Sam and the Story Paintings (based upon true events)

"Mommy!  Mommy!  Come, paint me a story!" cried Sam as he lay in his bed every night.  You see, Sam would not, could not go to sleep until his mommy alighted from her chair, walked down the hallway, popped into his room, and sat on the edge of his bed.  There, Mommy would paint stories for him, wonderful stories about his many exploits.  Then, he would drift happily off to sleep.

One night, Mommy painted this story on the walls of his imagination:  Once, there lived a race car driver -- Sam the Race Car Man!  He wore a solid red driving suit, complete with a shiny, red helmet.  He drove a shiny red racing car with huge, black wheels and a bright yellow lightning bolt painted down the front of the hood. so that the other race car drivers could see him speeding along as he passed them, to the left, and to the right! 

But,,, on this particular day, there was a rumbling sound.  Something was wrong with the wheel!  And coming up on the right side was a blue car with white racing stripes down the side!  What would Sam the Race Car Man do?  He gritted his teeth and kept driving on!  His steering wheel shook!  His car was making a thud-thud-thud sound!  And, just in time, Sam the Race Car Man made it over the finish line,,, JUST IN TIME!  Cheers filled the race track, "SAM! SAM! SAM!"  Now, race to sleep, little man.

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Another night, Mommy painted a story in the halls of Sam's mind about "Fireman Sam."  Fireman Sam was a brave young man who loved to help others.  He would talk to children at schools about fire safety, and would rescue kitties perched high up in trees.  He had a dog named Buddy at his side and together, they would serve the community.  He was well loved.

One day, the alarm rang in the fire house. It was a three alarm fire -- that means it's serious stuff!  Fireman Sam leaped into his suit as quick as a wink and made his way to the fire truck.  And yes, Fireman Sam DROVE the fire truck, too!  He turned on the siren and sped through the town until the fire company made it to the huge skyscraper, where the fire was raging throughout. 

As he was fighting the fiery flames, Fireman Sam thought he heard cries.  "Help! Help!"

Fireman Sam felt the door to see it if was hot on the other side, and then burst through when he heard the cries once more.  There, in the closet, was a little girl, holding her kitty.  Well, Fireman Sam hoisted the girl over his shoulder and held the kitty in his other hand and made his way out of the window.  A ladder truck was right there, awaiting him!  As he made his way down to the safety of the ground, the little girl's mother hugged Fireman Sam and cried, "Thank you, Fireman Sam!  You have rescued my daughter and our kitty!  YOU are OUR HERO!"

Now, dear one, climb into  dream land and dream good dreams.

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On still another night, Mommy painted a story that Sam recalls to this day:  There once was a city that was covered in crime, seeming like a deep fog that would never clear away.  WHO would, WHO could, help in this town?  (doo-doo-do-do-do DOOOO!) Ta-DA!  There!  In the distance,,, it's,,, SUPER SAM!  And, who is following him?  Well, none other than Daring Dan and Radiant Rachel! 

Yes, they were brothers and sister, and they could fight with each other, but, when it came to fighting crime, they were indestructible!  Super Sam was super strong, and could fly!  Daring Dan had the ability to cling onto walls, and create wonderful inventions.  Radiant Rachel had the ability to disappear at will, but then, turn herself into a blinding ball of light that could render those in her path helpless. 

The public loved this tremendous trio.  But, the bad guys of the city did not, and planned to do away with this super troupe!  So, they secretly met in their evil lair to plan the demise of Super Sam, Daring Dan and Radiant Rachel! 

Ah, but unbeknownst to the nefarious group, Daring Dan had created an "Evil Lair Listening Ear" -- it could detect and record any and all discussions that posed a threat to our superheroes!  The threesome listened to the plans of the nasty evildoers and giggled. 

As the wicked meeting came to an end, Daring Dan was perched on the side of the building directly overhead.  He turned on his "Ventriloquist Machine" -- and made it appear as though the tremendous trio were directly ahead in what appeared to be a darkened alley.  The crooks laughed a maniacal laugh: "Bwa-ha-ha-ha!" and made their way down the alley, with evil on their minds.  They saw nothing in the alleyway and became confused.

Suddenly, a female appeared!  But no sooner  had they seen her, Radiant Rachel flashed her beautiful light!  It temporarily blinded the eyes of the criminals; they stumbled into the Criminal Critter Catcher that Daring Dan had created and it snapped shut, closing all inside.  Now, it was time for Super Sam to make his appearance. 

