The Perfect Prank and Other Stories

The Perfect Prank
3 AUDIOBOOK COLLECTIONS
6 BOOK COLLECTIONS
The Perfect Prank
And Other Stories
Jim O’Brien
Copyright © 2010 by James Mark O’Brien.
ISBN: Softcover 978-1-4500-2433-4
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form
or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by
any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the
copyright owner.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents either are the product
of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to any actual
persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
This book was printed in the United States of America.
To order additional copies of this book, contact:

Xlibris Corporation
1-888-795-4274
www.Xlibris.com
Orders@Xlibris.com
74807
CONTENTS
The Perfect Prank ....................................................................................9
The Meeting .........................................................................................53
Going Fishin’.........................................................................................57
For A Bowl of Stew ...............................................................................61
The Barclay School................................................................................65
The Last Dragon .................................................................................133
The Fortunate Man .............................................................................141

These stories are a sort of test.
If there is love in you, you will see the
delights they have to offer.
If there is no love in you, you will see nothing
of worth in them.
J.M.O.
THE PERFECT PRANK
CHAPTER 1
They are nice girls, these sisters . . . ages six, nine, and twelve . . . but they
do have a little mischief in them . . . and this makes them fun.
In almost any home there is a spot . . . a special spot . . . where the informal
family conversations most often take place. Sometimes it is the dining room
table. Often it is the kitchen. Here, in this household, it is the opening in the
wall that separates the dining room from the kitchen. It’s set up like a diner,
with this “portal” allowing for quick service to the people waiting for the
food, but here it also is a place where meals come to a stop . . . and are eaten.
It (the opening) is about six feet long . . . with a nice counter top running
the full length of it . . . and has a curved dome-like shape that is about three
feet high in the middle. Mom and Dad are always on the kitchen side and
the three girls are always on the dining room side . . . sitting on stools.
Off to the far end of this counter top sits a sign . . . one those small sign
boards restaurants use to advertise daily specials . . . and it reads:
Scrambled Eggs and Bacon

Or
Waffle
(with whipped cream & strawberries)
Choice of juice included
Toast, hash browns optional
As the breakfast is being eaten, the conversation on this Saturday

morning is about . . . pranks. The morning newspaper has, on page five, a
photo of a prank that was engineered by some high school seniors two days
earlier. The school year is just about over and this is their way of saying
good-bye. The seniors stacked fifteen old car tires over and then down onto
11
12 Jim O’Brien
the flag pole that stands out in front of the high school, and Dad is showing
the picture to the girls.
Erin (the nine-year old): How in the world did they do it?
Mom: I don’t know. They must’ve used a big ladder.
Dad: One time the seniors took a car apart and put it
back together right in the middle of the cafeteria.
Tammy (the twelve-year old): No way!
Mom: Way!
Dad: The principal saw it, and in his morning
announcements over the school speaker system
he said, “There are several announcements this
morning . . . the first concerns parking.”
Tammy: (laughs) He wasn’t mad?
Dad: Nope. He’s a good guy.
Pranks, generally speaking, are a lost art. There are some, like our
intrepid high school seniors, who keep the tradition going, but it is like the
old professional baseball player. He still swings the bat pretty well but, ah,
do you remember when. And so it is with pranks.
Erin: Has anyone ever done a prank at Holmes School

(the local elementary school)?
Dad: Um . . .
Mom: Not that we know of.
Tammy: We could do one.
Ashley (the six-year old): Yeah.
Erin: It’d be fun.
And that is how the idea has its genesis. Each member of the family
would, from that moment on, try to think up a good prank, and these ideas
would be evaluated. The best prank idea would then be chosen, and the
family, it was decided, would do it . . . together.
The first brainstorm session produces a few possibilities. They could
spray paint the message of “Holmes School is the best” on the grass in front
of the school, or they could make a giant smiley face flag and run it up the
flag pole, or they could spread little yellow rubber duckies all over the school’s
front lawn. But none of these ideas seem to ring a bell . . . the bell that tells
them that “This is the one.” . . . and life goes on for our family.
CHAPTER 2
With spring comes the start of softball season, and so, Mom, once again,
becomes Coach Mom, and Dad becomes Coach Dad. The bus comes in
handy during the softball season. It is one of those small buses . . . white, with
six rows of seats . . . that Dad picked up for a song and fixed up. He made sure
everything was mechanically sound and then he made some modifications
inside the bus. He unbolted the seats in rows two and three . . . turned them
around so they faced the back . . . and then re-bolted them down. He also
installed two little narrow tables on the walls between rows three and four,
tables that can stay upright (and out of the way) or fold down for whatever
use they might provide. It is a fun bus . . . and the girls like it.
Coach Mom and Coach Dad take turns driving the bus. They are the
driver and the navigator . . . picking girls up and dropping them off . . . all
around the town in which they live.
Today is a “game day” and the bus is on its way to the playing field.
Every team member is aboard . . . except Elizabeth. Elizabeth . . . one of
three nine-year old “rookies” on the team . . . is going to the game with her
mother. Despite sincere protests, her mother insists on bringing Elizabeth
to and from the games and practices herself. Oh well.
The bus arrives at the softball field and the girls all pile out the rear
emergency exit door and head onto the field to start their warm-ups. Coach
Dad helps six-year old Ashley . . . who is also dressed in the team uniform . . .
set up the free water table. Free ice water . . . the whole game . . . for both
sides. Ashley will sit there . . . safely protected behind the home plate
backstop . . . with a large water cooler and a stack of paper cups sitting on
top of a card table and a large sign announcing “FREE WATER” hanging
from the front of it. It should be noted that, despite this act of good
sportsmanship, the opposing team and their fans are normally reluctant to
13
14 Jim O’Brien
accept it . . . coming over for water in about half the numbers of our own
team and our own fans. Still, the good gesture is there, and they take that
in . . . in their hearts.
It is the fourth inning now and the girls are coming in from the field
for their turn to bat. There is something of a break in the action and Coach
Dad calls to the three twelve-year olds . . . the veterans . . . on the team.
Coach Dad: Tammy, Sadie, Brooke?

The girls: Razzle-dazzle Coach?
Coach Dad: If it’s OK with you.
And it is. The three girls grab their mitts and a ball and head over to a spot
to the right of first base. At this, some of the parents in the stands smile and
lean over to one another to whisper a word or two. Tammy, Sadie, and Brooke
then form a circle (or, you might say, a triangle) and begin to toss the ball to
each other. Initially these throws go from hand to glove, but soon the tosses
become more fancy, and they go from knee to glove, from inside of the elbow
to glove, and from behind the back to glove . . . with there being no telling
as to whom the ball will travel next. And they are talking the whole time . . .
Tammy, Sadie, and Brooke are chatting away . . . as if nothing at all unusual
is happening. This little demonstration goes on for about ten minutes before
they return to the bench. The inning has started . . . and Elizabeth is up.
“Come on Elizabeth!” “Show us how it’s done!” The pitch comes in.
Elizabeth swings at it . . . and misses the ball completely. “Whoa . . . nice breeze
Elizabeth.” As Popeye the Sailor might say, “That was embarriskin.” Elizabeth
grimaces. The muscles around her mouth tighten up, and a little bit of fire
can be seen emerging from her eyes. She digs her sneakers into the dirt and
then bangs the thick end of the bat onto home plate. “That’s it Elizabeth!”
Coach Mom yells from the third base coaching box, “Get good and serious!”
The next pitch comes in and Elizabeth swings at it with all her might . . . and
she gets all of it . . . sending a rocket up the middle and on into the outfield.
Elizabeth . . . a tad surprised . . . starts running toward first base. She rounds
first and heads toward second. Her teammates are all standing now and they,
and all of our fans, are cheering, “Go Elizabeth go!” The outfielder retrieves the
ball and throws it in to an infielder. Elizabeth rounds second base and heads
for third, where Coach Mom decides to take a chance and give Elizabeth the
“green light.” “Go for it Elizabeth!” Coach Mom yells. And Elizabeth does . . .
stomping on third base then making the turn for home. “It’s going to be close!”
Coach Mom shouts to an Elizabeth who is motoring down the third base line.
The Perfect Prank 15
And it is close. The throw comes in from the infielder to the catcher, but it
is a little off line and it pulls the catcher out of position . . . a few feet to her
left . . . allowing Elizabeth to slip past her, where she slams her right foot onto
home plate. Safe. A homerun. Everyone on that side of the field erupts into
loud cheers, and her teammates all come out to congratulate Elizabeth with
pats on the shoulders and head (or, we should say, helmet).
Elizabeth, a few minutes later, can be seen over by the stands where she
is talking to her mother. “Please Mom . . . PLEASE!” And the older woman,
after some hesitation, finally gives in to the younger woman’s pleading, and
an elated Elizabeth runs back to the bench. Elizabeth’s mother then leans
over to Brooke’s mother and asks, “Does Brooke ever ride home with you?”
“Are you kidding?” she replies, “The bus ride is the funnest part.”
The game is now over and everyone . . . including Elizabeth . . . is on
the bus. They are on their way to Martha’s Ice Cream, a local ice cream stand
that is open only during the warm months. Coach Mom parks the bus in
the lot next to Martha’s and the girls pour out the rear exit and crowd in
front of the two service windows. Everybody gets ice cream cones and then
heads over to the picnic tables to the side of the shop. “Hey girls,” Coach
Dad says, “what do you think about entering a float in this year’s Fourth of
July parade?” And from among the bobbing of ice cream cones the idea is
given a unanimous approval.
The bus is now dropping team members off at their homes. Coach Mom
is the driver and Coach Dad is the navigator. Alexis has just been let off at
her home and the bus is moving again. “Who’s next?” driver asks navigator.
“Elizabeth.” replies Coach Dad. And soon they are at the address. Elizabeth
descends from the bus and steps out onto the driveway in front of her home.
There are four open windows on that side of the bus . . . windows that are
now filled with the shoulders and heads of four of Elizabeth’s teammates.
Erin: Nice hit Elizabeth.

Carissa: See you at practice slugger.
Brooke: Hey Elizabeth. We’re going to have to buy a new
bat!
Tiffany: Yeah. The one you used has a dent in it now!
A grinning Elizabeth sort-of hops and spins at the same time and then . . .
with glove in hand . . . runs up to her front door. Coach Mom and Coach
Dad make sure she gets inside all right, the bus door closes, and Coach
Mom says, “Who’s next?”
CHAPTER 3
It is a few nights later and our family of five are sitting around a card table
playing Monopoly. Monopoly games can, if you let them, go on for days.
And there have been times, in this household, when the warning of, “Don’t
touch the Monopoly game.” has been issued, and that particular game will
sit there . . . frozen . . . until such time as play is resumed . . . usually the next
day. For this game, Tammy is the top hat token, Erin is the boat, Ashley is
the horse and rider, and Mom and Dad . . . who are playing as one player . . .
are the thimble. Mom is being the real estate agent and Dad is the banker.
Erin: Seven. Saint Charles Place. I’ll buy it.

Mom: That’s a hundred and forty dollars please.
Dad: And the woodpecker is the only one who can hop
backwards.
Ashley: Double fours. Yes! Community Chest. “Advance to
GO” Excellent! Two hundred dollars please.
Dad: Here you go. Every other bird has to stop . . . turn
around . . . and then start going again.
Ashley: Nine. Connecticut Avenue. I’ll buy it.
Mom: A hundred and twenty dollars please.
Dad: A woodpecker can just . . . zip . . . go right back
down the tree backwards.
Tammy: Eleven. Marvin Gardens. I’ll buy it.
Mom: That’s two hundred and eighty dollars please.
Dad: The other birds, I bet they can go backwards. They
probably have just never tried it.
Mom: Six. Park Place. Should we?
Dad: Absolutely.
16
The game goes on for about two hours . . . a short game by most
Monopoly players’ standards . . . and then everything is folded up and put
away. Mom goes into the kitchen where she pulls some ice cream sandwiches
from the freezer and delivers them to her husband and children. And they
all just sort-of lounge around . . . like a bunch of satisfied cats.
Then Dad gets a notion. He clears his throat . . . which gets everybody’s
attention . . . and then starts to recite a few improvised verses:
Ice cream is cold

Just like an icicle
But eating it is fun
Like riding a bicycle
The girls and Mom laugh. Then Tammy tries her hand at it:
Ice cream is fun

On pie or with cake
But my favorite of all
Is a chocolate milkshake
Now Ashley tries:
Ice cream is fun

Ice cream is yummy
It goes into my mouth
And down to my tummy
Erin then chimes in:
During the week

Or on the weekends
Ice cream is fun
With sisters or friends
18 Jim O’Brien
And now Mom jumps in:
I love my chocolate
But if I was braver
I’d look around
And try a new flavor
The rhyming game . . . as the girls call it . . . goes on for the duration of
the ice cream eating . . . and maybe a little beyond . . . and then the subject
of pranks is brought up. The new ideas are put forward and each of these
schemes is then evaluated. Ashley suggests they let “a bunch of fire flies” go
inside the school building. Tammy recommends moving the swing set and
slide from the back play area to the front of the school. And Erin proposes
that they paint pictures on the outside of the classroom windows. But none
of these ideas are able to make it past “quality control” and soon the subject
just sort-of drifts away . . . like thistledown in the wind.
CHAPTER 4
On the day of the Fourth of July parade . . . which is scheduled to start at

six p.m . . . . people start putting down their chairs at nine a.m . . . . staking
out their claim along the parade route. The sidewalks on both sides of the
street will eventually fill up with a sort of three-tier arrangement of people.
In the back there will be folks standing, those sitting in chairs will be in
the middle, and up front . . . closest to the parade . . . will be little children
sitting right on the curb. This way the tykes will be “good and ready” to hop
up and run out into the street when the candy is thrown their way.
As the procession of floats and bands and fire trucks makes its slow
movement down Liberty Street, our softball team can be seen sitting on a
trailer. It is a fifteen-foot long rectangular structure that has a two-foot high
wooden fence running along its four sides and a little gate opening in the
back for coming and going. Coach Mom and Coach Dad are up in the bus,
which is pulling the trailer behind it. All twelve girls . . . thirteen counting
little Ashley . . . are dressed in their team t-shirts and caps, and they are
sitting on two rows of benches. The sides of the trailer are decorated with
red, white, and blue streamers, and sitting smack dab in the middle of the
trailer . . . between the two rows of benches . . . is a large replica of the Statue
of Liberty. It’s a paper-mache likeness of the famous statue and it even has a
couple of those little flickering light bulbs up in the torch. A large sign sits
on the roof of the bus and it says, “GIRLS SOFTBALL IT’S GREAT.”
After their “rig” makes its turn onto Liberty Street, Coach Mom, who is
driving, brings the bus to a stop. Tiffany, Alexis, Madison, and Natalie hop
off the trailer and all four girls are carrying plastic pails. Two of the pails are
filled with candy and two are filled with . . . we don’t know what. Candy,
at these parades, is generally “bowled” out to the kids, but here, if the girls
see an adorable toddler or some child who appears to be losing out (in the
19
20 Jim O’Brien
scramble for candy) they will hand deliver the little treats. A few minutes
go by and Madison and Natalie . . . who are carrying the pails that hold the
mystery contents . . . start to ease their way over toward the other two girls.
They are swinging their pails and it appears that, whatever is in them, it is
fairly heavy. And then the loud calls go out: “Hey Tiffany, do you wanna
get wet?” And on the other side of the street, “Hey Alexis, do you wanna
get wet?” Tiffany and Alexis both scream, “No! No! No!” and the contents
of the pails are then launched in a skyward direction . . . over the heads of
the sidewalk crowds. It is not water, of course, but confetti. And, as the
“shower” of tiny paper squares floats down, the shrieking of the spectators
is turned into laughter. Madison and Natalie then run over to the trailer
and “reload” . . . so they can do it all again.
Up on the trailer, the other eight girls . . . nine counting Ashley . . .
are waving to the crowds. From inside the bus they hear Coach Dad say,
“Shift.” and they in turn yell, “SHIFT !” The four girls on the street then
come running over and hop onto the trailer and four other girls take their
places.
The bus and the trailer eventually reach the end of the parade route.
All twelve girls had a turn either distributing candy or launching confetti.
Three shifts . . . four girls each shift . . . twelve girls. Even little Ashley was
out there passing out candy . . . and taking one or two for herself. It was a
fun parade. Afterward the whole gang heads to McDonald’s for milkshakes.
They use the drive-thru. After placing their order, Coach Mom pulls around
to the service window, stops the bus, pays the bill . . . and two milkshakes
are handed over. She then eases the bus forward about fifteen feet and
stops again. Now the trailer is at the drive-thru window, and thirteen more
milkshakes are handed over. The McDonald’s employee . . . a young man
named Todd . . . who is working the drive-thru window, smiles at the girls,
but then does a double take at the sight of the Statue of Liberty.
CHAPTER 5
The bedroom arrangement in our family’s home is sort-of unique. Not to

them. To them it is perfectly normal, but others might not see it that way.
The three girls all sleep in the same large room that has its own doorway
to the hall, but there, on the far wall, is a pair of French doors and these
lead right into Mom and Dad’s bedroom. Some scary moments have been
quickly calmed . . . or averted entirely . . . by this close though unique
arrangement.
Everyone is in bed now, awake, but in bed. The girls have just turned off
their lights and Mom and Dad are playing rummy on their bed. Suddenly,
there is a clap of thunder. Ashley turns her light back on. Thunder, as we
know, rarely scares you once and then leaves you alone, so it is likely that
more thunder is on its way. Mom and Dad look at each other and . . . smile
a little knowing smile.
More thunder does arrive.
Tammy: It’s all right Ashley. It’s nothing to be afraid of.

Erin: Yeah. It’s just a storm.
But Ashley isn’t so sure.

After a pretty loud one, Dad comes running in . . . looking kind-of
scared. “Ashley darlin’ is it OK if I sit here with you for a while?” “Sure Dad.”
she tells him. Tammy and Erin both smile. They have seen this before. Dad
pulls up a chair and gingerly sits down on it. “Where’s Mom?” Ashley asks.
“Oh, she’s still in bed. She’s brave.” But at the very next thunder boom . . .
yep . . . Mom comes running in. She is wearing pajamas that match Dad’s,
and she says, “Ashley honey, would it be all right if I sat here with you for
a while?” And, after being given the OK, she settles in a chair next to Dad.
21
22 Jim O’Brien
Mom and Dad are just starting to get a little comfortable when yet another
loud thunder boom is heard. They bounce in their chairs and then reach for
and cling to each other . . . and begin to shake. And Ashley laughs.
“How about a story?” Dad suggests, and he looks over the books sitting
right there. He pulls one out and says, “Junie B. Jones and Some Sneaky
Peeky Spying.” From behind him Erin says “Good one.” Dad stops. He
slowly looks up, then down, and then over at Mom . . . and the two of them
shrug their shoulders. Erin grins. Dad starts to read, “Junie B. Jones and
Some Sneaky Peek . . .” when there is another loud thunder boom, and he
fumbles the book up into the air. “Mom,” he says, “you better help me hold
the book.” And she does. And they read the story together.
Well, the storm finally passes, and Ashley feels that she is safe now, but
she also did a good thing. She helped her mom and dad get through the
storm. Mom and Dad kiss the girls goodnight and head back to their room.
“Do you want to keep playing rummy? Dad asks. “Sure.” says Mom. And
they pick up where they left off. Then, one last sneaky bit of thunder makes
its way across the sky and into our family’s home, and a six-year old’s little
voice is heard:
Ashley: You two all right in there?

Mom: Yes yes. We’re fine.
And then Dad . . . in a last bit of conversation for the night . . . says,
Dad: I’m leaving my light on . . . all night!
And there is a little . . . giggling all around.

CHAPTER 6
It is late August, and the first day of school is here. School usually starts in
early September, but this year it begins on August 28th. All three girls are
attending Holmes Elementary School. Tammy is in sixth grade, Erin is in
third, and Ashley is in kindergarten. Mom and Dad are driving them to
school in the mini-van. The girls are well supplied with notebooks, pens,
paper, erasers, rulers . . . and a Barbie lunchbox for Ashley. The lunchbox, as
everyone knows, is a very important possession to a six-year old. Tammy and
Erin have book bags that have their first names embroidered on them. Ashley
does not have a book bag, but she does have a lunchbox . . . something the
other two do not have . . . and, well, it all seems to work out to everyone’s
satisfaction.
The mini-van pulls up in front of the school, the side door slides open,
and the three girls step out. Well, Ashley sort-of hops out. They walk under
the veranda, through the front doors, and on into the school. Before driving
off, Mom and Dad give the school building a good look. “Prank worthy.”
says Dad. “Definitely.” says Mom.
23
CHAPTER 7
It is autumn now . . . late October to be specific . . . and the oldest girl,

Tammy, is having a Halloween party. Twelve is the age when kids stop
trick-or-treating. Oh, some stop after that and a few stop before that, but,
by and large, that is the age when children get the feeling that they are too
old to go trick-or-treating. So Mom and Dad suggested this party as a way
to sort-of ease Tammy through this . . . transition.
Five friends are invited . . . Sadie, Brooke, Holly, Bethany, and Emily . . .
and they begin to arrive around seven o’clock. Dad is on the front porch
ready to greet them. But Dad is also dressed up in a monster’s costume . . .
and a scary one at that . . . and there he sits, perfectly still . . . waiting.
All of the other family members are in a back room except six-year old
Ashley, who has been given the job of opening the front door and letting the
guests in. “When the doorbell rings,” her mother has instructed her, “don’t
answer it. But wait until you hear the scream . . . then go open it.”
The first to arrive is Bethany, who steps onto the front porch accompanied
by her mother, who promptly rings the doorbell. Bethany’s mom’s eyes are
drawn to the monster sitting there and she remarks how realistic it looks.
(Ah, it is more realistic than she can imagine, but would soon find out.) At
this moment the head of the monster slowly turns in the direction of the two
women and then it moans and rises from its sitting position. Bethany and
her mother both scream. In a few moments the front door opens and . . .
after a bit of explaining . . . Ashley ushers Bethany inside while Bethany’s
mother returns to her car.
It is five minutes later and the next guest is stepping up onto the front
porch. Ashley is busy in the front room coloring. The doorbell rings and
she keeps on coloring. She doesn’t even look up. A few moments go by and
she stops, raises her head up erect, and listens. A scream is heard. Ashley
24
nods her head forward and says “Yep.” and then gets up, hurries over to the
front door, and opens it.
We are well into the party now, and all six girls (the five invitees and
Tammy) are up in the girls’ bedroom playing Yahtzee. They have been told
to wait up there . . . with the door closed . . . until they are called. There is
a slow knock on the bedroom door. It is Erin, who intones, “Emily . . . will
you please come with me.”
Down in the living room Emily is shown a long table . . . a well table-
clothed table . . . that has a line of cups, pails, and a water cooler sitting on
it, and all of these are upside down. She is told by Mom . . . who is holding
a stopwatch . . . that, “The object of this contest is to lift up the cup or pail
or water cooler and, as fast as you can, name the items underneath.” Emily
nods in understanding, and then Mom says, “Ready, set, GO!” Emily picks
up the first cup. There is a yo-yo underneath. She announces, “Yo-yo” and
then moves on to the next cup.
Well, she does all right. Her speed is good and she names every item
correctly. Then she comes to the water cooler, and when she lifts it up . . .
there is Dad! Well, it’s Dad’s head anyway . . . poking up through a hole in
the table . . . and he sort-of snarls. Emily drops the water cooler, pulls her
hands up to her face, and lets out a short, but loud, scream . . . a scream that
travels all the way up to where the other five girls are waiting.
A few minutes later there is again a slow knock on the bedroom door. It
is Erin again, and this time she is given a rather subdued reception. Erin . . .
in a low monotone . . . then says, “Holly . . . please come with me.”
The party goes on till nine-thirty which is when the parents start showing
up. Each girl is given a giant chocolate bar, a glow necklace, and a Halloween
greeting card that makes scary sounds when it’s opened.
It was a good party. Tammy is happy, so it was a good party.
CHAPTER 8
Our family is at the grocery store. The three sisters are running down aisle
five when, up ahead, a lady backs out into the aisle . . . forcing the girls to
dodge to their left and scoot around her.
Erin: That lady should have a beeper.

Tammy: A beeper?
Erin: Yeah . . . like the big trucks have when they go
backwards.
Tammy: (laughs)
They curve out onto the back aisle and are running side-by-side-by-side.
Little Ashley has a determined look on her face. She is set on reaching her
goal—Mom and Dad.
Mom and Dad are, at this moment, looking over frozen vegetables that
are in a floor display cooler. They look up to see the trio running toward
them . . . and they reach for and cling to each other in fear. The girls laugh
as they . . . put on the brakes.
Tammy: The assistant manager says tomorrow at two o’clock.

Erin: Yeah. That’s when the delivery truck gets here.
Tammy: They’ll have more of the pizza then.
And the next day . . . a little past two o’clock . . . they return to the store
and buy quite a few of the frozen pizza that is on sale.
26
CHAPTER 9
It is a Saturday morning in December and Mom and Dad are in the kitchen
preparing breakfast. The girls have yet to make an appearance, but they are
expected at any moment. The counter top sign this morning reads:
Banana Pancakes
(with maple syrup & walnuts)
Or
GRUEL
Mini muffins, hash browns optional
The first to descend the stairs . . . and ascend up onto a stool . . . is

Erin. “There’s one.” Dad says to Mom. Next Tammy appears and takes a
seat. “And there’s another one!” Finally Ashley shows up, climbs up onto
her stool . . . and fastens the safety belt.
The girls eye the menu.
Dad: What’ll it be girls?

Tammy: I’ll have the gruel!
Ashley: Me too!
Erin: Mmmm . . . that sounds good. Give me a double
portion!
Dad pauses. He looks over at Mom and, while using a forefinger to wipe
away a tear, says, “(sniff ) I love these girls.”
27
28 Jim O’Brien
Everyone is enjoying their banana pancakes . . . a favorite meal in this

household . . . and the conversation is about school . . . friends at school,
teachers, school work, recess . . . and the girls take turns talking . . . like three
singers sharing the stage and sharing the verses to the same song.
There has always been something of a hierarchy in this family, and it
is most evident during these informal conversations. If Dad, for example,
is talking, and Mom has something to say, he will defer to her and let her
have the podium. If Mom is talking and Tammy has something to say, well,
Mom will defer to her and let her talk. Tammy will, in turn, defer to Erin,
and Erin to Ashley. So, it can be said that, in a sense, little Ashley rules the
roost. It doesn’t always work out that way, and there certainly is no hard and
fast rule that has to be obeyed, but, generally, that is how they operate.
The conversation shifts to the day’s planned activities. Elizabeth is
coming over! Erin and Elizabeth . . . good friends since softball season . . .
have exchanged visits a number of times. Erin’s home is the preferred choice
of the two locations, and Elizabeth’s mother is . . . concerned.
The focus of her concern is . . . the burp gun fights. Elizabeth has tried to
explain it to her and assure her that it is safe, but her mother is . . . skeptical.
So it is a problem, and the family is discussing it.
Erin: We could have Elizabeth’s mom stay for lunch.

Tammy: Yeah. That’ll soften her up.
Dad: Sounds good.
Mom: We could even let her watch one of the battles.
Erin: Yeah!
Ashley: That’ll make her nice and soft.
Mom: She’ll have to stand, of course.
Elizabeth’s mother “will have to stand, of course.” because, during these

battles, all of the furniture is used as barricades, and, what is more, spectators
do not therefore have any sort of shield and so are exposed to the danger of
being hit by an errant firing from one of the burp guns.
A burp gun is a cylinder-shaped . . . air-powered . . . projectile-shooting
barrel of fun. The projectiles are ping pong balls and they travel at a pretty
good rate of speed when forced out . . . or burped . . . from the plastic
cylinder of the gun.
The room where these battles take place is a large rectangular-shaped
enclosure with a high ceiling and a durable carpet, and it is called “The
Game Room.” Basketball is also played in there . . . with a ball the size of
a large grapefruit being shot at two mini basketball hoops. Badminton . . .
with a net being strung across the middle of the room . . . is also enjoyed
in the game room. Many champions, I tell you, have emerged from the
confines of that room.
Elizabeth and her mother arrive around eleven o’clock and both are
welcomed inside. A light lunch of soft shell taco sandwiches is served, and
all seems to be going well when . . .
Erin: I have an idea.

Dad: Good. I like your ideas.
Erin: Why don’t we do the fight . . . kids against
the parents?
Mom: Um . . .
Dad: I don’t think that’s really fair.
Mom: Elizabeth’s mom is so . . . green.
Elizabeth’s mom: No I’m not.
Erin: Please.
And so it is agreed upon. The four children will do battle against

the three adults. The offspring versus the parents. Progeny versus
progenitors.
In the game room the battle participants arrange the furniture . . . all of
which is on casters . . . into two separate sets of barricades . . . one at each
end of the room. Mom, Dad, and the four girls don their safety goggles and
load their weapons. One burp gun can hold up to fifteen ping pong balls.
Elizabeth’s mom: Are we going to win?

