At breakfast, Roderick's dad read aloud from the newspaper. Something about the Fourth of July, an announcement about a fresh batch of bacon available at Uncle Dave's farm, and a sale on applesauce at Ackermann's (Aunt Emily's Vintage Gravenstein, gallon jugs for two dollars).
Roderick was thinking about Megan Cupcake in a wet t-shirt.
The Cupcakes live on Elm Street, across from the Smiths and two doors down, in a white Gothic Revival. Mr. Cupcake's grandfather emigrated from Slovenia; his native surname was unpronounceable, so the immigration officer wrote down the first thing that came to mind. As he stood before the inspector, the senior Mr. Cupcake held a cupcake he had carried from Slovenia -- a cherished reminder of the old country, though somewhat stale from the long trip.
The name stuck. Mr. Cupcake's grandfather thought it was perfectly fine to be named after a small cake the size of an individual portion baked in a cup-shaped mold.
So Megan lives with her Mom and Dad, her older sister Emily, and a dog named Spot. Spot is a lovely old dog of unknown breed. He sleeps a lot.
Megan's mom is Irish.
Emily looks like Mr. Cupcake, which is unfortunate. She has a nice personality, though, when she takes her medication.
Megan looks like Mrs. Cupcake, which is very fortunate. Her curly red hair cascades over her shoulders, and what she lacks in stature she makes up in bubbliness and buxomness. Another fortunate thing, so far as Roderick is concerned: she has no interest whatsoever in step dancing. Instead, she prefers to read -- Jane Austen, mostly, and the Bronte sisters. Megan writes, too; secretly, she keeps a detailed journal.
Megan likes Roderick, because he is nice, and doesn't pull her hair or make fun of her passion for Jane Austen. Nobody else does, either, but Roderick has a particularly nice way of not doing those things.
Also, Roderick isn't aggressively creepy -- unlike Donny Clapper, who cornered her in an unlit hallway at the Friday night bowling party a couple of weeks ago. Donny wanted to play "let's feel under Megan's shirt", and only lost interest when Megan told him he was barking up the wrong tree, and that he should go hang out with Molly Bloom because she was really hot for him.
Megan has no objection in principal to playing "let's feel under Megan's shirt", but prefers to choose the time, place and participants. (The reader should not read anything in particular into the use of the plural).
On Tuesday afternoon, Megan stopped by the boathouse and invited Roderick over that night for a little get-together with a few close friends. Roderick gladly accepted; he likes little get-togethers with a few close friends, and he also thinks Spot is a lovely old dog. Emily, on the other hand, he avoids when possible, as she often forgets to take her meds. Fortunately, Emily is currently "on vacation" over at the Pleasant Haven Inpatient Center in Stapleton.
After dinner, Roderick left the house by the back door -- he could see Natasha painting in her studio -- walked up the driveway and down the street to the Cupcake house. As he walked up the sidewalk, Roderick noticed that Mr. Cupcake's big green 1948 Packard Eight Four Door wasn't in the driveway.
"Hi Roderick!". Megan greeted Roderick and invited him inside. She wore a dark green shirt -- Megan is fond of green -- with the top two buttons unbuttoned, and jeans. The Cupcake living room was decorated in a manner rather out of character with the house itself, the furniture consisting largely of a mix of 1960s retro and Swedish Modern. Megan's iPod sat nestled in a Bose SoundDock, which softly played Chopin's D-flat Major Nocturne, Opus 27, number two (the 1968 Pollini recording).
Personally, Roderick prefers the Rubenstein recording.
Roderick sat down on the bright orange "Egg" love seat (which was very stylish but not terribly comfortable). "Um...where is everyone?", he asked, looking around the otherwise unpopulated living room.
Megan sat next to Roderick in the confined space of the love seat. "Oh!", she said, "Hmm. Well, I guess they couldn't make it!". She smiled at Roderick, and cuddled very close.
Roderick soon learned a few more interesting things about Megan.
Wednesday, June 30, 2010
Tuesday, June 29, 2010
Tuesday
Birds chirped and tweeted outside as Molly awoke. She stretched, pulled on a shirt and pants, and padded downstairs to the kitchen, where Mary, Margaret and Catherine were already eating breakfast.
Molly has an unbelievable appetite. Her favorite breakfast is ham and eggs, with toast and jam. Mr. and Mrs. Bloom had left for the day, so she diced the ham, scrambled three eggs and cooked them in the big cast iron frying pan. She toasted two pieces of rye bread, then arranged her food on one of the big plates that Mrs. Bloom bought in Dublin.
Mary, Margaret and Catherine chatted about stuff. Molly sat and ate.
Meanwhile, Roderick woke up, dressed and ran downstairs to the kitchen; fed Laddie and Knuckles; sat at the kitchen table with Mr. and Mrs. Smith and devoured a plate of scrapple and applesauce.
In her studio, Natasha sketched. Mr. and Mrs. Zemlinsky are in Tokyo today, and Natasha is on her own (per usual). She paused, and wondered what they were doing at this moment. The Zemlinskys thought that a new town with a more wholesome environment would be good for Natasha. It never crossed their minds that staying home might be beneficial.
Natasha went over to the window and looked out just as Roderick and Laddie exited from the Smith's kitchen and ran down the driveway.
At the big Bosendorfer in the Bloom's living room, Molly sits to play; in summer, when she has no school, she can practice as much as she likes. She has a daily ritual -- first the finger exercises, then scales, followed by etudes and, finally, repertoire. The finger exercises take only a few minutes, but Molly will spend an hour on scales -- twelve major keys and twelve minor keys across multiple octaves, repeated faster and faster. Molly concentrates; her nostrils flare; her fingers fly over the keys.
At the boathouse, Roderick talks to prospective canoeists, retrieves canoes from the rack, places them in the water by the landing and offers canoeing tips to those who need them. It seems like all of his friends from school are canoeing today. Dickie Wickett, Roger Witherspoon, Freddie Bartram, Megan Cupcake, Bettina Zeppelin and Diana Witherspoon (Roger's cousin) all arrive in a group. Dickie, Roger and Freddie all seem self-sufficient, but Megan, Bettina and Diana all feign ignorance of the canoeing art. Megan, who is short, buxom and has a head full of red curls that cascade over her shoulders, lingers behind the others.
Roderick offers them individual attention.
In the summer, Mr. Bellini offers open studio classes to his more advanced students. Natasha, feeling restless, decides to go to his studio on Main Street. The subject today is the human figure. The model is Henry Witherspoon, Isaiah's grandson and cousin of Roger and Diana. Henry is two years older than Roderick, fairly athletic and a talented artist.
Molly attacks the Beethoven Opus one, number one; she loves the fiery Beethoven works from the middle period, but she plays the early works with grace, style and crispness.
About twenty yards from shore, Megan somehow manages to capsize her canoe. Roderick immediately dives into the Mill Pond, swims the short distance and helps Megan to shore. Laughing, she gives him a big wet hug.
At the studio, Natasha studies Henry, and makes a mental note to draw more men.
Molly has an unbelievable appetite. Her favorite breakfast is ham and eggs, with toast and jam. Mr. and Mrs. Bloom had left for the day, so she diced the ham, scrambled three eggs and cooked them in the big cast iron frying pan. She toasted two pieces of rye bread, then arranged her food on one of the big plates that Mrs. Bloom bought in Dublin.
Mary, Margaret and Catherine chatted about stuff. Molly sat and ate.
Meanwhile, Roderick woke up, dressed and ran downstairs to the kitchen; fed Laddie and Knuckles; sat at the kitchen table with Mr. and Mrs. Smith and devoured a plate of scrapple and applesauce.
In her studio, Natasha sketched. Mr. and Mrs. Zemlinsky are in Tokyo today, and Natasha is on her own (per usual). She paused, and wondered what they were doing at this moment. The Zemlinskys thought that a new town with a more wholesome environment would be good for Natasha. It never crossed their minds that staying home might be beneficial.
Natasha went over to the window and looked out just as Roderick and Laddie exited from the Smith's kitchen and ran down the driveway.
At the big Bosendorfer in the Bloom's living room, Molly sits to play; in summer, when she has no school, she can practice as much as she likes. She has a daily ritual -- first the finger exercises, then scales, followed by etudes and, finally, repertoire. The finger exercises take only a few minutes, but Molly will spend an hour on scales -- twelve major keys and twelve minor keys across multiple octaves, repeated faster and faster. Molly concentrates; her nostrils flare; her fingers fly over the keys.
At the boathouse, Roderick talks to prospective canoeists, retrieves canoes from the rack, places them in the water by the landing and offers canoeing tips to those who need them. It seems like all of his friends from school are canoeing today. Dickie Wickett, Roger Witherspoon, Freddie Bartram, Megan Cupcake, Bettina Zeppelin and Diana Witherspoon (Roger's cousin) all arrive in a group. Dickie, Roger and Freddie all seem self-sufficient, but Megan, Bettina and Diana all feign ignorance of the canoeing art. Megan, who is short, buxom and has a head full of red curls that cascade over her shoulders, lingers behind the others.
Roderick offers them individual attention.
In the summer, Mr. Bellini offers open studio classes to his more advanced students. Natasha, feeling restless, decides to go to his studio on Main Street. The subject today is the human figure. The model is Henry Witherspoon, Isaiah's grandson and cousin of Roger and Diana. Henry is two years older than Roderick, fairly athletic and a talented artist.
Molly attacks the Beethoven Opus one, number one; she loves the fiery Beethoven works from the middle period, but she plays the early works with grace, style and crispness.
About twenty yards from shore, Megan somehow manages to capsize her canoe. Roderick immediately dives into the Mill Pond, swims the short distance and helps Megan to shore. Laughing, she gives him a big wet hug.
At the studio, Natasha studies Henry, and makes a mental note to draw more men.
Monday, June 28, 2010
Art and Literature
There is no sex education in the schools of Beauneville, because the youth of Beauneville are not sexually active.
Actually, the second part of that sentence is not quite true. As in most towns, sexual activity among the youth of Beauneville ranges from none at all to rabid promiscuity. But the youth of Beauneville are smart; they understand that open and flagrant display of sexual activity simply leads to awkward discussions with parents and teachers; so the youth of Beauneville do not openly neck, pet, fondle or grope one another in public places, and they do not send or accept hopelessly sentimental and romantic love messages.
The educators of Beauneville are also smart. They have long since learned that the youth of Beauneville already know everything they need to know about sexual activity, and what they don't know they can learn in a moment on Wikipedia, the repository of all knowledge. Consequently, the educators of Beauneville see mandatory sex education as a waste of valuable classroom time, which could be better spent teaching Latin or Calculus.
The school nurse at Beauneville Latin does not distribute condoms. Students are expected to purchase their own condoms, which are available in aisle three of Zeppelin Drugs. Towards the back, next to incontinence aids.
If you need an abortion, see Dr. Cutlet in Stapleton. All major credit cards accepted.
Beauneville Latin does offer a class in Erotic Art and Literature, which is entirely in keeping with a core value of Beauneville Schools: anything is acceptable as long as it's tasteful.
Enrollment is robust.
After working all day at the boathouse, Roderick went to see Molly in the late afternoon. She invited him to stay for dinner. Per the usual custom, Mr. and Mrs. Bloom sat at the North and South ends of the table, respectively; Roderick and Molly on the West side; and Mary, Margaret and Catherine on the East side.
