Trolling for Goats

It started with a bridge.

Okay, maybe not with a bridge, but with the troll that lived under it.

Or maybe with the three goats that simply wanted to get across.

Let me start again . . .

There were once three goats.

Better.

Brothers (or Billys) by the name of Gruff.

They lived in a meadow at the foot of Cold Mountain. Beside the Whispering Woods.

Near Clearwater Stream.

You know the spot.

It was lovely there. Plenty to eat.

Shelter from the occasional storms.

Really fresh, cold water.

Yep. Lovely.

All fall and winter, the three of them ate the lush grass and did goat stuff.

Finally, as summer was just starting peep out along the branches of the trees and creep up into the crevices of Cold Mountain, Big Billy Goat Gruff, hereinafter known as BB, made a momentous proposal.

“Hey, bros! Why don’t we go up the mountain and eat the new, green grass that is sure to be growing there!”

Now, you have to know that, for three goats who hardly—okay, never—went anywhere, this truly was an ‘out-there’ suggestion.

The other two thought about it for .68 seconds.

“I’m for it!” Little Billy (LB) said excitedly.

Middle Billy (MB) shrugged. “Why not? I probably won’t be getting any calls from my publisher any time soon, so what have I got to lose?”

“Let’s do it!” LB took off at a run.

Little brothers. Am I right?

The other two followed at a more sedate pace. Well, MB did.

I think it was BB’s turn to do the dishes, so he was a bit behind the other two.

It should come as no surprise that LB reached the stout, stone bridge crossing Clearwater Stream quite a bit ahead of the others. Without even pausing to consider the possible ramifications involved in crossing an unknown—albeit local—landmark, he started across.

Trip-trap! Trip-trap! Trip-trap!

Okay, that probably doesn’t accurately describe the sound made by four small goat hooves on the aged wooden decking of a local landmark.

Go with me on this...

LB had just reached the center of the bridge when something happened.

Something big and loud and scary.

And no, it wasn’t a broadcast of the most recent out-of-control political discussion.

Although that would be equally frightening...

No. It was a troll.

One who had taken up residence beneath that very bridge.

And we all know that, in a troll world, possession is 9/10s of the law.

Actually, more like 35/36s.

“Who’s trip-trapping on my bridge?!” the troll shouted, leaping onto the bridge.

Do you think this comment suggests another sound may have been acceptable?

What are your thoughts . . .

“Eek!” LB replied. Then, in a shaky ‘little-goat-brother’ voice, “It is I. Little Tinesy Billy Goat Gruff. The littlest, tiniest, not-much-meat-on-him goat in the Gruff family of fine goats.”

The troll blinked. “Umm . . .”

LB rolled his eyes and decided to simplify. “Don’t eat me!”

“But you’re on my bridge. And anyone caught trip-trapping over my bridge gets eaten!”

See? There’s that ‘trip-trapping’ again. Am I right in thinking LB would have done just fine if he’d—I don’t know—salsa danced across?

“Oh, but I’m just so wee,” LB said in his tiniest, squeakiest voice. “There’s not much to eat. You’d lose more calories than you gained. Like eating celery. All work. Small reward.”

The troll stared at him.

LB sighed. “My bigger, fatter, tastier brother is right behind me. Why don’t you wait for him? Much better meat-to-bone ratio.”

The troll thought about this for a moment, then finally shrugged. Why not? “Fine,” he said. “But stick around, just in case.”

LB didn’t wait for the troll to clarify, but trip-trapped the rest of the way across and out of sight.

The troll ducked back beneath the bridge.

A few minutes later, MB appeared. Seeing no one and nothing untoward, he started across. Trip-trap! Trip-trap! Trip-trap!

Notice how it’s a little louder? That’s called Bigger Font.

“Who’s that trip-trapping over my bridge?!” the troll shouted. He leaped onto the bridge in his finest ‘I’m-a-troll-and-I’m-awesomely-scary’ fashion.

MB and the troll regarded each other. “It is I, Middle Billy Goat Gruff,” MB said in his most polite voice. “Is there something I can do for you?” 

“You can bring me lunch!” The troll laughed his most troll-like laugh. Which, you have to admit is pretty rough and creaky and...okay, yes... scary.