Dad: No way. We’re dead meat.
The girls: (giggle) Yeah.
Erin comes over to Elizabeth’s mother and hands her a pair of goggles,
which she, Elizabeth’s mom, then puts on.
Erin: Too tight?

Elizabeth’s mom: No. They’re fine.
Erin: OK. This is your burp gun, and it’s already
loaded.
30 Jim O’Brien
Elizabeth’s mother takes the burp gun from Erin . . . and wonders what
she has gotten herself into.
Erin: Now aim it at that wall and pull this handle toward
you.
And this Elizabeth’s mom does, and a ping pong ball exits the plastic
cylinder and makes a halfhearted flight across the room.
Erin: Now do it again . . . really fast.
And this she does, and this time a ball zings across the room and “boinks”
off the wall.
Erin: OK. You’re all set. STARTING.
And Erin hustles back to a spot behind her barricade.
Dad: (to Elizabeth’s mom) Get down!
And Elizabeth’s mom drops down into a . . . squat.
Erin: Five . . . four . . . three . . .

Dad: Behind the thing!
And Elizabeth’s mom “scooches” over to her right to a spot behind a

chair.
Erin: . . . two . . . one . . . LET THE GAME BEGIN.
Elizabeth’s mother doesn’t mean any harm. She just wants to see what
is going on, and she peeks over the top of the back of the chair when . . .
boink . . . a ping pong ball ricochets off the top of her forehead.
Erin: One Nothing.

Dad: (sigh) Rookies.
The game proceeds and it goes pretty much as had been expected. Mom
is stationed next to Dad behind the sofa. She is wearing a plastic army helmet
and is vigilantly . . . though warily . . . guarding against the possibility of

an all-out attack. Elizabeth’s mom is still behind the chair.
Ashley: Still nine to two.

Dad: Well, it won’t be much longer now.
Mom: Fraid you’re right there.
Elizabeth’s mom is feeling glum. Their side is being “whupped” and

she thinks it is all her fault. Just then an idea pops into her head. Her eyes
narrow down into slits and her mouth squeezes shut tight. Then, without
any warning, she springs up into a standing position . . . and starts firing.
She wings Erin as she is moving from the sofa to the chair, she pelts
Tammy with two well-aimed shots to the shoulder and arm, and she nails
Elizabeth . . . her very own daughter . . . when she pokes her head up to
see what is happening.
Watching all this transpire, Dad is reminded of one of those old-time
gangster movies. “James Cagney. That’s it.” “All right you dirty rats . . . you
asked for it!”
The assault comes to an end and Elizabeth’s mom quickly drops back
down behind the chair. It is very quiet now . . . an eerie and uncomfortable
quiet . . . as the last of the shot ping pong balls comes rolling to a stop.
Mom: Nine Six.

Dad: (to Elizabeth’s mom) Not bad kid.
Elizabeth’s mom: Thanks.
Dad: But you better brace yourself.
Elizabeth’s mom: For what?
Dad: (pause) The retribution.
At the very moment the words leave his lips, there is a loud “AARRRRR”
uttered from the enemy position, and a barrage of ping pong balls fills the
air. Elizabeth’s mother, peering out from behind the chair, watches as the
balls fly past . . . mere inches from her nose.
Well, the battle comes to an end. The kids won, of course, but the
parents did make a respectable showing . . . thanks to Elizabeth’s mom.
She says good-bye to the girls, including her daughter, and the three adults
then “retreat” to the kitchen. Elizabeth’s mom is not so concerned now,
and, after a little chit-chat about this and that, she takes her leave . . . in
good spirits.
32 Jim O’Brien
Mom and Dad then load up “the trolley” (a serving contraption on

wheels) with pints of cold milk, chocolate chip cookies (the soft kind), mini
blueberry muffins, and some gummy bears. Dad pushes the cart to the game
room door where he hesitates for a moment. He then turns the door knob,
pulls open the door, and goes in.
Immediately the order of “GET HIM!” is called out, and “AARRRRR”
is again heard . . . and the ping pong balls start flying. Dad calmly strolls
through this “blitzkrieg” and when he reaches the far side of the room he
leaves the trolley and turns to walk back. There is laughter as ping pong
balls are bouncing off his chest, his sides, his legs, and his back. He makes
his way through this hail storm and exits the room . . . closing the door
behind him.
From inside the game room “TIME OUT!” is heard, followed by “Time
out . . . time out.” And the combatants then all converge on the table of
treats.
CHAPTER 10
Dad: Do you remember that Christmas Eve when . . .

Mom: All that snow?
Dad: Yes! And there was nothing, not a flake on the
ground, when it started.
Mom: After all the kids had gone to bed.
Dad: And they woke up to see all that snow outside.
Mom: That was perfect.
Dad: A perfect Christmas morning.
Mom and Dad are sitting in the living room. The girls are asleep upstairs.
A light snow is falling outside and the remnant of a fire is glowing in the
fireplace. They are wearing their PJs and are playing a game of Scrabble.
Mom: FLANK. 4,5,6,7 . . . double letter K . . . that’s plus

10 . . . 17.
Dad: OK. Let’s see. FRIGHT.
Mom: eek.
Dad: That’s 4,5,6,8,12,13 . . . double word . . . that’s
26.
Mom: OK. How about . . . BOUQUET
Dad: Uh oh.
Mom: Yep. That’s 3,4,5 . . . double letter Q . . . 25,
26,27,28 . . . triple word . . . that’s 84.
Dad: eek.
The game progresses and they eventually make it through the final stage
of a Scrabble game, the stage when, in an attempt to get rid of unwanted
33
34 Jim O’Brien
letters, new words are added to the English language. The game board is
then folded up and put away. Dad pulls out some coconut marshmallows
and they roast a few over the glowing embers.
There is love there, of that there is no doubt, but it is a love of . . .
trying.
Dad: It should be pretty good sledding tomorrow.

Mom: I didn’t know “fez” was a word.
Dad: Maybe we could call Sarah and Eric and have them
come over with the kids.
Mom: It got you 30 points . . . at the end.
Dad: I could make meatball omelets. Eric loves those.
Mom: I would have been . . . prit-tee steamed . . . if it had
cost me the game.
Dad: And we could go night sledding!
Mom: I should have challenged it.
Dad: Do you want a couple more marshmallows?
Mom: OK.
The next morning the “sleepyhead” girls do not appear at the breakfast
counter until nine o’clock. Apparently they were not so fast asleep last
night as Mom and Dad had presumed, but were up playing UNO and
“just talking.”
They look over at the menu sign.
Egg in a Muffin Sandwich

(with cheese & bacon)
Or
“Cinnamon Roll” Oatmeal
Toast, jelly donut optional
Ashley: Egg in a muffin and a jelly donut please.

Tammy: Ditto.
Erin: Ditto.
The meal is served up and Mom and Dad engage the girls in a little
conversation by going over the possible agenda for the day. They could
perhaps go to the library where there is a used book sale going on, and
this generates a zero reaction. Or they could go to the “Y” and play some
racket ball, and this generates a detectable positive reaction. Or they could
attend the high school girls’ volleyball game later that afternoon, and this
gets a solid medium reaction. Or they could have . . . Caitlin, Jen, and
Willie over.
At this suggestion, the eating comes to a stop. Three heads straighten
up and three sets of eyes light up. There is no need to take a vote.
The phone call is made and Aunt Sarah answers. Tammy is holding
the phone and doing all the talking, but Erin and Ashley are standing right
next to her. The invitation is extended . . . and accepted. “Is around noon
all right?” Aunt Sarah asks. And it is.
Ho ho! Isn’t there excitement in the air now! Aunt Sarah and Uncle Eric
have three children: Eleven year old Caitlin, eight year old Jen, and four
year old “Little Willie” and it is usually controlled bedlam whenever the
two broods get together.
The main activity for the day will, of course, be sledding. The property
behind our family’s house offers the opportunity for some excellent sledding.
There is the main sledding hill . . . which has a wide sledding course that
runs down the center of the hillside . . . and, to either side of this, there are
offshoot sledding paths . . . paths that jut out, curve back, and then reconnect
with the main slope further down the hill. From above, this sort-of looks
like a person standing with their arms akimbo.
The main sledding hill has a nice downward slant that gives the sledder
a long comfortable ride at a rate of speed that is fun but not too scary. To
the left of the main sledding hill is a sledding path the girls call “The Zig
Zag Hill.” It has six giant curved snow banks . . . three on each side . . . and
here the sledder can zoom up and then shoot back down the side of the first
snow bank, speed slantwise across the path to the next snow bank, zoom up
and shoot down again, and then do the same thing on the third bank, and
the fourth, and so on until all six snow banks have been hit. Branching off
to the right of the main sledding hill is a sledding route the girls call “The
Camel.” It has six small hills, or hillocks, on its path and these give the
sledder an opportunity to say “Whoa!” and “Whoa!” and, well, “Whoa!”
and so on until all six hills have been hit.
Mom and Dad remember well their childhood sledding days. Indeed,
some of Dad’s favorite memories are the times at the community sledding
hill when he would wait for Mom . . . then all of ten years old . . . to start
her trip down the hill. He would then “belly flop” onto his sled, pull along
side her, grab a hold of her sled and . . . shake it. Ah . . . young love.
36 Jim O’Brien
But they both sort-of groan at the memory of walking back up that hill
so many times, and they wanted to do better for their own children. So they
use the bus to cart the girls up to the top. There’s a dirt road that runs up
the side of the hill and that’s what they drive on. Dad even bought some
snow chains in case the going gets rough.
Aunt Sarah, Uncle Eric and the cousins arrive a little before noon. When
they enter the house the kids immediately gather into a sort of huddle . . .
where excited talk is given . . . and then is answered by more excited talk.
No one takes off their coat. A few minutes later everyone files out the back
door . . . with the children leading the way . . . and boards the bus . . . where
six sleds have been waiting patiently.
Mom drives. The inside of the bus looks like the inside of a ski mountain
gondola . . . what with everybody wearing puffy coats, ski caps, and warm
gloves . . . and when they reach the top of the hill everyone clambers out of
the bus. The kids all run over to the starting spot . . . kicking up snow in
front of them and dragging their sleds behind them. They get to the level
piece of snow-covered ground and (no instructions are necessary at this
point) sit down on their sleds and take off. Little Willie is sharing his sled
with his mom, and they start off too. Mom, Dad, and Uncle Eric want to
watch . . . and they do.
It is a fairly conventional first run. Everyone stays on the main sledding
hill and there is no racing, no bumping of sleds, and no risk taking. That
will change, of course, but for this first trip down the hill it is simply pure
24-carat fun.
There are several trips down and up the hill. Mom and Dad take turns
driving the bus while Aunt Sarah and Uncle Eric take turns accompanying
Willie on his sled ride down the hill. There is a large thermos of hot chocolate
on the bus for anyone who needs a little warming up. Ashley asks her mom
to share her sled ride “one time,” and Mom does. Tammy and Erin . . .
sensing a rare opportunity . . . pull along either side of Ashley and Mom,
grab a hold of their sled and . . . shake it.
After about two hours of sledding everybody heads indoors. A meal
of chicken fingers, tater tots, green bean casserole, and meatball omelets
is served. The kids all choose the “tea table option” and eat in the living
room . . . where memories are updated, decisions are made, and future plans
are discussed . . . all in a cacophony of young voices.
The games are pulled out. The four adults opt for Risk, and Dad just
knows that he will, in short order, be conquered by the other three. Ashley,
Jen, and Willie choose Chutes and Ladders . . . a game that Mom and Dad
secretly love. Tammy, Erin, and Caitlin “repair” to the game room where the
ping pong table is set up for them, and where, later, there is talk of a “sleep
over.” All three girls are in perfect agreement on the desirability of the idea,
and they present a “united front” to the parents. The proposal is put up for
debate, and the measure is passed without objection.
At this point a celebration of sorts begins and our family’s home is turned
into a busy intersection . . . with kids coming and kids going . . . and Mom
and Dad trying to direct the traffic. All six children will sleep in the girls’
room. That’s just the way it is. Dad digs out a couple of the air mattresses
and inflates them. Mom makes sure the guest room is all right.
At around eight o’clock everyone bundles up again and heads outside
for some night sledding . . . night sledding in the soft and friendly light of
a watchful and benevolent full moon.
This time around the two toboggans are loaded onto the bus, and, as
our group makes its way up the sledding hill road, it looks like . . . from the
outside . . . what with the bus’ interior cabin lights on and the jolly mood everyone
is in . . . like a roving Christmas caroling party is on its way to its next stop.
At the top of the hill all five girls squeeze onto the same toboggan . . .
and take off. There is laughter and squeals of delight as they . . . shush
and glide . . . down the moonlit sledding hill. After a minute or so Aunt
Sarah, Uncle Eric, and little Willie start off on the other toboggan. They are
travelling behind the girls, not just as a matter of courtesy, but also just in
case the last girl . . . the caboose of the train of five girls . . . is accidentally
bounced off the back of their sled.
Dad had suggested to mom that she join Aunt Sarah, Uncle Eric, and
Willie on their ride down the hill . . . not really meaning it, of course. But
Mom knows . . . they have walked this path before . . . and she stays with
Dad. And that bus ride back down the sledding hill road is a nice one . . .
quiet, intimate, with some warmth . . . and Mom’s hand resting on Dad’s
shoulder as he drives.
They sled for about an hour and a half and then return to the warmth
of the house. A snack of tomato soup and tuna melt sandwiches is enjoyed.
Dad starts a fire in the fireplace . . . a fire that will later see a bunch of
marshmallows suspended over it.
It gets late, and the kids sort-of migrate up to their sleeping quarters.
Ashley lets Willie sleep in her bed while she shares an air mattress with Jen.
It was a busy and active day. The children all try to stay awake and take
full advantage of this opportunity, but one-by-one they soon nod off . . . to
dream dreams and recharge their little bodies.
38 Jim O’Brien
In the morning it is church, where our ten kinfolk take up two pews.
Willie, Ashley and Jen sit between Aunt Sarah and Uncle Eric, while Tammy,
Caitlin, and Erin are “book ended” by Mom and Dad. The littlest ones have
coloring books to occupy them and the older kids keep their talking down
to a whisper. After church everyone buses out to IHOP (the International
House of Pancakes) where bites of breakfast are eaten in between sentences.
And then it is back home again, where there are byes and see yas . . . and
waving to the car as it drives away.
CHAPTER 11
Ashley has brought a painting home from school “That I did!” and Mom
and Dad scotch-tape it to the refrigerator. It’s a family portrait . . . with a
house and some trees . . . done in water colors.
Ashley: . . . and Miss Ritchie said it’s really good.

Mom: I think so too.
Ashley: Miss Ritchie said that maybe I’ll be a painter when
I grow up.
Dad: I bet people will want to buy this one.
Ashley: Nope. I want to keep it.
Dad: Sorry folks. It is not for sale.
Mom: No no lady. We said it’s not for sale!
Ashley: (smiles)
Today is Erin’s birthday. She’s ten . . . double digits . . . and Mom and
Dad are taking the girls to Chuck E. Cheese’s to celebrate.
They stop at Elizabeth’s house and pick her up and then head for the
restaurant. It may be argued that Chuck E. Cheese’s is a fun house . . . as
well as a restaurant . . . as it has games and activities in abundance. Once
they’re at the restaurant all six of them crowd into a booth. Dad is the
waiter. He takes everyone’s order, purchases the food, and brings it back
to the booth. Everybody eats and then . . . zip . . . the four kids disappear.
Children are running around every which way and there is a background
sound of laughter, talking, and, well, fun being enjoyed. And our girls are
in the middle of it all.
Mom and Dad are busy playing a game of Dots when Erin and Elizabeth
come running over and stop at the booth. Erin hugs her dad around the
39
40 Jim O’Brien
neck from behind, and Dad turns and kisses her on her cheek . . . about
seven times. He then lifts his pencil up in the air . . . like a conductor lifting
a baton . . . and, with a big gesture, but a gentle execution, he raps Elizabeth
on the knuckles . . . causing her to smile. Something off to their left then
catches their eye and . . . zoom . . . the girls are gone again.
After Chuck E. Cheese’s they make for the high school where a girls’
varsity basketball game is in progress. It’s a pretty good game . . . close
right up till the end, with the players all trying hard . . . and afterward,
in the parking lot, our four girls are enthused about improving their own
basketball skills.
They drop Elizabeth off and then drive back home. It’s time for Erin
to blow out the candles on her birthday cake and to open the rest of her
presents. Mom and Dad go into the kitchen to light the candles. For Tammy’s
twelfth birthday they put a few of those candles you can’t blow out on her
cake, and Erin is on her guard for that trick.
They bring the cake out into the dining room, and everyone . . . not
counting Erin . . . sings “Happy Birthday.” Erin makes a secret wish, takes
a deep breath, and blows all ten candles out. Mom then cuts the cake while
Dad pours out glasses of milk. It’s a yummy cake . . . two chocolate layers
with chocolate icing . . . and, as they’re eating, Mom and Dad talk about Erin
when she was really little . . . funny Erin stories . . . and everybody laughs.
The presents are brought out and Erin starts tearing off the wrapping
paper. There is a new softball and some new sneakers, a remote controlled car
and a Beanie Baby puppy dog, a hand-held electronic Score Four game and
a Rebound mini shuffle board game, a nice backgammon game set and . . .
a giant birthday card that is signed by all the girls on Erin’s softball team.
The day finally comes to an end. Mom and Dad kiss the girls good
night, the lights go off, and there is peaceful sleeping . . . especially for a
very happy ten-year old.
CHAPTER 12
Winter is just about over when you hit March. Oh, there might be a snow
storm or two, but they are never taken seriously. The warm weather is right
around the corner . . . and everybody knows it.
Mom, Dad, and the girls are in the backyard . . . taking down the bird
feeders. Over the winter a nice variety of birds visited their feeding station.
There were buntings, chickadees (Ashley’s favorite), grosbeaks, finches,
cardinals (Erin’s favorite), juncos, warblers (Tammy’s favorite), waxwings,
kinglets, and swallows. Binoculars . . . three pairs of binoculars . . . and
a birding book were kept on a table near the back sliding glass door, so
that . . . in addition to helping the birds make it through a winter . . . some
fun learning was enjoyed as well.
The feeders . . . and squirrel baffles . . . are brought inside where they
are washed, dried, and stored away. The conversation, generally, is about
their prank scheme . . . or rather the uncertainty of it. The end of the school
year is fast approaching and they haven’t come up with an excellent prank
idea yet.
Mom calls for a special family meeting. Dad makes milkshakes and
everyone convenes in the living room. The brainstorming that follows
produces some interesting possibilities. They could mail funny greeting
cards (unsigned) to all the teachers, or they could wrap ribbons all the
way around the school building, or they could dip their bare feet in white
paint and then make foot prints on the sidewalk in front of the school. But
none of these ideas ring a bell in them, and they now begin to entertain the
likelihood that a prank . . . with their names forever attached to it . . . will
never make it into the local folklore.
41
CHAPTER 13
It is late April, and our family is passing time on a Wednesday night. Mom
is flipping through a book entitled “Fun Recipes for the Family.” Dad is
perusing the classified ads in the newspaper. Yard sale season has started and,
well, you just never know what you might find. Ashley is doing the Hidden
Pictures puzzle in a Highlights magazine, and Erin and Tammy are playing
a game of electronic Stratego.
Erin is closing in on Tammy’s flag. She used a few of her turns to “probe”
an area where she felt it was likely to be hidden. After getting a “one beep”
response to her last probe she is fairly certain of its exact location . . . and she
moves in for the capture. Tammy is no amateur at Stratego, and she holds a
“poker face” . . . giving no clue as to the accuracy of her sister’s assumptions.
Erin moves onto a vacated spot when, uh oh, the explosion noise sounds
off. Erin has stepped on a bomb! She has been sandbagged! But wait. After
the explosion noise there is the victory tune. Erin is using her number eight
guy, the miner, to advance and he is impervious to bombs. And so, not
only is he safe, but Tammy now has to remove that bomb from the playing
board . . . and she does.
Meanwhile Dad is zipping from one yard sale ad to the next when
something catches his eye. He stops, and his mind starts “cranking.” And
then . . . a bell goes off in his head. The girls and Mom like Dad’s ideas.
They’re usually good ones. And they have learned to recognize them . . . at
their inception. They all look his way.
“Could this be it?” Dad thinks to himself “Could this be . . . the perfect
prank?” He shows everybody the ad and explains what he thinks they can
do. He doesn’t sugarcoat it. It would be a serious undertaking, that much
is certain, but if they could pull it off . . . wow!
42
The girls think it’s a great idea. Children, in their innocence and
naïveness, charge ahead no matter what the challenge. Parents, as we know,
are more circumspect, and Mom and Dad consider the whole picture. There
is a threshold to cross, and, once crossed, it cannot be gone back over. Then,
it is decided. They will do it . . . together.
CHAPTER 14
Timeline: Saturday morning . . . early.

The girls and Mom are sitting in the mini-van which is parked a half-
block away from the yard sale. Dad is at the yard sale. He is wearing an old
coat, a New York Mets baseball cap, dark sunglasses, and . . . a mustache.
Mom: That rubber cement holds pretty good.

Ashley: Poor Barbie.
Tammy: Well, she gave her hair for a good reason at least.
Ashley: Yeah.
Erin: I guess she has a bob now. Is that what they call it
mom . . . a bob?
Mom: Yepper.
Dad is negotiating with the guy who is having the yard sale.
The guy: It’s like new. We only used it the one time.
Dad: Would you take twenty five for it?
The guy: Sure.
Back in the mini-van, the girls and mom wait. Little Ashley is leaning
up against the back seat. Her arms are folded on the top of the seat and
her head is resting on her hands. She is looking out the back window . . .
watching for her dad to come. Suddenly she lifts her head up and the other
three turn around. “Here he comes!” “And he’s got it!”
Mom pushes a button and the rear hatch door pops open and glides
upward. Dad slides the box into the rear compartment area, shuts the hatch
door, hustles up to the passenger side door, and gets in.
44
Mom: Did you see anyone we know?

Dad: Nope.
The girls are all leaning over the back seat now . . . looking at it.
Erin: Is it really that big?

Dad: Well, I believe so.
Mom: We can measure it when we get home.
Tammy: After we set it up.
Dad: Um . . .
Erin: We should test it out.
Dad: You’re right.
Ashley: Can we take our picture with it too?
Mom: Sure honey. Why not?
Tammy: Dad . . . can you keep your mustache on for a
while?
Dad: Of course.
Once they are back home little time is wasted and “it” is set up. It is at
this moment that the excitement grows. They are really going to do it and
the enormity of what they are going to do is hitting home. It’s rather like
being next in line for a ride on a roller coaster. You’re not on it yet, but soon
will be, and you know what it will be like.
Mom pulls out the digital camera and takes three shots of the girls
standing with it. Dad then pulls out the tripod . . . mutters something about
“evidence” and “sticking together” . . . and two more photos are taken, this
time with all five of them standing with it.
Tammy: When are we going to do it?

Dad: (solemnly) Tomorrow night.
CHAPTER 15
Timeline: Sunday night . . . late.

The girls are upstairs getting dressed . . . in dark clothing.
Tammy: Maybe we should put some of that black

stuff on our face too.
Erin: Dad says no.
Tammy: Why not?
Erin: He says that, if we get caught, there’s still a
chance we can talk our way out of it. But if
we have that black stuff on our face, we’re
dead meat.
Tammy: (pause) Dad’s smart.
Erin: Yeah.
They are now ready to go. Dad slides the ladder into the bus. Mom brings
the box that is holding “it” out to the bus. Tammy, Erin, and Ashley board
the bus and they are each carrying a walkie-talkie. Dad goes back inside for
the sign, brings it out, and slides it into the aisle of the bus next to mom.
He then settles into the driver’s seat and starts the engine. Everyone is quiet.
Dad puts the bus into gear and they drive off into the night.
They park about two hundred feet from the school in a secluded spot
they had picked out earlier while “casing” the area. Dad carries the ladder
and the sign and mom carries the box as all five of them make their way
toward the bushes in front of the school. Tammy then branches off to the
left and heads northward to her look-out post up the street. Erin also breaks
formation and heads southward to her look-out post down the street. Mom,
Dad, and Ashley make it to the bushes and duck down behind them. They
46
wait for their two sentries to get into position and then Ashley establishes
radio communication. Dad pokes his head up and looks around. He then
picks up the ladder and leans it against the side of the veranda. He starts
to climb the ladder and then, “Red Alert ! Red Alert !” Tammy’s voice is
heard coming over the walkie-talkie. “Car coming!” Dad hops down onto
the ground, quickly takes the ladder down, and ducks down behind the
bushes. Mom, Dad, and Ashley sort-of hold their breath as a car drives
past the school. “Situation AOK.” Erin calls in over her walkie-talkie, “Car
is gone.”
Again Dad puts the ladder against the veranda and climbs a few steps.
Mom then hands him the box, which he carries up to the roof of the veranda
and sets down. He then reaches down for the sign, which Mom, half-way
up the ladder, hands to him. He takes it out of the box and sets it up. “It
looks OK.” he says to himself. He then attaches the sign to the front of it,
double checks everything, and descends the ladder . . . carrying the empty
box. Ashley makes the call over her walkie-talkie, “We’re all done. Come
on back in.” Dad takes the ladder down, and the three of them creep across
the school’s side yard. They are joined by their two accomplices and the
five of them pussy foot over to the bus and get in. “Well,” says Mom, “we
did it.”
CHAPTER 16
Timeline: Monday morning.

Mom and Dad are driving the girls to school in the mini-van. As they
get close to the school they notice that a commotion of some sort is taking
place in front of the school building. A crowd of kids are gathered there and
none of them seem to be in a hurry to go inside.
Erin: I wonder what’s going on?

Tammy: Maybe it’s a fire drill.
Ashley: Maybe the doors are locked.
As the mini-van pulls up in front of the school, they see that the kids
are smiling, laughing, and . . . looking up. A few teachers can be seen in the
crowd, and they also are smiling and looking up. And, as we slowly raise
our own sight to the roof of the veranda, we see it: A giant inflatable Easter
bunny, standing seventeen feet high (to the tips of his ears) and he is holding
a large sign that says: EAT YOUR VEGETABLES.
Mom and Dad turn around to the girls and say “Remember.” and
then pull imaginary zippers across their lips. The girls, in unison, then pull
imaginary zippers across their lips. The side door of the mini-van slides open,
and our three little heroes emerge and join the crowd of kids.
Mom and Dad then pull out and drive off. This is a nice little moment
for these two. Everything worked out perfectly. It is as if a bunch of
flowers had come up and bloomed right in front of them. There was love
and respect for children, caring about their town, and some fun intrigue.
And they are enjoying it . . . together. A job well done Mom and Dad, a
job well done.
48
The van from the local newspaper, The Advocate, pulls up in front of
the school. A man gets out from the passenger side door and he is wearing a
camera around his neck. He stops, looks up, smiles, aims his camera, focuses
a bit, and then . . . snap . . . takes a photograph.
CHAPTER 17
Timeline: Tuesday . . . early evening.

As long as there are children there will be mischief, but to see your
mischief on the front page of a newspaper, well, that is something special
indeed.
PRANKSTERS HIT LOCAL ELEMENTARY SCHOOL
That is what the headline reads, and it is accompanied by a photo of
the giant bunny.
Dad: Putting it on the front page is a compliment.

Mom: An A plus.
Dad: Yepper.
Mom clips out the photo and adds it to the other five incriminating
pictures in the photo album.
Tammy: Good thing mom bought five extra copies.

Dad: At five different places.
Erin: How long do we have to wait before we can tell
someone?
Dad: Seven years.
Erin: Oh . . . bum.
But it was like a balloon that had too much air in it. Holding in a secret
is hard enough, but a secret this big and this good, well, it is perhaps asking
too much of the children. So Mom and Dad decide to let out a little of the
50
air and they make arrangements to drop by Caitlin, Jen, and Willie’s house
to tell them some “big news.”
Mom: We have to make them promise . . .

Dad: Pinkie promise.
Mom: We have to make them pinkie promise to
never tell anybody else.
They arrive at their cousins’ house with the newspaper, the photo
album, and four large pepperoni pizzas. Everyone is ushered inside and
Aunt Sarah, Uncle Eric, Caitlin, Jen, and Willie all gather round to hear
the big news.
Tammy shows them the newspaper. Uncle Eric laughs. “That’s pretty
funny.” he says, “I wonder who did it?” Well, he could not have asked a
more appropriate question.
Tammy: We did it.

