(Please forgive errors in formatting. Posting on a website has its limitations.)
“Looks like trouble just walked through the door!” Lottie said when she saw me step into the old geezers’ home.
The old geezers’ home is where Pappy lives (he’s my dad’s dad). Lottie is a lady who works there. She’s sturdy. Sturdy is the word Mom says I should use to describe people Lottie’s size. She says I’m not allowed to say the other word ’cause it is socially unacceptable, whatever that means.
Lottie’s my favorite person at the old geezers’ home, other than Pappy and his roommates. So, I guess I should actually say that she’s my fourth favorite person but my first favorite out of the people who work there. Everyone else that works there is the worst—especially Mr. Norman.
Mr. Norman runs the old geezers’ home, but I guess he’s not any good at that job. Pappy says, “Mr. Norman is nothing more than a no-good, plundering, thieving, evil pirate who cares more about taking money from geezers than taking care of geezers.”
Dad says Mr. Norman is not an evil pirate and that he is just a fiscally minded businessman. Dad always uses a ton of grown-up words that don’t make any sense. Sometimes he tries to explain them, but he’s usually not very good at explaining in a way I understand.
Anyways, the reason I like Lottie is ’cause she’s not like Mr. Norman—she’s fun and nice. I also like the way she talks; she always sounds jolly. Pappy says that’s the way all Southern belles sound. He says a Southern belle is someone who’s full of sugars and honeys, which they use to sweeten you up. He also says that, if I’m not careful, a Southern belle my own age will use her sugars and honeys to make me fall in love. I told him I’ll never fall in love with anyone, but he says I shouldn’t be so sure.
Lottie used her Southern belle voice when she called me trouble. She was just goofing around. It’s what we always do. She acts like I’m a troublemaker, and I’ll pretend to be tough and mean.
I know Lottie is only pretending ’cause of one time when Dad was with me (which was forever ago, ’cause he never comes to the geezers’ home anymore). Me and Lottie were both pretending like I was a real, live troublemaker. Dad got all upset but only with me. I tried to explain how it was all for goofs, but he wouldn’t listen.
“Winston, pretending is a child’s game, and Lottie is a grown woman. If she says your trouble, it means you are,” he’d said, then he apologized to Lottie. “Please forgive my son’s behavior. Sometimes he forgets his manners.”
“Honey, no apology necessary. I didn’t mean what I said. Just egging the boy on. The blame is mine,” Lottie had said to Dad. “Why, Winston is a peach, visiting these lonely folks more than anyone else in town. I think the only reason anyone around here still smiles is because of him.”
“That is very kind of you to try and cover for my son’s behavior, but it is not necessary.” Dad had said, not even believing Lottie. “My boy knows better than to backtalk a grown woman, and he’s sorry. Isn’t that right, Winston?”
After that me and Lottie agreed that we’d only pretend when I visited without Mom or Dad, which is most of the time. Mom and Dad weren’t with me this time, which is why Lottie called me trouble.
“I’ll give you trouble, Lottie Dottie,” I said back in my most serious troublemaker voice.
Lottie just laughed super loud. Her whole sturdy body bounces when she laughs.
To act even more serious, I gave Lottie my meanest face, but she just laughed harder, which made me want to smile, so I had to squeeze my lips super-duper tight.
“Sugar, you’re too late to give me trouble. Your grandpappy and those two stooges he shares a room with made me immune to trouble.” She gave me a wink as she slid a Yum-Yum Chocolate Bar across the counter. “Now, honey, you best sign in and hurry on back.”
I finally smiled, ’cause Yum-Yum Chocolate Bars are my favorite, and then I ran to Pappy’s room.
Pappy and his roommates, Tick and Tock, all cheered when I entered. Tick pretended to play a trumpet while Tock called out, “Introducing Winston the Great!”
I tried to walk like a king, but only for a few steps, before running and giving Pappy a huge hug. Pappy is skinny and old. I don’t know how old, but I think he’s super old ’cause he has a cane and white hair—completely white.
