A Catherine Noon

Describe a train ride. The idea is to show travel, but I found it incredibly hard to do – the funny thing is, I ride a train to work every day. So I assumed it would be easy to write about. Not so much. I did have fun with it, and it helped other projects, but this one was hard to get down onto the keyboard.

“Chicago”

The number 93 bus pulls up at the Kimball terminal on Lawrence Avenue, and pulls past the entrance to park halfway down the block. The driver is stubborn about where the 93’s stop is – he won’t stop where the 81 does, which is right in front of the terminal doors. No, the 93 stop is halfway down the block, so halfway down the block we go. A small knot of passengers waits on the sidewalk, all ages and ethnicities – African American, Mexican-Indian, Pakistani, one White lady with silver hair in a bun, tendrils dripping around her face. I push past the family of African Americans who don’t make room for the disembarking passengers and hear the Arabian man behind me say something sharp to the mother. She mutters a swearword at him but moves grudgingly out of the way, hauling her little boy away by the arm. I walk up the sidewalk to the entrance to the station, past a group of transit employees in uniform, with “CTA” emblazoned on their chests. Chicago Transit Authority. A quasi-governmental agency, it’s really privately run and wastes a tremendous amount of money every year. It’s one of the last bastions of the old political order, the patronage jobs that could be had for doing favors for one’s local Alderman. I turn left, into the building’s atrium, and move up to the entrance. There are four narrow turnstiles and one handicapped one, which is nice and wide with a swinging door. I’d really prefer to use it, because my bags make me wider than two people walking abreast, but I hate fumbling with it. It’s embarrassing because I still haven’t quite figured out how to open it. So I sigh, and push my way through the narrow entrance, bumping my hips as I go. I feel the blood flame into my face and hope no one is watching. The attendant watches me as I go through and I can feel his eyes on my ass as I go through. He seems to ignore the wedding band, even though it’s on the hand that faces him whenever I go through the turnstile. Talk about optimism.

There are three tracks at Kimball. The far left isn’t used as often and you can feel it if you walk down it – a sense of disuse. I prefer the central walkway, where trains are on either side. After the reconstruction, they now run eight-car trains in the rush periods (morning and evening). Usually it’s only six, and four on the weekends. I like being in the front train car because I can look out the front of the train and have a sense of direction, of setting the trail. I like to be either the lead or the tail of any line of people. I don’t like being in the middle, it feels constricting. I pick my favorite seat, a single chair on the right side of the train by the window. These trains have eight single seats, sometimes ten if there are two at the tail of the car. The other train lines only have double seats, side by side. I don’t really like sitting next to people. My single seat is right against the window so I can watch as we go. I pull out my morning pages, sometimes having written a little on the bus here, sometimes not – it depends how crowded the bus is. We set off, moving slowly out of the station. The train car is nearly empty, this early in the morning, particularly since they switched to eight cars. Few people want to walk all the way down the platform to the first car, but I don’t mind – it’s nice to have the solitude.

I will sometimes track our progress in my morning pages, using a diamond in the left margin for stations, and writing their name above it. Kedzie is first. The train rocks a little on the long turn out of the station. The front car bounces less than the others, and if I’m in the last car I really feel the rails. I’m usually in the last car on the way home. Michael goes to work before me and parks at the next station after Kedzie, Francisco; I only have to come back to Francisco in the afternoons. After Francisco, I like to watch the scenery, because we go over the river. I find that the river changes by day – sometimes, the ducks swim, and once I saw a green heron fishing. There are little boats belonging to the houses along the shore and I wish I could take a boat and wander the river.

Rockwell is next, the last of the ground-level stations on the Brown Line. The rest are elevated, which is why they call the trains in Chicago the “L.” It’s usually fun to be that far above things, we’re up about the third storey. But a few weeks ago there was a derailment on one of the other train lines, the Green Line that goes out to West Chicago and Oak Park. It was scary. The rain derailed sideways to the tracks. If it hadn’t been at a junction, where there were extra tracks on either side of the main one, the cars would have gone right off to the road below. I think about that ass we leave Rockwell, on our way to Western. It’s not a comforting thought, but I have to trust in the Universe since this is how I get to work every day. Sometimes, having my head in the sand is a necessary evil.

