Little Lies…Big Trouble

Many years ago I took a few classes on writing for children.  It has always been a dream of mine to write a book and this was a way to practice the art.  Going through old files I found a few of the short stories and thought I'd share one with my readers.  If you have kiddos, maybe it'll give you a new story to read to them.  Stories like these remind me of the Highlight magazine I used to read as a kid.

Little Lies…Big Trouble

“But I don’t want to live in this dumpy old trailer!” 

The walls were so thin, I could almost hear the tin rattle with my scream. 

“Jeremiah, I know this place isn’t great to look at but I’ll fix it up.  I can’t pass up the chance to live somewhere free, work is hard to find,” Dad said, exhausted from the arguments we’d been having about our new move.

“What do I tell kids at school?”

I didn’t hang around for an answer but huffed down the tiny hallway, my elbows banging against the dingy walls, to grab my backpack.  It was my first day at a new school, which is never easy, but when you move around as much as me you get better at it.  Dad lost his job again and he’s decided that moving in next door to an old lady, Betty, is the answer. 

We live in ugly, rundown trailer for free and he gets paid to work at her house and farm.  I guess the good thing is that the trailer sets far enough off the road that nobody can see it from the bus stop; besides, the walk lets me think up my new identity.

The roar of the bus alerts me, as it comes down the gravel road, and slows in front of Miss Betty’s house. I notice it’s already full.  So much for finding a seat early and trying to blend in! It’ll be obvious I’m the new kid now.  I scan the rows for an empty seat up front, but no luck.  The only empty seat is at the back, and of course, it is surrounded by boys my age, at least they look about 11. 

I can hear the whispers and feel their stares on the back of my neck.  I wait.

“Hey kid, are you new?”
            “Where’d you move here from?”
“Did you all buy Miss Betty’s house?”

Looking down at my ratty sneakers and last year’s jeans, I know the story of buying that house would never fly.  I had to come up with something – and fast.

“Uh, no.  I’m just staying with Betty for awhile.  I ran away from home and she found me in her barn.” I lowered my voice to a whisper. “Said I had to go to school or she’d call the cops.  Name’s Jeremiah.”

All their mouths dropped and the boys huddled in, ready for more.  They hit me with a dozen questions like why and how and when.  I didn’t want to give away too much at one time.  After all, a run-away needed to have his secrets, be mysterious.

“Listen, my dad is an undercover cop.  I didn’t really run away. I just had to get away from the trouble.  Dad will come get me soon as things cool down.  Can I trust you all with this?” 

I locked eyes with each of them, hoping they’d buy it.  I explained that we were running from a bad gang my dad was trying to bust.  If they wanted to help in this secret operation, they needed to keep it quiet.

“Well, who do we say you are?” one of the boys asked.

“Just say I’m Jeremiah and that Betty is my grandma,” I explained as we pulled into my new school.

I hopped off the bus. I could feel a line following me.  The good news was they believed my tall tale; the bad news was it was a bigger lie than I had planned.  I made my way into the office to find out what class I needed to be in, hoping my new fans would disappear.

As I exited into the main hall, most of the boys from the bus were gathered, waiting.  Maybe I’d get lucky and I wouldn’t have class with any of them so the questions wouldn’t continue.

“Who has Mrs. Tichenor for a teacher?” I asked, hoping.

Only one kid raised his hand and the great thing was he was kind of shy.  Maybe I could escape this lie; or better yet, they’d all forget about it by the end of the day. 

It was so busy that I actually didn’t have a chance to talk much to other kids, this was good because I felt like my little lies were growing bigger on their own.  I worried about the bus ride home and the questions I knew I’d get.  I tried to make it to the bus early so I could pick my own seat, but I was one of the last on and again had to make my way to the back.  The boys didn’t waste any time.

“So what kind of bad guys was your dad chasing?”
      “Was there a gun fight?”
“Did you go on the bust with your dad?”

I tried not to go into too much detail, using the excuse that it was all top secret police stuff and telling them would put them in danger.  As we neared my stop, one of the boys, I think his name was Gavin, bounced next to me in the seat.

“Hey, I live pretty close to you.  Maybe I could get off the bus with you and we could play ball or something?” he asked.

I gulped. “Uh, no.  I don’t think Miss Betty would like it if I just brought company home without asking.”  I slid out from around him and headed for the door, eager to get home and over this crazy day. 

“Hey kid, how was your day?” Dad asked soon as I walked through the door. 

I shrugged it off, “Ok. I’m pretty tired and I have lots of homework.”

That would keep him out of my way for the day.  Maybe I could figure a way out of this lie before it hurt my Dad.  I wish I had told the truth.  Now I was in too deep.

