Mike walked through the door his father was holding open and moved into the banquet hall. He took three steps and stopped in his tracks, stunned by the sights and sounds before him. Frank stood beside him while their families grouped up beside them.
“This is amazing.” Mike breathed, taking in a deep breath. 
 
“What do you mean, what’s so amazing? What are you seeing?” Frank asked wondering what was up with his friend. It all looked normal to him. A large room with a bunch of rectangular tables and chairs. Women from the community working at setting the many tables. People milling about. What else would you expect at an art awards banquet in a small town like Poplarwood. He had one thing in mind and that was the food that was to come.  
  
Meanwhile, Mike was overwhelmed with it all. The huge size of the room. The sound in the room was new to him, the murmuring of voices soft but steady . The people mingling, grouped up along the display tables of art. And the lights. all kinds of lights which made the room glow like a pond of still water in the moonlight. There were dim lights on the ceiling, candles flickering on the tables, tiny white lights strung out along the walls and down the whole length
 of the display table of art along the side of the room. Pictures of all sizes, splashes of color, framed all along the side of the room. “Look at that art there along the wall,” he said, pointing. “That’s a lot of art. I wonder where mine is?”
 
“Must be there somewhere, let’s have a look.” Frank moved towards the display with Mike following. They melted into the crowd of folk along the row of pictures, all craning to get a look, talking, pointing and excited. Frank elbowed his way through till they got to the table and they began working their way down keeping an eye out for Mikes work. 
 
But Mike could not keep up with Frank. He had to stop and really look at the artwork. He had never ever been to an art show or even an art gallery of any kind before. He was mesmerized by the sheer volume of art hanging on the wall or standing on the table before him. He wanted to stop at each one and examine it closely. He wanted to get into how it had been done. What medium was it? What kind of brush, tool or technique did they use to get that effect? The choices and variety of color were mesmerizing. For Mike the room disappeared as he focused in on each piece before him. Even if people jostled him, he did not notice, he was so engrossed with each piece he encountered. 

Suddenly he was surprised to feel a thump and sharp pain on his shoulder, he was annoyed with the interruption and turned reluctantly, noticing that Frank had punched him. “Hey!” he teased, “did you forget that we are here to eat? Come-on we are gonna start.” 
 
Mike realized, to his embarrassment, that basically everyone had already gone to their tables and he’d been one of the few still gawking at the pictures. “OK, OK I am coming,” he said reluctantly still looking at the picture he’d been admiring as he walked away sideways. 
 
Frank was always the practical one. Sometimes he wondered how he would ever get along without good ole Frank reminding him about things. How Frank, for example knew where their table was he had no idea.
 
The first thing on the program was the meal. Frank enjoyed that, and dug into the food with a lot of energy. Then there were speeches by important people and artists, the audience applauding following each one. It was during this time that Mike noticed something strange about his and Frank’s parents. They seemed almost embarrassed about everything that was happening in the room. They did not applauded with the others. Not really. Why, Mike wondered was that? They did not seem happy like the rest of the people sitting around them. There was a lot of conversation and laughter at the tables near them while theirs was quiet. No
one said much at their table, no one told any jokes. They sure could have used some of Franks knock knock jokes thought Mike.  
 
Then they began announcing the awards beginning with the lower grades, Mike and Frank waiting with great anticipation for Mike’s grade category to be announced. He began to perspire. His parent’s behavior began to be a concern for Mike. They behaved so differently from everyone else in the room. Were they embarrassed
about something? Ashamed? What? Did they not want him to win? Why then had they come? But they had come. It was all very confusing and he was sure others were noticing. 
 
Then, came his category. Third place was announced, a huge applause and the winner made her way up to the front to receive the prize. There was a pause. 

“And second place goes to Mike…” applause broke out in the room like for the others, but no one moved. Mike had begun to stand, but sat back down. His table was almost immobile. He noticed his mother’s eyes were wet but she seemed unsure, kind of cowering, seemingly embarrassed at the attention. Mike, looked at the tables
next to them and people were smiling, nodding, motioning for him to go. He scanned his table again and saw a thumbs up from Frank. His Father also finally made a subtle motioned with his head for him to go. The instant he rose the applause increased and even included some yells as he began the long journey to the stage. 
 
This was a strange new world for Mike. He did not know that it was OK to rejoice in an accomplishment such as this. In his world accomplishments were not celebrated with outward emotions like cheering and applause. Especially from strangers such as this. Despite his inner conflictions, he could not help but respond to the
warmth he felt as he went along. A hint of a smile began to appear on his face in response to the overwhelming encouragement he was feeling from everyone in the room. Even if they were strangers. He had been announced as a winner and he began to smile. It did feel good.
 
As he walked up the stage steps he saw his drawing prominently displayed on an easel at the front of the stage. But It was as his teacher was giving him his rolled up award that he saw something that brought his world to a standstill. The winning art pieces were being brought up onto the stage from the display table, lined up in
a row waiting to be shown as each winner was announced. He recognized the next picture that would win first place. He broke into a sweat. 
 
It was his lost nude drawing! He did a double-take, it could not be true. He ignored his teacher, fixated on the drawing, something like huge fear gripping his insides, turning his stomach into a knot. There it was framed and looking so... so.... amazing. And it's a nude! Now everyone would see it! His mother would see it. What if she recognised herself in the picture? How did it get here? He was so confused. What should he do? But it's a nude! His father would kill him if he found out he'd drawn his own mother. He felt like running. ‘Think…think…’ he told himself, but every option seemed wrong, crazy even…his mind became overwhelmed and would not work. He wished for a hole he could jump into. He stood dumbfounded with the scroll she had given him, stuck to his sweating hand, his mouth open, staring, immobilized. 
 
His teacher was whispering into his ear trying to tell him to go back to his table. No response. The crowd began to respond in laughter as they assumed he was stunned by his winning second place. She noticing the giggles, and responded by playing it up, raising her hands and face in mock frustration. Laughter erupted from the crowd. Finally, she took him by the shoulders, turned him towards the stage stairs and give him a gentle nudge. But he did not seem to get the hint and remained there standing like a statue. Again, playing to the crowd with exaggerated movements she took him by the shoulders and literally walked him to the stage steps. Now he responded and with a sideways glance back at his nude, went down the stairs and back to his table, the wrong way of course. People began pointing and motioning, even nudging him, helping him towards his table. The applauding and laughter followed him all the way back. His parents actually kind of smiling as he slipped, embarrassed into his chair. 
 
Then his partial nude was placed in full view for the audience to see. Mike, waiting to see the response, was truly surprised when he heard not only exclamations of surprise, but a few verbal cheers and a sprinkling of appreciative applause. 

But, more than that, he was watching his parents carefully for any signs that they might recognize the picture. So far so good. He was mired in guilt and could not bare looking up at the drawing.

“And, ladies and gentlemen," the MC continued, "first place for this most courageous and unique work of art goes toooo…. Bobby N…Immediately applause burst out in the room, the audience rising from their chairs in appreciation of the winner and the piece they saw before them. 
 
‘Who is this Bobby guy?’ mouthed Mike at Frank in the midst of the din. Frank, just shook his head. They had no idea who he was.

Meanwhile, Mike could not help but notice the audience's excited and loud response to his nude picture. They were now standing as one, clapping and hooting for Bobby as he made his way to the front. When he got there and was given his scroll, the head curator of the event stepped up to the mike to make a comment. When the applause died down she began to explain how this piece of work was the first of it's kind in that the artist used the human form to express the theme of the contest in their work. How excited and pleased the art committee choosing the winners had been, first of all for the courage of the artist to go to the 'nude' in their expression, and secondly for the amazing skill this drawing represented. Skill in the actual drawing of the human figure and also in expressing a full range of emotion in the work.

She ended by congratulating Bobby for his courage and his special giftedness in creating such a great piece of art. She went over and shook his hand congratulating him, saying she was excited now to see what he would be working on next. 

The room again erupted in applause and cheers for Bobby as he made his way back to his table. 

Mike became aware of something he would never had learned anywhere else. He realized now that he could never claim that picture as his. His community could never stand behind a work of this kind like this community did. This community appreciated every part of this work of art. His family and Franks family were not standing. They were not clapping. They were not cheering. They had made themselves stick out as one's who did not support this expression of art. They were the only table sitting down, in the middle of a crowd on their feet cheering. He felt embarrassed.

Mike suddenly realized that he felt kind of glad for Bobby, whoever he was.
 
(To be continued)

English Gardens, Winnipeg MB
Photo by: Cliff Derksen
September, 2013

“Knock Knock.” said Frank grinning.

“ughhhhhh” groaned Mike…not wanting to play the game, he was so miserable.

“Come-on Mike, it’s a knock knock joke, say it already.” Encouraged Frank.

 “Who's there?” Mike groaned

“Atomic!” Frank declared delighted.

“Atomic who?” Mike responded slowly, reluctantly and in a painful way.

“Atomic ache!” Frank responded laughing hilariously.
 
“It wasn’t that funny, really.” Mike mumbled, annoyed with Frank’s over-the-top joy.
 
It was recess. Frank and Mike were sitting in their favorite spot along the fence, in the deep grass, under a tree on the edge of the school yard. Mike was miserable because his “topless nude” drawing was still missing. Someone out there had it. The frightening thing was his sketchbook had mysteriously re-appeared, in the guys cloakroom, which made him very afraid about where and when this drawing might also just accidentally re-appear.
 
