The Unbroken White Line, Chapter 1

This Bedtime story will be several parts long. I may even turn it into book length. Who knows. I'm having fun writing it.

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His forehead rested against the window of the car. The sun was shining into the other side where his sister Penny sat, so he didn’t have to squint, as he fixed his eyes on the unbroken white line flowing by.

Jake and Penny were headed to grandma’s house, traveling from Minnesota to Oklahoma. The drive was long – 12 hours to be exact. Their parents had decided to drive straight through, stopping only to grab a bite to eat or a quick bathroom break.

Jake loved bathroom breaks because Mom and Dad hated gas station bathrooms, saying that they were “breeding grounds for new diseases,” whatever that meant, or, as they said, “even worse, the reason the world is overpopulated.”

The last time he had seen the inside of a gas station bathroom, he had stolen a king-size candy bar off the store shelf and snuck into the bathroom, quickly unwrapping the chocolate goodness, taking the biggest bite he could. At the same moment, the door opened and the largest woman he had ever seen tried valiantly to squeeze through the door. She pushed her way forward and saw the boy eating the chocolate.

“Somebody! There’s a boy in here, eating a candy bar,” she wailed, looking over her shoulder.

Frantic to just get out of there, Jake, in one motion, stuck the candy bar into his pants pocket, and raced under the woman’s legs – right into the knees of his father. Looking up, his father’s face was a mix of amusement and irritation.

“Son, what did I tell you about gas station bathrooms?”

His dad paid for the candy bar and they walked out of the store together. Not another word of the incident was ever mentioned, though his dad was muttering a long string of nearly inaudible words under his breath about busybody women who couldn’t fit through bathroom doors and how that was the cause of so much “angst,” whatever that meant, in the world, and if only less people would use gas station bathrooms, his son could enjoy a damn candy bar in peace and how he was bloody good at finding empty wrappers in pockets so he would have paid for it anyway.

But that was years ago. Since then, Jake’s parents made a game of bathroom breaks on road trips. They tried to find the best bathroom they could to go pee in, in peace. Nothing was off limits.

Once, they even walked into a Governor’s mansion and used the private bathroom on the second floor. Jake remembered the whiteness of the towels. They were soft too and smelled like hot cotton, fresh out of a dryer. He remembered burying his face in one of the towels, after washing his hands, and breathing deeply, then holding it there a little longer so he could continue breathing, letting the moistness of his breath wet the towel a bit to enhance the smell of the cloth, forgetting that his parents and Penny were standing right outside the door, waiting. Nobody stopped them.

Getting in and out was an art form. Jake’s dad taught him to always act like he belonged in whatever place he was in. Acting suspicious or whistling like the Three Stooges would inevitably bring a well-intentioned employee or worse, running in their direction, yelling or asking questions, which actually happened a few times.

Jake giggled in his seat, softly bumping his head against the window. His giggle caused his dad to turn around from looking straight ahead and gaze in his direction. His face contorted into a grin, revealing the tooth that got him out of any pickle he ever got into. One smile with that tooth – a crooked ‘I’ tooth – and any detractor was diffused immediately, looking at him as if he was a warm-hearted, lovable, human being. Anyone with that tooth could do no wrong. Suspicion was unwarranted, despite ample evidence to the contrary. Mostly, they were right. His dad was all those things. But he hated his tooth.

“What, Jake?” Penny asked, hitting him in the elbow with the back of her hand. “What’s so funny?”

“Oh nothing. Nothing really. Well…I’m just remembering that time when Daddy got caught by the buck-naked linebacker in the Lambeau Field locker room bathroom.”

Jake’s mom laughed.

“And to think, I dared him to do that one. We did get a free suite out of it too. All the hot dogs you could eat, nachos, pop.”

“BEER!” Jake’s dad said.

“Oh yes, beer. Can’t forget that,” his mom echoed back.

Jake’s smile rested on his lips as he again focused on the white line flowing by. It darted away from the car for a few seconds, then raced back toward it, nearly touching the bottom of the window. 



Read Chapter 2

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Bedtime Stories: The Little Red Pea

These days, we are bombarded by the idea that being different is laudable. We see it in every freaking Pixar film, just about every Hollywood movie, television, and religion (being set apart from the world), among other avenues.

But some people just want to be like everyone else. And that's okay. I did. I desperately wanted to be. But I couldn't. I can't. It's simply not who I am. But that doesn't mean I'm any better than those whose desires are to conform.

Conforming can be just as beautiful as being different. Community is comfortable and relaxing.

Now, The Little Red Pea...

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There once was a red pea. He was bright red with wrinkly sides. But everyone else was green. Beautiful green. The sun would shine down upon them and they would glow. The red pea stuck out like a sore thumb.

One day, the red pea went to his mother and began to cry.

“Mother…”

“Yes dear?”

“I’m red and wrinkly and everyone else is green and soft and shine in the sun.”

His green mother looked at him and her face softened. She scooted over to him and pressed herself against the little red pea with a warm pea embrace.

“Now now, dear. Don’t you worry. I love you whatever color you happen to be. But, my son, should you want to be a green pea like the rest of us, let me help you with that. No need to cry at all.”