Whoosh!  A form flashed through the sky!  He landed on the ground, and placed his hands on each hip, pleased with the job his fellow crime-fighters completed.  "It looks like all I have to do is take this nefarious bunch to the jail, where they belong!" exclaimed Super Sam.  He picked up the box like it was a small box of candies and flew away to the jail, where the criminals were put away for a LONG time!  And he people of the town cheered for Super Sam, Daring Dan and Radiant Rachel!

Now, my Super Son, time to fly away to dreamland.

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Well, one night, Sam was awaiting with baited breath the arrival of his mommy.  But she didn't come!  He yelled for her, and started getting sad, because his Mommy wasn't painting a new story picture upon the plain white canvas in the halls of his awaiting mind.  After yelling for Mommy a few more times, Daddy entered the room.

"Sam, Mommy doesn't feel good.  She's laying down, honey, and cannot have anyone around her until she gets better.  She doesn't want you to catch it." 

Sam felt like crying.  But, instead, he did something else.  He gathered up a few things and ventured to Mommy's bedroom. 

"Oh, Sam, what are you doing here, my dear?" said Mommy weakly. 

"I want you to have this," said Sam as he laid his favorite stuffed animal beside his mother's head. 

Then, he placed his lion puppet and his puppy puppet on his hands and put on a rousing show for his mom.  After that he looked at his mommy and painted this story for his appreciative mommy:

"Once, there was a mommy who painted her little boy Sam lots of stories.  Sam loved being Sam the Race car Man, Fireman Sam and Super Sam!  But one day, Sam's mommy got sick and couldn't tell Sam a story, and that made him SAD.  But, Mommy got better and told Sam even MORE stories.  THE END; now, GET BETTER, Mommy, I LOVE you!"

Mommy smiled as Sam wrapped his arms around her neck and she lovingly said to him, "Sam, I am so glad you're my little boy.  I've loved you as Sam the Race Car Man, Fireman Sam and Super Sam, too!  But you know what? I really LOVE 'Sam the Storyteller'! Thank you for painting a wonderful story for me!"

Sam smiled, thinking maybe, just maybe THAT is what he'd be, a painter of stories just like his Mommy, someday!

A Thing of Beauty -- original story

In the days before plastic gadgets, there existed a pile of wood that lay in a woodworker's shop.  And in that pile of wood there lay a particular piece of wood.  It sat in the woodworker's shop, day by day, not being a very useful piece of wood.  It was actually content at first, sitting there amongst other pieces of wood.  But then, it noticed that one by one, other pieces of wood were being chosen and used to make beautiful pieces.  Suddenly, it was most pleased to find the calloused hands of the woodworker actually touch it, to pick it from the crowded mass of wood!  The woodworker peered through his round, wire-rimmed glasses, emitting a "Hmmm" and "Yes, I think this may be the right piece of wood, indeed."

As a newly minted member of the special few travelled to the master's workshop, it imagined itself becoming a grand piece of delicately carved work, to be placed upon a mantle, admired and adored by all who would enter its master's presence.  Or, possibly, a beautiful frame in which it would hold a treasured painting.  Or, maybe, a lyrical instrument, the sounds emitting from it that would inspire and delight hundreds, even thousands!  Or, even, a favorite toy with which a young master or miss would enjoy for many years, to be passed down from generation to generation.  It could not wait to be formed into what it was meant to be and awaited the master's touch upon it.

Suddenly, it experienced a new sensation:  it was being whittled away, pieces of itself felt like they were literally being chopped off!  This experience actually hurt, and hurt badly!  It did not realize that to be chosen meant that it would be changed in such a drastic way!  It felt like the cutting would never end, the gouging fierce.  A feeling of dread overcame the block of wood that was being changed into something that was unrecognizable from what it once was, and at times wished it could turn back, go back to what it was.  But there was no going back, and it realized that it needed to yield to the woodworker's cutting, chiseling and gouging, or else it would break, and not be usable at all, except for the firewood that fed the woodworker's stove.  So, it submitted to the skilled hands of the woodworker. 

It was content in being formed little by little, and actually felt like all of the cutting, chopping and chiseling away had finally come to an end.  It was relieved at this thought, actually.  The woodworker even let it rest for the night, which made this unfinished bit of work truly think it was perfect just the way it was.  It awaited daybreak, when it would finally find out its purpose for being.

