My Great-grandfather Turns Twelve Today
(c) 2003 Bill Dodds
Chapter 6
"Who are you?" I
asked.
"Who are you?" he answered.
"I asked you first," I said.
"So?" he said.
This was a dream! Sure, of course it was.
"This is a dream," I said to the boy. I looked
around. I was in a wooden building with a dirt floor. There were some stalls
made of wood and a cow was in one of them. I could hear rain falling on the
roof.
"You mean I'm dreaming?" the boy said.
"Not you," I told him. "Me. I'm
dreaming."
"Then what am I?" he asked.
"You're just part of my dream."
"I don't think so," he said.
"Sure you are."
He reached out and put his hand on my sleeve and then he
pinched me really hard.
"Ouch!" I said.
"See?"
"Maybe I'm unconscious," I said.
"Well, you're sure doing a lot of talking for somebody
who's unconscious."
"I hit my head," I said.
"I know," he answered. "I helped you up."
"MOOOO!"
I jumped.
"Hush, 'Lizbeth," he said.
"Who's 'Lizbeth?" I asked.
"Our cow."
Now wait a minute, I thought. Just what is going on here?
"The last thing I remember," I said, "I was in the convalescent
center."
"In the what?" the boy asked. I was
beginning to think he wasn't very bright.
"Where am I?" I asked.
"In the barn," he said, looking at me as if he
thought I wasn't very bright.
"Okay. But what's the name of the place I'm in?"
"The nearest real town is Culver City."
All right.
"Whew," I said. "For a minute there I thought
Toto and I had landed on a witch."
He stared at me in the dim light.
"Somebody else is with you?" he asked.
"No," I said. "Toto. You know. 'The Wizard of
Oz."
"There's a wizard with you!"
I had been right. He wasn't very bright.
"Uh huh," I said. "And a scarecrow, a tin man
and a cowardly lion."
"WHAT!"
"Watch out, my pretty, or the Wicked Witch of the West
will get you. And your little cow, too," I said and cackled.
"I better get Ma," he said to himself.
"I better get back to the convalescent center," I
answered. Apparently the lightning bolt had knocked me clear out of the building
and into this hillbilly's barn.
"I guess," he said.
"Which way to Fair Brook."
"Fair Brook?"
"Right," I said slowly. "Which. Way. To. Fair.
Brook."
"Right out that door," he said, pointing to the
double doors that stood open, "out to the road and then head that way. You
can't miss it."
"How far is it?" I asked. I wondered how far I had
flown.
"Oh," he said, "about three miles."
"Three miles!"
"You'll come to some other streams first but Fair Brook
is the big one. Got a bridge with a railing and everything."
"Three miles?" I asked again.
"More or less."
I had flown through the air for three miles? "I bet I
get in the 'Guinness Book of World Records,'" I said.
"The what?"
"You know," I said. "'The Guinness Book of
World Records.' Whoever is the fattest or the tallest or made the biggest taco
or can run a mile in three minutes and 50-some seconds."
"The biggest what?" he asked.
"Taco."
"What's a taco?"
"You don't get out much, do you?" I asked.
"Saturday afternoon we go to town sometimes."
Was he kidding or what? "Really, Gomer?" I asked.
"My name's not Gomer," he said.
"I meant 'Gomer Pyle.'"
"My name's not Gomer Pyle and..."
"The guy from the old TV show," I said.
"And," he continued, "no man can run a mile
under four minutes. Any moron knows that."
"Is that so?" I said. "Well, I guess you've
been out here in the barn too long because everyone -- and I mean everyone
-- knows that way back in the 1950s, some guy broke the four-minute mile and
since then a ton of runners..."
I was ready to go on and on and on but the kid had gotten
this funny look on his face. He seemed to be kind of scared and kind of happy
and kind of excited. He looked like he knew what was going on but I sure didn't.
"You don't know the half of it," he said and he
reached out and shook my hand.
"Hey!" I protested.
He stepped back and but he kept his hand in mine. Then he
giggled and started to twirl me around in a little dance.
"Hey!" I said again.
"Let me look at you," he said, pulling me closer to
the big doorway. "You're taller than I am."
Smarter, too, I thought. "I gotta go," I said and
he gave a little laugh.
"Not yet," he said.
"What do you mean 'not yet'?" I asked.
"What's your name?" he asked, dropping his hand and
talking a step back.
"What's yours?" I asked.
"Charlie," he said. He held out his hand for me to
shake it again.
"I'm Michael," I said, reaching out.
"Michael," he repeated, smiling and pumping my
hand. "Gosh, it's good to meet you. Michael Farrell?"
"Yeah. How did...?"
"I'm Charlie Farrell," the boy said and he giggled
again.
Charlie Farrell. "You've got the same name as my
great-grandpa," I said.
"You're my great-grandson?" he asked.
"Gosh."
"My great-grandfather is 100," I said.
That stopped him. His mouth dropped open and no sound came
out for a moment or two. Then his eyes grew wide and he said, "I'm 100
years old?"
Go to Chapter 7.
