Bruce's Head: Way to go, genius. I warned you not to have another diet soft drink and now you feel like crap for the third time in a row.
Bruce's Mouth: Sorry, I just felt like a soda, and...
Head: And now I can't tell my left brain from my right, thanks. The sodium in that beverage has sucked three-fourths of the water content out of our system, and I feel like someone is trying to squeeze me through the pupil of our right eye.
Mouth: It just tastes so good. I had this craving, you know?
Head: You had a craving? A craving! For a CAFFEINE-FREE diet Coke?? No sugar, AND no caffeine?!!?. What exactly is the POINT of that?
Mouth: Er...
Empty Coke can: Pardon me, and do excuse the interruption but I cannot help but feel somewhat responsible for the present predicament in which you find yourselves.
Head: I'm the only one in a predicament here. If mouth weren't so dry right now, he'd be whistling. How can you be responsible? Let me guess, you wriggled your way out of the fridge, hopped up onto the desk, opened and poured yourself down our protesting mouth and throat, right?
Coke can: Not quite, but I do come in an attractive package of crimson and gold.
Head: Wait 'til I get my hands on you... as soon as I can control them again... you won't be so attractive after we squeeze you into a twisted scrap of bent aluminum!
Headache: Hey, remember me? Still here! Party's been going on for three hours now! YEAH baby. Feel that beat! It's quite a job to throb!
Head: Ow. Go away.
Can: Perhaps I can help. You are obviously under-hydrated at present. Perhaps one of my brethren, this time poured in a glass container over three or four cubes of fresh, clear ice with that delightful spider-web cloud at the center. Our liquid refreshment does cause those cubes to pop and tinkle every so delightfully!
Mouth: Ooh ooh! Yeah, good idea!
Head: No!! Shut up! And definitely no tinkling in any glasses! Diet soda is not as nice as it sounds -- it's really on HIS side.
Mouth: Whose side?
Headache: Mine. YEAH baby! Still going strong! Boom boom boom buh-BAM a lamma ding dong...!!
Can: You might try taking me with a tablet or two of ibuprofen?
Head: (Shouting) What's that? Speak up! Pills, you say? Well, I was considering that option but I don't like to become too indebted to those things...
Headache: Wait! No, no -- bad idea. We don't need those guys. I'm doing great on my own, really. HEYYY JUUUUDE, let's make it bad...!!
Can: If I may...
Head: Ughh! How can I think straight with you two around? Let's see now...
Eyes: Sorry, no can do. Kinda busy here. You're squeezing us shut at the moment.
Headache: Heh heh heh.
Mouth: Mr. Can has a point - our friend Advil might want to help out.
Head: Save it. You just want more of... more of HIM! I'll never, never allow this to happen again, do you hear me!!?? NEVER!
Mouth to can: (Whispers) See you tomorrow morning? Say, 10 a.m.?
Can: Delighted, dear chap. I'd be simply fizzled!
Headache: Go, baby GO!!
Thursday, April 9, 2009
Friday, March 27, 2009
Review of "America Alone" by Mark Steyn
Mark Steyn does not pull punches. In a world of self-effacing PC mumbo jumbo, this book isn't just a breath of fresh air -- it's an icy gale blowing from the Land of Common Sense. Icy, because the truth of what's happening in the world is chilling. Why have we forgotten that Islamic terrorists flew planes into our buildings and killed thousands of innocent Americans? These days we're all too busy apologizing for our existence and celebrating "multi-culturalism" to stand up to the threat of radical Muslims who are determined to exterminate us infidels.
The point of the book is basically that, by the time the world does wake up (if it does), there will be too few of left to do anything about the takeover of radical Islam. Europeans are reproducing at the average rate of 1.5 kids per couple, and their countries are shrinking. Meanwhile, Muslims are having 4.5 kids per couple. It doesn't take a math genius to figure out what's going to happen. America is barely at the sustainable rate of 2.1 kids per couple, but if we keep following the European trend we'll start to disappear as well. In its haste to abandon Christianity in favor of "post-Christian rationalism," Europe and many other liberals have, ironically, abandoned reason and common sense at the same time.
This is a good read, but sobering. Now get out there and have some kids so we don't enter into the second Dark Ages.
The point of the book is basically that, by the time the world does wake up (if it does), there will be too few of left to do anything about the takeover of radical Islam. Europeans are reproducing at the average rate of 1.5 kids per couple, and their countries are shrinking. Meanwhile, Muslims are having 4.5 kids per couple. It doesn't take a math genius to figure out what's going to happen. America is barely at the sustainable rate of 2.1 kids per couple, but if we keep following the European trend we'll start to disappear as well. In its haste to abandon Christianity in favor of "post-Christian rationalism," Europe and many other liberals have, ironically, abandoned reason and common sense at the same time.
This is a good read, but sobering. Now get out there and have some kids so we don't enter into the second Dark Ages.
Tuesday, March 17, 2009
Zeke Zooter - Chapter 3
I sat there doing my best to listen to Janowski’s lecture, and tried hard not to think about the chalk throwing itself at her head.
Yes, things were going just fine. And then I noticed a girl two rows over looking at me.
First of all, I’m not used to girls looking at me (as you know by now). But secondly, it was the way she was looking at me. Not really at me, but kind of right next to me, like her eyes couldn’t focus properly. She also had a weird expression on her face, as if she were trying to figure out why I was sitting in class.
I tried to remember her name. Jenny or Penny or something. Then she saw me looking back at her and suddenly her eyes knew how to focus again and she mouthed something to me with a quizzical expression on her face.
“What?” I mouthed back.
She pointed at me and mouthed again. Now, I’m a pretty accomplished mouther: Dex and I were both well practiced at reading lips. We used to carry on entire conversations in Mr. Bratfill’s fifth grade class (man, was that guy boring!). So I could’ve sworn that, while pointing at me, she mouthed, “Who is that?”
I sort of half-shrugged and opened my hands palm up, giving her my best look of, “huh?”
“Perhaps Ezekiel Zooter and Daphne Pennyweather would be so kind as to share with the class their delightful conversation,” Janowski’s voice suddenly broke in. “Doubtless it contains many lucid insights into the rise of Chinese communism.”
I felt myself go instantly red. It wasn’t because I’d been caught “talking” in class, but for being called Ezekiel and because I’d been trying to mind my own business and keep a low profile after last week.
“No wish to share?” Janowski purred. I could tell she was going to milk it this time, and I braced myself.
“Come now, what were you so eager to tell Miss Pennyweather about Ezekiel?”
“Nothing,” I said through gritted teeth.
“Ms. Janowski, it wasn’t…”
“Be quiet, Daphne. I am not addressing you. Well Ezekiel? No doubt you were trying to persuade Miss Pennyweather that today is Saturday. Or perhaps it isn’t day at all but night-time and there is a raging blizzard outside?”
One or two students snickered but most of the class was silent.
“No? I’m sure it was nothing so mundane as a wink and a smile—because that wouldn’t be dramatic enough for you, would it Ezekiel?”
I’ve heard about people seeing red or being blinded by rage but I always thought it was a metaphor until then. I really did see the color red, and my head and face burned hot. She was going to pay for this, and suddenly I knew how. I jumped to my feet, pointed at her and yelled triumphantly, “I wish you were an ugly old toad!”
An awful hush fell over the classroom. I stared hard at Janowski, concentrating – willing her to transform into the world’s ugliest toad.
Nothing happened.
I began to sweat.
“I said,” I repeated loudly and firmly, “I wish you were an UGLY… OLD… TOAD.”
Tick, tick, tick. The classroom clock began to count down until the explosion.
But Janowski appeared to be in shock.
I gulped. This was going to be bad. I had just lit the fuse of an old, sweaty stick of dynamite and it could blow up at any time.
Somewhere in the class a student tittered and that seemed to snap Janowski out of disbelief. She collected herself, and slowly formed a menacing smile.
“Well, Ezekiel, it would appear your wish has NOT been granted.”
And then from the back of the class, with flawless timing, came Dex’s drawling voice.
“He sure came close, though. Ugly and old — two out of three ain’t bad.”
The classroom erupted in cheers and applause. A spontaneous chant broke out as students pounded on their desks in rhythm.
“Ugly old toad! Ugly old toad! Ugly old toad! Ugly old…”
“SILENCE!!!”
The chanting froze so quickly I half expected the words to drop out of the air and shatter on the ground. Each student cringed behind his or her desk, taking safety in the fact that everyone was an accomplice. For those few seconds of glory, the entire class had freed itself from Janowski’s evil grasp.
I became aware of three things simultaneously. First, that I was still standing. Second, that my wish had completely failed me. Third, that I had, without meaning to, just become a school legend. Dex, too. Somehow, that strengthened me for what was about to come.
Janowski stood there, breathing heavily and twitching with rage. The look she gave me was so venomous that it reminded me of grandma’s story about “the evil eye.” I could tell she was trying to decide on the most severe punishment she could get away with.
“Mister Zooter, your display has earned you and the ENTIRE CLASS a five-page essay, single spaced, on the downfall of the Ming Dinasty. It shall have at least five sources. It is due tomorrow. Any student who does not turn in the full assignment will fail the class. In addition, you and Dexter will each receive detention for the remainder of the week. Oh, and you too, Miss Pennyweather.”
I nodded somberly and carefully avoided looking at Dex because I knew we’d both start laughing at this stroke of good luck. Teachers really should talk to each other about who’s given which students detention and how long. I knew Janowski would have made it two weeks if she’d known about Barthorn. A five-page essay in one day, though! I knew I was going to be up past midnight working on that one.
Janowski was in no mood to go on lecturing. Instead she gave the class a reading assignment and warned that any talking would result in a visit to the principal’s office. She spent the rest of the period stealing glances at herself in the window and straightening her hair.
The bell finally rang and the students shuffled out of class silently. The funny thing was, nobody seemed to mind about the essay. Kids kept coming up and slapping me and Dex on the back. “Great show, Zeke. That was classic, Dex. I thought Janowski’s wig was going to slip off, she built up so much steam.”
“Well, see you in detention, I guess,” Dex grinned, ambling off to science while I went in the opposite direction toward English.
At any other time I would have been elated to flummox Janowski in world history, but I couldn’t help stewing about the wish not working properly. Had I done something wrong? Maybe everything else was just a coincidence. Maybe I didn’t have any wishing gift. But if that was true, why didn’t I have any memory of last Thursday? I am completely losing it, I thought.
“Zeke!”
I turned around to find Daphne walking fast to catch up with me.
“What?” I said, more irritably than I meant.
“I’m sorry about getting us all in trouble with Janowski,” she said. “I mean, I tried to tell her it was my fault but she wouldn’t listen.”
“I guess I’m just her favorite target,” I said, and turned to keep going.
She kept walking beside me.
“Anyway, I just wanted to know who your friend was.”
I stopped. So that was it. More humiliation and a five-page essay just because she had a crush on Dex? I looked at her. She didn’t seem like the kind of girl Dex would go for. She wasn’t especially pretty, but not ugly either. Average height, kind of twiggy, with dark black hair weaved into braids on both sides. She did have big, dark eyes… but what was up with those braids?”
“So, are you gonna tell me who he is?” she persisted.
“His name’s Dexter, OK?”
I don’t know why I put the ‘er’ at the end of Dex’s name when I said it. I knew he hated “Dexter” almost as much as I hated “Ezekiel.”
Daphne laughed.
“No, not Dex,” she said. “I mean that really short, older guy with the pointy beard and the weird hat who’s been following you around. Is he like a counselor who’s been assigned to you or something?”
I stared at her. Pointy beard? Hat? At least I wasn’t the only nut job in the school. There’s way too much lead in our drinking fountain water, I thought.
“What are you talking about? Nobody’s following me around.”
She looked confused, then kind of half-smiled. “Oh, well you don’t have to tell me who he is if it’s personal or something.”
I couldn’t help myself. I looked over my shoulder to see if anyone was there. Nothing but middle school students hurrying to get to class before the bell rang.
I suddenly smelled a rat.
“Oh very funny, Daphne. Ha ha. Is this about last Friday, because I’m not crazy, OK? You’re not going to make me believe somebody’s there when they’re not! Now if you don’t mind I’d rather not be late to English.”
And I stormed off, leaving her looking really confused.
After the exciting events of world history, I was ready for the rest of the day to be normal. The trouble was, a normal rest of the day wasn’t ready for me.
I’d wanted to use the bathroom between classes but my little conversation with Daphne was going to make me late. So mid-way through English I was forced to raise my hand and get Mrs. Walters’ attention.
“Mrs. Walters, can I be excused please?”
“I’m not sure, Zeke, can you?”
“Oh, uh, I mean, may I?” Mrs. Walters always insisted on her students using proper grammar or she wouldn’t acknowledge the question. She was kind of a snob, that way, but otherwise nice. She excused me.
Now if you’re like me, you don’t look for strange and wacky things to happen in bathrooms. You walk in, you take care of business, you walk out. I mean, it’s pretty straightforward stuff. On this particular occasion my bathroom experience was proceeding normally—that is, until a toilet flushed in one of the stalls to my left. I’d thought I was in the room alone, so the flush surprised me a little, but not much. But then the other toilet flushed right after the first one, followed by the third one. Then they all started flushing over and over.
Our school had finally got with the times a couple of weeks earlier and installed automatic sensors on all the toilets in the building. So even though the flushing was weird, I figured the new sensors had malfunctioned.
The flushing finally stopped as I headed to the sink to wash my hands. I put my hands in front of the sensor to start the water. The water in the sink to my right rushed out; nothing came from my sink. I pulled my hands back. The water in the adjacent sink stopped running. Moving to the middle sink, I put my hands forward. The water ran in the sink I’d just left, but not in mine. So I moved down to the last sink and tried again. This time the other two started.
“What the crap is going on?” I said out loud.
Over the sound of the water, I thought I heard a faint snicker. Slowly, I pulled my hands away from the sink. Both the water and the laughing stopped. The hair on the back of my neck stood on end. I stood there, my mouth open, listening.
Finally, I turned back to the middle sink. This time the water started, but so did the automatic paper towel dispensers.
“This place has gone haywire!” I said out loud. But at least the water was running in my sink so I pumped some soap into my hands and quickly washed them. As I finished, I glanced up into the mirror.
An ugly, bearded face was peering over my shoulder, smiling at me.
“AAAARRRGH!” I yelled and spun around …only to find an empty room. With my heart in my throat and my stomach somewhere around my ankles, I looked around wildly, then dropped to my knees to peer under the stalls.
Nothing.
I closed my eyes, took a deep breath, gulped and opened them again.
Nobody.