Mrs. Bloom served goulash, which Roderick ate with gusto.
Mr. Bloom paused between bites. "Well, Roderick", he boomed, with his big, loud voice: "are you sleeping with my daughter?"
Molly blushed slightly. Roderick paused.."Um...".
Mr. Bloom looked stern. "Well, why the hell not!". And everyone burst out laughing, except Catherine, who didn't get the joke.
Mrs. Bloom slapped the table. "Henry, you say the funniest things!"
Catherine looked puzzled. Margaret whispered something to her, and she smiled.
After dinner, Roderick and Molly sat close together on the big comfy sofa on the porch and chatted about...things. Molly wondered if Roderick was planning to take Erotic Art and Literature in the Fall. Roderick said he thought he might.
Actually, the second part of that sentence is not quite true. As in most towns, sexual activity among the youth of Beauneville ranges from none at all to rabid promiscuity. But the youth of Beauneville are smart; they understand that open and flagrant display of sexual activity simply leads to awkward discussions with parents and teachers; so the youth of Beauneville do not openly neck, pet, fondle or grope one another in public places, and they do not send or accept hopelessly sentimental and romantic love messages.
The educators of Beauneville are also smart. They have long since learned that the youth of Beauneville already know everything they need to know about sexual activity, and what they don't know they can learn in a moment on Wikipedia, the repository of all knowledge. Consequently, the educators of Beauneville see mandatory sex education as a waste of valuable classroom time, which could be better spent teaching Latin or Calculus.
The school nurse at Beauneville Latin does not distribute condoms. Students are expected to purchase their own condoms, which are available in aisle three of Zeppelin Drugs. Towards the back, next to incontinence aids.
If you need an abortion, see Dr. Cutlet in Stapleton. All major credit cards accepted.
Beauneville Latin does offer a class in Erotic Art and Literature, which is entirely in keeping with a core value of Beauneville Schools: anything is acceptable as long as it's tasteful.
Enrollment is robust.
After working all day at the boathouse, Roderick went to see Molly in the late afternoon. She invited him to stay for dinner. Per the usual custom, Mr. and Mrs. Bloom sat at the North and South ends of the table, respectively; Roderick and Molly on the West side; and Mary, Margaret and Catherine on the East side.
Mrs. Bloom served goulash, which Roderick ate with gusto.
Mr. Bloom paused between bites. "Well, Roderick", he boomed, with his big, loud voice: "are you sleeping with my daughter?"
Molly blushed slightly. Roderick paused.."Um...".
Mr. Bloom looked stern. "Well, why the hell not!". And everyone burst out laughing, except Catherine, who didn't get the joke.
Mrs. Bloom slapped the table. "Henry, you say the funniest things!"
Catherine looked puzzled. Margaret whispered something to her, and she smiled.
After dinner, Roderick and Molly sat close together on the big comfy sofa on the porch and chatted about...things. Molly wondered if Roderick was planning to take Erotic Art and Literature in the Fall. Roderick said he thought he might.
Sunday, June 27, 2010
Molly Bloom
On a Sunday in late June, Mr. and Mrs. Zemlinsky are in London. A light rain falls, and Roderick, Molly and Natasha are hanging out in Natasha's studio.
Roderick sits on a red cushion on the hardwood floor, reading The Native American Canoe. He figures the book will help him in his summer work at the boathouse. When he's finished reading about canoes, he plans to read The Handbook of Bond Market Analysis and Strategy.
Natasha is wearing a plaid shirt, sleeves rolled up, top two buttons unbuttoned, shirt tails out over baggy pants rolled up at the cuffs. Her feet are bare. She stands before her easel, observing, pausing, brushing, brushing, brushing, observing. She works quickly. The canvas is large, taller than it is wide.
Molly wears nothing. She stands posed, weight slightly on her right leg. Her blonde hair is long enough that if she were so inclined, with appropriate arrangement, she could hide certain parts of her body that most girls her age prefer to keep private.
But Molly is not so inclined.
If you wander into the studio, you would note that she is small-breasted, sufficiently so that the casual observer cannot tell when she wears nothing under her shirt (as is her habit). You would also notice that she is tall, with long arms and long fingers; that her hips swell with a graceful curve, and that she is completely blond.
Molly moves with remarkable grace. When she was a child, the Blooms sent her to dance lessons with Miss Duncan, together with almost every other child her age in Beauneville. The dance lessons didn't stick; Molly was much more interested in karate. She won her black belt last year, which Donny Clapper discovered to his chagrin a couple of weeks ago at the Friday night bowling party in Stapleton. Donny, who is Freddy Clapper's older brother, is about nineteen; he decided -- without any encouragement from Molly -- that she was hot for him, and that "no" means "yes". Molly floored him with a left-right combination and a kick to the groin that left Donny writhing on the foul line of lane three.
Roderick was impressed.
Molly is a Cancer, and she will be sixteen in a soon, on Bastille Day. She is the youngest of the three: Natasha, a Capricorn, turned sixteen just before the Zemlinskys moved to Beauneville; Roderick who will be sixteen next week on the first of July, is a a couple of weeks older than Molly. As long as Roderick can remember, he and Molly have done everything together: as toddlers, they toddled together in Beauneville Park; they studied piano together with Mrs. Gabrieli; in every grade at Beauneville Grammar and Beauneville Academy, they were in the same classes, sat next to one another, studied together and walked home together.
Roderick looked up from reading about canoes and looked at Molly. He'd seen Molly in the buff many times, but today, for some reason, she looked..different. Radiant, perhaps, or...Roderick couldn't quite put his finger on it.
"She's like my sister", he thought. "But she isn't my sister." Roderick is really comfortable around Molly, but today, he wondered to himself how she feels about him.
Molly likes Roderick, because he's kind, and thoughtful, and a good conversationalist, and because Molly doesn't feel like she has to say anything at all when she's with him, and because he seems to sense how she's feeling.
Natasha wanted to take a break from painting. There is an upright piano in the studio, and without pausing to dress Molly sat and played the fugue from Beethoven's Hammerklavier sonata, from memory.
Roderick stood in an alcove on the other side of the studio, by the window, looking out at the light rain falling on the little cottage garden. Natasha exited the bathroom and joined him in the alcove just as Molly began to play the second idyllic section of the fugue. Out of sight from Molly, she snuggled up against him.
Natasha is shorter than Roderick, by several inches. As Molly banged out the cantus firmus just before the final coda, he pulled away slightly and looked at her azure eyes. She didn't look away.
Roderick sits on a red cushion on the hardwood floor, reading The Native American Canoe. He figures the book will help him in his summer work at the boathouse. When he's finished reading about canoes, he plans to read The Handbook of Bond Market Analysis and Strategy.
Natasha is wearing a plaid shirt, sleeves rolled up, top two buttons unbuttoned, shirt tails out over baggy pants rolled up at the cuffs. Her feet are bare. She stands before her easel, observing, pausing, brushing, brushing, brushing, observing. She works quickly. The canvas is large, taller than it is wide.
Molly wears nothing. She stands posed, weight slightly on her right leg. Her blonde hair is long enough that if she were so inclined, with appropriate arrangement, she could hide certain parts of her body that most girls her age prefer to keep private.
But Molly is not so inclined.
If you wander into the studio, you would note that she is small-breasted, sufficiently so that the casual observer cannot tell when she wears nothing under her shirt (as is her habit). You would also notice that she is tall, with long arms and long fingers; that her hips swell with a graceful curve, and that she is completely blond.
Molly moves with remarkable grace. When she was a child, the Blooms sent her to dance lessons with Miss Duncan, together with almost every other child her age in Beauneville. The dance lessons didn't stick; Molly was much more interested in karate. She won her black belt last year, which Donny Clapper discovered to his chagrin a couple of weeks ago at the Friday night bowling party in Stapleton. Donny, who is Freddy Clapper's older brother, is about nineteen; he decided -- without any encouragement from Molly -- that she was hot for him, and that "no" means "yes". Molly floored him with a left-right combination and a kick to the groin that left Donny writhing on the foul line of lane three.
Roderick was impressed.
Molly is a Cancer, and she will be sixteen in a soon, on Bastille Day. She is the youngest of the three: Natasha, a Capricorn, turned sixteen just before the Zemlinskys moved to Beauneville; Roderick who will be sixteen next week on the first of July, is a a couple of weeks older than Molly. As long as Roderick can remember, he and Molly have done everything together: as toddlers, they toddled together in Beauneville Park; they studied piano together with Mrs. Gabrieli; in every grade at Beauneville Grammar and Beauneville Academy, they were in the same classes, sat next to one another, studied together and walked home together.
Roderick looked up from reading about canoes and looked at Molly. He'd seen Molly in the buff many times, but today, for some reason, she looked..different. Radiant, perhaps, or...Roderick couldn't quite put his finger on it.
"She's like my sister", he thought. "But she isn't my sister." Roderick is really comfortable around Molly, but today, he wondered to himself how she feels about him.
Molly likes Roderick, because he's kind, and thoughtful, and a good conversationalist, and because Molly doesn't feel like she has to say anything at all when she's with him, and because he seems to sense how she's feeling.
Natasha wanted to take a break from painting. There is an upright piano in the studio, and without pausing to dress Molly sat and played the fugue from Beethoven's Hammerklavier sonata, from memory.
Roderick stood in an alcove on the other side of the studio, by the window, looking out at the light rain falling on the little cottage garden. Natasha exited the bathroom and joined him in the alcove just as Molly began to play the second idyllic section of the fugue. Out of sight from Molly, she snuggled up against him.
Natasha is shorter than Roderick, by several inches. As Molly banged out the cantus firmus just before the final coda, he pulled away slightly and looked at her azure eyes. She didn't look away.
Saturday, June 26, 2010
Natasha Zemlinsky
Natasha lives with her mom and dad in Beauneville, on Dogwood Street, in a big neocolonial home right behind the Smith home. Actually, Natasha lives mostly with her cats, since her mom and dad are partners in a private equity firm (whatever this is), and they spend most of their time in New York, London, Dubai, Singapore and Hong Kong.
There is a carriage house in the back, which the previous owner converted to a studio. On most days, you can find Natasha in the studio, painting. Look around some more, and you will see her cats: Corot, a large tabby, curled in the sun on the rug, snoozing; Matisse, a slender siamese, sitting demurely on the windowsill, tail curled around feet; and Hopper, a fat grey persian, rolling on the floor playing with a catnip mouse.
Natasha is sixteen years old. She has long black hair and azure eyes; if you sense something Latin about her, you are right -- Natasha's mom is Brazilian. She has a penchant for plaid shirts with the sleeves rolled up, and paint-stained baggy pants. In the studio, she is barefoot; at school, she (grudgingly) wears flip-flops.
The Zemlinskys moved to Beauneville from California in January, mid-way through the school year. Mr. and Mrs. Zemlinsky aren't around enough to talk to the neighbors (and when they are around, they don't seem to want to talk to the neighbors), but rumor has it that they moved to Beauneville to get Natasha away from the gang she was running with back in California. At least that's what they say. You wouldn't know it to look at her, she doesn't seem...troubled.
But then, if you get to know Natasha a little, you get a sense that there is some havoc in her past.
At Beauneville Latin, Natasha is an average student. She spends most of her spare time painting, doesn't hang around much with the other youth, and does OK in her schoolwork. With considerable help from Roderick.