After Western, we get into the stations that are being rebuilt. All the stations before Western are completed, somewhat. They didn’t finish entirely, but enough to reopen them. Damen is the first one; when we pass it all you can see are the skeletal girders that will house the new station. The last time there was a significant overhaul of these stations was in 1953, so they’re long overdue. Then we come to Montrose. I had a friend who I wanted to date who lived on Montrose. He lies in California with his new wife. Paul Mullins, he is an actor in Hollywood. Then we come to Irving Park. It’s one of the new stations too, but it’s ugly. I don’t like the new rectangular panels, they have small squares cut into the sheet metal. They’ll look awful in a few years with the accumulated grime of pigeon droppings and messy snows. I’m not sure why they were picked, but someone must think they look nice. Chicago is a contender for the Olympics, so the mayor wants the trains to show off our best side. Someone thinks this is our best side. No accounting for tastes. Addison is closed for remodeling, and you can’t even see the skeleton of the old station anymore. They’ve taken it down to the track, with the building materials on either side of the road below. Heavy barricades keep people out of the station and I wonder if anyone ever tries to break in.

I usually finish my pages before Belmont, which is a huge interchange. They’re doing a major track overhaul and the three train lines that go north and south are all on one track now in the mornings. It’s a clusterfuck. I hate it. The Red Line, the Purple Line, and the Brown Line all use the same track between Belmont and Fullerton, which is four stops. It’s caused so many delays, Mayor Daley put his foot down and the CTA announced in the news last month they’ll finish six months ahead of schedule, in December of this year instead of next summer. I’m glad. This is silly. It should be nice when it’s done, because there will be three tracks instead of just two – one for each of the three train lines. We stop on the long turn leading into Belmont and hear the rumble and clatter of a train heading back to Kimball. For some reason, I always feel like I should pull my arms back inside the train – even though the windows don’t open. I suppose this is because when I was little, my mother always told me not to put my arms outside the car window – if we get too close to another car, it’ll get chopped off. Not very realistic, but the admonition stayed with me and I still find myself paranoid when two trains pass each other. The tracks wiggle and bounce with the passage of the other train and I remember the derailment. But we emerge safely to Belmont, moving slowly into the station past the hundreds of people waiting to board.

Another morning in Chicago.

This has an interesting approach. Rather than just write a story, we write a list of all the items we can remember from our household home. We don’t order the list, just write it without censoring. Then, read the list, and circle any items that remind you strongly of something. Write a story using as many of the objects as you can – doing that is called using ‘topography’ to tell a story.

“Mouse!”

I used to feed the horses before I went to school. I got up at six o’clock in the morning, before the sun had reached our small valley. The valley ran east to west, so the sun came up at one end, and sank down behind the mountains at the other end. Our house also stretched east to west with the front only one storey, but the back was set against a hill so it was two storeys. Tall trees on the south side blocked the worst of the summer heat.

The path to the barn led from the back porch, down the black metal stairs and around the large back patio. I used to have to sweep that patio in the summer and the tree seeds would flutter down and get caught in between the planks. It was next to impossible to get them out from between the joints and it took forever to sweep it clean.

My stepdad made a path from rocks down between the patio and the well house. The wishing well, made from stone and sporting a wooden roof, could actually be used for drinking water. You’d let the bucket fall in and the winch would unwind at terrific speed. My mother was afraid one of us kids would get whacked on the head by it and killed. It never happened, but her paranoia rubbed off on me and I’d always let the bucket down while standing on the opposite side of the opening from the winch. The water tasted good and slightly metallic, and it was always amazing to me that it was potable.

The big area sat in a large open space, the size of half a football field. The path to the barn ran across the road that led to the arena gate, alongside it and off the end to where the barn stood. The tack shed was on the right, one of the three original outbuildings on the property. It used to be over to the right by the clock shop, but we had it moved when we bought the place. The big prefab barn was brown fake wood with wrought iron sides and roof. It echoed when it rained like somebody banging on a pot with a wooden spoon. To its left stood the huge hay barn, really just a roof with three sides where we stored half a semi-truck full of hay – about twenty tons. We’d buy it once a year and it was always something to watch the truck driver maneuver down the narrow gravel road and back out again.

I would go into the main barn, the central section open to the elements but equipped with a heavy sliding door should we need to close out the rain. We lined about twenty bales of alfalfa along the back wall up on pallets, with a fifty-gallon aluminum trash can full of grain. We’d feed half a coffee-can of grain in the morning along with a flake of the hay – the bales were put together so they’d flake off in four or five inch chunks. Each of the horses had a feed bin so their food stayed off the ground. It’s not good to feed them on the ground because they can get sick that way, but one of our horses preferred it and would pull all of his food out and dump it on his floor. What are you going to do about that? Here’s a half-ton animal deciding how he wants his meal. You let him have it that way, and hope he doesn’t come down with anything.

