The Magic Stick

One day, Michael Smith decided to go for a walk in the woods, but when he got there, he found that the woods had been cleared away to make room for a shopping center. All that was left of the beautiful forest was one scrubby, scraggly, skinned-up stick, standing in the midst of acres of freshly bulldozed earth.

“This is terrible,” said Michael. “All that’s left of the beautiful forest is this skinny stick.” And he gave it a disgusted kick.

“All right, that’s it!” said a voice that sounded as though it was coming from the stick. “That is the absolute end. I have had it with being shoved around! I’m not taking in any more!”

Michael Smith was undone. His world was wobbling out of orbit. He looked around trying to make sense of things, but there was no making sense of it. He looked at the stick. “Did you just say something?” he asked.

The stick was silent.

Michael raised his voice. “I said, did you say something?”

Not a word from the stick.

Michael walked closer to the stick and peered down at it. There was nothing special about it, except for its well-beaten appearance. It looked as though the road graders and bulldozers had been driving over it for weeks. Michael kicked it.

The stick didn’t move, but Michael did. End over end, with two loops and a one-and-a-half twist, and down on his rear in a cloud of dust. For a while, Michael just lay there, too stunned to move. Then he sat up slowly and looked over at the stick.

“I warned him,” the stick was saying. “I told him I was fed up.”

“Yes,” a voice answered from nowhere, “but you know the rules. You can’t let your feelings get the best of you. He found you, and you must treat him with the respect due a new master.”

“But he doesn’t respect me,” protested the stick.

“Never the less,” said the voice, “those are the rules.”

“Wait a second here,” said Michael. “Can somebody please tell me what is going on? I swear I hear voices, or have I just stepped over the line?”

“Apologize,” said the voice.

“What for?” asked Michael. “What have I done?”

“Not you,” said the voice.

“I’m sorry,” said the stick. “I shouldn’t have done that to you. You found me. I should have been more respectful, and kept my emotions under control.”

“That’s better,” said the voice.

“Look. If it’s not too much, I would really like to know what is happening here,” said Michael, picking himself up and walking to the stick.

“Oh, yes,” said the voice. “Well, it seems that you have stumbled upon a Magic Stick, sometimes called a Magic Wand, and it hasn’t taken too kindly to being found. It’s had a rough few weeks and is not in the best of spirits. It’s really not so bad once you get to know it.”

“But who are you?” asked Michael, “and why can’t I see you?”

“My name is Horace,” said Horace, “and you can’t see me because I’m invisible in this particular range of light frequencies.”

Michael sat there, trying to take it all in.

“You see,” said Horace, “I work with those in charge of overseeing the placement and practice of Magic Wands, or Sticks, Potions, Spells, Curses and Incantations. In the old days it wasn’t a problem, but with the population explosion, someone is constantly getting in trouble with magical paraphernalia. We are supposed to keep things straight.”

“You mean there really is such a thing as magic?” asked Michael.

“Why, certainly, my boy,” said Horace.

“And this thing is a Magic Stick?”

“Watch it, Bud,” said the stick.

“You watch it,” said Horace. “This lad is your new master. You must do whatever he says.”

“Is that true?” asked Michael. “Anything I say?”

“Yes, indeed,” said Horace. “All you have to do is pick up the stick, announce what you want to happen and wave it in the air. Anything you want is yours for the asking.”

“Is there any limit to the number of things I can ask for?” asked Michael, “you know, like getting only three wishes?”

“No limit whatsoever,” said Horace.

“And it’s mine forever?”

“For as long as you care to claim it.”

“Wow,” said Michael, grabbing up the stick. “I want the forest back, just as it was!” And he began to wave the stick in the air.

“Uh, not so fast there,” said Horace. “I’m afraid you can’t have the forest back.”

“What?” said Michael. “You said I could have anything I wanted.”

“You did say that,” said the stick. “Your very words.”

“Okay,” said Horace, “but I also said that I’m in charge of keeping things straight. Now, you can’t replace the forest because the contractor would just tear it up again; not to mention the local consternation it would cause. The government would get involved. There would be studies. Money spent. Resources and energy wasted. I can’t let you do it.”

“Then I’ll get rid of cancer and heart disease and all the illnesses there are,” said Michael, giving the stick a wave.

“Can’t do that either,” said the stick.

“What do you mean?”, said Michael.

“Sorry, again,” said Horace. “Too much rides on illness to get rid of it. Too many jobs, too many lives.”

“But illness takes lives,” said Michael.

“True enough,” said Horace, “but it also supports lives. Just think of the nurses and the doctors and the hospitals and the insurance companies that depend upon sick people for their own support. You can’t make things better for some without making things worse for others.”

“Well, just what can I do?” asked Michael.

“You could stir up a milk sake for yourself,” said the stick.

“What about ridding the world of war, and warts, and poison ivy, and mosquitoes?” asked Michael.

“Afraid not,” said Horace. “Things are so delicately balanced, these days. So inter-related, so interdependent, that it is difficult to do anything without undoing something else. And you must not tamper with the forces which hold life together.”

“What he’s saying,” said the stick, “is that you can’t do something that is good for some people without doing something that is bad for others. And doing something that is bad is against the rules.”

“Making any substantive changes,” said Horace, “would turn everything upside down. We would never get the mess in order.”

“But what good is a Magic Stick if you can’t do anything with it?” asked Michael.

“Well now,” said Horace, “they make excellent walking sticks for hiking.”

“And I’m good for conversation,” said the stick. “I’ve been around. We could talk. If you are going to change anything, I recommend starting with conversation that takes you to the heart of the matter.”

“Great idea,” said Horace. “I would like to be a part of something like that, myself.”

“And I will conjure up milkshakes for us all!” said Michael

The Little Engine Revisited

Chug-chugging and puff-puffing, the Little Engine rounded a bend and came upon a stalled train loaded with toys and food, sitting on a side track at the foot of a very high mountain.

“Deja vu!” said the Little Engine. The sight reminded her of the day she made her mark in the world of train lore. It had been a long time since that happened, but she remembered the occasion very clearly. She had rescued another train—very similar to this one—by pulling it over a mountain just in time to deliver its goods to the boys and girls waiting in the valley below.

It had been a hard pull, one that a less spirited engine would not have attempted. But she had put everything she had into it, and had succeeded largely because she was convinced she could do it.

“I think I can, I think I can,” she had whispered to herself all the way up the mountain side. And all the way down the other side, she sang out to herself, “I thought I could, I thought I could!” And the train behind her had cheered all the way into the station.

The story of her accomplishment spread through every rail yard in the country. From that point on, she was a celebrity-without-peer. She made appearances on all the talk shows; gave commencement addresses and led seminars on “The Importance of Clear Goals and Self-Determination.” She had written a book about her achievement and was the inspiration for several others. She was the role model of an entire nation, the perfect example of “What You Could Do If You Put Your Mind To It!” Mothers and fathers told their children the wonderful story of the Little Engine. Scientists and presidents, generals and executives, janitors and firemen all aspired to be just like her.

“We can end death and disease,” they said. “We can erase poverty; land people on the moon; obliterate injustice; stop war; halt the aging process; win the pennant; and invent a dripless faucet! We can do anything we want to, if we want to badly enough!