Ashley: Yep.
Caitlin, Jen, and Willie light up at the news, but Aunt Sarah and Uncle
Eric are . . . disbelieving. So Erin says, “Mom, the book.” and she shows
them the photos. They eye the pictures, and then look up at Mom and Dad
as if they had, perhaps, lost their marbles.
Erin: It was a family project.

Uncle Eric: A mustache?
Dad: Yeah. For the yard sale. To get it.
Ashley: It’s Barbie’s hair.
Erin: We had to be careful . . .
Tammy: . . . that nobody found out.
Ashley: We did it at night . . . really late.
Erin: We wore dark clothes.
Tammy: And had walkie-talkies.
Ashley: And we didn’t get caught.
Mom: It was pretty scary though.
Dad: Yeah.
52 Jim O’Brien
The pizza boxes are opened and slices are handed out. The pinkie
promises, forgotten in all the excitement, are now administered. And as they
are eating the pizza, a deep sense of satisfaction fills the air of that home, and
Dad reflects on the events of the past few days, the close family relations he
enjoys, and the good fortune that has came his way, and, in his thoughts,
he says, “Thanks God. Thanks.” And Mom hears it.
THE END
THE MEETING
He is an ordinary man, and she is an ordinary woman, and on this common
ground they connected.
“Have you danced much?” he asks her. She timidly answers, “No, I
haven’t.” “It’s easy.” he tells her, “Come on. I’ll show you.” And they start to
dance right there in the eating room, first to-and-fro, then around the table.
“Now do a spin and keep going.” he says to her. And this she does.
“There’s more room outside.” he tells to her. And with that they go out
of the house, out into the night, and they dance. They dance in the courtyard
and then move out into the driveway where they dance down to the barn,
around the water pump, and then back up. Her father watches them through
a window, these two shadows prancing around in the dark . . . the one he
knows so very well, the other he knows hardly at all . . . both enjoying this
innocent fun . . . and the old man smiles.
They come to a stop and stand there to catch their breath. A silvery
moon . . . perched up in the night sky . . . carefully watches over them, while
an old willow tree . . . standing quietly nearby . . . pretends to be looking out
onto the lake, but is in fact casting sidelong glances at these two silhouettes
in the driveway. Nature is on their side . . . urging them to come together.
“I wonder if they ever go in the other direction?” he says out loud, and
she responds with a silent laugh. Then, without really thinking, he kisses
her on the top of her head. She looks up, and for a moment . . . one of
those brief moments that contain so much meaning . . . their eyes meet. It
is more than a meeting of their eyes, of course. It is their minds and their
hearts that come together as well. He then bows his head, turns it slightly
to his left, and, at this moment, their lips meet . . . joining their eyes, their
minds, and their hearts . . . in the proper order for a couple’s first kiss.
55
56 Jim O’Brien
Her father, still peering out through the eating room window, sees
this and raises his eyebrows, widens his eyes, and breathes out a hushed
“Ooh.”
Out in the driveway, these two figures in the night . . . now baptized . . .
embrace. He then lowers his head so that the front of his neck and the bottom
of his jaw curve over the top of her head . . . forming just one silhouette . . .
as they indeed are now one.
GOING FISHIN’
It is an old rowboat and it has sat in Tom O’Hara’s barn . . . boat, oar locks,
and oars . . . for how long he couldn’t exactly remember. Ten years maybe. So
Tom isn’t overly ambitious while dickering with the new fella. An agreement
is reached and the boat is carted to its new home where it is scraped, made
water tight, and given a new coat of paint.
“Ever go fishin’?” he asks her. “Nope.” is her reply. “It’s fun. You’ll like
it.” And so, a fishing date is arranged.
They row out to the middle of the lake and he drops the anchor
overboard, the anchor that is nothing more than a large stone with rope tied
around it, rope tied around it like ribbon tied around a Christmas present.
He baits her hook and shows her how to let out the line. “Hold on to the
pole pretty good.” he tells her. And this she does. And then she sits there
and just sort-of wonders.
It is about ten minutes later, maybe twelve, when the cork on her line
begins to jiggle . . . all on its own. Then it goes completely underwater
and she feels a substantial sort-of tug on the line. “You got one.” he says
to her.
Well, this is a new feeling indeed. A shiver goes through her body and
then a tingling excitement comes in right after it . . . and that feeling stays.
Her eyes widen and her mind lights up. “What do I do?” she asks. “Keep
holdin’ on to the pole with your right hand,” he tells her “and use your left
to crank the reel . . . kind-of slow like.” And this she does.
It is a pretty good-sized fish and it puts up a pretty good fight, which
keeps her interested, you may be sure. “Now switch hands on the pole and
use this net to scoop him out of the water.” And this she does. He then
removes the fish from the net, removes the hook from the fish, shows her
her fish, and then drops it into the bucket. “Nice one.” he says to her.
59
60 Jim O’Brien
Things change, sometimes in a moment, and her thinking undergoes

just this sort of transformation. The first time around it all didn’t mean
anything to her, but now, the second time, she wants her hook to be baited,
and she wants her line to be let out, and then she sits there in the boat and
waits . . . with a purpose.
There are, of course, fishermen who are more experienced, and many
are more capable, but no fisherman . . . or fisherwoman for that matter . . .
ever watched their cork more intently than she is now watching hers. And,
when it starts to bob up and down a little, she does nothing. She doesn’t
move a muscle. That is the right thing to do, of course. When the cork is
bobbing up and down a little it means the fish is flirting with the hook, and
you have to wait until he makes a commitment to it. She doesn’t know any
of this. All she knows is that she is going to do exactly the same thing she
did the first time. And when the cork goes underwater she begins to reel in
the fish . . . kind-of slow like. She then nets her catch and brings him into
the boat where he joins his compatriot in the bucket.
They catch six fish that afternoon . . . she five, he one . . . before they
decide to head in. And that night, as they eat fish for supper, she feels a little
proud of herself. Oh, she has grown and eaten her own vegetables before,
but this is different. Here she feels a sense of . . . triumph . . . and the meal
seems more important.
“Good girl God.” he thinks to himself, “Real natural. Not hard to see.”
And they share a smile.
FOR A BOWL OF STEW
Shamus McCafrey is the village bully. Oh, he is too old to be called a bully,
but that’s what he is. He is tall and strong and he enjoys using his fists to
maintain what he calls “My sovereignty.”
Shamus always says what he thinks . . . and he often speaks without
thinking . . . and on this day it would cost him.
You see, Shamus doesn’t like the new fella. It is true that, in a small village
like Timber Lake, nobody really likes a new fella, but Shamus’ animosity is
more than the common suspicion and mistrust. To Shamus, the new fella
is someone who has to be brought into line . . . a subject who has not yet
shown him the proper deference . . . and Shamus’ mind is made up to set
things straight.
Shamus has tried, on a couple of occasions, to bait the new fella into a
fight, but was all but ignored. This forces him to take a more direct approach,
and so, as the new fella is making his way toward The Timber Lake Inn for
a bowl of stew, Shamus places himself right in the doorway of the inn and
tells the new fella, “You’re not allowed in here.” The new fella gives Shamus
a look and then tries to get past him and into the inn for the bowl of stew
his belly is calling out for. Shamus blocks his path.
Shamus: I told you that you’re not allowed in here.

New fella: You wanna fight. Is that it?
And Shamus smiles.
New fella: All right, but I aint gonna pick you up.
Shamus: What?
New fella: Somebody else is gonna have to do it.
63
64 Jim O’Brien
Shamus’ expression changes. A dark menacing contemptuous look comes

over his face. The king has been insulted and somebody is about to pay the
price for having done it.
Shamus hands his derby to one of the four men who have gathered at the
inn’s doorway . . . and he steps out into the street. “This won’t take long.”
he thinks to himself. And he is right.
Out in the street the two men square off. Shamus stands erect. His hands
are clenched into fists and his arms are extended forward . . . his right arm
being a little further extended than his left. His opponent, the new fella,
drops down into a slight crouch. His hands are also clenched into fists, but
his arms are down by his sides . . . looking sort-of like a pair of wings.
Shamus makes the first advance and he pokes a quick right jab at the
new fella’s face, but, to his surprise, it misses. The new fella dodged it . . .
with nimble quickness, Shamus thinks . . . to his right. Shamus tries again,
but again is dodged, this time to his, the new fella’s, left. A little flustered
now, Shamus moves in aggressively for a right jab that will not miss. But
it does miss. And not only does the new fella make it miss . . . by dodging
once again to his right . . . he now brings his own right fist into action,
throwing a punch that has all the power of his arm, his side, and his legs in
it. A haymaker. And it does not miss.
The blow lands solidly on the left side of Shamus’ head. Shamus’ knees
go weak, his eyes roll up into his head, and his body crumples forward and
hits the ground with a thud. He is kissing the dust and knocked out cold.
End of fight.
The new fella then walks into The Timber Lake Inn . . . where it is
kind-of quiet, he thinks . . . to have some stew.
It would be a few days before Shamus would show his face . . . his swollen
and black-and-blue face . . . in the village. Thomas and David, two lads no
more than twelve-years old, walk past an expressionless Shamus and, when
they are sure they are out of earshot, say to one another:
Thomas: I aint gonna pick him up. Are you gonna

pick him up?
David: I aint gonna pick him up. Somebody else is
gonna have to do it.
THE BARCLAY SCHOOL
Goodness sometimes comes in an unusual package.
CHAPTER 1
The four of them had talked about it over the summer, and since they were
planning to come back early anyway, they decided to do it on this night.
And so, as the moon watches and the darkness conceals their movements,
they make their way across the campus green.
Tiffany: And we were all just . . . gawking . . . poor

Chelsey, but we had never seen a cat give
birth before.
Missy: Did she do her “Lamaze” breathing?
Tiffany: (laughs) It certainly looked like it.
Laurie: How many kittens did she have?
Tiffany: Five. Two orange ones, two tabbies, and a
white one with a black spot on its nose.
Missy: They start purring right from the “get go”
don’t they?
Tiffany: Yes!
They come to the brick wall and prop the ladder up against it. They
climb up and take seats on the top of the wall. The ladder is then hoisted,
spun, and eased down the other side of the wall. They climb down, hide the
ladder behind some bushes, and start to walk toward the car.
Laurie: My big sister had twins over the summer.

The others: (laughter)
Laurie: One of each. They named them Michael and
Judith.
67
68 Jim O’Brien
Brooke: Judy. A mischief maker if ever there was

one.
Missy: And a future Barclay’s girl!
Laurie: (laughs) So now I’m aunt Laurie.
They come to the car, unlock the doors, and get in. The engine starts
and they drive off into the night. The first prank of the school year is
underway.
CHAPTER 2
The following morning Harry Cramer . . . on his way to “Dolly’s” for their
$1.99 breakfast special . . . sees it and smiles. Belinda Carson, a Barclay
alumna, is out for a morning jog when she sees it. “Not bad . . . not bad.”
she says to herself. John Harrington and his wife Lucy are walking to the
curb market . . . to buy some locally made maple syrup and honey . . . when
they see it.
John: Are the girls back already?

Lucy: Some of them come back early.
Park Avenue runs through the center of town, and, in the downtown
district, this road is divided . . . length-wise . . . by a long narrow grass island.
Dogwood trees grow on this island . . . six of them . . . dogwood trees that
are now adorned with . . . over-sized Christmas tree ornaments and garlands
of gold and silver tinsel.
The term has begun.
69
CHAPTER 3
It’s a large building . . . square . . . with white walls and red clay tiling roofing.
A ten foot high brick wall runs around the perimeter of the property, a wall
that is covered, for the most part, with ivy.
It is the Barclay School, a private school for girls . . . grades nine through
twelve . . . and it houses, at any given time during a school year, around one
hundred students . . . about twenty-five per grade . . . give or take a few.
Mr. James Hendersen runs the school. He also owns it . . . having
inherited it at a young age . . . and is now the school’s administrator. Finances
are never a serious worry at Barclay’s. If, at any time, the outflow of funds
exceeds the inflow, well, there are other sources of income to cover the
shortfall . . . allowing Mr. Hendersen to operate the school as he sees fit.
The dormitory occupies the entire second floor of the school building
and it is divided into four quadrants or “wings” that are identical to each
other in their lay-out and facilities. Each wing has seven dorm rooms . . . with
four girls to a room . . . and each class is given its own wing. For example,
the juniors are all in the same wing, as they were the previous two years,
and will be the following year.
The four wings have access to each other, and so, if a tour is being given,
the tour guide would go from the senior wing through the door into the
junior wing then on into the sophomore wing and then on into the freshmen
wing and, if need be, back into the senior wing . . . making a complete circle
(or, in this case, a square).
The classrooms, cafeteria, auditorium, and administrator’s office/
apartment are all on the first floor of the school building. The “free stuff
room” is also on the first floor. The free stuff room is filled with things that
have been donated to the school by alumni and local townspeople. There
is clothing, shoes, coats and jackets, gloves, blankets, bed sheets, towels,
70
baseball caps, sun glasses, jewelry, watches, wall hangings, and many other
items. Everything in the free stuff room is arranged by size (where applicable)
and is in excellent condition. Off to the left of the free stuff room is a utility
room that is used for fabricating, cleaning, altering, and repairing, and it
has an ironing board, a programmable sewing machine, a dress mannequin,
a washer and dryer, a computerized wood carving machine, a work bench,
and shelves filled with various tools.
CHAPTER 4
Classes start on Monday, but freshman Caitlin and her parents are here on
the Friday before. The school had given Caitlin the names and addresses of
the three girls who will be her roommates and, over the summer, the four
girls got together . . . on two occasions . . . and found that they fit together
like four pieces to a puzzle. And so, they arranged to show up at school a
few days early . . . as they had been told they were welcomed to do.
Caitlin and her parents walk up the second floor stairs and on through
the dorm floor door . . . and then down the hall toward the room Caitlin has
been given. Her dorm room door has four wooden name plates fastened to
the front of it, and these say, “Kayla,” “Bethany,” “Autumn,” and “Caitlin.”
They open the door and go in. It is a large rectangular room with a door at
each end. There are four beds, four dressers, and four desks. The four beds are
different from each other . . . as are the four dressers and four desks. Caitlin’s
bed has a brass frame and a new mattress, and sitting on top of the mattress
is a small white card that reads “Welcome Caitlin.” A key chain lies on the
desk, and it has as its ornament the word “CAITLIN” carved out of wood.
It holds three keys: A key to the school building (that has a red plastic cap
on its round part), a key to the second floor (that has a blue cap), and a key
to the room in which Caitlin will be staying (that has a white cap).
After unpacking, the three of them wander around the freshmen wing.
In the kitchen, Caitlin’s mother takes note of the refrigerator and stove, the
white oak table and chairs, and the windowed cupboard doors. Next they
venture into the freshmen library, where several lamp fixtures . . . with green
glass lamp shades . . . hang down from the ceiling and five large round oak
tables . . . encircled by matching chairs . . . occupy the room. Dark wood
shelves cover the walls . . . ceiling to floor . . . and these are filled with books
and, at the near end of the room, CD ROMs. There are signs here and there
72
that identify certain references as “American Civil War,” “World Geography,”

“Computer Programming,” “Vocabulary,” and such. To the right of the
library is the game room, where Caitlin and her parents see comfortable
furniture lined along the walls (“A davenport!” remarks Caitlin’s dad.) and
a huge closet at one end. They peek inside the closet and see folded up card
tables and folded up chairs, a folded up ping pong table, an air hockey table,
badminton rackets, and a big net. Hanging on a hook on the inside of the
closet door are pages of type-written “GAME RULES” that are laminated
in plastic. And there are board games stacked on the closet shelves . . .
Monopoly, Othello, Yahtzee, and checkers . . . to name a few.
“Caitlin,” her mother says to her, “if your roommates don’t show up,
we’ll stay here with you.” And the three of them share a laugh. But her
roommates do show up, and there is more unpacking and more snooping
around. In time the parents all depart, and the four girls start, what we hope
will be, four years of friendship and scholastic successes.
CHAPTER 5
Sunday is the official “moving in day” and it is always accompanied by a fairly

festive atmosphere, as abiding friendships . . . held dormant all summer . . .
are allowed to reform . . . and grow.
At about seven p.m. three of the seniors mosey on over to the freshmen
wing. It’s an informal visit to answer any questions the freshmen might
have and also to initiate the new girls to the Barclay School, um, ways and
means.
The seniors . . . Missy, Jody, and Sadie . . . tell their younger counterparts
about the free stuff room. The freshmen always use the free stuff room more
than any of the upper classes. It is, I suppose, like Christmas morning to
them. But as they advance . . . both in age and maturity . . . they begin to
realize that their “needs” are more important than their “wants,” and their
use of the free stuff room . . . tapers off . . . to a more moderate use of that
facility.
The subject of grades is brought up, and the seniors assure the freshmen
that they are in good hands. “It’s not sink or swim here.” Jody tells them.
And she is telling the truth. The teachers at Barclay’s go the extra mile for
their students . . . giving frequent “drone” quizzes that do not count against
their grades, but that allow the instructors to accurately assess each student’s
grasp of the class material. And on many occasions a teacher has sat with
a student . . . up in a dorm library . . . after hours . . . to make sure she
completely understands the subject matter.
“Oh,” Missy tells them, “and there’s The Wednesday Night News
Broadcast. You don’t want to miss that.”
The Wednesday Night News Broadcast. It was Mr. Hendersen’s idea . . .
and he still sort-of oversees the operation of it . . . but the students have
fallen in love with it, and they pretty much run the show now.
74
It’s a closed-circuit television production . . . broadcast live every

Wednesday night at seven . . . to each of the twenty-eight dorm rooms on
the second floor.
The seniors do everything . . . and this is considered to be one of the
perks of being a senior at Barclay’s . . . as they, the seniors, investigate the
news stories, write the “copy,” operate the television cameras, and act as
commentators. There is even a mobile camera crew that visits the scene of
some of the news events. And they rotate . . . the seniors rotate in and out
of the operation . . . at the beginning of each month, so that “this” news
team cast and crew is then replaced by “that” news team cast and crew . . .
and the fun is shared.
Both of the news commentators always wear dark-rimmed eye glasses
(that have had their lenses removed) and talk in a rapid-fire “You gotta hear
this!” style. And the news items covered by the program are mostly Barclay
School events and activities . . . but not always.
Back up in the freshmen wing, Missy, Jody, and Sadie have, by this
time, given the new girls a pretty good understanding of the ins and outs
of being a student at Barclay’s. Then, a freshman named Holly asks, “What
about the pranks?”
At this, the three seniors look at each other, shrug their shoulders, and
say “Pranks?” . . . and then giggle like a trio of young school girls.
Holly: Did you really put that inflatable elephant in front

of the mayor’s house that time?
Sadie: Well, he is a republican.
Jody: It was a paper-mache elephant.
Missy: Sort-of a giant pinanta . . . without the candy in it.
Sadie: But if you want to do a prank yourselves . . . it’s
completely up to you.
Missy: Yep. Planning it, doing it, keeping it a secret . . . it’s
all up to you.
Jody: The more imaginative it is, the more creative it is,
the better.
Missy: And if it gets into the newspaper . . . that’s an A
plus.
And it is right about at this moment that an announcement comes over

the school speaker system: “Excuse me girls, but there will be a pizza delivery
in a little while. The freshmen will get their pizza at eight, the sophomores at
76 Jim O’Brien
eight-ten . . . or there abouts . . . the juniors at eight-twenty, and the seniors

at eight-thirty. That’s all.”
Sadie, Missy, and Jody look at each other and, simultaneously, say,
“Welcome back girls!”
CHAPTER 6
At eight o’clock Mr. Hendersen enters the freshmen wing. He is pushing

“The Trolley” . . . a tall service cart on wheels that has a battery-powered
heating unit built into it. He parks the cart in the hallway outside of the
kitchen, pulls six pizza boxes out of the warming oven, carries them into
the kitchen, and sets them down on the kitchen table.
The girls, generally, are curious, and they form a standing audience . . .
mostly in the hallway . . . as they gather round to see this stranger bearing
gifts.
Mr. Hendersen: There’s pop and juice in the frige.
And they are a . . . quiet audience.
Mr. Hendersen: I used to deliver pizzas for a job.
And there is a little giggling and snickering.
Mr. Hendersen: I liked it, especially when there was a

mistake . . . an order that had been goofed
up. We got to eat the mistakes.
And there is some laughter. It is sort-of restrained laughter, but laughter

just the same, and Mr. Hendersen will take that.
And now, as he re-assumes the helm behind the trolley and sets a course
for the sophomore wing, there is a chorus of “Thank you Mr. Hendersen.”
to send him on his way.
77
78 Jim O’Brien
As he is entering the sophomore wing the closing door bangs against

the side of the trolley . . . announcing his arrival. Most of the girls are out in
the hallway, and there is a clatter of “Hi Jimmy.” to greet him, and, as these
greetings tail off, a few girls pipe up late, giving it a sort of echo effect.
Mr. Hendersen: Hi girls. Good to have you back.
And he “deals out” six pizza boxes to the waiting students.
Marcy: Jimmy. Did you see the Christmas trees on

Park Avenue?
Mr. Hendersen: (chuckles) Yup. That was a pretty good one.
Hayley: Do you know who did it?
Mr. Hendersen: Nope.
Marcy: Did many girls come back early?
Mr. Hendersen: Eighteen . . . some earlier than others.
Nicole: I wanted to stay all summer.
The girls: (laughter)
Mara: When’s Alumni Day this year Jimmy?
Mr. Hendersen: September twenty-fifth.
Mara: That was great last year.
Hayley: What group are you having this year Jimmy?
Mr. Hendersen: Sela.
At this, the girls who know who Sela is say “Wow.” while the girls who
do not know who they are say “Who’s Sela?”
Mr. Hendersen: OK. Have a good night girls.

The girls: Thanks Jimmy. Bye.
The pizza drop off continues. The “circuit” is now half completed, and
Mr. Hendersen is sort-of marching along as he pilots the trolley toward the
junior wing.
Mr. Hendersen likes the juniors. They are a close-knit group of girls . . .
family oriented, protective of each other, with good initiative. The junior
year at Barclay’s is perhaps the most fun year. The students “know the ropes”
by that time, and they can enjoy the ease and comfort that that familiarity
affords them . . . without having to concern themselves with an approaching
graduation.
Mr. Hendersen: Hi girls. Pizza anyone?

Carissa: Pizza?
Brandy: Not tonight Jimmy.
Macy: Fraid not.
Morgan: Now if it was Chinese food, well, that’d be OK.
Mr. Hendersen: All right. That’s fine. I’ll just leave these pizza
boxes here in the kitchen as a sort of . . .
decoration.
Carissa: Hey Jimmy. The freshmen . . . are they OK?
Mr. Hendersen: Yup. It’s a good group.
Morgan: Little angels.
Mr. Hendersen: I’m a little worried though.
Carissa: How come?
Mr. Hendersen: I don’t want them picking on you girls here.
Mr. Hendersen: This pizza place. It’s a pretty good restaurant
too . . . if you’ve never been there.
Alexis: It is! Excellent Italian food.
Brandy: Lasagna . . . yum.
Alexis: You usually have to wait in line though on
Friday and Saturday night.
Carissa: Jimmy. We want you to stay, but we know
the seniors have “dibs.”
Mr. Hendersen: Yup. Always. OK. Have a good night girls.
The girls: Bye Jimmy. Thanks.
When Mr. Hendersen comes through the doorway into the seniors’
wing he sees that the students are waiting for him. They gesture him into
the game room where two card tables have been set up.
Mr. Hendersen: Cold pizza anyone?

Missy: I guess we’re last on your list Jimmy.
Celeste: It’s not fair.
Jody: I’m going to complain to the school
administrator.
Mr. Hendersen: Good idea. Let me know what he says.
Laurie: There had better be pizzas in those boxes.
80 Jim O’Brien

Missy: Or no tip for you Jimmy.
Mr. Hendersen: OK. Let’s see. That’s two pizzas with
pepperoni, two with Italian sausage and
black olives, one with ham and pineapple,
and one plain.
Laurie: Jimmy. Can you stick around a while and
have some pizza?
Mr. Hendersen: Of course.
The pizza boxes are opened and there is a sort of traffic jam as everyone
tries to take a slice at the same time. Rachel takes two slices and then walks
over to Mr. Hendersen.
Mr. Hendersen: Hey you.

Rachel: Here. This one’s for you.
Mr. Hendersen: Thanks.
If Mr. Hendersen has a favorite student . . . it is Rachel . . . and everyone

sort-of knows it.
Mr. Hendersen: How are your folks?

Rachel: Good. They’re letting me have a car this year.
Mr. Hendersen: Really. That’s great. So, you moved in by
yourself?
Rachel: Yep. They offered to come along, but I told
them it wasn’t necessary.
Rachel has, what Mr. Hendersen calls, “Inner beauty.” She doesn’t
think she is pretty, and she honestly does not think she is better than other
people. She says what she is really thinking (unless she is in a spot), and she
believes in God. She doesn’t like wearing make up, and she likes dogs more
than she likes cats. She is not a gifted student, but she tries extra hard . . .
to make up for it. And she is a good solid friend to those fortunate enough
to have her as a friend.
Mr. Hendersen: I played in a softball game last weekend.

Rachel: Really.
Mr. Hendersen: Yeah. I struck out.
Rachel: (laughs)
Mr. Hendersen: It was bad.
Rachel: Fast pitch?
Mr. Hendersen: No . . . slow pitch!
Rachel: (laughs)
Mr. Hendersen: It was bad.
After twenty minutes or so, Mr. Hendersen stands up, gives the girls a
little salute, “Have a good night girls.” and makes his way toward the wing’s
exit . . . pushing the trolley.
CHAPTER 7
Dear Alumni,
And this letter Mr. Hendersen is composing does not really

say “Dear Alumni.” His word processor software has an “auto
insert” function, and it lets him personalize each letter.
Things here at the school are going well.
The new lightning rod we had installed on the school
building’s roof worked just fine during a recent thunder storm.
It took a few of those nasty lightning bolts and rendered them
harmless . . . sending them right down into the ground. There
was, however, that pesky gofer of ours . . . and it surprised
him sure enough . . . sending him a foot into the air and then
scurrying off the property to look . . . we assumed . . . for a
new place to take up residency.
And, instead of paying someone to mow the lawn here,
we bought one of those robotic lawn mowers. It’s a wonderful
invention. You just bury a wire along the perimeter of your
property and it acts like an invisible fence to the thing so you
can just turn it on, let it go, and forget about it.
But the darn thing escaped! And, the last I heard, it had
cut a swath clear over to Elm Street . . . where it met up with
another robotic lawn mower . . . and, after a minor turf war,
it decided to stay on there.
The bird-watching class is going well. The bird seed
expense is sort-of going through the roof, however. Apparently
our local birds have been flying out to the surrounding
82
neighborhoods and telling the birds living there about the

scrumptious “hors d’oeuvres” we are serving here because
they’ve been draining those bird feeders in less than three
days’ time. And I guess a few of the students added some . . .
caffeinated . . . seeds to the regular mix, and, oh my, what a
ruckus! The chirping day and night. The reckless flying. The
attacks on the cat. It was a dreadful scene. So I had the students
stop it. After that, the birds were . . . listless and apathetic . . .
but they did return to their usual selves . . . in due time.
But I am writing to remind you that Alumni Day in on
September 25th this year. Use the enclosed postcard to let
me know if you plan to attend and how many of you will be
coming.
The day’s agenda looks something like this:
10 a.m. to 5 p.m.—Food will be served in the school cafeteria,

with the meals sort-of shifting from brunch-type food to
dinner-type food around the one p.m. hour.
12 noon to 5 p.m.—Games, activities, and rides out on the

campus green.
2 p.m.—Stage Show: “Maria and Tommy.”