“What if that drawing” Mike groaned, “will one day show up, laying on the teacher’s desk? You know then I would be in deep, deep, deep trouble!” 
 
“The problem is we have no idea who left the sketchbook in the cloakroom.” Frank said. “We don’t really even know how long it might have been laying there before we saw it.”
 
“Great spies we are.” Mike mumbled. 
 
“But we know the thief is in this school and that he left it out in the open away from any other school books and stuff.” 
 
“Very smart of him to do that you know, now we don’t know who he is.” 
 
There was silence, except for birds singing and grasshoppers buzzing. Frank loved this kind of "detective" talk where you tried to figure out what the bad guys were thinking and doing. He wanted to be a policeman some day so this just down his ally. When he took the time to think about it he realized something interesting.  “I think," he said, speaking slowly and thoughtfully, "he actually made it kind of easy for us to see it, wouldn’t you say?”
 
“I’ll bet he wanted us to find it!” Mike exclaimed. “He really did want us to find it!” he declared slamming his hand on his knee.
 
“And, he purposely kept the “bad” picture.” Frank added, “someone right here in this school is just playing with us!”
 
“Probably watching us right now.” Mike whispered, putting his head down a bit and slowly looking towards the yard as if he might see someone with peering at them from over a rock or tree. Frank did the same instinctively. They sat there, two guys immobile, just staring out onto the schoolyard. All seemed so normal, kids playing soccer, or kids on the swings or just walking around. No one seemed to notice them at all. It was hard to believe that someone they knew, right in this school had done this. He could be sitting right next to them in class! It made them nervous and suspicious of everyone, even people they liked. Who could this be?  
 
Without moving Mike spoke. “What are we going to do about someone watching us and messing with us like this?” Frank noticed he said it in this weird monotone kind of whisper.
 
Without moving a muscle, eyes scanning the yard, Frank used the same flat tone, “You know you have a drawing to finish, its due day after tomorrow you know.  Maybe you need to work on that, finish it up and hand that in before it’s too late. Then we can think about what to do next.”
 
“Let’s wear camouflage tomorrow!” Mike said. He had no idea where that came from. Probably something from TV.
 
Frank did not move, “I like that, let’s do it.”
 
Mike had had a hard time getting anything camouflage for the next day. His family was not into hunting of any kind. They had a 22 rifle but it was used just for shooting whatever on butchering day. They also shot gophers once in a while, but that was it. 

The best he could come up with was a T-Shirt in a green color, which he wore under one of his checked red and blue shirts. He also had a pair of pants in a kaki green that did not match the T-Shirt or his shirt. His mother thought he looked terrible.
 
When he got to school, he rode his horse across the yard towards the barn. He noticed the barn door was open so ducked his head and rode right through the open door into the barn. His horse 
“Doll” knew her stall and went right into it. He slid off, tied her up to the manger, loosened her saddle and came out walking in the centre of the isle out towards the open barn door. 
 
Out of the corner of his eye he saw movement in the shadow of an empty stall and could only yell as something launched itself right towards him. In a second it slammed into him, taking him right off his feet. Doll, hearing him yell, jumped in fright. Mike landed on his back with this wild “thing” on top of him. It knocked the wind right out of him and he couldn’t breathe, he tried to fend it off, his arms flailing in panic as he fought for air. Slowly he began to hear a voice “….it’s me Frank, it’s me, hold it it’s just me!” It sounded like Frank’s voice, but he wasn’t sure…he began to get some air and saw a weird streaked face, inches from his own face, grinning at him. Then he heard the voice and recognized it as Franks!

Frank finally rolled off him and he sat up gasping, holding his throat. The two boys sat across from each other on the barn floor, straw sticking to their clothing, looking at one another in wonder. Frank wondering about Mike’s breathing and Mike wondering who this was that sounded like Frank but didn’t look like Frank. 
 
This Frank had a face streaked and smudged with something like black grease. Only the whites of his eyes and teeth stood out. He looked so freaky. His streaked face was surrounded by a camouflage, tuque and hood. Then he noticed that his whole body was covered with camouflage! “Wow Frank, is that you?” Mike gasped when he could finally talk! “You are crazy man, just crazy!”
 
“See,” Frank said, “you could not see me could you? This camouflage stuff really works eh? This guy who’s watching us will
not see me today. Your idea of wearing camouflage is going to work really good, you didn't see me at all did you? Ha!” He was all excited at his success in sneaking up on Mike. 
 
“Don’t worry Frank, our teacher, for one thing, will see you real clear and you’re not going to like what she has to say about your get up. You’re going to have to take all that grease off your face and let us all see that ugly mug of yours again!
 
That day Mike chose a picture from his scrapbook for the contest. It was one of his parents and sister eating lunch out on the field during harvest time. They were sitting on the back of their half ton truck tailgate, the dinner set up between them. Their combine stood in the background against the prairie sky. He thought it fit the theme pretty good. After a bit of added work here and there he handed it in to his teacher. This picture surprised her as she’d been watching him in class, working on the drawing of a horse. She pointed out some features of the work, complimenting him on his shading technique and so on. She also remarked on how it was just perfect for the theme of the contest. 
 
Mike appreciated her comments but was unsure about how to take them. Since hardly anyone else in the community ever encouraged or complimented him on his art, was she being truthful? Possibly she wasn’t lying, maybe she did not really know much about art and was just being nice. If he was actually that good, others outside of the school should also be noticing. It was all very confusing for Mike.
 
A week later his teacher announced the  winners from their school who would have their art entered into the provincial art contest. Mike’s was one of the three chosen for his grade category. His artwork had advanced to be in the provincial contest. 
  
Mike found it hard to celebrate because he was worried about his stolen piece of artwork.
 
Frank tried his best to encourage Mike. “Knock Knock," he said.
 
Mike tried to ignore him. "Hey, listen Mike, knock knock…” he insisted.

Mike groaned, “Who's there?” he said reluctantly.

“Avenue!”

 “Avenue who?”

 “Avenue heard the good news?” Frank yelled with glee!
 
“Awe shut up and go grease your face Frank," Mike could not help grinning, "that’s awful!"

(To be continued)

English Garden, Winnipeg MB
Photo by Cliff Derksen
September 2013

(Please note, faithful reader, to be true to the characters in this story I had to make some revisions to, last weeks instalment, the first of this series. My characters do sometimes distract me and I forget some story and character details. My apologies.)

That night, Mike could not get to sleep, his mind kept going round and round about his missing sketchbook. He was thinking about the many drawings, especially the “racy” one that no one should see. But there were others that would have worked so well for that crazy art contest theme, “Healthy Mind, Healthy Body.” He rolled over to his other side in frustration. He could not believe how life seemed to go against him sometimes. Here just when he actually had a few drawings an art contest comes up that fits exactly for the
stuff he’d done, except the whole lots gone missing, stolen, lost whatever. The more he thought about it the more resentful he felt. It was not fair. Life was not fair! 
 
He turned onto his back, stiffly looking straight up. He raised
his two fists into the air shaking them at God. “It’s not fair.” He exclaimed at the ceiling, covered with shadowy moonlight. He waited, but God did not seem to be saying anything and he let his fists fall to his sides in frustrated resignation. He turned onto his side mumbling about God not really caring about his problems after all.
 
The next morning he hung around by the front steps of the school
waiting for Frank. Frank never got to school early. He had a lot of brothers. In comparison, he only had one sister so he understood. Except, his one sister also took a lot more time to get ready for the day than he did. He could not imagine what it would be like if he had as many sisters as Frank had brothers. He figured then he would not get to school till noon!
 
Then Jason showed up with his two buddies. Mike knew that he only pretended to like him. He himself never seemed to do anything bad but he knew Jason always made his buddies do all the bad stuff for him. Today, the two bullies came up to the stairs ahead of Jason, pretending they did not see him and bumping into him on purpose, anyone could see that. “Oh, sorry we didn’t see you there, girlie artist.” After they were finished pushing him back and forth
between them, Jason came sauntering along. 
                 
“How’s the drawing for the art contest coming along?” he asked in a high voice sarcastically, “sucks when you’ve lost all your drawings and have to start over eh?” He paused. Mike just looked at him. He was not about to give him an answer, he wanted this conversation to be over as soon as possible. “Well, I hope you find it before the deadline comes!” He walked to the first step with a smirk on his face, all the while keeping his eyes on Mike as he went up the steps. Mike stared back saying nothing. He waited till they had all gone up the steps and into the school, then heaved a sigh of relief. 
 
Mike felt weird about those comments. How did Jason even know his pad had been lost? He did not think he’d told anyone that would be talking to a guy like Jason about it. Yes, that was
weird.
 
A few minutes later Frank arrived.
 
“Look at this.” Frank said in a whisper, once they were seated
alone along the edge of the schoolyard. “Close your eyes…close your eyes.” He whispered with urgency, waiting for Mike to do it. Mike just looked at him strangely, wondering if he wanted to play a trick on him, embarrass him somehow. He knew Frank, he sometimes liked to play tricks on you if he could. “Come-on, close your eyes already, I promise I won’t do anything to you.” He already had his hand in his jacket pocket impatiently waiting for Mike to co-operate. He closed his eyes.
 
He could hear Frank shuffling around with something, then mostly
silence. Just when he was thinking of the grasshopper sounds in the grass around him he heard Frank’s voice. “Ok you can open your eyes, what-do-ya-think?” 
 