The Little Engine smiled as she reflected on the results of her efforts. She found great satisfaction in knowing that she had led so many people to the discovery of Truth. She was so proud of her achievement that she had “You Can If You Think You Can” stenciled in bold letters on both sides of her cab. And she was fond of closing her news conferences and lectures with the statement: “The only thing that limits us is our belief in our limitations.”

Now, here she was with another chance to show the world what believing in oneself could do. So, it was with a mixture of nostalgia and exhilaration that she pulled in front of the stranded train in order to hook up and pull it away.

“Hey! What do you think you’re doing?” shouted the train.

“Why, I’m going to pull you over the mountain,” said the Little Engine.

“That isn’t necessary,” said the train. “I’ve already radioed ahead for a tow. But thanks for offering.”

The Little Engine was taken aback by this rejection of her offer to help. She could see her plans for renewed glory disintegrating on the spot. “Oh, come now,” she said, “you know it might be hours before the yard can send an engine to take you in. I’m already here. It would be silly to wait when we could be under way.”

“I don’t mean to sound harsh,” said the train, “but that is a very high mountain, and you are a very small engine. You’ll have a hard enough time just pulling your own weight over. I better wait for the tow.”

“Don’t worry about me!” said the Little Engine, “I wrote the book on handling high mountains! The only thing that limits us is our belief in our limitations. I’ll have you over in no time.”

With that, the Little Engine coupled into the train and started up the mountain. At first, the track ascended at a gradual slope and the going was easy. The Little Engine breezed along.

“What a lark!” she exclaimed. “What a wonderful time to be alive!” But the incline soon steepened, and the Little Engine was forced to concentrate all her energy on the task at hand.

“I think I can, I think I can,” she said to herself as the track rose in front of her. “I think I can, I think I can.”

The gradient became almost vertical, and the Little Engine was straining to the utmost. “I—think—I—can,” she gasped, “I—-think——I——–c—a—-n.” The Little Engine’s wheels made a final revolution, hesitated, and began rolling backwards with increasing speed.

“I thought I could,” said the Little Engine, “I thought I could, I thought I could,” all the way down to the bottom of the mountain.

“Whew,” she said, when she finally came to a stop. “That is quite a climb!”

“It certainly is,” agreed the train. “But the tow will be here shortly. We shouldn’t have long to wait.”

“Wait?” exclaimed the Little Engine. “I should say not! I’ll just get a faster start this time. After all, ‘You Can If You Think You Can!’”

As the Little Engine backed up for a running start, she mentally went through the Steps to Success, and focused carefully on each stage required to complete the climb. She visualized herself doing exactly what needed to be done, conjured up all the Positive Resolution she owned, and flew at the mountain.

“This time, I know I can,” she shouted. “I know I can, I know I can!” And she did do better. She made it beyond the high point of her first try by precisely seven and one-half inches.

“Oh, no you don’t,” she said when she felt her wheels stopping. “Oh—no—-you ——don’t. I——can——–d—–o——t—-h——i——–s.” And, with a mighty surge of self determination, she popped all her rivets, burst her boiler, cracked her cylinder head, and slid back down the mountain.

The train had never been in a situation like this and didn’t know what to say. They sat in embarrassed silence for a while, then he cleared his throat and asked, “Are you all right?”

The Little Engine didn’t answer. She sat stunned, shaking her head and stammering, “I thought I could, I thought I could. . .”

In time, the tow arrived from the rail yard and pulled both the train and the Little Engine over the mountain and into the station. There, the Little Engine was petted, and patted, and told not to worry.

“The mountain was too steep for you,” the other engines said. “You did more than any engine your size could expect to do. Don’t let this get you down.”

But it did get her down. She was given new rivets, a new boiler, and a new cylinder head, but the workmen could not replace her spirit. In spite of the best efforts of everyone, the Little Engine showed in interest in life. She stayed away from all the activities of the yard and sat off by her self repeating, “I thought I could, I thought I could.”

Her dejection finally became too much for her, and she went to see her doctor. “I feel terrible, Doctor,” she said. “I see no reason to go on with it. I don’t want to do anything any more. Can’t you give me something to make me feel better?”

“Pills can’t make the world any better than it is,” said her Doctor. “When the effects of the pills wear off, the world won’t have changed one bit. What you need, Little Engine, is an attitude adjustment. That will enable you to live with what you think can’t be lived with. But I can’t do that for you; you’ll have to do it for yourself.”

“But how, Doctor?” asked the Little Engine. “How can I do that?”

“By sitting with the problem long enough,” said the Doctor. “By looking at what you don’t want to live with and living with it anyway.”

“But I don’t want to do that!” said the Little Engine, “I want to be able to pull a big train over the high mountain!”

“Sorry,” said her Doctor. “You can’t have everything you want.”

“That’s not true!” said the Little Engine. “We can do anything we want if we want to badly enough! The only thing that limits us is our belief in our limitations! You can if you think you can!” And, with that, she steamed out of the Doctor’s office with tears in her eyes.

Her misery was more than she could bear. “It’s hopeless,” she said to herself. “There’s only one proper and fitting thing to do. I’ll end it all!”

With that, she chugged out of the round-house with a new-found purpose, and headed for Pufferbelly Plunge. When she arrived, she peered over the edge to the rocks below, backed up to get some momentum for the leap, took a deep breath and prepared to take the Plunge. But a voice stopped her dead in her tracks.

“What are you doing, Little Engine?”

The Little Engine turned around. It was the Chief Locomotive!

“Uh,” stammered the Little Engine, “Well, Sir, it’s just that I can’t see any point in going on with it.”

“And what brought this on, Little Engine,” asked the Chief.

“It’s because I can’t do what I want to do,” she said.

“Are you thinking about the time you blew up on the mountain?” asked the Chief.

“Yes,” said the Little Engine, “That’s when things started coming apart for me. I thought I could pull the train over the mountain, but I couldn’t. Yet, you can if you. . .”

“Think you can,” said the Chief, interrupting. “I believe I’ve heard that line before. And I don’t think it is a very accurate way of thinking, Little Engine. For instance, are you saying that you can go anywhere you want to go even if there are no tracks to take you?”

“Well, no,” said the Little Engine, “Of course, you couldn’t do that.”

“No matter how much you thought you could?” asked the Chief.

“No,” said the Little Engine, “Thinking you could wouldn’t count if there were no tracks.”

“Then we are limited by the tracks, right?” asked the Chief.

“Yes,” said the Little Engine, “We are limited by the tracks.”

“And not only by the tracks, Little Engine,” said the Chief, “There are plenty of things we can’t do. Come with me.”

The Little Engine followed the Chief Locomotive as he led her to the base of the High Mountain. “Here we are,” he said. “Now, Little Engine,” I want you to look at this mountain.”

“I recognize it, Sir,” said the Little Engine, “It ‘s the mountain I couldn’t climb.”

“I didn’t ask you if you recognized it,” said the Chief, “I only want you to look at it.”

“I am looking at it, Sir,” said the Little Engine.

“Look closer,” said the Chief. “Look at it until you SEE it, Little Engine.”

The Little Engine thought that was the most ridiculous bit of instruction she had ever received, but to pacify the Chief, she stared at the mountain. She lost track of time and had no idea how long she spent looking at the mountain, but suddenly, the mountain appeared before her and she was startled awake, gasping.

“MY GOODNESS!” she exclaimed. “That is one gigantic piece of granite! It would take an engine ten times my size to pull that grade!”