5 p.m.—Concert on the Stage: Sela.
7 p.m.—Milkshakes in the cafeteria.
And, of course, you are welcomed to stroll around the

school grounds and through the school building to your
heart’s content.
Hope to see you there.
James Hendersen
Barclay School Administrator
PS: As usual, any and all donations are welcomed. If you bring
stuff with you on Alumni Day . . . don’t worry. There will be
a couple of pick-up trucks and a few “Donation Guys” there
to do the lifting for you.
CHAPTER 8
—WEDNESDAY NIGHT NEWS—
Commentator Natalie: And in sports, eight members of the

junior class traveled to The Little Fairway
Miniature Golf Course this past Saturday.
Playing as two foursomes, they matched
wits with such formidable obstacles as the
spinning windmill, the loop the loop, and
the mystery tunnel. Though not officially
sanctioned by the LPGA, Little Fairway is
known to be one of the most challenging
putt-putt courses in the area. Carol.
Commentator Carol: In our last news item of the evening

we are reporting that Alumni Day is this
coming Saturday. Many former Barclay
students and their families are expected to
attend what promises to be a day of food,
fun, and reminiscing. All current Barclay
students are, of course, welcomed to enjoy
the festivities. Barclay seniors will be assisting
in every aspect of the day’s planned activities.
And remember girls, if you take your car out
on Alumni Day, you will not have a parking
space when you get back.
84
CHAPTER 9
The parking lot is full. And the street out in front of the school has cars lined
up along both sides of it . . . forming riverbank-like barriers for a channel
that has dried up and turned black.
The donation guys have been busy. Four guys . . . wearing blaze-orange
long sleeved shirts that have “DONATION GUY” embroidered on their
fronts . . . cruising the parking lot and street in two pick-up trucks . . .
looking for helpless alumni to rescue.
Cheryl Baker, a Barclay alumna, and her husband Josh and their two
young children Ashley and Matt have found a parking spot about a half of
block away from the school. Josh flags down one of the donation guys, and
the pick-up truck pulls alongside the Baker’s mini-van. They, the Bakers,
are giving a dresser, a couple of night tables, and a box of women’s clothes
and shoes to the school, and the donation guys are quick to remove these
items from the mini-van, hoist them up and onto the bed of their truck,
and then move on.
It is noon, and the school cafeteria is crowded with alumni and their
families, and the air of the cafeteria is crowded also . . . with the sound of
chatter and laughter. Extra tables and chairs were brought in the day before
and squeezed into the dining room area. Mr. Hendersen even made some
“standing tables” for the occasion, and these were placed along the cafeteria
walls.
Everyone is enjoying the brunch food, served buffet style, while ten of
the Barclay seniors are working the room. All ten of them . . . indeed, all
twenty-five of them . . . are wearing light blue t-shirts that have “BARCLAY
GIRL” embroidered on their fronts and each girl’s first name . . . or
nickname . . . embroidered on the back. The girls are hustling, making sure
that people are getting everything they want.
85
86 Jim O’Brien
There is a gradual migration from the cafeteria to the campus green

outside where an outdoor stage has been set up at one end of the property
and where, a little later . . . what with the oak and evergreen trees serving as a
backdrop . . . an eye-pleasing setting for two stage shows will be enjoyed.
A few hundred chairs have been set up facing the stage, and off to one
side of these chairs are some . . . diversions . . . for the children. There are
three backyard swing sets . . . with one set sporting a nifty slide to one
side . . . a couple of those tube tunnels . . . elongated, wire-ribbed, plastic
tunnels the kids like to crawl through, and an inflated “bouncing room”
that has an air-cushioned floor and walls.
The alumni and their families wander around the school grounds, and
many of the children are gathered in front of two wooden booths. These
booths offer excellent prizes . . . toys, dolls, games, and the like . . . for
anyone willing to risk a penny. Four-year old Ashley is one of a row of kids
standing in front of one of the booths. She has put her penny on the number
seven. Laurie, who is working the booth, gives the big carnival wheel a good
spin, and, as it slows down, the suspense grows. The wheel goes around . . .
slower . . . and slower . . . and slower. And Ashley is watching. It finally
comes to a stop on the number . . . seven. Well, this is unbelievably good.
Jody, who is also working the booth, shouts, “And the winner is number
seven. Does anyone have their penny on the number seven?” Ashley raises
her hand and says, “Me!”
After looking over the prizes, Ashley chooses a new Barbie doll . . . which
will be her close companion for the remainder of the day.
It is now two o’clock, and the show “Maria and Tommy” is starting.
It is the story of Maria and Tommy and their two children . . . Micky and
Angel. The four of them are whisked into an “opposite world” where the
little people are the adults, and the big people, over time, grow small and
become little people. Maria and Tommy are quite put out by this, and they
try to resist . . . wanting very much to maintain the old status quo. Micky
and Angel are delighted with the change in circumstances, and they try to
enforce their newfound authority on Mom and Dad. The show gives the
audience a lot of laughs . . . and some songs . . . with Tommy at one point
singing “I Gotta Be Me” and Micky and Angel singing “How Do You Solve
A Problem Like Maria?”
When the performance is over, the crowd sort-of disperses to various
parts of the school. It is at this part of the day that many of the alumni
wander up to the dormitory floor and poke around their old dorm wing.
There is a connection there . . . a connection that spans across the years . . .
so that two alumni, who have never met, can both stand in their old game
room . . . and smile . . . as they share the same fun memories.
Back out on the campus green, the train is ready to leave. It’s a mini-
train . . . with an engine and four canopied cars . . . for the kids to ride on.
Each car can seat six children . . . more if they squeeze in tight.
Engineer Missy rings the train bell and calls out, “All aboard!” and the
children all scramble to find seats. There is quite a bit of excitement in our
little passengers and this excitement jumps up a notch when Missy shouts,
“OK. Here we go!” And the train starts off on its journey, and who knows
what adventures await.
The “choo-choo” chugs along over the grass and approaches the
gazebo . . . where Tiffany, Celeste, and Sandy are waiting. The train comes
to a stop, and the three Barclay girls pass out lollipops to all of the kids.
Missy blows the train whistle and away they go again. The train rolls along
toward its other stop on the schedule, and the sight-seeing is pretty good, as,
up ahead, Sadie, Rachel, and Gretchen are waiting and, to the delight of the
children, they are holding colorful “bouquets” of balloons. The train stops,
and each child is given a balloon of his or her choice, which is wisely tied
to their wrist. The train whistle blows again, and our little commuters now
make tracks for the circuit’s starting point . . . the home depot. Little Matt
is one of the passengers on the train, and, with a lollipop in his mouth and
a balloon floating above his head, he is a happy little camper. The train pulls
into the “station” and all the kids hop off and re-unite with their parents.
It is nearly five o’clock now, and virtually every visitor to the school, and
every student at the school, is finding a seat in front of the stage. At exactly
five o’clock Sela takes the stage and they are treated to a warm reception
of applause. They begin their show by expressing gratitude and then dive
right into their repertoire of inspirational music. Their vocal harmonies are
precise and their acoustic accompaniments are a delight to the ear. They
intersperse their popular songs with some of their lesser-known numbers . . .
while keeping up a running banter of anecdotes and jokes with the audience.
They play for an hour and a half, but are called back for an encore.
After the show, Mr. Hendersen goes up to the members of Sela, thanks
them for giving the audience a great show, and then proposes that they
“Join us for an after-show treat.” And they do, blending in with the crowd,
as everyone “treads a path” to the cafeteria for milkshakes.
And the milkshakes are now being served! “Customers” get to choose
from vanilla, chocolate, strawberry, blueberry, and . . . Snickers milkshakes.
For some reason, there is more laughter at this “meal” than at any of the
88 Jim O’Brien
others. The little children, normally tuckered out by this time of the day,
seem to be recharged by, not just having milkshakes, but having milkshakes
with Mom and Dad. In time there is another gradual migration from the
cafeteria, but this one is out to the parking lot and beyond, where some last
minute conversations are spoken and final partings take place.
Back inside, the school building is quiet now, and the silence seems
sort-of strange to Mr. Hendersen and the girls. The seniors all return to their
rooms for some well-earned rest, and Mr. Hendersen heads to his apartment
for the same. Alumni Day is over.
CHAPTER 10
Brooke and Penny, two Barclay seniors, are walking down a first floor hallway.
They are on their way to Spanish class.
Brooke: So they bought a wood stove and set it

up practically in the middle of the living
room.
Penny: Really?
Brooke: Yep. It gets the place nice and warm, but you
sort-of have to be careful not to bump into it.
As they enter through the doorway of the classroom, the . . . nature . . .

of their conversation undergoes a transformation.
Brooke: He said that when you use a fireplace, sobre

el por ciento niney del calor va el derecho la
chimenea. (about ninety percent of the heat
goes right up the chimney.)
Penny: Realmente? (Really?)
Brooke and Penny take seats at their desks. The desks are the sort that
have the writing table attached to the right arm of the chair, but these desks
also have swivels underneath, allowing the students to turn toward each other
and form five or six clusters of pupils, where conversations, in Spanish, are
now taking place.
Mr. Hendersen is typing away at his desk at the head of the classroom.
He is seemingly oblivious to the other activities going on in the room . . .
until . . . the “talkfest” begins to lose some steam prematurely.
89
90 Jim O’Brien
Mr. Hendersen: Usted las muchachas deberian parar toda

esta conversacion, o usted va a estar en el
problema GRANDE. (You girls had better
stop all this talking, or you are going to be
in BIG trouble.)
At this, there is an outburst of cackle-type laughter, and the

conversations . . . now re-energized . . . continue unabated.
Eventually they get around to learning the day’s five new words. Mr.
Hendersen not only explains, in Spanish, their usages, he also utilizes some
video clips to help bring home their exact meanings.
Sitting on a table by the door of this classroom is a stack of papers. They
are twenty-five copies of a story written in Spanish, a story that incorporates
the five new words into the narrative. It is, as the students know, a funny
story, and this makes it something they want to read. The back page has,
again, the five new words . . . in addition to some blank lines . . . so the girls
can practice writing and spelling them.
The class comes to an end, and each student grabs a copy of the story
as she exits the classroom. Brooke and Penny are talking as they leave the
room.
Brooke: Que sirven ellos para el almuerzo? Sabe usted?

(What are they serving for lunch? Do you
know?)
Penny: No! Pero realmente no tengo hambre,
so I might just skip lunch and wait until
dinner to eat. (Nope. But I’m not really
hungry . . .)
CHAPTER 11
In music class, for a homework assignment, the twenty-five seniors had

been asked to compose both the melody and the lyrics for an original song.
“Writing music” their instructor had told them, “is like writing a letter, but
instead of communicating ideas, you are communicating melodies, and
instead of using words, you are using notes.”
First up to sing is Celeste. Her song is a ballad about true love and
the perils one faces while searching for it. The girls, her classmates, try to
restrain their laughter, as they know it will soon be their turn to stand up
and sing.
Sandy is next, and her song . . . a rollicking composition about living
life to the fullest . . . is a big hit with the class. And the refrain of, “Just
point me in the right direction. I aint gonna stop, no sir. I don’t object to
your correction. Just let me go along with her.” brings a smile to even the
instructor’s face.
As the class progresses, they move on to what the girls call “The note test.”
It is when the instructor sits down at the piano, calls out the first name of
one of the students, and pushes down on one of the piano’s eighty-eight keys.
The student is then expected to correctly identify the note being played.
Instructor: Carol . . . (note is played)

Carol: A-sharp
Instructor: Good Carol. Celeste . . . (note is played)
Celeste: D
Instructor: Good Celeste. Laurie . . . (note is played)
Laurie: G-sharp
Instructor: Good Laurie.
91
92 Jim O’Brien
The class comes to an end, and, as they are filing out into the hallway,
the girls are singing, “Oh, I aint gonna stop . . . no sir, no sir . . . just let
me go along with her.”
CHAPTER 12
Commentator Missy: In other news, it was Halloween this

past Friday, and dinner at Barclay’s included
such seasonal treats as apple cider punch and
Halloween cookies in the shape of jack-o’-
lanterns, ghosts, black cats, and witches.
Later in the evening, ten members of the
sophomore class dressed up in traditional
Halloween costumes and then marched
down to the local McDonald’s restaurant . . .
where they were seen taking up three booths
and sipping milkshakes.
93
CHAPTER 13
The seniors at Barclay’s have a key collection. All four classes have access to
it, but it is “incumbent” on the seniors to maintain it. Various keys have,
over the years, been acquired by . . . one method or another . . . and added
to the collection. There is, for example, the key to the gymnasium. Not that
any of the girls would ever need to use the gymnasium . . . stealthily . . . but
if they do, they are ready. And there is the key to the apple machine, where,
at various times, oranges, potatoes, and even Beanie Babies have appeared.
And, at the end of each school year, there is something of a ceremony, where
the keys are passed down . . . from the outgoing senior class to the incoming
one . . . so that the mischief making may be preserved.
It was two years ago . . . or there abouts . . . that Mr. Hendersen had
loaned his car to a couple of the girls. That was a mistake. They, of course,
had copies made of the ignition and trunk keys and added them . . . duly
labeled . . . to the collection. And now, on this night, that ignition key is
going to be put to use.
Kelly is the “wheel girl” while Gretchen, Missy, Rachel, and Jody are
“schlepping.” The car is unlocked and Kelly gets in. She puts the key in the
ignition and gives it a slight turn . . . freeing up the steering wheel. She then
puts the car in neutral . . . and the other four girls start pushing. They get
across the parking lot and on down toward the lake. At the edge of the lake
Kelly puts on the brakes and the car comes to a stop.
Sandy, Laurie, Sadie, and Celeste are in the water . . . steadying the float.
And this would be the float that, under normal circumstances, is securely
anchored off the far shore of the lake . . . a float that was designed to be used
for recreation purposes, but is now being used for, well, recreation purposes.
Kelly eases up on the brakes and the car is very carefully guided onto the
float. A goof-up here would be disastrous. They get the car completely
94
onto the float, and wood “blocks” are placed in front of the front tires and
behind the rear ones. The four girls in the water then swim the float . . . and
its cargo . . . out to the island, where six more girls are waiting. The float
docks up against the small pier on the island and it is a pretty close fit. The
front blocks are removed and the car is pushed onto the island where it is
then maneuvered into a parking spot. The car is now facing the “mainland”
and, with the trees and other foliage on either side of it, it creates a nice
picturesque scene for the mainland viewer to appreciate.
The six “island girls” and Kelly then board the float and are given
transportation to the shore. The four girls in the water then return the float
to its original mooring, drop both anchors overboard, wash off any tell-tail
signs that a car has been there, and swim to shore.
CHAPTER 14
Mr. Hendersen needs to go to the post office. He leaves his office and
walks outside to his car . . . but it is not there. He thinks for a moment
and remembers the . . . imprudent . . . loaning of the car two years earlier.
He assumes the girls have merely moved it to another part of the parking
lot, so he looks around, but fails to see it. He then pulls out his car keys
and pushes the “Find your car in a huge crowded parking lot” button he
had specially ordered. The car receives the message and obediently flashes
its headlights and beeps its horn. Mr. Hendersen hears the horn and starts
to walk in that direction. Again he pushes the key chain button, and again
he hears the horn beep, and he feels that he is “getting warmer.” One final
push on the key chain and he spots it . . . over on the island . . . and he just
stands there and . . . looks . . . for some minutes.
Cars are not able to smile, of course, but this car, at this moment . . .
what with its grille work, its bumper, and its headlights . . . certainly seems
to be smiling. That is Mr. Hendersen’s impression anyway.
A little later there is an announcement over the school speaker system.
“Excuse me girls, but I was wondering if, at some point today, someone
could give me a ride to the post office. I seem to have misplaced my car.
That’s all.”
During lunch that day, when Mr. Hendersen enters the cafeteria . . .
carrying his tray of food . . . the students all start talking. As he walks along
it gets a little louder. Every student in the cafeteria seems to be talking at the
same time, and yes, he is certain that it started when he entered the dining
room. He looks for . . . and spots . . . Rachel, who is sitting about forty
feet away. She looks at him, smiles, and then raises her hands . . . palms
facing upward . . . into the air and shrugs her shoulders. Mr. Hendersen
continues on, but his head is now bowed forward . . . and he doesn’t know
96
why. He finds a vacancy at a table, gestures the “Is it all right if I sit here?”
question . . . gets a few affirmative gestures in response . . . and he sits down
to eat his lunch.
After lunch, Mr. Hendersen calls the local newspaper and tells them the
whole “car abduction” story. He suggests that they send a reporter out to the
school to photograph the car and use the event as a “curiosity news item.”
And the paper does indeed send a photographer, who has to stop himself
from laughing before he can take a proper photo . . . a photo that appears
in “The Courier” two days later . . . to the delight of Barclay students past
and present.
As some time passes, Mr. Hendersen ponders the situation, and he
decides to just leave the car on the island. What else can he do? Every
now and then, he rows out to the island, starts the engine . . . lets it run
for a while . . . and then rows back. And the car becomes something of
a local tourist attraction, with people from town . . . people who would
not normally visit the school . . . driving to the campus to see “The Island
Car” . . . with some folks even taking pictures of it.
Maybe it was pity that “occasioned” the girls to undo what they had
done . . . or perhaps it was the challenge of the thing . . . but, whatever the
reason, one morning Mr. Hendersen walks outside . . . and finds his car . . .
right back in its old familiar parking place.
CHAPTER 15
Commentator Rachel: Today’s big news item in the

mysterious “placement” of Mr. Hendersen’s
car on the island of Barclay Lake. In
an apparent late night operation, an
undetermined number of . . . culprits . . .
did remove said car from its parking space
and . . . what can only be described as
“magically” . . . transported it to the island.
The unknown perpetrators . . .
And it is at this point that Commentator Rachel stops and looks

over to her left where Commentator Sandy is laughing to herself “off
camera.” Commentator Rachel then turns back toward the camera . . . and
continues.
Commentator Rachel: The unknown perpetrators are still

at large.
Commentator Sandy: In other news, today’s edition of

“The Courier” reports that a Mr. John
Snyder . . . a math teacher at the local high
school . . . accuses the Barclay School of . . .
and I quote . . . “Padding their grades.” Mr.
Snyder further alleges that the school has
98
a “soft” curriculum and gives its students

“weak” exams. Barclay school administrator
James Hendersen was contacted by the
paper for a response to the accusations and
his reaction will be printed in tomorrow’s
edition.
CHAPTER 16
In the following day’s Courier, the headline reads:
BARCLAY ADMINISTRATOR SHOOTS BACK: “TEST THEM

YOURSELF”
And, on the same page . . . in a related article . . . it reports that the
Barclay school administration and Mr. John Snyder have agreed for the
twenty-five Barclay seniors to take a special exam . . . one designed to
test their comprehensive knowledge on the subjects of American History,
English, World Geography, and Trigonometry. The exam . . . which will be
administered on the following Saturday . . . will be composed by Mr. Snyder,
and he will also “proctor” the taking of the test.
It is Friday night, and the senior library is a busy place . . . quiet, but
busy. The twenty-five seniors are crowded around four of the library’s
tables. Each table has a sign propped up in the middle of it. “ENGLISH”
is written on one sign, “AMERICAN HISTORY” is on another, “WORLD
GEOGRAPHY” is on the third, and “TRIGONOMETRY” is on the fourth.
The girls are struggling through mock exams that Mr. Hendersen has made
up for them.
Freshman Kayla is standing close by. She is holding a large “squirt bottle”
and is wearing a light blue t-shirt that has the words “WATER GIRL”
embroidered on its front. Laurie gestures for her, and Kayla hustles over
and . . . dispenses some of the refreshment. Freshman Heidi is also standing
close by. She too is holding a large squirt bottle and is wearing a light blue
t-shirt, but her shirt says “MILKSHAKE GIRL.”
“Are some of these trig questions college level?” Rachel asks. “Yes.” Mr.
Hendersen replies. “I don’t trust this guy.” And he pulls over a chair and saddles
up next to her. “That’s it.” he tells her. And a minute later, “You’ve got it.”
100
CHAPTER 17
Mr. John Snyder is at the high school . . . waiting for the Barclay students to
arrive. He is standing in the classroom in which the test will be administered,
looking out the window and talking to a reporter from “The Courier” who
is there at his “behest.”
Mr. Snyder: And it’s not fair . . . not to the public school
and not to the Barclay students.
Reporter: How so?
Mr. Snyder: The public school is made to look inferior,
and the Barclay students are deprived of a
quality education.
Reporter: Heh. It sounds like you’ve got an axe to
grind.
Mr. Snyder: (frowns) I just want the playing field to be
level. Let the Barclay students face the same
academic standards as the public school
students . . . then I’ll be happy.
Reporter: Well, maybe you’re right, maybe you’re
wrong.
Mr. Snyder: They’re here.
The Barclay bus, with Mr. Hendersen driving, pulls up in front of the
high school and parks along the curb in front of the main entrance. The
bus doors open and the girls step down and file off the bus. “Don’t worry
Jimmy. We’ll be OK.”
They enter the school building and walk down the hall toward the
classroom. As they enter the classroom the girls are “chatting.”
101
102 Jim O’Brien
Penny: What did you do last night?

Laurie: Oh, just stuff my face and watch the tube.
Missy: That reminds me! I’m missing “All My
Children!”
Penny: No no. It’s Saturday. Today is Saturday.
Missy: Oh . . . duh!
Mr. Snyder witnesses this little exchange with . . . indulging patience.

Celeste strolls up to him and asks:
Celeste: Are we allowed to, you know, chat?

Mr. Snyder: No.
Celeste: No no. Not about the test, about, you know,
other things.
Mr. Snyder: No
Celeste: Hrrumph.
The girls sit down at the desks and Mr. Snyder begins to place the test
papers on each desk . . . face down.
Mr. Snyder: Please leave your test papers upside down

until I tell you to begin. You will have exactly
two hours to complete the exam. At the end
of that time period . . . whether you are
finished or not . . . your test paper will be
taken from you.
And when the “chime” on his wristwatch sounds the hour of two
o’clock . . .
Mr. Snyder: You may now begin.
The girls “dig in.” The time passes, and no one . . . to Mr. Snyder’s
surprise . . . appears to be panicking. They struggle, they puzzle . . . but
they don’t panic. The two hours comes to an end . . . and no one needs to
have their test paper taken away from them.
Once they are out of the classroom . . . and out of earshot of Mr.
Snyder . . . the girls “compare notes” and ask each other about the test
questions they were least certain of. And, as they board the bus, it appears,
to Mr. Hendersen, that they think they did all right.
As the Barclay bus pulls out of the high school parking lot, Mr.
Hendersen announces, “Girls. We will be making a slight detour before
heading back to the school.” And the girls all smile. Something fun is in
the works . . . and they know it.
CHAPTER 18
Green Mountain Amusement Park is the “detour” to which Mr. Hendersen

had alluded. It has some of the biggest, fastest, and scariest rides in the state,
and here they are, wandering around the fair grounds . . . huddling close
together like a family of meerkats . . . as they plow through the normal
Saturday afternoon amusement park crowd.
They come to “The Drop Tower” ride, where a “cage” holding twenty
or so thrill-seekers is slowly raised up to a height of one hundred and fifty
feet . . . and then unceremoniously dropped to the ground. As the ride is
now in “mid-drop” our group stops to watch. One of the passengers on the
ride lets out a loud high-pitched scream as she drops . . . prompting Missy
to turn to Laurie and say:
Missy: G-sharp.
Laurie: Definitely.
And they move on. The first ride they decide to try is “The Jungle Rapids”
ride, where they are given life preservers to put on and then are helped onto
two large inflated white water rafts. They are soon bouncing around in the
rafts as they surge over water swells and are rocked by waves. A bend in the
river brings them to a relatively calm jungle habitat. Missy reaches over the
side of the boat to splash the water a little when . . . a crocodile emerges
from beneath the water’s surface and comes right at her . . . sending Missy
recoiling back into the boat, where she knocks herself and Laurie over.
A couple of hippos can be seen wading in the river up ahead, and they
spray water at the girls as they pass by. Sadie turns to Sandy and asks, “Can
you spell hippopotamus?” Gorillas too accost our group, and there is another
crocodile attack before they reach the end of the ride.
104
Next they try “The Screaming Swings” ride, where they are seat-belted
into bucket-style swing seats that hang down from a large circular steel
roof. And, as the carousel spins faster and faster, everyone is swung out
to an almost horizontal level. Celeste is hoping that her swing doesn’t
detach from its wires. Rachel looks out over the scenery and sees the
Barclay bus in the parking lot . . . when the ride comes around to that
side anyway.
After the screaming swings, they board “The Cosmos Ferris Wheel.”
The Ferris Wheel is generally regarded to be the first amusement park ride,
and it is still . . . after all these years . . . a park favorite. This updated version
of Mr. Ferris’ invention has medium-sized enclosed cars for the riders to
sit in, and, as the giant wheel lifts them over two hundred feet above the
ground, the cars are rocked to-and-fro. Laurie is afraid to look down . . .
and for a good reason. This is the farthest she has ever been away from the
good old earth.
Our group is in between rides now, and as they are walking along, a
Hispanic woman and her young son brush up against them.
Son: Meta prisa a la madre . . . apresurar. (Hurry

mama. Hurry.)
Mother: No tan Diego rapido, los paseos, ellos no van
en ninguna parte. (Not so fast Diego. The
rides, they are not going anywhere.)
And the girls sort-of improvise on this conversation.
Sadie: Pero los paseos, ellos van muy rapido. (But

the rides, they are going very fast.)
Sandy: Y si usted no una muchacha buena, usted
no conseguira ningunos paseos en absoluto.
(And if you are not a good girl, you will get
no rides at all.)
Missy: Y ningun algodon de azucar tampoco. (And
no cotton candy either.)
Brooke: Entonces usted deberia hacer caso de sus
maneras. (So you had better mind your
manners.)
106 Jim O’Brien
Jody: Aye Caramba! Mis pies me matan! (Aye

Caramba! My feet are killing me!)
Our group of twenty-six fun seekers now try “The Pendulum” ride. The
pendulum ride is, well, a pendulum . . . and a big one. The passenger car is
attached . . . by swivels . . . to an arched frame just above it, and this frame
is attached to a humongous steel girder, and the girder is attached . . . at
its far end . . . to a giant counter balance weight. The riders are strapped in
and the car starts to rock back and forth . . . looking like the pendulum of
a grandfather’s clock. Soon, however, the car . . . and its passengers . . . are
making the complete circle around . . . and that is when the screaming starts.
Carol, waiting in line as twelve of her classmates practice for their flight
on Apollo 18, has second thoughts about going on, but decides “What the
heck.”
The final ride of the day is “The Silver Streak” giant roller coaster. It
isn’t the high-speed ride down the mountain-like slope that bothers Mr.
Hendersen the most. Oh, it’s scary enough . . . and he screams right along
with the girls . . . but it is the slow climb up that unnerves him. It’s the
suspense that gets to him.
After the rides, everyone enjoys some “junk food” as they walk back to
the bus. On the bus ride back to the school, the girls realize that . . . in all
the excitement . . . they had forgotten all about the big exam they had taken
earlier in the day. “I guess” Carol says out loud, “that everybody will know
how we did come Monday morning.”
CHAPTER 19
BARCLAY GIRLS ACE EXAM
That is the headline in Monday’s newspaper, and the article goes on to report
that “All twenty-five Barclay seniors registered an “A” on what was described
as a ‘difficult test.’” Further down the page . . . in a related article . . . a
smaller headline reads “Local Teacher Issues Public Apology” and that article
is accompanied by a photo of . . . Mr. John Snyder.
It is early Tuesday morning, and Mr. John Snyder is going out to his
front porch to get the newspaper. When he pulls opens the door he comes to
a stop. Out front, cluttering up his lawn, are cardboard cut-outs of various
sizes. He marches down the front porch steps and strides out to the main
sidewalk to get a better look. They are Grinches . . . about twenty five of
them . . . painted on to cardboard cut-outs and staked into the ground.
There are big Grinches, little Grinches, and medium-sized Grinches . . .
positively populating the yard in front of his house. A smile comes to Mr.
Snyder’s face. “I can take a joke.” he says to himself, and he walks back
toward his house.
But there on the front porch . . . attached to one of the side railings . . .
is a miniature mail box. It is at eye level and has a small chain hanging down
from its door. Mr. Snyder stops, smiles, and pulls down on the chain. The
mailbox door opens and an egg . . . a spring-loaded egg . . . shoots out and
hits him . . . bull’s eye . . . right on the forehead. Splat! And Mr. John Snyder,
with admirable “savoir faire,” ponders the justice of the situation.
“Well,” he muses to himself, “I guess I have egg on my face.”
107
CHAPTER 20
After the “Grinch and Egg Caper” we see a Barclay trigonometry class
letting out. Rachel veers off from the other students and approaches Mr.
Hendersen’s desk.
Rachel: Thanks for your help Jimmy . . . with that

exam.
Mr. Hendersen: Well, I kind-of put you girls in a spot.
Rachel: It was the right thing to do.
Mr. Hendersen: Thank you Rachel. It all worked out OK
too.
After Rachel leaves, Mr. Hendersen drifts off into a daydream. It was
three years ago, and he was knocking on the dorm room door of the then
freshman Rachel.
Mr. Hendersen: Rachel.

Rachel: Yes?
Mr. Hendersen: There is the big algebra test next week.
Rachel: Yes.
Mr. Hendersen: And it has come to my attention that you do
not know the material as well as you know
your own name . . . and I’m concerned.
They are in the freshmen library now, and Rachel is struggling through
a series of algebra questions Mr. Hendersen has made up for her . . . and he
is watching her progress every step of the way.
108
Mr. Hendersen: That’s it. You’re on the right track.
And forty-five minutes later . . .
Rachel: They’re getting easier.