Nervously, I looked over my shoulder at the mirror but all I saw were my own bugged-out eyes. I leaned in closer over the sink to examine the reflection. It looked normal enough. I reached up to give it a tap.
Whoosh!! The water in all three sinks exploded out of the faucets and drenched my shirt and hair.
Screaming, I bolted from the bathroom, raced down the hall, turned the corner and stood with my back to the wall, breathing heavily. Across the hall and behind the classroom door I could hear Mrs. Walters explaining how to diagram sentences.
I didn’t know what to do. I’d never been attacked by a bathroom before. Who was going to believe me? The upper half of my body was soaked and even my shoes were soggy. I weighed my options. I could go back to class and try to explain my condition, but I had no gift of B.S. like Dex. I could go to the office and report a malfunction of the new bathroom equipment, but given my recent history, I doubted anyone would believe me. Chances were I’d get in more trouble. I could try a different bathroom to get some paper towels…
“No way!” I said to myself out loud. I vowed to hold it for the rest of school that day.
What I needed was a nice big towel. Why not wish for one? the thought suddenly occurred to me. Couldn’t hurt…
I took a deep breath, closed my eyes, and concentrated. “I wish I had a great big fluffy towel,” I whispered. Suddenly, I felt something soft in my hand and opened my eyes excitedly.
I was holding a handkerchief. A green one.
“Aargh!” I growled. “I can’t do anything right!”
There was only one thing to do. Wiping my hair, face and neck with the handkerchief as best I could, I opened the classroom door and walked inside.
“And in this case,” Mrs. Walters was saying to the bored class, “the noun ‘fire hydrant’ is the object of the sen…” she broke off, seeing me walk in all wet.
“Why, Zeke!” she flustered. “What…what on earth happened to you?”
“It looks like he was the object of the fire hydrant if you ask me,” a student chimed out.
Everyone laughed except me and Mrs. Walters.
“Zeke, what happened?” she repeated as I sat down.
“Something’s wrong with the new sinks,” I muttered.
“Are you alright? Do you need to go dry off?”
“I’m OK.”
She stared at me for another moment and then, amazingly, let it drop and went on with the lesson. If there was one class and teacher I’d have picked for something like this to happen in, it was Mrs. Walters’ English class. I guess she figured if a student wants to douse himself thoroughly during a bathroom break, it must be his business—as long as he didn’t interrupt the lesson.
My pride smarted a little, but now that I realized I wasn’t getting into extra trouble, I began to wonder what had happened in the bathroom, exactly? I’d seen a face in the mirror—an older, leathery, weather-beaten face of a little man with a strange red hat and a little tuft of beard… a pointy beard! Isn’t that what Daphne had said to me in the hall? It that who she’d seen following me around?
I looked over my shoulder, then to the left and right, but all I saw were students with glazed-over eyes as they listened to Walters droning on about past participles. I took out a pencil and began to sketch. Drawing was something I wasn’t half-bad at, actually, and before long I had drawn a face that was pretty similar to the one I’d seen.
Out of the blue, I got this creepy feeling someone was looking over my shoulder. I glanced around but still saw nothing strange. In fact, the desk next to me was empty. I kept working on the drawing but strained my other senses for a hint of anything out of the ordinary. I can’t explain it but somehow I knew someone was there, and I had an idea who it was. For some reason, maybe all the people around, I didn’t feel afraid anymore. If he’d wanted to hurt me, he could easily have done it by now.
There was a soft noise to my right. I glanced quickly in that direction without moving my head. Was it my imagination or was the empty desk next to me a little closer than before?
I got an idea. Still drawing, I enlarged the nose and put one of the eyes off center, giving the character a loony expression.
There! I’d definitely heard the desk scrape a little closer that time! And there was another sound, like the soft shuffling of a body in a chair and someone muttering under his breath.
Smiling to myself, I moved the paper toward my left, away from the sound. I intentionally exaggerated the size of the ears and drew some hair growing on them. The muttering grew louder and I thought I heard the word “shoddy.”
Bending over the paper and encircling it with my arms, I hastily added warts, a smile with missing and crooked teeth, and a finger going into the nose. Then I abruptly sat up and moved my arms back to reveal the masterpiece.
There was a gasp, followed by … CRASH! The desk and chair on my right had fallen over sideways. A few girls in the class screamed and then there was shouting.
“WHY YOU MISERABLE WRETCH OF A ROTTEN POTATO, I’LL CAIRSE YOU WITH HUMPS ON YER BACK AND BURSTING BOILS ON YER BOTTOM!”
And there he was. Red-faced and seething, he’d suddenly appeared, pinned under the desk and writhing to free himself and stand up.
The class erupted in shrieks and chaos to find a little old man in green pants, brown tunic and a red hat writhing under the fallen desk and shouting threats to (seemingly) nobody in particular. A moment later, the little fellow had freed himself and jumped to his feet. Immediately he snapped his fingers with an odd little wave of his hand. The next moment everything slowed down and the air grew warm and heavy—not like a muggy kind of heavy, but heavy with something alive that made a soft humming noise that instantly made you drowsy.
Students all over the room quietly slipped back into their chairs and put their heads down, in slow motion, like in a dream. I felt like I was watching it all underwater. I felt drowsy too, but (maybe because I was still wet) I was able to stay awake until the air began to grow thin and cool again and things began to speed up.
Mrs. Walters was still standing at the front of the class, her chin resting on her neck. The humming sound faded away and she gave a little start and immediately began teaching again as if nothing had happened. Students’ heads began popping up all over and I noticed that they looked around furtively as if checking to see who’d seen them napping.
I blinked hard and shook myself. Had I been dreaming, too? But there was the desk next to me, lying on its side.
I noticed that my shirt was now completely dry. There was no sign of the little man.
I sat in detention that afternoon, wondering who my mysterious little follower was, and why Daphne Pennyweather could see him and not me. I tried to catch Daphne’s eye, but she was sitting at the back of the classroom, staring sulkily out the window. Detention was probably a new experience for her.
I looked at Dex. He was sleeping with his head on the desk.
Mr. Tuck, the teacher on duty, sat reading a paperback as usual, one hand in a bag of chips and his enormous sweaty belly propped on the desk in front of him. Occasionally he would snort and chuckle to himself. He didn’t care much what students did in detention, as long as it was quiet. Every now and then, if he heard a noise, he would bark out, “Quiet!” whether it was a student whispering or the sound of the furnace coming on. Sometimes he did it when there was no sound at all.
The hour dragged on. I looked at things in a daze…a group of ninth graders playing cards… Mr. Tuck chewing on his chips and turning pages… Dex drooling on his desk… Daphne staring out the window…
I followed her gaze, and there, sitting on the lowest branch of the tree by the flagpole, sat the little old fellow in the green pants and red hat. I gave a start and a little gasp.
Daphne glanced over.
I looked away.
The ninth graders shuffled their cards.
Dex snorted.
Mr. Tuck barked, “Quiet!”
By the time I looked back, the little fellow was gone.
At 3 o’ clock, without a word from Mr. Tuck, the students all got up and started filing toward the door. Mr. Tuck glanced up at the clock and growled, “Right. Class dismissed. Think twice before you act up next time.”
For once, I left Dex sitting there asleep. I wanted to see if I could get a word with the little man, and I was afraid it might be too much for Dex if he saw me talking to the air.
When I got outside, however, I was disappointed. He was nowhere in sight.
Taking my usual route home, I crossed the road in front of our school, took the wooden bridge over Johnson’s Slough, crossed Farnsworth Avenue and entered the city park. It was cloudy and damp outside, from an earlier sprinkle. I took the path that cut across the southwest corner of the park, which had the most trees. I hadn’t gone far when I heard footsteps behind me. Was it him? I looked over my shoulder, but instead of an impish old man I saw Dirk Camacho walking quickly to catch up. He didn’t live in this part of town, and I knew he was coming to pick a fight.
I walked faster. I wasn’t afraid of Dirk, even though he was a stuck up jock who thought he was cooler and tougher than everyone else. I was pretty sure I could hold my own if I had to fight him. But I was afraid of facing my mom. She didn’t put up with that kind of thing. If I got in a fight with Dirk I’d have her to deal with, and I’d rather face 10 Dirk Camachos than disappoint my mom again….
Suddenly, from behind the trees in front of me, Felix, Andrew and Clyde stepped out, blocking my path. It was a trap.
I stopped and let Dirk catch up. Standing sideways so I could see all of them at once, I grinned at Dirk.
“How’s it going, Dirt? Oops, I mean, Dirk. What brings you and your henchmen out here this afternoon?”
It sounded brave, but I knew I was in trouble. My only chance was to stall them and look for an opportunity to escape.
“We thought we’d come have some fun in the park today, didn’t we guys?” Dirk sneered. “It’s too bad your little friend Dex couldn’t join us. We were hoping both of you would want to play.”
He took a step forward and the others crowded in.
“Wow. Four on one. Really brave of you, Dirt. I thought you were the toughest guy in school? Not to mention the coolest, fastest, handsomest… let’s see, what am I leaving off the list? Smartest is definitely out….”
“Shut up you freckle-faced pansy! You’re gonna pay for gym class last week.”
“It’s a public school, Dirt, we don’t have to pay for classes.”
“You know what I mean. You and your skinny friend put… you know…in my… you know.” He obviously couldn’t bring himself to say it.
Now, you might think I had this coming to me. It is pretty rotten to line a fellow’s jock-strap with super-glue, after all. But you wouldn’t think so if you knew Dirk Camacho. The guy would never shut his trap about how tough he was, and to prove it he would pick on smaller kids who had no friends or means of defense. The week before we’d decided to make Dirk more acquainted with his gym underwear, he had thrown Edwin Poodle’s clothes into the shower after tying them in knots. Edwin was about the shyest, mildest kid there was—really nice, too. But Dirk and his gang didn’t care. They’d lined up on both sides of the bathroom snapping their wet towels at Edwin as he tried to get his clothes back. By the time he did, he was covered in welts and crying.
That was the kind of creep Dirk Camacho was.
“I don’t know what you’re talking about, but whatever you got, you deserved,” I said to him coolly.
“Well now you’re gonna get what you deserve. C’mon guys.”
Dirk’s three cronies tried to lunge at me, but instead they did a simultaneous face plant into the dirt. I didn’t pause to find out why, because Dirk was already on top of me. Instead of throwing a punch, he tried to tackle me. He put me in a choke hold but I managed to squirm out of it, grab the back of his jacket and pull it over his head.
Taking advantage of Dirk’s temporary blindness, I pushed him into Larry, Moe and Curly, who had just managed to get up.
The four of them fell down again and I took off running while they tried to disentangle themselves. I’m no chicken, but I know when I’m outnumbered. Sprinting around a bend in the path, I ran off the trail and dived behind a fallen log.
Trying hard to contain my heavy breathing, I heard Dirk running around the corner calling to the others, who were trying hard to keep up without their shoes on.
“Hurry, he’s getting away!” Dirk yelled, rounding the next bend.
I was about to jump up and go back in the opposite direction when I heard a voice behind me.
“Clever lad, gave ‘em the slip!”
I yelled, and wheeled around to find the little elf-guy standing there.
“Hush now, or they’ll hear yeh and double back,” he warned in a thick Irish brogue.
“Who are you?” I wheezed, still trying to catch my breath.
“In your tongue, I’m known as Grimwhistle.”
“But, what are you, and why are you following me?”
The little man clucked. “Now, Zeke, you surprise me. After all the stories yer grandmother’s told yeh over the years I’d ha’ though’ you’d recognize a leprechaun when yeh saw one.”
A leprechaun? I thought. Grimwhistle?
“Tha’s right, I said a leprechaun,” he said gruffly. “Sorta your guardian leprechaun, if yeh want to know—e’en though that’s mostly unheard of among my kind.”
I gaped. “Guarding leprechaun? Oh, so that’s why you attacked me in the bathroom this afternoon!?” I whispered.
“Jus’ havin’ a bit o’ fun with yeh lad. Never like to introduce me-self normally—it’s so dreary. Besides,” he chuckled, “I noticed yeh like to have some fun now and then yourself, or else why are these lads runnin’ arter you in the wood?”
He had a point.
Just then Dirk and his friends came back into view and we ducked down behind the log.
“Hey, now’s your chance, Mr. Guardian,” I whispered. “Those guys are out for blood. Are you gonna protect me or what?”
“I never do for a man what ‘e can’t do for himself,” Grimwhistle answered. “Besides, how do you think those three rascals got their laces crossed?” he chuckled.
My eyes widened. “That was you?”
He smiled wryly. “Whatever happened to shoe buckles I’d like to know? Much safer, they are.” He winked. “Can’t say much for the quality or style of their footwear, either,” he mused, peering over the log.
I peeked over too. Dirk and his friends had stopped and were arguing over what to do. His barefoot friends wanted to go back and get their shoes back on, but Dirk wanted to start looking in the forest.
“There’s no way he got away that fast,” he seethed. “He’s hiding around here somewhere.”
I looked at Grimwhistle but he just shrugged as if he were sure they’d give it up and go home soon.
“Grimm,” I said, “we can’t let them head back to the school. Dex is going to be coming along this way pretty soon and they’ll jump him for sure.”
“Jump him? Aren’t they more likely to box his ears?”
“That’s what I mean.”
“Ah.” Grimm thought for a moment, then removed his odd red hat (revealing a nearly bald head) and handed it to me.
“Here,” he said. “Cup this over yer mouth and say something insulting into it -- something you’d like to say to those four.”
I didn’t know what he was talking about, but I grabbed his hat, thought for a second, then cupped it over my mouth and mumbled a few choice words. To my surprise, the end of the hat bulged out like a balloon filling with air.
Grimm took it from me, holding it shut to prevent the air from escaping. He peeked over the top of the log for a second, then gave the bulging end of the hat four or five sharp squeezes. I looked at him, bewildered.
He raised his eyebrows at me and grinned wickedly. Holding the end of the hat over the top of the log, he suddenly released the hand that was clamped down over the skinny end. There was a slight whoosh and a hiss, and a moment later, from about 50 yards on the other side of the trail, I heard my own voice yelling, “Hey, manure piles!! There are some grubs and flies over here who want to know if you’re available!”
“There he is, come on!” Dirk shouted. And they tore into the underbrush, swearing and threatening to rip my limbs off.
I looked at Grimm. “Not bad,” I said.
“One reason leprechauns are so hard to catch,” he said, standing up and brushing leaves off his tunic. “Now, go find your friend. I’m off to find a nice place to light me pipe and put me feet up.”
“But, you still haven’t told me everything.”