“It is much too steep for most locomotives,” said the Chief. “The engineers are working on a plan to tunnel through the mountain at several different places to create switchbacks inside the mountain to make traversing it’s height safer year round and possible during the winter when ice and snow close the track you’re looking at now.”

“What was I thinking,” mused the Little Engine. “I must have been out of my mind.”

“We jump for comforting illusions,” said the Chief. “But reality has a way of grounding us in the truth of the situation at hand. Invention, resourcefulness, and creativity carry us places where a good willing mind needs a hand to be helped along. We have to know what our limits are and how we might work with them to do what can be done about the way things are.”

“I hope I’m not pushing you too much here,” continued the Chief, “But it is important that you understand our ideas of the world either assist us, or inhibit us, in adapting ourselves to reality—and it is crucial that we not let our ideas regarding how things are become rigid and incapable of being expanded and enlarged by, or abandoned in light of, our ongoing experience. We have to allow our limits to limit us if we hope to get the good out of them. And steaming over Pufferbelly Plunge isn’t good for anything. What would you say to returning to the rail yard for an old fashioned train horn concert at the Roundhouse?”

The Little Engine smiled and said, “My horn can harmonize with the best of them!” And together, they steamed back to the Yard.

The Story of Wallace Boggs

Wallace Boggs wanted to fly. He wanted to fly more than anything in all the world. But there was one slight problem with his being able to realize his dream. Wallace Boggs was a 217 pound pig.

Now, you might think it is ridiculous for a 217 pound pig to want to fly, and, perhaps, it is. But Wallace Boggs didn’t think so. And he thought about it a lot. In fact, that’s all he ever thought about.

He would lie on his bristly back in the mud and watch the red birds and the robins flitting about, diving and soaring, and he would think about how wonderful it would be to dive and soar along with them.

“One day I’m going to fly like that,” he would say. His brothers and sisters would pause in their rooting and grunting long enough to snicker and snort.

“That’s the silliest thing I’ve ever heard,” they would say.

“Pigs can’t fly, Wallace,” they would say.

“Isn’t he a riot?” they would say. And they would laugh among themselves as they turned back to their rooting and grunting.

Their laughter hurt, of course, but it didn’t change Wallace’s mind in the matter. In fact, it made him more determined to fly than ever.

“Just wait,” he would think to himself. “I’ll show them all! They’ll stop their laughing when I sail over their heads and climb up, up, and up, into the clouds, and do circles in the sky!” And he would smile as he imagined the surprise on their faces when they saw him swooping in loops and zooming by.

One day, as Wallace lay wondering how the birds did it, he watched a sparrow perched on an over-turned water trough in the barnyard. The bird pushed off the trough, spread its wings, and glided through the air.

“That’s it!” squealed Wallace, scrambling to his feet. “Why didn’t I notice it before? All you have to do is jump off something into the air!”

With that, Wallace ran to the upside-down water trough and climbed up. “Watch me, everybody!” he shouted. “I’m about to fly!”

And, as all the animals in the barnyard looked up from what they were doing, Wallace sprang into the air and landed with a loud “Splat!” into the mud.

The barnyard erupted in laughter. The animals rolled, and hooted, and gasped for breath. Wallace gasped for breath, as well. He was ashamed and shocked at his failure, but he didn’t lose heart, or give up. Again, he climbed onto the trough; again, he leaped into the air; again, he “splat landed” into the mud; and again, the animals roared with laughter.

Wallace spent the rest of the day climbing, jumping and splatting. The other animals soon tired of the show, and went back to their own affairs. But Wallace kept at it—with no success at all. That evening he wobbled on weary legs back to his wallow, and collapsed in an exhausted heap. The next morning he was at it again.

Only this time he climbed up onto the wooden rail fence that encircled the barnyard. “It’s only a matter of getting high enough for the air to catch me,” he reasoned.

And he jumped out for the air to catch him. The mud caught him instead.

Back up on the fence he went. Back into the air he went. Back into the mud he went. The cycle was repeated all day long. And the animals began to look at one another with concern etched on their faces. This wasn’t funny any longer. The next day it was even worse.

“Hey! Wallace is on the tractor shed!” Louise Wiggins, one of the chickens, called out to the other animals. They all flocked, herded, and packed to the shed.

“Wallace, what are you doing up there?” one of his brothers asked. “Wallace, please come down,” on of his sisters begged.

“Wallace, get back here on the ground this instant,” his mother demanded.

“Leave me alone!” Wallace shouted. “And get ready for the show of the century! I am about to FLY!”

With that, Wallace launched himself from the roof of the tractor shed (as gracefully as a pig can manage such things) and landed with a loud THUD in the middle of the mud.

“Uuuuuhhhhh!” said Wallace.

“Are you all right?” shouted the animals, gathering around him. “Are you hurt, Wallace?”

“Yes, I’m all right,” said Wallace struggling to his feet. “And, no, I’m not hurt. It’s just a matter of getting high enough, that’s all.”

“You get any higher, boy, and you’ll be flying with the angels,” said his father. “Now you cut this foolishness out, and get back to the wallow where you belong.”

“Not me,” said Wallace, “I’m going to fly.”

“Be reasonable, Wallace,” said his brothers and sisters. “Pigs don’t fly. Pigs can’t fly. Pigs aren’t meant to fly. Pigs just aren’t built for flying.”

But Wallace would not be reasonable. “I’m going to fly,” he said.

“I’ve got an idea,” said Mildred Pinkins, a jersey cow. “Why don’t we sneak you aboard Farmer Morgan’s crop duster? That way you could fly just like a bird.”

“That’s not flying!” said Wallace. “That’s riding in an airplane. Anyone can ride in an airplane. I am going to fly!”

“Don’t be pigheaded,” said his mother. “PIGS DON’T FLY!”

“I’m going to be the first,” said Wallace.

“You’re going to kill yourself, or one of us,” said the animals. “What would happen if you landed on us? How would we survive that?”

“I won’t land on you,” said Wallace, “but I am going to fly.”

“We can’t let you keep this up any longer, Wallace,” said his father. “This has gone far enough. It has to stop.”

With that, all the animals crowded around Wallace, forcing him toward the barn.

“Hey, what are you doing?” said Wallace. “Leave me alone! Stop pushing!”

“We are only doing what we think is good for you, Wallace,” said his mother. “We have your best interests at heart. We wouldn’t do this if it weren’t for your own safety.”

And, they pushed, and shoved, and pulled, and poked until they had locked Wallace securely behind the heavy doors of the barn.

“Let me out of here!” squealed Wallace.

“Not until you get that flying foolishness out of your system!” said his oldest brother. And they kept Wallace locked in the barn for a long time.

When they decided that he had been there long enough for the flying fever to have passed, they called out through the doors: “Wallace, we’ll let you out if you promise not to try to fly ever again.”

“Okay,” said Wallace. “I promise.”

The animals looked at each other with relief in their eyes, and opened the doors to the barn. No sooner had they removed the latch than Wallace bolted past them, sending several chickens, two goats, and a new colt sprawling.

“I promise not to try to fly until I get to the Jumping Tree!” yelled Wallace as he ran through the animals.

“Wallace! Come back here!” his parents called. But Wallace wasn’t going back. Wallace was going to the Jumping Tree as fast as he could go.

His time in the barn had been spent examining his theory of flying, and Wallace had made a few adjustments in his technique.