“I’d be happy to,” said MB, still in his ‘I-don’t-know-you-but-why-can’t-we-be-friends?’ voice. What is it I can get you?”

“YOU!” The troll shouted gleefully and started forward.

“Oh, you don’t want to eat me!” MB put up a hoof to ward off the large, and decidedly over-eager troll.

“I don’t?”

“Oh, no! I’m much too small and puny.”

The troll frowned. “You look pretty good to me.”

“Well, trust me, I’m not. I’m in terrible shape and I never eat a proper diet. My BMI is through the roof! You can do much better.”

The troll looked around. “How?”

MB leaned closer. “Okay, I probably shouldn’t tell you this,” he said conspiratorially, “but there is another goat right behind me who is MUCH bigger than I am. And he works out. Totally eats right. Low fat. Low sodium. If you eat him, not only will there be more, but it will be much better for you!”

The troll pursed his huge troll-lips thoughtfully. “Okay,” he said finally. “But stick around, just in case.”

MB nodded and, completely ignoring what the troll asked, skedaddled.

Once more, the troll took up his patented ‘troll’ position beneath the bridge.

This may be a good time to explore the whole ‘troll-beneath-the-bridge’ thing. I mean, why on earth would one choose to live beneath a bridge? Damp to wet conditions pretty much constantly. Noisy, as the whole ‘trip-trapping’ would suggest. Subject to the whims of the weather. Fishermen.

I mean, really?!

And another thing, what makes him think it is HIS bridge? Does he have title?

Did he, you know, pay someone for it?

These are questions that need explanation.

Back to our story . . .

BB arrived. Assuming his brothers were trip-trapping happily further ahead, he leaped onto the bridge and started across.

Trip-trap! Trip-trap! Trip-trap!

Yow! He certainly is a big fellow.

Once again, the troll shouted, “Who’s that trip-trapping over my bridge!” And made a truly spectacular appearance on the mountain side of the bridge.

I don’t know about you, but I’m scared . . .

“It is I! The Big Billy Goat Gruff. And what makes it your bridge?”

See? I’m not the only one who is wondering.

“Ummm . . .” said the troll.

“Never mind. What do you want?”

“Lunch!” the troll shouted, pouncing.

But BB was very large indeed. And had a fine, large pair of horns to go with his enormous size.

Quicker than you can blink, he had used those horns to toss that old troll right over the side.

Okay, you’re right, the chances of the old guy getting hurt were probably quite slim.

Truth to tell, it was his ego that took the brunt of everything. First of all, he’d been soundly defeated by a goat. And secondly, as he was going over, he screamed like a little girl.

I’m not lying. He did.

He hit the stream with an enormous splash, then waded to the bank and pulled himself out. He stood there for a moment, turned and looked up at BB, silhouetted against the afternoon sky, then sighed and started walking. Down the stream and out of sight.

BB nodded and finished crossing the bridge.

The three brothers spent a happy, lovely summer on the slopes of Cold Mountain. Growing fat on the rich grasses and just generally enjoying themselves.

As the weather began to cool, they once more made their way back down the mountain to their old meadows.

They did exhibit some caution when crossing the little bridge, but the troll hadn’t returned.

He was happily ensconced under another bridge further downstream. Finding new goats to annoy.

Some trolls never learn.

Once a month, my blog sisters, Karen and Marcia, join me in sharing what's been going on in our hearts and minds and homes.

I have to admit it--it's a lot of fun!

You've read mine, now go and see what they have been up to!

Karen at Baking In A Tornado

Marcia at Menopausal Mother

Worse or Worse-er

 

Across the land, to one and all, the famine had a grip,

And rich and poor alike were in the famine’s membership,

And Widow Bette and teenaged son (named Jack, for all who care…)

Were skating rather closely to the edge of starved despair.

In desperation, Bette told Jack, “Take Emily...” (their cow)

“…and sell her.” (with the proceeds, they would get along somehow),

Obedient, the young man took the cow and started out,

Not knowing that the strangest tale was just about to ‘sprout’.

A stranger stopped the lad a mile or so along the way,

And asked him ‘whither, he was to’ on such a lovely day,

Jack indicated Emily and told him what was up,

And why Jack had embarked upon this personal ‘roundup’.