“Everything? That’d be an awful long time in the tellin’”
“You know what I mean,” I said. “Everything as in, who you are, why you’re following me around, what’s been happening to me lately, how come I couldn’t see you at first, and why that one girl could, and…”
“Ay, the girl, now that is curious, that is,” he said, rubbing his beard. “Got the Sight, that one ‘as. Never would ha’ suspected it in a young Yankee gairl…”
“What’s the Sight?” I asked.
“Now’s not the time for questions, lad. You can ask me later, on the journey. Now you’d best be getting’ back and warning yer friend, the one they call the Moose Hugger.”
“Moosbrugg… Wait! Journey? Where are we…?”
“Hurry now, before your handsome friends come back. We’ll talk soon,” he said, slipping behind a tree. “When it’s time to leave,” I heard his voice say.
I hurried after him, but he’d disappeared. I hesitated for a moment, then ran back up the path toward school to find Dex.
Yes, things were going just fine. And then I noticed a girl two rows over looking at me.
First of all, I’m not used to girls looking at me (as you know by now). But secondly, it was the way she was looking at me. Not really at me, but kind of right next to me, like her eyes couldn’t focus properly. She also had a weird expression on her face, as if she were trying to figure out why I was sitting in class.
I tried to remember her name. Jenny or Penny or something. Then she saw me looking back at her and suddenly her eyes knew how to focus again and she mouthed something to me with a quizzical expression on her face.
“What?” I mouthed back.
She pointed at me and mouthed again. Now, I’m a pretty accomplished mouther: Dex and I were both well practiced at reading lips. We used to carry on entire conversations in Mr. Bratfill’s fifth grade class (man, was that guy boring!). So I could’ve sworn that, while pointing at me, she mouthed, “Who is that?”
I sort of half-shrugged and opened my hands palm up, giving her my best look of, “huh?”
“Perhaps Ezekiel Zooter and Daphne Pennyweather would be so kind as to share with the class their delightful conversation,” Janowski’s voice suddenly broke in. “Doubtless it contains many lucid insights into the rise of Chinese communism.”
I felt myself go instantly red. It wasn’t because I’d been caught “talking” in class, but for being called Ezekiel and because I’d been trying to mind my own business and keep a low profile after last week.
“No wish to share?” Janowski purred. I could tell she was going to milk it this time, and I braced myself.
“Come now, what were you so eager to tell Miss Pennyweather about Ezekiel?”
“Nothing,” I said through gritted teeth.
“Ms. Janowski, it wasn’t…”
“Be quiet, Daphne. I am not addressing you. Well Ezekiel? No doubt you were trying to persuade Miss Pennyweather that today is Saturday. Or perhaps it isn’t day at all but night-time and there is a raging blizzard outside?”
One or two students snickered but most of the class was silent.
“No? I’m sure it was nothing so mundane as a wink and a smile—because that wouldn’t be dramatic enough for you, would it Ezekiel?”
I’ve heard about people seeing red or being blinded by rage but I always thought it was a metaphor until then. I really did see the color red, and my head and face burned hot. She was going to pay for this, and suddenly I knew how. I jumped to my feet, pointed at her and yelled triumphantly, “I wish you were an ugly old toad!”
An awful hush fell over the classroom. I stared hard at Janowski, concentrating – willing her to transform into the world’s ugliest toad.
Nothing happened.
I began to sweat.
“I said,” I repeated loudly and firmly, “I wish you were an UGLY… OLD… TOAD.”
Tick, tick, tick. The classroom clock began to count down until the explosion.
But Janowski appeared to be in shock.
I gulped. This was going to be bad. I had just lit the fuse of an old, sweaty stick of dynamite and it could blow up at any time.
Somewhere in the class a student tittered and that seemed to snap Janowski out of disbelief. She collected herself, and slowly formed a menacing smile.
“Well, Ezekiel, it would appear your wish has NOT been granted.”
And then from the back of the class, with flawless timing, came Dex’s drawling voice.
“He sure came close, though. Ugly and old — two out of three ain’t bad.”
The classroom erupted in cheers and applause. A spontaneous chant broke out as students pounded on their desks in rhythm.
“Ugly old toad! Ugly old toad! Ugly old toad! Ugly old…”
“SILENCE!!!”
The chanting froze so quickly I half expected the words to drop out of the air and shatter on the ground. Each student cringed behind his or her desk, taking safety in the fact that everyone was an accomplice. For those few seconds of glory, the entire class had freed itself from Janowski’s evil grasp.
I became aware of three things simultaneously. First, that I was still standing. Second, that my wish had completely failed me. Third, that I had, without meaning to, just become a school legend. Dex, too. Somehow, that strengthened me for what was about to come.
Janowski stood there, breathing heavily and twitching with rage. The look she gave me was so venomous that it reminded me of grandma’s story about “the evil eye.” I could tell she was trying to decide on the most severe punishment she could get away with.
“Mister Zooter, your display has earned you and the ENTIRE CLASS a five-page essay, single spaced, on the downfall of the Ming Dinasty. It shall have at least five sources. It is due tomorrow. Any student who does not turn in the full assignment will fail the class. In addition, you and Dexter will each receive detention for the remainder of the week. Oh, and you too, Miss Pennyweather.”
I nodded somberly and carefully avoided looking at Dex because I knew we’d both start laughing at this stroke of good luck. Teachers really should talk to each other about who’s given which students detention and how long. I knew Janowski would have made it two weeks if she’d known about Barthorn. A five-page essay in one day, though! I knew I was going to be up past midnight working on that one.
Janowski was in no mood to go on lecturing. Instead she gave the class a reading assignment and warned that any talking would result in a visit to the principal’s office. She spent the rest of the period stealing glances at herself in the window and straightening her hair.
The bell finally rang and the students shuffled out of class silently. The funny thing was, nobody seemed to mind about the essay. Kids kept coming up and slapping me and Dex on the back. “Great show, Zeke. That was classic, Dex. I thought Janowski’s wig was going to slip off, she built up so much steam.”
“Well, see you in detention, I guess,” Dex grinned, ambling off to science while I went in the opposite direction toward English.
At any other time I would have been elated to flummox Janowski in world history, but I couldn’t help stewing about the wish not working properly. Had I done something wrong? Maybe everything else was just a coincidence. Maybe I didn’t have any wishing gift. But if that was true, why didn’t I have any memory of last Thursday? I am completely losing it, I thought.
“Zeke!”
I turned around to find Daphne walking fast to catch up with me.
“What?” I said, more irritably than I meant.
“I’m sorry about getting us all in trouble with Janowski,” she said. “I mean, I tried to tell her it was my fault but she wouldn’t listen.”
“I guess I’m just her favorite target,” I said, and turned to keep going.
She kept walking beside me.
“Anyway, I just wanted to know who your friend was.”
I stopped. So that was it. More humiliation and a five-page essay just because she had a crush on Dex? I looked at her. She didn’t seem like the kind of girl Dex would go for. She wasn’t especially pretty, but not ugly either. Average height, kind of twiggy, with dark black hair weaved into braids on both sides. She did have big, dark eyes… but what was up with those braids?”
“So, are you gonna tell me who he is?” she persisted.
“His name’s Dexter, OK?”
I don’t know why I put the ‘er’ at the end of Dex’s name when I said it. I knew he hated “Dexter” almost as much as I hated “Ezekiel.”
Daphne laughed.
“No, not Dex,” she said. “I mean that really short, older guy with the pointy beard and the weird hat who’s been following you around. Is he like a counselor who’s been assigned to you or something?”
I stared at her. Pointy beard? Hat? At least I wasn’t the only nut job in the school. There’s way too much lead in our drinking fountain water, I thought.
“What are you talking about? Nobody’s following me around.”
She looked confused, then kind of half-smiled. “Oh, well you don’t have to tell me who he is if it’s personal or something.”
I couldn’t help myself. I looked over my shoulder to see if anyone was there. Nothing but middle school students hurrying to get to class before the bell rang.
I suddenly smelled a rat.
“Oh very funny, Daphne. Ha ha. Is this about last Friday, because I’m not crazy, OK? You’re not going to make me believe somebody’s there when they’re not! Now if you don’t mind I’d rather not be late to English.”
And I stormed off, leaving her looking really confused.
After the exciting events of world history, I was ready for the rest of the day to be normal. The trouble was, a normal rest of the day wasn’t ready for me.
I’d wanted to use the bathroom between classes but my little conversation with Daphne was going to make me late. So mid-way through English I was forced to raise my hand and get Mrs. Walters’ attention.
“Mrs. Walters, can I be excused please?”
“I’m not sure, Zeke, can you?”
“Oh, uh, I mean, may I?” Mrs. Walters always insisted on her students using proper grammar or she wouldn’t acknowledge the question. She was kind of a snob, that way, but otherwise nice. She excused me.
Now if you’re like me, you don’t look for strange and wacky things to happen in bathrooms. You walk in, you take care of business, you walk out. I mean, it’s pretty straightforward stuff. On this particular occasion my bathroom experience was proceeding normally—that is, until a toilet flushed in one of the stalls to my left. I’d thought I was in the room alone, so the flush surprised me a little, but not much. But then the other toilet flushed right after the first one, followed by the third one. Then they all started flushing over and over.
Our school had finally got with the times a couple of weeks earlier and installed automatic sensors on all the toilets in the building. So even though the flushing was weird, I figured the new sensors had malfunctioned.
The flushing finally stopped as I headed to the sink to wash my hands. I put my hands in front of the sensor to start the water. The water in the sink to my right rushed out; nothing came from my sink. I pulled my hands back. The water in the adjacent sink stopped running. Moving to the middle sink, I put my hands forward. The water ran in the sink I’d just left, but not in mine. So I moved down to the last sink and tried again. This time the other two started.
“What the crap is going on?” I said out loud.
Over the sound of the water, I thought I heard a faint snicker. Slowly, I pulled my hands away from the sink. Both the water and the laughing stopped. The hair on the back of my neck stood on end. I stood there, my mouth open, listening.
Finally, I turned back to the middle sink. This time the water started, but so did the automatic paper towel dispensers.
“This place has gone haywire!” I said out loud. But at least the water was running in my sink so I pumped some soap into my hands and quickly washed them. As I finished, I glanced up into the mirror.
An ugly, bearded face was peering over my shoulder, smiling at me.
“AAAARRRGH!” I yelled and spun around …only to find an empty room. With my heart in my throat and my stomach somewhere around my ankles, I looked around wildly, then dropped to my knees to peer under the stalls.
Nothing.
I closed my eyes, took a deep breath, gulped and opened them again.
Nobody.
Nervously, I looked over my shoulder at the mirror but all I saw were my own bugged-out eyes. I leaned in closer over the sink to examine the reflection. It looked normal enough. I reached up to give it a tap.
Whoosh!! The water in all three sinks exploded out of the faucets and drenched my shirt and hair.
Screaming, I bolted from the bathroom, raced down the hall, turned the corner and stood with my back to the wall, breathing heavily. Across the hall and behind the classroom door I could hear Mrs. Walters explaining how to diagram sentences.
I didn’t know what to do. I’d never been attacked by a bathroom before. Who was going to believe me? The upper half of my body was soaked and even my shoes were soggy. I weighed my options. I could go back to class and try to explain my condition, but I had no gift of B.S. like Dex. I could go to the office and report a malfunction of the new bathroom equipment, but given my recent history, I doubted anyone would believe me. Chances were I’d get in more trouble. I could try a different bathroom to get some paper towels…
“No way!” I said to myself out loud. I vowed to hold it for the rest of school that day.
What I needed was a nice big towel. Why not wish for one? the thought suddenly occurred to me. Couldn’t hurt…
I took a deep breath, closed my eyes, and concentrated. “I wish I had a great big fluffy towel,” I whispered. Suddenly, I felt something soft in my hand and opened my eyes excitedly.
I was holding a handkerchief. A green one.
“Aargh!” I growled. “I can’t do anything right!”
There was only one thing to do. Wiping my hair, face and neck with the handkerchief as best I could, I opened the classroom door and walked inside.
“And in this case,” Mrs. Walters was saying to the bored class, “the noun ‘fire hydrant’ is the object of the sen…” she broke off, seeing me walk in all wet.
“Why, Zeke!” she flustered. “What…what on earth happened to you?”
“It looks like he was the object of the fire hydrant if you ask me,” a student chimed out.
Everyone laughed except me and Mrs. Walters.
“Zeke, what happened?” she repeated as I sat down.
“Something’s wrong with the new sinks,” I muttered.
“Are you alright? Do you need to go dry off?”
“I’m OK.”
She stared at me for another moment and then, amazingly, let it drop and went on with the lesson. If there was one class and teacher I’d have picked for something like this to happen in, it was Mrs. Walters’ English class. I guess she figured if a student wants to douse himself thoroughly during a bathroom break, it must be his business—as long as he didn’t interrupt the lesson.
My pride smarted a little, but now that I realized I wasn’t getting into extra trouble, I began to wonder what had happened in the bathroom, exactly? I’d seen a face in the mirror—an older, leathery, weather-beaten face of a little man with a strange red hat and a little tuft of beard… a pointy beard! Isn’t that what Daphne had said to me in the hall? It that who she’d seen following me around?
I looked over my shoulder, then to the left and right, but all I saw were students with glazed-over eyes as they listened to Walters droning on about past participles. I took out a pencil and began to sketch. Drawing was something I wasn’t half-bad at, actually, and before long I had drawn a face that was pretty similar to the one I’d seen.
Out of the blue, I got this creepy feeling someone was looking over my shoulder. I glanced around but still saw nothing strange. In fact, the desk next to me was empty. I kept working on the drawing but strained my other senses for a hint of anything out of the ordinary. I can’t explain it but somehow I knew someone was there, and I had an idea who it was. For some reason, maybe all the people around, I didn’t feel afraid anymore. If he’d wanted to hurt me, he could easily have done it by now.
There was a soft noise to my right. I glanced quickly in that direction without moving my head. Was it my imagination or was the empty desk next to me a little closer than before?
I got an idea. Still drawing, I enlarged the nose and put one of the eyes off center, giving the character a loony expression.
There! I’d definitely heard the desk scrape a little closer that time! And there was another sound, like the soft shuffling of a body in a chair and someone muttering under his breath.
Smiling to myself, I moved the paper toward my left, away from the sound. I intentionally exaggerated the size of the ears and drew some hair growing on them. The muttering grew louder and I thought I heard the word “shoddy.”
Bending over the paper and encircling it with my arms, I hastily added warts, a smile with missing and crooked teeth, and a finger going into the nose. Then I abruptly sat up and moved my arms back to reveal the masterpiece.
There was a gasp, followed by … CRASH! The desk and chair on my right had fallen over sideways. A few girls in the class screamed and then there was shouting.
