Chickening Out

 Of course you know ‘something’ was bound to happen.

I’m blaming Sally.

Ahem…

 

Sally has been filming near us.

And by near us, I mean in the countryside about an hour from good old home base.

Mort goes with her every day because as her husband, he gets special privileges now.

Go figure.

Mom and Unc…Dad decided they were going off to have a ‘romantic’ picnic-for-two in a park.

So Peter and I went with Sally and Mort.

You know, FOMO.

It was kind of fun, watching the filming, even though it was sweltering out.

It’s a nice little story about a city girl who gets sent to her uncle’s farm to ‘clean up her act’.

Of course, Sally is the city girl.

But between you and me, that act is never going to get cleaned up.

Ahem…

The filming wrapped for the day.

And that’s when things came unraveled...

The filming was happening on a large farm.

Large.

Big old barn.

Chicken coops.

Pig pens.

Horses.

And lots and lots of cows.

Red and white cows.

Okay, yes, I called them ‘brown’ and white.

The rancher, Mr. Banks, immediately corrected me.

Touchy!

Back to my story…

Apparently, the head cameraman wanted some particular shot and the camera he needed had to be fixed or adjusted or something.

Plus, they had to order some kind of different rug.

Anyway, we found ourselves with extra time.

Someone had turned on a radio somewhere and Sally’s favourite song was playing.

She was dancing to the music. And that’s when she proposed her grand idea.

I know. I know. Sally…and ‘grand’ are just a recipe for trouble.

Anyways, apparently earlier, she had seen the farmer’s kids swinging from a rope out of the opening in the hay loft and into a huge pile of straw down below.

Sally though it would be great fun.

I looked at the height of the hay loft. And the depth of the straw and, probably for the first time—ever—agreed with my sister.

First Sally went.

“Heeeyaaaah!” Straight down and into the straw.

She landed and looked up at the rest of us. “That was the most fun ever!”

She quickly scrambled to one side as Mort went next. “Look out belooooow!”

He, too bounced to a stop and grinned. “Rad!”

The rope swung (Swang? Swong? Swinged?) back to me. But I quickly handed it off to Peter.

He winked at me and immediately made Tarzan look like a beginner.

And yes, I am prejudiced.

Then there was me. With the other three looking up encouragingly.

What can I say.

I’m a lemming.

Now I should probably mention that the pile of straw we were swinging down into was immediately adjacent to one of the chicken coops.

A small one. With grey, weathered boards for a roof.

I think it was used as a brooder house in the early spring.

Now, it sat empty.

This is important.

Also, you should know that I weigh about 100 pounds.

Soaking wet.

And carrying an anvil.

I grabbed the rope. Let out my grandest “Hallooo!”

And jumped.

The rope caught up the slack and I found myself swinging down and down and down, then over and over and over.

Then past and past and past.

“LET GO OF THE ROPE, GWEN!!!” Peter shouted. “LET GO!”

But I couldn’t. I actually couldn’t. My fingers were frozen to the line.

Finally, as I reached the far apex of my swing, the rope slid through my hands and, spread-eagled, I sailed through the air.

And that’s when the nearness of the chicken coop comes into play.

I went through the roof, landing on my back in the straw inside.

Now there were a couple of things that made this straw different than the pile I was supposed to hit.

That straw was clean.

And free of chicken dust.

Also…debris.

Ugh.

There was an immediate rain of old, weathered boards.

I curled up into a ball and let them fall about me.

Then, choking and gasping for breath in the dusty air, slowly started to climb to my feet.

Peter was suddenly there. He wrapped his arms around me and plucked my out of the pile of rubble. Then set me gently on a strawless patch of ground nearby. “Are you all right?”

I looked into his worried eyes and managed a smile as I took stock of my parts. “Yeah. All present and accounted for.” I sneezed. “I could use a shower, though.” I looked up at the new skylight feature in Mr. Banks’ chicken coop. “Oops.”

Sally and Mort appeared in the doorway. “Man, Sis, we can’t take you anywhere!” Sally said.

I think I managed a glare. Probably not a very effective one, owing to grime and dusty air and…the fact that Sally was more interested in the hole in the roof than she was in me.

Sigh.

My legs were a bit wobbly, so Peter supported me as we made our way outside.

Mr. Banks was there.

“I’ll pay for the damage,” Sally said immediately.

He nodded. “Been meaning to replace this coop. I guess now’s the time.”

He went inside.

Sally looked at the rest of us.

“Wanna go again?” 

Today’s post is a writing challenge. Participating bloggers picked 4 – 6 words or short phrases for someone else to craft into a post—all words to be used at least once. All the posts are unique as each writer has received their own set of words. And here’s a fun twist; no one who’s participating knows who got their words and in what direction the writer will take them. Until now.

My words: sweltering ~ farm ~ song ~ park ~ rug

Were given to me by my good friend Karen at Baking in a Tornado!

Now go and see what words the others got—and how they used them!

Baking In A Tornado

The Diary of an Alzheimer’s Caregiver

Climaxed  

Part-time Working Hockey Mom

What TF Sarah