When he opened his eyes, he was shocked because it seemed like
Frank had disappeared and someone else was sitting in front of him. Except he had Franks jacket on…then he could see the freckles on his chin and when he looked into the eyes he realized that it was still really Frank. He’d put on a black "Lone Ranger and Tonto" mask. “Wow Frank, that’s a great mask, you had me fooled there for a second, that’s for sure,” he explained. “But we have to talk about how we are going to find my scrapbook Frank…” his voice trailed off, wondering if Frank really wanted to do this thing at all.
 
“But that’s what this is for Mike, being a spy,” he rasped, excited, “If we wear this mask no one will know who we are and we’ll find your pictures in no time. Here I have another one for you too.” He dug into his pocket and dropped a second mask onto Mike’s
lap. We'll be like the Lone Ranger and solve the crime of the stolen sketchbook.
 
That’s what Mike loved about his friend, he could come up with
the greatest ideas and surprise everyone, even himself sometimes. In a few minutes Mike had his mask on and the two buddies were sneaking across the yard, running low, pausing every once in a while, crouching, looking around to make sure no one was seeing them, then springing up again running towards the school and their target, the boys cloak-room.
 
They spent the whole day, every recess, donning the masks and
hiding in and around the cloakroom. They crouched outside the doors, they stood motionless behind hanging jackets, they took turns lying under the benches behind boots and shoes. 
 
Any students who did see them, just ignored them, thinking of
them as crazy kids living in another world. No one cared or suspected anything about their real goals. The two spies had disguised themselves as kids at play with great success. 
 
Mike even forgot to take his mask off when the first period after
lunch started. Frank got his attention from his desk across the aisle motioning, trying to communicate the problem by holding up his hands to his face, his thumbs and fingers circling both his eyes. Mike understood instantly and ripped the mask off his head, shoving it out of sight into his desk.
 
It was so much fun “hiding” that they actually forgot why they
were doing it that whole first day. If felt good just to have fun. Mike forgot all about his “racy” picture and the “what ifs” should someone actually find it. It was good to forget about the whole sketchbook thing for a little while.
 
Having no success finding the sketchbook, he began a new drawing during the art classes leading up the deadline day. Two days before the deadline, when they had all but given up on any success in ever finding the sketchbook, they found themselves looking at it sticking out over the edge of the top hat shelf in the cloakroom. Frank pulled out the bench and Mike stepped up onto it reaching up to pull it off the shelf. He lifted it tenderly and slowly off the shelf, confirming it was his sketchbook as more of the pad
  revealed itself. Once he had it in his hands he turned it over and looked at the cover. He was now certain it was actually the one, it was his long lost sketchpad. He stood on the bench pressing it to his chest a huge sense of relief washing over him. 
 
Watching through the door from their hide-out in the girls cloak-room across the hall, Jason and his two bullies watched with
satisfaction. “Finally he whispered, we’re free and clear, hope that preachers kid enjoys that picture we gave him.”

"Yea, maybe he'll even learn something ha ha!" There were high fives all around. 
 
After a moment, Mike looking down at Frank whispered quietly,
“but is that racy drawing in here?” He jumped off the bench and both boys ran down the stairs, hit the landing, turned right and ran down the long length of stairs as fast as they could go, stumbling in their rush as they hit the basement floor. Then off to their spot behind the furnace. Both of them were breathing heavily as Mike opened the pad, paging through the drawings moving quickly from one pate to the other.  When he got to a blank page he knew the
truth. They sat looking at each other, Mike’s eyes wide. “It’s not there is it?” murmured Frank. Mike, began again, from the beginning, turning each page. When he reached the blank page he looked up slowly meeting Franks questioning gaze, “It’s not here Frank! Someone has taken out the one drawing I’m worried about.
  I’m so dead.” He groaned falling backwards against the furnace. It responded with a “bing.” He looked up heavenward in exasperation. “It's over, it's so over, uuuuuhhhhh!”
 
To be continued.
 
“Why, Lord, do you stand far off? Why do you hid yourself in
times of trouble?”     Psalms 10:1

English Garden
Photo by Cliff Derksen, Winnipeg MB
Sept. 2013

It turned out to be a very different Friday. 
 
Mike had just settled into his desk in the one room prairie school-house he’d attended since grade one. It was the middle of September, and he felt like he was beginning to feel settled into his new grade, grade five. His best grade had been grade one, because then he had sat next to the windows of the huge classroom. Now, four grades later, he was in the middle of the room and the windows seemed a long way off. But, they were huge and so he could still enjoy the prairie sky, the ever changing clouds and the vastness of the universe.
 
But on this morning, he didn’t need to wait for the teacher to get to his grade before actually paying attention to her. He was brought out of his window watching with a start, for he suddenly heard the
words, “art contest!”
 
His body jerked into an upright position in his desk, his head snapping toward the teacher, eyes and ears riveted. He was not sure if he’d heard everything but she mentioned that the theme was healthy bodies….she repeated herself for emphasis, “Remember, everyone, the theme is ‘healthy minds, healthy bodies’.”
 
Immediately, he went into overdrive. He began flipping through his mind, seeing pictures relating to minds and bodies…healthy ones. Very healthy ones. Meanwhile, he could hear the teachers voice in the distance giving details like giving details, like the grade categories, his being grades four to six. ….Hmmmm healthy bodies….images came and went. Then he heard that October 30th was the deadline and all had to have their artwork handed in by that date. Oh, and also one per student.
 
There was more, but her voice disappeared completely when suddenly the image of his picture he’d made of a woman which had been inspired by what he’d seen through the mirror, while trapped under his mother’s bed. It was his best work, but he realized of course that this was a drawing he could never use for the contest. Whenever he thought about it, his pain returned. He still wondered where it was, who had it and where would it show up and embarrass him to no end. End his life as he knew it. 

But there were other works of art in the sketchbook which he could use for the  contest. Perfect for the theme. It had gone down the row of boys in the pew and disappeared! Drawings, perfect for this contest had been in that sketchbook. For all he knew it was probably destroyed by now. He could see it, ruined in some garbage dump. For the fact was that if anyone like a pastor or janitor from the church had found it, that’s where it would go, he was sure!
 
“What if it’s not “lost”! What if one of the guys still has it!” he whispered to himself. He turned sideways in his seat facing his best friend Frank across the isle, he whispered, “We have to talk,”
motioning for him to come as he rose walking down the isle as if he had to go to the bathroom. Frank understood, counted thirty seconds and also left, crouching a bit so it looked like he really had to go badly.
 
When Mike, waiting in the basement saw him coming down the steps he led him into a cramped hiding space behind the furnace. When they had squeezed themselves in Mike began, “Do you think one of the guys has my sketchbook?” he blurted out in a whisper. 
 
“What do you mean?” Frank blurted out. “Shhhhh…”hissed Mike, “I mean the the sketchbook that got lost at the church. I think maybe it wasn’t lost, I think it might have been stolen and that
one of the guys still has it!”
 
“Wow, that’s so great, let’s just ask him for it and he’ll give it you you….” His whisper faded away to nothing. Mike just looked at him with that look of “Can you hear yourself…do you know what you’re
saying?” But of course he said all that, just by looking at his buddy.

“Yea, you’re right Mike, by the way I do have an idea, let’s start with the guys that sat at the far end of the pew, beat every one of them up, one after another and the guilty guy will confess!” he broke into a snicker!
 
Mike cracked up, convulsing in squelched laughter, losing his balance. Crouched in the cramped space he fell against the side of the furnace. The metal gave way bending with a dull bong, but when he regained his balance taking his weight off the tin it came back with a loud “twang” which seemed to reverberate through the whole building. They both gasped waiting in silence for what might happen next. They could hear the teacher voice go on upstairs. Their smiles and laughter returned.  
 
“You better get back up there.” Frank whispered as they began inching their way out from behind the furnace. “We have to make a plan,” Mike said straightening up, “Let’s talk Sunday when you come over, ok?”
 
“OK”. 
 
Mike hurried back up the stairs.
 
More often than not, their two families visited one another on Sunday afternoons. Mike and Frank were third cousins, so it made sense that their parents would spend time together. On this particular Sunday Frank and his parents ended up at Mikes place.
 
After lunch, Mike decided that since they had to talk, they would go to a private place behind the barn. Frank had been here before and could not wait because he know this was where Mike stashed his
home made swords and they could practice sword fighting without being found out. The swords were not really swords, but metal piping Mike had found in the blacksmith shop one day. Mike had spirited them away to this hiding place. Then he’d persuaded his sister Geraldine to join him in the art of sword fighting. Of course, in a few minutes he learned that their hands were vulnerable, so to make sure Geraldine would continue the “sword play” game with him he had “borrowed” some work gloves to provide protection for their hands. 
 
In a few minutes they had their protective gloves on and were facing each other, swords crossed. 
 
“So, Mr. Samurai warrior,” said Frank smiling, rattling his sword against Mikes, “How are we going to find your thief and get that sketchbook back?” He lunged forward, their swords screeching
against each other. They stood chest to chest their swords crossing in front of their faces. 
 