During the next several weeks I avoided questions about my hero-cop dad.  I used to love making up stories because they were more fun than real life. But this lie was too big – too heavy to carry. 

When I had a day off from school, I looked forward to exploring more of Miss Betty’s house.  As shabby as our trailer was, Betty was a great lady who made terrific cookies and let me look through her old things.  As I stepped onto her porch, she met me at the door.

“Jeremiah, one of your friends called for you this morning.  Good thing I wake up with the rooster’s crow or I’d not been too happy answering” She held her arm out from the screen door so I could duck under and go inside.  “Don’t really remember who it was, but he said he’d come by sometime today.”

I froze in my tracks.  I’d tried to avoid having kids come home with me, using every excuse my mind could invent.  If they showed up, they’d want to see my room, which was not in Betty’s house. Worse yet, they might run into my dad and start asking questions.

“Uh, thanks Miss Betty.  Sorry about that.  Listen, I forgot something back at the house so I gotta go,” I yelled on my way out the door.  As I made a turn for the dirt path that led to my trailer, I heard voices at the side of the house.  It was my worst fear.

“Hey, are you Jeremiah’s dad?” Gavin said to Dad, trying to keep up with my dad as he worked on the yard.  “Jeremiah didn’t say you came back home.  You sure don’t look like a cop. Are you still undercover?  It’s ok, you’re secret is safe with…”

By this time Dad’s eyes locked with mine, and I could see the pain that my lies had caused.  He didn’t say anything to Gavin, just made an excuse to go to the shed.  I didn’t even care about being in the trouble I knew was coming.  It was punishment enough to see how much I’d disappointed him.

Sugar Cookie Smiles

I've loved writing for as long as I can remember.  Ever since I first wrote the words, "Dear Diary" as a child, I've been compelled to put pen to paper and share.  To anyone who knows me well, it is no secret that one of my lifelong goals and dreams is to write a book.  For awhile, I thought it would be children's book and even took some classes working towards that goal.  Now, I feel God pulling me to a different path.  I can already envision the cover of the book my heart needs to write.  It's not a subject I would've wished for myself, but I feel called to write a book on child loss, more importantly, about finding hope through loss and learning to move forward.

Tonight though I'd like to share a short story that's not so heavy.  It's an assignment from one of the writing classes I took.  Perhaps it is a lazy way out from posting a blog tonight but it is a story near to my heart and falls in line with my thankful moment today - the love for writing and appreciating the gift given to me for words to flow so freely.

SUGAR COOKIE SMILES

The walk between my grandmothers’ homes isn’t far, but I always linger along the way. The path offers silence and privacy, nestled far enough away from the houses at each end. There’s a line of oak trees on one side, a haven to cardinals and blue-jays, who sometimes sing to me on my walk.


The hilly path has history and I often wonder what my mom, and even my grandmother, was like at my age. This path, stomped by the feet of my family through the years, is now dusty and worn. Puffs of dirt settle on my shoes and fill the air if I run. The final hill leading to my great-grandmother’s yard is steep. Hidden among it are small stone steps that help you down.


Grandmother’s house is green, a pale, worn green like a faded picture in a coloring book. Two aged, metal poles pull gently at ropes tied between, holding the day’s wash. The clothes, still damp to the touch, smell of freshly fallen rain.


At first descent upon the backyard, you are instantly filled with sugary scents of cinnamon and vanilla. There are always cookies cooling for the next guest, rimmed in sparkling sugar, and topped with raisins in the shape of a smiley face.


The back porch creaks, announcing my arrival. A metal roof hangs above, weather worn and rusted from the years. When it is raining, you have to rush onto the porch or your head will be soaked from the water that collects there. Today though, the sun smiles down on the house and creates patterns of shade upon the yard.


The window is open and I can see Grandma working in the kitchen. She pretends I’m not there, continuing to pull fresh cookies from the oven. Opening the back screen door, she is forced to look up, as it screeches with every inch I pull it. Her face, full of lines and creases, forms into a happy smile. “Hurry child, before all the flies come in with you,” she says sweetly.


I don’t even have to ask, and she begins to pour a fresh, cool glass of milk, as I sit at the counter. The glass forms little droplets of water and I watch them slowly slide down, as my hand goes around it. I’m ready for a drink but not before biting into one of those cookies.


The warm scent of the cookie wafts up, enveloping me in comfort. The raisin smile reminds me of my grandma’s face, wrinkled and sweet. She watches me, as if it is first time I’ve tasted one. I think she gets more enjoyment from baking them for me than I do eating the cookies! The first bite always leaves a sugary trail behind, landing on my shirt and the countertop below.


I savor a few more before heading back. I skip home down the path, wondering how many smiles have been shared by family, while eating Grandma’s sugar cookies over the years.