Tick and Tock are brothers. They’re also old, but they only have gray hair, so they aren’t as old as Pappy—I think. Tick’s gray hair is on the top of his head, but Tock’s head is shiny and bald. Luckily, I can still tell he’s old, ’cause he has gray hair in his goatee. Both of ’em are shorter and sturdier than Pappy.
I don’t know their real names, but Tick and Tock is what I’ve always called ’em. The reason is that if you ever ask them how they’re doing, they say the same thing every time.
“Just waiting for the end,” Tock will say with a wink, and then they’ll go back and forth like they are pretending to be a clock.
Tick always says, “Tick.”
Tock always says, “Tock.”
“Tick.”
“Tock.”
“Tick.”
“Tock.”
I’m not sure what end they are waiting for, but I do know that they love clocks, which is why they like the names I gave ’em better than their real names.
“Shame we didn’t get such great nicknames ’til we were old geezers,” they’d told me. “We could have used names like those back when we owned our clock and watch repair shop.”
Pappy says the nicknames I chose are perfect for a couple of old dogs. Of course, Dad, who’s a boring lawyer, says that nicknaming the elderly is not respectful.
“Come now, Winston,” Pappy said with a huge grin. “Tell us what great adventures you’ve had.”
I thought for a moment and shrugged. “No adventures. I just got yelled at a lot.”
“What do you mean no adventures? Yelling is one of the hallmarks of adventure.” Pappy slapped his knee. “I hope you’re keeping notes in your adventure log.”
My adventure log is a notebook that Pappy gave me so I could write down all the cool stuff that happens. Pappy says it’s important to put your adventures on paper ’cause the older you get the harder it is to remember them.
Tick and Tock say that forgetting your adventures is one of the worst things that can happen to someone. They say that forgetting adventures will ruin the most heroic heroes.
I don’t want to be lame or boring, so I keep an adventure log, but I don’t exactly write much in it. I mostly draw pictures and only make small notes.
“Now, don’t leave us hanging. Tell us everything.” Pappy leaned forward.
“Well . . .” I thought for a moment. “Ms. Perkles yelled at me and sent me to the principal; a bus driver yelled at me for something I didn’t even do; and Mom yelled at me for making dinner. That’s when the school called, and Mom sent me over here so she and Dad can figure out what to do about my behavior.” I shrugged. “Nothing else, I guess.”
“Hot dog,” Tick said. “That there is a whole heap of adventures.”
“Only problem is that you started at the end,” Tock added. “Back those tales up.”
“Indeed,” Pappy said. “You don’t pull a train with the caboose. Start from the beginning. Why’d ya get sent to the principal?”
“Tell us more about the bus driver,” said Tick.
“And I wanna hear more about that infamous dinner,” said Tock.
“Well,” I mumbled, “there’s not much to tell.”
“Hold on,” Pappy interrupted. “That’s no way to start an adventure. Start with a touch of hugger-mugger.”
“Hugger-mugger?” I asked.
“You don’t know hugger-mugger? What are schools teaching these days?” Tick asked.
“Hugger-mugger! Intrigue! Mystery!” Tock said. “Something to get people on the edge of their seats, you know, a hook, something to draw us in.”
“But Dad says you should always start with the facts and stick to the facts,” I told them. “He says people don’t have time for anything but the facts.”
“PFFFFFFFFFFFFFFT.” Pappy stuck out his tongue and blew raspberries—a lot of raspberries. “The only thing Henry knows about storytelling is how to suck all the fun out of it.”
Henry’s my dad, and Pappy is his dad, which is why he calls him Henry.
“So, I shouldn’t listen to Dad?”
“Uh, well. . .” Pappy looked nervous. “You should listen to him on all the other stuff, just not storytelling. That boy never kept an adventure log like I told him to, so he never learned the proper art.”
Pappy was right. Dad is bad at telling stories. Sometimes, at dinner, he’ll tell Mom about what happened at his boring lawyer job. They are the worst stories ever, and I mean the worst. So boring!
“Now, forget everything Henry told you about how to ruin stories,” Pappy continued, “and tell the adventures the way you want them to be remembered.”
So, I did, starting with Ms. Perkles.