Mr. Hendersen: Good. Good.
The daydream jumps ahead one week, and Mr. Hendersen is passing
out the now graded algebra tests. When he gets to Rachel’s desk, he does
nothing special beyond placing an “A” paper in front of her. And it is after
this class that a pig-tailed Rachel approaches Mr. Hendersen and says:
Rachel: Thank you for your help the other night Mr.
Hendersen.
Mr. Hendersen: You’re welcome Rachel.
Rachel: I know I would’ve goofed up big time
without it.
Mr. Hendersen: Rachel, you have some goodness in you and
that is excellent.
Rachel: Goodness?
Mr. Hendersen: Yup. You’re lucky. It’s like a muscle. The more
you use it, the bigger it gets.
Rachel: Thank you Mr. Hendersen.
Mr. Hendersen: OK. Have a good day Rachel.
And, at this moment, Mr. Hendersen “wakes up” from the daydream,
smiles, and continues on with his work.
CHAPTER 21
Commentator Kelly: In other news, The Great Paper

Airplane Contest took place in the
gymnasium this past Saturday. Twenty
four participants . . . representing all four
Barclay classes . . . put their aviation skills
to the test, as judges watched to see which
plane could . . . from take off to landing . . .
travel the greatest distance. Our ace mobile
camera crew was on the scene, and here we
see sophomore Marcy launching her aircraft
into a non-stop flight over the gymnasium
floor. Oooo . . . nice one Marcy. The five
planes that flew the furthest were then put
into a “fly off ” finals, where the competition
was, as one spectator put it, a dog fight. The
eventual winner was senior Sandy, whose
plane . . . nicknamed The Chocolate Fudge
Flier . . . soared and glided a total distance
of eighty-two feet. Wow! Here we see Sandy
holding up her championship plane for the
camera. Way to go Sandy!
110
CHAPTER 22
It all starts innocently enough. Bethany, a freshman at Barclay’s, asks school

administrator Mr. Hendersen if it would be all right if her parents visited
the school for a weekend. There are two guest suites on the first floor of the
school building, so Mr. Hendersen tells Bethany that her parents “are more
than welcomed.” And so the visit is arranged.
Bethany’s parents . . . whose names are Bob and Alice . . . have a pleasant
weekend stay at the school. They enjoy firsthand the camaraderie of the
students, and they delight in some of the amenities the school has to offer.
And something catches Alice’s fancy, for when it comes time for her to leave
she asks her husband if he would mind her staying on “for just another day
or two.” Bob tells her that it is fine, and Mr. Hendersen also approves of
the extended visit. So Alice stays.
She attends some of her daughter’s classes. She eats in the cafeteria with
the students. And she even goes outdoors to watch the girls play lacrosse in
a gym class. And something in her . . . a young girl yearning to burst out
perhaps . . . is taken by the charm of the school, and two days turn into a
week, and a week turns into two weeks.
Alice attends some classes . . . other than her daughter’s. She plays ping
pong up in the juniors’ game room. She eats ice cream with a few of the
seniors in their kitchen. And, during school meals, she is welcomed to sit
at any number of tables.
Two weeks turn into four weeks. Alice plays lacrosse in a gym class. She
is given text books and participates in classes. And she studies in the senior
library. A few of the girls bring her down to the free stuff room where she
finds some pumps and a nice Laura Ashley dress that fit her perfectly. She
changes the way she keeps her hair . . . pulling it back into a ponytail.
111
112 Jim O’Brien
Alice’s daughter Bethany is maybe a little uncomfortable with the

situation, but her mom “never bothers me.” and none of the other students
seem to mind. Indeed, Alice has been accepted as a sort of honorary member
of the student body. So Bethany stops worrying about it. Alice’s husband
Bob is perhaps the most understanding person in the entire episode, telling
her “Do what your heart tells you.” And so Alice stays . . . with the “visit”
now passing the five week mark.
CHAPTER 23
When Alice hears the knock on the guest room door, and opens it to see
Missy and Laurie standing there . . . her heart sinks.
Alice: You want me to leave.

Laurie: No no. We want to know if you’ll come on a prank
with us tonight.
Alice is deeply touched. And, as she is standing there, a crooked smile

comes to her face and a little water “puddles up” inside her lower eyelids.
Missy: I guess that’s a “Yes.”

Laurie: If ever there was one.
Alice: What time?

Missy: Two o’clock.
Alice: I’ll be ready.
And she is.

As the five of them . . . Missy, Laurie, Jody, Celeste, and Alice . . . drive
toward the, um, chosen location, they make sure that everything is all set.
Jody: Both pulleys are securely attached to the poles.

Missy: Check.
Jody: All the clothes are securely stapled to the rope.
Missy: Check.
Jody: All the clothes pins are securely glued to the clothes.
Missy: Check.
113
114 Jim O’Brien
They park on the side street that borders the municipal parking lot.
They grab the shovels, the walkie-talkies, and . . . the other instruments
of crime . . . and “move out.” Laurie and Celeste are the sentries and they
branch off from the other three and slink to their respective look-out posts.
Jody, Missy, and Alice hustle out onto the lawn in front of the town hall.
Missy pulls out the tape measure and she and Jody quickly measure off the
exact distance they’ll need. Alice and Jody then start digging. Missy stands
guard . . . with a walkie-talkie in hand . . . and establishes contact with
Laurie and Celeste.
The girls know that the holes have to be at least a foot deep for the poles
to be good and sturdy. Neither Alice nor Jody takes a moment’s rest until
that depth is reached. Alice suggests that they dig a little deeper “just to be
sure.” And they do.
The poles . . . which have the rope and the clothes already attached to
them . . . are then lifted up and placed into the holes. Jody and Missy hold
the poles upright while Alice shovels the dirt back into the holes. They then
stomp on the dirt around each pole to pack it in good and tight. Not one
single car has driven by . . . yet.
They bring out the wood cut-out . . . and that would be the wood
cut-out that has the amply proportioned lady painted on it . . . the amply
proportioned lady who is wearing a blueberry-colored skirt, a banana-colored
blouse, and a cherry red bandana with white polka-dots.
Alice steadies the wood cut-out as Jody and Missy hammer the stakes
into the ground. Once this is done, Missy calls in the sentries and all five
girls hustle over to the car, get in, and make a clean getaway.
It actually makes it into “The Courier.” Jody . . . a veteran of many
pranks . . . is a little surprised. Only page five, it’s true, but still. And so,
around town, a photo is clipped out of the newspaper and scotch-taped to
refrigerators or push-pinned onto bulletin boards . . . a photo of a “washer
woman” tending to the clothes on her clothes line . . . right out in front of
the town hall building.
The mayor is tickled by it. Municipal employees, seeing it as they enter
the building, all smile. Dorothy Prentice, a clerk up in the prothonotary’s
office, feels a little honored by it. And Alice . . . dear Alice . . . knows that
whatever yearning it was that made her want to . . . revisit her younger
self . . . whatever it was . . . it is now satisfied. And she decides that it is
time . . . to go home.
As Alice packs, her daughter Bethany is there with her. Missy and Jody
stop down to say good-bye. They are carrying a wooden name plate with
“Alice” engraved on it, a school key chain that has an “ALICE” pendulum
carved out of wood, and a food tray from the school kitchen . . . a tray that
has the “Deer in the Forest” design etched onto it.
Jody: These are for you Alice.

Missy: Jimmy made them up special for you.
Jody: The name plate and the keychain anyway.
Missy: It’s sort-of a tradition here that, when a girl graduates,
she takes her name plate, her keychain . . .
Jody: And a “purloined” tray from the kitchen.
Missy: We had to guess at the design you’d like.
Alice: Thank you. It’s perfect.
Missy and Jody wish Alice good luck and then turn to leave, and, as
they are walking away, Alice turns to her daughter and says:
Alice: You are the luckiest girl in the world.

Bethany: Thanks mom.
Bob arrives, and he goes inside to see if Alice is ready yet. She shows
him the name plate, the keychain, and the tray. “That’s pretty nice.” he tells
her. The three of them then walk out to the car. The parents say good-bye
to the daughter, and then . . . Alice leaves Barclay’s.
CHAPTER 24
Old Man Hinkle operates an antique store out of his home. It is located in
an out-of-the-way place, so not too many shoppers patronize his business,
which might . . . for their sake . . . be a good thing. You see, Old Man Hinkle
is arguably the orneriest person in town. He can find fault with anything,
and his tirades against local officials are legendary. The birds even seem to
avoid his property . . . lest they do something to provoke the old sourpuss
into some act of aggression.
So when his prized Yankee soldier turns up missing one morning the
old man hits the ceiling. It is a statue . . . life-sized . . . of a civil war soldier
dressed in the traditional blue Northern uniform, and it normally stands out
in front of his antique shop. It is old and partly corroded, but that makes
no difference to Old Man Hinkle. He is breathing fire!
It is at about the same time that a curious ad appears in the “Lost and
Found” section of The Courier’s classified advertisements. The lost and
found ads are usually about some keys that have been lost or some keys
that have been found, cats that have been lost or, more frequently, cats that
have been found, and dogs too, of course. So it rather catches the public’s
attention when the following lost and found ad appears:
LOST: Anna Belle, dearly beloved cow and close companion for many
years to elderly woman. Last seen in high school area. If found, please
call . . . .
Many hearts go out to the unnamed elderly woman, and, when cow
tracks are spotted going across the high school football field, a search and
rescue party is quickly organized and then deployed to the high school
116
where they hope to find poor Anna Belle so they can return her to her
heartbroken owner.
The cow tracks lead the search team across the football field and then
into some nearby woods. The trail, at this point, gets a little hard to follow,
but they manage to track Anna Belle out into a small clearing and then
on toward an old abandoned house at the far end of the property. Mud
tracks . . . in the approximate shape of cow hoofs . . . can be seen going up
the house’s front porch steps and . . . to the astonishment of all . . . on into
the house. The front door is open a bit, so the group slowly moves forward
and enters the house.
Once inside, they follow the trail to the bottom of a stairway where the
mud tracks are seen going up the steps to the second floor. A few . . . not
all . . . of the search party members carefully tip-toe up those stairs. Mark
Long, a local carpenter and member of the search team, remarks, “This cow
sure knows how to get lost.”
At the top of the stairs, more mud tracks can be seen going into a
bedroom, and then, from inside the bedroom, on into a walk-in closet.
The men carefully pull open the closet door, and there it is . . . Old Man
Hinkle’s Yankee soldier statue.
CHAPTER 25
When it comes to accepting new students, Mr. Hendersen is “picky.” When

he interviews an applicant he looks for certain things: A down-to-earth
personality, a caring about others, a desire to make one’s self better, and a
conscience. And when he sees these things the acceptance letter is typed up
and mailed out. Admittedly, it is difficult . . . in the short time normally
allotted for an interview . . . to accurately assess the inner workings of a
person, but Mr. Hendersen tries, under these constraints, to select girls who
approach the afore-mentioned ideals . . . or have the potential to approach
them . . . as nearly as possible.
At Barclay’s there are no income requirements for an applicant’s family
to meet, and tuitions have, at times, been reduced and, in a few instances,
waived when Mr. Hendersen felt that the girl had the right stuff.
So, while he is interviewing Madison and her parents, and it becomes
apparent that the mother and father care deeply about their shy daughter,
he knows that . . . she is in. The acceptance letter will not get into the
mail for a few days, but, as far as he is concerned, the decision is already
made.
After the interview, the four of them head over to the cafeteria for some
lunch. As they enter the dining room, it is, to the students eating there, a
fairly familiar sight: A prospective student and her parents being treated to
lunch. That is what everyone sees . . . everyone, that is, except Rachel. When
she notices the group, she takes one look at Mr. Hendersen’s face, and she
knows, “A good one.”
Rachel waits for them to sit down at a table and then gets up and walks
over. She addresses Madison and says:
118
Rachel: Hi. My name’s Rachel. What’s your name?

Madison: Madison.
Rachel: Hi Madison. Do you want to come sit with
us?
At this, Madison looks to her mom and dad, and they tell her that it is
fine. Madison gets up and Rachel says:
Rachel: Here . . . I’ll carry your tray.
The two of them walk back to Rachel’s table, where introductions are
made, and where Jody, Laurie, and Missy give Madison warm-hearted, and
a bit funny, greetings. And Madison sits down.
Madison’s dad: They’re pretty friendly here.

Mr. Hendersen: Yes sir. It’s a good group of girls.
After lunch, Mr. Hendersen escorts Madison and her parents to the
school building’s exit. He bids them farewell and returns to his office. On
the walkway that leads out to the parking lot Madison is walking between
her mother and father when, for no apparent reason, she starts skipping.
Then she grabs a hold of her father’s forearm. “We haven’t done this in a
while.” he thinks to himself, and he “curls” his arm up into the air . . . lifting
Madison off her feet.
A good one. Indeed.
CHAPTER 26
Commentator Celeste: In other news, unknown pranksters

taped paper over the entrance to Mr.
Hendersen’s office/apartment late Sunday
night. The paper . . . which covered the
doorway from top to bottom . . . sported
a life-sized drawing of a well-known comic
book hero on its inside. And so, as an
unsuspecting Mr. Hendersen opened his
door Monday morning, he was greeted by
the caped crusader himself . . . Batman.
When reached for a comment after the
episode, Mr. Hendersen was quoted as
saying, “I like Batman.” Jody.
Commentator Jody: In a late-breaking news item, the

school sponsored “Senior Trip” will be taking
place this coming Friday and Saturday.
Organized annually for the benefit of the
graduates-to-be, the bus ride and hotel
stay-over are considered a “bonus” that is
given to the students for four years of hard
work. Senior trips, in the past, have been
reported to have involved a great deal of,
120
and I quote, “Fun and frivolity.” The exact

destination for this year’s trip has not yet
been disclosed, but all twenty-five seniors
have been asked to be “ready to go” when
classes end on Friday.
CHAPTER 27
They’ve taken three rooms at the hotel. Twenty-six people, and they’ve taken
three rooms. And the desk clerk wonders, “What is the world coming to?”
Their first stop on this Friday early evening is a girls’ interscholastic
college volleyball game. As our group sits in the stands they can be seen
watching the game with great intent. The action on the court is fast and
furious, and the quality of play is very high. Many volleys last ten, twelve,
and even fifteen trips over the net . . . with there being some excellent
hard-hit “spikes” that are countered by some equally excellent “digs.” The
players’ concentration is fairly intense, and their enthusiasm bubbles over
after a won service or point . . . as they huddle together to give each other
“high fives.”
After the volleyball game our group makes its way to a buffet all-you-
can-eat Chinese restaurant where there are over forty oriental delicacies to
choose from and where Asian waitresses . . . dressed in traditional Chinese
apparel . . . patrol the dining room floor. And our group has a feast.
It is now onto the theater where our group of twenty-six travelers
enjoys the musical comedy “My House, My Rules.” It is the story of
two . . . over-trusting . . . parents who leave their three teenage daughters
in charge of their home while they embark on a three week vacation. The
industrious girls immediately open up a bed and breakfast resort where a
succession of memorable and comical characters comes to stay. Due to a
flight rescheduling, Mom and Dad arrive home early and find their house
fully occupied with paying guests . . . and so are forced to take a room at a
nearby hotel. The audience is treated to a steady stream of laughs and some
hilarious moments.
Back at the hotel now, the cots . . . courtesy of the hotel . . . and the air
mattresses . . . courtesy of Barclay’s . . . are made up. The girls take the extra
122
mattress from Mr. Hendersen’s room and drag it down the hall into one of
their rooms . . . and it is already made up.
The games are brought out. It becomes quite a comical scene . . . with
some girls playing Chutes and Ladders, some checkers . . . while badminton
birdies fly back and forth overhead and other “cowboy” girls chase each other
around their connected rooms shooting plastic darts at one another.
It is around midnight now, and two hotel employees are talking by the
hotel’s indoor swimming pool.
Employee #1: It’s not often that we’re asked to work this late.
Employee #2: It’s not often that the hotel gets a special request
like this.
The hotel’s indoor pool area has the traditional built-in swimming pool,
but it also has an in-house water ride that guests at the hotel are free to use.
It’s a long winding indoor “canal” and the guests are given inflated inner
tubes to sit on. They then float their way along this waterway . . . bouncing
over rapids and getting drenched when they pass under waterfalls . . . until
they reach the end of the ride where this “river” empties out into a heated
swimming pool.
And it is this very same water ride that our intrepid group has in mind as
they step off the elevators and stroll through the hotel lobby . . . in swimsuits
and flip-flops . . . and on into the pool area.
The “Midnight Pool Adventure” . . . as it would become known in the
annals of Barclay folklore . . . lasts about and hour and a half before everyone
heads back up to their rooms. Shortly after that there is a knock on the door.
No, it is not hotel security . . . though perhaps it should be . . . it’s a porter.
“Room service.” he says to Missy when she opens the door. “Twenty-six
milkshakes?” The cart is wheeled into the room and Mr. Hendersen gives
the porter a “tenner” for his trouble.
After the milkshakes are consumed the girls all run out of steam . . .
finally . . . and as Mr. Hendersen walks down to his room, they sort-of
collapse onto beds, cots, and air mattresses . . . and conk out.
Check out time at this hotel is noon, and our wayfaring group barely
eke in under that deadline. The bus then makes tracks for IHOP (The
International House of Pancakes) so everyone can have their morning
nourishment (or, we should say, their afternoon nourishment). There is one
more stop on this senior excursion and it is a girls’ interscholastic college
softball game where, up in the stands, Mr. Hendersen is a concession stand
124 Jim O’Brien
of sorts, as he has brought an Igloo cooler filled with soft drinks to the game.
Laurie needs a juice, and it goes from the cooler to Mr. Hendersen to Sandy
to Carol . . . and on up to Laurie.
It’s a good softball game, with pitching that is . . . as Missy says . . .
“Really fast.” But there is no shortage of hitting, as it is a high-scoring game
in which two of the players even “go yard” (hit a homerun).
After the game, it is the bus ride back home to the school, where these
twenty-five seniors will be Barclay girls for only a few weeks more.
CHAPTER 28
It is midnight . . . early by most prank standards . . . but this is an in-house

caper, where security is more lax and the chance of being caught is less
likely.
The three of them . . . Natalie, Sandy, and Laurie . . . make their way
down the stairs and on into the cafeteria. They come to the door that leads
into the kitchen. It is locked, of course, but the girls have the key . . . of
course. Once inside, they waste no time and go straight to work. Sandy is
holding a clip board and is wearing one of those headbands that has a little
flashlight attached to it. She turns the flashlight on. Natalie is holding a
traditional flashlight as she and Laurie rummage through the food trays that
are stacked right there.
Laurie: OK. A flock of geese one.

Sandy: Check.
Laurie: A deer in the forest one.
Sandy: Check.
Natalie: Here’s a . . . skiing one. Does anybody want one of
those?
Sandy: (pause) Nope.
And they go on like this until twenty-five trays . . . meeting the design
orders of twenty-five seniors . . . have been “sequestered” from the rest of
the food trays. They do a double check, just to be sure, and then, with each
girl carrying a stack of eight or nine trays, they sneak back up to the dorm
floor.
125
126 Jim O’Brien
The next afternoon there is the following announcement over the school
speaker system.
Mr. Hendersen: Excuse me girls, but there seems to be some

food trays missing from the school kitchen.
We took a count, and the number of missing
trays is exactly . . . twenty-five. I don’t
understand it. The trays are kept behind a
locked door. But the funny thing is . . . the
same thing happened last year . . . and the
year before that. And I am completely baffled
by it. If you have any ideas, please let me
know. OK. That’s all.
CHAPTER 29
Commentator Brooke: In a news event that has been

described as baffling, twenty-five food
trays were discovered missing from the
school kitchen on Tuesday. The current
where-abouts of the trays is unknown,
and there are virtually no clues or leads to
indicate just how such a . . . vanishing could
have taken place. When asked to comment
on the disappearance of the trays, school
cook Harold Plummer said, “They couldn’t
have just up and walked away on their
own.” There will be, we assume, an ongoing
investigation.
Commentator Beth: And on a sad note, this is the final

week of classes at Barclay’s. Class grades
will be handed out at the end of classes
on Thursday and Friday. Saturday . . .
traditionally the “moving out day” . . .
will see the distribution of diplomas to
the seniors. Barclay school administrator
127
128 Jim O’Brien
James Hendersen has asked us to say that

he will personally deliver the diplomas to
the seniors’ dorm wing at around 10 a.m.
Saturday.
CHAPTER 30
Mr. Hendersen is exiting a dorm room. It is Sadie, Laurie, Kelly, and Missy’s
dorm room . . . or it will be for an hour or so longer. He closes the door
behind him, and the “click” is barely audible. He is downcast. This is the
worst day of the whole school year. Hanging from his right shoulder . . . and
going across his chest and on down to his left side . . . is a paperboy satchel.
It is the type of shoulder bag a paper boy uses to carry his newspapers, but
inside this shoulder bag are diplomas . . . and Mr. Hendersen is passing
them out.
The next dorm room he must stop in is Penny, Beth, Jody, and Rachel’s
room. He knocks and Penny opens the door to let him in. He hands her her
diploma. “Thanks Jimmy.” The room is filled with, not only four students,
but four sets of parents as well. Mr. Hendersen nods a greeting to Penny’s
parents and then moves on to Beth, where pretty much the same procedure
is followed, and then on to Jody . . . and then Rachel.
He greets Rachel’s parents by name and hands a diploma to Rachel.
“Thanks Jimmy.” she tells him, but clearly something is troubling her. Mr.
Hendersen turns and takes a step toward the door when . . .
Rachel: Oh Jimmy . . .
Mr. Hendersen stops, turns toward Rachel, and takes her two hands
into his two hands.
Mr. Hendersen: Rachel. You have to move on. It is absolutely

necessary. You have goodness in you, and
it’s important that you share it with other
people. And you will do that . . . where-ever
129
130 Jim O’Brien
you go . . . and then they, in their turn, can

do the same thing. In a way, you are planting
seeds, and it is something you absolutely
should do.
After this brief but meaningful conversation, Mr. Hendersen exits the
room . . . closing the door behind him . . . and the “click” is not audible
at all.
Rachel’s dad: You’ll never meet anyone like that again.

Rachel: I know.
Rachel’s dad: Can I see your diploma?
Rachel hands the diploma to her father. Beth comes over and sits next
to Rachel on her bed. Beth, Rachel’s roommate for four years, doesn’t say
anything . . . she just looks at Rachel’s face.
Rachel’s dad: This is a pretty nice diploma . . . and your

transcripts too.
Rachel: He always does that.
At this point, Rachel’s mother, who had been packing, turns toward her
daughter and says, “Rachel honey . . . I have an idea.” And the girl Rachel
brightens a little, and she turns and looks up at her mom.
CHAPTER 31
Mr. Hendersen is sort-of ushering students out of the school building. He is

among a throng of girls, parents, and luggage that exits the school building’s
side door and makes its way out to the parking lot where there is some last
minute chit-chat, the honking of horns, and waving good-bye. He then
heads toward the school building’s main entrance. He passes along the front
of the building . . . where a dozen or so “Smiley Faces” of various sizes are
staked into the ground . . . but these yellow faces are wearing a frown with
a tear falling from one eye. Mr. Hendersen walks past them and enters the
school building. He walks down the hall to his office, puts the key into the
doorknob, turns it, and goes in.
There, standing on the far side of the room, is . . . Rachel. She had been
sitting, but is standing now. And, after a few moments of just looking at
each other, she says:
Rachel: I’m staying.
At this, Mr. Hendersen’s head bows down a bit, straightens up again,

and then he says:
Mr. Hendersen: As a wife.

Rachel: Yes.
Mr. Hendersen: (pause) But . . . I don’t want a wife.
Rachel: Well, that’s just too bad now, isn’t it.
They start to walk toward each other, and when they meet, there
is a moment . . . a moment of shared understanding, hope . . . and
uncertainty.
131
132 Jim O’Brien
Mr. Hendersen swings his right arm forward a little and wraps his hand
around Rachel’s hand. Rachel turns her head to one side and leans it against
the top of Mr. Hendersen’s chest. Then he slowly lowers his chin so that his
head is resting on top of hers.
And, as they are standing there, some improvised verses come into Mr.
Hendersen’s mind.
How can I know

If I open my heart to you
Will you hurt me
Will you try

Will you have a conscious effort to do good
Or will you let selfishness rule your heart
THE END
THE LAST DRAGON
CHAPTER 1
It is the middle of the night. Gerund escorts the young man through the
darkness and takes him as far as the entrance of the cave. “It was good
knowing you lad.” he tells him and then turns and starts to walk back to the
village. “I like these people.” the lad says to himself, “They’re sincere.”
He walks in through the huge mouth of the cave and . . . staying close
to a wall inside . . . makes his way along the path that leads down into the
depths of this cavern. He passes under the giant archway and he knows that,
at this point, there is no turning back. The inside of the cave is illuminated
by the dull light given off by small pools of fire water. High above him is
a dome-shaped ceiling of jagged stone and off to his left are long piles of
boulders that create rudely formed precincts. The air is musty and cold and
the whole aspect of the cave is haunted and eerie. He edges his way down
the path until he reaches the fire lake. He puts his hands against the wall
and cranes his neck around the corner. Here the cave opens up into a vast
chamber, and he sees patches of fire burning on the surface of the lake. And
there it is . . . beyond the far bank of the lake . . . the dragon . . . sleeping.
The young man’s presence is detected and, aroused from its sleep, the
dragon’s eyes open . . . with anger. It slinks into the lake and makes its
way . . . under water . . . toward the intruder. The dragon emerges from the
fire lake and approaches the spot where the intruder had been standing . . .
but sees nothing.
It lumbers up the path . . . glaring to its right then to its left. A noise off
to one side of the cave . . . the sound of a rock hitting against the wall . . .
draws the dragon’s attention and it turns and heads in that direction. The
young man then comes running out from his hiding place and, using his
sword, he slashes a long cut under the dragon’s left fore-arm . . . severing its
135
136 Jim O’Brien
wing on that side. The dragon lets out a loud horrible roar and then quickly
pulls its head around to that side . . . and sees nothing.
The giant beast turns its long heavy body around . . . anger boiling over
inside it . . . and makes its way to where the intruder is now thought to be
hiding. Then, from the other side . . . the area from which the dragon had
just turned . . . the young man again comes running out and again slashes
a long cut through the dragon’s wing . . . this time on its right side. The
dragon bellows in pain, pulls its head around quickly . . . but again it sees
nothing.
Further up the path, the young man is crouched down behind one of
the stone walls that partition off the cave. “Well,” he thinks to himself, “if
nothing else, at least I’ve grounded it. It hardly strikes the same fear in you,
‘Here comes the dragon . . . crawling toward us.’”
At this moment, he steps out into the middle of the pathway . . . and
shows himself to the monster. The dragon, at last seeing its assailant, locks
a murderous gaze on this puny figure standing before it and then . . . with
a furious roar . . . it breathes a thick stream of fire out at the intruder. The
young man is ready for it. He props up his shield and sets himself down
behind it. The flames ram up against the surface of the shield and then
veer off to either side of it until the dragon . . . out of breath . . . ceases the
attack.
The young man does not wait for a second serving of fire breath and
he runs up the path toward the cave’s exit . . . passing under the huge
archway . . . with the dragon now in pursuit. The huge beast reaches this
spot and comes to a stop. Its keen senses tell it that the intruder is somewhere
close by . . . and it slows down the search. With its enormous head leading
the way, the dragon then passes under the archway.
The young man is, at this moment, perched on a ledge above the
archway . . . his two hands clenched around the shaft of a spear. He silently
looks down and watches as the long snout of the dragon slowly passes beneath
him. A moment later he leaps from the ledge, plunges down through the
air, lands squarely on top of the dragon’s head . . . and drives the spear deep
into its skull. The dragon lets out an earsplitting cry of pain and jerks it
head backward . . . sending the young man into flight.
“A nice soft rock please.” he hopes to himself, but such is not to be, and
he caroms off a stone wall and falls to the ground. He struggles to his feet.
His vision is blurred. He reaches out to the wall and frantically runs his
hands over the stones. “Where’s the niche?” he screams to himself, “Where’s
the niche?” The dragon’s screeching and shrieking are deafening as he gropes
along the surface of the wall, finds what he is looking for, drops down into
it, pulls the shield in front of himself, and . . . passes out.
It is two hours later and the first rays of morning sunlight filter their
way in through the darkness of the cave. The young man awakens to the
throbbing pain in his right shoulder and on the right side of his head. He
slowly lowers the shield and peers out. He hears no sound and detects no
movement. He steps out and examines the dragon tracks on the dirt floor
of the cave, and they lead him toward the cave’s exit. “Not outside.” he says
out loud, “Please, not outside.” The tracks then make a turn and head back
down the pathway. “No, of course not.” he realizes, “To the comfort of the
fire lake!” And he cautiously makes his way back down into the depths of
the cave. At the bank of the fire lake he finds the dragon . . . its lifeless body
stretched out in a peaceful-like repose . . . having not quite succeeded in
reaching the water.
“I’ll take my spear thank you.” And he climbs up onto the beast’s head
and wrests out the spear. Back on the ground, he pulls his sword out of its
scabbard and once again addresses the dragon, “I must impose on you one
last time.” He then cuts out the monster’s heart and places it in a burlap
sack he had brought for the purpose. The young man then walks out of
the cave.
CHAPTER 2
She is sitting there, on the top of the embankment at the edge of the village,
waiting. She didn’t sleep very much and, at the break of day, she made her
way to this spot . . . a spot that overlooks the pastures that lead to the great
rock formations . . . where the cave of the dragon is known to be.
She spots him, off in the distance, and then jumps up and starts running
down the embankment. He looks up and sees her coming, but keeps on
walking until the timing is right. That moment arrives and he stops, sets
down his spear, his shield, his sword, and a dragon heart . . . and he is ready
to be embraced.
She leaps up onto him and kisses his face . . . over and over again . . .
and when she runs out of steam, he takes over, kissing her on the forehead
and on top of the head. After a few minutes she eases herself down and,
standing there, she regards this man standing before her with a mingling of
affection, promise, and . . . mystery.
“Did you?” she asks him, and he nods. “How?” she wonders. The young
man pauses for a moment and then drops down into a slight crouch . . . legs
apart, arms held halfway up, fingers spread out wide and slightly curled . . .
and starts to step slowly sideways as he prepares to go into hand-to-hand
combat with an imaginary opponent. She laughs. He then picks up his
things and they start for the village.
At her parents’ cottage she offers him her bed to rest on. He drops down
onto it and, fairly exhausted, is soon asleep. An hour later she is at the home of
Langrid . . . the village blacksmith and unofficial keeper of the peace . . . and
she presents him with the dragon’s heart. “He wants you to have this.” she tells
him. Langrid can’t believe it. It is too good to be true. “Did he do it?” he asks
her, “Did he really do it?” “Yes sir.” she replies, “The proof is in that sack.”
138
When the young man awakens there is the numbing pain in his shoulder
and head to greet him. He gets up. Standing there by the bed he is a little
groggy. He gazes out the window for a few moments and then steps out
into the cooking area where she is standing by the hearth. “An angel.” he
says. And she smiles.
She: Do you want something to eat?

