Fiddleeebod

The cloud forming is a cloud of new ideas for a story. GREEN ESDA is a title I like. It’s an anagram of ‘renegades’. So now I’ve got renegades and green. I think the narrator should be a bigfoot with the ability to pass back and forth between her home world and Earth. Why not? So now I’ve got renegades and green and a bigfoot. How about starting with a young girl abandoned in a high sierra meadow? The bigfoot appears, says, ‘Are you hungry?’ Then what? More things need to form in the cloud before I start writing them down.

On New Year’s Eve Harrison Grieve always dines on oats.
‘I do so because,’ he told his cuz, ‘it keeps away the goats.’

‘How does that work?’ asked his cousin, James Burke, a skeptic from the west.
Harry replied, ‘I keep closed one eye and dab mustard all over my vest.’

Not being a dunce, Burke left at once. Rapidly did he go.
At home his goat did gleefully gloat, ‘See? I told you so.’

Once long ago a jolly round little man with a snow white beard and a twinkle in his eye went for a walk across the tundra with his equally round little wife. Roaming through the reindeer, they discussed the upcoming trip in detail. After all, it would be the first such trip, and they wanted all to go smoothly. When they got around to discussing the suit, they couldn’t decide on its color. Shades of green, lime to forest, were considered and discarded. The round man tugged at his beard in thought. They crested a hill and stopped. They exchanged glances and vigorous nods, then hurried home to prepare the red dye. For they had seen the wonderful red leaves of a single scrawny tree growing all alone in glory there on the tundra.

See the witch flying over the Blue Hills up there at the top of the page? See the tops of those black trees? They are part of the Charborr Forest. Soon there will be a story about snow and the Charborr Forest. Dangerous snow. Silent falling, yes, but steady and perhaps unstoppable. Will all of the forest’s trees be buried in snow? When the last needle on the highest branch is covered, will the snow burst into purple flame? How can the snow be stopped before it flames the forest to a purple devastation? It will be up to Bekka and her friend Kar to solve that problem in Book 8 of The Bekka Chronicles, The Snows of the Charborr Forest.

Once upon a time in France there lived a family. On a special night in 1930, the Mama, Cecile, made up a bedtime story for her boys about a little elephant. The boys were enchanted and went to their Papa, Jean, who was an artist, and begged him to make pictures for the story. Papa Jean, who was born on this date in 1899, readily agreed and produced an illustrated book of the story. The little elephant’s name? Why, it was Babar.

Zootch was a young Prince of Blossom

His cleverness fell just short of awesome

He hid it, you see

And used it to flee

The terrors of marriage. He saw some.

The silly man danced to the door
and sang to me gratitude for
clothes he could wear on his nose
to aid it whenever it froze

I laughed from my place on the floor
and sang my own thanks and much more,
especially for my garden hose
to spray silly men when I chose

‘Ho ho, that’s neither or nor,’
said the wet silly man at the door,
‘My socks may be wet, I suppose,
but dry is my finely clothed nose.’

The magic fish removed its spectacles, placed them on the bedside table, doused the glow lamp, and settled back with a sigh to sleep. Sleep, however,refused to visit. The constant drip, drip, drip of air bubbles blurping up from the faucet in the bathroom tap, tap, tapped on the magic fish’s brain. Drat, thought the magic fish, I need plenty of sleep. Tomorrow no doubt I’ll probably have to deal with that fisherman’s greedy wife again or some equally obnoxious fool. The magic fish swam from bed to bathroom and tightened the tap with all it was worth and a few bars more. Such was its effort that its scales glistened like a rainbow. There, muttered the satisfied fish, that’s got it. Returning to bed, the magic fish burrowed down in comfort, sighing again, this time with bliss. Sleep visited, touching the magic fish with its soothing wand of peace. Elsewhere, the greedy wife of the fisherman spent a sleepless night concocting some newly ridiculous demand.

Mother Nature chooses her colors well, doesn’t she?

‘The both of us ‘ere proposes a toast to ye, Bobby Stevenson, to mark well this anniversary of the day ye were born. Ha Harrr!’