Daybreak came, and instead of being released to its place of usefulness, even MORE changes were happening!  Hard, coarse sandpaper rubbed steadily against the piece of wood, causing even more consternation.  It desired to be what it was meant to be, and here, even more of itself was being worn away!  Admittedly, it was not as drastic as the initial cutting, chiseling  and gouging, but being sanded down, little by little was also not the most pleasant experience.  As the sanding continued for what appeared to be hours and hours, it realized that the sanding did not hurt as much; in fact, it felt as if the coarse sandpaper was replaced with a smoother and smoother sandpaper, eventually feeling like a gentle rub in the hands of the woodworker. 

Finally, the woodworker said, "Ah, you're almost done.  Now, where is my walnut oil?"

He rummaged through items on his shelf, until he finally found what he desired to finish his product.  He gently rubbed the walnut oil into the pores of the wood.  This part of the process felt the most rewarding to the former block of wood, which was getting anxious to fulfill its destiny.  It was confused that walnut oil was chosen to complete itself, as it expected the finishing touch to be nice, shiny varnish that would show off its beauty.  After all, the carpenter spent so much time with it, it HAD to be something very special, indeed.  It was placed in a special holding place until the morning once more.  The anticipation was growing too much for this chosen item.

Morning dawned once more which found the woodworker retrieving his piece of art, gazing at it with a most pleased look upon his face.  "Yes!  You are finally finished!  And you are going to make a most useful spoon, indeed!"

A spoon!  Did this piece of wood understand what the woodworker said, correctly?  A mere spoon?  It was hoping to be a source of admiration while fulfilling its purpose, to have the praises of men and women heaped upon its beauty!  But a lowly spoon, to stir food, mix messy ingredients, or endure the humiliation of being shoved into peoples' mouths to feed them was not a possibility it ever imagined for itself!  As it was handed to the baker, the spoon resigned itself to do the best job it could be, just as the woodworker had designed it to be.  For it was the woodworkers skillful hands that formed it into the item that he chose.  After all, how could the piece of work demand of the skilled woodworker what IT wanted to be, when it could do nothing apart from the initial choosing and work of the carpenter?

In time, it realized its humble existence was actually a happy one.  Because, instead of collecting dust on a mantle, it was a very useful tool in the bakery.  It enjoyed the fact that it was used to make bread that would ease the pain of hunger of men, women and children, as well as cakes and cookies which would supply joy to many.  And, when the wood on the spoon would get rough, as wood occasionally does, the woodworker came and sanded it gently with the smooth sandpaper, then rubbed oil in the pores to make it almost like new.  When its time of usefulness had become complete, it was most thankful to be a wooden spoon, as it became an invaluable instrument, which is truly, a thing of beauty, indeed.

Happy St. Patrick's Day!  This is a self-penned story!  I hope you enjoy this story.

Cookies, Anyone?

This is a little story that one can read to a child:

Cole Hunter ran to his house as fast as he could.  He beat his brother, Nate, home yet again, but was he tired!  Cole’s mother stopped to look at him as his rumpled shirt moved with the rhythm of his fast breathing.  She reached over and ruffled his unruly, black hair. 

“Leave your brother in the dust, again, huh?”

“Uh-huh,” replied Cole as he reached for a glass; he was aiming to pour ice-cold milk into it, when his mother tilted his freckled face to meet her gaze.

“Cole, are you forgetting something?” his mother asked.

Cole glanced around and asked, “Oh, yeah, where are the chocolate chip cookies you promised to make us?”

Just then, a squeaky voice was heard on the other side of the kitchen door.  “Hey, let me in!”

As Mrs. Hunter opened the door, an avalanche of papers tumbled onto the floor, along with a boy who looked like a smaller version of Cole, except this boy had brown hair and wore wire-rimmed glasses. 

“Oh, Nate, did you carry all these things home, yourself?” his mother asked with a sigh.  She turned to look back at Cole, and scolded him: “How many times have I asked you to carry your own papers home from school? “

“Nate lost a bet, so he had to carry our stuff home,” replied Cole, who was by this time pouring milk into his blue-tinged glass.