He: Just water.
She ladles out a mug-full of water and hands it to him.
He: Have you eaten yet?

She: No. I was waiting for you.
He: I’ll eat.
She then dishes out two bowls of stew from the cauldron hanging over
the fire and they sit down at the table to eat.
She: Everyone is running around . . . spreading the news

that the dragon is dead.
He: Oh that’s right.
And she gives him . . . a look.
He: The stew is good.

She: Good. Keep eating.
He: That’s a pretty dress.
She: Thank you. The tailor brought it over while you
were sleeping.
He: Really.
She: Yes, but he wouldn’t tell me who paid for it.
He: Imagine that. Some secret admirer no doubt.
She: No doubt.
He: Probably a prince or a duke.
She: (laughs) They’re having a big celebration tonight at
the village green.
He: Dancing?
She: Yes. And food and drink galore!
140 Jim O’Brien
He: Me being an outsider, they likely won’t welcome me

there.
She: I think they might let you stay.
And that night on the village green . . . as the musicians play and the
old men clap along . . . they dance around the bonfire.
THE END
THE FORTUNATE MAN
CHAPTER 1
“You will never amount to anything. You will fritter your life away and you
will never amount to anything.” Those were the words of my mother . . . her
final words . . . spoken to me, of course . . . from her deathbed. My father
had died some years earlier, and so, their cottage was now my cottage, and,
in the year of our Lord 1799, at the age of seventeen, I had to make my
way in the world . . . alone.
143
CHAPTER 2
It was early morning and I was at the blacksmith’s shop. Levi Hart ran the
shop and he was busy hammering away at one anvil while I was at a nearby
anvil . . . also hammering away. There was, as usual, a hot fire burning in
the forge and, on that cold morning, the heat felt good when I stepped over
there to reheat an iron plate . . . an iron plate that would eventually be a
bracket for the mainmast of the sailing ship The Windjammer which was
docked here in Boston for repairs. Levi had sort-of inherited the shop from
his father . . . who had gotten it from his father. Levi didn’t love blacksmith
work, but, as he himself told me, “You can’t turn your back on a reliable
income Jimmy.”
Blacksmithing requires strength, dexterity, and . . . stubbornness.
Sometimes a piece of iron will put up a good fight . . . and you can’t give
up on it. You might say that I was an ambidextrous blacksmith. I had
noticed that, from swinging the heavy hammer, my right side had gotten
considerably stronger than my left . . . and it bothered me a bit. So I started
using my left arm to swing the hammer, and, over time, everything evened
out just fine.
There were three benefits of working for Levi: One, the pay. Two, I
learned a trade that would provide gainful employment for my future. And
three, it was warm in the shop and the heat was free. Of course, in July and
August the place was like an oven.
On that afternoon . . . as on any given afternoon . . . I was at Paul
Matthew’s clothier shop on Chestnut Street. Paul was my closest friend of
all the employers I had come to know and I had been stopping by his shop
longer than I had any of the others. Paul had patiently taught me how to
be a good tailor and it got so that he trusted me with any of the work his
customers brought to him.
144
I liked sewing because you could work and talk at the same time. I have
never been much of a talker, but when it is the number two thing I am
doing, well then, the pressure is off and I like it fine.
Paul would give me his leftover scrap material . . . from which I would
make all my own clothes. It saved me money, but my two pairs of breeches
had front-sides that did not quite match in color their back-sides, and my
shirts were made from white cotton, but were something of a quilt in style.
This never bothered me, however, and nobody ever said anything to me
about it.
After leaving Paul’s shop there was a little free time so I stopped in to see
Robbie. And that would be Robert Hagglebee Bookseller. The Hagglebee
name was well known in Boston for quality books, and, from time to time,
I would stop by to bother Robbie. There was little for me to do there by way
of work . . . just put books on the shelves, straighten the books already on
the shelves, or sweep the floor . . . but Robbie was nice to me and he loved
to talk . . . and I was a good listener. I bought my dictionary from Robbie,
and I believe that that was the last time I had spent money.
Dinner hour found me at The Admiral Benbow Inn. I entered through
the back door . . . which led right into the kitchen . . . and everybody was
already moving at top speed, and soon I was right up there with them. “We’ll
be needin’ you to do some waitering tonight Jimmy.” John Williams, the
proprietor, told me straight off, and that was fine with me. I checked in
with Lorraine, who was peeling shrimp and opening clams, and she said
that she was fine . . . for the moment. I went out to Pat at the bar. “You
need anything Pattie?” I asked him, and he replied, “I’ll be needin’ a fresh
keg here before long. This one won’t last me half the night.” And I told him,
“I’ll have it up for you in a jiffy.” And I did.
It was around nine o’clock when I said my good-byes at the Benbow . . .
with some lobster stew in my belly and more than a few coins in my
pocket . . . and made my way over to The Boar’s Head Tavern. Now this was
a dangerous place. Actually, trouble did not occur there as often as people
generally believed, but it occurred there often enough, so that the potential
of trouble hung in the air of the place like pipe smoke.
Alcohol was a culprit at The Boar’s Head. All the trouble that ever
happened there would have never happened . . . were it not for alcohol. The
Admiral Benbow served alcoholic beverages too, but there was a difference:
At The Benbow, food was the primary product and alcoholic drinks were
secondary. At The Boar’s Head alcohol . . . in its various forms . . . was the
main product.
146 Jim O’Brien
The Boar’s Head was a four person operation . . . not counting myself.
Ruth “governed” the kitchen. Gordon, who was Ruth’s husband, did duty
in the kitchen, behind the bar, and out in the dining room. Abraham, who
everyone called Abe, ran the bar. And Mary was the barmaid. It took grit
to be a barmaid at The Boar’s Head. Some of the customers were a bit . . .
forward . . . and a girl had to be able to put them in their place when
necessary. Mary did all right. She could dish it out . . . with competency . . .
when she had to. But she had a soft side too . . . sort-of like a dog that loved
its owners, but was mean to everybody else.
That night The Boar’s Head was crowded . . . and noisy. There were men
talking, women laughing, and the sound of pewter mugs clinking against
each other. And it was all perfectly normal to me. I was used to it.
Dirty dishes and mugs . . . on the tables and in the kitchen . . . were
generally neglected there, and that was where I pitched in to help. While
I was clearing a table a loud gent hailed me, “Hey laddie!” said he, “Three
more here and be quick about it!” And in a jiffy I was to the bar and back
to his table with his order . . . and he gave me a twenty cent piece for my
effort. The tips there were good. One time a drunken fellow gave me a ten
dollar gold piece . . . perhaps by mistake . . . but I decided that, sometimes,
it is wise to not ask.
I got home past midnight and started a fire in the cook stove. I put a pot
of water on the range top and, when the water was warm enough, I washed
and rinsed my clothes and hung them on a rope that was strung over the
stove. I then used a sponge to give myself the same treatment. And then it
was off to bed . . . with a little reading before nodding off.
CHAPTER 3
I was at The Benbow one night when a good chum walked in. Patrick, at
twenty-one, was a bit more experienced in the ways of the world than I, but
he let me . . . follow in his wake . . . none-the-less.
Patrick: Jimmy me boy, there’s an open berth on a merchant

ship that sails in a week. I put a good word in for
you and it’s yours if you want it.
I: And where would this merchant ship be sailing
Patrick?
Patrick: China.
I: China.
Patrick: The pay is seventeen dollars a month and you can
trade all you can fit in your trunk.
So I was going to China.

I had never been to sea, nor had I ever played the trader . . . and I didn’t
own a trunk. One week. The first chance I got I went to see Robbie at his
bookshop and told him the news. Robbie hadn’t traveled a great deal, but
he had read a lot, and I was hoping he could advise me.
At first he was disinclined to believe me, but when he caught on, he
became excited. “It’s the opportunity of a lifetime Jimmy.” he said to me,
“Soak it all in.”
As to what I should bring to trade he said, “The Chinese are artisans of
the highest rank, but they are not, generally speaking, mechanically minded.”
And Robbie said that he thought I should invest in . . . pocket watches. So
I bought twenty pocket watches, a trunk, and a good lock. I also converted
twenty dollars into gold pieces and brought them with me as well. And as
147
148 Jim O’Brien
the day of departure approached I made the rounds to everyone concerned

and told them of my forthcoming absence.
On the day we were supposed to report I made it to the docks all right,
but could not find the ship. In my defense, there were many ships harbored
there . . . and as many moored offshore . . . and, to me, it was an imposing
forest of masts and ropes. “I will no doubt find her,” I said to myself, “five
minutes after she sets sail . . . and I can wave good-bye to the crew as they
head out to sea.”
Eventually I found her. “The Lucky Mermaid” was her name, and I gave
her a good looking over. She was an impressive ship . . . a clipper ship . . . and
she seemed to have the length of a city block. But her most distinguishing
feature . . . and the one I liked the best . . . was the large painted wooden
mermaid that was attached to her bow. “And she’s never been sunk . . . never
so much as sprung a leak. Why, she’s the safest ship that ever sailed to sea.”
Or so I was hoping to be told.
I met and shook hands with the captain . . . a spry seafaring gentleman
by the name of Leonard Martindale . . . and though the meeting was brief
and cordial, there was a smile in his eyes and a discernable warmth in his
manner . . . and I liked him. With a crew of fifty men . . . most all of them
seasoned veterans of the sea . . . we embarked.
The first week of the voyage I was . . . to the crew . . . a “greenhorn.” I
often lost my balance on deck, did duties incorrectly, and got in the way of
the other men. But I found my sea legs soon enough and was then eager to
prove to the captain and crew that I could be of use. I hoisted sails, trimmed
sails, dropped sails, swabbed decks, greased pulleys, polished brass, secured
cargo, and hauled supplies. I did everything I was ordered to do with a
sense of urgency, and I would help the other men when not occupied with
some job of my own. It made a difference to me that the captain was a good
man, as he appreciated my labor. It is harder to work when your work is
unappreciated.
It was, I think, the fourteenth day of the voyage when I moseyed on down
to the galley and greeted the ship’s cook . . . a gruff gent by the name of Josiah
Brown . . . and asked him if I could help with the preparation and service of
the crew’s meals. Cooks, generally, are an anxious and complaining lot, and
Josiah was not an exception to that rule. But, you see, I had considerable
experience at . . . prying my way into the heart of a cantankerous person . . .
and he soon gave way to my proposal.
I felt right at home in the ship’s galley and dining room, or, I should say,
I felt right at The Admiral Benbow Inn. It was work, there was no denying
that, but it was a comfort to me . . . me being a lad a thousand miles from

his home . . . with the distance increasing with each passing hour . . . and
I needed it.
I had, I must admit, some misgivings about the appropriateness of my
trading merchandise . . . namely the pocket watches . . . and I wondered,
“What are these professional traders bringing to China?” So I visited the
lower deck . . . where the cargo was stored . . . and made some inquiries. It
turned out that we were hauling ginseng, sandalwood, furs, and . . . slugs.
We were carrying a large shipment of slugs all the way to China. “Why
on earth would the Chinese want so many slugs?” I asked a crew member,
and I was told, “In China, they eat slugs. In fact, slugs are a table delicacy
to the Chinese.” And there are not enough homegrown slugs to meet the
local demand. (This last little bit of fact being something I deduced on my
own.)
“Could it be?” I wondered. “Could these slimy pests . . . pests that had
for years feasted on my garden greens . . . actually be valuable property?” I
thought back to the many times I had gone slug hunting in my garden . . .
completely unaware that my quarries were, in truth, table delicacies. They
knew it, of course, but being humble and modest creatures, they kept it to
themselves . . . and tried to carry on the best they could. The brave little
slugs.
CHAPTER 4
It was the forty-third day of the voyage when we came within view of our
destination . . . the city of Canton, China. We docked . . . it was a very busy
port . . . and as we were unloading the ship, some of the local Chinese came
out to greet us. They bowed to us most respectfully, and I thought to myself,
“I think I will like this place.”
China . . . if Canton was a fair representation . . . was different. From
the standpoint of people living in a harbor community, it was vastly different
from Boston. The boats were built differently, the houses were constructed
differently, and the people were dressed differently. There were virtually no
similarities between the two places.
At the trading portals . . . which were called “hongs” . . . it was a jumble
of bustling activity. I had brought my pocket watches ashore and was ready
to commence my career as a trader. The Chinese merchants with whom I
was transacting could speak only rudimentary English . . . and the going
was rough. They did not seem to see any need for pocket watches, and, for
a fleeting moment, I envisioned myself returning to the port of Boston . . .
the proud owner of twenty pocket watches.
After a little time, however, I was able to convey the important purposes
a watch can serve, and when I carefully pried off the back plate of one . . .
and showed them the complex mechanism of tiny gear wheels inside . . .
I could tell that they were hooked and that it would be smooth sailing.
“Thank you Robbie.”
The Chinese merchandise was indeed crafts of excellent quality. I traded
for ivory statuettes, decorated porcelain ware (bowls, dishes, and tea sets),
small black lacquered curio boxes with designs painted on them, mirrors set
in elegantly crafted wood frames, and bulk quantities of different colored
silks . . . which came in long flat rolls. I traded ten of my watches and then
150
told the men that I would return the next day with ten more. This, I hoped,
would give the word a chance to get around . . . and increase the watches’
value.
My trunk was nearly full, so I approached Captain Martindale and
requested permission to bring an additional trunk on board. He granted
my request on the condition that the trunk was stored below deck with the
cargo . . . and I readily agreed to this.
The next day at the trading portals I was a popular fellow. The pocket
watches were in great demand, and the trading . . . from my standpoint . . .
was excellent. I simply traded for more of the merchandise I had gotten the
previous day . . . with two exceptions: I got a large trunk and a good lock,
which I was glad to not have to go shopping for.
My trading in China now being at an end, I loaded that day’s take of
Chinese-made merchandise onto The Lucky Mermaid and then went back
ashore to the counting house where I exchanged a gold piece for some local
Chinese currency . . . and then set out to explore the city of Canton.
The streets of Canton were congested with people coming and going . . .
kicking up a low cloud of dust as they moved along the road. There was a
man leading a water buffalo by a rope and a fellow pulling a cart that was
loaded with chickens. There were women balancing wooden yokes across
their shoulders as they hauled large pails of water. And there were gentlemen
traveling along the road by carriages . . . carriages that were being pulled by
other gentlemen. And everyone was wearing the same sort of outfit . . . a
long cloak-like garment and a wide-brimmed straw hat.
I stopped at an open-air restaurant, but could not make heads or tails of
the menu. I had wanted to order a slug . . . or perhaps two or three slugs . . .
but had to, owing to the language barrier, give it up. Eventually . . . by
pointing to a customer sitting nearby . . . I managed to get a bowl of rice
and some tea, and so had my first meal on the Asian continent.
Over at one side of the restaurant a group of old men were gathered
around one of the tables. They wore long narrow beards, smoked long narrow
pipes, and were playing some sort of game. Before leaving the restaurant
I strolled over to take a closer look. It was a game that used small tile-like
game pieces, and I stood and watched for a while . . . then left.
Before heading back to the ship I bought one of the long cloak-like
garments and one of the straw hats, and the next day . . . our last full
day in port . . . I wore them. I greeted people with a slight bow, I walked
with mincing steps, and generally had a good time. I returned to the same
restaurant and had rice and tea again. The old men were there again and,
152 Jim O’Brien
after watching them play the game of tiles . . . a game I later learned was
called “Mah-jongg” . . . I respectfully asked them . . . using gestures . . . if
I could play, and, to my surprise, they let me. I lost. And this brought out
some hearty laughter from these old gentlemen. I played again . . . and lost
again. However, when it finally came time to leave the café, the farewells I
received from these men were most sincere. “I have soaked up the atmosphere
of China!” I exulted.
CHAPTER 5
Thanks to favorable winds we were making excellent time on the return

voyage and it was, I think, the ninth day of the trip . . . at around
midnight . . . when I ventured down to the galley and brewed some tea
for the men keeping the night watch. I felt like a grandmother as I was
bringing it up on deck to them, and they laughed at the unusual service I
was rendering . . . but they took the tea. I then drifted over to the railing
and looked out at the ocean.
Sailing at night is different. The sea is calmer and the wind . . . if there
is any . . . is normally gentle. On that night, the sky was clear and the moon
was up high . . . and mostly full. The only sound was the slapping of the
waves against the side of the ship. The moon was lighting up the water’s
surface with a soft light that was easy on the eyes, with the tips of the waves
catching hold of that light . . . then losing it . . . then catching it again . . .
like so many candles flashing. And here I was, taking it all in . . . frittering
my life away, just frittering it all away.
When the ship docked in Boston I collected my pay, said my farewells,
and hired a “hack” to cart me and my trunks to Paul Matthew’s shop . . . as
had been prearranged. Paul was a little busy, but he managed some banter
none-the-less:
Paul: Glad to see you weren’t Shang-haied.

I: Paul . . . you would have loved it.
Paul: Bring me back anything?
I: I did.
And I presented him with three of the flat rolls of silk. He was . . . moved
by the gesture and became speechless. He then tried to pay me something,
153
154 Jim O’Brien
but I wouldn’t hear of it. And besides, I had to hustle. I had to make the
rounds to all the shops and unload my merchandise before that shipload of
cargo . . . my competition . . . made its way abroad.
I did very well bargaining with the shop owners. The merchandise
practically sold itself, and when the final tally was taken, I had made more
than ten times my original investment. I had wanted to keep my Chinese-
made trunk, but, upon consideration, decided to sell it also. I did, however,
keep the cloak and straw hat as mementos of my excellent time in China.
I deposited all the money . . . the sales receipts, my sea wages, and the gold
pieces I had left over . . . at The Bank of Boston. It was better for them to
worry about it than me.
I now very much wanted to return to my old routine. I hadn’t realized it
before, but it was a sort-of nest I had been building for myself . . . something
to provide me with comfort, protection, and security . . . and I was glad to
see that I was welcomed back. I gave Levi Hart an ivory statuette of a man
with his son, I gave Robbie a porcelain tea set and a mirror, and to Mary
Coleridge, the barmaid, I gave a lacquered box.
These old familiar acquaintances of mine now, generally, treated me as if
I had risen up in the world. Even Mary . . . who now spoke to me without
me having spoken to her first . . . regarded me in a brighter light. And I was
uncomfortable with it.
You see, I sort-of liked being a nobody and was content with having a
social standing of no great consequence. I think the lowest station is best. You
are free to go where-ever you want and free to talk to whomever you please.
And there’s a humbleness inherent with being the lowest . . . a humbleness
people can see and often respond to in a pleased manner. And, what is more,
a humble heart protects a person against the intrusions of pride . . . a slippery
and hard-to-see adversary. Life is easier . . . and safer . . . at the bottom.
CHAPTER 6
Returning home one day, I found that I had received a letter. “West Indies
Trading Co.” was embossed on the envelope, and I wondered what sort
of trouble I was in. But, as it turned out, the letter was an employment
proposal. Apparently Captain Martindale had given me high marks in a
recommendation to The West Indies Trading Company and they wanted
me to be the first mate on a trading vessel that was sailing for Brazil. “First
mate?” I said out loud as I read the letter.
So I made a personal visit to the company’s Boston office, and, after
discussing this and that, decided to sign on. It was at that moment that a
clap of thunder sounded, and a shiver ran through my body. Soldiering on
with the conversation, I asked about the cargo the ship would be carrying
and what, if anything, I might bring to trade myself. The cargo, I was told,
would be cast iron, wheat, and whale oil, which were to be traded for coffee,
sugar, tobacco, port wine, and bananas. I did not see many options for me
there and, in the end, decided to trade nothing.
Before the departure date, I approached Paul Matthews and asked him
if he would do two things for me while I was gone: Look after of my cottage
and look after my bank account. And he said that he would.
The ship was a 3-masted schooner named The Sea Serpent. Our
destination was the Brazilian city of Rio de Janeiro, and with a crew . . .
including myself . . . of twelve men we embarked. The voyage took two
weeks. “Rio” was an attractive port city with a mountainous terrain and
much greenery, and, without much of a to-do, we docked, unloaded our
cargo, traded, loaded, and re-embarked.
We were five days into the return voyage when trouble hit. It was late
at night and I was roused from my sleep by the rocking of the ship. Shortly
there-after the order of “All hands on deck!” was called out. I quickly got
155
156 Jim O’Brien
dressed and, by the time I arrived up on deck, we were in the middle of a

