Father's Day Gift
This is what I wrote for my Da for Father's Day. I couldn't think of a good title and so I stuck with what I used to call him for years when I was a little girl. Keep in mind I haven't written anything since November when I figured I'd given up writting completely. Aunt Mary was rather fond of this though when I read it to her over the phone then again she is my Aunt and she still claims I made up Chicken Handles. I think she's ready to go after Paula Dean for the copyrights!
Just kidding, Aunt Mary is made of win. Oh also, I don't have a computer or net access so I'm writing this at Da's on his so I wont see any comments so yeah....
For John Daddy
It's true Erin shouldn't of been playing ball in the house, what with it being against the rules and all that. Though if anyone had seen the amazing arch she'd gotten or the spin that followed Erin figured she couldn't really be blamed for a little rule breaking. Until the soccer ball landed with a crunch that echoed off the living room walls and made her flinch. Resisting the urge to simply run, a tactic which works best for broken windows and not busted property indoors, she edged closer to the center of impact one hand clutched tightly around her constant companion Marvin the sock monkey.
The sight that greeted her was a disaster of snapped strings, splintered wood, and inlaid pearl. Her Dad's prized banjo had plucked it's last duel, enjoyed its last accompaniment, and she was probably going to bed without any supper. Or worse, sold to passing gypsies. She was blond after all and the going rate was pretty high.
"This," Erin glared down at the brown sock monkey who was slumped beside her. "Is all your fault."
Naturally Marvin didn't respond. His little red yarn mouth didn't move an inch, but she still blamed him. She had to, there was no one else around and accepting that the fault lie with her was suicidal and she'd grown rather fond of living. Plus she was too cute to maim.
Nudging the wreckage with a sneakered toe Erin scowled and figured she was faced with three different options. One, she could hide the ruined instrument and hope that her Dad developed a sudden obsession with the brass family and devoted his free time to learning the tuba. Two, she could change her name and run away but she only had thirty dollars in her piggy bank and with the rate hike at the bus depot she wouldn't even get to Kalamazoo, Michigan. Her third, and the best most logical option (because naturally honesty was out of the picture) was to figure out how to fix the sorry looking banjo.
Where was Dr. Strings when you needed him?
With an all business nod to Marvin who had slumped over onto his side and was staring up at her with a black beady gaze Erin rolled up her sleeves, "Time to get to work. I'll get the duct tape, you keep watch."
She dug through the kitchen junk drawer, pulling out duct tape, twine, and sealing wax while Marvin proved to be a poor sentry. Oliver, the cat, had slipped into the room and was presently chewing on one of his ears. When Erin came back into the room she shook her head and clucked her tongue but didn't dislodge Marvin. That's what happens to monkey's who abandon their posts.
Two hours later found her sitting in her room fuming and ignoring Marvin who lay beside her complete with dripping ear. It had been hard to hide the evidence when she managed to super glue some of the banjo's neck to her pants. Her Dad didn't buy the argument that it was Marvin who broke it or that if you thought about it she might actually have made the banjo better! Since now it had seven strings and made a clunking noise when you tuned it.
"You are in so much trouble mister!" Erin scowled at Marvin with her hands crossed over her chest "Now there won't be butterscotch putting with dinner!"
Marvin lay there blissfully ignoring her and dripping cat drool onto her comforter. She stuck out her tongue at him and flopped backwards on to her bed succumbing to her month long grounding. It could be worse, it could have been manual labor and Erin was far too young for dish pan hands.
"It's all your fault," she grumbled.
Just kidding, Aunt Mary is made of win. Oh also, I don't have a computer or net access so I'm writing this at Da's on his so I wont see any comments so yeah....
It's true Erin shouldn't of been playing ball in the house, what with it being against the rules and all that. Though if anyone had seen the amazing arch she'd gotten or the spin that followed Erin figured she couldn't really be blamed for a little rule breaking. Until the soccer ball landed with a crunch that echoed off the living room walls and made her flinch. Resisting the urge to simply run, a tactic which works best for broken windows and not busted property indoors, she edged closer to the center of impact one hand clutched tightly around her constant companion Marvin the sock monkey.
The sight that greeted her was a disaster of snapped strings, splintered wood, and inlaid pearl. Her Dad's prized banjo had plucked it's last duel, enjoyed its last accompaniment, and she was probably going to bed without any supper. Or worse, sold to passing gypsies. She was blond after all and the going rate was pretty high.
"This," Erin glared down at the brown sock monkey who was slumped beside her. "Is all your fault."
Naturally Marvin didn't respond. His little red yarn mouth didn't move an inch, but she still blamed him. She had to, there was no one else around and accepting that the fault lie with her was suicidal and she'd grown rather fond of living. Plus she was too cute to maim.
Nudging the wreckage with a sneakered toe Erin scowled and figured she was faced with three different options. One, she could hide the ruined instrument and hope that her Dad developed a sudden obsession with the brass family and devoted his free time to learning the tuba. Two, she could change her name and run away but she only had thirty dollars in her piggy bank and with the rate hike at the bus depot she wouldn't even get to Kalamazoo, Michigan. Her third, and the best most logical option (because naturally honesty was out of the picture) was to figure out how to fix the sorry looking banjo.
Where was Dr. Strings when you needed him?
With an all business nod to Marvin who had slumped over onto his side and was staring up at her with a black beady gaze Erin rolled up her sleeves, "Time to get to work. I'll get the duct tape, you keep watch."
She dug through the kitchen junk drawer, pulling out duct tape, twine, and sealing wax while Marvin proved to be a poor sentry. Oliver, the cat, had slipped into the room and was presently chewing on one of his ears. When Erin came back into the room she shook her head and clucked her tongue but didn't dislodge Marvin. That's what happens to monkey's who abandon their posts.
Two hours later found her sitting in her room fuming and ignoring Marvin who lay beside her complete with dripping ear. It had been hard to hide the evidence when she managed to super glue some of the banjo's neck to her pants. Her Dad didn't buy the argument that it was Marvin who broke it or that if you thought about it she might actually have made the banjo better! Since now it had seven strings and made a clunking noise when you tuned it.
"You are in so much trouble mister!" Erin scowled at Marvin with her hands crossed over her chest "Now there won't be butterscotch putting with dinner!"
Marvin lay there blissfully ignoring her and dripping cat drool onto her comforter. She stuck out her tongue at him and flopped backwards on to her bed succumbing to her month long grounding. It could be worse, it could have been manual labor and Erin was far too young for dish pan hands.
"It's all your fault," she grumbled.