Mrs. Hunter held her tongue; she wanted to scold Cole, but remembered her plan, and thought better of it.  “I’ve got those chocolate chip cookies waiting, so why not wash your hands, first?”

The boys ran out of the kitchen, leaving the mound of school papers, which had been placed on the kitchen table, behind.  Mrs. Hunter saw a certain paper which caught her eye.  At the top of one of Cole’s test papers, a big, red “F” was staring up at the boys’ mother.  Also on the paper, the teacher wrote, “Cole, you did not follow directions. Please have your Mother sign and return this test to me.”  Mrs. Hunter thought to herself, “I hope this plan of mine works.”

Mrs. Hunter’s thoughts were dashed by water hitting her face.  Cole bounded back into the kitchen, wet hands waving in the air, shouting, “Where are the cookies?”

Cole’s mother cheerily held a plateful of cookies towards Cole’s awaiting grasp.  “Here, chocolate chip cookies just for you,” and added with a smile, “I hope you enjoy them!”

Cole looked at the cookies, and frowned.  “Hey!  Where are the chocolate chips!  You can’t have chocolate chip cookies without chocolate chips!”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Cole’s mother smiled slyly.

Cole held up the chocolate chip cookie that was missing all of the chips, then split it in half as he said, “Mom, every chocolate chip cookie has to have chocolate chips; where are they?  Why did you do this?  Don’t you have a recipe?”

“Oh, recipes are the same as directions; who needs to follow silly old directions, anyway?” replied Mrs. Hunter.  “Besides, I wanted to do it my way.  What’s the big deal if I don’t follow directions?” she added.

“But Mom,” Cole stated, “if you don’t follow the instructions, how do expect to get it right?

Mom gave Cole a serious look and said, “The same way that you don’t get things right when you don’t follow instructions,” as she held the latest test with an “F” scrawled across the top.

Cole looked down at the cookie.  He was silent for a minute.  “You know, Mom, I think you’ve got a point, there.  Boy, I’ve been trying to do things my way for a long time.  I haven’t listened to the teachers, and I haven’t listened to you.  A life filled with not obeying is like a chocolate chip cookie without the chips – the best parts of it all get lost!  I’m so sorry, Mom, and I promise – I’ll try to do better from now on.”

Mrs. Hunter smiled and hugged her son. “I’m so glad you understand.”  As Nate made his way into the kitchen, she reached into the cookie jar, and pulled out two cookies chocked-full of chocolate chips.  “I think you two would like one of these.”

“Wow, life sure is better when you follow the directions!” Cole stated as he munched on the cookies.

“Thanks!” both boys exclaimed.

Mrs. Hunter smiled as she watched the boys scurry away.  “Thank, you,” she whispered softly.

He was the Best of Dogs, He was the Worst of Dogs

When I was a child, we lost our dog in the 1972 Agnes Flood. This does NOT sound like a very happy beginning to a story,,, does it?

Well, after the clean up and repairs were done, the children in the household were aching for another dog. To our joy and our delight, a family which lived a few blocks away from us just HAPPENED to be on the lookout for anyone who may want a puppy.

 

 

All four of us children, as well as our mother, converged at the home of this family with the dogs to give away. There, amongst the batch of puppies was a tiny black puppy with just the right amount of white...his hair was wiry and his eyes were most thoughtful.  As small children of 5, 8, 10, and 12, we were most original in our choice of name for the puppy... Blackie II. Our first dog's name was, of course, Blackie.

 

 

Blackie II was a border collie mix whose main goal was to keep us home in our own little yard. If we would ride our bicycles, he would run over to us, grab our pants legs, head WHIRLING about, until we would fall with a thud.. and then, that silly dog would literally try to DRAG us back into the yard!

 

 

If we wished to go to the public pool, we needed to negotiate the outing with the precision of a military unit.  One fair day, we were enjoying a very fun day of splashing and relaxing at the public pool, when chaotic screeches filled the air.  A bolt of black and white was streaking through the pool changing rooms, and then it emerged on the other side of the changing rooms -- and it didn't even stop to pay the entrance fee!  My older sister took quick action:  she looked at the rest of her siblings and said, "DON'T PAY ATTENTION TO THE DOG!   If he comes NEAR you, DUCK into the WATER!" 

