Tiny Tears

by Dawn de Braal

 home-made lemonade

We didn’t have a lot of money growing up. My dad was a police officer and my mother a stay at home mom with five children ten years between the oldest to the youngest. I think I understood, even at five years old that we didn’t have a lot of money, but the television droned on about a Tiny Tears doll that cried and wet her pants. She even came with a bottle. Oh, how I wanted that doll. I could taste it.

I remember it like it was yesterday, figuring out how I could get that doll for Christmas. I told my parents to buy me the doll, when I grew up and became an actress, I would pay them back. They must have thought that was the cutest thing, because Tiny Tears was under the Christmas tree.

I didn’t realize when she wet, it meant that you filled the doll with water and it went through her and got on everything, and I don’t remember her crying, you probably had to lay her down and squeeze her. I had a bottle with pretend milk that seemed to disappear when you tipped it over, and the added bonus, Tiny Tears did not wet on you!

I lived next door to my great-grandparents. They were retired but worked as missionaries on an Indian Reservation. My grandmother's eyes were bad, so for her to ask me to thread the needle on her treadle sewing machine, I felt very important. I was able to get the thread through the needle. We spent the day making clothes for Tiny Tears. She even let me sew a little. That’s the wonderful thing about great -grandmothers  - they forget how clumsy little kids can be and that they could sew their fingers to a doll dress. But we had some clothes made by the end of the day. Great-Grandma told me about the Indian children and how they had no toys to play with. She would gather old dolls, cleaning them up making them clothes and give them to the little girls that had no toys.

I felt so sorry. I had other dolls and somehow found myself giving Tiny Tears over to my grandmother to give to the poor children who had nothing. I felt very grown-up when I left her house that day and walked across the yard. I threaded her needle a few times when the thread broke, I’d made some doll clothes, and I gave a doll, and clothes to a poor child who had nothing.

A few days later the good feeling rubbed off. A few days without my doll, I decided I would find a different doll to give the poor girls. I ran across the lawn to my great grandmother’s house and told her I wanted to give this doll instead of Tiny Tears. She pointed up to the shelf where she kept the toys they repaired. There were no dolls or toy. They had brought them to the Mission a few days ago.

I was devastated. Suddenly that moment of wanting to help turned into a moment of selfishness.

I never did get famous, but I used the money I made singing at a supper club to buy a gift for my parents. They didn’t remember me saying that when I grew up and became an actress, I’d pay them back. I never forgot, and I never forgot Tiny Tears, and the tears she brought to me. I hope the little girl who got her loved her as much as I did.

Mr Squiggles

by Dawn DeBraal

cherry cola

“Come on Mr. Squiggles!” Chet pleaded as he gently pulled on the leash. They were parked on a busy highway along the forgotten coast of Florida. He pulled over the big F250 and 35-foot camper when Winnie insisted Mr. Squiggles really had to go this time. Chet gave her the look. The dog had been whining for over 20 miles. He pulled the rig over as far as he could off the highway, grabbed Squiggles and marched out to the mowed area. The dog had sloth-like reflexes at 13 staring and sniffing at the tall grass in front of him. No doubt 6000 other dogs had taken a piss on that same poor weed. The sun burned down on Chet as a rivulet of sweat rolled down his face. Winnie rolled down the window of the air-conditioned truck.
“If you drop the leash and step on it, he will think he’s not on the leash and he will do his duty!” she shouted. Chet’s hand snapped up in a sweeping motion to the right with his palm down. It was the signal to stop a crane, and Winnie knew full well after forty-seven years of marriage that meant STOP! Chet retired after thirty-five  years in the construction business. Even though he’d been retired fifteen years, the signals were still ingrained in his psyche. The window of the Ford rolled back up. Chet dropped the leash and stepped on it, wishing he could be smoking a cigar right now. Something he had to give up after the by-pass five years ago. Mr. Squiggles then started to do his circle dance. Damn if Winnie wasn’t right! He chuckled. He looked at the wheels of the camper sinking in the loose sand on the side of the road, and shook his head as he sighed. Mr. Squiggles stopped his dance. Chet encouraged the dog.

They bought the camper to come to Florida to escape the cold Wisconsin winters. They left Sky High camp ground that morning. Too many young people smoking pot. Chet figured that was what “Sky High” meant and not that it was on a hill. Not in Florida. There were no hills; there was low land and lower land. He turned to Mr. Squiggles.

