frozen lake.  Spinning like a top, they scattered Christmas gifts far and wide over the slick ice.

About halfway across, they finally stopped.  Big Shot and Bingo looked at each other.  Without saying a word, they got off their tractors, and slipping and sliding, they started picking up the packages.  When they tried to move the tractors on the slick ice, the rear wheel turned, but the tractors didn’t move.

“Well,” said Bingo, “looks like we have to do it the hard way.”

Do it the hard way they did.  Eight wagons had to be loaded and pushed back up the long hill, one at a time.  Then the two tractors had to be pushed up the hill.  After that was done, the Head Man Brownie made Big Shot and Bingo unpack and repack all the packages without any help.  It was late, late at night when two tired but wiser brownies at last lay down to sleep.

Grumpy and his stable hands pulled the rest of the wagons with reindeer, and kept well ahead of the packers.  There was no package left in the packing room overnight.  Big Shot and Bingo learned their lesson well and are very careful at the jobs now.  Santa and the Head Man Brownie know that accidents will happen, and they are still well pleased with the work of their little tractor drivers.

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Big Shot and Bingo’s Tractors

by “Daddy John” Fussner, collected by daughter Mary Garrett

One day little Bingo and Big Shot, two of Santa’s little brownie helpers, were busy driving their tractors, pulling wagons loaded with toys.  Their job was to haul toys from the packing house to the big warehouse.  Little Bingo started to grumble about how hard it was to push the pedals on his tractor.  Soon Big Shot was mumbling, too.  The trouble was that little Bingo had seen a working model of a new tractor the Head Man Brownie was thinking about building.  It had a gasoline engine for use outside and an electric motor for use inside the factory and warehouse.

Big Shot and Bingo kept complaining until the Head Man Brownie just plain got fed up with listening to them.  “That does it!” he shouted.  “I’ve had about all of this complaining I can take.  You two go up and tell old Santa what your trouble is.”

Well, Bingo and Big Shot didn’t want to do that.  It’s one thing to complain to the Head Man Brownie, but it’s lots different telling Santa you don’t like something.  That’s sorta like telling your teacher something and having her tell you to go see the principal.  Well, Bingo and Big Shot kept stallin’ around like you do when you’re told to do something you don’t want to do.  But the Head Man Brownie is a lot like your daddy, and when he tells you to do something, you’d better do it, but fast.

Bingo and Big Shot went up to Santa’s big, big desk.  Old Santa looked up, and seeing Bingo and Big Shot, he said, “Is there something I can do for you?”  Well, Bingo and Big Shot stood there, first on one foot and then on the other foot, each waiting for the other to tell Santa.  Finally, Bingo told Santa what was wrong.

Old Santa has been around a long time, and he can pretty near tell what is wrong without being told.  “Well, well,” he said, “I thought your tractors were still in pretty good shape when I saw them yesterday.  Are they broken or worn out?”

“No,”  said Bingo, “we’ve taken good care of them.  Why, they are as good as new.”

Old Santa laughed and said, “Well, if there is nothing wrong with the tractors, then perhaps the drivers are getting old and worn out.  Maybe we need a couple of new drivers.  I’ll see the Head Man Brownie and ask if he has anyone we can use.”

“No! No!” said Big Shot and Bingo.  “We’re not old and worn out!  Why I’m bigger and stronger than I ever was.”

Of course, old Santa was just teasing.  He knew that Big Shot and Bingo were doing a good job, and he wanted to keep them on it.  They always took the loaded wagons to the right spot in the warehouse and always had plenty of empty wagons in the packing room.  It takes a long time for some of the brownies to learn where everything goes, and some can never learn.

“Well,” said old Santa, “I’ll tell you what I’ll do.  If you will make your tractors do until Christmas, then after the holidays, before we start up for next year, I’ll have the Head Man Brownie make some new tractors.  You two may have the first two he makes.

“What are you going to do with the old tractors?” asked Big Shot.

“Oh,” said Santa, “I suppose we can toss them in with the rest of the junk.”

“No you don’t!” shouted Bingo and Big Shot.  “You know that we don’t have nearly enough tractors to go around.  Many little boys who want tractors this year will have to take something else.”

“Yes, I know,” said Santa.  “Every year we build more factories and warehouses, but that old bird, the stork, just won’t let us catch up.  As much as I like boys and girls, it would sure help if that stork would take a six-month vacation, but that will never be.  He works twenty-four hours every day of the year.”

“Well,” said Big Shot, “why don’t you let us pick out a little boy apiece to give our tractors to.”