I’m sure you’ve heard the story: how our Jack endorsed the sale,

A cow for ‘magic’ beans. You know, a mistake of grandest scale.

How his disappointed mother threw those beans out on the lawn,

Then cried herself to sleep believing all her hope was gone.

You have to know those beans grew up. A stalk into the sky,

And Jack thought he'd explore (and have adventures by and by),

He climbed up to another land, where all folks were immense,

And there he pilfered lots of stuff--in situations tense.

That boy, he needed stealth, because you know, our little Jack

Was just the size and shape to be a giant’s midday snack,

It didn’t stop him stealing, though it kept him on the run,

Whene’er he heard the giant’s voice say, “Fee! Fie! Foe! And Fum!"

Then finally, he took the item Giant treasured most,

  (For evenings when relaxing or when parties he would host…)

A magic harp, the player of the sweetest music e’er,

Whose loss would surely fill our giant’s heart with deep despair!

The harp cried for his ‘Master!’ as Jack began to bear him hence,

It spurred our giant on to a more feverish defense,

He followed our young thief right down the beanstalk growing there,

And where the boy did lead, he neither thought about. Or cared.

But Jack was quick and reached the bottom. Turned and grabbed his axe,

Kept nearby for such things. (Now we've reached the tale's climax!)

When swinging frantically, he fin’ly chopped the stalk and all,

Not even mighty giants could survive that nasty fall.

Then Jack and Mom were happy as a family could be,

With all the stuff Jack stole they both could live quite comfortably,

Now I’ve heard theories claiming that the Giant stole them first,

The larger thief or small. Opinions? Who d’you think was worst?!

Today is Fly on the Wall Day, where my sister bloggers and I get to talk about what's been going on in our hearts, minds and lives. I chose poetry. Because...reasons.

Go now and visit my sisters!

You'll be so glad you did!

Karen at Baking In A Tornado

Menopausal Mother

You Are What You Eat...

It's time for this month's Fly-on-the-Wall post.

When my sister-writers and I share what's been in our hearts, minds, and homes this month!

My mind has been dragged down by events in the world.

So I'm back with my Fairy Tales!

I hope you enjoy!

There once was a sweet little girl. 

Her name’s unknown, but because she always wore a red-hooded cloak made by her mother, everyone just called her Red Riding Hood.

Red Riding Hood (or RRH for short and because I’m lazy), was always very happy to help her mother. And, by association, grandmother, who lived in the woods.

One fine day, RRH, carrying a basket of goodies, was wending (Oooh! Good word!) her way to said grandmother’s house to supply aid and/or sweet treats as needed.

Along the way, she was met by a Wolf who was not only Big and Bad (note the capital letters), but also could converse quite well in human.

Sooo…not your normal wolf by any stretch of the imagination.

He asked her where she was going, and RRH, being a bright, friendly, albeit naive child, told him.

He smiled and waved her off, then, being Crafty as well as Big and Bad, took a shortcut through the woods, arriving at Grandmother’s just ahead of RRH.

What transpired when he and Grandmother met is unclear. 

Perhaps he gobbled her up. 

Poor choice. 

Everyone knows senior citizens are high in cholesterol and low in fiber.

Ahem...

Regardless of what happened, their interaction culminated in his weird donning of the elderly woman’s nightgown and sitting in her bed when the sweet, unsuspecting RRH arrived.

There followed a dialogue consisting of questions (RRH) and answers (BBCW—see above) designed to suspiciously ferret out the truth.  

And which ended with BBCW chasing RRH around the cabin.

A local woodcutter, heading home for the day, heard RRH’s shrieks, arriving just in time to see her bash BBCW over the head with the aforementioned treat basket.

Now, normally, this would have been passed over as a fairly amusing attempt to waylay someone as powerful as the BBCW.

Except for the fairly heavy honey pot.

If any of you have had the misfortune of dropping one of those suckers on your toe, you know the damage they can do. 

Even at low speeds.

This one laid the BBCW out pancake flat. So flat, the bulge in the critter’s belly became noticeable. Did anyone bet on the ‘gobbled up’ story?

You just won.

The woodcutter, possessing—you know—woodcutting…stuff…immediately slit open that belly and, what do you think? 

Out popped a very disgruntled and rather untidy, but totally alive Grandmother!