Mike pushed off, they separated now circling, swords tapping. “We are going to be spies,” he said in a horse whisper. “We will check each cloakroom every day and eyeball each pile of books, check every bag, look under any coats, to see if someone tries to bring it to school secretly!” With that Mike made a move, attempting to swing his sword down and touch Frank’s thigh with it. Frank arched his hips away to the right, lowering and angling his sword down to stop Mikes swinging motion, the swords clanging together. Frank raised his carrying Mikes weapon up and they faced each other again swords crossed, breathing hard.
 
“Like the ‘Man Against Crime’ spy guy on TV who never carries a gun?” Frank asked. Mike extended his arm and sword, taking a
few quick steps towards his opponent.  Frank mimicked his move, stepping back exactly the same number of steps. They did this a few times, like linked dancers, back and forth, always staying the same distance away from one another, their swords tapping and scraping together. 
  
Then Frank just ran at Mike, sword  extended. Mike backed up, jumped sideways to the right, raising the tip of his sword and pushing Frank’s sword out of the way to the left as he run by him. “Exactly,” he said, “we will be undercover secret agents, and no one will be the wiser!”
 
They heard Mike’s mother calling them in for desert. They needed no second call, stashing their weapons they were on their way, playfully pushing each other’s shoulders as they went.

To be continued.

 “Do not repay anyone evil for evil. Be careful to do what is right in the eyes of everyone.”    Roman’s 12:17

Photo by Cliff Derksen - English Gardens
Winnipeg MB  September 2013

The Eaton’s Catalog arrived on a Tuesday near the end of July. Geraldine noticed it the minute her father brought the mail in from the mailbox. “Yea,” she yelled running towards her father, “lemme see it, lemme see it…” she murmured as he let it slide out of the
pile of mail for her to grab. She held it to herself as she made her way to the dining room table. There she set the huge volume carefully on the table, like she was laying out fine china. This was what she had been waiting for, the delicious moment when she would slowly page through the young woman’s clothing, jewelry and toy sections, examining everything in minute detail. She was not going to be rushed or interrupted. There were important things to see, descriptions to read and dreams to dream.
 
Mike who was upstairs in his room, heard his father announce it’s arrival to the household, “The Eaton’s catalog is here!” He heard, but could not make out his mother’s reply from somewhere in the house, but he did heard Geraldine’s voice claim first dibs yelling, “I saw it first!” to no one in particular. He was also interested in seeing the catalog but knew it was useless to even try for these two would be hogging it for the next few days.
 
Every year during the summer, his mother would do her shopping for clothing and items needed for the family for the next school year. This would eventually result in a huge order, which she would
prepare under the watchful eyes of each family member.
 
It was strange how Mike had slowly become more interested in the catalog  but it had very little to do with his choice of jeans he wanted for school. Sure, his mother would ask him about the
colours he wanted of this or that shirt and he co-operated for it was for him, really all a cover. He was excited about the arrival of the
new catalog but for reasons his family never expected.
 
A few days later, no one thought it strange for him to ask for the catalog  and to take it upstairs to his room. In fact his mother encouraged him, happy that he finally seemed to be showing some interest in his school wardrobe.  No one had any idea that this was the furthest thing from his mind.
 
Once he got past the door to the stairs, he burst into a run going up the stairs taking two steps at a time, rushing to get to the privacy of his room and pour over the images like they were banana splits from heaven. He turned to the underwear sections and examined the images in detail. He pulled out his sketch pad, opening it to a drawing he’d just finished. It had been inspired by the experience he’d had seeing his mother in her mirror while he was trapped under his parents bed. It was an image of a woman reflected in a mirror. For him, this was a new kind of work, the best he thought he’d ever done.
 
Using an outdated Eaton’s catalog he’d found the appropriate image, tore out the page and tapped it to the glass of his bedroom window. Then he placed a sheet from his sketchpad over the one stuck to the window. This way the window became a “light box” the sunlight making it possible for him to see through his sheet and trace the image onto his drawing paper. He’d make adjustments in the images to fit what he wanted for his drawing, shade them in to get the three dimensional affect and "wa-la" he had a new drawing.
 
He loved this process for it gave him the opportunity to practice his art. But there was one niggling problem and that was guilt. You see, Mike did attend church and suspected that what he was doing must be somehow sinful. He could not imagine his Sunday school
teacher, any of the ministers, or even his parents approving of what he was doing. Yet, his excitement in experimenting and working with these images was too fulfilling and exciting for him to stop. How was he to learn, but by doing? He was and felt literally out of control.
 
With the success of this particular drawing, he began to take his sketch pad with him almost everywhere he went. Whenever he had time he’d open it to the drawing, study it, and usually make some alterations or improvements. The sketch pad had become something like the t-shirt he’d worn night and day when he was six. 
 
Therefore when Sunday rolled around he never gave it a second thought, but took it with him when they went to church. There was a whole hour, Mike thought, where he could work on something while the preacher was speaking. What Mike had not counted on was the curiosity and interest or even the malevolence of the other boys that sat beside him in the pew.  
 
The boys, during the service, all sat near the front of the church sanctuary, so the parents could keep an eye on them. Despite the parents best efforts to have the boys behave, things happened
that were never seen or expected by the parents. The backs of the pews were of solid wood. So, the boys learned to keep the action below the level of the top of the bench. Also, their heads and shoulders must always appear to be paying serious attention to the stage. So no matter what happened, weather it was pinching, snapping one another, feats of strength, jokes or anything else boys will dream up, all had to be masked by the body language of
"holiness." A body language that never gave away the pain, violence or laughter anyone might be experiencing. 
 
Once the minister had begun Mike drew his art pad out of his Bible, opened it up to a new page, dug his pencil stub from out of his pocket and began doodling. He began with a drawing of the minister. Then added a Bible sticking out of his left ear. To balance the drawing he began drawing a second Bible sticking out of the other ear. In his concentration, he did not really notice the interest of the guys beside him and halfway through the second Biblical “earplug” his pad was easily jerked away from him and quickly passed several guys down the bench, out of his reach. He immediately realised what a terrible mistake he’d made bringing this sketch pad to church. He knew there were several drawings or outlines of both male and female figures, including the most recent special one he'd practically finished, in the sketch pad and knew it would not be long before the guys would find these. It went down the line of boys and yes, they did find them. It was after
this that all concerns about "holy behaviour" for the sake of the parents went out the window. 
 
If you were sitting a few pews back you would have known exactly where Mike’s art pad was located in its journey down the pew of boys. There was giggling, pointing, smiling, gesturing, shoulders
shaking, heads turning, guys whispering into each other’s ears. There was even elbowing and nudging going on as the guys would point out particular "interesting elements" of the drawings. All of this happening as the pad slowly made its way down the line. One father finally stood up, leaning over the empty pew between him and the boys, and poked his son. Everyone stopped when that happened, but in a few moments it slowly began again, more subdued nonetheless, as the art pad continued its way down to the end of the pew.
 
Mike never did get his sketch pad back. He had no idea, who had actually taken it or where it was. For all he knew it might be under the pew or somewhere in the church, waiting to be discovered by
one of the ministers. Mike was sick with worry.
 
All the way home, Mike was in pain. His mind spinning, wondering where his sketch pad was and who would be seeing it. He knew, that if this fell into the wrong hands, he was done. He would be
considered the greatest sinner in the world. The whole church, he thought, would confront him and make a rule that he never draw anything again. This was his greatest fear, he would be forced to give up his art! He was distracted and distraught, waiting for life as he knew it to end.
 
“What’s the matter Mike?” his mother asked him, turning to look at him from the passenger seat of the car. He was sitting in the back, bent over rocking back and forth, his arms across his stomach groaning as if in severe pain.
 
“I don’t feel so good.” He said. “Do you have a stomach ache?” she asked concerned.
 
“Yea,” he said. Then before he knew what he was saying he added, mumbling, “and a head-ache too.”
 
“I’ll give you an aspirin when we get home.” She offered. “We’ll be home in a few minutes.”
 
He stayed in his room all that afternoon feeling miserable. When his mother offered to bring him something to eat for dinner, he accepted but pushed most of it away. On Monday, he stayed in his
room, his mind creating worse and worse scenarios about what would become of him when his drawings would be found. One was that he’d be driven from the community and from his home. He began to think about running away and living off the land in the willows growing in the cow pasture. He imagined himself living off of rabbits he’d shoot with his slingshot. Possibly sneaking into the barn for night, sleeping on straw in an empty stall or manger. It all seemed like suddenly his life was in ruins and that there was no answer to his dilemma.
 
By Tuesday he just wanted it to be over. His mind and body were tired and he just wanted someone to find his sketch pad already. He was thinking of confessing admitting his guilt and just taking
whatever punishment they would hand out for sinners like him.
 
It was also on Tuesday that his parents phoned the Doctor to inquire about his health.
 
That evening Mike suddenly noticed a car drive up the driveway and roll to a stop on the yard in front of their house. Were these visitors? On Sundays it was an accepted practise for families to come and visit, often without any warning. Who could this be? A few minutes later a knock on the door startled him, it was Geraldine telling him that two of the Ministers from the church were downstairs visiting with mom and dad in the living room and that mom had sent her upstairs. “Finally,” he thought, “they've  found my sketch book and have come to tell me to never draw again.” Then he would have to leave, he’d run away because he knew he could not live without the freedom to draw.
 
He waited anxiously, sitting, perspiring and rocking on the edge of his bed, waiting for them to call for him. He started at every noise he heard, but nothing happened. Finally the car drove off the yard. He concluded that they had told his parents what they had seen in
his sketch pad and that they would now be the ones to tell him that he could never to draw again. He crawled under the blankets and waited for his mother to give him the dreaded news that would end his life as he knew it. 
 