“I’m taking you back to the truck and I don’t care if you crap all over it, you hear me?” he hissed. Squiggles looked properly reprimanded. Winnie was looking out the window shrugging her shoulders. His grade school sweetheart. He still loved her and found her beautiful even after she had put on over a hundred pounds. Winnie turned to food when he could no longer take care of her intimate needs. She had saved herself for marriage, something Chet appreciated about her. She was all for it when the vows were said, and up until the doctor told him, “The little blue pill will kill you!” did he let her down. Winnie turned to food with all the gusto she had she when wanted Mr. Squiggles after the grand kids no longer needed her and stopped coming over.
“I need a baby!” She told Chet as she showed him a picture of a shih-doodl-ier, a combination of a shitsu, poodle, and terrier or some kind of special-order lap dog. Chet finally capitulated and Mr. Squiggles entered their family.

Mr. Squiggles hated men, Chet especially. He served as a permanent wedge between him and Winnie in bed, but since they couldn’t consummate their marriage anymore Chet let that go. The growling though. That ticked him off. He would reach for Winnie and Mr. Squiggles bared his teeth and went into attack mode. Chet secretly hated the dog.

“Maybe if you feed him and walk him, you will grow on him!” Winnie insisted. That was three years ago. The dog still hadn’t warmed up to him and now he was on the side of the road waiting for Squiggles to take a dump! He fantasized letting Squiggles go and seeing him hit by a car. But he knew Winnie would never forgive him. The camper was sinking further into the soft sand. He needed to get out of here soon.  

A small butterfly flew in front of Mr. Squiggles and the dog dove for it pulling the leash out from under Chet’s foot. Bounding across the mowed area Mr. Squiggles ran across the busy highway to the median strip in the middle, narrowly escaping on-coming traffic. Winnie had both windows down now. Screaming.

“Chet he’s across the road!” Winnie opened the door trying to get out of the truck. Her legs were so bad she couldn’t walk.

“Winnie, stay put! I’ll, get him!” Chet picked up the pace and crossed over to the median when the traffic subsided, but Mr. Squiggles had already maneuvered the next two lanes and was in the far side of the road in hot pursuit of the yellow butterfly. Chet called the dog who was oblivious to Chet’s voice. Winnie was out of the truck calling Mr. Squiggles.

“Winnie stop! He will cross the traffic to get to you!” Chet shouted. Winnifred Cotter put her hands up to her mouth in the horror of realization and started to cross the road where she was soundly struck by a lumber truck. Chet heard the screeching tires and the scream that emanated from Winnie’s mouth. He abandoned the pursuit of the dog and raced back to where Winnie lay pinned under the lumber truck. The driver had already called 9-1-1.

“A woman is hit on the highway. She just stepped out in front of the truck, I couldn’t stop!” The driver sobbed. 

Chet came around to the front of the truck. “Winnie!” He knelt down and cradled her head, as tears came down his cheeks. He could already hear an ambulance coming.

“Chet, get Mr. Squiggles! Please!” Winnie cried. She cared more about that damn dog than her immediate situation.

“I will Winnie, let’s take care of you first.” Chet stroked her hair keeping her calm. The ambulance arrived too late Chet thought. But the paramedics kept working on Winnie. Police were taking statements. Chet finally walked back to his rig. Ready to take it to the nearest Emergency Room, back to Winnie who he fervently prayed was still alive. He started up the truck.

Dammit! Mr. Squiggles! He promised Winnie. But his heart was hardened. If it weren’t for that dog, Winnie would be alive today not dying in the hospital he supposed. He put the truck in gear, but the sand had allowed him to sink deeply. Chet got out and put the truck mats under the camper wheels. He got back to the truck and slid it back into gear. The camper rolled forward. He was picking up the truck mats when Mr. Squiggles came bounding back across four lanes of traffic and barked to get into the truck. Chet looked at him wanting to leave him behind but knew if there were any chance that Winnie would make it, Mr. Squiggles was part of that equation. He picked up Squiggles who growled ferociously at him dumping him soundly on Winnie’s side of the truck as he headed north to the hospital where he prayed Winnie was still alive.

