Archive for Stories
I must have been under five when I spent one whole summer day digging a hole with a large spoon in the side of a bank near our house.I had to dig and dig because the ground was so full of roots and my goal was to make a hole big enough to sit in – like a cave.And that took a lot of hard work.Digging through all those roots was tough.What I remember most about the experience is something my grandmother said.“When you take the dirt out, make sure you have a place for it,” she cautioned me, “because the dirt is used to being in that particular place, and it is at home there.Don’t take anything that is part of something and just scatter it around.Remember you are disturbing the home of the worms and the insects.You are moving them out of the place where they have been living, and you need to make sure that they are happy about where you are taking them.”So I would scoop the dirt into a little basket I had and take it around to various spots.“Is this where you would like to be?” I’d ask.And if the answer was yes, I would leave it.Otherwise, I’d pick up my basket, go to another spot, and ask again.When I had finally made the hole deep enough to sit in, I would crawl in there and listen.I could hear the earth talking.
Clark Little's Crashing wave on sand
The story is abut a little wave, bobbing along in the ocean, having a grand old time. He’s enjoying the wind and the fresh air – until he notices the other waves in front of him, crashing against the shore. “My God, this terrible”,the wave says. “Look what’s going to happen to me!”
Then along comes another wave. It sees the first wave, looking grim, and it says to him: “Why do you look so sad?” The first wave says: “You don’t understand! We’re all going to crash against the rocks! All of us waves are going to be nothing! Isn’t it terrible?”
The second wave says: “No, you don’t understand. You’re not a wave, you’re part of the ocean.” Via Vladimir Prelovac
I wrote this some years ago for kids…
CATERPILLER PIE
Caterpillar pie! Caterpillar pie!
We’re all having caterpillar pie!
In the middle of the night–when the moon was high
We gathered round the old pig’s sty.
There was Terry Raccoon and Billy Baboon,
Uncle Tommy Turtle and Larry the Loon.
Caterpillar pie! Caterpillar pie!
We’re all having caterpillar pie!
Bess the dog, Murdock the cat,
Young Willie Worm in his best tall hat;
Shelby Snake brought a soggy old shoe,
That was dropped in my drink by Katie Kangaroo!
Caterpillar pie! Caterpillar pie!
We’re all having caterpillar pie!
Millifred Millipede did the can-can
With Silky Sally, the royal Afgan.
When Clarence the Calf leapt over the lake,
Craydad Willie did a doubletake.
Caterpillar pie! Caterpillar pie!
We’re all having caterpillar pie!
Wee Mole Mike is hanging loose
With Horn Head Bob–the big bull moose;
Stinkbug Billy is asking why
Kerry Caterpillar is baking a pie!
Caterpillar pie! Caterpillar pie!
We’re all having caterpillar pie!
Grits in my gravy, rocks in my socks,
Ol’ Hog Piggers is watchin’ his hocks.
Party’s hot–we’re swinging on…
Everybody’s grooving and waiting on…
Caterpillar pie! Caterpillar pie!
We’re all having caterpillar pie!
[This story I wrote in 1983, in Tasmania, for a contest the Australian Broadcasting Commission was having. Each week, some of the stories were read over the air.]
The night had been long. Once, when the contractions were still far apart, we wandered outside arm-in-arm to stand under the forest trees. Starlight had filtered through their branches, and the moon just edging above the eastern mountains had flooded our valley in silver. The nightlife had accepted our presence and resumed their chatter. Down on the lake, geese called, almost quietly, to each other. The rustlings in the bush were our friends, who occasionally visited the cabin if a window or door was left ajar. I savoured the crispness of the night air.
As we stood leaning against each other, I could not help but begin to relax, though the knot in my stomach would not completely dissolve. As an owl screeched in the distance we had slowly picked our way back to the cabin.
But now….she was so tiny, this little one. I untangled the cord from her body, and placed her face down on Shona’s belly. Elation was slowly filtering through me as I carried on with the aftermath of the birth. I heard it also in Shona’s voice as she crooned softly to the newborn, her fingers massaging gently the infant back.
As I worked, I was aware of many things quite clearly without giving my direct attention to them; Zamphir’s pan pipes from the stereo–Shona’s favorite background music; the three scented candles—now almost stubs—burning on the bedside table; the merry crackle of pine logs from the fireplace; dawn sun warming the wall to my left; the smell of jasmine and new birth; of the absence now, of any tension in the room; of the shared warmth and quiet amazement that had taken its place.
So very tiny. I lifted the sleeping little body and immersed it slowly int he basin. She smiled then, as I sponged her, and her eyes opened. For moments then, Sharon Rose studied the movements of her hands, obviously enjoying her new life. Her eyes drooped, and finishing her bath, I dried her and took her, wrapped in the towel to sit on the side of the bed. Again, little eyes opened. This time they looked directly into mine with an openness I’d not have thought possible. Then, with great deliberateness, she turned her head to study Shone.
From the bushes beyond the window, an early morning songfest erupted.
Winner ‘Story of the Week’ prize.
Winner 3rd Grand Final Prize.
Published with other winners by the ABC in the booklet “The Story Teller.”
When I wrote it, it felt like it was a true story… that it had actually happened to me in another lifetime, or different dimension. It still feels that way, altho some of the details I’m certain came from this life….