Natasha likes Roderick, because he's kind, a good listener, helps her with her homework, shows an interest in her painting, brings treats to her cats, and because he was nice to her when she first moved to Beauneville.
She wonders if Roderick and Molly are a number.
There is a carriage house in the back, which the previous owner converted to a studio. On most days, you can find Natasha in the studio, painting. Look around some more, and you will see her cats: Corot, a large tabby, curled in the sun on the rug, snoozing; Matisse, a slender siamese, sitting demurely on the windowsill, tail curled around feet; and Hopper, a fat grey persian, rolling on the floor playing with a catnip mouse.
Natasha is sixteen years old. She has long black hair and azure eyes; if you sense something Latin about her, you are right -- Natasha's mom is Brazilian. She has a penchant for plaid shirts with the sleeves rolled up, and paint-stained baggy pants. In the studio, she is barefoot; at school, she (grudgingly) wears flip-flops.
The Zemlinskys moved to Beauneville from California in January, mid-way through the school year. Mr. and Mrs. Zemlinsky aren't around enough to talk to the neighbors (and when they are around, they don't seem to want to talk to the neighbors), but rumor has it that they moved to Beauneville to get Natasha away from the gang she was running with back in California. At least that's what they say. You wouldn't know it to look at her, she doesn't seem...troubled.
But then, if you get to know Natasha a little, you get a sense that there is some havoc in her past.
At Beauneville Latin, Natasha is an average student. She spends most of her spare time painting, doesn't hang around much with the other youth, and does OK in her schoolwork. With considerable help from Roderick.
Natasha likes Roderick, because he's kind, a good listener, helps her with her homework, shows an interest in her painting, brings treats to her cats, and because he was nice to her when she first moved to Beauneville.
She wonders if Roderick and Molly are a number.
Friday, June 25, 2010
The Morning After
The morning after the first full moon of the summer solstice, Mr. Smiley awoke. He was disappointed that the Moonbugs never appeared.
Meanwhile, Roderick walked home, whistling.
Meanwhile, Roderick walked home, whistling.
Thursday, June 24, 2010
Henry and Melba
Under the light of the full moon, Mr. Smiley slept in his comfy chair, perched in the back yard midway between the dormant puffberry plant and the compost heap. Mr. Smiley figured that this location maximized his chances to observe the play of the Moonbugs. If he stayed awake, that is.
All was quiet, except for the sound of Mr. Smiley's breathing, the sound of the wind whishing in the trees, the creaking of many oddly-shaped-and-brightly-colored birdhouses, and a faint buzzing. The buzzing grew louder, louder and still louder.
Mr. Smiley yawned, turned slightly and continued to sleep soundly.
A moonbug appeared, buzzed several times around Mr. Smiley's head, and landed gingerly on his nose. Another moonbug buzzed past once, twice, hovered for a moment and landed next to the first moonbug.
"Hi", said the new arrival. "I'm Henry".
"Hey there, big boy", said the first moonbug, fluttering her antennae. "I'm Melba. Wanna fool around?"
"I do", said Henry, proudly displaying his red stripes. "But I hear it's deadly".
"It is deadly", said Melba, preening her polka-dotted carapace. "But you can't help yourself. It's instinct".
"It's true", said Henry. "We Moonbugs are passionate creatures, but our brief loves end in the compost heap".
And with that, Henry and Melba danced a slow sarabande in and around Mr. Smiley's nostrils until, in a fit of fiery lust, they consummated their love and departed for the compost heap (by way of the dormant puffberry plant, where they deposited the next generation).
Meanwhile, in Beauneville, Natasha's parents were away for the week on a trip to somewhere. She painted in the studio for awhile, ordered tiffin from the Red Trolley Diner -- a vegetable curry, with dal and rice -- and painted some more.
Feeling restless, Natasha stepped outside and walked up Dogwood Street to the corner of Fourteenth where, by pure coincidence she ran into Roderick, who was headed home from Molly's house.
"Hey, Roderick", said Natasha.
"Hey", said Roderick.
"Whatcha doing?"
"Nothing", said Roderick. "Heading home".
"Want to come over?"
"Sure".
They went to Natasha's house, to the living room. Natasha curled up on her right side on the big plush sofa, her long black hair draped over her left hip; Roderick relaxed on the rug with his back against the sofa. Natasha's hand rested on the sofa a few inches from Roderick's dark brown hair.
They chatted about....things.
All was quiet, except for the sound of Mr. Smiley's breathing, the sound of the wind whishing in the trees, the creaking of many oddly-shaped-and-brightly-colored birdhouses, and a faint buzzing. The buzzing grew louder, louder and still louder.
Mr. Smiley yawned, turned slightly and continued to sleep soundly.
A moonbug appeared, buzzed several times around Mr. Smiley's head, and landed gingerly on his nose. Another moonbug buzzed past once, twice, hovered for a moment and landed next to the first moonbug.
"Hi", said the new arrival. "I'm Henry".
"Hey there, big boy", said the first moonbug, fluttering her antennae. "I'm Melba. Wanna fool around?"
"I do", said Henry, proudly displaying his red stripes. "But I hear it's deadly".
"It is deadly", said Melba, preening her polka-dotted carapace. "But you can't help yourself. It's instinct".
"It's true", said Henry. "We Moonbugs are passionate creatures, but our brief loves end in the compost heap".
And with that, Henry and Melba danced a slow sarabande in and around Mr. Smiley's nostrils until, in a fit of fiery lust, they consummated their love and departed for the compost heap (by way of the dormant puffberry plant, where they deposited the next generation).
Meanwhile, in Beauneville, Natasha's parents were away for the week on a trip to somewhere. She painted in the studio for awhile, ordered tiffin from the Red Trolley Diner -- a vegetable curry, with dal and rice -- and painted some more.
Feeling restless, Natasha stepped outside and walked up Dogwood Street to the corner of Fourteenth where, by pure coincidence she ran into Roderick, who was headed home from Molly's house.
"Hey, Roderick", said Natasha.
"Hey", said Roderick.
"Whatcha doing?"
"Nothing", said Roderick. "Heading home".
"Want to come over?"
"Sure".
They went to Natasha's house, to the living room. Natasha curled up on her right side on the big plush sofa, her long black hair draped over her left hip; Roderick relaxed on the rug with his back against the sofa. Natasha's hand rested on the sofa a few inches from Roderick's dark brown hair.
They chatted about....things.
Wednesday, June 23, 2010
A Field Guide to Moonbugs
With the first full moon after the summer solstice rapidly approaching, Mr. Smiley read from his Field Guide to Moonbugs:
"Hmmm?" asked Clothilde.
"Did you know that no two Moonbugs look alike?"
"Why, no, I didn't."
"I'd better stay awake", he said, and shivered with anticipation.
The Moonbug is a remarkable bug. Once per decade, in years that end with a zero, the Moonbugs come out to play in the moonlight on the night of the summer solstice. They dance a slow mating dance, in the form of a sarabande, and choose their mates (with due care to find one with compatible qualities). At dawn, the dance ends; the Moonbugs quickly consummate their passions, deposit eggs near a dormant puffberry plant, and die. To avoid messy endings, the Moonbugs generally fly to a convenient compost heap and burrow into it before they expire.Mr. Smiley paused, and sipped his drink. He was pleased that Moonbugs avoid messy endings. He read on:
Moonbug eggs lie dormant for nine summer solstices, and hatch into larvae on the tenth. The larval stage lasts only until moonrise, at which point the larvae transform themselves into snazzy and brightly-colored little insects. No doubt the reader would like to know what Moonbugs look like. This is problematic, however, as no two Moonbugs look alike. Some are solid colors; others have dots, or stripes, or plaid.Mr. Smiley took another sip. "That is problematic", he said out loud.
"Hmmm?" asked Clothilde.
"Did you know that no two Moonbugs look alike?"
"Why, no, I didn't."
Moonbugs have no known predators, for two reasons. First, Moonbugs taste nasty to birds and other likely predators. The other reason is that since Moonbugs are only out and about one night every decade, an animal that did develop a taste for Moonbugs would be hungry most of the time.Mr. Smiley felt that was a good thing for Moonbugs, but perhaps not so great for hypothetical predators. Mr. Smiley feels empathy for all beings, even hypothetical nasty ones.
Moonbugs live until they mate or until they are squished. Moonbugs who survive one hundred and fifty years without mating or squishing die of old age.Mr. Smiley made a note not to squish the Moonbugs. It shortens their lives.
Moonbugs are virtually indistinguishable from Spoonbugs. The sole difference is the propensity of Spoonbugs to dine with tiny spoons, which they fashion from twigs and carry in a tiny pouch.Mr. Smiley pondered that one. He certainly did not want to confuse a Moonbug with a Spoonbug. That would be a faux pas. Mr. Smiley does not know what a faux pas is, but is certain he wants to avoid one.
Moonbugs prefer to be addressed by their first names. If you don't know a Moonbug's first name, ask him: he'll tell you. Moonbugs speak perfect English.Mr. Smiley's cuckoo watch cuckooed eight times. He checked his almanac: full moon tonight!
"I'd better stay awake", he said, and shivered with anticipation.
Tuesday, June 22, 2010
First Day of Summer
On the first full day of summer, Roderick, Laddie, Molly and Natasha went for a picnic on Wickle's Island. Wickle's Island is in the Mill Pond, near the south shore away from town; it's named after Mr. Wickle, although nobody knows who Mr. Wickle was, or why the Island is named after him. Early maps of the area predating Auguste Beaune's arrival show the "Isle of Wickle" as early as 1750; older maps show a Native American name, "Lenaquidgonnichuck", which translates roughly as "Unnamed Island Nobody Wants".
If you want to get to Wickle's Island, you have to paddle your canoe, as there are no bridges. You can swim, too, but the Mill Pond is quite large, and the water is cold all year 'round. So canoeing is the way to go, and Roderick has an inside track to canoeing on the Mill Pond because he has a summer job working for Mr. Armstrong, who runs the boathouse. It's a fine job for Roderick, because he likes to canoe and because he's friendly with youth and grown-ups alike. On a summer day in Beauneville, it sometimes seems as if the whole town is out on the lake, paddling and gliding, gliding and paddling.
The season doesn't open until later in the week, but Roderick has keys to the boathouse and permission to paddle whenever he likes; and so, Roderick, Natasha, Molly and Laddie clambered into the biggest wooden canoe in the boathouse and set out for Wickle's Island.
When they got to the island, Roderick set up his portable grill on a large rock by the water. (Roderick is surprisingly handy with the charcoal grill). It took about fifteen minutes to light the coals, but as soon as the grill was hot Roderick set about searing a few hot dogs, hamburgers and a vege-burger for Natasha (who generally avoids meat).
Even the most mundane food tastes better when cooked out of doors, or so they say. Today was no exception, and the picnic was delicious.
After lunch, Laddie splashed in the water.
Roderick stretched out on the rock near the now-extinguished grill and drank the landscape. Molly stretched out in the sun on a large rock that sloped down to the water across from Roderick, and about fifteen feet away; she threw her arm over her eyes for shade.
Natasha sat near Roderick, drew her sketchbook from her backpack and began to sketch the reclining Molly. She sketched the background quickly and started to sketch Molly's figure, then stopped, erased, sketched, erased, and hesitated.
"Um, Molly... do you mind...?