 

We tried to appease her, but the silly dog stood at the side of the pool, barking his fool head off; and there was NO way that THIS girl could hold her breath THAT long!  So, one by one, the Sheddy children's heads bobbed back out of the water, gasping for air.  And then one kid, maybe two, pointed to us and exclaimed, "THERE!  That's who the dog belongs to!  Them!" 

 

Our gooses were cooked, the lifeguard's fingers directing us O-U-T - OUT, and four, wet children trudged home dejectedly from the swimming pool with a very happy, bouncy dog proud of achieving his goal.

As summer breezes turned to the cool autumn winds, the time had come; we HAD to go to school, but Blackie didn't agree. I remember one day, while my class was outside to play a rousing game of kickball, WHO should we see bounding past the pond that bordered the property, but a black dog with the wisps of white streaking about!

 

 

He had ONE goal in mind,,, to retrieve his human children... HOWEVER, as soon as he saw the kickball fly from the foot of a young boy, his objective changed. He was on a one-way trip to that kick ball! Now, Blackie LOVED to chase balls, and we went through so many punctured balls we could have kept the Wilson Sporting Goods company in business for years! He would eye a football, kickball, any ball... he would run lickety split after the ball, and then chomp down fiercely, his teeth piercing the tender ball. His ears would flap with the heavy gusts of air emitting from the puncture wounds that meant the end of the lastest ball, and then he would run with all of his might, creating a new game for the children and himself, known as "chase the dog with the unrepairable ball."

 

 

But, back to this day on the kick ball field... as soon as he witnessed the ball, his feet took off with fast precision. I yelled, "HEAD HIM OFF! PROTECT THE BALL!" But it was too late. His fangs pierced through the ball, the gusty air flapped his ears, and he took off with every single child from that fourth grade class taking off in a scurrying pace in a game that these children called, "LET'S KILL THE DOG!!" Finally, the dog presented his catch to one of his owners -- me -- and that is when the glares, stares and angry words came my way about how I ruined recess that day. But I will always look back on that day with laughter and pride.. because that dog's appearance DID get me out of class for a half an hour until my mother could drag him back home until another adventure would present itself!

 

It was war, that is what it was

As I sit in my comfortable chair, I rub my shoulder, in memory of my exploits during the war.  I remember it like it was yesterday.  I was a mere kid, when I think about it, compared to the age I am, now.  But, I will never forget the biggest battle I experienced, during one of the hottest summer days of the year.

My brother-in-arms and I were trudging along the jungle, when suddenly -- we heard the crackling of a branch, some leaves, maybe.  We glanced at each other in wordless conversation:  the enemy was closer than we imagined.  We needed to act, and to act quickly.

In the near distance, we noticed a flat-roofed shed, and a lush green tree growing beside it that possessed a lone branch which provided a gate-way that was key to covering up our whereabouts.  With quick precision, we shimmied up the tree, then hung from that branch, moving to towards the shed, hand over hand until we reached our destination, while still keeping a trained ear out for the ensuing enemy.  We landed upon the roof, each of us taking a portion of the roof that would be considered "catty-corner" from the other.  There, we kept watch; I was assigned watching points North and West, while my comrade watched points East and South, waiting silently for the enemy forces to make their presence known.

And in short order, the enemy made their presence known.  Surprisingly, these two soldiers were loudly talking, oblivious to any possible danger headed their way!  They were complaining about the heat and their hunger, but seemed to pay no mind to their surroundings.  They didn't even hear the warning whistle directed towards my brother in arms to make him aware of the situation at hand.  With a belly crawl, he joined me at my position on the roof.  We turned our heads towards each other, satisfying smiles making their way to our faces.  We made sure our weapons were ready to fire down upon these two warriors.  We were going to vanquish the enemy -- they would be OURS!

 Rich signaled a countdown with silent fingers... three... two... one... FIRE!

We rained a hailstorm of firepower upon these two unfortunate souls!  Our goal was annihilation, and victory was indeed, ours!  We paid no mind to the pained screams of the enemy, as they shouted, "Richy!  Becky!   Those beans HURT!  And the next time you shoot outta those pea shooters, could you watch getting SPIT all over the place!"

Soon, we heard the cry of our neighbor's mother call, "Joey, 'Emergency' is on!"

"Hey, guys, I've gotta go.  Same time tomorrow?"

"Yeah, great game of War!" we answered in congratulatory fashion.  As we made our way to our home, we looked forward to the next day.  Maybe a trip to the Panama Canal was in order....