full-blown hurricane. It was like walking into a nightmare . . . the pitch-black
darkness, the shrieking and howling of the wind, the rain coming at us like
so many bullets of water. It was madness. The captain ordered us to drop
the mainmast sails, and we were all in perfect agreement on the wisdom of
that command, but a moment after he issued this order we heard a loud
crack . . . the sound of timber breaking . . . and right there before our eyes
the mainmast came falling down. It crashed onto the deck and was then
dragged by the wind over the side, off the ship, and out to sea. And in an
act that would well be described as “facetious” I yelled, “No need to drop
the mainmast sails Captain.”
It was at this point that the men fired one of our cannons. Firing a cannon
in a storm is an old and honored tradition among seafaring men. It is an
urgent message to anyone within, well, cannon shot of the ship. If I were to
attempt to translate the message, it would be, I think, “We are about to die!
Please come save us!” And each successive firing of the cannon would, I am
sure, place additional exclamation marks at the ends of those two sentences.
Now, it is hard for me to imagine someone . . . upon hearing the cannon
shot . . . being eager to venture out into a hurricane to help a ship in danger,
but, that is the supposition, and so, we fired one of our cannons.
We fired the cannon two more times and then the captain gave the order
to abandon ship. I ran below deck shouting “Abandon ship!” “Abandon
ship!” . . . which I secretly enjoyed doing. Before returning topside, I darted
into the galley and grabbed two empty buckets. All twelve of us then climbed
into the longboat . . . which is a sort of cutter with two sets of oars . . . and
we lowered ourselves down into some very angry waves.
I sat in the stern and, while four of the fellows rowed, two of us bailed,
and we were doing all right . . . under the circumstances. It was after perhaps
forty-five minutes of struggling through the storm when I spotted what I
thought looked like land. In that pitch blackness and rain it was hard to see
five feet, but a silhouette of some landmass seemed to loom in the distance.
The other men then saw it, and when they did, our oarsmen turned into
madmen and began to feverishly work the oars to move the longboat in
a direction . . . away from the landmass. You see, as bad as they are out at
sea, the waves are only at half strength compared to their power when they
break on shore, and so, it would likely mean our deaths if we allowed our
boat to be pulled in toward that coast.
We tried and we tried with a tenacity none of us had ever known, but
we were fighting a losing battle. And as the waves drew us closer and closer
toward the mysterious landmass our efforts became more and more desperate.
If there had been a cannon on board we would have fired it.
Then, without any sort of warning, our boat was unceremoniously
flipped forward . . . as if we had been little more than an annoyance to the
sea which had now lost its patience with us . . . and I was given a short flight
and then plunged down into the ocean. I had no idea how deeply I had been
thrown, but, as soon as I stopped going down, I started swimming up . . .
frantically. I did not know the fastest swimmer in the world . . . who-ever
he was . . . but I was certain that, at that moment, I could have given him
a run for his money.
Breaking the surface was a huge relief, though only a temporary one.
Breath out, breath in, thrown down again. But I now had experience at not
being drowned, and . . . with arms and legs flailing away . . . I was soon at
the surface again. This time I came out into a wave that was cresting and
was given a little ride, which I would have enjoyed, had it not been for the
prospect of sharp rocks, which I felt certain awaited my arrival on shore.
Thrown down once more, then to swim up again, and this was it. I was
about to be cast onto the land. I had come to a moment of truth.
It was sand! I had been thrown onto a beach. The overwhelming sense of
relief caused me to smile . . . despite my present difficulties . . . but I made
a crucial mistake. I hesitated, and, by the time I had gotten to my feet and
had begun to run, the next wave knocked me down and . . . with its strong
undertow . . . dragged me back into the ocean. “Oh the unfairness of it!”
But it was not as bad as I had feared, and in another moment I was cast onto
the shore again, and this time I took to my heels . . . with alacrity. One last
wave managed to knock me down, but did no further damage.
When I was safely beyond the reach of the waves I stopped to catch my
breath . . . and thank God for allowing me to make it through that peril.
I then turned toward the ocean . . . the ocean that had been so kind to me
before, but was now a raging monster . . . and looked out at the crashing
waves I could hear but could not really see . . . and stood there as I came to
grips with my situation.
My shipmates came to mind and I turned and started to stagger along
the coast . . . dragging myself through the wind and rain. I hadn’t gone
far when I saw the futility of the search . . . and gave it up . . . and headed
inland to look for some kind of shelter.
After fifteen minutes or so of groping through the darkness I came upon
a knot of trees about a hundred feet from shore and squeezed myself into the
middle of them where I was protected reasonably well. And as I sat there,
158 Jim O’Brien
waiting for the storm to break, I pulled out my knife . . . which thankfully
was still in its sheath . . . and carved the number three on the tree next to
me . . . three being for Tuesday. Below that I carved the number four, for
April, and below that the number seventeen. The year was eighteen hundred.
I would remember that much.
The storm battered the area for three more hours before letting up. I
then lied down among those trees and tried to sleep. “Maybe I will be eaten
by a tiger.” was my thought, but I was too tired to care.
CHAPTER 7
I awoke the next morning around ten o’clock . . . uneaten. When a person
wakes up in the morning those first few moments can, at times, be something
of an adjustment . . . depending on the activities of the previous night. And
as I opened my eyes and began to focus myself mentally you may be sure
that my mind was fully occupied for some minutes.
It was a beautiful morning . . . very much in contrast to the evening
before . . . and I squeezed out of my “bunk” and walked down to the shore.
And there she was . . . The Sea Serpent . . . securely beached on a shoal
about two hundred feet off shore. She was battered, certainly . . . with
her mainmast and foremast both broken off and missing . . . but she was
a beautiful sight none-the-less. The ship was leaning romantically toward
the shore and sunlight was warming the wood of her hull and deck. The
blue-green water of the ocean was dancing around her and the light blue
sky was at her back. “Worthy of an oil painting.” I said to myself.
I waded and then swam out to the ship, but could find no way to board
her, so I swam and waded back to shore. I went looking for a long vine,
which I found, cut down, and then brought out to the ship. I threw the
vine up the side of the ship and managed to hook it over a belaying pin. I
then pulled myself up and over and onto the ship’s deck. I went below deck
and fetched the ship’s rope ladder which I hooked on to the gunwale and
let roll down the side of the ship.
I then headed straight for the galley where I breakfasted on water and
bread. I grabbed a burlap sack and went to my cabin where I picked out a
change of clothes, a pair of shoes, my tricorne hat, a spyglass, and a towel
and threw them all into the sack. I then went into the captain’s cabin where I
searched for, and found, two pistols, some shot, and a funnel of gunpowder.
I put these into the sack. I then grabbed a wine skin and headed back to the
159
160 Jim O’Brien
galley where I emptied the out the wine and filled the skin with drinking
water. I then went topside and climbed over the gunwale and down the side
of the ship and eased myself into the water. Then, with my cargo held safely
over my head, I swam and waded back to shore.
After a quick change of clothes and a loading of the guns I was off
in an earnest attempt to find my comrades. I walked along the beach . . .
scanning the shoreline and inland areas . . . and hiked about a mile before
turning back and proceeding, from my original spot, about a mile in the
other direction. I saw nothing, no sign of any of them . . . and a gruesome
sort of feeling came over me.
Back at my “base camp” I stood and gazed out at The Sea Serpent for a
few minutes and then pulled myself around and headed inland. I advanced
up a gradual incline that was interrupted occasionally by levels of pastures. I
spotted some sort of animal herd far off to my left, and a quick look through
the spyglass showed them to be goats. Whether that was a good sign or a
bad sign I didn’t know.
After an uphill trek of about two miles I came to a peak of solid rock . . .
and climbed it. This perch gave me an excellent panoramic view and what
I saw was something of a shock. I was surrounded by water. I had been
marooned on an island. And, what was worse, I could not, even when using
the spyglass, see the slightest speck of land in any direction.
“Where in the world am I?” I wondered out loud.
The island was between eight and nine miles long and between four
and five miles across. I had been marooned at about the center of one of its
sides . . . the western side.
I stayed up on that boulder for about an hour . . . scouring the island
for any sign of life. I saw no detectable movement, no smoke from a fire,
and no unnatural clearing. There was nothing that would indicate that other
human inhabitants were there. “And it is unlikely that wild beasts . . . of
the man-eating variety . . . are on the island either.” Or so I hoped. But the
goats . . . they were a mystery.
I walked back down the hill and when I reached my base camp I looked
out at The Sea Serpent. This ship now underwent a change in my thinking.
It went from being a reminder of past trauma to being a container of things
that were essential for my survival. And I decided to empty her.
I made my way back out to the ship and re-boarded her. I searched for
and found the carpentry tools and then sawed down the mizzenmast. This
mast, once shorn of its sails and ropes, I then cut into eight “logs” of equal
length which I lashed together with rope. I now had a raft, which I dubbed
“The Happy Marooner,” and I began to loot the ship.
I started in the galley and took everything: salt pork, potatoes, peppers,
onions, beans, bread, flour, lard, pots and pans, utensils, plates, cups, and
bowls. The drinking water was kept in two very large barrels that were too
heavy to move, so I went below deck and grabbed five of the small kegs of
port wine, emptied them, and managed, by stages, to get all the water ashore.
It had begun to get dark and I realized that, unless I wanted to spend the
night in my little nest again, I had better make some sort of accommodations
for myself. So I brought some rope and sail material ashore. I found a nice
little clearing and strung a doubled length of rope between two trees. I then
draped a doubled layer of sail material over the rope and, using tree limbs,
pegged the edges of the sail cloth into the ground. I now had a tent about
fifteen feet long, ten feet wide, and eight feet high. I then brought some
boards ashore and fashioned them into a sort of platform on which I placed
some bedding. I then brought a little table, a few books, and a lantern into
the tent, and I was all set. Home.
The next morning I was up early and continued the pillaging of The Sea
Serpent. I took furniture, trunks, the cargo dolly, pistols, sabers, gunpowder,
lead shot, money, pocket watches (of which I found five), clothes, hammocks,
bedding, soap, books . . . everything. From the cargo area I took only the
bananas. The whole job took me three days, and when all the loot was put
ashore, I had three large piles of possessions which I covered with sail material.
“I regret to say I’ll need a cannon . . . two cannons actually.” If a ship
did sail near the island, I would need a cannon to call the crew’s attention to
my . . . situation . . . and I would need a cannon for each side of the island.
The ship’s cannons were small cannons . . . as cannons go . . . but were still
heavy beasts. I separated them, respectively, into two parts—barrel and base.
Using rope I lowered the barrel of the first cannon onto the raft and then
escorted it to shore where I wrestled it inland a bit. I then followed the same
procedure with the base. For the second cannon I lowered both barrel and
base . . . one piece at a time . . . onto the raft, tied them down securely, and
then set a course for the far side of the island.
The Happy Marooner seemed somewhat oppressed by the excessive
weight, but, with me wading and swimming alongside her, we managed
to slosh and splash our way through the waves. As we came around the
northern end of the island a school of dolphins was swimming by about
two hundred feet off shore. Leaping out of the water, arching through the
162 Jim O’Brien
air, and then plunging back into the sea, they seemed to be searching for
something that was beneath the water’s surface. “Is it here? No? Then up
ahead perhaps.”
As I came down along the eastern side of the island I scanned the inland
areas for what might provide a suitable lodging for a large firearm. After
spotting what looked to be, generally, a good location, I steered the raft to
shore, tied it up, and went in search of a perch. I passed along a nice beach
of beautiful white sand where some of the local residents were out sunning
themselves. Turtles. Dozens of turtles were lounging on the beach, and they
ranged in size from small ones . . . about a foot long . . . to giant turtles
that looked to be about ten feet in length! “Tar-nation!” as old Abe at The
Boar’s Head might have said, “Now them there are turtles what be worthy
of the name.”
I eventually found a nice plateau that had a broad view of the sea and
returned to the raft where I unfastened the barrel and base. Using the rope
as a tow line, I dragged each piece . . . and it was like pulling a very stubborn
donkey . . . up to this look-out point and re-assembled the cannon. I then
headed back down to the raft and made my way home. I was a little surprised
that I had grown so attached to the spot after so short a time, but, be that
as it may, it was my home now, and I sort-of missed it.
Upon my return I decided to devote the remaining daylight to placing
the other cannon up on an elevated ledge, and once this was accomplished,
I called it a day.
The time came, of course, when the cannons had to be test-fired. I had
never fired a cannon. I had never had the need to fire a cannon. But I would
do well, I knew, to gain some experience at it, so that if a ship did sail past
the island, I would have at least some idea of what I was doing.
I poured gunpowder into the barrel . . . and hoped it was the right
amount . . . and then used the ram-rod to pack the powder in good and
tight. I shoved a little piece of cloth into the fuse hole and lit it. I then stood
back and hoped that I didn’t set the island on fire.
It worked . . . and I jumped a good bit when it did. The birds on the
island . . . equally startled by the blast . . . fled from their trees and made
a mass exodus out to sea. But I did all right at my first attempt at cannon
firing, and on the walk back home I satisfied myself with thoughts of winning
cannon battles with pirates and rescuing damsels in distress.
CHAPTER 8
In the course of exploring my new surroundings, I found sources of food

and water that would make my enforced stay on the island . . . should it
become a long-term one . . . survivable. There were brooks of fresh water
running throughout the island and, with storms such as the one that delivered
me there, I should have scarcely been surprised. Mango trees, with its large
juicy fruit, grew in abundance as did countless coconut trees and wild grape
bushes. And, of course, there was seafood . . . if I could catch it.
I also had the seeds from the bananas and vegetables I had taken off
The Sea Serpent. I had no idea where the seeds were hidden in a banana,
but using the seeds from the peppers, potatoes, onions, and beans I could
eventually grow a garden.
I decided to christen the island “Martindale Island” after the good captain
Martindale, and I began to seriously consider my need for a dwelling that
was more durable than the tent I now slept in.
First I search the inland area for a suitable piece of real estate on which to
build my new home. I favored and later chose a plot of land that was about
a hundred and fifty yards from the seashore. It was an elevated clearing . . .
with one of the brooks running close by . . . and it seemed to be an ideal
spot. I then pulled out some paper and an ink pen and did some architectural
work. My new abode would be a one-room cottage . . . twenty-five feet long
and twenty feet wide . . . with the source of lumber, nails, screws, doors,
and windows being, of course, The Sea Serpent.
The building job took more than a month to complete and, when it
was finished, my new cabin looked rather respectable. It was a sturdy little
house that boasted a front porch, a wood floor, and windows. The backdoor
was the two-piece “Dutch door” I had removed from the entrance of the
ship’s galley, and the front porch roof was supported by vertical beams that
163
164 Jim O’Brien
were the exact distance apart as would perfectly support . . . a hammock.

To either side of the front and back doors I put in portholes . . . which gave
the interior a nautical feel . . . and put square windows in the side walls. I
brought the ship’s old cook stove in and set it up . . . flue pipes and all . . .
on one side of the room. All in all, my new home was a most agreeable place
to pass time until my rescuers . . . who-ever they might be . . . arrived.
But the poor Sea Serpent . . . shorn of her dignity . . . now sat embarrassed
and ashamed, as I had taken away her source of pride.
In the course of building this bungalow . . . as I returned each night
to my little canvas home . . . I noticed that the tree limbs I had hammered
into the ground had begun to leaf. They had taken root. This told me that
the island’s soil was indeed fertile, but the upshot of this discovery was that
I now had the means to hide my new house. I didn’t know if there would
ever be hostile visitors to the island, but it would be wise, I reasoned, to be
prepared for just such a contingency. And so, while building the cottage, I
took the time to plant a wide swath of tree limbs around my new homestead.
And they grew, which not only effectively camouflaged my residence, but
also provided it with a shield of sorts against the onslaughts of hurricanes,
which I would learn were a fairly regular occurrence on the island.
CHAPTER 9
It was after having lived on Martindale Island for four months that I got
the urge to eat a turtle. I had never eaten a turtle before, but I had heard
stories of people eating turtles, and I guess this was enough to whet my
appetite for these neighbors of mine. And so, with a fair length of rope
and a countenance that would have made any safari leader proud, I headed
out . . . on foot . . . to track down these elusive tortoises.
When I reached the beach I found them, as I had hoped, lulled into a
false sense of security by the sun and surf . . . and completely unaware of the
impending calamity. There was quite a large selection of turtles to choose
from . . . so I shopped around a bit . . . and eventually targeted a turtle that
seemed to have some fine cuts of meat but was not overly large. I approached
my prey and offered a few pleasantries. Then, without any further ceremony,
I flipped him . . . or it may have been a her . . . onto his back and tied the
rope around his shell. I then began the long walk home . . . dragging the
turtle behind me. I half expected the other turtles to muster an attempt to
save their comrade . . . to rise up in anger and gather together into a sort
of posse, and then, with the giant ones . . . nostrils flaring . . . leading the
charge, to come after me. But such was not the case. They didn’t even budge,
and I made good my escape.
Turtle is good. The flavor reminded me of the clam chowder I had so
many times enjoyed at The Admiral Benbow Inn. And the turtle shells,
once dried and cleaned, were very handsome things indeed. What exact
uses they possessed, I didn’t know, but they were good for something, of
that I had no doubt.
Over time I ingratiated myself with the turtles . . . sharing their beach
and being neighborly and such . . . and I seemed to acquire a sort of exalted
status among them. It was true that I would, on occasion, exact a tribute
165
166 Jim O’Brien
from them, but this did not seem to adversely affect my good standing . . .
and I now set my sights on the goats.
I had no desire to eat the goats, I merely wanted to make friends with
them. And it occurred to me that . . . some animals we eat and some animals
we do not eat. For example, we would never eat a dog. Dog meat, for all we
know, might be tender and succulent, but we do not eat dogs . . . or cats
for that matter. But we eat fish and never give it a second thought. Goats, it
seemed to me, lie somewhere between dogs and fish. But what did it all mean?
After pondering this question, I came to the conclusion that it is based
on . . . affection . . . the animal’s ability to be affectionate. It is an inverse
relationship where, the more affectionate the animal, the less apt we are to
eat it. Fish never demonstrate affection. They raise their young and simply go
through the motions . . . doing only what is needed and no more. Lobsters,
I have no doubt, are the same way.
But goats . . . and we seem to perceive these things instinctively without
need of evidence . . . are affectionate animals. Oh, they have their arguments,
but, by-and-large, they are friendly creatures. And, as I have said, I decided
to befriend the ones living on Martindale Island.
Goats . . . friendly creatures though they may be . . . are also skittish
creatures, and every time I approached the herd, they would become
frightened and scamper away. This made me wonder if the turtles were
somehow able to communicate intelligence to the other creatures on the
island. But my intentions were plainly innocent, and so I determined that
some sort of strategy was now called for . . . and I devised a plan.
Using wood and cloth, I fashioned together a sort of scarecrow and
dressed it in clothes that were the same colors as the clothes I myself wore
everyday. I then sat this mannequin on a chair that I placed right where the
goats liked to congregate. I put delicious goat treats on the mannequin’s
hands, on its lap, and by its feet, and I would stop by every other day to
replenish the supply of goat treats. I did this for three weeks.
After that, when I made my regular delivery, instead of just dropping it
off, I would stay. I’d sit right on top of the mannequin . . . with goat treats
in my hands, on my lap, and by my feet . . . and I’d hold myself perfectly
still . . . and wait.
It took about two more weeks of patience before those first few brave
goats ventured up to me and ate out of my hands, but it was not long after
this that the entire group, generally, warmed up to me and accepted me as
an honorary member of the herd, and I could then approach and mingle
with the goats to my heart’s content.
CHAPTER 10
As time passed I grew more comfortable with my island home and became
somewhat domesticated in the daily routine I followed. I would keep the
cottage clean and orderly, I would tend to my vegetable garden, I’d gather
the food I would need for that day and maybe the next, and I’d visit with
the goats. And, as a force of habit, whenever I was at the seashore, I would
look out at the ocean . . . and the horizon beyond . . . in the hope that some
ship would appear.
The many possessions I had removed from The Sea Serpent overcrowded
the inside of my little cottage and this prompted me to build a storage
structure. After removing more lumber from the ship I erected a large shed
out behind the house and used it to stow the things I had no immediate
need for.
And The Sea Serpent . . . once so proud a vessel . . . gradually gave way
to the pounding of the waves and the battering of the hurricanes, and, in
time, the brave ship was no more.
167
CHAPTER 11
It was a dark and stormy night. The wind was roaring, and both wind and
rain were buffeting the sides and roof of my little home . . . and I barely
took notice of it. I had, by this time, been on Martindale Island for three
years, and the storms were a normal occurrence . . . and I was used to them.
A little fire was burning in the cook stove to take the chill out of the air, and
I sat there reading from Ecclesiastes:
“The men of old are not remembered, and those who follow will not
be remembered by those who follow them.”
Then, I heard what I thought was a cannon shot. I stopped reading,
pulled my head up erect, and my senses went into their super-alert status.
I got up, walked over to the front door, stuck my head outside . . . and
waited. I heard it again, and this time I was certain it had been the sound
of a cannon being fired. A ship was in danger.
As I stood there listening, two more cannon shots were fired . . . and then
no more. It was a mournful song, I thought . . . a mournful song followed
by a somber silence. I had to wait until morning before I could do anything,
though I must admit that a part of me wanted to rush out into the storm . . .
having myself been in a similar life-threatening situation.
In the morning I was up early. It was clear, as was almost always the
case after a hurricane, and, with two loaded pistols, extra shot and powder,
and a spyglass I was out the door. The cannon shots sounded as though
they had come from the neighborhood where The Sea Serpent had been
shipwrecked, and I headed in that direction. I hadn’t walked far . . . about
a half-mile . . . when I spotted a large sailing ship that had been beached
about a hundred and fifty feet off shore. I hid myself, and, using the spyglass,
I combed the deck of the ship and the immediate inland area for any signs
168
of life. I conducted this search for an hour or so and saw nothing . . . no

movement at all.
I went back to the cottage and grabbed the rope ladder and then went
down to the raft and poled my way over to the ship. Balancing myself on
the raft, I threw the rope ladder up and the hooks grabbed a hold of the
ship’s gunwale. I then tied the raft to the rope ladder and began to climb
up. I was a little nervous. My own ship’s wreckage was rather comfortable
to board, but here I was an intruder.
I climbed over the gunwale and onto the ship’s deck. Before heading
down into the ship’s interior I stood and surveyed the scene for a few minutes.
I was stalling . . . and I knew it. I then descended the steps and entered the
first cabin I came across. It was in disarray . . . with furniture toppled over,
papers and books scattered about, and clothes lying everywhere . . . and, for
some reason, I started to rummage through these things.
Who-ever these sailors were they certainly traveled in style. The furniture
was well-crafted, the books were leather bound, there was a world globe,
a French-made clock, game boards of various kinds, and first-rate nautical
equipment. My thoughts ran along the lines of, “These poor fellows, I
wonder if any of them survived.”
I found a lantern and lit it. I then explored the rest of the ship . . . slinking
from cabin to cabin . . . and found no sign of life and no sign of the loss of
life. I headed down the steps that led to the ship’s cargo area. Here the inside
hull of the ship was littered with kegs, bundles of cotton, and crates of food
stuffs . . . strewn, as it were, by the storm. Holding the lantern out in front
of me I edged through and around this cargo as I made my way toward the
stern of the ship. I then heard a scratching noise. Something out in the dark
ahead of me had moved. I raised the lantern up high to get a better look.
Then, from out of the darkness, it came running at me . . . some sort of
animal I thought . . . and before I could react, it had latched onto my leg.
It was a girl. It was a little girl. And she was frightened out of her mind.
My initial shock melted away and now my heart embraced this helpless
little girl. We spent those first fifteen minutes together huddling in the light
of that lantern, and I did whatever I could to calm her down. I held her
hands and kissed the top of her head and I reassured her that everything was
all right. “The looting” I said to myself, “would have to wait.”
It should be noted that, from that moment onward, that girl and I have
never been apart. And as I write this narrative . . . some twenty years later . . .
we are still together. Indeed, she is with me right now.
170 Jim O’Brien
I: Any comments for posterity?

She: I’m already in the story too much Jim.
I: It would seem to be appropriate.
She: I’ll say something at the end . . . if you still want
me to.
Wonderful woman. Wonderful woman.

But to return to the story . . .
“It’s time to go.” I said to the little girl and then carefully hoisted her
up and held her in my arms. She locked her arms around my neck and
“scissored” her legs around my waist. I grabbed the lantern and we left the
darkness of that lower deck. Once we were topside I eased myself . . . and
my passenger . . . over the gunwale, down the rope ladder, and onto the raft.
I thought of the opossum and the raccoon and how the female parents of
these species carried their young, and I said to myself, “Those animals have
nothing over on me.”
I poled the raft directly to shore and made fast . . . which is to say I tied
a rope to a tree . . . and, with my rider securely aboard, walked back home.
Once we were inside the cottage . . . using great care . . . I eased my passenger
down. I then offered her a cup of water, which she took, and then some
grapes, which she also gladly accepted. She then seemed to relax a bit. She
was safe now . . . that was the truth . . . and she seemed to sense it.
She was about seven years old with light brown hair and dark brown eyes
and she was thin . . . worrisomely thin . . . and spoke not at all. Guessing at
the circumstances of her presence on the ship, I thought that perhaps she
was an orphan . . . a street urchin . . . abandoned and left to fend for herself
at an early age. Perhaps she saw the ship docked at some American port . . .
for her features were those of Americans . . . and thought that her luck might
be good if she searched the ship for food, and, with her foraging or perhaps
sleeping in the lower deck, the ship embarked. That was my guess.
I spent that first day with the little girl just trying to not startle her. She
drowsed quite readily early in the evening and I motioned to her to lie down
on my cot, and, in a short while, she was comfortably asleep.
I sat there and watched the little girl sleep. I then got up and went over
to my trunk where I searched for and found the sewing tools and thread.
These were sewing tools designed for the repair of sails, but they would serve
my present need just fine. Then, after rummaging through all the clothes
in the trunk, I picked out two light blue shirts. I had never given much
thought to color when selecting clothes, but it seemed to matter now, and
I was quite concerned that I should make the correct choice.
I used a tape measure to get the little girl’s length and width, and then sat
back down and began unstitching, cutting, and sewing. When the garment
was finished it was a nice little sleeveless dress, and I hung it over the back
of a chair, a chair I then placed next to the sleeping child’s bed, as it was
now . . . and would ever after be . . . her bed.
I then started on the shoes. I selected the best pair of the five or six pairs
that inhabited the depths of my trunk and began unstitching. I measured
the little girl’s little feet, and, in the course of making the shoes, returned to
measure them two more times. I decided that open-toed shoes that could
easily be slipped on and off . . . sandals . . . would be best, and when these
were finished, I placed them on the seat of the chair.
I now needed to fetch some extra bedding from the storage shed, but
as I headed for the backdoor something slowed me and I hesitated for a
good thirty seconds before hastening outside to complete this task in record
time.
I placed the bedding in the corner of the cottage . . . far from where the
child laid sleeping . . . and I stooped down to settle in for the night when a
twinge of fear hit me. I looked over at the little girl and then looked down at
my bedding, and I knew . . . simply knew . . . that this arrangement would
not be at all to the little girl’s liking. So there I camped . . . on the floor . . .
next to the sleeping child.
When I awoke the next morning, the little girl was already up . . . and
dressed. She was delighted with her new dress and shoes and she chattered
quite animatedly, and though I could not understand much of what she
was saying, I interjected “Really?” or “Oh my.” where-ever I found an
opening.
We ate a light breakfast of banana and water . . . and I showed her my
pocket watches. And, as we sat there, it occurred to me that, “She’s needs
milk . . . and I know where to get it.”
CHAPTER 12
It would become known . . . in the history of Martindale Island . . . as The

Great Goat Caper, and it involved the stuff that great novels were made of:
Drama, treachery, intrigue, and conflict.
Using paper cut-outs to represent the little girl, myself, and the goats I
communicated to her the idea of sneaking up on the animals and committing
what could rightfully be called a “kidnap.” The clandestine nature of the plan
set off something of an alarm in her, but I persisted in an earnest defense of
the abduction. She slowly warmed to the scheme and then entered into a
sort of conspiratorial attitude as I explained how we would need to conceal
her presence . . . with her walking mere inches behind me . . . as we neared
our prey.
I then went outside and cut down a large number of tree limbs and,
hammering them into the ground next to the cottage, erected a goat pen . . .
not too large but not too small . . . with walls about three and a half feet high
and a gate. In time I would add a covered shelter, but this would do for the
time being. We then gathered up quite a few berries and greens and, with a
bowl of water, put them into the pen. I then grabbed a forty foot length of
rope and we headed out to the goats’ favorite socializing spot.
As we made our way toward our destination we practiced . . . with some
giggling . . . our “shadow walking” and soon we were within sight of the
herd. I handed the rope to the little girl . . . as I would need both hands . . .
and we approached the goats slowly. With the little girl hidden behind
me, I was sure that . . . to the goats . . . it was just another visit from “that
two-legged animal.” Be that as it may, we moved closer to the herd and I
spotted our prey . . . a she-goat with two little ones nursing . . . and, looking
as innocent as altar boys, we moved in for the capture.
172
We were about twenty feet from our quarry when . . . the little girl was
spotted! I didn’t know which goat sounded the alarm, but an immediate
communication of fear began to spread through the herd . . . and I bolted
at my target. The she-goat tried to run, but it was too late. In a moment I
was on top of her and had her locked securely in my arms. From behind me
came running a . . . little angel . . . hair and dress flowing . . . and carrying,
with a bit of a struggle, the coil of rope.
We tied the rope around the she-goat’s waist. Oh, the pitiful bleating of
that she-goat! “The indignity !” “The betrayal !” But it was all to no avail.
She was now our prisoner. We let the rope out to its full length . . . and
waited. In about fifteen minutes’ time the two young ones returned to their
mother and the gang of us then made our way to the cottage.
In the pen, I tied the she-goat to one of the poles of the wall and offered
her some berries . . . which she refused. The little girl thought the two “kids”
were adorable and tried . . . as they scurried around the pen . . . to pet them.
I went inside, grabbed a cup and a stool, came back out, entered the goat
pen, and sat down. And then . . . I milked a goat.
I showed the goat’s milk to the little girl and then drank some of it. I
offered it to her and she drank some. She liked it. Somehow I communicated
the importance of a child drinking milk as opposed to an adult . . . and she
drained the cup dry, which I was glad to see.
CHAPTER 13
Those first few days together were something of an adjustment period for me,
as now . . . for the first time in my life . . . I had someone who needed me,
and I seemed to move more slowly, for some reason, in everything I did.
It came time, I felt, to go back to that ship. I had no idea how long the
two of us would be stranded on the island, so it would be wise, I knew, to
provide for our long-term needs as much as this opportunity would allow.
Again using paper cut-outs, I communicated to the little girl the
importance of returning to the ship and taking the things we might need.
Perhaps remembering the fun she enjoyed with the goats, she readily accepted
this endeavor as another adventure . . . and we headed out.
When we reached the spot we saw that the raft was still moored to a tree
and the rope ladder was still hanging down the side of the ship. We rafted out
to the ship and climbed up, over, and onto its deck. We then went through
the entire ship . . . deliberately . . . and decided what we wanted to take.
From the cabins we took a nice windowed bookcase, a beautifully crafted
wood dresser, a large sturdy trunk, a world globe, game boards, books,
clothes, shoes, pistols and sabers, towels, blankets, pillows, soaps, lanterns,
lantern oil, matches, a clock, pocket watches, writing paper, pens, ink, and
wine skins. We took all the money we found . . . which was a heavy load
indeed. From the galley we took more matches, a few utensils, a large pot, a
skillet, tomatoes, olives, cheese, large sausages of salt pork and corned beef,
flour, bread, and lard. From the work storage area we took a large quantity
of sail cloth, rope, trawling nets, carpentry tools, sewing tools, shovels, and
pick axes. There was a plentiful supply of gunpowder on board, but, other
than testing the pistols and cannons, I hadn’t fired a shot in three years, so
we brought only one small keg of powder ashore. From the cargo area we
took oranges, lemons, raspberries, and peaches.
174
We dropped all the booty off on the shore directly inland from the
wreckage. The whole salvage job took us two days. We returned the raft to
its original mooring and then began the long chore of carrying all our new
possessions to the cottage. It was on the afternoon of the third day . . . the
third day of our hauling efforts . . . that we brought the last of the loot into
the cabin. It had been hard work, especially for the little girl, but she had
been “game” the whole time . . . never leaving my side and never wanting
to rest if I was not resting.
Once we were settled in with our new belongings I grabbed a hammock
and hooked it up on the front porch. I motioned for the little girl to “get
aboard” and she was soon rocking back and forth. She loved it . . . both
being pushed by me and rocking on her own power . . . and her laughter
and squeals of delight went on . . . without a break . . . for more than an
hour, when I gestured that, well, we should stop.
That night, as the little girl slept, I noticed that a change of some sort
had begun to come over me. I couldn’t pin it down exactly, but I felt . . .
older. I didn’t feel physically older or wiser, but . . . this girl. My acceptance
of the responsibility for this girl’s welfare . . . at the sacrifice of my own
interests . . . made me feel like . . . I had grown. That was it. I felt larger.
And I decided that I liked it . . . that it was good for me.
I glanced over at the sleeping child and, moved by the current of some
vague sentiments, I decided to make her . . . a doll.
I dug the sewing tools out of the trunk and, using sail cloth for the
body, I carefully cut out a shape that would make a doll that was about a
foot and a half in height. For the stuffing I took the softest piece of clothing
I could find . . . a flannel night shirt . . . and shredded it. I made the doll’s
dress identical to the dress the little girl wore, and the hair was made up of
strands from a rope I had untwisted. And finally I used an ink pen to draw
the face . . . a smiling countenance that I hoped would be pleasing to the
little girl.
Once it was completed I laid the doll next to the sleeping girl, and then
I too went to bed.
The next morning I was awakened by what I believed was a finger poking
me in the shoulder. When I opened my eyes, what did I see, but the face of
a doll . . . a mere two inches from my nose . . . staring right back at me. I
flinched, and the little girl laughed. Then, hugging her new playmate, she
danced around the room. “She is pleased.” I said to myself.
It came time, I felt, to give the little girl a name, so we sat there . . .
the three of us . . . and considered the merits of quite a few candidates.
176 Jim O’Brien
Eventually we decided on the name . . . Rachel. But our work was not yet
finished. She now insisted that we give her doll a name, and so, using the
same procedure, we bandied some choices about and finally settled on . . .
Dolly. And all was right with the world.
That night, as Rachel slept . . . with Dolly safely tucked inside her
arm . . . I stood and watched her for a minute or two, and thought of how
she would likely expect to find another present when she wakes up in the
morning. “I know I would.” I chuckled. “Maybe tomorrow I’ll tell her
about Christmas.”
CHAPTER 14
Of the booty from that ship:

The raspberries, lemons, oranges, and peaches were, of course, more
valuable for their seeds than their pulp. From seedlings to saplings to being
transplanted to their permanent homes, these fruit-bearing trees (and bushes)
grew in earnest. I planted about fifty orange and fifty peach trees, only five
lemon trees, and countless raspberry bushes. And so, with the hundred or
more banana trees that already grew on the island, Rachel and I were that
much further away from . . . worry.
The bookcase made a handsome addition to the cottage’s interior and we
used the dresser to store blankets, towels, brushes, soaps, games, and pocket
watches . . . of which we found twelve . . . which brought my collection to
a total of seventeen.
“Oh to be in China for a day!”
The money we hid. The coins . . . mostly pieces of eight and gold
doubloons . . . we added to the coins I had taken off The Sea Serpent and
then wrapped the whole pile with sail cloth. We put this bundle into a large
jar, made sure the jar was securely sealed, and then buried it . . . marking
the spot so we wouldn’t forget where it was. We then did the same thing
for the paper money.
The games were perhaps the most useful things we took off the ship as
they gave Rachel and me countless hours of fun. There was a beautiful chess
set, a nice backgammon set, a set of dominoes, a few packets of playing cards,
and a checkers set . . . which we also used to play tick-tack-toe.
Love grows when people do fun things together. It’s true. And it grows
even more when they do work-type things together . . . voluntarily. But
there is no expression of love more pure than the laughter of a child . . . as
when she “triple jumps” her opponent in a game of checkers.
177
CHAPTER 15
I brought Rachel around to see Turtle Beach. The local residents were, as I
had hoped, out in full force, and she was amazed at the sight of them . . .
especially the giant ones. As it happened, some infant turtles were, at that
moment, making their first journey down through the sand and on into the
ocean. Rachel walked over to them and picked one of the little fellows up,
then put him down, then picked him up again. When she perceived that
the little turtles were trying to get to the water she carried her new friend
to the water’s edge and carefully put him down . . . free of charge. She then
continued this mission of mercy . . . giving some twelve other lucky turtles
transportation to the sea.
I hadn’t eaten a turtle since Rachel’s arrival on Martindale Island, so she
didn’t know that I had ever eaten a turtle. And that would have been . . .
in this situation . . . a relative of the little amphibians she had just now
befriended. After this day, of course, turtle eating would be banned on the
island, and my turtle shell collection . . . once a source of pride . . . now
became a source of awkwardness and anxiety lest the little girl should ever
discover these . . . articles of contraband . . . in the storage shed. And so,
that night, as Rachel slept, I snuck out to the shed, removed the shells . . .
and buried them.
We did, however, cook and eat lobsters . . . and she never showed any
inclination to intercede on their behalf. I had built a lobster trap. Having
grown up in Boston, I had, of course, seen lobster traps many times, and
they were all fundamentally the same: A funnel of netting inside a wooden
cage, a funnel that is easy for the lobsters to enter in through . . . and reach
the bait inside . . . but impossible for them . . . owing to their large claws . . .
to exit through. And the lobster hunting off Martindale Island was excellent.
One of our favorite recipes was:
178
1. Take one large lobster.

