She was supposed to be weeding the garden. But the warm
afternoon sun beckoned and, let’s face it, she had a short attention span. So Goldilocks
dropped hoe, dusted hands, and went exploring.
Okay, so it’s not like she was strictly ‘forbidden’ said
activity. It was more like an understood… erm… understanding that dire things could happen if she did so. And Little
Goldie lacked discipline.
Deep into the forest that bordered her mother’s small patch
of ground, Goldie walked. Enjoying the warm sunshine and the plethora (real
word roughly meaning: lots) of birds, scurrying furry animals and insects.
And there, in the center (or as close as we can estimate
without a yardstick) of those woods stood a tidy, little cottage. A cute little
cottage. Owned by someone Goldie didn’t know.
Now that fact alone would have caused anyone else to either
knock politely and await a response, or, at the very least, holler. And when either
greeting failed to raise a resident—leave.
Remember where I said Goldie lacked discipline? Turns out
she also lacked common courtesy. And basic manners. Because though she did knock,
perfunctorily, she didn’t await a response, but simply walked right in.
Now, this little cottage wasn’t owned by just anyone. Nope.
The three names on the title (they are still there if you’d care to look) were
Papa Bear, Mama Bear and Baby Bear.
Of course some time has passed since the happenings penned
here, so Baby Bear is no longer a baby, but an enormous fully grown Papa
himself. With a large family of his own.
But for our purposes, we’ll stick to the timeline wherein
these things actually took place. Sooo… Goldilocks. Cottage. Lack of courtesy. Trespassing.
I think that takes us all where we need to go.
The first thing she noticed in the tidy kitchen that opened
directly off of the back door were three steaming bowls of porridge. Well—one steaming.
And two in varied stages of cooling-off-ed-ness.
It was at that moment Goldilocks realized she hadn’t eaten
in some time. Since breakfast, in fact. Her stomach and several attached and/or
dependent systems suddenly reminded her with a low growl.
And just like that, she decided that a bowl of yummy porridge
in the hand was worth any number of distant and possibly uninteresting lunches
at home. No matter who it belonged to.
She found a spoon and tasted the first—largest—bowl. “Yow!”
she wailed. “Too hot!” Okay, yes, the steam should have been a dead give-away. It
suggests a distinct lack of observation skills.
She moved to the second-biggest bowl. “Ugh. Too cold.” Say what
you will about Goldilocks—though her talent for observation may be lacking, this
girl is an authority when it comes to porridge.
And she doesn’t give up easily. By the time we had reached
the third bowl, many of us would have thrown in the spoon. But Goldie remained
undeterred by her two appetite-curbing failures.
Still tingling with enthusiasm—and/or hunger—she dove in.
And was correct (if not right) by so doing. The third bowl, though the
smallest, was perfect in both temperature and content! Trés
yummy!
In no time, the porridge was gone. And Goldie was needing a
spot to sit and rest her weary—though distinctly dishonest—bones. A chair was
indicated. Remarkably, there were three on offer.
One too hard. One too soft. And one just right. But
surprisingly poorly constructed. Or at least that’s what Goldie told herself
when the whole da…darn thing collapsed into a heap of splinters.
Now urgently needing a place to recover from the shock of
becoming subject to the foibles of shoddy construction practices, Goldie sought
out the bedroom. And the three tidy beds she found therein.
Again a short-term dilemma. Too hard. Too soft. Just right. Goldie
sank into the comfy mattress and immediately was lost in the arms of Morpheus.
A fictional character. Unlike Goldie who is…never mind.
While she slumbered, the aforementioned cottage owners
returned from wherever they had gone. They noticed immediately that something
was amiss. Let’s face it, what Goldie lacked in manners…she also lacked in neatness.
First they spotted the empty bowl. Then the shattered chair.
Yes, you’re right. Pretty hard to miss. And finally, they came upon the
culprit, soundly and rosily asleep in Baby Bear’s little bed.
It was at that moment Goldilocks woke up. “Three bears!” she
screamed. Leaping up, she again showed her lack of societal training and
manners by simply running past them and out the door.
Papa, Mama and Baby bear looked at each other. What had just
happened? Not only were they the victims of a home invasion, they had been made
to feel distinctly labeled and typecast.
Mama Bear looked out the window as the golden-haired (thus, her
name) eater of porridge, breaker of chairs and sleeper of beds disappeared into
the woods. She sighed and turned to her family.
“I feel distinctly labeled and typecast(!),” she said. Baby
Bear nodded, “And I feel violated. I’m the one who lost my breakfast and my place
to sit. And should probably wash my sheets.”
Papa Bear put a fatherly hand on Baby Bear’s shoulder. “So
what do we learn from this, son?” Baby Bear frowned. “Even though we live in
Canada, we should learn to lock doors?”
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'Word Counters' was brought to you this month by the number: 33
