The Magic Strawberry

I am an awful brother! I completely missed Somegoat’s birthday, by about two weeks. I think, however, he is of an age that he would probably rather they be forgotten. I know I would if I was as old as he is. Maybe for a period of two weeks he thought he had escaped a true Threegoat roasting. As he reads this there is sweat beading up on his furrowed brow, “The Hairbrush?”, he agonizes, “The toilet and the hammer?” he anticipates with dread. No, as some bit of an amends to my gross oversight I will go easy on him, …this time. So sit back and read…

The Magic Strawberry
Mom and Dad had a strawberry patch growing in a bed in the front of the house, and it fell to Somegoat and me to pick the weeds and remove the dead, bug infested, or rotten strawberries from the patch. Perhaps in hindsight they should also have told us how, and more importantly, where to discard these dried husks of fruit. We, as I recall, did not eat the strawberries and were somewhat indignant that we were the ones to perform this miserable task. (Much the same way we felt about the okra, cucumber, tomato, and squash in the back yard.)

So what else were we to do really? Any one in our position would surely have done the same. We threw them. We threw them at the passing cars. I know I have explained how I was lacking that little voice as a child, but I am somewhat certain that Somegoat had a perfectly functioning little voice. It didn’t necessarily tell him not to do things, it just worked out in advance a well-conceived escape plan and then made sure it was executed precisely.

About this time my best friend walked up, “What are you doing?” he asked.
“Cleaning out the strawberry patch”, I replied, “Want to help?”
“Nope, I’ll just watch”
“We are throwing them at cars”
“Okay”, he said as he reached into the fray. So now there were three of us, picking and throwing, …and missing every time. While my friend and I were looking down into the thicket Somegoat made contact, dead center in the windshield. His little voice kicked in, “Alright, we’ve gone over this, around to the back yard and don’t stop until you are in the ditch!

I stood up to find that my brother, and now my friend, were gone. The car made a u-turn in time to see me standing there, alone, with a strawberry in my hand. As I rounded the house I overcame my friend and we ran through the back yards to hide out at his house. Somegoat was nowhere to be seen, good going Little Voice.

Just a few minutes later, from our hiding place five houses away I heard Dad bellowing my name. Of course it was me, I was the one standing alone and past experiences gave them little reason to doubt it. The driver of the car had told Mom and Dad that their little boy (notice the singular) had thrown a big juicy tomato that exploded blindingly on the windshield of his car. That’s right, the shriveled brown strawberry that Somegoat had thrown magically transformed in mid-air into a plump tomato bomb. By now Somegoat had made his way out of the ditch, his little voice probably told him that a longer wait would only result in greater punishment. Dad sent my friend home and banished us to our rooms for the rest of the day. We got off pretty easy, but I suspect we were removed from Dad’s sight so we could not see him laughing.

Happy Birthday Somegoat, and your little voice too!