“O.K.,” said Santa, “if you can find two little boys that would like a tractor that’s been used in Santa’s factory, go to it, but if you don’t, into the junk pile they go.  We can’t have them sitting around in the way.”

So that’s how it is.  Do you think Bingo and Big Shot will find their two little boys?

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Father’s Day: Lessons and Love.

Verna and John Fussner002

 

Father’s Day ❤  Lessons and Love. ❤

A neighbor complimented me recently on the way I greeted his dog, back of hand presented for sniffing, and I thought of my dad, who taught us to do that and to approach new animals and new people with respect and friendship.  He and Mom also allowed us to enjoy and care for a variety of pets, including the mouse that Mom found in the bathtub and a baby bird my brothers found, and my brothers’ snakes, which did teach me not to be afraid of them.  A box turtle who spent one winter in our house would bite my mom’s toe if she hadn’t noticed it waiting by the refrigerator when it wanted to be fed.

Dad taught lessons at convenient teaching moments.  When a drunk neighbor shouted from the street for my dad to come fight him, my father told us that would be foolish, and then the man didn’t know what he was doing, and then moved us away from the front room to be safe.  Walking away from a fight as the sensible option . . . which is just what I did when dealing with a girl who was inexplicably eager to fight with me; I changed our route home, assuring my brothers that Mom would approve when I explained.  She did, and probably did “mom negotiations” to resolve the problem.

Probably the most important lessons had to do with safe driving and dealing with reckless drivers and other hazards. Dad would say, as an aggressive driver passed us, “Good.  I’d rather have him up ahead where I can keep an eye on him.”  He’d also hope that when the inevitable accident happened, they wouldn’t take some innocent family with them.  Dad never had an accident in all his years of driving.  I wish I could say the same, that we could all say the same.

It seemed nearly every year I taught at the high school we would lose a student to reckless driving, new drivers showing off new skills in new cars.  Our activities director recommended old, slow, sturdy cars for new drivers.  I shared with students that my dad had told my brothers he’d put a governor on their cars if he heard of them speeding, then wondered if that could still be done with newer cars.  “Oh yes it can,” said one young man, but didn’t share how he knew.

I remember family picnics at the Saint Louis Zoo, which has no admission charge, so everyone can afford to go. Dad used to encourage us to have fun rolling down a grassy hill, a fun memory.  When I mentioned it to Mom she told me that it helped us burn off energy while she and Dad got a little rest on a bench.  Parents have to be clever.

I don’t know if picnics are allowed inside the zoo now, but Forest Park has many open spots for gathering nearby, including the site of the outdoor Shakespeare Festival St. Louis.

** Also remembering the sweet southern wife of the Prudential manager in Minneapolis, who explained how her fastidious husband came to be a willing diaper-changer of their three girls.  “I told him that I didn’t like diapers either, but I loved my daughter and wanted her to be healthy and comfortable.  I said I thought he loved her as much as I did, but if he didn’t, that was fine and I would do it.”   ❤

 

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https://storytellermary.wordpress.com/2014/06/07/grandpas-young-uns/

Black-Eyed Susie’s Honey

One bright summer day, two pretty little flowers were standing in a field near the edge of the woods.  The flowers were Black-Eyed Susies, members of the daisy family.  They have a dark brown or black center with a single row of yellow petals around them.

One of the daisies said, “Isn’t this a lovely day, so clear and bright?  Look at the beautiful blue sky and the pretty white clouds.  It’s like a big ocean with lots of sail boats.  Oh, it’s so big and beautiful!”

“It’s nothing of the sort,” said the other daisy.  “The sun is so hot that it’s about to cook me.  I don’t like the blue sky.  I don’t like anything that’s blue.”

“Well, well,” said a little Jack-in-the-Pulpit standing nearby, “then you don’t even like yourself, because in a way you are blue except for your head.”

“That’s right,” said the shy little violet.  “The green color is made up of yellow and blue; so from your neck down, you are mostly blue.”

“Oh I don’t believe it,” said the second daisy.  “Besides, we were talking about the sky.  I don’t care for the white clouds.  I’ve seen too many white clouds turn black with rage and cry all over.  Just yesterday, I got all wet when a little baby cloud got lost from his mother and cried all over the place.”

“Now, now,” said Sweet William.  “You’ve sort of mixed things up a bit.  If it wasn’t for the crying clouds making rain and the hot sun making it warm, we couldn’t be here.”

“That’s true,” said Morning Glory, climbing a nearby tree.  “Everything and everybody is part of a big thing, and we all have our jobs to do and our rewards to receive.”

What is our so-called job?” Asked daisy number two.  “I can’t do anything with my roots buried in the ground and my head cooking in the sun.”

