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Of course you are; that goes without saying. Unfortunately nobody else is available to play. So there was nothing else for you to do but hang around the house. Clump clump up the stairs, creak creak down the hall. Accidentally-on-purpose undo your stupid braids as you go. Moses with tears running down his long white beard: And then at church you had to wallow through Sunday school under the heavy thumb of Mrs.
And she took her own sweet time awarding you the colored stickers you earned getting Bible verses by heart. That which the palmermoth hath left hath the locust eaten; and that which the locust hath left hath the cankerworm eaten; and that which the cankerworm hath left hath the caterpillar eaten. Awake, ye drunkards, and weep; and howl, all ye drinkers of wine, because of the new wine; for it is cut off from your mouth. Perfectly disgraceful for a Sunday school teacher to hold a grudge. Though it was pretty neat that caterpillars were mentioned in the Bible.
So you had to go join Gramma and stand up and sing, before sitting down for a very long time while the Reverend Hall put stray thoughts in your head of Moses blubbering in the wilderness. Mooney on The Lucy Show and that was entertaining to think about every Sunday for a minute or two before it all got really BOring.
Then you had to stand up and sing again. So da da da da under your breath and dance around a bit. Do your versions of the Freddie, the Watusi, and the Jerk twitch twitch! Lose the stupid old Sunday dress and the starched crinkle-inkly petticoat. Which truth to tell come out of the same drawer as your everyday undies, and what would the Reverend Mooney Howell have to say about that?
Wrinkle your pointed-button nose and look down it at the rest of you. Speak of the devil! Guess who enters the room just then, to be scooped up and squeezed tight and walloped with the end of her own orange tail? Here thanks to Ruthie Mundt, the most enviable girl on the entire planet or at least in Marble Orchard because her folks owned a whole barnful of horses, plus a pudgy momma cat who kept getting fatter and kept having kittens.
And finally after weeks of pleading and coaxing, the ponyless Kelly Rebecca was allowed to choose the orangest kitten and name her Ann-Margret.
Who probably ought to know, having so many horses in such an enormous barn. Heeeere comes the bride,. See how she flips. Next jump into your jeans, which would involve leaping off the dresser if you wanted to do it properly. But Gramma found that as objectionable as what she called dungarees dunga rays , dunga-RAH-hahahas , forbidding you to wear them to school even in cold weather.
Now comes the dangerous part: Did you yourself snore? The younger Hungerford boys, Doug and Jerry, said a little girl in the olden days had coughed herself to death in that room. Her ghost was supposed to come out of the closet from time to time, always at the stroke of midnight. You wanna give the poor kid nightmares? Though the best place to find those was in closet-corners, among the mothballs and girl-ghost innards.
Grampa stayed in his room most of the time nowadays. He called it loafing, no different than lying in the hammock outdoors. Every Saturday he declared he was going to get up Sunday morning and escort them to church. Then they too went by the bedside chair. Then he might get a case of what Gramma called the frets, though it sounded more like ordinary worrying. How could they hope to overcome the Water Department?
Cousin Mickey was better at this sort of talk; what had he gone and joined the Ordinary Grunts for? Scoot past the door, gallop downstairs to the kitchen. Your duty to check on it: Gramma had been giving you lessons in the fine arts of stirring and tasting.
The Whipcat was a born expert at tasting, and would stand on extreme tiptoe to lick butter from a spoon; better plop her in the corner with her dish and bowl while you climb onto your personal footstool, pull on your personal potholder, and peek carefully into this and that. A slice gone from the ham loaf; presumably on a plate upstairs, with Gramma trying to get it inside Grampa. Lucky for you there were still a few fudge brownies in the octagon-shaped tin hee hee!
O beautifully patient sides. Forever wave to Spain,. I will not eat this rhubarb pie. Well, there was no point hanging around till Gramma came down. Your work here was done, except for the sweeping of floor and setting of table and emptying of trash.
Head for the colossal twin oaks that must have been planted in prehistoric times by Indians or Israelites, and make your way up the long ladder to the house in the trees. Which was no mean feat with a half-grown bug-eyed cat now over your shoulder, now under your arm, digging in with claws like little needles ouch.
The House in the Trees, like the One With All the Porches, had been built about a thousand years ago by a bunch of your ancestors; but the treehouse was obviously for kids and not grownups.
And today it all belonged to you alone. You were just kind of borrowing the bedroom back by the linen cupboard, but the treehouse was practically all yours. The younger Hungerfords only came over once in awhile; Cousin Mickey was away at grunt camp; Uncle Buddy had moved to Chicago; and you could just picture your mother trying to climb up here in one of her tight Ann-Margret outfits.
Gramma would come as far as the feet of the trees, to remind you of things. It was such a neat House in the Trees too. Real shingles on the roof, real glass in the window frames. The front door was on genuine hinges, as were the cupboards inside. Behind one was a tiny space perfect for somebody your size to hide in, even when no one else was around to seek you.
If only there was a secret passageway to somewhere! But Uncle Buddy had shown you the panel that would have led to his secret passage, and that was practically as good. Names and dates and initials were carved or drawn all over that panel and every other wall in the house.
But you had to look sharp, down near floor level, for the hard-to-read lines: Was the only place Lou would let me write. Miss Gibson of course had refused to understand the clever brilliance of this invention, which was bound to save her hours of second-graders slurping at the water fountain; but like Janey said, Miss Gibson was a pig woman.
Over here was the cuuuute little ladder leading through a trapdoor to the treehouse roof. Doug Hungerford said that from the rooftop you could see all the way to Market Square and the County Courthouse; or at least you could when it was wintertime after all the leaves had fallen. Or at least a little longer.
Though it would be a killer place to play Snoopy vs. In the meantime there was always The Rope. Outside the windowseat was a sort of balcony, a platform that was really a blastoff launchpad. On it lay a long thick coil of rope. Then you would climb back up to the treehouse and heave-ho the rope back to the balcony for another turn.
Giving you a mental image so weird it beat blubbering Moses all hollow. And another croak-meow from Old Whipper. It was what riding Invisible Timmy used to be like when you were little, but this was a hundred times better: Have a yabba-dabba-doo time. I looked for my accordion, what did I see.
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