“WHY YOU MISERABLE WRETCH OF A ROTTEN POTATO, I’LL CAIRSE YOU WITH HUMPS ON YER BACK AND BURSTING BOILS ON YER BOTTOM!”
And there he was. Red-faced and seething, he’d suddenly appeared, pinned under the desk and writhing to free himself and stand up.
The class erupted in shrieks and chaos to find a little old man in green pants, brown tunic and a red hat writhing under the fallen desk and shouting threats to (seemingly) nobody in particular. A moment later, the little fellow had freed himself and jumped to his feet. Immediately he snapped his fingers with an odd little wave of his hand. The next moment everything slowed down and the air grew warm and heavy—not like a muggy kind of heavy, but heavy with something alive that made a soft humming noise that instantly made you drowsy.
Students all over the room quietly slipped back into their chairs and put their heads down, in slow motion, like in a dream. I felt like I was watching it all underwater. I felt drowsy too, but (maybe because I was still wet) I was able to stay awake until the air began to grow thin and cool again and things began to speed up.
Mrs. Walters was still standing at the front of the class, her chin resting on her neck. The humming sound faded away and she gave a little start and immediately began teaching again as if nothing had happened. Students’ heads began popping up all over and I noticed that they looked around furtively as if checking to see who’d seen them napping.
I blinked hard and shook myself. Had I been dreaming, too? But there was the desk next to me, lying on its side.
I noticed that my shirt was now completely dry. There was no sign of the little man.
I sat in detention that afternoon, wondering who my mysterious little follower was, and why Daphne Pennyweather could see him and not me. I tried to catch Daphne’s eye, but she was sitting at the back of the classroom, staring sulkily out the window. Detention was probably a new experience for her.
I looked at Dex. He was sleeping with his head on the desk.
Mr. Tuck, the teacher on duty, sat reading a paperback as usual, one hand in a bag of chips and his enormous sweaty belly propped on the desk in front of him. Occasionally he would snort and chuckle to himself. He didn’t care much what students did in detention, as long as it was quiet. Every now and then, if he heard a noise, he would bark out, “Quiet!” whether it was a student whispering or the sound of the furnace coming on. Sometimes he did it when there was no sound at all.
The hour dragged on. I looked at things in a daze…a group of ninth graders playing cards… Mr. Tuck chewing on his chips and turning pages… Dex drooling on his desk… Daphne staring out the window…
I followed her gaze, and there, sitting on the lowest branch of the tree by the flagpole, sat the little old fellow in the green pants and red hat. I gave a start and a little gasp.
Daphne glanced over.
I looked away.
The ninth graders shuffled their cards.
Dex snorted.
Mr. Tuck barked, “Quiet!”
By the time I looked back, the little fellow was gone.
At 3 o’ clock, without a word from Mr. Tuck, the students all got up and started filing toward the door. Mr. Tuck glanced up at the clock and growled, “Right. Class dismissed. Think twice before you act up next time.”
For once, I left Dex sitting there asleep. I wanted to see if I could get a word with the little man, and I was afraid it might be too much for Dex if he saw me talking to the air.
When I got outside, however, I was disappointed. He was nowhere in sight.
Taking my usual route home, I crossed the road in front of our school, took the wooden bridge over Johnson’s Slough, crossed Farnsworth Avenue and entered the city park. It was cloudy and damp outside, from an earlier sprinkle. I took the path that cut across the southwest corner of the park, which had the most trees. I hadn’t gone far when I heard footsteps behind me. Was it him? I looked over my shoulder, but instead of an impish old man I saw Dirk Camacho walking quickly to catch up. He didn’t live in this part of town, and I knew he was coming to pick a fight.
I walked faster. I wasn’t afraid of Dirk, even though he was a stuck up jock who thought he was cooler and tougher than everyone else. I was pretty sure I could hold my own if I had to fight him. But I was afraid of facing my mom. She didn’t put up with that kind of thing. If I got in a fight with Dirk I’d have her to deal with, and I’d rather face 10 Dirk Camachos than disappoint my mom again….
Suddenly, from behind the trees in front of me, Felix, Andrew and Clyde stepped out, blocking my path. It was a trap.
I stopped and let Dirk catch up. Standing sideways so I could see all of them at once, I grinned at Dirk.
“How’s it going, Dirt? Oops, I mean, Dirk. What brings you and your henchmen out here this afternoon?”
It sounded brave, but I knew I was in trouble. My only chance was to stall them and look for an opportunity to escape.
“We thought we’d come have some fun in the park today, didn’t we guys?” Dirk sneered. “It’s too bad your little friend Dex couldn’t join us. We were hoping both of you would want to play.”
He took a step forward and the others crowded in.
“Wow. Four on one. Really brave of you, Dirt. I thought you were the toughest guy in school? Not to mention the coolest, fastest, handsomest… let’s see, what am I leaving off the list? Smartest is definitely out….”
“Shut up you freckle-faced pansy! You’re gonna pay for gym class last week.”
“It’s a public school, Dirt, we don’t have to pay for classes.”
“You know what I mean. You and your skinny friend put… you know…in my… you know.” He obviously couldn’t bring himself to say it.
Now, you might think I had this coming to me. It is pretty rotten to line a fellow’s jock-strap with super-glue, after all. But you wouldn’t think so if you knew Dirk Camacho. The guy would never shut his trap about how tough he was, and to prove it he would pick on smaller kids who had no friends or means of defense. The week before we’d decided to make Dirk more acquainted with his gym underwear, he had thrown Edwin Poodle’s clothes into the shower after tying them in knots. Edwin was about the shyest, mildest kid there was—really nice, too. But Dirk and his gang didn’t care. They’d lined up on both sides of the bathroom snapping their wet towels at Edwin as he tried to get his clothes back. By the time he did, he was covered in welts and crying.
That was the kind of creep Dirk Camacho was.
“I don’t know what you’re talking about, but whatever you got, you deserved,” I said to him coolly.
“Well now you’re gonna get what you deserve. C’mon guys.”
Dirk’s three cronies tried to lunge at me, but instead they did a simultaneous face plant into the dirt. I didn’t pause to find out why, because Dirk was already on top of me. Instead of throwing a punch, he tried to tackle me. He put me in a choke hold but I managed to squirm out of it, grab the back of his jacket and pull it over his head.
Taking advantage of Dirk’s temporary blindness, I pushed him into Larry, Moe and Curly, who had just managed to get up.
The four of them fell down again and I took off running while they tried to disentangle themselves. I’m no chicken, but I know when I’m outnumbered. Sprinting around a bend in the path, I ran off the trail and dived behind a fallen log.
Trying hard to contain my heavy breathing, I heard Dirk running around the corner calling to the others, who were trying hard to keep up without their shoes on.
“Hurry, he’s getting away!” Dirk yelled, rounding the next bend.
I was about to jump up and go back in the opposite direction when I heard a voice behind me.
“Clever lad, gave ‘em the slip!”
I yelled, and wheeled around to find the little elf-guy standing there.
“Hush now, or they’ll hear yeh and double back,” he warned in a thick Irish brogue.
“Who are you?” I wheezed, still trying to catch my breath.
“In your tongue, I’m known as Grimwhistle.”
“But, what are you, and why are you following me?”
The little man clucked. “Now, Zeke, you surprise me. After all the stories yer grandmother’s told yeh over the years I’d ha’ though’ you’d recognize a leprechaun when yeh saw one.”
A leprechaun? I thought. Grimwhistle?
“Tha’s right, I said a leprechaun,” he said gruffly. “Sorta your guardian leprechaun, if yeh want to know—e’en though that’s mostly unheard of among my kind.”
I gaped. “Guarding leprechaun? Oh, so that’s why you attacked me in the bathroom this afternoon!?” I whispered.
“Jus’ havin’ a bit o’ fun with yeh lad. Never like to introduce me-self normally—it’s so dreary. Besides,” he chuckled, “I noticed yeh like to have some fun now and then yourself, or else why are these lads runnin’ arter you in the wood?”
He had a point.
Just then Dirk and his friends came back into view and we ducked down behind the log.
“Hey, now’s your chance, Mr. Guardian,” I whispered. “Those guys are out for blood. Are you gonna protect me or what?”
“I never do for a man what ‘e can’t do for himself,” Grimwhistle answered. “Besides, how do you think those three rascals got their laces crossed?” he chuckled.
My eyes widened. “That was you?”
He smiled wryly. “Whatever happened to shoe buckles I’d like to know? Much safer, they are.” He winked. “Can’t say much for the quality or style of their footwear, either,” he mused, peering over the log.
I peeked over too. Dirk and his friends had stopped and were arguing over what to do. His barefoot friends wanted to go back and get their shoes back on, but Dirk wanted to start looking in the forest.
“There’s no way he got away that fast,” he seethed. “He’s hiding around here somewhere.”
I looked at Grimwhistle but he just shrugged as if he were sure they’d give it up and go home soon.
“Grimm,” I said, “we can’t let them head back to the school. Dex is going to be coming along this way pretty soon and they’ll jump him for sure.”
“Jump him? Aren’t they more likely to box his ears?”
“That’s what I mean.”
“Ah.” Grimm thought for a moment, then removed his odd red hat (revealing a nearly bald head) and handed it to me.
“Here,” he said. “Cup this over yer mouth and say something insulting into it -- something you’d like to say to those four.”
I didn’t know what he was talking about, but I grabbed his hat, thought for a second, then cupped it over my mouth and mumbled a few choice words. To my surprise, the end of the hat bulged out like a balloon filling with air.
Grimm took it from me, holding it shut to prevent the air from escaping. He peeked over the top of the log for a second, then gave the bulging end of the hat four or five sharp squeezes. I looked at him, bewildered.
He raised his eyebrows at me and grinned wickedly. Holding the end of the hat over the top of the log, he suddenly released the hand that was clamped down over the skinny end. There was a slight whoosh and a hiss, and a moment later, from about 50 yards on the other side of the trail, I heard my own voice yelling, “Hey, manure piles!! There are some grubs and flies over here who want to know if you’re available!”
“There he is, come on!” Dirk shouted. And they tore into the underbrush, swearing and threatening to rip my limbs off.
I looked at Grimm. “Not bad,” I said.
“One reason leprechauns are so hard to catch,” he said, standing up and brushing leaves off his tunic. “Now, go find your friend. I’m off to find a nice place to light me pipe and put me feet up.”
“But, you still haven’t told me everything.”
“Everything? That’d be an awful long time in the tellin’”
“You know what I mean,” I said. “Everything as in, who you are, why you’re following me around, what’s been happening to me lately, how come I couldn’t see you at first, and why that one girl could, and…”
“Ay, the girl, now that is curious, that is,” he said, rubbing his beard. “Got the Sight, that one ‘as. Never would ha’ suspected it in a young Yankee gairl…”
“What’s the Sight?” I asked.
“Now’s not the time for questions, lad. You can ask me later, on the journey. Now you’d best be getting’ back and warning yer friend, the one they call the Moose Hugger.”
“Moosbrugg… Wait! Journey? Where are we…?”
“Hurry now, before your handsome friends come back. We’ll talk soon,” he said, slipping behind a tree. “When it’s time to leave,” I heard his voice say.
I hurried after him, but he’d disappeared. I hesitated for a moment, then ran back up the path toward school to find Dex.
Zeke Zooter - Chapter 2
My dad’s Irish ancestors immigrated to America back in the 1800s. But Grandma Deirdre Sullivan, my mom’s mom, was a first-generation Irish American. She crossed the ocean with her father just before World War II, and even though she was a little girl at the time, she never lost her Irish accent.
She had been living in our house for eight years, ever since Grandpa died.
Most kids I know call their grandparents by their last names, as in “Grandpa Jones” or “Grandma Dixon.” But my grandma never let us call her Grandma Sullivan. “It makes me feel old,” she’d say. “When the young ones say my name, I feel young again, too.”
Grandma Deirdre was 83 years old and frail, but the sparkle in her eye and her constant chattering proved that she was sharper than your average old lady. In fact, she was sharper than your average lady, period. She was a young girl trapped in an old body, except she didn’t mind the wrinkles.
I could talk to Grandma Deidre about anything and I knew she’d listen. She never told me how to think or act, the way most grownups do. So I decided to tell her about this weird wish thing. I was pretty sure she’d believe me. “There’s more truth in stories and legend than in the newspapers,” she often said.
I decided to approach her at night, after she finished telling bedtime stories to my little sister, Janie. Grandma tells amazing stories. I think she knows at least a thousand of them; she never runs out! Now and then she repeats a favorite tale, but she’s always adding more interesting details. Of course, I’m getting too old for bedtime stories, but sometimes I can’t help hearing them. (Can I help it if Janie’s room is right next to mine and my bedroom door doesn’t like to stay shut?)
I sneaked into the hallway and peeked into Janie’s room through the opening between the door and the wall. Grandma was telling Janie one of the classics tonight. I recognized most of it, but as usual, she was adding more interesting details. And when she tells stories, her old Irish brogue comes back in full force.
“Long ago, Janie,” she was saying, “ever so long ago, when the world was new, a race of proud and noble creatures—magical creatures— came to Ireland. They were good and fair folk, and they loved the Emerald Isle at once for its beauty and its many enchantments. They were called the Tuatha de Danaan, after their first mother, Danu.
“But Ireland wasn’t empty when they came. It was ruled by a race of hideous giants called the Fomors. A very powerful but very proud and cruel lot they were. They didn’t love Ireland for its beauty and grace, and they didn’t care for it like they should. You see, Janie, they didn’t understand the true magic of the land. They just knew it was powerful and they abused it to draw their strength.”
“What did they do when the Tua…Tua… when the good people came, Grandma Deidre?” Janie asked.
“Well, there was a tremendous battle, and the Tuatha de Danaan overthrew the Fomors and exiled them to the sea. But that wasn’t the end of the giants, ah no, they lived on. They hid in the deep valleys and caverns of the sea, and they watched and waited, plotting their revenge against the Tuatha.
“Many years passed, and at last the Fomors saw their chance to strike back. You see, the Tuatha de Danaan had a new king, and they’d grown careless. Meanwhile, the Fomors had grown in strength and numbers. They had many fierce and terrible warriors, but their king, Balor the One-Eyed, was the darkest and the deadliest of them all.”
“How come he just had one eye?” Janie asked, her voice quivering.
“A clever question, love,” said Grandma Deidre. “He really did have two eyes, but you see, one of them had been bewitched with a terrible curse. All who looked into his one, terrible eye withered like a grape in the desert sun, only much, much quicker. Ay, it was a great, enlarged eye, swollen with the poison that had fouled it since Balor’s youth. But you see, it was difficult to open, for it had a great, heavy lid. It took two of Balor’s servants just to open it. But once they did, anyone in the sight of his gaze died instantly.