“How are you doing, feeling any better?” his mother asked breezing into the room with water and some aspirin. Mike was
under his blankets, shivering in fear and dread. He waited, but his mother seemed to be much too happy and in no hurry to tell him what would happen to him now that his art had been found.
 
“Did the Ministers want me to leave?” he finally asked his voice trembling. His mother stopped in her tracks and looked at him. “What did you say?” she asked.
 
“Did the Ministers want me to leave?” he whispered, “did they want to talk to me?”
 
His mother was stunned. “Of course not!” she exclaimed, “Why would you even say something like that?” They just came to
thank us, your dad and me for how we helped cook meals for that week of meetings we had two weeks ago at the church.” She sat down on the side of the bed and in her kindest voice said. “You know Mike, they said some very nice things about you and Geraldine. They saw that horse you drew, that’s still on the blackboard downstairs and they really liked it. They said that you had very skilled hands and that one day you would probably be an amazing finish carpenter and make furniture or kitchen cabinets when you grew up. They like you Mike, and there is no reason for them to ask for you to go away.”
 
She patted his hand, mussed his hair, kissed him good night and was gone.
 
They had not found his sketchbook, relief welled up in his heart. He sat up in his bed. Obviously, one of the guys still had it, for if it had been left in church it would have been found by now. He began to feel a lot better.
 
A finish carpenter eh? Why he wondered, a finish carpenter? He’d recently been noticing how many pictures there were in books and papers around him. His reader at school was all full of drawings for
each story. Even the church Sunday school books had art in them. Someone must have drawn all those pictures. Why could he not be that person? Why should he be a carpenter when he already was an artist? He was confused. Maybe they had seen his sketch book and this was their ruling? Mmmmm
 
That line of thought was too hard on his mind. Despite the fact he still did not know exactly where his book had gone, he actually began to see something positive about that Sunday morning. He
remembered the expressions of interest, wonder and fun on the faces of the guys as they had passed his sketchbook down the pew, each of his friends looking at his artwork. Not only was that a compliment to him but, he realised, this must have been one of the most fun Sundays his friends had ever had at church, of that he was sure.
 
“Yes!” he said aloud, pumping his fist. 
 
The End. 
Autobiographical
Fiction.

Mike wanted to draw people, not cartoon people but real people. He’d done the horse, the rabbit, and the dog thing, but needed to get doing real people right.
 
Cartoon people were fun and easy because you did not have to worry about proportions. Every part of the person could be any length and thickness, and it did not matter. Actually, the weirder the more laughs he’d get. Kids passing the drawing from one to another, chuckling over it. He knew he’d never stop cartooning, it was his door to “coolness” in the school.
 
But he wanted to do people so he began to study them, really study them. I mean seriously and carefully. For example, he wanted to know how long the arms were compared to the rest of the person. He wanted to know where on an arm he should place the elbow. He’d tried placing it in the middle, but that looked wrong. He wanted to memorize how the clothing folded and wrinkled when the arm was bent.  
 
The problem was he already had a reputation for “looking” or as most would describe it, “daydreaming.’ He always wanted his
desk near the windows and he’d spend any spare time looking out onto the prairie, the clouds in the sky… “Window Guy” they called him at school.
 
At recess he’d sit or lie on the ground examining things, like a blade of grass, a root he’d pull out of the ground, or any bug or ant that happened by.
 
“What ya looken at?” someone noticing him staring at them would say. He’d jerk away, pretending to be busy with something else. 
 
It was embarrassing, that’s what it was. After some thought, he decided that if he was going to learn anything, he’d have to look at himself!
 
At home, he remembered his mother had a full length mirror, but it was in her and his father’s bedroom. This bedroom this was really off limits for him but he was desperate. First, he needed to scout out the situation and began to peer into the room secretly, from the
living room. Even while the rest of the family was around he’d be doing this. Several times he tried, looking real casual as he walked by the door, rolling his eyes sideways scanning the room to catch a glimpse of the mirror. No matter from where he sat, stood or walked, he could not make out where the mirror was actually located. He knew it was there somewhere.
 
The second thing, was to be aware of everyone’s wareabouts during each aspect of the day. Dad was no problem, since he left the house in the morning and came back only for meals. His other would leave the house for doing laundry, sometimes doing chores or to weed or pick food for meals from the garden. That would not be hard to figure out. The worst was Geraldine, as she would be present, yet absent, playing in her own world, coming and going without any warning. 
 
The very next Saturday he noticed his mother in the garden, hoeing weeds. He could tell she’d be there a while as the garden was a large one. Dad was out on the field with the tractor, but he’d not
seen Geraldine for a while so was not sure where she was. Regardless, he made the decision to go for it and ran into the house with great expectations and excitement.
 
Holding his scribbler, pencil and eraser, he paused in front of his parent’s bedroom open door. The house was very quiet. No one had ever said he could not go into his parent’s bedroom, yet for some strange reason, it seemed like it was off limits. He stiffened, and stepped through the door. In a second he saw the mirror, it was on the wall next to the door to his right. It was perfect. He stepped in front of the mirror and took his whole image in. He stepped forward. He leaned in, his face an inch from the glass and made a face, his breath fogging up his image. He smiled at himself,
bobbing his head back and forth with joy. This would be just fine. He opened his scribbler wondering where to start.
 
He drew the folds of his clothing as he posed crouching, bending over, bending his arm this way and that. Then he took his shirt off and repeated the poses. He removed his shoes and his pants, posing and drawing. His gitch landed on the floor and more poses were made and drawn. Mike was lost in his element. The afternoon slid by, his whole consciousness being on the model in the mirror, nothing else. So you can imagine his surprise when he began to be aware that someone had come into the house and was making
their way from the kitchen into the living room. He also suddenly realized that he was stark naked. His question of how that had come about was interrupted by footsteps coming his way. He knew he could not take the risk of waiting to see if whoever it was, was going to come into the bedroom. He quickly scooped and kicked his clothing along the floor hiding them under the bed. He then threw himself down onto the floor and slithered under the bed into hiding after them, nervously clutching his scribbler in his
hand.
 
From his position under the bed he could see his mother’s feet as she came walking into the bedroom. He did not know she was carrying a bowel of water, a towel and a wash cloth. She closed the door behind her. 
 
Mike stared at the closed door. “She closed the door,” he thought, “I’m trapped, I’ll never get out.” His fear meter began to rise, “Why would she close the door?”
 
Then Mike got the shock of his life when he saw his mother’s cotton dress land silently on the floor at her feet. Curious, he inched his head forward, he could see her half-slip. He craned his neck a little further, just in time to see her toss her brazier out of his vision and saw, in the reflection of the mirror, his mother’s bare breasts! 
 
He gasped in awe, involuntarily clamping his hand over his mouth. Fear and wonder washed over him, his body slowly moving into a fetal position beneath the confines of the bed. “Should I be seeing
this?” he asked himself. Despite his misgivings, he just could not make himself back away and retreat back under the bed. 
  
What he saw next could only be described by Mike as a dance, a ballet of smooth, confident movements as she gave herself a sponge bath following an afternoon of working in the garden during the heat of the day. An arm in the air, the other circling, now quick, now slow. The sound of dripping water as she paused to wrung out the wash cloth. Now the back, now the other arm up, now the front, under over and around. Her sighs of comfort as
the water cooled her body. Then she dried herself, again another dance. He was mesmerized watching how the single shaft of light from the window played on the shape and form of her body. Finally, Mike drew his head back under the bed closing his eyes. He knew he’d never seen anything so beautiful in all his life. The images, the light and the shadows, the movements, the dance, the shapes,
would be forever etched in his brain. He was trying to reconcile that fact that it was his mother that was so beautiful.
 
When she was dressed, she left the room taking the bathing materials with her. Mike waited a few minutes, then squeezed
himself out from under the bed and peeked out the door across the living room and into the kitchen. He was hoping his mother would just go out of sight so he could make a break for the upstairs door and up into his room without being seen. He stepped across the open door to the other side and snuggled up into the clothes closet still peeking out to monitor his mother’s movements. But, then he
heard her coming fast. He had no time to scoot back past the open door, to get back under the bed, he was sure she would spot him. Instead, he pressed himself into the depth of the closet, between the clothes. She was into the room before he could get the closet door totally closed, so to make sure she would not see his feet he reached up, grabbed the metal hanging rod and lifted his feet off
the floor.
 
He could feel the rod bend as he added his weight to that of the clothes already hanging from the metal rod. He tried not to move. He prayed his mother would leave the room…quickly! She came to the closet and held his breath as she shuffled some hangers about. When she withdrew he could feel his sweaty hands slipping, and took the occasion to “re-grip.” An action that involved lifting himself up quit quickly, then with the bounce, re-gripping the rod more deeply. The end of this bounce brought more than his full weight back down onto the rod. It was this maneuver that did Mike
in. Mike realized his mistake to late, the rod groaned and gave way. He went down to the floor in a dramatic crash, entangled in his mother’s and his father’s clothes.
 
His mother kind of squeaked at the sudden commotion in her closet. Mike remained motionless and silent. She slowly opened
the closet door and saw an arm, a leg and the tussled hair of her son’s head among the pile of clothes heaped at the bottom of the closet. “Mike, is that you?” she exclaimed in surprise, “what are you doing in here?”
 