One morning, the moon rose heavy and full over the mountains. It hadn’t set yet, and its light seemed very bright. I went into the barn and left the flashlight off, since the reflected light from outside came through the door and windows and left me enough to see by. Farazha and Thunder whickered softly to me as I entered, hungry for breakfast. I made my way to the grain bin first and opened the lid.

Something jumped on my hand and ran up my arm. The whatzit ran over my shoulder, down my back and out of the barn before my dog so much as snuffled.

I stood there for a few beats, relearning how to breath. I remembered I had a flashlight – hell, I could’ve turned on the barn lights, the switch was right by the door. I shined the heavy flashlight into the grain bin, expecting to not find anything since whatever it was had already used me as an escape vehicle.

Nestled in the coffee can full of grain, on top of more grain than they could eat in fifty lifetimes, lay six tiny white mouse babies.

This is one of my favorite of Mr. Novakovich’s exercises, and one that captures the essence of what I like about his writing style. I’m going to quote a paragraph from the text here, so that you can see what I mean. This is from his book, Fiction Writer’s Workshop, and I highly recommend this book to anyone who wants to learn to write or improve their skills.

“Imagine some event that could have happened to you but did not – something that you wanted or feared. First, make up the basic outline of the event, and then incorporate true details. Put your teapot and cats into the story; they won’t sue you. Your knowledge of these details will help you convince your reader of the truthfulness of the story’s main event. Don’t spend much time on introducing this event or on drawing conclusions. Just give us the scene with your desire (or fear) acted out. Keep yourself as the main protagonist.”

“Airplane”

The Asian lady next to me was named Louise, and she was nice. Her nose was really small, close to her face, but she had these cool glasses that were all silver frames and round and stuff. They were really cool. The man in the aisle seat was older, like my dad, and he was fat. His name was Bill. His belly stuck out over his pants and his belt strained to hold it in. He wore a yellow shirt over a white undershirt and his brown pants pockets had a white lining you could see when they gaped.

The stewardesses were Mary and Cindy. They let me hand out peanuts and help collect empty drink cups. I collected the little liquor bottles because I like having little bottles in my collection. I washed them out and put them on my shelves like a display. They look pretty with flowers in them. The dried flowers are the best because they don’t fall over and spill water everywhere.

“Ladies and gentlemen, if you’ll take your seats. The Captain has turned on the seat belt sign.”

The voice droned on. I sighed, bored, and put my belt back on. I didn’t like it, because it made me feel stuck in the seat, but if the Captain said, I guess you can’t really argue, right? I stared out the window at Colorado, the Rockies were on my right. They didn’t look like much from this height, wreathed in wispy clouds like smoke.

Mary came up to our row and stopped to talk to the man. I was a minor, she explained, traveling alone. My parents would meet the plane in San Francisco. He agreed to be my guardian for the flight. I didn’t really like that idea, because he was, well, fat. The Asian lady was a lot better choice, but they didn’t ask me. I was too intimidated to speak up.

The plane started bumping a little in turbulence, but that was pretty normal for this flight. I took it all the time, visiting my grandparents in Ohio. My mom and them didn’t get along, so I went by myself. It was fun to go through the airport alone and know where I was going. The airlines had never given me a guardian before, though.

I took out my book and started reading, since I couldn’t walk around anymore. I was bored but the book was good. I got it from the library at school, one of Phyllis Whitney’s, the Mystery on the Isle of Skye. I loved the smell of her books at the library, the paper had its own distinct odor. I really enjoyed it, it made reading special.

As we got closer to San Francisco and had to pack our tray tables up and put our seats back, the people around me got tense. The Asian lady had some beads in her hand, like a bracelet, except she kept moving them around in a circle and her lips were moving like she prayed the rosary. It was strange, I’d never seen a rosary that small before.

Bill didn’t say much to me, just told me to make sure that my seatbelt was on and stuff. I’d already done that. I wasn’t a novice, after all.

The stewardesses came around and had everyone get into the crash position. You could either lean your arms across the seat in front of you, or lean over and circle your legs. They made me do that one, because I wasn’t tall enough to use the seat in front of me. I didn’t think that was very fair, but I didn’t argue. Cindy was very tense when she came by and I didn’t want to make her mad at me.