Living Our Lives

by Dawn DeBraal

orange juice

 Gertie rolled her eyes. She couldn’t believe Drake walked out on Olivia again. She was angry. Why couldn’t the two of them ever get together? She was sick to death of it. She had a good mind to write to the producer of Living Our Lives, a daytime soap opera. She had her pencil in hand as the credits at the end of the show started rolling. She jotted down Seth Andrews on paper. She was going to give him a piece of her mind.  How, long did Mr. Andrews feel the followers of Living Our Lives, would put up with this nonsense?  They did this every month. Olivia would get into a car accident Drake would rescue her taking her to the hospital. He would be at her side the whole time she was relearning to walk, and just when they could finally be together, Drake leaves for some noble cause leaving Olivia in the lurch, again. Gertie was fuming, she pulled out the spiral bound notebook and started to write.

Dear Mr. Andrews,

I have been a fan of Living Our Lives since the beginning, and I am sick to death of the Oliva and Drake merry go round you’ve put us on. Just how long do you think we are going to stand by waiting for the two of them to get together? I am finished waiting as of today. You will not toy with me any further. I hope all the other fans tell you the same.

Sincerely,

Gertrude C. Clemens

            When Hank Clemons came home, he asked Gertrude why there was a letter taped to the front door? She told him she was sending the letter to the producer of a show Living Our Lives. She was sick of them messing with the plot. Everyone knew Olivia and Drake were meant to be together, except the person who produced the show. She was done with it.

Hank looked at his wife incredulously. Was she serious? They couldn’t go anywhere between one and two p.m. Monday through Friday because Gertrude had to watch Living Our Lives. Hank knew his wife had to be extremely angry to abandon her show. It was an addiction.   

Hank decided to test his wife the next day. He asked Gertrude out to lunch at twelve-thirty. Gertrude immediately started to refuse to go, when she realized she had given up Living Our Lives.  This might be a good distraction for the first day, a luncheon date with her husband. Gertrude agreed to go. Hank was impressed with her resolve. They went to Loretta’s Diner. Walking in they sat down at a corner table when the theme song of Living Our Lives came on the television in the other corner. Gertrude hid her eyes.

“Hank!” Gertrude hissed.

“Yes?” he responded.

“We have to go!” she gathered her purse and stood up.
“Why?” he asked confused.

“They are watching the show. I can’t bring myself to not watch it!” Hank looked up. Everyone in the diner turned facing the television with their eyes glued to Living Our Lives. Would Olivia and Drake finally get together?  

Hank followed his wife out of the diner before anyone waited on them. He drove to the nearest fast-food place ordering their food through a speaker shaped like a dorky-faced boy.  Setting up a picnic lunch at the nearest park, Hank laughed when Gertrude talked about the desire to watch that stupid soap opera today after her resolve to ditch it. Sitting under the shade trees talking and eating lunch with her husband was a much more than watching Olivia cry over Drake another day. Gertrude had made it through her first day of withdrawal from the Living our Lives show. She would have to make that choice every weekday for the rest of her life to break her addiction. 

The Neighbor

by Dawn DeBraal

gingerbread latte, recycled  

Carrie peeked out her front window through a small opening she’d made by pulling the curtain back. She was searching for the where-a-bouts of her neighbor Mrs. Grady. Though Mrs. Grady was a lovely woman, she never seemed to leave Carrie and her daughter alone. Carrie’s hope was to make it to the mailbox and get her mail today, undetected. 

It started out innocently. Mrs. Grady asked for a cup of sugar or wanted to warn her about her dog Skippy crossing the road again, and how the wayward beagle could be hit by a car. It didn’t help that Mrs. Grady would be standing there with biscuits in her hand. Skippy couldn’t turn down a biscuit.

One time Mrs. Grady made pumpkin pies from the pumpkins Carrie had tossed out, setting them in garbage cans for pickup. When her daughter asked for a piece of the pumpkin pie Carrie threw the whole pie in the trash explaining that Mrs. Grady got the moldy pumpkins from the garbage, that the pie wasn’t safe. Sometime Mrs. Grady bought too much meat, pie, cheese, insert food item here, whatever and would bring it over in a rinsed-out jar because she was a recycling addict. Everything was used and reused one hundred times before it ended up being recycled again. She had lived through the Great Depression and her parents taught her to throw out nothing. 