2. Boil until red.
3. Remove tail and claw meat and cut into small pieces.
4. Set aside.
5. Take three large potatoes.
6. Peel and then boil under tender.
7. Cut into small pieces.
8. Place lobster, potatoes, and four cups of goat’s milk into a large
pot.
9. Let sit over a fire for an hour or so.
10. Stir occasionally.
There was a plentiful supply of fish off the island as well. The most
effective means of catching them, I learned, was to take a large square of
netting, attach four weights to its corners, sneak out to the coral reef, and
toss the net over the fish. We always caught more fish than we needed, and
would, each time, administer a pardon to the extras . . . letting them go free.
This, however, started me thinking about building some sort of holding
pen for fish.
After a little planning I went out and dug a pit about seventy five feet
from the ocean shore. It was quite wide but not very deep, and I lined it
with rocks. I then dug a ditch from the pit to the ocean and lined it with
rocks also. And when I knocked out the last chunk of earth that separated
the ditch from the ocean the water flowed in and filled the pit. As an added
touch I gathered some ocean plants and coral and transplanted them into
our new little pond. And this was where we now stored our extra fish and
lobsters.
This ditch . . . or canal . . . would fill with water, but only during periods
of high tide . . . giving the little pond a twice-daily replenishment of fresh
salt water. The worry, of course, was that the imprisoned sea creatures . . .
if they were clever enough to discover it . . . now had a means of escape.
Initially I had wanted to leave it that way . . . giving the poor chaps a sporting
chance to regain their freedom . . . but decided, in the end, to prop up some
netting where the canal joined the pond.
CHAPTER 16
There were two look-out points on Martindale Island. One was on the
western side of the island . . . near where we lived . . . and the other was on
the eastern side. Each location had a cannon and a storage crate that held
a ram-rod, gunpowder, cloth wicks, matches, and a spyglass. I had never
given any thought to the names of these two locations, simply calling them
both “The look-out point.” But this duplication of names bothered Rachel
a bit, and she said:
Rachel: They should have different names.

I: And what do you suggest?
Rachel: We can call them “Look-out point number one”
and “Look-out point number two.”
And that was what they became.

It sometimes rained on the island for three or four days straight, which
meant that, if we wanted to eat, there were times when we had to brave the
elements. We had matching rain gear outfits . . . poncho-like garments and
rain hats that had tie strings . . . that I had made from sail material, and
we’d venture out into the storm together to fetch some fruit or, it might
be, some fish. It was always a warm weather rain and it was usually a fun
chore for us to do.
This one day, while Rachel and I were swimming off the beach near our
home . . . and all was sunny and dry . . . we heard a hissing noise coming
from out on the ocean, and it brought our horseplay to a stop. There, far
out on the water, it was raining, and the rain storm was heading our way.
I had, of course, seen rain storms many times, but they had always started
from above . . . never from the side . . . like this one. As the wall of rain got
180
closer, we could hear the slapping of the raindrops on the water’s surface and
we could see the millions of tiny water ripples they were creating. And then
this . . . moving waterfall . . . covered us. Rachel squealed. I laughed. And we
just stayed out there . . . splashing around, splashing each other . . . for ten
minutes or so before heading up to the cottage to dry off and warm up.
Later that afternoon we sat down to practice Rachel’s reading. It was a
long session and she tried hard. Afterward, while we were playing a game
of checkers, she spoke:
Rachel: Jimmy?
I: Yes Rachel.
Rachel: We are lucky.
I: Very lucky.
Rachel: We are happy and we have everything we want.
I: I can’t think of anything I want that I don’t already
have.
Rachel: We are lucky . . . indeed.
I: Indeed.
After we finished playing checkers I decided to tell Rachel about God.

The time seemed ripe for it. Her soil, figuratively speaking, had been
prepared, and now it was time to plant the seed.
It was a lot for a child to understand . . . as it is a lot for an adult to
understand . . . but she accepted it with that great child innocence and
trust.
That evening, as we were walking along the beach, we stopped to look
at the sunset. Twilight is perhaps the most pleasant part of the day, and we
watched as the sun slowly went into hiding behind the horizon. Rachel then
spotted a conch shell half-buried in the sand. She pulled it out and inspected
it. It was a nice shell. I curled my fingers inside to make sure nobody was at
home and then rinsed off the sand. And Rachel carried it with her for the
remainder of our walk. Once we were back in the cottage she put the conch
shell on the table next to her bed . . . a place of honor . . . so she could look
at it while she was going to sleep. And that was the beginning of Rachel’s
seashell collection.
CHAPTER 17
It was the thirteenth year of my captivity on Martindale Island . . . and the

tenth for Rachel. On this particular afternoon we were gathering firewood
along the beach when we spotted a sailing ship far off on the ocean. My
heart leapt. I ran up to look-out point number one, pulled the spyglass out
from the storage crate there, and held it up to take a good look. The ship
was flying the colors of Great Britain. It looked like it was a navy vessel
and the crew . . . as best as I could make out . . . seemed to move about
in a disciplined manner, which I took to be a good sign. “This will be safe
passage for us.” I thought to myself.
I started to load the cannon. Rachel was soon there with me, but I could
tell that something was troubling her.
I: What’s wrong Rachel?

Rachel: We should stay.
I: We should stay?
Rachel: Yes. We should stay.
I: Why should we stay Rachel?
Rachel: We are happy here and we have everything we
need . . . and no worries.
I: (pause) You are right. You are right.
And she was right. We lacked nothing on Martindale Island, and our
lives were full and rich. In society, I knew, people were often anxious . . .
always chasing after something, always worried about something . . . and
here Rachel and I enjoyed a freedom from all of that, a freedom I’m sure
many of those people wished they had.
182
I still wanted to fire the cannon, but my sense of urgency had been
tempered somewhat by this newfound appreciation for our lives on the
island. With mixed emotions I looked out at the ship . . . then over at Rachel.
I had tried . . . since she was a little girl . . . to love Rachel, and, at those
times when her thinking ventured from what I knew to be right, I would . . .
will myself in her direction. But now . . .
Was my getting off the island so vital? Did I really know what was best?
What about Rachel? The heart is such a delicate thing . . . deep, yes . . .
unfathomable really . . . but sensitive and easily hurt. Did I want to risk
hurting Rachel, and did I really want to live with the memory of having
hurt her?
I stopped loading the cannon.
A ship sailing past the island was still a special event for us . . . and I didn’t
want to be a spoilsport . . . so Rachel and I brought a bowl of raspberries and
two spyglasses over to look-out point number one. And, as we sat there . . .
looking out at this ship . . . we “gossiped” about the sailors on board:
I: The captain is a serious man.

Rachel: Oh yes. And he has been in the navy a long time.
I: As was his father before him.
Rachel: He showed great courage during that storm last
year.
I: And what a terrible hurricane it was!
Rachel: The first mate is from Ireland.
I: And his wife’s name is Mary Elizabeth.
Rachel: (laughs) And they have seven children.
I: All girls!
Rachel: (laughs) He wants to be a house builder when he
gets out of the navy.
And so on. The ship slowly glided across the horizon and eventually
sailed out of sight. It had been a good little show.
That evening we were again at look-out point number one. We had
cooked some fish over the fire pit and the fire was still burning . . . in its late
stages . . . with the embers giving off a romantic glow. I stood there looking
out at the waves that were breaking on the shore below, and then looked up
to admire the full moon that was sitting so quietly in the night sky. Rachel
came over and stood with me.
184 Jim O’Brien
Rachel, now a woman, had blossomed into a person of appealing

attributes. She was pretty . . . friendly pretty . . . and possessed unselfishness,
kindness, a funny wit, and a good sense of right and wrong.
And, as we stood there on look-out point number one, a warm ocean
breeze tried . . . politely . . . to get by us. I eased my right arm behind Rachel
and caught a gentle hold of her waist. She leaned into me and snuggled
against my side. It was about to happen . . . and we both sensed it. I was
nervous. She laughed. I looked at her and said, “Forever.” Looking up into
my eyes she then said, “Forever.” I shook a little . . . one of those deep
internal shakings . . . and I felt the pain . . . her pain . . . inside me, and I
knew it had been done. The union had been completed.
In my life, up to that time, I had always harbored a sort of loneliness, a
feeling that . . . despite the presence of people . . . would gnaw at the heart
of my well being. After this moment I would never be bothered by that
feeling again.
For us, the next few days on the island were blissful, and time seemed
to pass by unannounced.
It may well be said that, “It’s a good thing a husband and his wife
cannot read each other’s mind.” but such a “benefit” was not ours to enjoy.
When I now tried to say something to make Rachel laugh . . . as I had done
many times before . . . she would laugh before I could get a word out of my
mouth. And if I thought that we should retire to our little cottage for the
evening or, it might be, to pay a visit to our friends the turtles, she would . . .
apprehend . . . my thoughts and would respond . . . in kind . . . and we’d
move along with there scarcely having been a word spoken.
And it should be noted that Rachel’s plea of “We should stay.” was not
without its Providence. You see, the year was 1813, and, unbeknownst to us,
England was at war with the United States. And so, if we had succeeded in
drawing the attention of the crew of that British naval ship we, very likely,
would have been taken prisoner and all of our possessions, as likely, would
have been seized.
CHAPTER 18
She was a runner. A little gallivanter. Set her down and off she’d go . . . the
happiest little girl in the world. Often I would give chase and, trailing her
by a few feet, I’d say, “Ashley, Ashley . . . now you’d better stop.” Of course,
stopping . . . at that moment . . . was the last thing in the world she wanted
to do. This little game would go on for fifteen or twenty minutes and then
I’d “scoop” her up . . . and she’d let out a squeal. Cradling her in my arms
I would cover her face with kisses. She would then reach out and pat the
sides of my face with her small pudgy hands. Her mother would always be
nearby and the three of us would then move on to whatever activity was
next on the list.
It was when little Ashley turned three that we decided it was time for us
to leave Martindale Island. Rachel and I were in perfect agreement on the
matter. Ashley’s childhood, we knew, would be more enriched if she had
other children to play with and, more importantly, we could not . . . simply
could not . . . deprive her of marriage and the joy of having children of her
own. And we felt the time to act was now.
It was a prayer. And we knew it was a prayer. We hadn’t knelt nor
clasped our hands together nor even bowed our heads, but we had tried . . .
everyday . . . to believe in and trust in God, and this was a heartfelt wish,
a wish not for our own benefit, but for the sake of our daughter. And so it
was, without any words having been spoken, a prayer.
So we began to prepare for our departure.
First off, we decided that, whatever we brought with us, it had to be
limited to what could be carried in one trunk. We could not, under any
circumstances, be a burden to the ship or its crew. These keepsakes would
eventually include the game boards, my pocket watch collection, Rachel’s
first conch shell, and . . . Dolly.
185
186 Jim O’Brien
We would need proper clothing. For me this was not a problem as there
was a veritable haberdashery of things for me to choose from, but for the
girls it was a different matter and I would need to make suitable garments
for the both of them.
I patterned Rachel’s dress after the formal attire ladies wore in public
when I lived in Boston. To imitate the effect of crinoline I fashioned five
layers of sail material into a sort of petticoat, and, for the dress itself, I found
five shirts of the same color . . . a deep blue . . . and unstitched, cut, and
sewed them into a gown.
When Rachel tried it on, it created something a stir inside that little
cottage of ours. We, of course, had always worn the simplest of clothes
and this formal wear was quite a glamorous departure from what we were
accustomed to seeing.
Rachel decided to put on a little fashion show for Ashley and me. She
curtsied, twirled, and then took slow gliding steps across the room. When
she reached the backdoor, Rachel spun around and pretended to stumble.
She then limped her way back across the room. I smiled and had a good
laugh . . . inwardly.
The making of Ashley’s dress required much less material and time, but,
after having seen her mother so stylishly attired, she was very eager to have
the same thing for herself, and she . . . harassed me until it was finished.
Next we made two extra long hand-held flagpoles to which we attached
extra large white flags. With a giant flag stored on either side of the island
we’d be ready to draw the attention of the ship’s crew when the time came
to do so.
We had to test-fire the cannons and, for the cannon on look-out point
number two, this was not a problem, but for the cannon on look-out point
number one it caused us some concern as little Ashley had never heard a
noise that loud before. So we settled on the following course of action:
I stood next to the loaded cannon holding a loaded pistol. Rachel and
Ashley stood about a hundred feet away. Ashley raised her right arm into
the air and held it there, and I aimed the pistol skyward. After a moment
or two . . . when she decided she wanted to give the command . . . Ashley
swung her arm down sharply. And I fired the pistol. Mother then leaned
down to daughter and said, “It will be louder dear.” Then, following the
same procedure, we tested the cannon . . . with it causing a little jump in
the girl, but not too much fright.
Next we dug up the money. We separated it into two piles: Money to
be carried with us and money to be hidden in the trunk. I wanted to carry
enough pieces of eight and gold doubloons . . . currency I was certain would
be accepted . . . to cover the expenses we would incur, and I also wanted to
keep out all of the paper money . . . currency that often becomes outdated
or displaced . . . with the intention of redeeming it the first chance we got.
The rest of the money . . . all coins . . . we spread out on top of some sail
cloth we had placed at the bottom of the trunk. We then laid more sail
cloth on top of the coins. I had cut a board to the exact shape of the inside
of the trunk, and we placed this “false bottom” on top of the whole lot . . .
fastening it down with screws.
Finally we wrote a “To Whom It May Concern” letter that explained the
occasion of our being on the island and also the ins and outs of surviving on
the island, and we nailed this communication to a wall inside the cottage.
We were ready.
CHAPTER 19
The day came.

It was about a month after we had sent up our prayer . . . or perhaps
the prayer hadn’t traveled but was heard none-the-less . . . and the three of
us . . . with Ashley riding on my shoulders . . . made our way over to look-out
point number one to cook and eat an afternoon meal. Ashley dismounted
and I started a fire in the fire pit.
While attending to Ashley, Rachel casually looked out at the ocean . . .
and then froze. “Jim.” she said, and I quickly looked up and then out at
the water. A sailing ship was about a half-mile off our coast. I dug out the
spyglass and had a look. It was an American naval vessel and it appeared to
be heading in our direction.
If there had been some invention that was able to measure excitement,
the needle on its gauge would have . . . at that moment . . . registered a jump
from zero to one hundred. Ashley didn’t understand what the commotion was
all about, but she could tell that her parents were excited about something,
and . . . without really having much of a choice . . . she got excited too.
I started to load the cannon and the girls moved off and stood about
a hundred feet away. When the cannon was ready to go, Ashley . . . in
one fluid motion . . . raised her right arm into the air and swung it down
sharply. And I fired the cannon. I then started waving the giant flag like a
madman. Then we heard a sound I will never forget: The ship fired one of
its cannons. I looked over at Rachel. “It is over now.” I said in my thoughts,
“We are to leave now.”
I began to reload the cannon. Rachel and Ashley hurried up to the
cottage where they tied up the she-goat and . . . milked her dry. Rachel then
decanted this important liquid into a wine skin. In the meantime, I had fired
the cannon a second time and returned to waving the flag. The ship fired a
188
second cannon shot. I dropped the flag and hustled down to the beach to
start a fire where we wanted the ship’s longboat to come ashore.
After getting this fire going I went over to our little pond and fished out
all of the tenants and evicted them into the sea. I then filled in a section of
the canal with rocks. After this I scurried up the hill, stopped to douse the
fire on look-out point number one, and then ran the rest of the way to the
cottage to rejoin the girls.
We now had to return the she-goat to her former way of life. Rachel
and Ashley gathered up some berries and greens while I knocked down part
of the goat pen walls. Then . . . with little Ashley at my chest in a sort of
papoose I had made . . . and with the goat in tow . . . we hoofed it out to
the goat herd’s favorite gathering spot. Once there, we untied the she-goat,
laid the goat treats on the ground, and sort-of induced her to eat them. We
then made a hasty retreat, and, fortunately, the she-goat didn’t follow us.
Back at the cottage, the girls got dressed while I lugged the trunk down
to the shore. The ship was just then dropping anchor. “Plenty of time.” I
said to myself. Back home again . . . for it would be our home for twenty
minutes or so longer . . . I shaved and got dressed. As a last minute idea, I
grabbed four of the best pistols and four of the best sabers and tied them
into a sort of bundle and carried it with me as the three of us made our way
down to the shore . . . to greet our guests.
To the crew of the approaching longboat . . . seeing us standing there on
shore wearing our Sunday best . . . it must have appeared that a well-to-do
young family had recently been marooned on the island. Be that as it may,
when the boat came ashore greetings were exchanged and we and our trunk
were helped aboard. One of the sailors stood on the beach and gave the
longboat a good offshore shove . . . and then hopped in. We were on our
way. We were leaving Martindale Island for ever.
We were rowed out to the main ship and . . . with Ashley in the papoose
again . . . we climbed a heavy-duty rope ladder up the side of the ship and
were helped onto the ship’s main deck. More greetings were exchanged and
I presented the weapons to the officers of the ship. These gifts were very
well received. We were then offered a bite to eat in the ship’s dining room,
but before being escorted below deck Rachel and I looked out at our island
and . . . in an intimate understanding that no one else in the world could
have appreciated . . . we shared a pensive smile.
During the meal we did not volunteer much information beyond the fact
that we had been marooned. Rachel and I had decided beforehand that our
story . . . if truthfully given . . . would generate exactly the sort of attention
190 Jim O’Brien
we sought to avoid. The sailors were polite and, after determining that we
were Americans . . . and I supposed that we were . . . the conversation shifted
to our host. The ship was a naval frigate, the captain told us, out pirate
hunting, and it was due in port in Philadelphia . . . and that was fine with
us. He went on to say that he had been in the navy a long time, adding, “As
was my father before me.” At this comment, Rachel and I broke into smiles.
After we had finished eating, the captain showed us to our cabin . . .
where we found our trunk waiting for us . . . and the three of us then tried
to get comfortable. But it was an odd set of emotions that Rachel and I
were going through. Here we were leaving an uncharted and unpeopled
part of the world . . . and we felt a sense of loss, and we were on our way to
a populated and civilized place and it felt like we were going into the great
unknown.
The ship docked in Philadelphia and, after extending our heartfelt
thanks, we bid captain and crew farewell. We were at the docks, so I inquired
about transportation to Boston, and was told that a ship would be sailing
for that destination in four days. So I booked our passage. We then hired
a carriage to take us to a nice hotel in town, and after getting settled in
our room, the three of us went outside for a stroll through the streets of
Philadelphia. It was still within business hours, so we stopped at a bank and
exchanged our old American paper money for new American paper money.
I had the thought of buying a new dress to exchange for the old dress . . .
but was vetoed. We then returned to the hotel and ate a light supper in the
dining room there.
That night in our room, as Ashley slept, it dawned on me that Rachel
and I were not legally married. It made no difference to us really . . . as
our marriage was based on the approval of a higher authority . . . but what
about little Ashley and any other children we might be blessed with? Those
disparaging comments . . . that would surely come . . . would simply not do.
So, bright and early the next morning, we visited the Philadelphia City Hall
where we obtained legal permission to marry in the state of Pennsylvania.
We then hunted up an understanding Presbyterian minister and, inside the
parsonage, with the minister’s wife witnessing and little Ashley standing
between her mother and father, he performed the sacred rite. The documents
then being signed, we departed to spend our “honeymoon” in the City of
Brotherly Love.
The voyage to Boston took two days and, as we neared the harbor, I
felt . . . nothing. It was, I decided, a brand new place for all three of us. Once
on shore, we hired a carriage and had the driver take us to Paul Matthews’
clothier shop, which I was very glad to see was still in existence. We had
the driver wait while Ashley, Rachel, and I went inside and greeted a . . .
dumbfounded tailor. “Your cottage is in fine shape Jimmy.” said he, “And
so’s your money.” After chatting about this and that . . . mostly what had
become of me the previous seventeen years . . . we left Paul’s shop, climbed
into the carriage, and made our way . . . home. When we stepped into that
old cottage of mine it felt comfortable, and I looked over at Rachel to see
her reaction . . . and she smiled. Great girl. And we settled in.
It was six months or so after our arrival in Boston that Rachel and I
found ourselves experiencing some doubts. We were not altogether sure that
we were better off than we had been on the island. Our lives were more
complicated now, and we had . . . worries.
But we gave a little party for Ashley and invited all of the neighborhood
children who were close to her in age. This, we hoped, would sort-of ease
Ashley into the local toddler society. And when Rachel and I saw her running
around . . . so happy . . . giving the other children a tour of the cottage,
supervising (sort-of ) the pony cart rides (we had bought her a pony and a
cart), we knew that we had made the right decision.
And now, as I sit here writing this story, Ashley is ten years old, Paul
is six, Eric is three, and baby Martha is on her mother’s lap. And I think
that . . . life is good . . . and giving . . . rather than taking . . . is the essence
of Christianity.
I: Have I left anything out?

Rachel: You did not mention the tree climbing episode . . .
thank you.
I: We did get you down eventually.
Rachel: We were very lucky to have had that island . . . to
have met there.
I: Very lucky . . . indeed.
Rachel: Indeed.
THE END
Jim O’Brien
P. O. Box 1098
Franklin, PA 16323
jimobrien1113@yahoo.com
This book was distributed courtesy of:
For your own Unlimited Reading and FREE eBooks today, visit:
http://www.Free-eBooks.net
Share this eBook with anyone and everyone automatically by selecting any of the
options below:
To show your appreciation to the author and help others have

wonderful reading experiences and find helpful information too,
we'd be very grateful if you'd kindly
post your comments for this book here.
COPYRIGHT INFORMATION
Free-eBooks.net respects the intellectual property of others. When a book's copyright owner submits their work to Free-eBooks.net, they are granting us permission to distribute such material. Unless
otherwise stated in this book, this permission is not passed onto others. As such, redistributing this book without the copyright owner's permission can constitute copyright infringement. If you
believe that your work has been used in a manner that constitutes copyright infringement, please follow our Notice and Procedure for Making Claims of Copyright Infringement as seen in our Terms
of Service here:
http://www.free-ebooks.net/tos.html
3 AUDIOBOOK COLLECTIONS
6 BOOK COLLECTIONS

The Perfect Prank and Other Stories

Uploaded by

Copyright:

Available Formats

The Perfect Prank and Other Stories

Uploaded by

Document Information

Original Title

Copyright

Available Formats

Share this document

Share or Embed Document

Sharing Options

Did you find this document useful?

Is this content inappropriate?

Copyright:

Available Formats

The Perfect Prank and Other Stories

Uploaded by

Copyright:

Available Formats

The Perfect Prank

ISBN: Softcover 978-1-4500-2433-4

This book was printed in the United States of America.

To order additional copies of this book, contact:

The Perfect Prank ....................................................................................9

The Meeting .........................................................................................53

For A Bowl of Stew ...............................................................................61

The Barclay School................................................................................65

The Last Dragon .................................................................................133

The Fortunate Man .............................................................................141

Scrambled Eggs and Bacon

As the breakfast is being eaten, the conversation on this Saturday

Erin: Has anyone ever done a prank at Holmes School

Coach Dad: Tammy, Sadie, Brooke?

Erin: Nice hit Elizabeth.

Erin: Seven. Saint Charles Place. I’ll buy it.

Ice cream is cold

Ice cream is fun

Now Ashley tries:

Ice cream is fun

Erin then chimes in:

During the week

And now Mom jumps in:

On the day of the Fourth of July parade . . . which is scheduled to start at

The bedroom arrangement in our family’s home is sort-of unique. Not to

Tammy: It’s all right Ashley. It’s nothing to be afraid of.

But Ashley isn’t so sure.

Ashley: You two all right in there?

Dad: I’m leaving my light on . . . all night!

And there is a little . . . giggling all around.

It is autumn now . . . late October to be specific . . . and the oldest girl,

Erin: That lady should have a beeper.

Tammy: The assistant manager says tomorrow at two o’clock.

The first to descend the stairs . . . and ascend up onto a stool . . . is

Dad: What’ll it be girls?

Everyone is enjoying their banana pancakes . . . a favorite meal in this

Erin: We could have Elizabeth’s mom stay for lunch.

Elizabeth’s mother “will have to stand, of course.” because, during these

Erin: I have an idea.

And so it is agreed upon. The four children will do battle against

Elizabeth’s mom: Are we going to win?

Erin: Too tight?

Erin: Now do it again . . . really fast.

Erin: OK. You’re all set. STARTING.

And Erin hustles back to a spot behind her barricade.

Dad: (to Elizabeth’s mom) Get down!

And Elizabeth’s mom drops down into a . . . squat.

Erin: Five . . . four . . . three . . .

And Elizabeth’s mom “scooches” over to her right to a spot behind a

Erin: . . . two . . . one . . . LET THE GAME BEGIN.

Erin: One Nothing.

and is vigilantly . . . though warily . . . guarding against the possibility of

Ashley: Still nine to two.

Elizabeth’s mom is feeling glum. Their side is being “whupped” and

Mom: Nine Six.

Mom and Dad then load up “the trolley” (a serving contraption on

Dad: Do you remember that Christmas Eve when . . .

Mom: FLANK. 4,5,6,7 . . . double letter K . . . that’s plus

Dad: It should be pretty good sledding tomorrow.