“Oh yes you can do something,” said the first daisy.  “You can look pretty for everyone to see, and you can make honey for the bees.”

“I’ll admit I’m the prettiest flower in the woods and I have the sweetest honey that ever was, but if you think I’ll have a dirty old bee walking on my head, you are badly mistaken.  I’ll give no honey to the bees or to anyone else.”

“Oh, that’s too bad,” said Morning Glory, climbing still higher up the tree and opening more blossoms.  “I’m climbing as high as I can and wearing dozens of honey-filled flowers for the bees so that my reward will be big.”

“Reward, reward!” shouted the second daisy.  “What reward can you hope to receive?  You know as well as I do that all summer long, the bees will run all over your head gathering honey, the bugs and worms will eat your leaves, and then old Jack Frost will paint you so Old Man Winter can freeze you.”

“That’s partly true,” answered Jack-in-the-Pulpit.  “Some of us will die, but as a reward for giving honey to the bees, we will be given the chance to make seeds which will grow next year.”

“Oh!” cried the second little daisy.  “How foolish can you be!  I suppose the bugs and worms we’ve been feeding all summer will wade around in the snow, planting the seeds we leave for next year.”

“No,” answered the Morning Glory, “the birds will eat most of them.  You see, the birds must live, too, and they live on bugs, worms, and seeds, mostly.”

“Oho,” moaned the second little daisy, “so now we have to feed our hard-earned seeds to the birds.  After they get finished, what reward do we have left?”

“Now wait up a minute,” answered the first little daisy.  “The birds don’t eat all the seed.  Most of the seed is dropped on the ground.  When the birds scratch around looking for them, they bury many more than they eat.”

“That’s right, they do us far more good than harm,” wisely stated Jack-in-the-Pulpit.

“I care not what you say, do, or think.  I’ll not give any of my honey to the bees,” angrily shouted the second little daisy.  “Look, here comes one now.”  With that, she quickly closed her petals, keeping the bee away.

The bee flew to the first little daisy and took some honey, saying, “Thank you.  I’ll be back tomorrow.”

“What about us?” asked the other flowers.

“I only take honey from Black-Eyed Susies.  There will soon be other bees along for your honey.  Bye now,” said the bee, and away he flew.

The second little daisy refused all day long to give honey to any of the many bees that came her way.  Just about sundown, a little boy came along. Seeing the two daisies, he reached down and picked the second little daisy.  Walking along, he pulled the petals off one by one, saying, “She loves me, she loves me not, she loves me, she loves me not . .  .”

The Sunshine Pump

When I taught in Jamaica, I encountered some fun language differences, moths were called bats, bats were rat bats, and moonshine was simply the light coming from the moon.  Much laughter ensued from my Missouri definitions.  A friend’s post today on Facebook reminded me of this . . .

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The Sunshine Pump

Seein’ as how Grandpa’s farm was in a narry valley ‘twixt two high mountains, he didn’t git much sunshine.  ‘Twas ’bout midmornin’ afore ole Sol could much moÊre’n peek down at the valley.

As the yars went by, they be more ‘n  more younguns to feed.  Grandpa ‘lowed as how ‘twould he’p iffin’ he’d put a windmill and pump on top of old Smokie to pump the sunshine down to his farm, which he did, and likewise which the pump did.  Things went right well for a couple or three yars, ’til one day the wind didn’t blow fer more’n a week.  Grandpa got plumb restless without the sunshine fer his crops.

Well sir, one morning he told his two fust born boys to take a couple of buckets and fetch down some sunshine.  Them mountins bein’ as high as they were, hit took a whole passel of climbin’ to git to the top.  When at long last, they stood at the very tip top, Eb cast an eye to the sky and said, “Zeb, look at that sun.  Hit’s half gone and none too bright.”

“Don’t fret ’bout that,” answered Zeb.  “We’uns is in the same fix an’ ah reckon ’tis no mind to no one nohow.”

Well sir, them two younguns filled thar pails and started down th·e mountain.  Zeb slipped and bumped Eb, and ah’m tell’n you all, they skittered down a sight faster’n they climbed up.  When at long last they rolled to a stop, thar be Grandpa lookin’ down at ’em and he twern’t smilin’ nohow.  Zeb got up and tole Grandpa the sorry fix the sun were in.

Grandpa howled, “You addle-brained young’uns, that thar sun you saw were the moon!”  With a howl and a growl, he yanked the pail outen Zeb’s paws and took a big swig.  Atter that he was smilin’ happy.  Yep, thar’s a mite bit of difference ‘twixt sunshine an’ MOONSHINE.

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