Mrs. Grady brought over a blouse for Carrie once. She used to wear it when she was around Carrie’s age. It was an antique.

“Thank you,” Carrie told her, but now every time she saw Carrie, she’d ask if she’d worn it yet. There was no way Carrie could have worn that blouse out in public.

Carrie pulled the curtain out further. No Mrs. Grady in the front yard, looking left and looking right. She sighed a big sigh of relief. She was going to get her mail by trotting out to the box as fast as she could.  Slowly Carrie opened the door feeling the warm sunshine on her head and shoulders. Carrie quietly walked down the sidewalk with Skippy at her heels. She opened the mailbox, and there was the check she’d been expecting. Relieved, she quietly closed the box and made it halfway up the sidewalk when she heard the familiar.

“Yoo-hoo!” Mrs. Grady stood at her mailbox waving at Carrie. Carrie waved and quickly turned around heading for the house. “Carrie! Carrie dear, I have something to tell you.” Carrie stopped in her tracks and closed her eyes mouthing a cuss word before she turned around trying to get across the street to Mrs. Grady’s lawn before Mrs. Grady crossed the street into Carrie’s yard. If she didn’t catch Mrs. Grady in her own yard, a good half hour would be taken from Carries’ day trying to extricate herself from the well-meaning woman.  Carrie crossed the street with Skippy at her heels.

“Hi, Mrs. Grady, what did you want to talk to me about?” Carrie smiled politely.

“Well, you know Skippy was close to the road this morning. I had to shoo him back into the yard. I worry about something happening to him and how your daughter would take it.”

“I appreciate how you look after us, Mrs. Grady. Skippy should know better. But now that he knows you have biscuits, it’s hard for him to stay on our side of the street.” Carrie smiled again trying to be patient.

“I hadn’t thought about that, ” said Mrs. Grady. She clucked her tongue a few times. “I promise not to give him any more biscuits!”

“I would appreciate that.  If you will excuse me, I have a cake in the oven.” (She didn’t, but any port in the storm.)

“I love cake!” hinted Mrs. Grady.

“I’ll bring a piece by later!” offered Carrie and now she prayed she had a cake mix with frosting in her pantry.

             “Dear, did you get a chance to wear that blouse yet?” Carrie hated to lie but she needed to get going, so she lied.

             “I’m sorry Mrs. Grady, I have to go now. It’s that cake in the oven.”

              “Certainly dear!” Mrs. Grady let her go. Carrie and Skippy ran across the street. Carrie pulled open her pantry. Thank goodness! She found cake and frosting mix. She was glad Mrs. Grady didn’t ask what kind of cake she had. She pulled the eggs out of the refrigerator and started to mix the batter.  She was resentful when she punched in the oven temperature.  In less than an hour, the cake was cooling, waiting for frosting. When it was cool Carrie frosted the cake and then told her daughter she would be back in a minute; she needed to bring a piece of cake to Mrs. Grady.

Across the street, Carrie went with the cake on a paper plate No sense in giving Mrs. Grady an excuse to bring back the emptied dish. She knocked on the door waiting impatiently for Mrs. Grady to answer. There was no answer. Again, Carrie knocked on the door, perhaps she’d fallen asleep in the chair again. She looked through the picture window, seeing Mrs. Grady in the chair front the television which played in an overly loud fashion. Carrie went back to the front porch and opened the door.

             “Mrs. Grady? It’s me! Carrie! I have your cake!” There was something strangely different. Carrie went over and turned the television off, kneeling in front of Mrs. Grady. She touched her arm.

            “Mrs. Grady? Are you alright?” By mere touch, Carrie realized that Mrs. Grady was no longer in the land of the living. She grabbed the phone and dialed 9-1-1.  The EMTs checked Mrs. Grady’s vitals, she was gone. She was 93 years old. They called the coroner who interviewed Carrie.  Carrie was ashamed when she realized she didn’t know much about Mrs. Grady. They’d been neighbors for years. Carrie remembered she had a son, but also believed he died of a heart attack last year. He was a bachelor; he never married.

    “She called him Butch. I think his name might have been. Ummmm, Richard! Richard that’s it!” The Coroner called Goodhue’s Funeral Home. They came out and picked up Mrs. Grady.