The Bay was below us, but I had to bend over so I couldn’t see the landing like usual. That was a bummer, because I really like watching the takeoff and landing. I heard someone start to cry in one of the seats behind us and the landing gear clanked as it lowered. I could hear the motors change as they lined up to land, and the wings made noises as the ailerons extended.

“Ladies and Gentlemen, I’d like to thank you for flying wit us today. Your Captain and I are committed to making this a safe landing. This will be the last cabin transmission before we are at the airport. God bless us all.”

That was a strange thing to say. He never said that on other flights. I peeked at Louise and saw slow tears sliding down her face silently.

“What’s wrong?” I whispered.

She looked at me, face calm except for the tears. “When we took off, some of the tread from the tires was burned away. They’re not sure if we can land safely,” she whispered. “There’s a chance the tire may rupture and cause a fire in the front of the plane.”

I stared at her for a little while but she didn’t take it back. I put my face back on my knees, my mouth up tight against my legs and prayed.

The pressure changed as we descended and my ears popped. I wanted to look out the window, but was afraid to sit up. The whine of the engines seemed to get louder and we dropped further. I saw a shape flit by the window, a building or something, but it was gone too fast to register. Then we bounced as we landed.

A crash shook the front of the airplane and we jerked forward sharply. The back of the plane yawed, making my stomach sick with reaction. The front of the plane jumped and fell sharply and several people screamed. We skidded for quite a ways and then finally stopped.

“All right, everyone. As we discussed. Rows behind me, please proceed to the back of the plane. The rest of you, please form two lines, over the wing exist.” Cindy clapped her hands sharply and someone gasped. “Quickly people, move!”

I was in row 27B, so I followed Bill toward the back of the plane past the galley. The door opened and the roar of the engines deafened us. My hair was plastered to my head in the wind and I stared down the exit. There was no stair. Instead it was a bright yellow slide, like a raft or something at camp. “Okay, honey, I want you to sit down and put your arms across your chest, okay?” Cindy shouted over the racket. “Quickly now.” I did as she asked and flew down the slide. A huge paramedic was at the bottom and he caught me, swung me up and off the slide, and deposited me in the arms of another huge paramedic. “This is the one,” he announced.

The one holding me nodded and turned without speaking. He hitched me onto his hip and walked toward a red SUV that said “Fire Marshall” on the side. “I’m Chief Wilson, Miss Noon,” he told me gently. “We’re going to meet up with your parents. They’re very worried about you.”

I started to answer him but the ground shook. A huge boom shook us and the Chief swore. He whirled and I could see the front of the plane engulfed in flame. He turned, arms tightening around me, and ran for the car.

Once we were inside the vehicle, and I had my seatbelt on, he grabbed a radio from under the air conditioning controls. “This is Chief Wilkins with the minor aboard. Clear entrance three.”

I stared back at the airplane, the people now as small as little black ants running from the burning shape. “Did the Captain get out?” I asked the window, afraid of the answer.

“Yes, he did,” Chief said gently. “The crew is clear of the plane now. Everyone got off safely.”

I watched until I couldn’t see the plane anymore and then turned back to stare at the backside of the terminal. We got to the door and the Chief pulled to a stop. The door flew open and my mother and dad flew out, my mom this weird shade of gray.

“Baby!” she screamed.

I couldn’t get the seatbelt off before she got there, but she snapped it free without even looking and pulled me out of the car. I couldn’t really breathe when she hugged me that tight, but I didn’t care. I was home safe.

Now, instead of creating story from the bible, we look at history. We take an event and a relatively unimportant person, and make them play a pivotal role. It gets us thinking about the stories that happen in everyday life, only that “everyday life” happened at a remove of time and space. (Honestly, it reminded me a little of fan fiction, where “canon” is the history itself.)

“The Visit of Pervii Pyotr”*

Mrs. Mary Johnstone, chatelaine and chief servant to Mr. John Evelyn, was not happy. Someone had failed to close the linen closet door tightly and one of the cats had gotten in and gave birth all over the guest sheets. They were the new set, too, with embroidery on the edge in little Lilly Finch’s delicate hand. Lilly would be devastated. Mary didn’t know how to tell her, poor lamb.

“Mrs. Johnstone! Mrs. Johnstone!”

“Tommy Nevil. How many times must I remind you to not run in the house!” Mary snapped, whirling on the boy.

Tommy was running so fast that he nearly tripped over her skirts as they twirled in the hallway. “But Mrs. Johnstone!” he panted. “Please! It’s the Butler. He’s in a right fury, he is, and the hedges are all gone!”