Molly lifted her head from under her arm. "Hmm? Oh, sure." And with two quick movements she was sans clothing. Roderick saw a shirt crumpled on the rock, and a pair of shorts, and nothing else. He thought to himself that Molly would not likely be successful in a game of strip poker; not that it mattered, of course, as it seemed most unlikely she would partake in that activity.
If you want to get to Wickle's Island, you have to paddle your canoe, as there are no bridges. You can swim, too, but the Mill Pond is quite large, and the water is cold all year 'round. So canoeing is the way to go, and Roderick has an inside track to canoeing on the Mill Pond because he has a summer job working for Mr. Armstrong, who runs the boathouse. It's a fine job for Roderick, because he likes to canoe and because he's friendly with youth and grown-ups alike. On a summer day in Beauneville, it sometimes seems as if the whole town is out on the lake, paddling and gliding, gliding and paddling.
The season doesn't open until later in the week, but Roderick has keys to the boathouse and permission to paddle whenever he likes; and so, Roderick, Natasha, Molly and Laddie clambered into the biggest wooden canoe in the boathouse and set out for Wickle's Island.
When they got to the island, Roderick set up his portable grill on a large rock by the water. (Roderick is surprisingly handy with the charcoal grill). It took about fifteen minutes to light the coals, but as soon as the grill was hot Roderick set about searing a few hot dogs, hamburgers and a vege-burger for Natasha (who generally avoids meat).
Even the most mundane food tastes better when cooked out of doors, or so they say. Today was no exception, and the picnic was delicious.
After lunch, Laddie splashed in the water.
Roderick stretched out on the rock near the now-extinguished grill and drank the landscape. Molly stretched out in the sun on a large rock that sloped down to the water across from Roderick, and about fifteen feet away; she threw her arm over her eyes for shade.
Natasha sat near Roderick, drew her sketchbook from her backpack and began to sketch the reclining Molly. She sketched the background quickly and started to sketch Molly's figure, then stopped, erased, sketched, erased, and hesitated.
"Um, Molly... do you mind...?
Molly lifted her head from under her arm. "Hmm? Oh, sure." And with two quick movements she was sans clothing. Roderick saw a shirt crumpled on the rock, and a pair of shorts, and nothing else. He thought to himself that Molly would not likely be successful in a game of strip poker; not that it mattered, of course, as it seemed most unlikely she would partake in that activity.
Monday, June 21, 2010
Solstice
If the reader attributes Molly Bloom's casual relationship toward clothing to indicate some form of sluttiness, the reader is sadly mistaken.
Molly does not place a high value on short-term relationships of any sort, sexual or otherwise. Neither does Roderick. Consequently, at the annual Festival of the Summer Solstice -- happening tonight in the Ballroom of the Beaune Estate -- Molly will latch on to Roderick and remain close to him all night. The boys from art class are unusually friendly:
-- "Hey Molly!"
-- "How's it going, Molly!"
-- "What's up, Molly!"
-- "Wanna dance, Molly?"
But to each such overture, Molly responds with a polite "Hi" and no further encouragement.
Roderick shares Molly's lack of interest in casual relationships, but maintains a steady stream of polite chatter. Molly pretends to listen, but thinks about the twenty-forth variation of Beethoven's Diabelli Variations.
Betsy Flapper, on the other hand, prefers short-term relationships to any other. This is the guiding philosophy behind Slut, her new online magazine recently launched with her mother's backing. Slut is an online hub and portal for teen sluts around the world, featuring timely content on the joy of sluttiness, how to leverage sluttiness as a career, and how to manipulate others with the appearance of sluttiness.
Betsy waited until Molly left for the bathroom, then presented her ample cleavage to Roderick. (Roderick suspected surgery).
"So, um, Roderick, are you and Molly a couple or what?"
The question seemed rhetorical to Roderick; he suspected that Betsy's next move would not be influenced by his response either way.
Betsy did not wait for a response, but moved closer to Roderick. "Want to fool around?" she cooed, with faux coyness.
Roderick had mixed feelings at this moment. On the one hand, Betsy was unquestionably hot, and he felt that "fooling around" was certainly an attractive thing to do; he also felt quite certain that fooling around with Betsy was about the last thing on Earth he wanted to do, especially since Molly had returned to his side, and was looking at Betsy with a mixture of inquisitiveness and contempt. Betsy did not wait for Roderick to respond, but slipped away as quickly as she had arrived.
"What was that about?" asked Molly.
"She wanted to know if we're a couple, and did I want to fool around." One of the things that Molly admires about Roderick is that he is always completely honest, without being harsh or blunt.
"Well, are we?" asked Molly. "And if not, why didn't you?" Roderick sensed that Molly was teasing him.
"I don't know", said Roderick. "I haven't really thought about it much". (Which was true). "And as to that other thing, well...". At this point Roderick and Molly both burst into laughter, so much so that everyone at the Festival wondered what the joke was about.
On the way home, Molly and Roderick paused and looked at the moon. It was not quite full. Roderick slept at the Bloom's house that night, in the guestroom.
Meanwhile, in Smileyville, Mr. Smiley prepared for his Moonbug adventure.
Molly does not place a high value on short-term relationships of any sort, sexual or otherwise. Neither does Roderick. Consequently, at the annual Festival of the Summer Solstice -- happening tonight in the Ballroom of the Beaune Estate -- Molly will latch on to Roderick and remain close to him all night. The boys from art class are unusually friendly:
-- "Hey Molly!"
-- "How's it going, Molly!"
-- "What's up, Molly!"
-- "Wanna dance, Molly?"
But to each such overture, Molly responds with a polite "Hi" and no further encouragement.
Roderick shares Molly's lack of interest in casual relationships, but maintains a steady stream of polite chatter. Molly pretends to listen, but thinks about the twenty-forth variation of Beethoven's Diabelli Variations.
Betsy Flapper, on the other hand, prefers short-term relationships to any other. This is the guiding philosophy behind Slut, her new online magazine recently launched with her mother's backing. Slut is an online hub and portal for teen sluts around the world, featuring timely content on the joy of sluttiness, how to leverage sluttiness as a career, and how to manipulate others with the appearance of sluttiness.
Betsy waited until Molly left for the bathroom, then presented her ample cleavage to Roderick. (Roderick suspected surgery).
"So, um, Roderick, are you and Molly a couple or what?"
The question seemed rhetorical to Roderick; he suspected that Betsy's next move would not be influenced by his response either way.
Betsy did not wait for a response, but moved closer to Roderick. "Want to fool around?" she cooed, with faux coyness.
Roderick had mixed feelings at this moment. On the one hand, Betsy was unquestionably hot, and he felt that "fooling around" was certainly an attractive thing to do; he also felt quite certain that fooling around with Betsy was about the last thing on Earth he wanted to do, especially since Molly had returned to his side, and was looking at Betsy with a mixture of inquisitiveness and contempt. Betsy did not wait for Roderick to respond, but slipped away as quickly as she had arrived.
"What was that about?" asked Molly.
"She wanted to know if we're a couple, and did I want to fool around." One of the things that Molly admires about Roderick is that he is always completely honest, without being harsh or blunt.
"Well, are we?" asked Molly. "And if not, why didn't you?" Roderick sensed that Molly was teasing him.
"I don't know", said Roderick. "I haven't really thought about it much". (Which was true). "And as to that other thing, well...". At this point Roderick and Molly both burst into laughter, so much so that everyone at the Festival wondered what the joke was about.
On the way home, Molly and Roderick paused and looked at the moon. It was not quite full. Roderick slept at the Bloom's house that night, in the guestroom.
Meanwhile, in Smileyville, Mr. Smiley prepared for his Moonbug adventure.
Sunday, June 20, 2010
Fathers Day
With his limited funds, Roderick had abandoned the notion of purchasing something for Fathers Day. Instead, he wrote a clever story about a boy and his dad, and inserted a copy inside the front page of the Beauneville Bugle. On Fathers Day morning, Mr. Smith got out of bed, went downstairs in his bathroom and retrieved the newspaper from the front porch. Seated at the breakfast table, he opened the Bugle and found Roderick's story -- which he enjoyed immensely (especially since Roderick wrote it in Latin). They all had a good laugh. Mrs. Smith served pancakes, blueberry pancakes, with fresh local blueberries, and loads of scrapple.
Later that day, the Smiths went to Grandpa and Grandma's house on Larch Street. Grandma's roses seem to explode into bloom on Fathers Day, and they did not disappoint this year; Grandma cut several of the big red "Abraham Lincoln" and peach-colored "Peace" roses and made a bouquet for the picnic table under the apple tree.
Mrs. Smith brought a ribeye from Ackermann's, which Mr. Smith grilled on the charcoal pit. There was potato salad, too, and three-bean salad and some little green things that Roderick pushed to the side of his plate (to leave room for chocolate cake). Grandpa's favorite cake is a special chocolate cake with an unusual butterscotch icing Grandma learned to make when she was a little girl. The icing is a kind of glaze that Grandma pours over the cake while it is still hot; when it cools, it hardens to a sweet brown crust.
After dinner, Roderick stopped by the Blooms to see Molly. Mr. Bloom was in an excellent mood, as the Bloom girls had showered him with affection and gifts. Molly gave him a copy of James Joyce's Ulysses; Mary gave him a coffee table book from the Art Museum (Erotic Themes in European Painting), Margaret gave him Volume 6 of the Vegh Quartet's Beethoven cycle, and Catherine drew a funny picture (which Mrs. Bloom had framed).
Molly wore a plaid short-sleeve shirt and jeans; she sat at the piano and played the complete Diabelli Variations from memory. It was hot; she was sweating; but she didn't miss a note, except in the twenty-forth variation when her fingers slipped slghtly on the sweaty keys. Roderick doesn't know the music well enough to tell the difference, but he saw that look Molly gets when she makes a mistake.
After the music, Roderick and Molly sat alone on the steps to the front porch.
"I screwed up the twenty-forth variation", said Molly.
Roderick knows better than to argue with Molly when she criticizes herself. In Molly's world, she either plays it perfectly or she doesn't, and there's no point in putting lipstick on a pig. So Roderick didn't argue the point, he just noodged her in the ribs, which set off a round of noodging and laughter that ended at the base of the porch in the Arcostaphylos Uva-Ursa (which, fortunately, is very hardy and can tolerate trampling).
Meanwhile, Mr. Smiley retrieved Alexander from his crib and snuggled him. Alexander laughed, and was so thrilled that he pooped.
Later that day, the Smiths went to Grandpa and Grandma's house on Larch Street. Grandma's roses seem to explode into bloom on Fathers Day, and they did not disappoint this year; Grandma cut several of the big red "Abraham Lincoln" and peach-colored "Peace" roses and made a bouquet for the picnic table under the apple tree.
Mrs. Smith brought a ribeye from Ackermann's, which Mr. Smith grilled on the charcoal pit. There was potato salad, too, and three-bean salad and some little green things that Roderick pushed to the side of his plate (to leave room for chocolate cake). Grandpa's favorite cake is a special chocolate cake with an unusual butterscotch icing Grandma learned to make when she was a little girl. The icing is a kind of glaze that Grandma pours over the cake while it is still hot; when it cools, it hardens to a sweet brown crust.
After dinner, Roderick stopped by the Blooms to see Molly. Mr. Bloom was in an excellent mood, as the Bloom girls had showered him with affection and gifts. Molly gave him a copy of James Joyce's Ulysses; Mary gave him a coffee table book from the Art Museum (Erotic Themes in European Painting), Margaret gave him Volume 6 of the Vegh Quartet's Beethoven cycle, and Catherine drew a funny picture (which Mrs. Bloom had framed).