“What about her cat?” asked Carrie. The coroner said he didn’t have anything to do with that. Carrie looked in the cupboards and found the cat food. She opened a can and put it on the plate in the kitchen. She told the policeman she would look after the cat until they found Mrs. Grady’s next of kin.

Carrie looked in on Chester every day. The cat was so lonely. She cleaned the litter box and took Mrs. Grady’s garbage out to the curb on pick-up day. She felt sorry for Chester, so she put him in the cat carrier and brought him to her house, came back over for the litter box and food. A week later Carrie got a call from Mrs. Grady’s lawyer. She let him know she was caring for Chester and would do so until someone claimed him. She had to admit that she was falling for the big orange tabby. Chester was clumsy and friendly. He snuggled up with her on the couch along with Skippy every evening and slept with her daughter at night. Sometime during the week of care, she decided she had fallen for Chester and the place he’d made in their family.  

Two weeks went by. Mrs. Grady’s attorney called her again. He’d found a distant relative, but they were not interested in taking Mrs. Grady’s cat. Carrie let the attorney know that she had bonded with Chester and she would love to have him live with her from now on. The attorney seemed very pleased with that decision.

Another week went by when the attorney asked if he could stop by Carrie’s home. He’d like the extra key to Mrs. Grady’s house. Carrie agreed to meet with him and relinquish the key.  It was given to her in case of an emergency many years ago. The attorney arranged the time for their appointment.  On Monday Mr. Kirkland, Mrs. Grady’s attorney, arrived at Carrie’s house at the agreed upon time. Carrie had the key laying out on the table to give to the attorney. He thanked her for caring for the house. The attorney accepted the key letting her know that Mrs. Grady’s great-nephew had inherited the house and would be selling it soon. He then asked to sit down and drew out additional paperwork, directing Carrie to sit down.

            “Mrs. Grady had no one. She barely knew her great-nephew but felt he should have her house. Chester was her only family, and you, as her neighbor.” Carrie cringed a little. She thought of all the times she grudgingly gave a little time to Mrs. Grady.  “Mrs. Grady put a stipulation in her will, that whoever accepted the care of Chester, would get all of her money.” Chester took that moment to jump into Carrie’s lap and lay down.

            “Money?” Carrie said uncertainly as she stroked the cat.

             “Yes, Mrs. Grady was quite a wealthy woman. She has left you over $750,000 dollars!” Carrie was in shock.

            “But her great-nephew,” She started to protest.

            “The will was very clear. Someone had to come forward out of the kindness of their heart to adopt Chester without the knowledge of the money. You did that. You had no knowledge of the will, you agreed to watch Chester until someone could be found to adopt him. The great nephew did not want Chester but wanted the house. So, you inherit her money.”

Carrie closed the door after Mr. Kirkland left. Still in shock. She didn’t feel worthy of accepting Mrs. Grady’s generosity. She did come to love the cat though.

A for-sale sign went up on Mrs. Grady’s house. It sold rather quickly. Carrie was outside with Skippy and Chester planting flowers when the moving van pulled up.  A short time later a group of motorcyclists pulled up, at least twenty of them. They started to carry the stuff out of the moving van and into the house.  A pickup truck pulled up with a keg of beer in the back. Someone turned up the radio. Carrie rolled her eyes sighing.  She dialed the number on the sign across the street.

            “Hello, Landford Realty? I’d like to put my house up for sale, you just sold one across the street. Tomorrow would be great.” Carrie waved at the new neighbors who lifted their red cups to her. What did she care?  She had $750,000 coming in any day now.  

Weeping for the Willows

                                                                    by Dawn DeBraal

lemonade

 How she fought the electric company. The three big weeping willows in front of her house were bigger around in girth than I could stretch my arms. She told me all about how she had put the slips of those the willows in her suitcase when she came from Germany and planted them in front of the house my great grandfather built before there was electricity. They were here first. I admired her spunk when she fought with them. She would allow the Power and Light Company to trim the trees around the wires, but that was it. She would go round after round with them every year like a heavyweight boxing match. I admired my great grandmother who was a sprite of a woman. It was by her will alone that those trees survived as long as she did.  When she died the electric company came and cut those trees down without any notice. I think I cried harder than anyone. I told my mother about great-grandma bringing those willows all the way from Germany just to plant them in front of her house. My mother looked at me strangely.