“Legs out, chin up, stomach in. If I do that, and jump from a great enough height, I’m bound to fly,” he reasoned. Now, he was running toward the highest thing on the farm.

The Jumping Tree was a big Willow that leaned out over the farm pond. Farmer Morgan’s children spent their summer afternoons climbing up into the tree, and jumping from it into the water. Now, Wallace was going to use it to jump into the air. And he did. He climbed as high up into the tree as a pig could go, and jumped into the air. And, landed in the water.

The splash knocked turtles off logs, and fish onto the bank, and the air right out of Wallace. He floated sputtering, and gasping to the top of the water, and clamored out of the pond just as the first group of animals arrived from the barnyard.

“There he is!” they shouted. “Get him! Get him! Don’t let him get away!”

But Wallace caught his breath, and had one more destination in mind. He headed for Indian Ridge.

Indian Ridge was the highest piece of ground in five counties. It overlooked the farm and the surrounding countryside. At one place on the ridge there was a cliff, which dropped straight down for five hundred feet.

“Surely, that will be high enough,” thought Wallace.

“Oh, he’s going to the Ridge!” shouted his mother when she saw Wallace leaving the pond. “Stop him! Somebody stop him!” But there was no stopping Wallace. He had a head start and a mission, and he out ran all of them to the place where he would fly, or else.

He walked to the edge of the cliff and looked down at the jagged rocks below. “Well, this is it,” he said. “Now it’s either fly or die—and if I can’t fly, I’d just as soon be dead.”

“No! Wallace, No!” shouted the animals as they climbed up the path toward him. “Don’t do it! Please, don’t do it!”

But Wallace backed up for a running start and took a deep breath.

Buster Grimes, Farmer Morgan’s golden lab, and the fastest animal on the farm, huffed up and placed himself between Wallace and the edge of the cliff. “Let’s talk about this, Wallace,” he wheezed.

“Get out of my way or go with me,” said Wallace, digging in for a running start.

“Sounds to me like you ought to do what he says,” said a voice from behind Wallace.

“What’s that?” said Buster

“I think you ought to get out of the way and let him get it over with,” came the answer.

“Who are you?” said Buster.

Wallace turned to see who was behind him, and stared into the face of the most beautiful sow he had ever seen.

“I’m Denise Riggins,” she said. “I’ve been hearing about a pig who thought he could fly, and, since I’ve never seen anyone that stupid, I decided I would come over and have a look. You don’t look stupid,” she said to Wallace, “in fact, you’re kind of cute.”

“I’m not stupid!” said Wallace. “And I’m going to fly.”

“That’s stupid,” said Denise. “Pigs don’t fly. Pigs wallow in the mud, and take long naps in the sun, eat corn-on-the-cob, and root in the dirt. But they don’t fly. However, I’m sure you’ve heard all this before, so maybe you should just jump, and get it out of your system.”

Wallace didn’t know what to say. He was suddenly very confused. He wanted to fly, but he also felt like he was falling in love, and thought that being with Denise just might be better than flying.

“Birds fly,” he stammered. “When birds fly it’s beautiful.”

“You’re right,” said Denise. “Birds are beautiful when they are doing what birds are built to do. And pigs are beautiful when they are doing what pigs are built to do. But pigs are stupid when they try to do what they have no business doing at all.”

“But I wanted to be a special pig,” said Wallace. “I wanted to do what no other pig had ever done.”

“Well,” said Denise, “you can do that without making a fool of yourself just by being who you are. After all, honey, there’s only one of you in the whole world.” And she winked at Wallace.

“But I wanted to fly,” he said.

“Sorry, Sweetie,” she said. “You can’t fly. And if you try to fly, you’ll never do any of the things you can do, and you’ll miss out on more than you can imagine.”

“Like what?” said Wallace.

“If you jump off that ledge, Handsome, you’ll never know,” said Denise, walking past him on her way down the Ridge.

Sir Sidney The Brave

Sidney Wascomb liked to walk through the town junk yard on his way home from school. Every afternoon he would nose around in heaps of trash, digging and tugging, shifting and piling, looking for anything unusual and useful. One day, at the bottom of an exceptionally large mound of rubbish, Sidney came upon the find of a lifetime. There, laid out as if on purpose, gleaming in the sunlight which filtered through refrigerator hinges, TV consoles and rusty bed springs, was a perfectly preserved suit of shining armor.

“Wow!” exclaimed Sidney, grabbing up his prize. “A real knight outfit! It’s even got a sword and shield! Boy, Oh Boy! Now I can be a Knight!”

Sidney climbed quickly out of the junk heap and jumped into the suit of armor. It fit him exactly, and he stood tall and proud. Looking at his reflection in a puddle of dirty rainwater, he drew his sword, tapped himself on both shoulders and said, in a deep and powerful voice, “I christen thee, Sir Sidney the Brave!” With that, Sidney went off to be a knight.

The first person he encountered in the guise of his new identity was Cynthia Wilson. “Hello, Sidney,” she said. “Where did you find the knight suit?”

“It’s Sir Sidney to you, Peasant!” said Sidney. “Out of my way! Can’t you see I have important matters to attend.”

“Excuse me!” said Cynthia. “I was just trying to be nice.”

“Well, you weren’t trying hard enough!” said Sidney. “You should show respect to your superiors. This suit is proof that I am a Knight in Shinning Armor—Fearless, Bold, Noble and Brave.”

“And Snotty,” said Cynthia. “Don’t forget Snotty.”

“You’ll sing a different tune if you’re ever in distress,” said Sidney.

“I’m in distress right now,” said Cynthia. “What has come over you?”

“I have no time for such chatter,” said Sidney, striding boldly by.

It didn’t take long for Sir Sidney to become the talk of the beauty shops and coffee spots in town. The people had never had their very own Knight before, and everyone was taken by the idea. “A Knight will be good for the whole community,” they said. “He will present a fine example to the children,” they said. “And guard against all manner of vices and foes,” they said. “And be the model of high moral standards,” they said. “And protect us from dragons,” they said. “Hail to Sir Sidney,” they said; “Hail to Sir Sidney the Brave!”

Sidney enjoyed his place of honor in the hamlet that was home. He kept his armor polished and his sword sharpened. He collected many books about the art of knightmanship, but reading bored him. He felt as though putting on the armor and clanking around town was all the work a Knight need do. So, he fell into the easy routine of being loved and admired. Until the unthinkable occurred.

A dragon came calling. It was a big dragon. A Very Big Dragon. He shook the whole region when he walked. When he thrashed his tail, he knocked down trees, and barns, and anything else that happened to be in the way. When he fired up his burners and roared, the flames would light up the sky for miles around, even if the sun were shinning. He was the biggest, meanest dragon anyone could remember hearing about.

When the dragon came upon Sidney’s town, he spent the first day smiling to himself and dreaming of the fun he was about to have. Then he walked around the outskirts of the village—looking it over, sizing it up. “Doesn’t look big enough to have a Knight,” he thought. “Ought to be easy. I’ll play by the rules.” (The rules said that before a dragon could ravage a village he had to give the villagers a chance to defend themselves on the field of battle.)

So, the dragon sauntered up to the gates of the town and called out, “Hello in there! I know you can hear me, so don’t pretend that you don’t know I’m out here! If you haven’t sent out your champion to meet me by noon tomorrow, I’m going to tear this little place apart and barbecue you all!” With that, the dragon roared a teeny, tiny, itsy bitsy little roar and burned the city gates to cinders.