Molly wore a plaid short-sleeve shirt and jeans; she sat at the piano and played the complete Diabelli Variations from memory. It was hot; she was sweating; but she didn't miss a note, except in the twenty-forth variation when her fingers slipped slghtly on the sweaty keys. Roderick doesn't know the music well enough to tell the difference, but he saw that look Molly gets when she makes a mistake.
After the music, Roderick and Molly sat alone on the steps to the front porch.
"I screwed up the twenty-forth variation", said Molly.
Roderick knows better than to argue with Molly when she criticizes herself. In Molly's world, she either plays it perfectly or she doesn't, and there's no point in putting lipstick on a pig. So Roderick didn't argue the point, he just noodged her in the ribs, which set off a round of noodging and laughter that ended at the base of the porch in the Arcostaphylos Uva-Ursa (which, fortunately, is very hardy and can tolerate trampling).
Meanwhile, Mr. Smiley retrieved Alexander from his crib and snuggled him. Alexander laughed, and was so thrilled that he pooped.
A Day
Once upon a time, there was a caterpillar named Daddy Caterpillar. He had a wife (Mommy caterpillar), an oldest son (Thomas Caterpillar), a younger son (Michael Caterpillar), a weird son (Throckmorton), and about a million other sons and daughters. They lived in a little cocoon in the squashberry tree in front of the little house at ___ ________ Road, ______ MA. (He wouldn't want to expose the nice people to unwanted publicity. One day, the sun rose and beamed a lovely beam, which landed with a plop on Daddy Caterpillar's bed. "Good morning everybody" No one responded. Slightly perturbed, but happy nonetheless, Daddy Caterpillar got up and went running downstairs to the kitchen. He was very excited, for he was sure there would be some festivities that day.
The kitchen was empty. A tumbleweed rolled by. "That's strange, I've never seen a tumbleweed in any cocoon, nevermind MY cocoon" He was very excited, for he felt certain there was some sort of surprise party in effect. He giddily ran over to the table, where there was a little note, written on a leaf. It said "Gone to Chatham, be back tomorrow." Daddy Caterpillar felt a little confused. The house was silent, and the note was serious. Perhaps everyone had forgotten!
He decided to make the best of this sad situation, so he got out some squashberry juice and reclined on a little leaf pillow.
Something strange began to occur. Daddy Caterpillar's body began to contort and harden, and everything went dark.
The next thing he knew, he was flying around the room, a butterfly. "Wait, that can't be right. Butterflies are caterpillar pets. Then the cocoon exploded.
Daddy Caterpillar awoke with a start on the leaf pillow. He glanced at the squashberry juice. "I guess that's a little old, and fermented." He proceeded to pour it out the window. He proceeded to go pet some butterflies to reassure him that they were still pets.
Then, he pouted. "This is a terrible Father Caterpillar's Day!" He then decided to go see Brutus, who might have something odd to say that would improve his day. As soon as he stepped out of the cocoon, a million caterpillars, Brutus, Fred, Shaggy, Chauncy, and Knuckles all yelled "Happy Father Caterpillar's Day!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!"
Inside the big house, the human family happily observed the festivities. The younger son said, "I think I'll write a story about this, then give it to MY father"
Saturday, June 19, 2010
Mr. Smiley's Pajamas
Mr. Smiley does not sleep naked. The thought is too horrifying to contemplate.
Smileys, as a rule, prefer to remain clothed at all times, even in private. They simply do not want to risk the possibility that prying eyes might, well...you know. As a result, Smileys are expert at changing from one garment to another, without ever being sans clothing, even for a moment.
Mr. Smiley can remember how, when he was a boy, he heard his father speak in hushed whispers about what happened to Theobald Smiley, proprietor of a Cheese Shoppe. One day, in the store, Theobald's suspenders broke and his pants fell down. He was wearing underwear, but the sight was too shocking to bear; several shoppers fainted and were taken away by ambulance. Theobald sold his store and moved to the edge of Smileyville, where he lived out his days as a recluse.
As you can imagine, bathrooms are slightly problematic for Smileys. To begin with, bathrooms are always in the center of the house; there are no windows. There are no showers with glass doors in Smileyville. Bathtubs are surrounded by a "modesty screen".
If you visit Smileyville, the first thing you should remember is that bathrooms are private, as in one bathroom, one Smiley. In Mr. Smiley's oddly-shaped-and-brightly-colored house, there are four bathrooms: one is exclusively for Mr. Smiley; one is exclusively for Clothilde; one will be exclusively for Alexander, when he's old enough; and one is for guests.
If you actually use the guest bathroom, it will be completely stripped upon your departure. Towels and washcloths will be burned. Walls will be stripped and repainted, fixtures and plumbing replaced.
For plumbers in Smileyville, business is brisk.
There are no public restrooms in Smileyville. To a Smiley, the thought of using a bathroom that anyone else ever used is disgusting. Smileys who are out and about in town who feel an urge to...you know...are advised to either (a) hold it, or (b) go home.
Mr. Smiley's pajamas are blue.
Smileys, as a rule, prefer to remain clothed at all times, even in private. They simply do not want to risk the possibility that prying eyes might, well...you know. As a result, Smileys are expert at changing from one garment to another, without ever being sans clothing, even for a moment.
Mr. Smiley can remember how, when he was a boy, he heard his father speak in hushed whispers about what happened to Theobald Smiley, proprietor of a Cheese Shoppe. One day, in the store, Theobald's suspenders broke and his pants fell down. He was wearing underwear, but the sight was too shocking to bear; several shoppers fainted and were taken away by ambulance. Theobald sold his store and moved to the edge of Smileyville, where he lived out his days as a recluse.
As you can imagine, bathrooms are slightly problematic for Smileys. To begin with, bathrooms are always in the center of the house; there are no windows. There are no showers with glass doors in Smileyville. Bathtubs are surrounded by a "modesty screen".
If you visit Smileyville, the first thing you should remember is that bathrooms are private, as in one bathroom, one Smiley. In Mr. Smiley's oddly-shaped-and-brightly-colored house, there are four bathrooms: one is exclusively for Mr. Smiley; one is exclusively for Clothilde; one will be exclusively for Alexander, when he's old enough; and one is for guests.
If you actually use the guest bathroom, it will be completely stripped upon your departure. Towels and washcloths will be burned. Walls will be stripped and repainted, fixtures and plumbing replaced.
For plumbers in Smileyville, business is brisk.
There are no public restrooms in Smileyville. To a Smiley, the thought of using a bathroom that anyone else ever used is disgusting. Smileys who are out and about in town who feel an urge to...you know...are advised to either (a) hold it, or (b) go home.
Mr. Smiley's pajamas are blue.
Friday, June 18, 2010
Curious
On Friday afternoon, Roderick helped Natasha study for the Latin final. Since Natasha was new to the school, and had transferred in the middle of the year, it made sense that she needed some extra help, but...it seemed to Roderick that she had no trouble with the material.
Natasha was feeling chatty, and lingered. Roderick didn't mind.
The doorbell rang at 5 -- it was the Blooms, per usual, for the Friday night walk to the Red Trolley Diner. Roderick said goodbye to Natasha; she waved as she walked backwards down the driveway, then turned and ran home through the back yard.
The Smiths and the Blooms walked down Elm Street: Catherine in the lead, skipping, followed closely by Margaret; then Mary Bloom, Mrs. Bloom and Mrs. Smith; Roderick and Molly; Mr. Bloom and Mr. Smith.
Molly noodged Roderick. "I think Natasha's...interested in you."
"Get out of here!" laughed Roderick, and he noodged Molly right back. There followed a spate of noodging, which ceased only when they both fell laughing and sprawling into Miss Knickerbocker's petunia patch.
Roderick pretended to ignore Molly's comment, but he was curious.
Business was brisk at the Red Trolley Diner when they arrived. They waited a few minutes for their table to open -- the big table at the back of the trolley.
Stella serves breakfast and lunch at the Red Trolley, but Stella's cousin Bella and her "friend" Peaches serve dinner. Bella is big-boned, brawny and tough; you don't mess with Bella; Peaches, on the other hand, is lovely and kind.
By luck of the draw, their waitress tonight was Bella.
"OK, what are you people having?", Bella demanded, her pencil hovering over her pad.
They ordered:
Catherine: Hot Dog
Margaret: Hot Dog
Mary: Chicken Pie
Molly: Salad
Roderick: Cheeseburger
Mrs. Smith: Blue Plate Special
Mr. Smith: Blue Plate Special
Mrs. Bloom: Blue Plate Special
Mr. Bloom: Blue Plate Special
At the Red Trolley Diner, the Blue Plate Special is always delicious, but experienced customers know that one must not ask what it is in advance. The proprietors consider this insulting, and will not serve you if you do.
Tonight, the Blue Plate Special is liver and onions.
After dinner, the Blooms went home, but Molly came over to Roderick's and they watched Godard's Breathless -- Molly's favorite movie -- on the computer in Roderick's bedroom. When the movie was over, Molly stretched langorously.
"OK if I sleep over?", she asked.
"Sure", said Roderick.
So she did so, in the guest room across the hall from Roderick's room, where Mr. Smiley used to sleep.
Roderick put his pajamas on and lay in bed. It was raining outside, and he could hear the rain going pitter patter on the roof. He thought about Natasha -- Molly's remark make him reconsider those moments when Natasha seemed to linger -- and he thought about Molly. He wondered if she slept naked. The thought made him smile, and he fell asleep.
Natasha was feeling chatty, and lingered. Roderick didn't mind.
The doorbell rang at 5 -- it was the Blooms, per usual, for the Friday night walk to the Red Trolley Diner. Roderick said goodbye to Natasha; she waved as she walked backwards down the driveway, then turned and ran home through the back yard.
The Smiths and the Blooms walked down Elm Street: Catherine in the lead, skipping, followed closely by Margaret; then Mary Bloom, Mrs. Bloom and Mrs. Smith; Roderick and Molly; Mr. Bloom and Mr. Smith.
Molly noodged Roderick. "I think Natasha's...interested in you."
"Get out of here!" laughed Roderick, and he noodged Molly right back. There followed a spate of noodging, which ceased only when they both fell laughing and sprawling into Miss Knickerbocker's petunia patch.
Roderick pretended to ignore Molly's comment, but he was curious.
Business was brisk at the Red Trolley Diner when they arrived. They waited a few minutes for their table to open -- the big table at the back of the trolley.
Stella serves breakfast and lunch at the Red Trolley, but Stella's cousin Bella and her "friend" Peaches serve dinner. Bella is big-boned, brawny and tough; you don't mess with Bella; Peaches, on the other hand, is lovely and kind.
By luck of the draw, their waitress tonight was Bella.
"OK, what are you people having?", Bella demanded, her pencil hovering over her pad.
They ordered:
Catherine: Hot Dog
Margaret: Hot Dog
Mary: Chicken Pie
Molly: Salad
Roderick: Cheeseburger
Mrs. Smith: Blue Plate Special
Mr. Smith: Blue Plate Special
Mrs. Bloom: Blue Plate Special
Mr. Bloom: Blue Plate Special
At the Red Trolley Diner, the Blue Plate Special is always delicious, but experienced customers know that one must not ask what it is in advance. The proprietors consider this insulting, and will not serve you if you do.