“Finally, the day came when the Fomorian army marched against the Tuatha de Danaan to reclaim Ireland. They came in strength and numbers, and despite the magic of the Tuatha, the Good Folk began to fall before the giants. If not for the bravery of one, all might have been lost. Ay, the Tuatha were saved that day by their champion, Lugh the Long-handed. They called him the sun-god, for he was golden haired and good, and his face shone with the radiance of the rising sun. His arm was mighty and his stroke was fierce, and the Tuatha rallied around him.
“Yet even with Lugh, the Tuatha fell before the power and poison of Balor’s eye, for none could withstand it. At last Lugh and Balor faced each other across a narrow valley, and Lugh raised his spear in challenge. Balor had no desire to face the mighty sun-god in hand-to-hand combat, so he signaled for his servants, who came to his side and began to lift the heavy lid of his poisoned eye. All might have been lost at that moment, but quicker-than-thought, Lugh produced a remarkable weapon called the Tathlum, which he cast at Balor with all his might. Before Balor’s eyelid was half-open, the Tathlum struck it with such force that the eye went through the back of his head and landed on the ground behind him, where it gazed at the Fomorian army and wiped out nearly all of them.
Janie sat solemnly on her bed, staring straight ahead. Grandma Deidre sat calmly rocking in her chair. I could hear the clock down the hall ticking its way toward nine.
“Grandma?” Janie finally asked.
“Yes, dearie?”
“How did the evil giant king get his horrible eye? Was he borned that way?”
“Nay, Balor warn’t born with such an eye as that. It happened like this. When Balor was young, he crept into the dungeons of his father’s evil sorcerers. He wanted to spy upon their work as they concocted poisonous draughts in great cauldrons of stone. Balor was strictly forbidden from entering the dungeons, but he went just the same and spied, as young lads often do (she cleared her throat), and peered over a ledge into a dark chamber where the sorcerers were at work.
“There was deep, wicked magic in the brew the sorcerers were preparing that day. But you see, magic has a life of its own, and it sensed treachery when Balor looked upon it. The poison bubbled, hissed and spit in a sudden rage, and it flew across the room to where Balor was hiding. He tried to duck, but some of the evil concoction lit in his eye, and there it festered and grew more terrible. The eye, you see, is a window to the soul, and Balor had one of the most wicked souls there ever has been. And so the poison’s magic bonded with the evil of Balor’s soul and it festered and cankered in his eye, until it swelled three times the normal size and became an enlarged, grotesque weapon of putrid power! None could stand before his gaze, and many’s the god and mortal that have since fallen before it.”
By this time, Janie had hid her face behind her pillow, but grandma didn’t seem to notice, and she added cheerfully, “Did you know that is where we got the expression, ‘the evil eye’?”
Janie shook her head behind her pillow.
“Ay, ‘tis! So just remember, the next time someone gives you the evil eye, at least it’s not the eye of Balor!” She cackled to herself.
“He shouldn’t have snuck in there and spied!” Janie mourned into her pillow.
“Ay, such is what happens to young lads who spy and don’t state their business openly.” Grandma Deirdre cleared her throat again, loudly.
“Well, I think that’ll do for one night, little Janie.” said grandma, as she stood up. “Sweet dreams then,” she added, stooping to pull the pillow off Janie’s face and give her a kiss.
Janie nodded, trembling -- her own eyes wider than Frisbees.
Grandma wrinkled her eyebrows.
“Oh, for goodness sake, what’s the matter with me? I nearly forgot to sing you to sleep, poor dearie. Right, then,” she said, sitting down in the rocker again, “The song of the Irish Blessing, ‘tis.”
With that, grandma began to sing Janie the lullaby I had fallen asleep to hundreds of times. It was based on an old, familiar Irish blessing. I wish I could write the tune, but as far as I know nobody’s ever invented a way to write a melody with words. You’ll just have to believe me when I say it was beautiful and haunting and peaceful all at the same time:
May the road rise to meet you.
May the wind be always at your back.
May the sun shine warm upon your face.
And rains fall soft upon your fields.
And until we meet again,
May God hold you in the hollow of His hand.
May the Irish hills caress you.
May her lakes and rivers bless you.
May the luck of the Irish enfold you.
May the blessings of Saint Patrick behold you.
And until we meet again,
May God hold you in the hollow of His hand.
Janie had fallen asleep by the time grandma finished, and even I found myself yawning. Grandma continued to rock in the chair for a moment, then whispered, “Janie’s asleep now, Ezekiel. You can come in then, if you wanted to see me.”
“Aww, Grandma Deirdre, how did you know I was there?” I asked, stepping into the doorway.
“Why, that’s no trick ‘t’all. You breathe louder than a raspy-toothed pooka with a chest cold. Come in then, child.”
Grinning in spite of myself, I walked into the room and sat down on the floor in front of her.
“What’s ailin’ you, lad? It’s a shame you won’t come listen to the stories these days.”
“Aww, I’m getting too old for fairy tales,” I said, pulling absently on the shaggy carpet.
“I don’t tell fairy tales,” she huffed. “Leastways not the kind you Yankees think of when you hear the word ‘fairy.’ You’ve heard the stories since you were smaller than a new potato, Ezekiel. You should know better. Fairy tales, indeed! What I tell is ancient Irish history.”
I grinned. “And legend.”
“History, legend—what’s the difference, lad? Legend is nothing more than history folks don’t mind hearing a second time.”
(It was hard to argue with her when I thought about Janowski’s lectures.)
“But grandma, your stories are full of magic and giants and fairies—so they’re fairy tales.”
“Ezekiel…”
“Grandma Sullivan,” I cut her off, intentionally leaving out ‘Deirdre.’ “I thought we had a deal. I call you Grandma Deirdre and you call me Zeke.”
“So we did,” she sighed. “Zeke, lad, you ought to know the difference between the Little People and what most ignorant folk know as fairies. You Yankees and the English—someone says “fairy” and the first thing that pops into your head is an overgrown dragonfly flitting about in a miniskirt!”
I laughed.
“Real fairies,” she said, “are the descendants of the Tuatha de Danaan and the other ancient Irish magical creatures.”
“But where did they come from?”
“Haven’t you read the Bible, lad?” she asked sternly.
“The Bible? Come on—there’s no fairies in there.”
“The Bible says there was war in heaven, ever so long ago, and many of the angels were cast out. Well, some of those angels weren’t good enough to stay, but they weren’t bad enough to be sent to, ahem, the other place. So they came here. Most of them settled in the place that most reminded them of heaven, and of course, the most magical place on Earth.”
“They settled in Disney World?” I teased.
“Disney…!” she began, but then she saw the twinkle in my eye. “Oh, but you’re a clever one, you always wair!” she laughed. “So. What was’t you wanted to see me for?”
I didn’t know how to begin, so I just plunged in.
“Grandma Deidre, strange things have been happening to me.” I said.
“Indeed? What then?”
I hesitated. There was no way to say without sounding crazy, so I just plunged right in.
“My wishes are coming true.”
She blinked.
That’s it? I thought. A blink? I’d thought I was finally going to catch grandma off guard with that one, but no, she just sat there rocking and looking at me thoughtfully.
Finally she said, “Well, I see you’re serious. Tell me now, what sort o’ wishes are coming true for you?”
“Uh, well, sort of… unexpected ones.”
“Go on.”
“I mean, I didn’t really get it at first because it seemed like weird things were happening kind of unexpectedly and I didn’t make the connection right away and…”
“Zeke.” She stopped rocking and leaned forward. “Tell me what happened.”
“OK.” I took a deep breath. “You know how I came home sick a couple of weeks ago, puking my guts out?”
“Ay, your mother told me.”
“Well, I, uh, wished for that.”
Coming out of my mouth, that sounded like the stupidest sentence I’d ever said. I thought grandma was going to tell me I was still sick, but again she surprised me.
“Seems a mite strange thing to wish for, lad,” she said finally.
“I know but I wanted to miss a test and, well, that’s not all.”
I could really start to feel my face get warm as I described the incident with Melinda Rosengloss at school and her strange reaction. Maybe it was my imagination, but I thought I caught the faintest trace of smile flirting with the corners of grandma’s mouth as I finished that tale. The next moment, though, the smile was gone.
“And I didn’t remember until later but I’d wished for Melinda to notice me right before that, too,” I concluded.
“You’re sure it wasn’t just your devlish good looks cast a sudden spell on her, now?” she teased.
“Grandma!” I pleaded.
“I’m sorry, Zeke. But I do say you’re as handsome as ever there was a Zooter.”
“Thanks,” I said, unenthusiastically.
“So first you get sick and then the girl of your dreams walks up and tells you your legs are a mite long for your trousers,” she mused. “Now where did you misplace our Irish luck, my boy? No, no—don’t mind me because I believe you, lad. Stranger things have happened in this family, believe me.”
“I do, grandma, because the strangest of them all happened today,” I replied.
I told her about being in class that morning—well, Wednesday morning—and how the next thing I knew it had gone instantly from sunshine to rain and it was Friday. I also told her about my conversation with Dex and how I’d proved to him that Thursday never happened for me. (I left out the part about being caught with my pants down by Barthorn.)
“And look,” I whispered excitedly, rolling up the leg of my pajamas, “here’s where there’s no scar on my knee! Doesn’t that just blow you away?”
Grandma leaned over, pushed her spectacles closer to her eyes, and examined my knee carefully.
“Well, I’ll be a dried-out merrow,” she exclaimed. “It’s as whole as it must have been on Wednesday! Whoever would’ve believed it?”
I caught the laughter in her voice.
“You don’t believe me!” I said, a little too loudly. Janie rolled over in her sleep.
“Ezekiel… pardon me… Zeke.” She looked at me gravely. “You may be a mischievous little jackanapes but you’re my grandson, and a Zooter, and you’re no liar. And what kind of a grandmother would I be if I didn’t trust me’ own grandson? I believe you, sure as I believe in my own immortal soul. You’re a son of the Emerald Isle, and that means you’re as likely to have magic happen to you as praties are likely to have gravy on ‘em.”
“But what should I do?” I pleaded.
She removed her spectacles, folded them, and held them like a pointer.
“Ah, that would be the question now, wouldn’t it? Many’s the lad or lass who dreamed their wishes came true. Trouble is, as you’ve found out, the things we wish upon ourselves aren’t always what’s best for us now, are they?”
“No kidding,” I said. “To tell the truth, I’m kind of scared to wish for anything now.”
“Good lad,” she said. “And so you mustn’t. For now, let’s you and I think on’t a while, then come and see me again when you’re ready. Don’t go wishin’ for anything before then. And Zeke, whatever happens, don’t tell anyone else about this. Can you trust Dexter?”
“I’ve already sworn him to secrecy.”
She nodded. “Now, come and give your grandmother a hug goodnight.”
The next morning after breakfast and my morning chores, I walked over to Dex’s house. He lived a couple of streets back, but there was a gravel alleyway that ran behind my house and connected to the back of his, so it was just a two-minute walk.
Dex thought Grandma Deirdre was the coolest because she always made a big deal about what a “fine tall and strapping lad” I had for a friend. “She’s not like other old ladies who just want to sit in those salon chairs with plastic over their blue hair and gossip,” he would say. I was sure Dex would understand that I’d let Grandma into my confidence. It was almost like we’d formed this secret club or something.
I rattled the gate on the back fence of his house as I went in, which always made Dex’s dog Angel start barking. It was how I let Dex know I was there.
Dex appeared at the back sliding door and opened it.
“What took you so long?” he said, stepping out onto the back porch. “Man, I hardly slept last night. Angel, calm down!”
“I know, me neither,” I said. “C’mon - tell your parents we’re taking Angel for a walk and let’s go somewhere we can talk.”
As soon as we were out of earshot of any houses, I told Dex that I’d talked to Grandma Deirdre about my “problem.”
“Did she believe you?” he asked.
I nodded.
“Wow, she’s such a brick! Why can’t my grandma be like that? All she does is read the horoscopes and talk about how lucky we have it these days. So anyway, what did your grandma say you should do?”
“Nothing,” I answered.
“Nothing?”
“Yep.”
Dex shook his head.
“Let me get this straight. You can have anything you wish for, just like that,” he snapped his fingers, “and you’re just gonna, gonna… not wish for anything?”
“Look,” I said. “It may sound like a dream come true, but so far it’s gotten me humiliated, sick as a dog, a week’s detention and an entire day and a half of my life wiped out.”
“But that’s just because you didn’t know what was going on!” Dex protested. “Besides, Thursday wasn’t that great,” he added.
“Yeah, but if it’s all the same I’d rather not lose any more of my life. It creeped me out. I’m just going to be careful for a while until I figure out what to do next. Maybe I’ll wish for no more wishes to come… mmmpphh…. hey!”
Dex had suddenly clamped his hands over my mouth and tried to shut me up, but I wriggled free.
“Are you nuts?” he exclaimed. “Don’t even say that before we’ve had a chance for some fun. Hey, I know! You should think of something to pay back Janowski for what she did in World History.”
I had to admit that it was a tempting notion. Half a dozen ideas for embarrassing Janowski in front of the class (with no way of tracing it back to me) suddenly flooded my brain. It was like my subconscious mind had been working on the same idea overnight. I began to chuckle as I imagined Janowski’s dentures dropping out of her mouth, coming to life and chasing her around the classroom.
“What’s so funny?” Dex asked.
“Huh? Oh nothing. C’mon let’s go to the arcade.”
Neither grandma or I said much to each other the rest of the weekend. We didn’t avoid each other, but I think we were both too excited. We had this amazing secret and it felt like if we talked too much about it, the whole adventure might fade away and we’d be left with nothing but another soggy springtime. I knew we’d talk again when the time was right, so I didn’t worry about it.
On Monday things were back to normal, except I still had detention with Dex after school. It wasn’t until Tuesday that my adventure shifted into second gear. And wouldn’t you know, it happened in World History class.
She had been living in our house for eight years, ever since Grandpa died.
Most kids I know call their grandparents by their last names, as in “Grandpa Jones” or “Grandma Dixon.” But my grandma never let us call her Grandma Sullivan. “It makes me feel old,” she’d say. “When the young ones say my name, I feel young again, too.”
Grandma Deirdre was 83 years old and frail, but the sparkle in her eye and her constant chattering proved that she was sharper than your average old lady. In fact, she was sharper than your average lady, period. She was a young girl trapped in an old body, except she didn’t mind the wrinkles.