“The hedges…” She glared down at the boy. “Are you telling your stories again, Tommy Nevil?”

“Honest, I ain’t, Mrs. Johnstone! Please! The Butler’s goin’ ter get his horse whip, he is, and there’ll be Hell to pay!”

“Tommy!” she gasped. “You take that back this instant!”

“I’m sorry, Mrs. Johnstone, I don’t mean te swear. But please, you have to come!” He tugged on her topskirt, his face shining with sincerity.

“Oh, all right,” she surrendered. She slipped the hall keys back on the ring at her belt and let it fall with a faint clink. “Let’s go see his Lordship.”

Tommy flashed her a guilty grin at her nickname for the Butler and took off down the hallway.

“No running!” she shouted after him.

He skidded to a stop, glancing over his shoulder, and then took off at a fast walk. He disappeared around the corner and she could hear the sound of his running feet out of sight down the next hallway. Then a door slammed to the outside and she could hear his voice in the distance, hollering for the Butler.

Mary blinked as she emerged into the chill morning. The sun shone down on the gardens of Mr. Evelyn and she smiled, heart touched anew every time she saw the view. Then she faltered and stopped, the smile evaporating.

Every one of the hedges in view from the house was…gone.

“Dear Lord,” she gasped, starting forward again. “What in the world…?” She hurried around the side of the manor house to the path that led to the main gardens. The devastation was worse there, two wheelbarrows on their side. One’s wheel lay several feet away, the obvious victim of a collision. An empty whiskey pot lay on its side, broken neck sparkling with the last drops of the alcohol, and she got a sinking feeling in her stomach.

“I’ll kill ‘em!” The Butler was below her, near the barn, a long horse whip clenched in a ruddy fist. “Every last one of ‘em!” he bellowed, stomping up the path toward her. “Out of me way, woman!”

“Simon Kelligan! What do you think you’re doing!” she shouted in her best imitation of Father O’Malley.

Kelligan faltered, but then his face darkened. “It’s nothing for you te worry yerself over, Mary. Out of me way!” He started up the path, obviously expecting her to move, but she held her ground.

When it was clear she wasn’t to move, he slowed and then stopped, staring up at her with a mix of fury and uncertainty on his face. “Mary…”

“You can’t,” she whispered urgently. “The Master will be here this afternoon! What if he hears you?”

“What if he sees that?” Kelligan roared, gesturing with the whip at the nearest demolished hedge. “I’ll give ‘im their heads in recompense!”

“You’ll do no such thing,” she snapped. “Embarrass the Master like that. What would your wife say?”

Simon deflated. His arms fell to his sides, the whip dragging on the ground forlornly. “Mary…”

She stepped forward. “I’m sorry, Simon, truly I am,” she told him softly. “But think! The boys will be up soon and if they see you carrying on… Please don’t yell again,” she begged.

He blew his breath out angrily but, thankfully, didn’t shout. “They’ve destroyed Master’s hedges, Mary. Look!”

“I know. I know, Simon. We’ll figure it out, we will. But that Russian is here by order of the King, Simon! The King!”

Simon stared up at the house, furious, but finally thinking. “I swear, Mary. On my wife’s very grave! If he touches another thing, human or inanimate, on this estate…”

“Shh, Simon,” Mary urged. “We’ve already sent the girls away. They’re not interested in boys, thankfully. Just wait it out. When the Master sees, he’ll take care of the problem. But don’t you go gettin’ involved.”

Simon glared at her, but much of the heat had settled in his eyes. He turned and saw Tommy. “Tommy Nevil!” he barked. “I told you to fetch John Murphy, didn’ I?”

Tommy jumped and scrambled back from the Butler, out of range of a drubbing. “Aye, sir, ye did. But he’d’ve boxed my ears for me if I did’na hear tha end o’ this.”

“You little imp…” Simon moved forward but Tommy was faster. The boy scampered away, down the hill toward the house of the Horse Master.

“Oh, Mary,” Simon murmured, tears in his voice. “What are we to do?”

Mary put a hand on his shoulder and squeezed. “They won’t be here forever, Simon. This, too, shall pass.”

Simon sighed heavily and patted her hand. He turned and made his way back down toward the stable, his steps heavy. He paused on the way to collect two more whiskey bottles discarded by the drunken Russians. Mary turned back to the house to prepare Tsar Peter’s breakfast.

“Please, Lord. Let them leave soon,” she prayed, collecting a broken flagon and two silver spoons lying in the grass on her way back to the house.