“Sir Sidney! Sir Sidney!” cried the Mayor and the City Officials as they pounded on the door of Sidney’s home. “Sir Sidney! You must come save us from the dragon!”

“What’s that you say?” asked Sidney. “Dragon? Did you say something about a dragon?”

“But surely you’ve heard the dragon!” said the Mayor. “He’s been tromping around the town for days!”

“Oh, that dragon,” said Sidney. “I thought you might have meant some other dragon.”

“You’re our Champion, our Knight in Shinning Armor,” said the Mayor, “and you have to slay the dragon.”

“Yes!” shouted the City Officials.

“Yes!” shouted the townspeople who had gathered around Sidney’s house.

“Go forth, Sir Sidney! Go forth and slay the dragon!”

There was no way out for Sidney. The people of the town carried him to the smoldering city gates and thrust him out into the field beyond. “Hail to Sir Sidney!” they cried, “Hail to Sir Sidney The Brave!”

“But I’m no Knight!” shouted Sidney. “I just happen to be wearing a Knight’s suit, that’s all!” But no one heard his protest. They had all fled to their bedrooms and cellars, where they hid under whatever was available. Sidney was all alone. Except, of course, for the dragon.

“Weeellllll,” said the dragon. “I see they do have a little Knight after all. I’m sooooo glaaadddd. Now I can have a little fun before I get down to business. Come here, little Knight, come let me roast you alive.”

But Sidney was in no mood to be roasted. “Please, Mr. Dragon, Sir,” he begged. “Please don’t roast me. There has been a terrible mistake! I’m no Knight! Not a Real Knight! I’m only dressed like one!”

“Not a Real Knight?” asked the dragon. “Only dressed like one? Well you deserve worse than roasting! Anyone who would pretend to be something he’s not is a scoundrel and a goob! It’s better to be a genuine person with a limp and a wheeze than to be a fake in a suit of armor!”

“I know,” said Sidney. “And I’m ashamed of myself. I’ve learned my lesson. If you let me go, I’ll never again pretend to be anything I’m not.”

“Let you gooooooo?” said the dragon. “Why, you deserve to be fried on the spot! You wanted to be a Knight and now you’re going to have to receive what any Knight would get from me!” And with that, the dragon belched, smoking Sidney’s armor and turning him lobster ed.

“Wait a minute Dragon,” said a voice that Sidney almost recognized. “You can’t fry my friend—even though that’s exactly what he deserves. Even so, he’s my friend and I want you to leave him and the entire land alone right now.” Sidney looked over his shoulder and saw Cynthia Wilson.

“Who are you, Little Lady,” asked the dragon. “Have you come to rescue a Knight in distress?”

“That I have,” said Cynthia. “So, just turn around and trot off and we’ll forget that you ever bothered us.”

“What a laugh!” said the dragon. “I’m going to eat you and the tin man here, and then make a bonfire of that dump you call a town.”

“You’re making a mistake,” said Cynthia. “But I gave you a chance just like the rules say (The rules said that a champion must always give the dragon an opportunity to change his mind before slaying him). If you are determined to go through with this, you might start with these.” And Cynthia threw a huge sack of gum drops in front of the dragon.

“Oh Booooyyyyy! Gum drops!” said the dragon. “My very favorite food in all the world, even including stupid Knights in armor plating.” In a flash the dragon jumped upon the gumdrops, scooped them into his mouth and began chewing away. Of course, the candy stuck his teeth together and made it impossible for him to do anything more than mumble and blow smoke through his nose. Cynthia grabbed Sidney’s sword and waved it in front of the dragon.

“See this, Dragon?” she said. “I could cut off your head right now and you couldn’t do a thing to stop me. I have the power of life and death over you. You are utterly helpless. I choose to give you life, Dragon. Not because you deserve it, but because I don’t want this town, or any of the others, to ever be bothered by a dragon again. So, you go tell all your friends to keep to themselves and leave human beings alone forever. Understand?”

The dragon nodded his head. Cynthia gave him three whacks across the rump with the flat side of the sword and sent him running.

“That takes care of that,” she said as the dragon disappeared in the distance.

“Wow!” said Sidney. “I didn’t know dragons liked gum drops.”

“I know you didn’t,” said Cynthia. “You never read any of the books on being a Knight. But I read them all. It helps to know what you’re doing. There are some things you just can’t fake your way through, Sidney. And being a Knight is certainly one of them.”

“You’re right,” said Sidney. “I’m through with Knighthood forever.”

“Don’t be silly,” said Cynthia. “You’ve always wanted to be a Knight.”

“I know,” said Sidney, “but I wasn’t one. I was only dressed like one.”

“That’s how every Knight starts out,” said Cynthia. “It’s in all the books. Knights have to spend their whole life working to be who they say they are. The town needs a Knight, Sidney. It’s time you got to work.”

“Will you be my Fair Lady,” asked Sidney.

“Of course not,” said Cynthia, “there’s more to me than that. But I’ll be your coach.”

And, just like that, Sidney and Cynthia lived happily ever after.

The Frog King

It happened quite by accident deep in the night when the moon was dark and dense clouds covered the sky, and no one could see anything if they were awake that late, looking, which the Wicked Witch Peggy of the Dismal Forest was. Of course, you couldn’t actually say she was “looking” for anything—it was too dark even for witches to see anything. But, she was searching with rapt concentration.

The Wicked Witch Peggy was trying to find tender sprouts of Night Creeper Vine, which grow only during the darkest night of the last week of spring, and are highly desirable for a number of witchy brews and spells. Since the slightest bit of light is enough to spoil Night Creeper Vine sprouts, you can’t look for them with lanterns, or even candles—you have to sniff them out.

So, The Wicked Witch Peggy was on her hands and knees, sniffing along the floor of the forest, searching diligently for the object of her desires, when several things happened at once. She nosed into a puff ball and inhaled a solid quart of puff power; she opened her mouth to gasp and wheeze; and a frog named Gibley Dade, frantically trying to hop away from all the commotion, landed squarely in The Wicked Witch Peggy’s mouth.

The Wicked Witch Peggy gagged, sputtered, spewed, and coughed. “BLEAATCH!!” she bellowed, sending Gibley Dade flying into the darkness. She wiped her mouth, trying to remove the thought of a toad on her tongue from her memory. It didn’t work.

She whimpered, shivered and gagged at the very idea, and ignited a small shrub with the snap of her fingers. In the light of the burning bush, she saw Gibley Dade trying to rub the memory of witch’s tongue from his mind.

“Ha!” said The Wicked Witch Peggy. “There you are! I’ll curse you forever for this, you filthy frog! May your fondest dream come true!”

Having his fondest dream come true didn’t sound like much of a curse to Gibley Dade, particularly when it was such a wonderful one. The only dream Gibley ever had was of becoming a king. He’d heard all the fairy tales, and knew it was common practice for kings to be turned into frogs, and he had always thought how grand it would be if it worked the other way.

And now it happened! Instantly, Gibley Dade was transformed into the handsomest king on record, any record, before or since. Peggy disappeared with a snap, and a pop and a slight wisp of smoke. Gibley was alone with himself and the glowing embers of the bush. He admired what he could see about his new appearance. “This isn’t bad,” he thought.