“Grandma didn’t come from Germany. She came from Arkansas!”

Symphony

by Dawn De Braal

  dry sherry

The lights in the concert hall lowered. The audience took their seats. Their tones hushed as the lone conductor walked onto the stage. He stepped up on to the platform, tapping his music stand with the baton to garner attention, he put his hands up. Instruments went to their mouths or into the playing position. Down came the baton, the cellos and violins and tympanies started to play building up to a crescendo. The conductor motioned for the woodwinds to join beckoning them with his one hand while the other kept the 6/8, time signature.  All eyes of the musicians’ split between the music on their stands and the man who held them in his hands. Wonderfully, he danced on the podium while the hand signals drew them out, or pushed them back down with his flat hand, brought up their volume and hushed them to silence. The musical interpretation of the piece held the audience captive. When it ended, the conductor bowed and then stepped off the stage to give the musicians their due. The crowd rose to their feet with a standing ovation

" Encore!”  the audience shouted. The conductor stood smiling at holding his hand out to his orchestra. Finally, someone tapped him on the shoulder to let him know they were requesting an encore. They spoke to him in sign language. No one expected the conductor, who brought out so much emotion in the music, to be deaf.

Eli's Wroms

by Dawn De Braal 

orange juice

The small building behind Crawford’s Auto Repair housed a two-room apartment where Eli Matten lived in exchange for doing odd jobs for his uncle. Every day precisely at 7:15 Uncle Jeff or Aunt Caroline, brought his favorite breakfast Cream of Wheat hot cereal, sprinkled with brown sugar. Eli opened the door when he heard Aunt Caroline’s knock.

“Here you go, sugar!” said Aunt Caroline handing him the hot bowl.

Thanking his aunt, Eli set the bowl down on the kitchen table inhaling the hot steam rising from his breakfast, sighing. He said a quick prayer and started to eat. When he finished, Eli walked to his uncle's garage to begin his work day.

“Morning Eli.” Uncle Jeff was always a happy man.

“Morning Uncle Jeff. Thank you for the Cream of Wheat.”  Eli put the used bowl in the sink and picked up a broom to start sweeping the shop as he did every morning. Jeff asked him if he’d like something other than Cream of Wheat for breakfast tomorrow. Eli shook his head, “no.”

Then his Uncle Jeff made a new proposal, “Eli, do you want to make some extra money today?” Eli put down the broom and trotted over to his uncle in a strange forward motion which was the way he ran.

“What do I gotta do?” asked Eli excited.

“Rototill the garden. Your Aunt Caroline has been on at me all week. I’ll start the rototiller and show you how to use it. Do you want the job?”

“Twenty bucks,” Eli replied shaking his head up and down. Uncle Jeff agreed to the twenty bucks for Eli’s sake knowing he would pay him more after the job was completed. Twenty bucks was Eli’s “go to” amount for any odd job.

When Eli finished for the day, his uncle took him out to the garden and started the rototiller. It was loud and leaped out of his hands. Eli shook his head no, stepping away from the machine. He would not use the rototiller.

“I'll still turn the garden using a shovel, ” he said simply

“Eli, it will take you hours to do this by hand, ” Uncle Jeff warned.

“Don’t care, I will do it. I want the worms.” Eli said earnestly.

“The worms?” questioned his uncle.

“Yes, I will sell them for bait. The rototiller will cut them up. No one wants broken worms.” Eli grabbed the shovel and started the daunting task of turning over the dirt in the garden. The hot sun beat down on him. Every shovel full he turned over brought up worms. Eli sifted through the dirt putting the worms in a coffee can saved from the garage.

Ed Norski, coming in to pick up his Cadillac, noticed Eli out back working, “I see you got the dummy digging your garden.” He said to Jeff.

“Hey! Don’t call him a dummy. He’s disabled, there’s a difference! He’s my nephew.” 

Ed’s neck turned a bright red. “Sorry I didn’t mean nothing by it.” Ed paid his bill quickly leaving the garage.

Eli worked the rest of the day turning the dirt, picking out the worms, then raked the entire garden. When he finished, his Aunt Caroline, was thrilled. It was almost dark when she came out to the apartment with his supper. Eli preferred to eat alone. He opened the door taking his favorite meal, cheeseburgers, and chips. “Thank you, Aunt Caroline.”