*Author’s Note: The term “Pervii Pyotr” is transliterated from Russian, and literally means ‘first Peter.’ It refers to Peter the Great.

I have been featuring prompts from Josip Novakovich’s excellent book, Fiction Writer’s Workshop. I highly recommend it, if you are interested in the craft of writing. He demystifies the process of writing, from where to get story ideas all the way through completion of longer projects.

This next prompt is still from chapter one, sources of story ideas. I include these here in the beginning of Mai Madness, partly to show the incredible breadth of ideas available to us within our own lives. Of course, we can stretch and write about “stuff” outside of ourselves – which, as a science-fiction and fantasy author, I do a lot. But the old adage, “write what you know,” applies in many ways – not least of which, to actually write from what actually happened, expand and elaborate.

It’s kinda fun, too.

Mr. Novakovich credits writer-teacher Jim Magnuson for this next one. “Write ‘My mother never…’ at the top of a page, then complete the sentence and keep going. As you write, begin to fictionalize. Construct scenes. Take out sentimentality … and forget it’s your mother. Take yourself out, too.”

I found this exercise volatile, like handling nitro glycerin. I like the result, in that I surprised myself and was able to come up with a story in response to the prompt; but it was not easy.

“Buttercup”

My mother never understood what it was to be a mother. I think she thought it was like revision in school. You go to the husband-store, get one, then go to the offspring-store, get one (or two, or three), and voila. Insta-family.

She did the best she could with me. She carried me around by a papoose when I was little, because that was “good.” She didn’t breast-feed me, because in the early seventies that was not good, thanks to the Nestle Corporation’s propaganda. My mother was deeply suspicious of the women of La Leche League, so their message went right by her. When I asked her, once, what she thought of feminism, she got angry.

“I don’t want to whine about my lot, honey,” she told me. “It’s more important to me to just do the work. All those women are just complainers. They’re not really workers.”

That didn’t really sound right to me, but at the time I didn’t know how to argue. Now, we have a sign in my company’s lunch room: “In Illinois, a woman makes 71 cents for every $1 a man makes. EQUAL EMPLOYMENT OPPORTUNITY IS THE LAW.” Guess she was wrong; sounds to me like feminism still has a ways to go.

We got in the truck one day to go in town. A beige Toyota Landcruiser, one of the early models first in this country she would proudly say, it boasted dark brown stripes on the sides and four-wheel drive. Surprisingly comfortable to drive, it wasn’t nearly as tippy as some of the other SUV’s on the road then – mostly Jeep Cherokees and Ford Explorers.

“Oh my God!” she burst out, then started laughing.

“What?” I squawked, coming out of my book with an almost physical sensation of moving. “What’s wrong?” I didn’t see anything out of the ordinary, and anyway, she was laughing so we couldn’t have hit something.

“Look!”

I followed where she was pointing, but couldn’t see anything on the windshield. After a moment, I realized that was a problem – where was the windshield wiper? I stared for a moment more and saw it, sticking straight out from the front of the car like it was pointing the way to town. “What the…” I didn’t finish the sentence. Swearing wasn’t approved of in the ‘perfect child vocabulary.’

“Buttercup did it!” my mom crowed, eyes merry. She glanced at me. “When she was in the paddock last night!”

“No,” I scoffed, looking back at the wiper. Sure enough, it was mangled all to pieces, unrecognizable. Even the metal frame was warped and bent in several places with what could only be teeth marks.

“I had the rig parked in there all night to get her used to the horse trailer,” she pointed out. “She must’ve decided it would be funny.”

“Yeah, but Mom, that’s on the side next to the fence! How could she even reach?”

“Well, she did,” my mom responded happily, pleased as punch that our horse ate her windshield wiper.

What was worse, the next day at school my friend Sandy ran up to me. “Did you hear the radio this morning?” she burst out breathlessly, interrupting my book.

“What?”

“The radio!” Sandy repeated irritably, pulling my book out of my hands. “Your mom’s ad!”

My heart sank. “What are you talking about?” I tried to put on a brave face.

“Did Buttercup really eat your wiper?” Sandy asked me, laughing.

What was worse, Sandy made sure that everyone in fourth period, fifth, and P.E. all knew about it.

When I got home, my mom was in the kitchen, putting together dinner. As I walked by, she called out. “Honey? Can you do something for me?”

You guessed it. Not only did I have to hear about it all day, I got to replace the wiper that evening.

Buttercup just looked smug.