It took a moment for Mike to untangle himself, but when he did, he was reminded that he was still stark naked and took off, his bare feet squeaking on the smooth floor, running for his life, across
the living room towards the upstairs door. As he gained momentum half way through the living room he saw his sister Geraldine directly in his path, too late, he crashed into her and they both landed sprawling on the floor. His bare skin protesting as he slid to a stop. Time stood still as the two looked at each other, limbs akimbo on the floor. Then Geraldine’s expression began to change into a slow developing grin. Her eyes widening. Mike realized he was totally exposed sitting there in the buff facing her on the floor. He involuntarily jerked his legs together, knowing full well it had been too late and she’d seen it all. He tried to rise from the floor while covering himself but ended up struggling to his feet in a most embarrassing way. He tried to walk in a dignified manor towards the upstairs door to get out of sight. Just as he got there, he heard his sister’s taunting voice. “I saw you Mikie, she giggled, “I saw you!” 
 
Even though it wasn’t evening or bedtime, Mike just had to cover his nakedness, quickly slipping under his blanket, relieved he was finally covered. There he lay, trying to understand what had just occurred, running through the events again and again. 
  
Sketching himself in the mirror, hiding under the bed, seeing breasts for the first time, crashing into his sister… who would probably tease him forever. 
 
Then he remembered that his clothing were still under his parent’s bed! If his mother discovered them or even asked why he’d been naked in the closet, he decided that he could tell her about drawing
himself, posing in the full length mirror. 
  
It would be good, he thought, to talk to somebody about this new obsession, this need to draw, and so to understand the shapes and forms of the physical human body. Could he talk to his mother? Would she understand? 
 
He did not even understand it himself. But he did know he just needed to draw.
 
The End.

Author: Cliff Derksen
Autobiographical Fiction

Measures of Protection for the Chicken!

They both stood staring at the chicken. It just could not be dead! Mike was hoping it would get up and walk away, doing what chickens do, but it just would not move. No matter how hard he wished it to jump up, it stayed on the ground, feathers ruffling in the breeze.
 
“I guess we have to go and look at it.” Mike sighed, not knowing exactly what to do next. They walked over slowly and stood over it. He nudged it with his foot. Nothing. 
  
“I told you, it’s dead,” declared Geraldine, holding her book up against her mouth. “we are going to have to bury it.” She mused.
 
“Dad just throws the dead chickens on the manure pile.” Mike said.
 
“That’s different, they died because of normal stuff, you threw a stone and killed this one, it’s not a normal death so she needs a funeral.” she said.
 
Mike shuffled his feet, walked a few steps away and came back, ”That means, we have to dig a hole, put her in it and cover her up.” He said, thinking of his aunt’s funeral. He could still hear
the dirt landing on her coffin as the men shovelled dirt into the
hole.
 
“We have to but her into a coffin,” Geraldine said. Also remembering there aunt’s funeral. “and we should say something, have a preacher preach, or pray,” she paused collecting her thoughts,  “you have to pray for the chicken Mike.” she
declared.
 
Mike did not feel like praying for the chicken. “We need a shovel.” He said and began walking towards the blacksmith shop. Geraldine followed.
 
This was new territory for Mike. He was thinking maybe his dad would not notice that the chicken was gone. They could bury it, and just keep it a secret. Maybe it would all go away. But there was
one problem, Geraldine. “You threw the stone and killed this one.” She had said. That hurt. She’d practically called him a “killer!” He was not a chicken killer that was for sure.

When they arrived at the shop, he swung the door open and faced his sister. “It’s your fault too,” he said, “you made me do it by throwing rocks at targets with me you know.”
 
Geraldine did not step into the shop. She stood there and just stared at him, her eyes growing wide. Mike got scared. He could see her braids shaking and realized he’d gotten her mad. He held onto the door, ready to duck behind it because it sure looked like she was going to hit him.
 
“You take that back!” she hissed quietly. “You threw rocks everywhere and when you lost the contest, you got mad and threw rocks at the chicken! Daddy will say you are careless. You did it and I do not have to say anything. You have to say it yourself. You have to tell daddy or he will be really mad.”
 
Mike turned away in the dim light of the shop sulking, thinking.
 
She waited…then she said what Mike did not want to hear, “If you do not take it back I will go and tell mom right now.”
 
“Why?” he thought in both disgust and grudging admiration, “was his sister always right?” 
 
After he’d made things right with his sister, they worked together, finding a spade and a greasy gunny sack to put the chicken in. Just as they were going back to get the chicken, Mike asked, “If we are not throwing it on the manure pile, where are we going to bury the
chicken?’
 
“In the graveyard.” said Geraldine matter of factly.
 
“What graveyard?” asked Mike.
 
“My graveyard.” she said.
 
“Your graveyard?” he exclaimed confused, “but you’re not dead!”
 
“I have a graveyard where I bury things that die,” she said. She began walking back towards the barn, Mike followed listening in wonder. “I bury the chicks that die, I have buried dead dragon
 flies. I buried that bird that hit the window and died, and I buried Jill because she got sick and died.”
 
“Jill?” he sputtered, “your doll got sick and died, and you buried her?”
 
Shortly after their aunt’s Audrey's funeral Geraldine had declared her doll Jill dead. Jill was a plastic doll whose eyes opened when she sat up and closed when she lay down. One day, after the funeral, Jill’s eyes would not open. No matter what position she was placed in, they remained shut. Now for the first time Mike was learning what had happened to the doll. Geraldine had declared her dead. Then she matter of factly, grieved, dressed her doll in her best dress, wrapped her in her blankie and had a funeral service with all her other teddy bears and dolls in attendance. She sat at the head of the hole she’d dug, with her guests arranged on both sides. There in her own private graveyard she repeated her memorized prayer for meals, sang “Away in a Manger” before she placed her in the grave and covered her up. She used colored chalk to print Jill’s name on a flat stone and placed it at the head of the little grave. Then she and her guests went into the house, up the stairs to her room and had tea together. And that was that.
 
She knew exactly what kind of funeral she would have for the dead chicken. 
 
Except that when they came around the corner of the barn, the ground where the chicken had died, was bare. There was no chicken! They both stopped and looked around confused.

Mike began to feel afraid. How could a dead chicken disappear? Had someone stolen the chicken? Dad was not home and mom was in the house. Had the chicken risen from the dead, like in the Bible? Was this punishment for the bad thing he’d done, killing the chicken?
 
He became frightened, his skin prickled and he involuntarily backed up through the huge open barn-door into the inner shadows of the barn. He felt like he needed to hide, like he was wicked, a real chicken killer and began to pray. He panicked, 
asking Jesus into his heart. He told God he was sorry for killing the chicken. For blaming Geraldine that she’d made him do it. He prayed that the chicken was a Christian chicken when it died. He could not stop praying...that it would be healed and live…that it would come alive…that it would even be raised from the dead…
 
When he heard the squawk behind him he yelled spinning around scanning the room, his heart pumping. He wasn’t sure if he was seeing right, he broke out into a sweat, because there moving in a wobbly fashion was the chicken. He was tempted to run. The dead chicken was alive. At least it was standing on its feet, so it must not be dead. It was a dead-less chicken. Had God somehow really answered his prayer to raise this chicken…he shook his head in confusion.
 
Slowly, relief began to flood over him. It was over. He would not have to tell his father anything. His heart rate went down. The chicken was alive. It was a moment of huge relief. 
 
But, it was only for a moment.
 
What Mike did not know was, this chicken would change his life. How was he to know that the impact of the rock had not killed the chicken but had given it a concussion. As a result, the chicken would never be the same. For starters, one eye was closed forever. Then the chicken never walked straight again, always walking kind of sideways. The weird thing was it would often do a 360 degree turn at any moment. Then as if all that was not enough, it separated itself from the flock, moving around alone, looking lost. 
 
That last part, her not being part of the flock hurt Mike the most. He could not help but feel for this lonely chicken. It had been his fault. It had been a moment of anger, a moment of thoughtless action that had changed the life of this chicken. He had hurt it forever.
 
His heart moved him to action. He did not want this bird to feel lonely, so he began by feeding her himself, every day. At first, he could not get near her at all. He kept at it and one day, almost two weeks from the day it had happened, his patience was rewarded. He was touched and overjoyed when for the first time she actually took kernels of corn from out of his hand…. 

The End.

Mike, sitting on the stoop of the barn-door, dropped a kernel of corn onto the hard ground in front of him, squinting in the sunlight as he looked expectantly at his pet chicken Dizzy Daisy. She cocked her head sideways her one immovable eye zeroing in on the treat. She began her movement towards the target by turning right, doing a 360 degree turn, then arriving at the kernel and pecking it out of the dirt cleanly.

“Good girl, you’re doing great,” he crooned, stroking her back as she shucked it back swallowing. He threw out another kernel and she went through the same process. “You really are very, very
dizzy daisy,” Mike chuckled, thinking how so very right the name he’d chosen was for her.
 
It’s the summer holidays. School is out and summer has begun. Every day is a day when doing nothing is exactly what you plan
to do. These are the days of “no guilt,” your heart and mind being truly free You just do what’s on your mind in the moment. 
  
Mike is enjoying just this kind of day sitting on the sunny stoop of the large open barn-door, playing with his favorite pet chicken.  
 