Suddenly, all the king’s horses and all the king’s men arrived with torches, and lanterns, and barking dogs. “Here he is!” they shouted. “Hooray! We’ve found King Gibley! Where have you been, Your Highness? We’ve been searching all over!”

Gibley could only shrug as they hoisted him onto his white charger and carried him away to his kingdom.

They arrived at the palace to the cheers of women and the cartwheels of small children, and Gibley was ushered straight away into the banquet hall, which was overflowing with all the delicacies of the realm. “You must be famished, Your Majesty,” said Gibley’s servants, “Sit and feast!”

Gibley was a bit hungry, but the platters of meat and vegetables, the baskets of fruit and the plates of dessert didn’t interest him at all. For some reason, his eyes stayed on a fly that flew about the table.

In the days and weeks that followed, Gibley grew increasingly depressed. The demands of kinghood were more than he could bear. There were always decisions to make, and public appearances to tolerate, and people seeking audiences and favors.

The only relief he found was in the time he spent swimming in the lily pond on his country estate. He didn’t know why he preferred that to the indoor pool at the palace, but he felt more at peace with himself there, at home somehow.

But it wasn’t enough. Gibley spent his days in sorrow and despair because kingship wasn’t really what he wanted. He didn’t know what he wanted, but the kingly life wasn’t it. He pined for what he didn’t have. The sadness showed in his eyes, in his expression, his body, his gait, his tone of voice and his general demeanor and disposition.

Gibley’s subjects tried everything they could think of to cheer him up. They held grand parties and circuses and ice capades. They sent him to the great resorts. He went skiing, and scuba diving, and mountain climbing. He rode horses, and went fishing, and watched television. But none of it helped. Gibley didn’t feel any better

Nothing he did eased the notion that things were not as they should be. Nothing he bought filled the hollowness within. Nothing he could think of doing, or having, or seeing, or hearing eased the emptiness in his soul, or diminished the ache for Something More that he carried with him every day.

“What do you want, Your Highness?” asked his loyal court. “Just tell us, and we will gladly bring it.”

“I don’t know what I want,” said Gibley. “I don’t know what to want. I just know this isn’t it.”

The people looked at one another with perplexed concern, and brought him everything they had. They brought him bicycles and dinner jackets; baseballs and sports cars; hula hoops and elaborate stereo systems. They worked late in their factories, hard on their technology, around the clock in their research labs. Every invention, creation and project was hailed as the salvation of the king.

But nothing worked. No matter what they gave the king, his countenance did not lift, his spirits only lowered. Then, one day there came a light knock on the palace door. The guard admitted a little girl who said, “My name is Mary Nuel, and I want to see the king.”

“I’m sorry, child,” said the guard, “but the king cannot be bothered.”

“But it’s rather important,” said the little girl. “I want to help the king.”

“Oh, I’m sure you do,” replied the guard. “The entire kingdom has been trying to help the king, to no avail. What makes you so bold as to think that you can succeed where so many others have failed?”

“What do you have to lose?” the girl asked.

“Good point,” said the guard, and he showed her to the throne room of the king.

The little girl walked up to the king’s throne. His eyes were closed, his brow was wrinkled, and his body was slumped in defeat. Gibley had tried with all his might to reason his way out of his difficulty, and now he was lost.

“Excuse me, Sir,” said the little girl, tugging on his sleeve. “I want to show you something that I think will help.”

“Nothing will help,” sighed the king. “I know. I’ve tried it all. Several times.”

“This is different,” said the little girl. “It always helps me when I feel bad. I think it’s just what you need.”

“What is it, then?” asked Gibley.

“Here,” she said, holding out her hand. “It’s my pet frog, Emma. My mamma says she is like one of the family. So I call her Emma Nuel.”

The king looked at the frog, and something stirred within. He felt the realness of times long forgotten. His eyes lit up. A smile came to his face. He didn’t know what it was, or how to begin putting it into words, but, as strange as it seems, he felt a connection with the frog—it was as though he could see himself in the frog. And he knew if he was going to be the kind of king the people deserved he had to become the frog that he was.

So, the king spent the rest of his life pondering the essence of frogness, and he worked diligently to become less kingly and more froggy.

“Frogs live close to the land,” he decided, so he moved out of the palace and into the woods. He tilled the land himself and taught the people the value of hard work, and led them to respect their relationship with the natural world.

“Frogs have no pretensions,” he realized. So, he gave up his royal robes and set aside his many titles. He stopped acting as though being king made him better than anyone else and lived to identify himself with his subjects and listen carefully to their concerns.

“Frogs don’t try to get ahead,” he reflected. So, he let go of his desire to solve all imaginable problems in order to relax in the pleasing splendor of the Ultimate Answer. He simply dealt with each difficulty in the moment that it arose, and let tomorrow’s problems be tomorrow’s problems.

In this way, Gibley Dade lived out his life, reflecting upon and expressing the best of his inner frogness through all of his dealings with the people of the realm. The kingdom prospered under his rule; the people grew strong during his reign; and the swamps resounded with the proud croaking of all the frogs.

Sour Sophie

During my childhood, Sour Sophie Morgan was The Enemy, and we were at war. We had always been at war. The war in which we were engaged had a timeless, always present sense about it, which made it a lot like grandfathers and bubble gum. It was so much a part of the way things were that we never stopped to wonder where it came from or why it was there. It just “was,” and we accepted it as such and went on with the business of doing battle. The problem was that Sour Sophie won every skirmish.

Sour Sophie was the only person in town who could consistently get the best of all of us. Even Mean Eddie. If Mean Eddie wrote chalk letters—as in “A,” “B,” and “C”; not as in “Dear Sophie, Why are you so Sour?”—Eddie wasn’t the brightest kid in town, just the meanest. And in my association with him, he never got so far as to actually write words. The alphabet was quite an accomplishment for him, and he usually misspelled that. But he loved to practice with chalk on the side‑walks of town, and if he wrote letters on the walk in front of Sour Sophie’s house, she would cause his entire supply of chalk to go bad. If he tried to retaliate by throwing rocks at her mail box, she would somehow keep his mail-order Sergeant Preston Secret Code Ring (with the special hidden compartment for carrying messages safely through the Yukon) from ever arriving.

Of course, it’s hard to believe now that Sour Sophie ever did those things, but we were convinced of it then. We were so certain of her powers that Mean Eddie would actually break down in tears over his helpless inability to get her without getting gotten in return. She was the only person I ever knew who could make Mean Eddie cry. And she was the only person who could make Cryin’ Sammy stop crying.

If Cryin’ Sammy tuned up in sight of her house, she would storm outside and stand on the edge of her yard with her fists on her hips and her feet spread apart, and stare him into silence. Her Glare was absolutely awesome. Flowers wilted before it; song birds were rendered eternally mute; large dogs would whimper and run—and we would too. Nobody could stand his or her ground when Sour Sophie turned on The Glare.

We never had any Rogue Elephants in my home town, except in the Tarzan films on Saturday afternoons, but if one had ever paid us a visit and rampaged through the neighborhood, I would have preferred to be behind a Glaring Sour Sophie than behind the charging bull elephant. The Glare was raw power in action.

You may be wondering by now, if she were all that bad, why didn’t we simply give her a wide berth and do our growing up elsewhere? Why not just avoid her; leave her alone; stay far away? Well, you can think this way because you didn’t grow up where I did. No place is “far away” from any place there. Every place is only “just down the road.” Besides that, the only decent plot of ground on which to carry out the obligations and duties of growing up was directly across the street from Sour Sophie’s house.