Tonight, the Blue Plate Special is liver and onions.
After dinner, the Blooms went home, but Molly came over to Roderick's and they watched Godard's Breathless -- Molly's favorite movie -- on the computer in Roderick's bedroom. When the movie was over, Molly stretched langorously.
"OK if I sleep over?", she asked.
"Sure", said Roderick.
So she did so, in the guest room across the hall from Roderick's room, where Mr. Smiley used to sleep.
Roderick put his pajamas on and lay in bed. It was raining outside, and he could hear the rain going pitter patter on the roof. He thought about Natasha -- Molly's remark make him reconsider those moments when Natasha seemed to linger -- and he thought about Molly. He wondered if she slept naked. The thought made him smile, and he fell asleep.
Thursday, June 17, 2010
Meanwhile
Meanwhile, in Beauneville, Roderick ate a ham and cheese sandwich for lunch. He developed a taste for ham and cheese back when Mr. Smiley lived with the Smiths; prior to that, Roderick's sandwichs were mostly just ham.
Roderick's sandwich was sans pickle. There are limits to Mr. Smiley's influence.
Two days remaining in the term at Beauneville Latin, then...summer. Roderick had no particular plans -- hang out with Molly, Natasha and others; canoe on the Mill Pond; run with Laddie; visit Grandma and Grandpa; go to the office with Dad...
Speaking of Dad, there were just a couple of days before Father's Day. Roderick wondered what he should get for Dad. He had all of eight dollars and some change; getting a summer job wasn't a high priority (before now, at least).
Roderick continued to ponder the Dad-gift problem. It wasn't easy. The things Mr. Smith might like cost way more than eight dollars...
Molly invited Roderick over for dinner that evening. In contrast to the Smith's well-kept and tasteful Victorian furnishings, the Blooms were artsy-fartsy, and furnished in a more eclectic style. Their dining room table was in a sort of Bauhaus style; Mr. Bloom had salvaged it from the showroom of an interior designer in Stapleton after a fire. It was in pretty good condition, except where the plastic was slightly melted on one corner. Mrs. Bloom threw a tablecloth over it, and set the places: Mr. and Mrs. Bloom on the North and South sides, respectively; Mary, Margaret and Catherine in that order on the East side; Molly and Roderick on the West side.
A brief digression: Molly, Mary, Margaret and Catherine are natural blondes, with long straight hair; Molly's hangs down to her waist. This has always struck Roderick as something of an anomaly, since Mr. Bloom has thinning brown hair, and Mrs. Bloom is a curly redhead. Roderick has not inquired as to possible exlanations for this remarkable genetic event.
Mrs. Bloom served Tofu Surprise casserole. The surprising part is that Roderick liked it; Molly told him later that Mrs. Bloom uses ground beef instead of tofu.
Mr. Bloom dug into a steaming pile of casserole with gusto. "So Roderick, what are you doing this summer?", he asked.
"Honestly, Mr. Bloom, I don't really have any special plans." Roderick felt vaguely as if he ought to have plans.
"What about you, Molly?"
Molly sat up brightly, as she does when she's excited about something. "Mr. Bellini will pay me $15 an hour for live modeling, and he has six hours a week of human figure classes. And Mr. Whistler wants me to pose for one of his large portraits."
Mrs. Bloom beamed. "That's nice, dear. Finish your peas."
Mary Bloom is two years younger than Molly. "I want to model too!" she said, leaning forward on the table. "I can sit still!"
"There's a little more to it than that", said Molly, with a slightly disdainful look. "You have to take direction. The artists want you to pose in a certain way; you don't just stand any way you please."
"Oh", said Mary, with a slightly crestfallen look.
Mr. Bloom tried to be helpful. "Why don't you speak with Mr. Botticelli? Perhaps he needs an apprentice model...?"
Molly pondered. "That's a thought".
"Oh, goody!" said Mary. She ran around the table and hugged Molly.
Catherine, the youngest, spoke up. "What's modeling?"
Mrs. Bloom explained. "Artists who want to learn how to draw people need real people to pose for them with no clothes".
"Ooh!" said Catherine. "I want to do that when I'm old enough!"
Margaret is the quiet sister. "Me, too!"
Mr. and Mrs. Bloom beamed at their talented daughters. Roderick quietly finished his plate of Tofu surprise.
Roderick's sandwich was sans pickle. There are limits to Mr. Smiley's influence.
Two days remaining in the term at Beauneville Latin, then...summer. Roderick had no particular plans -- hang out with Molly, Natasha and others; canoe on the Mill Pond; run with Laddie; visit Grandma and Grandpa; go to the office with Dad...
Speaking of Dad, there were just a couple of days before Father's Day. Roderick wondered what he should get for Dad. He had all of eight dollars and some change; getting a summer job wasn't a high priority (before now, at least).
Roderick continued to ponder the Dad-gift problem. It wasn't easy. The things Mr. Smith might like cost way more than eight dollars...
Molly invited Roderick over for dinner that evening. In contrast to the Smith's well-kept and tasteful Victorian furnishings, the Blooms were artsy-fartsy, and furnished in a more eclectic style. Their dining room table was in a sort of Bauhaus style; Mr. Bloom had salvaged it from the showroom of an interior designer in Stapleton after a fire. It was in pretty good condition, except where the plastic was slightly melted on one corner. Mrs. Bloom threw a tablecloth over it, and set the places: Mr. and Mrs. Bloom on the North and South sides, respectively; Mary, Margaret and Catherine in that order on the East side; Molly and Roderick on the West side.
A brief digression: Molly, Mary, Margaret and Catherine are natural blondes, with long straight hair; Molly's hangs down to her waist. This has always struck Roderick as something of an anomaly, since Mr. Bloom has thinning brown hair, and Mrs. Bloom is a curly redhead. Roderick has not inquired as to possible exlanations for this remarkable genetic event.
Mrs. Bloom served Tofu Surprise casserole. The surprising part is that Roderick liked it; Molly told him later that Mrs. Bloom uses ground beef instead of tofu.
Mr. Bloom dug into a steaming pile of casserole with gusto. "So Roderick, what are you doing this summer?", he asked.
"Honestly, Mr. Bloom, I don't really have any special plans." Roderick felt vaguely as if he ought to have plans.
"What about you, Molly?"
Molly sat up brightly, as she does when she's excited about something. "Mr. Bellini will pay me $15 an hour for live modeling, and he has six hours a week of human figure classes. And Mr. Whistler wants me to pose for one of his large portraits."
Mrs. Bloom beamed. "That's nice, dear. Finish your peas."
Mary Bloom is two years younger than Molly. "I want to model too!" she said, leaning forward on the table. "I can sit still!"
"There's a little more to it than that", said Molly, with a slightly disdainful look. "You have to take direction. The artists want you to pose in a certain way; you don't just stand any way you please."
"Oh", said Mary, with a slightly crestfallen look.
Mr. Bloom tried to be helpful. "Why don't you speak with Mr. Botticelli? Perhaps he needs an apprentice model...?"
Molly pondered. "That's a thought".
"Oh, goody!" said Mary. She ran around the table and hugged Molly.
Catherine, the youngest, spoke up. "What's modeling?"
Mrs. Bloom explained. "Artists who want to learn how to draw people need real people to pose for them with no clothes".
"Ooh!" said Catherine. "I want to do that when I'm old enough!"
Margaret is the quiet sister. "Me, too!"
Mr. and Mrs. Bloom beamed at their talented daughters. Roderick quietly finished his plate of Tofu surprise.
Wednesday, June 16, 2010
Mr. Smiley Plans His Adventure
Four days until the Summer Solstice. Mr. Smiley felt it was time to start planning his Moonbug Adventure.
He made a list:
(1) Comfy chair, folding.
(2) Cupcakes. Mr. Smiley pondered the question of quantity for a moment, then wrote down "12". He paused, considered the concept of the "baker's dozen", then crossed out "12" and wrote "13".
(3)Moonblock. Mr. Smiley is quite concerned about the risk of skin cancer.
(4) Bug Spray. Mr. Smiley wrote this down, then crossed it out. It's not appropriate to bring bug spray to a Moonbug Adventure.
(4) Field Guide to Moonbugs.
(5) Milk. Smileys generally feel that milk is de rigeur when eating cupcakes.
Mr. Smiley was very happy with his list, and to reward himself he ate a cupcake: chocolate, with butter cream frosting, sprinkles and a little red thingy on top. By accident, he smoodged a little chocolate butter cream frosting on page 47 of his Field Guide to Moonbugs; this did not bother him in the slightest, because Smileys generally don't worry about such things.
He rolled the cupcake wrapper into a little ball and pooted it across the table, where it bounced off a Hello Kitty mug and fell to the floor. Mr. Smiley picked up the mug, gazed at Hello Kitty longingly, and sighed.
He made a list:
(1) Comfy chair, folding.
(2) Cupcakes. Mr. Smiley pondered the question of quantity for a moment, then wrote down "12". He paused, considered the concept of the "baker's dozen", then crossed out "12" and wrote "13".
(3)Moonblock. Mr. Smiley is quite concerned about the risk of skin cancer.
(4) Bug Spray. Mr. Smiley wrote this down, then crossed it out. It's not appropriate to bring bug spray to a Moonbug Adventure.
(4) Field Guide to Moonbugs.
(5) Milk. Smileys generally feel that milk is de rigeur when eating cupcakes.
Mr. Smiley was very happy with his list, and to reward himself he ate a cupcake: chocolate, with butter cream frosting, sprinkles and a little red thingy on top. By accident, he smoodged a little chocolate butter cream frosting on page 47 of his Field Guide to Moonbugs; this did not bother him in the slightest, because Smileys generally don't worry about such things.
He rolled the cupcake wrapper into a little ball and pooted it across the table, where it bounced off a Hello Kitty mug and fell to the floor. Mr. Smiley picked up the mug, gazed at Hello Kitty longingly, and sighed.
Tuesday, June 15, 2010
The Cupcake
Mr. Smiley was daydreaming about Moonbugs when he was suddenly struck with a powerful craving for a cupcake. Not just any cupcake, but one of the fancy ones in the window of Smiley's Bakery -- the Smiley's Bakery that is kittycorner across the street from the Happy Fun Cemetery. As the reader may remember, the Happy Fun Cemetery is where the cremains of departed Smileys are used as fertilizer for the finest rose garden in the county. Smack in the center of the cemetery, there is a duck pond which, not surprisingly, is inhabited by ducks. Many ducks. Many plump ducks, as the Smiley children are prolific in the practice of throwing bread crumbs to the ducks. Out of courtesy, the ducks make a show of eating the thrown bread -- then retire to the privacy of the many oddly-shaped-and-brightly-colored duck houses that surround the pond to dine on fine cuisine. Ducks are quite skilled with the saucepan, and their meals may consist of just about anything that you may find on the menu of a five-star restaurant, though roasted duck is generally avoided.