I could talk to Grandma Deidre about anything and I knew she’d listen. She never told me how to think or act, the way most grownups do. So I decided to tell her about this weird wish thing. I was pretty sure she’d believe me. “There’s more truth in stories and legend than in the newspapers,” she often said.
I decided to approach her at night, after she finished telling bedtime stories to my little sister, Janie. Grandma tells amazing stories. I think she knows at least a thousand of them; she never runs out! Now and then she repeats a favorite tale, but she’s always adding more interesting details. Of course, I’m getting too old for bedtime stories, but sometimes I can’t help hearing them. (Can I help it if Janie’s room is right next to mine and my bedroom door doesn’t like to stay shut?)
I sneaked into the hallway and peeked into Janie’s room through the opening between the door and the wall. Grandma was telling Janie one of the classics tonight. I recognized most of it, but as usual, she was adding more interesting details. And when she tells stories, her old Irish brogue comes back in full force.
“Long ago, Janie,” she was saying, “ever so long ago, when the world was new, a race of proud and noble creatures—magical creatures— came to Ireland. They were good and fair folk, and they loved the Emerald Isle at once for its beauty and its many enchantments. They were called the Tuatha de Danaan, after their first mother, Danu.
“But Ireland wasn’t empty when they came. It was ruled by a race of hideous giants called the Fomors. A very powerful but very proud and cruel lot they were. They didn’t love Ireland for its beauty and grace, and they didn’t care for it like they should. You see, Janie, they didn’t understand the true magic of the land. They just knew it was powerful and they abused it to draw their strength.”
“What did they do when the Tua…Tua… when the good people came, Grandma Deidre?” Janie asked.
“Well, there was a tremendous battle, and the Tuatha de Danaan overthrew the Fomors and exiled them to the sea. But that wasn’t the end of the giants, ah no, they lived on. They hid in the deep valleys and caverns of the sea, and they watched and waited, plotting their revenge against the Tuatha.
“Many years passed, and at last the Fomors saw their chance to strike back. You see, the Tuatha de Danaan had a new king, and they’d grown careless. Meanwhile, the Fomors had grown in strength and numbers. They had many fierce and terrible warriors, but their king, Balor the One-Eyed, was the darkest and the deadliest of them all.”
“How come he just had one eye?” Janie asked, her voice quivering.
“A clever question, love,” said Grandma Deidre. “He really did have two eyes, but you see, one of them had been bewitched with a terrible curse. All who looked into his one, terrible eye withered like a grape in the desert sun, only much, much quicker. Ay, it was a great, enlarged eye, swollen with the poison that had fouled it since Balor’s youth. But you see, it was difficult to open, for it had a great, heavy lid. It took two of Balor’s servants just to open it. But once they did, anyone in the sight of his gaze died instantly.
“Finally, the day came when the Fomorian army marched against the Tuatha de Danaan to reclaim Ireland. They came in strength and numbers, and despite the magic of the Tuatha, the Good Folk began to fall before the giants. If not for the bravery of one, all might have been lost. Ay, the Tuatha were saved that day by their champion, Lugh the Long-handed. They called him the sun-god, for he was golden haired and good, and his face shone with the radiance of the rising sun. His arm was mighty and his stroke was fierce, and the Tuatha rallied around him.
“Yet even with Lugh, the Tuatha fell before the power and poison of Balor’s eye, for none could withstand it. At last Lugh and Balor faced each other across a narrow valley, and Lugh raised his spear in challenge. Balor had no desire to face the mighty sun-god in hand-to-hand combat, so he signaled for his servants, who came to his side and began to lift the heavy lid of his poisoned eye. All might have been lost at that moment, but quicker-than-thought, Lugh produced a remarkable weapon called the Tathlum, which he cast at Balor with all his might. Before Balor’s eyelid was half-open, the Tathlum struck it with such force that the eye went through the back of his head and landed on the ground behind him, where it gazed at the Fomorian army and wiped out nearly all of them.
Janie sat solemnly on her bed, staring straight ahead. Grandma Deidre sat calmly rocking in her chair. I could hear the clock down the hall ticking its way toward nine.
“Grandma?” Janie finally asked.
“Yes, dearie?”
“How did the evil giant king get his horrible eye? Was he borned that way?”
“Nay, Balor warn’t born with such an eye as that. It happened like this. When Balor was young, he crept into the dungeons of his father’s evil sorcerers. He wanted to spy upon their work as they concocted poisonous draughts in great cauldrons of stone. Balor was strictly forbidden from entering the dungeons, but he went just the same and spied, as young lads often do (she cleared her throat), and peered over a ledge into a dark chamber where the sorcerers were at work.
“There was deep, wicked magic in the brew the sorcerers were preparing that day. But you see, magic has a life of its own, and it sensed treachery when Balor looked upon it. The poison bubbled, hissed and spit in a sudden rage, and it flew across the room to where Balor was hiding. He tried to duck, but some of the evil concoction lit in his eye, and there it festered and grew more terrible. The eye, you see, is a window to the soul, and Balor had one of the most wicked souls there ever has been. And so the poison’s magic bonded with the evil of Balor’s soul and it festered and cankered in his eye, until it swelled three times the normal size and became an enlarged, grotesque weapon of putrid power! None could stand before his gaze, and many’s the god and mortal that have since fallen before it.”
By this time, Janie had hid her face behind her pillow, but grandma didn’t seem to notice, and she added cheerfully, “Did you know that is where we got the expression, ‘the evil eye’?”
Janie shook her head behind her pillow.
“Ay, ‘tis! So just remember, the next time someone gives you the evil eye, at least it’s not the eye of Balor!” She cackled to herself.
“He shouldn’t have snuck in there and spied!” Janie mourned into her pillow.
“Ay, such is what happens to young lads who spy and don’t state their business openly.” Grandma Deirdre cleared her throat again, loudly.
“Well, I think that’ll do for one night, little Janie.” said grandma, as she stood up. “Sweet dreams then,” she added, stooping to pull the pillow off Janie’s face and give her a kiss.
Janie nodded, trembling -- her own eyes wider than Frisbees.
Grandma wrinkled her eyebrows.
“Oh, for goodness sake, what’s the matter with me? I nearly forgot to sing you to sleep, poor dearie. Right, then,” she said, sitting down in the rocker again, “The song of the Irish Blessing, ‘tis.”
With that, grandma began to sing Janie the lullaby I had fallen asleep to hundreds of times. It was based on an old, familiar Irish blessing. I wish I could write the tune, but as far as I know nobody’s ever invented a way to write a melody with words. You’ll just have to believe me when I say it was beautiful and haunting and peaceful all at the same time:
May the road rise to meet you.
May the wind be always at your back.
May the sun shine warm upon your face.
And rains fall soft upon your fields.
And until we meet again,
May God hold you in the hollow of His hand.
May the Irish hills caress you.
May her lakes and rivers bless you.
May the luck of the Irish enfold you.
May the blessings of Saint Patrick behold you.
And until we meet again,
May God hold you in the hollow of His hand.
Janie had fallen asleep by the time grandma finished, and even I found myself yawning. Grandma continued to rock in the chair for a moment, then whispered, “Janie’s asleep now, Ezekiel. You can come in then, if you wanted to see me.”
“Aww, Grandma Deirdre, how did you know I was there?” I asked, stepping into the doorway.
“Why, that’s no trick ‘t’all. You breathe louder than a raspy-toothed pooka with a chest cold. Come in then, child.”
Grinning in spite of myself, I walked into the room and sat down on the floor in front of her.
“What’s ailin’ you, lad? It’s a shame you won’t come listen to the stories these days.”
“Aww, I’m getting too old for fairy tales,” I said, pulling absently on the shaggy carpet.
“I don’t tell fairy tales,” she huffed. “Leastways not the kind you Yankees think of when you hear the word ‘fairy.’ You’ve heard the stories since you were smaller than a new potato, Ezekiel. You should know better. Fairy tales, indeed! What I tell is ancient Irish history.”
I grinned. “And legend.”
“History, legend—what’s the difference, lad? Legend is nothing more than history folks don’t mind hearing a second time.”
(It was hard to argue with her when I thought about Janowski’s lectures.)
“But grandma, your stories are full of magic and giants and fairies—so they’re fairy tales.”
“Ezekiel…”
“Grandma Sullivan,” I cut her off, intentionally leaving out ‘Deirdre.’ “I thought we had a deal. I call you Grandma Deirdre and you call me Zeke.”
“So we did,” she sighed. “Zeke, lad, you ought to know the difference between the Little People and what most ignorant folk know as fairies. You Yankees and the English—someone says “fairy” and the first thing that pops into your head is an overgrown dragonfly flitting about in a miniskirt!”
I laughed.
“Real fairies,” she said, “are the descendants of the Tuatha de Danaan and the other ancient Irish magical creatures.”
“But where did they come from?”
“Haven’t you read the Bible, lad?” she asked sternly.
“The Bible? Come on—there’s no fairies in there.”
“The Bible says there was war in heaven, ever so long ago, and many of the angels were cast out. Well, some of those angels weren’t good enough to stay, but they weren’t bad enough to be sent to, ahem, the other place. So they came here. Most of them settled in the place that most reminded them of heaven, and of course, the most magical place on Earth.”
“They settled in Disney World?” I teased.
“Disney…!” she began, but then she saw the twinkle in my eye. “Oh, but you’re a clever one, you always wair!” she laughed. “So. What was’t you wanted to see me for?”
I didn’t know how to begin, so I just plunged in.
“Grandma Deidre, strange things have been happening to me.” I said.
“Indeed? What then?”
I hesitated. There was no way to say without sounding crazy, so I just plunged right in.
“My wishes are coming true.”
She blinked.
That’s it? I thought. A blink? I’d thought I was finally going to catch grandma off guard with that one, but no, she just sat there rocking and looking at me thoughtfully.
Finally she said, “Well, I see you’re serious. Tell me now, what sort o’ wishes are coming true for you?”
“Uh, well, sort of… unexpected ones.”
“Go on.”
“I mean, I didn’t really get it at first because it seemed like weird things were happening kind of unexpectedly and I didn’t make the connection right away and…”
“Zeke.” She stopped rocking and leaned forward. “Tell me what happened.”
“OK.” I took a deep breath. “You know how I came home sick a couple of weeks ago, puking my guts out?”
“Ay, your mother told me.”
“Well, I, uh, wished for that.”
Coming out of my mouth, that sounded like the stupidest sentence I’d ever said. I thought grandma was going to tell me I was still sick, but again she surprised me.
“Seems a mite strange thing to wish for, lad,” she said finally.
“I know but I wanted to miss a test and, well, that’s not all.”
I could really start to feel my face get warm as I described the incident with Melinda Rosengloss at school and her strange reaction. Maybe it was my imagination, but I thought I caught the faintest trace of smile flirting with the corners of grandma’s mouth as I finished that tale. The next moment, though, the smile was gone.
“And I didn’t remember until later but I’d wished for Melinda to notice me right before that, too,” I concluded.
“You’re sure it wasn’t just your devlish good looks cast a sudden spell on her, now?” she teased.
“Grandma!” I pleaded.
“I’m sorry, Zeke. But I do say you’re as handsome as ever there was a Zooter.”
“Thanks,” I said, unenthusiastically.
“So first you get sick and then the girl of your dreams walks up and tells you your legs are a mite long for your trousers,” she mused. “Now where did you misplace our Irish luck, my boy? No, no—don’t mind me because I believe you, lad. Stranger things have happened in this family, believe me.”
“I do, grandma, because the strangest of them all happened today,” I replied.
I told her about being in class that morning—well, Wednesday morning—and how the next thing I knew it had gone instantly from sunshine to rain and it was Friday. I also told her about my conversation with Dex and how I’d proved to him that Thursday never happened for me. (I left out the part about being caught with my pants down by Barthorn.)
“And look,” I whispered excitedly, rolling up the leg of my pajamas, “here’s where there’s no scar on my knee! Doesn’t that just blow you away?”
Grandma leaned over, pushed her spectacles closer to her eyes, and examined my knee carefully.
“Well, I’ll be a dried-out merrow,” she exclaimed. “It’s as whole as it must have been on Wednesday! Whoever would’ve believed it?”
I caught the laughter in her voice.
“You don’t believe me!” I said, a little too loudly. Janie rolled over in her sleep.
“Ezekiel… pardon me… Zeke.” She looked at me gravely. “You may be a mischievous little jackanapes but you’re my grandson, and a Zooter, and you’re no liar. And what kind of a grandmother would I be if I didn’t trust me’ own grandson? I believe you, sure as I believe in my own immortal soul. You’re a son of the Emerald Isle, and that means you’re as likely to have magic happen to you as praties are likely to have gravy on ‘em.”
“But what should I do?” I pleaded.
She removed her spectacles, folded them, and held them like a pointer.
“Ah, that would be the question now, wouldn’t it? Many’s the lad or lass who dreamed their wishes came true. Trouble is, as you’ve found out, the things we wish upon ourselves aren’t always what’s best for us now, are they?”
“No kidding,” I said. “To tell the truth, I’m kind of scared to wish for anything now.”
“Good lad,” she said. “And so you mustn’t. For now, let’s you and I think on’t a while, then come and see me again when you’re ready. Don’t go wishin’ for anything before then. And Zeke, whatever happens, don’t tell anyone else about this. Can you trust Dexter?”
“I’ve already sworn him to secrecy.”
She nodded. “Now, come and give your grandmother a hug goodnight.”
The next morning after breakfast and my morning chores, I walked over to Dex’s house. He lived a couple of streets back, but there was a gravel alleyway that ran behind my house and connected to the back of his, so it was just a two-minute walk.
Dex thought Grandma Deirdre was the coolest because she always made a big deal about what a “fine tall and strapping lad” I had for a friend. “She’s not like other old ladies who just want to sit in those salon chairs with plastic over their blue hair and gossip,” he would say. I was sure Dex would understand that I’d let Grandma into my confidence. It was almost like we’d formed this secret club or something.
I rattled the gate on the back fence of his house as I went in, which always made Dex’s dog Angel start barking. It was how I let Dex know I was there.
Dex appeared at the back sliding door and opened it.
“What took you so long?” he said, stepping out onto the back porch. “Man, I hardly slept last night. Angel, calm down!”
“I know, me neither,” I said. “C’mon - tell your parents we’re taking Angel for a walk and let’s go somewhere we can talk.”
As soon as we were out of earshot of any houses, I told Dex that I’d talked to Grandma Deirdre about my “problem.”
“Did she believe you?” he asked.
I nodded.
“Wow, she’s such a brick! Why can’t my grandma be like that? All she does is read the horoscopes and talk about how lucky we have it these days. So anyway, what did your grandma say you should do?”
