Cry Hammock...

From this . . .

But everyone had one!

Well, almost everyone.

Okay, he had seen one.

And wanted it . . .

It was summertime on the ranch. The perfect season of cloudless blue skies, soft, sage-soaked breezes, warm, golden sunshine and scented, star-studded nights.

And what better way to enjoy one’s occasional leisure hours than by swinging – relaxed, semi-conscious and blissful - in one’s very own hammock.

To ten-year-old Mark, the concept seemed heaven-sent.

There was just one catch.

He didn’t possess a hammock.

And his parents did not appear to be forthcoming with one.

Sigh.

But Mark was a kid of the prairies. What he didn’t possess, he made.

Or made do.

His dad was changing out the old canvas on the binder. Hmmm . . .

Mark studied the discarded heap of coarse material carefully. Then he scooped it up and carted it to the trees. Specifically to the two tall trees he had picked as being the biggest and most hammock-support-like.

Sometime later, following a maximum of grunting, sweating and words sometimes thought but seldom said, Mark was looking at a brand new hammock.

His brand new hammock.

His pride of accomplishment overspilled its banks.

Handsprings anyone?

A party was called for.

A celebration.

A . . .

Mark would have to settle for talking his mother into allowing him to sleep out on his new acquisition.

It took some doing, but he was finally able to convince her.

Happily, he gathered blankets and gear for his amazing outdoor adventure and in short order was perched atop his newest and best acquisition.

Snuggled down and shivering with delight, he waited for the sun to go down.

Then to come up again.

Which it did.

Mark blinked sleepily at the newly-risen sun. It was then he realized that his mouth felt . . . funny.

Sliding out of his hammock, he ran to the house and the nearest mirror.

Where he received a distinct shock. His upper lip was swollen like a balloon.

With no idea what could possibly have happened, he ran for his mother. Who took one look at his face and said, calmly, “Looks like a bug bit you, son.”

A bug bit him?! His face was three times its normal size and ‘a bug bit him’?!

Frantically, he raced back to the mirror and minutely studied his poor abused outside. How was he going to go through life looking like this?!

In case you're worried, I'll tell you that the swelling did go down. Fairly quickly in fact. With only one side effect. Mark now regarded hammocks with a degree of suspicion.

I mean – no one ever told him that they could come with uninvited and totally unexpected ‘guests’.

Overly friendly guests.

His was a hammock for one.

One.

Maybe someone should have explained that to the bug.

. . . to this.

Sundays are for Ancestors!
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