I'm writing bedtime stories to read to my kids every night. Here is the first installment:
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The old man stared out at his garden. There it was again. A
turnip was missing. A TURNIP was missing!
Every morning, it was the same thing. He would rouse himself
from his night of fitful slumber, slowly get himself up into a sitting
position, and stare out the window at his small dirt patch in the backyard. And
every morning, a turnip was missing. Nothing else. Just a turnip. No
footprints, no digging, just a hole where a fresh turnip was ready to be
harvested.
The old man loved his garden. It was the only thing he found
pleasure in since retiring so many years before. He was too frail to volunteer
anywhere in town – not that he would want to anyway. But here, on his own
property, he could plan his small bit of heaven to keep his mind busy throughout
the entire year.
He would grow carrots, corn, beans on a bush, tomatoes,
potatoes, cucumbers for pickling, pumpkins for Halloween, and even a vine of
decorative gourds for his wife. Oh…and turnips. But, this year, it didn’t look
like he was going to get any.
Laying back down beside his wife, he determined to wake up
an hour earlier the next morning, hide out in the backyard, and catch this
thief.
The next morning came faster than he expected. He had just
closed his eyes when his alarm went off. Shutting it off as quickly as he
could, so as not to wake his wife... Too late.
“Honey. Why so early?”
“Well…I told you the turnips were disappearing every
morning, didn’t I? I’m going to catch this thief once and for all – today!”
“You be careful, dear.”
And she turned over and went back to sleep.
The old man leaned over, letting his long white beard brush
against her cheek, and gave her a soft kiss on the same cheek, whispering in
her ear an ‘I love you,’ and then slowly climbing into warmer clothes to fend
off the chill in the air.
Stepping out his door, he was met by an icy wind. He smelled
snow on the breeze and decided that today would have to be the day to harvest
the last of his vegetables. But, first things first, he needed to catch the
thief.
Slowly, as not to be heard, expecting the burglar to be
anywhere, he crept into the bushes beside his fence, giving him a good view of the
entire garden, as well as the back gate.
And there he sat. He sat. He waited. And waited. And waited
some more. Somewhere around a half-hour later, he began to get restless,
shifting in his seated position. At the same moment, the gate creaked open. The
old man held his breath, his white beard twitching in anticipation and deep
concentration, hoping that the thief would quickly show himself.
Into the yard walked a young boy, not more than six years
old. The old man had never seen him before in his life. He was dressed in a
coat, shoes that were coming apart at the soles, socks that used to be white,
pants that were obviously too big for him, a tattered hat with a pom pom on the
top, and nothing on his fingers.
Slowly and steadily, the boy walked into the garden, found
the row of turnips, and expertly plucked one and turned to go. At the same
moment, springing from the bushes, the old man knocked his shoulder heavily
against the side of the boy’s head, sending him sprawling across the carrots
and hills of potatoes. In another swift motion, the man ripped the boys coat
off, revealing no shirt underneath, and began slapping him on the back with his
open hand.
“Why are you in my garden! Why are you stealing my turnips!”
“Sir, I need turnips for my cat. And my Ma can’t afferd dem.”
Expecting the boy to scream for his life and shocked at his
calm response, the old man grew angrier and continued to slap him on the back
and shoulders, doling out the punishment that only his seething anger could
determine the mete of.
The boy took it. About the fifteenth blow, the air was split
with a “whoosh!” and the ringing sound of metal on bone. The old man abruptly stopped
his slapping, stumbled forward, and fell face-first to the ground. Above him
stood the old woman, holding a shovel in her strong hands, her broad shoulders
squared menacingly in the direction of her husband, and yet her face was soft,
looking at the boy.
“Boy, take all the turnips and you can go. You can have as
many turnips as you like.”
The boy looked at the old woman, then at the old man on the
ground, moaning. He then looked at the single turnip he had pulled from the
dirt, deliberately pulled his ripped coat over his shoulders, turned to leave,
and walked out of the gate, never to be seen again.
The old woman reached down and picked up the turnip and
lifted it to her lips. She took a large bite out of the end and sat down beside
her husband, patting him on the head. He rolled over and looked up at her. She
handed him the turnip and he took a bite.
There they stayed as the sun finished its rising, beginning
a new day, melting away the frost.
Read more Bedtime Stories
Read more Bedtime Stories
Wow, talk about wish-fulfillment! I wonder if there might be something that could be said between the man and his wife at the end, something to carry on past the action? Enjoyable reading.... thanks
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