Mike would never say this out loud, but he “loves” this very weird, different chicken. In fact Mike has a lot of feelings, mixed feelings about this special chicken. He’s bound to this bird like no other. You see, she has this special “handicap” because of Mike. He has made her what she is today. 
 
Because he could not heal her of symptoms he caused, he felt he must at least make the effort to be her friend. The chicken responded in spades. If she were human, we would have said, she forgave him and welcomed him as a friend. It’s kind of strange but Mike’s thoughtless action of the past has enriched both Mike’s and dizzy daisy’s life.
 
It all began on a Saturday about three months before. Mike was on the yard casually throwing rocks at the woodpile when his sister Geraldine joined him. She put her book about a Longstocking girl down and threw some rocks with him, commenting on the neat sounds the they made hitting the dried wood. Very quickly, it became a contest.  Mike, considered himself as somewhat accurate, having actually “practiced” hitting things in his meanderings around the farm. 
  
It quickly became clear that it had been a mistake challenging his sister to a contest. It seemed that regardless of the kind of target he suggested, she either equalled him or won outright. This was
of course extremely frustrating for Mike. After all he’d been throwing rocks, as far as he was concerned, all his eleven years of life. He was truly mystified as to how his younger sister could be so good at hitting things with rocks!
 
He knew she was a “brain-i-ack” and had grudgingly accepted the fact that she was smarter than him. She was one year behind him and her marks were always higher than his had been. Not only that,
they were usually the highest or near highest in her class. Every report card was no fun, as his parents also made a point of reminding him of this fact.
 
 So, he was determined to excel in this, having decided that striking a target with rocks was a way to confirm his superiority in at least something over his younger sister.
 
“I have an idea.” he exclaimed, as he spun around, looking for another acceptable target, something that might even give him the advantage, “How about that power pole over by the barn?” he suggested. 
  
“Sure, ok.” Said Geraldine, seemingly oblivious to the importance of the game. He could not believe how, in in spite of this cavalier attitude, that she’d still equalled or bettered him. This confused and frustrated him all at once. 
 
Having arrived at the power pole near the barn Mike determined the distance of the throw by casually drawing a line in the dust. Geraldine was reading her book. He set up, toe on the line and paused. He decided that if he threw with his arm in an upright motion, in line with the tall post, his chances of missing were much less. There were no rules about how high or low, he just had to hit the post. This he considered was his secret advantage! It was to be, best out of three throws.
 
He threw first, his rock sailing to the left of the post. A miss.
 
Geraldine threw next. She put her book down on the ground and looking for a suitable rock. He offered her one from his pocket. She placed her toe on the line, and without a moment of consideration,
casually chucked her rock in the direction of the post. There was a thud. A direct hit. Mike grimaced, clenching his next rock hard in his hand.
 
For his second throw he considered carefully the fact he gone left on his first throw and attempted to compensate. He stood still, poised with the rock in his hand, his arm swinging slowly back
and forth.
 
Across the yard his best friend, his dog Ricky noticed him and began bounding in pure joy, towards him. Meanwhile, Mike went into his wind-up, leaned back, his left leg in the air and began his
throwing motion. It was at this very moment Ricky hit him full force on his chest, attempting to lick his face. Mike was knocked off balance, but his arm already in forward motion, let go of the stone, which landed no more than ten feet in front of him. Meanwhile the force of Ricky’s enthusiasm landed them both in a squirming heap on the ground, Ricky hopping around in glee.
 
Mike scrambled to his feet, “That’s not fair, I get another chance to throw.” He declared.
 
Geraldine, calmly yet firmly responded. “I saw the rock fly out of your hand. It was a throw. It did not just fall down, it went at least ten feet forward. It was a real throw!”
 
Even though Mike protested, he knew she’d dug in her heels and that was that. Now of course, he did not feel like finishing the game. Thanks to his crazy dog’s antics he could no longer win, and
since that had been the purpose of the whole contest, in his mind it was over. 
 
Just then, an event happened that would cause both of them to forget about the game. A hen exited through the small opening of the hen-house portion of the barn, strutting along like she owned the place. This unfortunately made her even more conspicuous since, she also happened to be the only chicken in sight. 
  
Mike, who had already automatically reloaded, could not help himself. 
 
It’s interesting how when circumstances are just right, we do things we’d never think of doing otherwise. This was one of
those situations. It seemed that the gods of rock throwing had turned against Mike. When this new “target” chicken presented herself, he just assumed that no matter how much he tried it would be impossible for him to hit her. After all, he figured, “if you cannot hit a post that doesn’t move, how can you hit a moving chicken?” 
 
Without any further thought, but the security of knowing he couldn’t possibly hit her, he wound up venting all his frustrations, by throwing the rock towards her with all of his might.
 
His anxiety went through the roof as he watched his moving rock come into contact with the moving head of the chicken! There wasn’t much of a noise at all, but the chicken collapsed in a heap, her legs slowly stretching out, then she was still. Very still. Mike stood, his anxiety constricting his breathing, staring in shocked disbelief at what he thought he'd just seen happen.
 
“You killed that chicken!” Geraldine exclaimed, jumping up onto her feet her face inches from his face as he stood transfixed, staring at the inert chicken, “Mike, you killed that chicken and boy will dad ever be mad!”
 
(To be continued.)

"He also installed the latest in military technology on the towers and corners of  Jerusalem for shooting arrows and hurling stones."
2 Chron. 26:11-15  (Message)

English Gardens, Winnipeg MB
Photo: Cliff Derksen
June 2013

The next morning, his second day of grade two, Mike buzzed through his chores without any coaxing to hurry, like was usually needed from his mother. She, of course, was completely oblivious to the creative artwork he’d done on the bridles blinkers the day before, and was just happy he seemed so excited about going to school. “Must be the new teacher,” she confided to her husband James. Everyone, including Mike had thought the first day of school had gone very well, and so the whole family was in great spirits this the morning of his second day of school
 
Mike waved goodbye to his father and rode his horse down the quarter mile driveway crossing the gravelled “Market Road,” passed through the angled ditch and onto the neighbor’s cultivated summer-fallow field. 
 
He felt invigorated and light, as he was still feeling heady from the exuberance of the day before. When he got home that evening he’d used his homework time to sketch some of his friends running alongside his horse, admiring his creative artwork on the blinkers, as he’d crossed the schoolyard on his way home.
 
Now, as he was replaying yesterday’s victories, he hooked his reins around the saddle horn and pulled out the scribbler with the drawings, from his shoulder bag. He opened the pages studying the pencil drawings, moving his body back and forth in time to the horses walk as he focused on the artwork. In fact, he appreciated it
when Doll stopped to graze, making it easier for his eyes to focus and study his artwork.
 
Mike had by now engaged his “right brain,” as any good artist would do. He of course did not understand what this meant. What it did mean was that he had mentally moved from the real world into another world of his own. That was something he loved about art. It was a place he would naturally go when he drew the doodles in his scribblers. The teachers voice would receded into the distance and
literally disappear. He had learned that by getting into a drawing he could escape from the real world around him. Sometimes he could lose a whole class, just doodling. It was great.
 
Time for example, was now non-existent. He was no longer aware he was to be at school in twenty minutes. If you would have stood in front of him, shaking him back into reality, he would have become aware that he needed to be at school soon and that he’d better get going so as to be on time. But there was no one to shake
him out of his right brain mode now.
 
In fact He did not even notice the movements of his horse calmly grazing along the fence line, moving a step, stopping, eating, ripping up the grass, then moving along another step.... This was exactly what his father had warned him about. “Don’t let the horse graze, nothing good will come of it.” Was what he’d
said. 
 
Mike did not even hear the John Deer tractor, cultivator in tow, driving along in road gear going south on the market road. The meadowlark, singing his heart out a few fence posts away, would have been offended had he known, his beautiful song was falling on deaf ears.
 
Mike also did not notice that Doll was now moving away from the fence line. Although her movements were similar to while she’d been grazing, unbeknownst to him she was now sniffing the ground, swaying her head from side to side….
 
We know what Mike was thinking about, but what exactly was his horse Doll thinking? She’d come to believe that she did not really have a rider on her back. There were no commands or directives coming from him. She’d been walking, eating and chewing fresh green grass, without interruption for the last 10 or 15 minutes.
As far as she was concerned, her back itched. There were bugs on her back that were bothering her. She just needed to repel these insects and give herself a good scratch. The saddle including the boy were just that, bugs that needed to be removed. She needed a refreshing dust bath to deal with these irritants on her back.
 
Mike, engrossed in his plans for new drawings, was unaware that his world was tilting more and more. If you or I would have been there we would have seen it and called a warning, but there was no one around to bring him back to reality. It wasn't until doll's front legs had buckled and she’d gone to her knees that Mike’s mind began to become aware that not all things were as they should be. He came out of his right brain in a rush, looking up to see why he
was having to tilt backwards in his saddle so severely, he got a huge surprise. The hair on the back of his neck stood up as he saw that the ground was coming up towards him, fast. He panicked, and in shear fright literally lurched upward, well kind of sideways and threw himself off the horse bodily, imagining he’d be crushed under his own horse. He landed on all fours, much to close to the writhing, flailing horse. He was so close he could feel her heat
and movement. His only option was to frantically scrabble away on his hands and knees as fast as he could. It was embarrassing but he had no other option. He came to his feet a few yards later, running to clear the area. Then when he felt safe enough he slowed, turning wide-eyed, only to see his horse laying on her
side, her back to him, attempting to throw herself over onto her
back.
 