"I'm going to Smiley's Bakery" called Mr. Smiley to Clothilde as he walked to his Bubble Car. To an outsider, this message would be hopelessly indefinite, as there are many Smiley's Bakeries in Smileyville, and they all have cupcakes. Grand cupcakes, with mounds of lovely frosting, exquisite designs and all topped with many-colored sprinkles. In Smileyville, the cupcake is an art form: young Smileys learn from grade school about the prolific work of Wolfgang Smiley, cupcakier extraordinnaire; the baroque cakes of Johann Sebastian Smiley; and the tragic-but-triumphant opus of Ludwig Smiley. Smileys with an artistic bent seek to emulate Pablo Smiley, whose cubist cupcakes are celebrated throughout the Smiley world; Pablo Smiley attempted to donate an example from his Blue Period to the Smiley Museum, but someone mistook it for an item from the Smiley Museum Cafeteria, and consumed it. With great relish, I might add.
But Clothilde knew exactly which Smiley's Bakery Mr. Smiley meant: the Smiley's Bakery that is kittycorner across the street from the Happy Fun Cemetery, because that is Mr. Smiley's preferred bakery. For no particular reason. "Be careful", called Clothilde, "I hear that there is a kerfuffle at the Duck Pond".
Mr. Smiley wasn't sure what Clothilde meant by "kerfuffle", but he hoped it wasn't carniverous. He soon learned, however, that the kerfuffle was simply one very loquacious duck, who seemed to great pleasure in the simple act of quacking. At least one hopes that he took pleasure in the act, as he indulged in it with gusto.
In the excitement, Mr. Smiley forgot about his cupcake.
"I'm going to Smiley's Bakery" called Mr. Smiley to Clothilde as he walked to his Bubble Car. To an outsider, this message would be hopelessly indefinite, as there are many Smiley's Bakeries in Smileyville, and they all have cupcakes. Grand cupcakes, with mounds of lovely frosting, exquisite designs and all topped with many-colored sprinkles. In Smileyville, the cupcake is an art form: young Smileys learn from grade school about the prolific work of Wolfgang Smiley, cupcakier extraordinnaire; the baroque cakes of Johann Sebastian Smiley; and the tragic-but-triumphant opus of Ludwig Smiley. Smileys with an artistic bent seek to emulate Pablo Smiley, whose cubist cupcakes are celebrated throughout the Smiley world; Pablo Smiley attempted to donate an example from his Blue Period to the Smiley Museum, but someone mistook it for an item from the Smiley Museum Cafeteria, and consumed it. With great relish, I might add.
But Clothilde knew exactly which Smiley's Bakery Mr. Smiley meant: the Smiley's Bakery that is kittycorner across the street from the Happy Fun Cemetery, because that is Mr. Smiley's preferred bakery. For no particular reason. "Be careful", called Clothilde, "I hear that there is a kerfuffle at the Duck Pond".
Mr. Smiley wasn't sure what Clothilde meant by "kerfuffle", but he hoped it wasn't carniverous. He soon learned, however, that the kerfuffle was simply one very loquacious duck, who seemed to great pleasure in the simple act of quacking. At least one hopes that he took pleasure in the act, as he indulged in it with gusto.
In the excitement, Mr. Smiley forgot about his cupcake.
Monday, June 14, 2010
A Monday in June
On a gorgeous day in June, Roderick met Molly per usual at the corner of Elm and Fourteenth, and they walked together to Beauneville Latin. The end of the school year is near, but the students are motivated to learn, and the faculty are motivated to teach; there is none of the typical "let's kill time because we're almost out of here" attitude.
Or so it appears. In truth, the faculty and students of Beuneville Latin are smart. The faculty, for example, understand that the appearance of rigor means satisfied parents and state boards of education; and since statewide standards are patheticly low, even modest effort leads to blue ribbon prizes for excellence in education. And the students understand that happy and satisfied faculty make the classroom much more pleasant. And so, there is a social contract: students make a modest effort, faculty label modest effort excellence and everyone is happy; in the substantial amount of time remaining after basic standards are met, students and faculty alike pursue their special muse.
As one would expect at any school, the students of Beauneville Latin run the gamut from brilliant to not-so-sharp. Roderick, for example, is diligent and hard-working, but he is no genius. "You don't have to be brilliant to be smart" says Mr. Gibbon, the History teacher. "And you don't have to be a genius to succeed in life, especially if people like you". That characterizes Roderick perfectly: smart, but not brilliant; diligent and likeable, but not likely to figure out how to do cold fusion in a test tube.
Molly is rather focused in her talents: outside of the piano and nude modeling, she struggles a bit. Roderick helps her with math, but languages were too difficult, so she stopped taking them last year.
Beauneville Latin focuses on a central curriculum designed to prepare students for the Liberal Arts, but students have a great deal of choice about what they study. Courses seem to rise and fall in popularity in ways that are hard to predict. For example, Mr. Botticelli is quite puzzled by the recent surge in enrollment in Art class, especially among the boys. Demand is so great that Mr. Botticelli proposes to split next year's class into three sections: Human Figure, Landscape and Still Life; interest in the latter two, however, appears to be minimal.
Or so it appears. In truth, the faculty and students of Beuneville Latin are smart. The faculty, for example, understand that the appearance of rigor means satisfied parents and state boards of education; and since statewide standards are patheticly low, even modest effort leads to blue ribbon prizes for excellence in education. And the students understand that happy and satisfied faculty make the classroom much more pleasant. And so, there is a social contract: students make a modest effort, faculty label modest effort excellence and everyone is happy; in the substantial amount of time remaining after basic standards are met, students and faculty alike pursue their special muse.
As one would expect at any school, the students of Beauneville Latin run the gamut from brilliant to not-so-sharp. Roderick, for example, is diligent and hard-working, but he is no genius. "You don't have to be brilliant to be smart" says Mr. Gibbon, the History teacher. "And you don't have to be a genius to succeed in life, especially if people like you". That characterizes Roderick perfectly: smart, but not brilliant; diligent and likeable, but not likely to figure out how to do cold fusion in a test tube.
Molly is rather focused in her talents: outside of the piano and nude modeling, she struggles a bit. Roderick helps her with math, but languages were too difficult, so she stopped taking them last year.
Beauneville Latin focuses on a central curriculum designed to prepare students for the Liberal Arts, but students have a great deal of choice about what they study. Courses seem to rise and fall in popularity in ways that are hard to predict. For example, Mr. Botticelli is quite puzzled by the recent surge in enrollment in Art class, especially among the boys. Demand is so great that Mr. Botticelli proposes to split next year's class into three sections: Human Figure, Landscape and Still Life; interest in the latter two, however, appears to be minimal.
Sunday, June 13, 2010
The Moonbug
The Moonbug is a remarkable insect. Once per decade, in years that end with a zero, the Moonbugs come out to play in the moonlight on the night of the summer solstice. They dance a slow mating dance, in the form of a sarabande, and choose their mates (with due care to find one with compatible qualities). At dawn, the dance ends; the Moonbugs quickly consummate their passions, deposit eggs near a dormant puffberry plant, and die. To avoid messy endings, the Moonbugs generally fly to a convenient compost heap and burrow into it before they expire.
Moonbug eggs lie dormant for nine summer solstices, and hatch into larvae on the tenth. The larval stage lasts only until moonrise, at which point the larvae transform themselves into snazzy and brightly-colored little insects. No doubt the reader would like to know what Moonbugs look like. This is problematic, however, as no two Moonbugs look alike. Some are solid colors; others have dots, or stripes, or plaid.
Moonbugs have no known predators, for two reasons. First, Moonbugs taste nasty to birds and other likely predators. The other reason is that since Moonbugs are only out and about one night every decade, an animal that did develop a taste for Moonbugs would be hungry most of the time.
Clothilde noodged Mr. Smiley. "Have you ever seen the mating dance of a Moonbug?"
Mr. Smiley was midway through a pickle, and his mouth was full. "Mmmmph mmph mmmmmmph", he said, taking great care to avoid choking.
"Well", said Clothilde, with an air of great mystery, "it's a slow dance, in the form of a sarabande. And I do believe that this year ends with a zero, and we have dormant puffberries in our garden, so..."
Mr. Smiley withdrew his "Things to Do" book from his pocket. There was one page per day, and at the top of each page, he had made the following entries:
(1) Cafe Smiley
(2) Smiley's Cheese Shoppe
Turning to the page for the day of the summer solstice, he wrote:
(3) Watch Moonbugs play
Moonbug eggs lie dormant for nine summer solstices, and hatch into larvae on the tenth. The larval stage lasts only until moonrise, at which point the larvae transform themselves into snazzy and brightly-colored little insects. No doubt the reader would like to know what Moonbugs look like. This is problematic, however, as no two Moonbugs look alike. Some are solid colors; others have dots, or stripes, or plaid.
Moonbugs have no known predators, for two reasons. First, Moonbugs taste nasty to birds and other likely predators. The other reason is that since Moonbugs are only out and about one night every decade, an animal that did develop a taste for Moonbugs would be hungry most of the time.
Clothilde noodged Mr. Smiley. "Have you ever seen the mating dance of a Moonbug?"
Mr. Smiley was midway through a pickle, and his mouth was full. "Mmmmph mmph mmmmmmph", he said, taking great care to avoid choking.
"Well", said Clothilde, with an air of great mystery, "it's a slow dance, in the form of a sarabande. And I do believe that this year ends with a zero, and we have dormant puffberries in our garden, so..."
Mr. Smiley withdrew his "Things to Do" book from his pocket. There was one page per day, and at the top of each page, he had made the following entries:
(1) Cafe Smiley
(2) Smiley's Cheese Shoppe
Turning to the page for the day of the summer solstice, he wrote:
(3) Watch Moonbugs play
Saturday, June 12, 2010
A Lovely Saturday Evening in June
On a lovely Saturday evening in June, Clothilde leaned forward suggestively and whispered in Mr. Smiley's ear: "The Moonbugs are coming".
Friday, June 11, 2010
The Red Trolley Diner
On Fridays, the Smiths and Blooms eat at the Red Trolley Diner; they have done so as long as Roderick can remember. And so, on this lovely Friday evening in June, the Smiths and Blooms gathered at the long table in the back of the trolley -- where young people used to sit and neck on the return trip from Stapleton, when the Beauneville Electric Railway was the best way to get to the movie theater on a Friday night.
If you know where to look, you can see artifacts of the trolleys here and there around Beauneville. There is the Red Trolley Diner, of course, which stands just off Railroad Avenue across from Beauneville Park. On the last day of operations in 1933, when the electric company cut off the power, Mr. Vanderbilt made one last trip back from Stapleton in Car #1, parked on the siding off Railroad Avenue, and walked away. His company out of business, Mr. Vanderbilt sold off the rails and planned to sell Car #1, but he could find no buyers as there were no rails remaining by which it could be moved. In an interview for the Beauneville Bugle, Mr. Vanderbilt admitted that perhaps it would have been wiser to sell the car first, then sell the rails. "Oh well", he chuckled, "that's the way the cookie crumbles".
For many years, Mr. Vanderbilt took care of Car #1. He refreshed the shiny red paint, polished the brass fittings and dusted the seats as if for another run. Roderick's Dad remembers, as a young boy, that his Dad would bring him to see the trolley; they would sit on the soft brown leather seats, and Mr. Vanderbilt would let him ring the bell. By this time, he was quite up in years, but everyone in town could see how he loved that trolley.
One morning, Mr. Vanderbilt did not show up to polish the trolley. Mr. Rockefeller, who owned the gas station across the street (now called Mr. Smiley's Gas Station) was the first to notice, and by early afternoon everyone in town was concerned about Mr. Vanderbilt's health. Officer Grady went to Mr. Vanderbilt's house on Fairmont Avenue (a few doors down from Mr. Bartram), but could find no trace of him.