“Eli you did a wonderful job on the garden, I can’t thank you enough! Uncle Jeff said you collected worms. What are you going to do with them? “

Eli pointed to the can sitting on the counter. “I’m gonna sell them and make more money.” He smiled proudly as he accepted twenty dollars from his aunt.

“You'll need to make a sign, I have some cardboard and paint in the garage, would you like me to help you with it?” Aunt Caroline asked.

“No, I can do it,” he said biting into his cheeseburger waving his aunt away. Eli had received an honorary diploma from the Calcounty School District. Aunt Caroline left him to eat his supper.

Early the next morning Jeff went to the garage to open up for the day. In the front window, there was a huge cardboard sign painted in red letters, “ELI’S WROMS 4 SAL ”

 Jeff shook his head as he made the customary Cream of Wheat breakfast Eli insisted on every morning. The microwave dinged, brown sugar was added.  Taking the bowl out to the apartment, Jeff admired the freshly turned garden knowing it took Eli the better part of the day to do this. He was amazed by what his nephew could do when he put his mind to things. He knocked on the apartment door.  Eli answered accepting the hot Cream of Wheat.

“How much for all of your worms?” Jeff asked his nephew.

Eli put his hand to his head ciphering. “Forty bucks,” he said solidly.

Jeff was taken back. “You mean to tell me you picked that many worms?”

Eli laughed at his uncle. “No, the worms are twenty bucks. Another twenty bucks for turning the garden.”

Uncle Jeff couldn’t beat Eli’s reasoning. “You got me, Eli. After breakfast come and get your money.”

 Jeff walked back to the garage taking the sign out of the front window, he pulled two crisp twenty dollar bills out of the register setting them aside for Eli. He then wrote a reminder note to slip into the cash drawer as to why the days' balance would be off. “Eli’s Wroms $40.00.”

Uncle Jack Came Back

 by Dawn De Braal

a glass of porter 

Uncle Jack's body was found in a peat bog by a local farmer, thirteen years after he'd gone missing.  Irish authorities contacted my grandmother to let her know of the gruesome discovery.  The detective noted that Uncle Jack's body was in "remarkable" condition for being buried so long, but neglected to mention that Uncle Jack's head looked as if it had been run through a mangle iron and had been made flat.  Grandma was insistent on having an open casket ceremony and would not take no for an answer.

We waited months before the authorities were finished with the investigation for the body to return to us.  The investigation resulted in no answers. Uncle Jack was shipped back to the United States thirteen years to the day he disappeared in Ireland searching his ancestral background.  With the discovery of his body, part of the mystery solved as to where he had been all these years but not how and why he ended up in the swamp.

 I barely remembered my uncle.  I was six-years-old when he left on his trip. Standing there with my immediate family before the casket reminiscing, faint memories of baseball tossing, head rubbing “noogies,” and an indomitable laugh, came back to me.  Uncle Jack, the teller of tall tales and the carrier of butterscotch hard candies in his pocket where ever he went. I wondered, when they uncovered his body, had they found those sweet candies in his pocket?

 The entire family stared in awe, admiring the shape of Uncle Jack's head which appeared to have been elongated due to the weight of the peat. The faint smell of "swamp" permeating the funeral home, was undeniable. Mr. Gooding, the funeral home director, asked to close the casket before our guests arrived. It took some convincing, but finally, Grandma conceded. The lid on Uncle Jack's coffin, was closed.  My less adventurous Uncle Ned told the story of a farmer who was digging in the bog in Ireland when he discovered Uncle Jack's' body. Upon further investigation, it was mentioned that several holes had been drilled into Uncle Jacks' head! There had been many bodies found in those bogs with the same condition.

 I have never been able to get that thought out of my mind those drilling holes. Had Uncle Jack been murdered? Had he gone mad after having some medical procedure done and confused, wandered out into the bog to his demise? Had someone been mining Uncle Jack for those tall tales? A mystery to be sure, but he was home again and that was all that mattered to Grandma.

About the author 

Dawn De Braal lives in Wisconsin with her husband, two rat terriers and a cat. She loves is  telling a good story and is fast learning that they can also be written.