“Nothing,” I answered.
“Nothing?”
“Yep.”
Dex shook his head.
“Let me get this straight. You can have anything you wish for, just like that,” he snapped his fingers, “and you’re just gonna, gonna… not wish for anything?”
“Look,” I said. “It may sound like a dream come true, but so far it’s gotten me humiliated, sick as a dog, a week’s detention and an entire day and a half of my life wiped out.”
“But that’s just because you didn’t know what was going on!” Dex protested. “Besides, Thursday wasn’t that great,” he added.
“Yeah, but if it’s all the same I’d rather not lose any more of my life. It creeped me out. I’m just going to be careful for a while until I figure out what to do next. Maybe I’ll wish for no more wishes to come… mmmpphh…. hey!”
Dex had suddenly clamped his hands over my mouth and tried to shut me up, but I wriggled free.
“Are you nuts?” he exclaimed. “Don’t even say that before we’ve had a chance for some fun. Hey, I know! You should think of something to pay back Janowski for what she did in World History.”
I had to admit that it was a tempting notion. Half a dozen ideas for embarrassing Janowski in front of the class (with no way of tracing it back to me) suddenly flooded my brain. It was like my subconscious mind had been working on the same idea overnight. I began to chuckle as I imagined Janowski’s dentures dropping out of her mouth, coming to life and chasing her around the classroom.
“What’s so funny?” Dex asked.
“Huh? Oh nothing. C’mon let’s go to the arcade.”
Neither grandma or I said much to each other the rest of the weekend. We didn’t avoid each other, but I think we were both too excited. We had this amazing secret and it felt like if we talked too much about it, the whole adventure might fade away and we’d be left with nothing but another soggy springtime. I knew we’d talk again when the time was right, so I didn’t worry about it.
On Monday things were back to normal, except I still had detention with Dex after school. It wasn’t until Tuesday that my adventure shifted into second gear. And wouldn’t you know, it happened in World History class.
Saturday, March 7, 2009
Ruminations on Life, and other cereals
The country is facing a lot of major issues these days. The Economy. Health care reform. Gay rights. Africanized honey bees. Maybe that's why, lately, I've been thinking hard about one of the weightier issues we all deal with on a daily basis: what to have for breakfast.
Not to put too fine a point on it, but as true-blue Americans, the matter isn't so much what to have for breakfast, but which kind of cereal we should choose. We already know breakfast is the most important meal of the day. (Why? Because they say so and we all know who they are). Let's face it, if beef is what's for dinner, cold cereal and milk are what's for breakfast.
Every morning it's the same dilemma. You wake up, scratch the parts that itch, and stumble wearily from the bed to the kitchen. You open the cupboard and for five minutes, while your bleary eyes attempt to focus, you stare at the boxes lined neatly on the shelf. For a moment you consider Cheerios. Every patriotic American family has at least one box of Cheerios in the cupboard, which may or may not have been purchased within the past 24 months. Instead, you reach for the Lucky Charms first, but you take the Cheerios box too, because you'll need something to read as you ingest your Irish symbols of luck drenched in skim milk (to assuage your conscience). Besides, you reason, Lucky Charms is made with whole grain oats, and oat bran is the active ingredient in Cheerios that has been known to reverse colon cancer, pinkeye and athlete's foot in Siamese rats.
But I digress. The purpose of this article is to inform you all that, after 35 years of painstaking research and personal expense, I have discovered the top 10 best breakfast cereals and, for the good of society, I will now share this list with you all. So here it is:
1) Life Cereal, by Quaker
It's all about the oats -- whole grain oats. Life is a wonderful blend of oat-y goodness and sweet (but not too sweet) flavor. Life is crunchy, but it won't tear your mouth to shreds like Capn Crunch. If Life has one drawback, it's that it goes soggy a little too quickly, but the serious cereal eater won't have a problem. Two variations on this theme - Cinnamon Life and Maple & Brown Sugar Life, are also amazing when your morning tooth is feeling a little sweet. Anyway, two million horses can't be wrong -- eat oats.
2) Wheaties, by General Mills
I still remember the first champion I noticed on a Wheaties box: Olympian Bruce Jenner. Maybe it was the distinguished first name that caught my eye, but by the time I'd finished the bowl, I knew that I, too, was a champion. It's hard to go wrong with that crispy caramelized-wheat flavor, and with endorsements from Michael Jordan to Tiger Woods, you know you're in good company when you eat this cereal. Drawbacks: They haven't put a picture of me on the box yet...
3) Reeses Puffs, by General Mills
From a purist's point of view, this is the first truly "sweet" cereal on the list, although arguably the first two could be classified as sweet. I do admit that the top 3 each have enough sugar to last the average human being for a week; however, I classify "sweet" cereals based on one criterion only: would I have dumped extra sugar on it as kid? Today I don't add sugar to any cereal (not even Grape Nuts), but as a boy, if my mom didn't stop me I'd add so much sugar to corn flakes or Cheerios that when I was done the "milk" was nothing more than a white syrupy sludge. Where was I? Oh yes, Reese's Puffs. What can I say? The "General" nailed it with this amazing blend of Peanut Butter Cups meets Capn Crunch. Drawbacks: Do NOT buy more than one box at a time; this cereal is more addictive than crystal meth (I've heard).
4) Frosted Mini-Wheats - Blueberry Muffin, by Kellogs
Number four is basically a tie between Cinnamon Streusel Shredded Wheat, basic Frosted Shredded Wheat and Blueberry Muffin Shredded Wheat, but the blueberries put the latter just over the top. Wow. Your taste buds will sing your praises when you spoon this stuff into your mouth. Drawbacks: You don't want to know what happens to this cereal if left sitting in milk too long.
5) Golden Grahams, by General Mills
The General gave us a winning formula with this cereal and no mistake. Those perfectly formed golden ridges with "just a titch of golden honey" makes me, smilin' wanna say... and I forget the rest of the jingle, but who cares - the cereal is amazing. Drawbacks: Almost too crunchy at first, but they do soften nicely in milk.
6) Chex, by General Mills
It's hard to argue with cereal that is this versatile. What's your mood? Chex has got something for every morning: corn, rice, wheat - you've got it. And in the evening you can throw a killer when you bust out the Chex Party Mix! Cinnamon Chex are really good on a sweet morning. Drawbacks: A little bland after the second or third morning in a row -- try mixing them together for a nice change.
7) Cracklin' Oat Bran by Kellogs
Don't be fooled by its appearance - this is not animal food! Healthful meets wild n' crazy. This cereal is a fantastic blend of texture, savory taste and aroma (you'll smell it before it hits the bottom of the bowl as you pour). Speaking of poor, that is probably what you'll be after you buy this cereal. There is a reason why most supermarkets have banks inside -- they opened up shop when Kellogs introduced this cereal, so would-be buyers could up their line of credit, mortgage their homes, etc. It's almost worth it, though. Drawbacks: Already mentioned.
8) Honey Nut Cheerios, by General Mills
I'll go ahead and lump Cheerios in here, too. They're both classics, but drawbacks include post-breakfast breath (hopefully you're going to brush anyway, but...) and over-exposure in church.
9) Kellogs Corn Flakes
You just can't say "Corn Flakes, by Kellogs." Kellogs is corn flakes, and corn flakes = Kellogs. It's an American tradition, like baseball and apple pie. I'm surprised you can't buy corn flakes at MLB stadiums, and I'm sure there's a recipe for pie crust that involves corn flakes. We coated our oven-baked chicken in corn flakes the other day. Drawbacks: They can spike your blood sugar faster than a visit to Cold Stone Creamery -- my diabetic uncle told me so.
10) Lucky Charms, by General Mills
Ahh, the luck o' the Irish! Again, it's back to the oats, and it doesn't hurt to mix in some of those magical colored marshmallows, either. Too bad they're almost as crunchy as the cereal itself. Drawbacks: Have been known to cause strange colors to appear as noticed when brushing teeth or taking care of other bodily business.
Honorable mention: Capn Crunch, and its varieties. They might have made the top ten, but the drawback of cutting your mouth to ribbons dropped them out. But as one friend who defended them once said, "Hey, breakfast just isn't breakfast unless shards of flesh are hanging from the roof of your mouth when you're done."
Worst cereals:
-Fruity Pebbles. Yuck! They remind me of the syrupy white sludge when I added too much sugar as a kid, except the sludge isn't white. My roommate let me try a bowl at college (they're his favorite) and I quit after two bites.
-Apple Jacks. OK, they actually taste pretty good, but don't smell them!
-All Bran. I think that it really IS horse food. It tastes and feels like someone swept the floor of a barn and dumped it into a box.
And there you have it -- the best (and worst) breakfast cereals in America. And now that THAT issue is behind us, we can get back to other important issues of national security, like - did David Archuleta get jobbed in that final American Idol vote, or what??
Not to put too fine a point on it, but as true-blue Americans, the matter isn't so much what to have for breakfast, but which kind of cereal we should choose. We already know breakfast is the most important meal of the day. (Why? Because they say so and we all know who they are). Let's face it, if beef is what's for dinner, cold cereal and milk are what's for breakfast.
Every morning it's the same dilemma. You wake up, scratch the parts that itch, and stumble wearily from the bed to the kitchen. You open the cupboard and for five minutes, while your bleary eyes attempt to focus, you stare at the boxes lined neatly on the shelf. For a moment you consider Cheerios. Every patriotic American family has at least one box of Cheerios in the cupboard, which may or may not have been purchased within the past 24 months. Instead, you reach for the Lucky Charms first, but you take the Cheerios box too, because you'll need something to read as you ingest your Irish symbols of luck drenched in skim milk (to assuage your conscience). Besides, you reason, Lucky Charms is made with whole grain oats, and oat bran is the active ingredient in Cheerios that has been known to reverse colon cancer, pinkeye and athlete's foot in Siamese rats.
But I digress. The purpose of this article is to inform you all that, after 35 years of painstaking research and personal expense, I have discovered the top 10 best breakfast cereals and, for the good of society, I will now share this list with you all. So here it is:
1) Life Cereal, by Quaker
It's all about the oats -- whole grain oats. Life is a wonderful blend of oat-y goodness and sweet (but not too sweet) flavor. Life is crunchy, but it won't tear your mouth to shreds like Capn Crunch. If Life has one drawback, it's that it goes soggy a little too quickly, but the serious cereal eater won't have a problem. Two variations on this theme - Cinnamon Life and Maple & Brown Sugar Life, are also amazing when your morning tooth is feeling a little sweet. Anyway, two million horses can't be wrong -- eat oats.
2) Wheaties, by General Mills
I still remember the first champion I noticed on a Wheaties box: Olympian Bruce Jenner. Maybe it was the distinguished first name that caught my eye, but by the time I'd finished the bowl, I knew that I, too, was a champion. It's hard to go wrong with that crispy caramelized-wheat flavor, and with endorsements from Michael Jordan to Tiger Woods, you know you're in good company when you eat this cereal. Drawbacks: They haven't put a picture of me on the box yet...
3) Reeses Puffs, by General Mills
From a purist's point of view, this is the first truly "sweet" cereal on the list, although arguably the first two could be classified as sweet. I do admit that the top 3 each have enough sugar to last the average human being for a week; however, I classify "sweet" cereals based on one criterion only: would I have dumped extra sugar on it as kid? Today I don't add sugar to any cereal (not even Grape Nuts), but as a boy, if my mom didn't stop me I'd add so much sugar to corn flakes or Cheerios that when I was done the "milk" was nothing more than a white syrupy sludge. Where was I? Oh yes, Reese's Puffs. What can I say? The "General" nailed it with this amazing blend of Peanut Butter Cups meets Capn Crunch. Drawbacks: Do NOT buy more than one box at a time; this cereal is more addictive than crystal meth (I've heard).
4) Frosted Mini-Wheats - Blueberry Muffin, by Kellogs
Number four is basically a tie between Cinnamon Streusel Shredded Wheat, basic Frosted Shredded Wheat and Blueberry Muffin Shredded Wheat, but the blueberries put the latter just over the top. Wow. Your taste buds will sing your praises when you spoon this stuff into your mouth. Drawbacks: You don't want to know what happens to this cereal if left sitting in milk too long.
5) Golden Grahams, by General Mills
The General gave us a winning formula with this cereal and no mistake. Those perfectly formed golden ridges with "just a titch of golden honey" makes me, smilin' wanna say... and I forget the rest of the jingle, but who cares - the cereal is amazing. Drawbacks: Almost too crunchy at first, but they do soften nicely in milk.
6) Chex, by General Mills
It's hard to argue with cereal that is this versatile. What's your mood? Chex has got something for every morning: corn, rice, wheat - you've got it. And in the evening you can throw a killer when you bust out the Chex Party Mix! Cinnamon Chex are really good on a sweet morning. Drawbacks: A little bland after the second or third morning in a row -- try mixing them together for a nice change.
7) Cracklin' Oat Bran by Kellogs
Don't be fooled by its appearance - this is not animal food! Healthful meets wild n' crazy. This cereal is a fantastic blend of texture, savory taste and aroma (you'll smell it before it hits the bottom of the bowl as you pour). Speaking of poor, that is probably what you'll be after you buy this cereal. There is a reason why most supermarkets have banks inside -- they opened up shop when Kellogs introduced this cereal, so would-be buyers could up their line of credit, mortgage their homes, etc. It's almost worth it, though. Drawbacks: Already mentioned.
8) Honey Nut Cheerios, by General Mills
I'll go ahead and lump Cheerios in here, too. They're both classics, but drawbacks include post-breakfast breath (hopefully you're going to brush anyway, but...) and over-exposure in church.
9) Kellogs Corn Flakes
You just can't say "Corn Flakes, by Kellogs." Kellogs is corn flakes, and corn flakes = Kellogs. It's an American tradition, like baseball and apple pie. I'm surprised you can't buy corn flakes at MLB stadiums, and I'm sure there's a recipe for pie crust that involves corn flakes. We coated our oven-baked chicken in corn flakes the other day. Drawbacks: They can spike your blood sugar faster than a visit to Cold Stone Creamery -- my diabetic uncle told me so.
10) Lucky Charms, by General Mills
Ahh, the luck o' the Irish! Again, it's back to the oats, and it doesn't hurt to mix in some of those magical colored marshmallows, either. Too bad they're almost as crunchy as the cereal itself. Drawbacks: Have been known to cause strange colors to appear as noticed when brushing teeth or taking care of other bodily business.
Honorable mention: Capn Crunch, and its varieties. They might have made the top ten, but the drawback of cutting your mouth to ribbons dropped them out. But as one friend who defended them once said, "Hey, breakfast just isn't breakfast unless shards of flesh are hanging from the roof of your mouth when you're done."