We all found out later that Mr. Vanderbilt had left for Las Vegas with a young floozie. Mr. Blackstone, the town attorney, received a letter instructing him to liquidate Mr. Vanderbilt's assets, which consisted of one trolley and a small parcel of land upon which said trolley rested. (The house on Fairmont was rented). In the subsequent auction, there was a single bidder for the trolley, a nameless person who paid with a suitcase of cash. Mr. Nameless installed tables in the trolley, built a kitchen and an extra room for seating, and opened for business as the Red Trolley Diner.
We will learn more about the Red Trolley Diner in later chapters, but for now suffice to say that on this lovely June evening, Roderick Smith sat at the long table in the back of the diner with his mom and dad, Mr. and Mrs. Bloom, Molly, Mary, Margaret and Catherine. Roderick ordered a lovely sausage, with smashed potatoes and little green things, and Blueberry Fluffle for dessert. He sat across from Molly, and while everyone chatted and laughed, he secretly noodged her foot with his; Molly returned the noodge, and smiled.
If you know where to look, you can see artifacts of the trolleys here and there around Beauneville. There is the Red Trolley Diner, of course, which stands just off Railroad Avenue across from Beauneville Park. On the last day of operations in 1933, when the electric company cut off the power, Mr. Vanderbilt made one last trip back from Stapleton in Car #1, parked on the siding off Railroad Avenue, and walked away. His company out of business, Mr. Vanderbilt sold off the rails and planned to sell Car #1, but he could find no buyers as there were no rails remaining by which it could be moved. In an interview for the Beauneville Bugle, Mr. Vanderbilt admitted that perhaps it would have been wiser to sell the car first, then sell the rails. "Oh well", he chuckled, "that's the way the cookie crumbles".
For many years, Mr. Vanderbilt took care of Car #1. He refreshed the shiny red paint, polished the brass fittings and dusted the seats as if for another run. Roderick's Dad remembers, as a young boy, that his Dad would bring him to see the trolley; they would sit on the soft brown leather seats, and Mr. Vanderbilt would let him ring the bell. By this time, he was quite up in years, but everyone in town could see how he loved that trolley.
One morning, Mr. Vanderbilt did not show up to polish the trolley. Mr. Rockefeller, who owned the gas station across the street (now called Mr. Smiley's Gas Station) was the first to notice, and by early afternoon everyone in town was concerned about Mr. Vanderbilt's health. Officer Grady went to Mr. Vanderbilt's house on Fairmont Avenue (a few doors down from Mr. Bartram), but could find no trace of him.
We all found out later that Mr. Vanderbilt had left for Las Vegas with a young floozie. Mr. Blackstone, the town attorney, received a letter instructing him to liquidate Mr. Vanderbilt's assets, which consisted of one trolley and a small parcel of land upon which said trolley rested. (The house on Fairmont was rented). In the subsequent auction, there was a single bidder for the trolley, a nameless person who paid with a suitcase of cash. Mr. Nameless installed tables in the trolley, built a kitchen and an extra room for seating, and opened for business as the Red Trolley Diner.
We will learn more about the Red Trolley Diner in later chapters, but for now suffice to say that on this lovely June evening, Roderick Smith sat at the long table in the back of the diner with his mom and dad, Mr. and Mrs. Bloom, Molly, Mary, Margaret and Catherine. Roderick ordered a lovely sausage, with smashed potatoes and little green things, and Blueberry Fluffle for dessert. He sat across from Molly, and while everyone chatted and laughed, he secretly noodged her foot with his; Molly returned the noodge, and smiled.
Thursday, June 10, 2010
Mr. Smiley's Gorgonzola
"Fiddlesticks!", said Mr. Smiley. He had a hankering for some Gorgonzola cheese, but could find none in the refrigerator. You know that Mr. Smiley is upset when he says "Fiddlesticks!", as that is the most serious epithet to pass his lips.
With no Gorgonzola to be found, Mr. Smiley felt that a trip to the Cheese Shop was absolutely necessary. There are many cheese shops in Smileyville, all of them named "Smileyville Cheese Shop". Mr. Smiley prefers the Smileyville Cheese Shop located at the corner of Smiley Boulevard and Happy Fun Drive, across from the Happy Fun Cemetery, near the spot where a duck pooped on Mr. Smiley's Bubble Car a few years back.
It's hard for Mr. Smiley to express why he prefers this particular Smileyville Cheese Shop, since all of the Smileyville Cheese Shops offer a remarkable selection of cheeses at good prices, and provide excellent service. You can search high and low among the Smileyville Cheese Shops, and you will be hard pressed to find a bad one, or anything that distinguishes one from the others in the eyes of an outsider. "It's hard to explain", said Mr. Smiley, as he squeezed the Gorgonzola and sniffed it. "I just like this one".
If the reader will permit a slight digression, one should note that Smileys invariably squeeze and sniff the cheese before buying, but always buy the first one selected. Smileys believe that one must squeeze and sniff the cheese to demonstrate one's knowledge of cheese; however, it is very impolite to return a squozen and sniffed cheese to the display. To be honest, no Smiley would ever fail to buy a cheese even if spoiled, as this might hurt the feelings of the cheesemonger; this is academic, though, since no self-respecting cheesemonger in Smileyville would ever stock a spoiled cheese. It might lead to gossip.
A nice fresh Gorgonzola in hand, Mr. Smiley returned home in his Bubble Car. Clothilde had just finished a batch of bread-and-butter pickles, so they sat on the veranda with plates of Gorgonzola and pickles, and watched the sun set behind the oddly-shaped-and-brightly-colored house next door. As the sun set and the moonflowers bloomed, Mr. Smiley whispered to Clothilde: "the summer solstice will be here soon". Clothilde shivered, for she knew what that meant.
With no Gorgonzola to be found, Mr. Smiley felt that a trip to the Cheese Shop was absolutely necessary. There are many cheese shops in Smileyville, all of them named "Smileyville Cheese Shop". Mr. Smiley prefers the Smileyville Cheese Shop located at the corner of Smiley Boulevard and Happy Fun Drive, across from the Happy Fun Cemetery, near the spot where a duck pooped on Mr. Smiley's Bubble Car a few years back.
It's hard for Mr. Smiley to express why he prefers this particular Smileyville Cheese Shop, since all of the Smileyville Cheese Shops offer a remarkable selection of cheeses at good prices, and provide excellent service. You can search high and low among the Smileyville Cheese Shops, and you will be hard pressed to find a bad one, or anything that distinguishes one from the others in the eyes of an outsider. "It's hard to explain", said Mr. Smiley, as he squeezed the Gorgonzola and sniffed it. "I just like this one".
If the reader will permit a slight digression, one should note that Smileys invariably squeeze and sniff the cheese before buying, but always buy the first one selected. Smileys believe that one must squeeze and sniff the cheese to demonstrate one's knowledge of cheese; however, it is very impolite to return a squozen and sniffed cheese to the display. To be honest, no Smiley would ever fail to buy a cheese even if spoiled, as this might hurt the feelings of the cheesemonger; this is academic, though, since no self-respecting cheesemonger in Smileyville would ever stock a spoiled cheese. It might lead to gossip.
A nice fresh Gorgonzola in hand, Mr. Smiley returned home in his Bubble Car. Clothilde had just finished a batch of bread-and-butter pickles, so they sat on the veranda with plates of Gorgonzola and pickles, and watched the sun set behind the oddly-shaped-and-brightly-colored house next door. As the sun set and the moonflowers bloomed, Mr. Smiley whispered to Clothilde: "the summer solstice will be here soon". Clothilde shivered, for she knew what that meant.
Wednesday, June 9, 2010
The Teens of Beauneville
The teens of Beauneville are quite well-behaved, as one might expect. Actually, that's not quite true; the teens of Beauneville are smart, and like their younger siblings they know that open defiance of adult authority simply leads to pointless conflict. On the surface, the teens of Beauneville are always well-mannered and deferential to parents and teachers, or at least apparently so; but things are not always as they seem.
For when the lights are out, and the moms and dads of Beauneville are fast asleep, and the moon rises over the Mill Pond, the careful listener can hear faint ripples in the water that seem somehow out of place...and if one looks carefully at the surface of the pond in the reflected light, one can see things bobbing about that seem rather too large to be robust fish or playful beavers...and if you inspect the canoe house by the shore, you will note that something appears to be missing.
For on clear and moonlit nights in June, the teens of Beauneville gather on the waters of the Mill Pond, where they float and paddle and tread water and hang out in their canoes, as far as possible from shore; and they whisper to one another about many things, and about nothing in particular. And in the silence of a Beauneville night and the cool June breeze, time stands still.
The moms and dads of Beauneville know about this, of course; they were, after all, teens themselves. But the moms and dads of Beauneville are smart, and they know that the arbitrary exercise of parental authority for its own sake leads to pointless conflict. And so, the moms and dads of Beauneville do not inquire into the nocturnal practices of their teens, even if, when the lights are out, they hear the creak of floorboards, the soft tapping of feet on steps, or the sound of the back door closing.
But on this June night, as Roderick and Molly paddled quietly to the center of the Mill Pond, something happened that was slightly different from what the teens of Beauneville ordinarily do. It was a small thing -- hardly anyone mentioned it, or even noticed -- but just past midnight, as the canoe floated quietly, Molly slipped out of her clothing and into the water, where she swam in graceful circles around the canoe. Roderick did not join Molly, nor did the other teens, who preferred to retain their trunks.
Meanwhile, in Smileyville, Mr. Smiley rummaged for a midnight snack in his oddly-shaped-and-brightly-colored refigerator. He found a nice piece of Emmenthal; it was blissful.
For when the lights are out, and the moms and dads of Beauneville are fast asleep, and the moon rises over the Mill Pond, the careful listener can hear faint ripples in the water that seem somehow out of place...and if one looks carefully at the surface of the pond in the reflected light, one can see things bobbing about that seem rather too large to be robust fish or playful beavers...and if you inspect the canoe house by the shore, you will note that something appears to be missing.
For on clear and moonlit nights in June, the teens of Beauneville gather on the waters of the Mill Pond, where they float and paddle and tread water and hang out in their canoes, as far as possible from shore; and they whisper to one another about many things, and about nothing in particular. And in the silence of a Beauneville night and the cool June breeze, time stands still.
The moms and dads of Beauneville know about this, of course; they were, after all, teens themselves. But the moms and dads of Beauneville are smart, and they know that the arbitrary exercise of parental authority for its own sake leads to pointless conflict. And so, the moms and dads of Beauneville do not inquire into the nocturnal practices of their teens, even if, when the lights are out, they hear the creak of floorboards, the soft tapping of feet on steps, or the sound of the back door closing.
But on this June night, as Roderick and Molly paddled quietly to the center of the Mill Pond, something happened that was slightly different from what the teens of Beauneville ordinarily do. It was a small thing -- hardly anyone mentioned it, or even noticed -- but just past midnight, as the canoe floated quietly, Molly slipped out of her clothing and into the water, where she swam in graceful circles around the canoe. Roderick did not join Molly, nor did the other teens, who preferred to retain their trunks.
Meanwhile, in Smileyville, Mr. Smiley rummaged for a midnight snack in his oddly-shaped-and-brightly-colored refigerator. He found a nice piece of Emmenthal; it was blissful.
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