The red pea looked up at his beautiful green mother, sniffled a little, and let out a soft yelp with a big smile.

“How!!?”

“Well, son, start drinking water. A LOT of water. Don’t stop. Keep drinking it. Then sit out in the son as much as you can. Don’t hang out by the ground too much. Climb up to the top of the world, wherever you can find a perch. Once there, open your eyes and see the beauty of the world. Before long, you’ll have what you want. You’ll be like everyone else.”

So the little red pea did as he was told. He began to drink water. He drank and he drank and he drank. Then he climbed up on top of the tallest plant he could find and looked up into the big blue sky. Rolling onto his back, he closed his eyes and began to enjoy the sound of all the animals, the wind, the rain as it came and went, and especially the singing of the other beautiful green peas. He drank more water.

As he sat there, the red pea became quite sleepy. He tried to keep his eyes open but couldn’t.  Soon, he drifted off and began to dream.

He dreamed that he was walking down a path in the dark woods. He was crying. Crying over his redness. It was all he could think about. How ugly his redness was, how everyone else was green, and how they all seemed to not even realize how beautiful they were – they just were beautiful and green.

Then, he woke up.

Stretching his soft green sides, he yawned a big yawn. Then he rolled his green body off of the leaf he was on, forgetting that he was sad and ambled up to a group of his friends. They took one look at him and began to jump up and down, cheering loudly, all talking at once. He couldn’t understand a word they said, they were so excited, so he swiveled his green self around and…

“I’M GREEN!!!! I’M GREEN!!!!, “ he yelled!

“I’m green,  I’m green, I’m green!  I’m so greeeeeeeeeen!!!!”

The little green pea ran up to his mother, and buried his face into her soft belly and wept. Then he looked up at her, tears streaming down his face, and giggled.

“Thank you, mommy. I’m so happy.”

THE END

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First Bedtime Story Response - The Kids Were Marginally Impressed

In the spirit of Charles Lutwidge Dodgson, I decided to begin writing my own bedtime stories, gathering a collection of them, and reading them to the kids. What I didn't expect is that they would comment on them and essentially be my kid-editors, making me a better writer.

Tonight, I read them my first story, The Old Man and the Turnip. The following were their responses:

Renaya (11): "So, Daddy. What happened to the turnip?!"

Me (33): "Um..."

See, what was running through my head was the fact that it was quite clear, in the story, what had happened to the turnip. In fact, from the eyes of the young lad, the old woman, and the bearded old man, we know what happened to the bloody turnip. I was beyond frustrated that, apparently, I hadn't made it clear enough. Maybe I needed the sun to have "looked down upon the blokes and follow the path of the turnip" - right into the old woman's mouth and subsequently, the old man's.

Renaya: "Oh wait! Yeah. I know! The old man bit it. It was still in the garden!"

Me (relieved): *poink!


Laura (10): "Daddy? Is that all? Do you have another story?"

Me: "Not yet. I'll write another one for tomorrow."

Her: "Can't you write it now?"

I love my little Laura.


Frederic (8): "Did the boy live?"

Good. Frederic understands the idea of a good story - don't reveal everything, giving the readers or listeners a chance to come to their own conclusions, causing their petrified brains to think for a bit, as they fall asleep.


Felicity (6): "Daddy! Daddy!"

Me: "Yes?"

Her: "I know that story!!!"

Me: "Uh..what? No no! I just wrote it!"

Her: "Nuh uh! My teacher just read it to me last week! I remember it!"

Now, I was summarily crushed. Two thoughts raced through my head. First, her teacher had read her The Old Man and the Sea, a similar classic, my title jogging her memory, yet forgetting that my story had no fishing line. Second, that my story was so un-original, her teacher had read her a story about an old man and a...carrot? Essentially, I was being accused of plagiarism by a six-year-old.

I wept inside and gave her the argument win.


Jack (4): "Daddy! I know how they can find the turnip! They just follow the footprints in the dirt, and it will lead them to the turnip!"

I laughed.


Analisse (3): *giggles...



So, those were my children's responses. I also ran the story by a dear friend, acting as my editor, as I amateurishly begin my Dr. Seuss career. Here were some of her suggestions. Please feel free to respond in kind, with your own, or agreeing with her wholeheartedly, or maybe even vociferously disagreeing, with a raised left brow.

1. If I was going for a realistic life story, the old man would have been unconscious and bleeding. He can't be so very "ok".

[I meant to do this. I wanted him to simply be dazed and life to move on. What say you?]

2. Cats traditionally just eat turnip greens.

3. The "Oh...and turnips." was a bit sloppy and detracted from the rest of the listing of vegetables in the garden. Try being a bit more deliberate in your wording.

4. The wife should have eaten the turnip and ignored the old man entirely, letting the audience make what they will about his demise or lack thereof.

[Here, I wanted the ending to be as I made it. I wanted the old couple to have a level of trust, which I feel I pulled off. What say you?]

5. The boy should want the turnip for himself.

[I kind of agree with her here. I like the idea.]

And that's it. I rather like my seven editors, six children and one adult.

Bedtime Stories: The Old Man and the Turnip

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.

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