Mike, his heart pounding, watched her make several attempts, grunting with effort, legs and hooves flailing in the air, dust flying as she would almost make it, only to flop back. Then she’d try again and finally after the fourth or so try, she made it and balanced right on her back, stopped there for a moment or two,
Mike wondering if she’d make it all the way…she wriggled, moved her head and slowly began to fall, going completely over, onto her other side.
 
Mike stood, transfixed by the sight of this large animal completely upside down. It would be an image seared into his memory, something he would never forget. He felt privileged somehow for having seen this. For now, he would keep this image front and centre, and file it away later.
 
Doll was beginning to get up. Suddenly he realised he’d need to get his hands on his horse again. After all, he still had a ways to go to school. But he was twenty feet away.
 
But doll was not done yet! Once on her feet she stood, paused, and then began to shake herself. Her whole body vibrated. She stood, splayed out, her whole body shuddering, looking like she was trying to shake the saddle right off her back. Dust rose into the air around her, slowly drifting away in the light breeze. Then, it was over. She stood perfectly still.
 
She swivelled her head and looked straight at Mike. He wasn't sure what to make of it. What was she trying to say? Her tail swished and her head went up and down, her eyes on him. Was this her
invitation to come and claim her again for the rest of his ride to
school? 
 
She snorted. 
 
Was this her “thank you” for the "break" he'd inadvertently given her? He wasn't quit sure, but took a tentative step towards
her.
 
The moment he moved, she threw her head up into the air with a neigh and began to prance, sideways, away from him. Then broke into small hops including a few bucks, his lunch box and stirrups flying, the reins sliding up her neck. Then she kicked her rear legs into the air and began trotting away. He took a few running steps after her, calling name, but it was useless, she was curving back
the way they had come. Without any hesitation, she continued moving away from him, in the direction of home.
 
In a few moments, he was alone. The prairie silence enveloping him like a blanket.
 
He stood thinking. What was he do to do? Should he go home, or should he go to school? He realised his lunch was gone, tied to the saddle and was on its way home. He had his shoulder bag, and remembered his scribbler. Where was his scribbler? He found it wrinkled, dusty, crushed and ripped where Doll had rolled. He shook the dirt out of it, folded it over and stuffed it into his bag.
 
He began to walk, towards the school. Why? He was not sure. That was what he was supposed to do, go to school, was it not? So that’s what he did.
 
Then he heard it, a meadowlark, from somewhere very nearby, singing its beautiful song. He stopped, embracing the clear beautiful prairie melody, and felt his throat swell with emotion. He knew it was a gift. A gift that obviously was meant, just for him.
 
"But Martha was distracted..."     Luke 10:40

English Gardens, Winnipeg MB
Photo: By Cliff Derksen
June 2013

Doll snorted as Mike jerked the reins, bringing her head up from grazing alongside the bush they were hiding in. Mike's plan for escaping the embarrassment of his  friends seeing him ride a horse with blinders on, was to wait till the first  bell had rung and the kids were all inside the school building. He felt quite  smug as he watched the kids move off the yard and into the one room school  house. It was time to go. By the time he got there, they'd be inside.

He entered the yard, passing a knot of parents talking. Being the first day of school, a lot of parents who had first graders had descended onto the schoolyard bringing their kids to school. By this time though most of them had left and no one really noticed him. He crossed the yard, and as he neared the barn passed an assortment of buggy's and waggons standing around. He stopped in front of the open barn door, Doll snorting and neighing in response to the horses already in the barn. 

He concentrated on making sure he had a good grip on the reins as he led his horse between the two rows of horses on each side. He tied his horse on in an empty stall, removed the offensive bridal and hung it on a hook as he left the barn. He was now thinking of how he'd get off the yard without his buddies seeing this bridal with the blinkers on it. He could just imagine the laughter, the scorn and the finger pointing. 

With lunch-pail in hand he walked towards the one-room school.  

Upon entering the building through the huge double doors, he was hit with the very familiar smells of chalk, books and old wood. Memories of grade one assailed him and he was glad he was back. He hung his jacket on the lower row of hooks alongside multicolored rows of kids coats.  

He paused before he entered the large classroom of about thirty kids. He could hear the teacher going through the role-call, moving from one grade to the next. He wondered if his name had already been called. He could see the huge furnace vent at the back of the room and some of the older kids in the last rows near his door. A few of them saw him, snickering... one of them whispering, "You’re late!"
 
He knew, from last year that the grade ones sat right along the far wall from where he was standing. The grade two's would be next to them. Suddenly he remembered he'd know them from last year so would know where to sit. Unfortunately, he'd have to walk right across the whole room to get there.  

The teacher, caught sight of him skulking along halfway across the back of the room turned out to be very nice. She was new and was trying to get to know each student as quickly as possible. She seemed very attentive and interested, asking questions and talking the whole time as she settled him into a desk in the grade two section. She'd placed a reader before him to read as she finished going on through the names of the higher grades.
 
Mike relaxed, enjoying the huge class-room. The thing he liked best about it was the blackboard. This was no ordinary blackboard. He had one at home in the house, which his dad had put up for him to do homework on. But, mostly he drew pictures on it. Also, it was small. This one was huge. As high as the teacher could reach when she stood on her toes, and stretched across the whole front of the room, passed behind the teacher's desk and on. It turned the corner at the far side and went along the next wall, past the girl’s cloakroom door, going on till the boys cloakroom door he'd just entered at the end of the wall. 

He loved this backboard. Last year he'd been asked to draw Christmas decorations for the Christmas program the school put on for the parents. He'd used coloured chalk to draw Christmas candles on the blackboard. He remembered he'd been given large sheets of paper to draw the candles on that first, with his pencil. Then the teacher had suggested poking holes through the paper along the lines, which was then used as a stencil for each candle. He remembered holding the paper against the blackboard and tapping the brush over the holes, chalk dust rising in the air around him. When the paper was removed, the dust having gone
through the holes revealed the whole candle....

He jolted upright in his chair as a new thought splashed across his mind. Later, he would remember the experience, likening it to seeing a sudden, surprising bolt of lightning in the night sky. Like the whole bolt, every aspect of it. All the branches of it, even the glow of light on the clouds around it, everything. 
 
For the rest of the day, Mike disappeared. I mean, at recess. He was there for every class, intense and excited. But for recess, he was gone. No one asked for him and no one noticed. 

At three-thirty pm the school bell rang announcing the end of the school day. Mike was strangely relaxed considering his concerns of the morning. It was like he'd forgotten all about his anxiety about the bridle with the blinders. 

He chatted with the guys as they made their way across the yard to the barn. They would all now hitch up or mount their horses and be on their way home. Mike could not help but smile as he put the bridle with the blinkers on his horse in the stall. He mounted using the stall wall and burst out of the barn door, leaning back in his saddle, working the reins trying to keep the eager, cooped up Doll under control.  

Every horse was always excited to get home after a day in the barn, this was no surprise. But each of his friends stopped what they were doing as their off-hand glances towards him struggling, turned into stunned stairs and then outright laughter and general excitement. Kids began to run and call ahead as he moved along.  Everyone began to crowd around to get a better look. By the time he went past the school building on his way to the driveway, the new teacher was standing on the steps watching as he went by. She laughed and waved. He tried to respond with a wave but ended up with a half panic wave, as his hands were full trying to control his horse, keeping her moving slow enough, so kids could keep up admiring the blinkers on his horse!  

"Be careful Mike," he heard her call. He nodded and smiled broadly as he relaxed the reins, letting his horse break into an eager gallop home as he exited the yard.
 
All the way home Mike replayed the drama in his mind. How he’d pocketed the tin of paints and brushes. How he’d emptied a tin holding coloured pencils, laying them down neatly where the tin had stood. Then stopping to fill the tin with water at the pump outside on his way to the barn. There, in the middle of the isle, he planted himself on the floor with his bridal and the paints. He knew exactly what he wanted to do, so began immediately covering the very black blinkers on both sides with several coats of white paint as a background. He had not finished his work when the bell rang at the end of the lunch hour. 
 
He'd been so immersed in his work, he'd forgotten all about lunch. It wasn't until he went to the barn again during the afternoon recess that his stomach reminded him he was  hungry. He actually bit into a sandwich, but again in his rush to finish before the end of recess, forgot all about eating. 
 
He’d finished the one blinker during the noon hour, so now all he needed to do was finish the other one. Since he’d done the background at noon all he had to do now was paint the large eye in bright blue, outlined in black, on both sides. When he’d finished that and the bell had not yet rung, he had, as an afterthought added long generous eyelashes on each of the four eyes.

He knew he’d have to explain all of this to his dad. What he would think about it, he had no idea. All he knew was he’d changed something embarrassing into something funny. Exciting even. Everyone had loved it. He decided it had been worth it and was willing to pay the price, whatever that might be. 
 
His heart was bursting and he just could not stop smiling all the way home. His horse apparently felt the same as he did, moving along at a steady trot all the way home, not even thinking about stopping to graze anywhere all the way home.

 "So Mike, tell me about the blinkers." his father said, as they were putting feed into the troughs for the milk-cows that evening. 

"The lamp of the body is the eye, Therefore when your eye is good, your body also is full of light."       Luke 11:34