If we wanted to play baseball, that’s where we had to play baseball. If we wanted to play tag, or fireworks, or cowboys and Indians, that’s where we had to play them all. But playing those things in the vicinity of Sour Sophie Morgan extracted a high price. We lost a fortune in baseballs alone.

Everything hit over the center fielder’s head usually rolled across the street and into Sour Sophie’s yard. When that happened, it was gone for good. Sophie was fast to be three hundred years old. We didn’t have anyone who could match her in an open field race to the ball. We rotated the position of center fielder among all the kids in town, but we couldn’t find anyone who could outrun Sophie. She always got to the ball before we did. Or close enough. Sophie had the advantage of not actually having to reach the ball. Glaring distance would do.

Sophie’s Glare would bear down on us from half-a-lawn away. It would stop us cold, flip us around in mid-stride, and send us off at twice our approach speed. If we had ever been able to run to the ball as fast as we ran from it, we would have had no problems—and we all could have played for the Yankees when we grew up.

But it didn’t work out like that. As we shot away, Sour Sophie would shake a bony finger in the air and shout a sentence or two based on the theme of never having met anyone rotten enough to deserve children. Then, she would leisurely scoop up our ball and add it to her abundant collection.

One day, in the midst of all this, a little orphan girl moved into the house next door to Sour Sophie. She was about three years old. Her parents had been killed in a car wreck, and she had come to stay as a foster child with the family who lived by Sophie.

Our parents told us about the situation, and asked us to be nice to her. We knew they were wasting their words on us. We were nice to little kids. Sophie was the one they needed to address. And we knew we should have been talking to the little orphan girl. But she was only three years old, and there are some things you can’t translate down to a three-year-old.

“Sour,” for instance. How do you explain “sour” to a three-year-old? Some things have to be experienced in order to be understood, and we didn’t know how to talk to a three-year-old about things she had never encountered. So, she walked in on Sophie cold, and fresh for the kill.

We were trading comic books in the lot across the street, and watched transfixed as the little girl chased a butterfly into the middle of Sophie’s yard. “Uh oh,” said Mean Eddie.

The screen door to Sophie’s front porch opened and slammed shut in the same instant, with Sophie somehow pouring through without getting caught in the act. The butterfly saw her coming, shifted into warp-drive, and disappeared. Now it was just Sour Sophie and the little orphan girl.

“What are you doing in my yard?” screamed Sophie. And, without pausing for an answer, repeated, “What are you doing in my yard?”— getting louder with each word. I’m sure they heard her down at the train depot over the whistles of approaching locomotives. The little orphan girl heard her too, and started crying.

“Stop that crying!” Sophie yelled. “And get out of my yard!” The little girl cried louder, with tears streaming down her face. But she didn’t move, except to hold out her arms to Sophie.

“Didn’t you hear me?” Sophie yelled some more. “I said GET OFF OF MY YARD!!!” The little girl remained unmoving, crying, her arms lifted to Sophie.

Our hearts were pounding. Or, perhaps they had stopped. I don’t remember. I do remember not knowing what to do. I wanted to run, snatch up the child, and rescue her on the spot. Roy Rogers would have done that, or Gene Autry, but I didn’t dare. My friends and I just drew together in a tight little pack, hypnotized by the scene being acted out in front of us. We knew what was coming.

Sour Sophie shifted her feet, clinched her fists, placed them on her hips, positioned her chin, and launched, The Glare. The blood drained right out of our faces. The little girl kept crying, her arms out-stretched. Sophie kept Glaring. Eternity passed. No one moved. We were all frozen into our roles: glaring, pleading, watching.

“Look at that!” Cryin’ Sammy broke the silence with a whisper wrapped in amazement. I guess he noticed it first because he knew so much about crying. There was a tear on Sophie’s cheek. And that tear was followed by another, and another, and another, until Sour Sophie was sobbing right out loud, just like the little girl.

The Glare was gone. And Sophie bent down and picked up the little orphan girl, and hugged her tightly to herself, still crying. And eternity passed once again.

What were the secret sorrows being shared in that close embrace? What was the impact of anguish upon anguish? Of brokenness encountering brokenness? Of pain healing pain? What was the meaning of that moment for the two women at its center? I don’t know. I’ll never know. But I do know that in that moment the universe shifted, miracle happened, and lives were transformed forever. The future was radically altered. Nothing was the same again. And, something new came to life in the world.

After an interminable amount of time and tears, Sophie looked at the little girl and said, “How about a piece of cake?” Then she looked over at us and said, “You boys may as well come and have some too.”

Who can resist participating in the making of a miracle? Even Mean Eddie came along. We ate her cake, and drank her milk, and had a good time talking about anything any of us could think of to say. On our way out, Sophie gave us an old trash can with seventeen baseballs in it. We thanked her with relish and abounding gratitude. And, we never saw Sour Sophie again.

Kiddie Hawk

Joey Maynard was gone on Monday. We looked everywhere for him, but he was not to be found. He had vanished. I was only seven years old at the time, and that was a long time ago, but I’ll never forget Joey’s disappearance and the impact it had on us all.

We had played Rope-and-Brand-’Um the day before, and Joey had been the one who suggested that we burn Ethel Mae at the stake. “That’s what the Indians always did with white women,” he’d said. I don’t know where he got his information (probably from one of the Saturday matinees I somehow missed), but he spoke with a tone of authority. Not that knowing what he was talking about was important. Burning Ethel Mae at the stake would have been a good idea whether the Indians did things like that or not.

I expect that each of us had thought of burning Ethel Mae at the stake at one time or another. We’d never come right out and said it because Ethel Mae might have gotten wind of it and struck first. The only thing that enabled Joey to voice his idea was that we had Ethel Mae roped, tied, and on the ground—a state to which she had peacefully submitted, as part of the requirements of the game we were playing. He could take a chance with her in that condition.

You may think it was harsh and unkind of us to consider burning Ethel Mae at the stake. Actually, it was rather light treatment compared to some of the things she had done to us over the years. And if we had managed to carry out the plan, she would have gotten off easier than she deserved. But the way she treated us was not Ethel Mae’s greatest sin.

I suppose we could have forgiven her for the mean tricks she pulled on us; for stealing our baseball bats; and hiding our roller skates; and covering our football with grape jelly. However, the thing that got us; the thing that grated upon our nerves and trampled upon our pride; the thing for which we could not forgive Ethel Mae ever, was that she was better at being a boy than we were.

She could throw a baseball harder than we could and hit one farther. She could shoot a BB gun straighter and load one faster. She could dig more worms and catch more fish. She could run faster, and climb trees faster, and eat supper faster. She could eat more ice cream, and tell better lies. It was a shameful thing to be a boy with Ethel Mae around. And we spent a considerable amount of time trying to figure out how to make her not-around. Burning her at the stake seemed to be the perfect solution.

We didn’t have a stake, but we decided that one of Joey’s clothesline poles would do. When Ethel Mae saw what we had in mind, she stopped cooperating, and we had a time of it getting her hauled over and tied to the clothesline pole in what we thought would be a proper position to be burned.