Worst cereals:
-Fruity Pebbles. Yuck! They remind me of the syrupy white sludge when I added too much sugar as a kid, except the sludge isn't white. My roommate let me try a bowl at college (they're his favorite) and I quit after two bites.
-Apple Jacks. OK, they actually taste pretty good, but don't smell them!
-All Bran. I think that it really IS horse food. It tastes and feels like someone swept the floor of a barn and dumped it into a box.
And there you have it -- the best (and worst) breakfast cereals in America. And now that THAT issue is behind us, we can get back to other important issues of national security, like - did David Archuleta get jobbed in that final American Idol vote, or what??
Wednesday, March 4, 2009
Confessions of a Tough Guy
Recently a friend wrote to say he completely agreed with Item #2 in my Facebook note, “One Lie and 25 Random Things About Me.” Item #2 explains that I am much more comfortable expressing myself in writing than in conversation. (Christy has more than once complained that she can have a more intimate conversation with me via instant messenger than face to face.)
I share a few similarities with this particular friend, but there’s one thing in particular that we really have in common: we’re both guys. I’m not trying to be funny – growing up as a male in our society, you’re taught that expressing emotions is taboo. It’s not that on the first day of kindergarten your teacher stands up and writes on the chalkboard, “Rule #1: Little boys must not cry, hug, giggle or do anything else that might interpreted as emotional or girly.” But at a very young age, we hear things like:
“Stop crying… Be a man.”
“Don’t throw the ball like a girl.”
“Get over it.”
“That’s sissy stuff.”
“Take the barrettes out of your hair.”
OK, that last one was directed specifically at me, because I had three older sisters and they liked to dress me up when I was a baby. So it wasn’t my fault that until I started making guy friends I thought barrettes and dresses and make-up were cool.
Don’t misunderstand. I am NOT advocating a blurring of gender lines. Girls are girls and boys are boys, and there are distinct differences, not only in anatomy, but biological and emotional constitution that should never be erased or downplayed. Men should treat women with respect – open doors for them, give them flowers, push their chairs in, etc. Women are perfectly capable of doing all those things and more, but chivalry, in my opinion, is a way of showing respect and gratitude for womanhood, because without it, none of us would exist. (Yes, I do know it takes a man, too – and I’m not just talking about pregnancy and birth; we all owe our moms a ton for the love and nurture they gave us throughout our formative years.)
At a young age, boys who cry a lot or don’t play sports are often called sissies, and later on in life, “homos.” I wonder if this is where a lot of male homophobia comes from – it’s not so much that we are scared of gay people; I think what a lot of guys are afraid of is being classed as effeminate.
Like a lot of guys, I’ve always liked sports, and fortunately, I’ve always been pretty good at them (not great, lest you think I’m bragging.) As a kid I chased bugs, burned ants under magnifying glasses, laughed about flatulence, played in the mud and loved anything that involved a ball. On the exterior, I was your average guy. But under the surface lay a carefully guarded sensitivity that I was afraid to reveal. Sometimes, during a sad story or movie, tears would well up in my eyes. If anyone looked, I would pretend my eyes were “itching.” I loved to read books and fairy tales. As a teen I found girls easier to talk to than guys, because I didn’t have to keep up a false front of toughness. I developed a love for drama, and I liked to sing and even dance, although I’m no Fred Astaire. If any guys ever teased me, I’d claim I was just doing it to impress the girls. Even to this day I am careful about who finds out that I like to read and write poetry, or listen to opera.
So why am I still embarrassed? I’m a man, I’m straight and I like sports. I’ve spent so much of life repressing and stifling my own emotions that now I have an extra hard time expressing them, and for some reason they prefer to emerge through my tapping fingers than from between my lips. I drive Christy, and myself, crazy – because there are a zillion emotions I want to express but I can’t seem to get them from my heart to my brain and from my brain to my mouth.
I’m a guy. So why can’t I read “Anne of Green Gables” except behind closed doors, or admit that I like movies like “Enchanted April” and “Return to Me?” I’ll write a poem if I want to, dammit. (Notice how I felt the need to throw in a cuss word to remind you that even if I’m sensitive, I’m still tough enough to swear.) I might even ask for an opera CD for my birthday – what’s it to ya?
Why can’t I be open about the fact that I like Robert Frost more than Dale Earnhardt, or Steven Sondheim more than Sugar Ray Leonard? So what if I like poetry and football, chick flicks and Batman, acting and weightlifting? I want to slap high fives with guys after bowling a strike, but I also want hugs and kisses from my sons and (if I had any) my daughters –– and especially my wife.
I wonder how many more of you “sensitive” straight men are out there, still hiding in the closet? (Or more likely, if you’re like me, the food pantry.) If you’re really as brave and tough as you let on, then admit you feel something besides hunger, hubris and hormones.
So I say, screw you “macho man” society. I can cry when I’ve had a horrible day at the office, I can sing in the church choir, and I can listen to “Carmen.” (Just don’t ask me to watch, “Dr. Phil” – I’ve got to draw the line somewhere.) And if you make fun of me, I’ll punch you in the nose… feel free to cry about it.
I share a few similarities with this particular friend, but there’s one thing in particular that we really have in common: we’re both guys. I’m not trying to be funny – growing up as a male in our society, you’re taught that expressing emotions is taboo. It’s not that on the first day of kindergarten your teacher stands up and writes on the chalkboard, “Rule #1: Little boys must not cry, hug, giggle or do anything else that might interpreted as emotional or girly.” But at a very young age, we hear things like:
“Stop crying… Be a man.”
“Don’t throw the ball like a girl.”
“Get over it.”
“That’s sissy stuff.”
“Take the barrettes out of your hair.”
OK, that last one was directed specifically at me, because I had three older sisters and they liked to dress me up when I was a baby. So it wasn’t my fault that until I started making guy friends I thought barrettes and dresses and make-up were cool.
Don’t misunderstand. I am NOT advocating a blurring of gender lines. Girls are girls and boys are boys, and there are distinct differences, not only in anatomy, but biological and emotional constitution that should never be erased or downplayed. Men should treat women with respect – open doors for them, give them flowers, push their chairs in, etc. Women are perfectly capable of doing all those things and more, but chivalry, in my opinion, is a way of showing respect and gratitude for womanhood, because without it, none of us would exist. (Yes, I do know it takes a man, too – and I’m not just talking about pregnancy and birth; we all owe our moms a ton for the love and nurture they gave us throughout our formative years.)
At a young age, boys who cry a lot or don’t play sports are often called sissies, and later on in life, “homos.” I wonder if this is where a lot of male homophobia comes from – it’s not so much that we are scared of gay people; I think what a lot of guys are afraid of is being classed as effeminate.
Like a lot of guys, I’ve always liked sports, and fortunately, I’ve always been pretty good at them (not great, lest you think I’m bragging.) As a kid I chased bugs, burned ants under magnifying glasses, laughed about flatulence, played in the mud and loved anything that involved a ball. On the exterior, I was your average guy. But under the surface lay a carefully guarded sensitivity that I was afraid to reveal. Sometimes, during a sad story or movie, tears would well up in my eyes. If anyone looked, I would pretend my eyes were “itching.” I loved to read books and fairy tales. As a teen I found girls easier to talk to than guys, because I didn’t have to keep up a false front of toughness. I developed a love for drama, and I liked to sing and even dance, although I’m no Fred Astaire. If any guys ever teased me, I’d claim I was just doing it to impress the girls. Even to this day I am careful about who finds out that I like to read and write poetry, or listen to opera.
So why am I still embarrassed? I’m a man, I’m straight and I like sports. I’ve spent so much of life repressing and stifling my own emotions that now I have an extra hard time expressing them, and for some reason they prefer to emerge through my tapping fingers than from between my lips. I drive Christy, and myself, crazy – because there are a zillion emotions I want to express but I can’t seem to get them from my heart to my brain and from my brain to my mouth.
I’m a guy. So why can’t I read “Anne of Green Gables” except behind closed doors, or admit that I like movies like “Enchanted April” and “Return to Me?” I’ll write a poem if I want to, dammit. (Notice how I felt the need to throw in a cuss word to remind you that even if I’m sensitive, I’m still tough enough to swear.) I might even ask for an opera CD for my birthday – what’s it to ya?
Why can’t I be open about the fact that I like Robert Frost more than Dale Earnhardt, or Steven Sondheim more than Sugar Ray Leonard? So what if I like poetry and football, chick flicks and Batman, acting and weightlifting? I want to slap high fives with guys after bowling a strike, but I also want hugs and kisses from my sons and (if I had any) my daughters –– and especially my wife.
I wonder how many more of you “sensitive” straight men are out there, still hiding in the closet? (Or more likely, if you’re like me, the food pantry.) If you’re really as brave and tough as you let on, then admit you feel something besides hunger, hubris and hormones.
So I say, screw you “macho man” society. I can cry when I’ve had a horrible day at the office, I can sing in the church choir, and I can listen to “Carmen.” (Just don’t ask me to watch, “Dr. Phil” – I’ve got to draw the line somewhere.) And if you make fun of me, I’ll punch you in the nose… feel free to cry about it.
Wednesday, February 25, 2009
If Dick Vitale broadcasted dinnertime at our house...
Dick: Ba-boom, baby! I’m sitting tableside with the Jacobs tonight and it looks like Mom has cooked up another delicious and nutritious dinner! How does she do it!? Didn’t this beautiful woman just get back from triathlon training? Look at that figure! (Oops, sorry Dad!) And here come the two oldest boys now. Dad is shepherding them into the bathroom to wash their hands. Oh! They just executed a textbook scatter move to avoid hand-washing. But it looks like Dad’s got ’em cornered. I’m telling you, this man has the size and weight advantage and he’s not afraid to use it, baby! One under each arm — look at the determination on his face!
OK, hands are washed and they’re sitting down for the meal. Here comes the blessing... and Sammy jumps off his chair! He’s off to the races... but no! Brilliantly corralled by Mom, and I’ll tell you what, she had the foresight to strap Riley into his booster chair first to prevent another scatter play. This woman’s seen it all, folks. Oops, boys are fighting over who gets to say the blessing again. Let’s see how Mom & Dad handle this one. Yes, Sammy admits he said it at lunchtime, and he’s, he’s... calming down. Whew! This 5-year-old is really showing signs of maturity lately... could be the kindergarten class.
Dinner is served. Dad dishes up Sammy’s chicken casserole while Mom helps Riley. And Sammy’s off his chair again! There he goes! He’s off to the potty races folks. Boy, you get that body sitting still for five seconds and look what happens. Now Sammy’s back. He goes for the rolls---ooh! Rejected by Mom! No bread until you’ve tasted your casserole, young man! Meanwhile Riley uses the distraction to tip his chair backward—denied by Mom again! But good try. This is one 4-year-old whose competitive fire is only matched by his vocabulary! Was that an adverb he just threw out there like a champ? Maybe, but what do I know, I’m a sports broadcaster…
And now timeout is called by little Ezekiel (Zeke, baby!) who just pulled a hat trick by dumping dinner on the floor for the third straight night. Not to worry, he'll eat if off the floor later. Kid’s got moxie, I tell you! OK, Dad plugs him with a sippie cup and we’re back into action! Sammy and Riley still refuse to try the casserole... uh-oh baby, this one could go the distance! Mom and Dad are busting out all the moves: bribery, super-heroes and villains, cajoling, begging, pleading... Did Dad just threaten a college tuition blackout? Yes! Will it work...? No! Would you look at the recalcitrance on those angelic faces! The sheer defiance! Their lips are sealed tighter than Daddy’s wallet, and they COULD—GO—ALL—THE—WAY until bedtime!
But no! Christy pulls out the last-resort: dessert! We’re headed to overtime with double-chocolate-chip cookies! (Would you believe Bruce made them?) She and Dad are eating them in front of the kids... The boys are eyeballing the treats, now looking back at dinner. Ooh! Zeke has spotted the good stuff and he's screaming for a "ga-ga" as he calls them. I don’t know, I think the older boys' will is crumbling... and they’re... they're eating! Whoa! And just like that, dinner is devoured in unbelievable time and it’s all over but the face wiping. Another thriller! This has been Dick Vitale, and I’m out!
OK, hands are washed and they’re sitting down for the meal. Here comes the blessing... and Sammy jumps off his chair! He’s off to the races... but no! Brilliantly corralled by Mom, and I’ll tell you what, she had the foresight to strap Riley into his booster chair first to prevent another scatter play. This woman’s seen it all, folks. Oops, boys are fighting over who gets to say the blessing again. Let’s see how Mom & Dad handle this one. Yes, Sammy admits he said it at lunchtime, and he’s, he’s... calming down. Whew! This 5-year-old is really showing signs of maturity lately... could be the kindergarten class.
Dinner is served. Dad dishes up Sammy’s chicken casserole while Mom helps Riley. And Sammy’s off his chair again! There he goes! He’s off to the potty races folks. Boy, you get that body sitting still for five seconds and look what happens. Now Sammy’s back. He goes for the rolls---ooh! Rejected by Mom! No bread until you’ve tasted your casserole, young man! Meanwhile Riley uses the distraction to tip his chair backward—denied by Mom again! But good try. This is one 4-year-old whose competitive fire is only matched by his vocabulary! Was that an adverb he just threw out there like a champ? Maybe, but what do I know, I’m a sports broadcaster…
And now timeout is called by little Ezekiel (Zeke, baby!) who just pulled a hat trick by dumping dinner on the floor for the third straight night. Not to worry, he'll eat if off the floor later. Kid’s got moxie, I tell you! OK, Dad plugs him with a sippie cup and we’re back into action! Sammy and Riley still refuse to try the casserole... uh-oh baby, this one could go the distance! Mom and Dad are busting out all the moves: bribery, super-heroes and villains, cajoling, begging, pleading... Did Dad just threaten a college tuition blackout? Yes! Will it work...? No! Would you look at the recalcitrance on those angelic faces! The sheer defiance! Their lips are sealed tighter than Daddy’s wallet, and they COULD—GO—ALL—THE—WAY until bedtime!
But no! Christy pulls out the last-resort: dessert! We’re headed to overtime with double-chocolate-chip cookies! (Would you believe Bruce made them?) She and Dad are eating them in front of the kids... The boys are eyeballing the treats, now looking back at dinner. Ooh! Zeke has spotted the good stuff and he's screaming for a "ga-ga" as he calls them. I don’t know, I think the older boys' will is crumbling... and they’re... they're eating! Whoa! And just like that, dinner is devoured in unbelievable time and it’s all over but the face wiping. Another thriller! This has been Dick Vitale, and I’m out!
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