The rope ran out before we got to her feet, and she kept kicking away the sticks we gathered and tried to stack around her. She also kicked Marty Freeman in the mouth, putting him out of commission, and leaving us somewhat short-handed and demoralized. We may have stopped the procedure right there, except for the fact that Ethel Mae was describing graphically and in great detail all of the things that were going to happen when she got un-tied and at us. Having come this far, we knew we had to complete the task or suffer the burden of our failure to do so.

And we might have completed it if Joey’s mother hadn’t come out of the back door to call him inside. She saw what we were doing and told us to “stop-it-right-now-this-instant-I-said-stopit!” We knew we were in for it, and dashed to our respective homes. I looked over my shoulder and saw Mrs. Maynard and Joey untying Ethel Mae. It was the last time I ever saw him. The next morning he was gone for good.

At first we blamed it on Ethel Mae, but she seemed to be as genuinely troubled by his disappearance as any of us were. No one had any answers. And the adults weren’t talking. His mother would only say, “Joey’s gone”; or “Joey doesn’t live here any more.”

Our mothers were even less helpful. They would just shrug and change the subject. Or say they “didn’t know,” in a tone of voice that said, “I’m not saying a word, and the less you say, the better.”

What happened to Joey Maynard? The question burned in the souls of us all. And, no one would answer it for us. Later in life, I found that Joey’s folks had divorced, and he had left that Sunday night to go live with his father in Memphis, Tennessee. But in Itta Bena, Mississippi, in 1952, the big people didn’t talk to the little people about divorce (or about where babies come from; or about what Uncle Buck kept in the brown bag under his bed). In Itta Bena, Mississippi, in 1952, they didn’t tell little kids the truth straight out.

I’m sure they thought they were doing us a favor; protecting us from life; saving us from a lot of pain and worry. What they didn’t realize is that in the absence of truth, imagination reigns. And imagined pain and worry is infinitely worse than the real thing. We had to know what happened to Joey Maynard. If they wouldn’t tell us, we would figure it out for ourselves.

It was David Gillespie who led us to the light. He had been reading a comic book in the same room where his parents were talking in low tones (so as not to wake the baby) about the Wright brothers having invented the airplane at Kitty Hawk, North Carolina. They were planning their family vacation, and North Carolina was one of the places they were considering.

David didn’t hear anything about vacations; or about the Wright brothers; or about airplanes. All he heard was Kiddie Hawk, and the fact that they lived in North Carolina. It was a revelation to us all.

Everything fell into place as he recounted his parents’ conversation. We were terrified and undone. And we finally understood what happened to Joey Maynard. Of course, we had never seen a Kiddie Hawk—but we had seen a chicken hawk.

We had watched one make off with one of Mr. Ed Randal’s prize pullets about three weeks before. The poor hen had no chance in the clutches of the hungry hawk; and we could imagine the helpless horror Joey (and all the other kids) must have felt, dangling from the talons of a Kiddie Hawk.

“I wonder if he took him all the way back to North Carolina before he ate him,” said Ethel Mae. We all grimaced at the very thought, and our lives changed dramatically.

Suddenly we understood why our parents warned us about going out after dark, and why they told us to be careful whenever we went outside to play. Now we knew why they didn’t want us climbing the tall oak tree down on the lake bank or playing on the railroad trestle over Roebuck Lake—high up in the branches, or out there on the rails, we would have been perfect targets for a soaring Kiddie Hawk. We left the tree and the trestle alone, and were very careful whenever we were outside.

We went everywhere huddled together in packs of three or more. One of us would always watch the sky, trusting the others to be careful guides, and hoping that we would never see what we watched for with rapt concentration. Of course, we all promised that if a Kiddie Hawk attacked one of us, the rest of us would be quick to the rescue. We knew it was a lie, but it made us feel better to have the pact, and we reminded each other of it often.

One afternoon we were at baseball practice when a crop duster cruised over with the engine off. As the plane’s shadow glided easily over the ball field, we shrieked, and scattered, and headed for cover.

Coach Stanley couldn’t imagine what we were doing inside and under his car and it took a lot of prodding to get it out of us. When we explained what was going on, he walked around bent over, laughing for a long time. Between wheezes and gasps, he pointed out the airplane to us and said there were no such things as Kiddie Hawks. By the next day, everyone in town was laughing and saying the same thing.

But, that was Itta Bena, Mississippi in 1952, and they didn’t tell little kids the truth, straight out. They said there were no such things as Kiddie Hawks, but they didn’t tell us there were things as bad as, or worse than, Kiddie Hawks in our future, and what we might do to deal with them.

Ethel Mae developed leukemia and died in her teens. David Gillespie’s twin sons wandered into a farm pond and drowned when they were four. Marty Freeman was killed in an airplane crash in his twenties. There are things waiting in the lives of all of us that we cannot bear alone.

We all need a place—the right kind of place with the right kind of people—where we can find what we need to face what lies tucked away in our lives—where we can go to process the day, and say who we are and how it is with us. Where we can talk about the impact of living, and how we are dealing with it, and what we might do to deal better with it.

We need the presence of the right kind of company. We need to spend time with those who can listen to us without preaching to us; without trying to fix us, or correct us, or convert us, or straighten us out, or advise us, or change us.

We need those with us who can offer the right kind of help in the right way—who can be, in the words of Shel Silvertstein, “the kind of help that help is all about.” Itta Bena, Mississippi didn’t have nearly enough of those people in 1952. There were plenty of people who laughed at the idea of Kiddie Hawks but did nothing to help us handle a truth they couldn’t handle themselves—and that is no laughing matter!

Story Time

The nine stories in this collection originated as sermons in Amory, Mississippi. There were seventeen in all, before the congregation had enough and asked me not to do that anymore, but to return to the old comfortable way of telling them what they had already heard, and fully expected to always hear, as a confirmation of all they hoped to be so.

The fact that Jesus told stories and never said anything about doctrine, theology, creeds or catechisms did not deter them in their quest for these things. And so it was that I was led to other ways of shaking up the Just So world of my congregations in Amory and Batesville in Mississippi, and at the Presbyterian Church of the Covenant in Greensboro, North Carolina, and introducing them as I was able to a world waiting for them to live the life that they alone were capable of living, in redeeming, atoning for and transforming their world as those “thus come” to be “the way, the truth and the life” in their time and place as Jesus was in his.

My success rate in achieving that outcome was probably the same as Jesus’ was.

However that may be, here are nine stories for your consideration.

Madonna with Child

She walked past the plate glass window

next to the booth where I sat with my friend Bill

in the worst hamburger joint on the eastern seaboard,

eating a dripping grease burger

oozing with melted Velveeta cheese of all things

with fries fresh from a year in the freezer.

She was twelve months pregnant, maybe thirteen.

Sashaying her first pregnancy

down the walk and through the door,

showing everybody who she was

and what she was carrying,

beneath her red spandex top,

and navy blue spandex tights,

stopping traffic and conversation,

as all onlookers

(And who could look away?)

paused in what they were doing

to honor, marvel at, rejoice in, worship, relish, adore, and remember

the wonder of a vision

equal in every way

to the one that stunned the angels

who announced the Messiah’s birth

with their hallelujahs, backflips, somersaults and high fives—

and as redemptive!

She redeemed the day, the week, the year, our lives, all of life,

forever, throughout all eternity.

And I carry her memory in my heart

to revere and esteem:

Mary, the mother of God,

ordering a grease burger with fries

and sanctifying the moment, and all gathered there

by the wonder of her grace bestowed upon us,

utterly transforming the ordinariness of our lives.