Then the three of them found several large stones and filled that greedy belly with them. 

Because nothing says ‘full and satisfied’ like a belly full of rocks.

Then Grandmother, possessing the skills, sewed that old belly shut quick as a wink. (Of course blood, gore and correct bodily functions have no place in fairy tales.)

The BBCW, when he awoke, felt full and satisfied (see above) but extremely thirsty. 

He made his way to a nearby stream where he bent for a drink. But those wretched rocks shifted (they’re quite unpredictable you know, rocks) and pulled him into and underneath the clear water.

And there and then, the BB (not so) CW drowned.

I’m quite sure that RRH, her mother and grandmother and even the woodcutter really didn’t want this for the BBCW. 

What can I say? 

He made poor choices.

So, something to think about... 

If laziness and craftiness try to inhabit the same sphere, laziness will win. Or actually—lose.

However you want to look at it.

Did you have fun?

There's more!

Go now to my sister bloggers.

I guarantee you'll enjoy yourself!

Karen at Baking In A Tornado

Marcia at Menopausal Mother

If you enjoyed my take on Little Red Riding Hood, now's your opportunity to read more of these glorious childhood favourites filtered through my fractured mind!

Fixing the Fairy Tales

Now available on Amazon.ca and Amazon.com

Pi and Sixpence

My topic for March?

What else?

Pie!

Sing a song of sixpence,

A pocket full of rye.

Four and twenty blackbirds

Baked in a pie.

When the pie was opened,

The birds began to sing.

Wasn’t that a dainty dish

To set before the king?

The king was in his counting house,

Counting out his money.

The queen was in the parlour,

Eating bread and honey.

The maid was in the garden,

Hanging out the clothes,

When down came a blackbird

And pecked off her nose.

They sent for the king’s doctor,

Who sewed it on again.

He sewed it on so neatly,

The seam was never seen.

or:

There was such a uproar,

That little Jenny wren

Flew down into the garden,

And put it back again.

Okay, I admit that this poem/song was a great favourite when I was a kid.

And I may or may not have recited/sung it ad infinitum et ad nauseum.

But now that I am a mite older, I’ve had the chance to really take a good, hard look!

Ahem…

Now, personally, I think it should start out with: ‘Sing a song FOR sixpence’ because, according to a popular author of the early fifteenth century, giving someone sixpence for a song was, if not common, at least accepted.

I know, I know. That would be an unacceptable number now—being both grossly inadequate and completely out of date.

But go with me on this…

A pocketful of rye could just be a simple unit of measure—although what one bake-er would be able to bake for his (or her) bake-ees with that much rye is questionable…

Now the next line was always the one that most fascinated me. The baking of four and twenty blackbirds into a pie.

I probably don’t have to tell you how I begged soulfully demanded asked politely for Mom to bake blackbirds into a pie for me.

Although I had no idea what a blackbird was.

Just a note: Now all I can think of is: feathers and beaks (birds and I have a history there…)

And bird poop.
Moving on…

But she never did.

So all pie singing had to be done by me. Ad infinitum, etc. See above…

And all eating by some nameless/faceless king who probably got yummy pie-makings all over that money he was counting.

Now the Queen had the right idea. Vis-à-vis eating, that is.

She was in the right place.

And eating the right things. (Although I always insisted that Mom add peanut butter to MY bread and honey.)

But the maid really got the short end of the stick.

There she was—the only person in the story (besides the bake-er) actually…you know…working…

And what does she get for her troubles?

A pecked-off nose.

Can anyone say OUCH?!

Oh, yeah…me.

OUCH!

Okay, okay, yes. Her nose was seamlessly restored by either the doctor or the less-likely Jenny wren, depending on which version you favour, but still.

I broke my nose bouncing on my bed and you have to know that anything to do with damage to that appendage… HURTS!

And bleeds.

A lot.

So I’m thinking we probably will be looking at washing to do over.

Poor maid.

See? Short end of the stick.

Oo! Oo! I just want to put this out there: Said maid was, in all likelihood, hanging said clothes on a Clothesline. I’m not too sure of their efficacy in relation to actual—as the name suggests—clothes.

We’ll have to explore that later…

But clothelines make great jungle gyms…

And there you have it.

A day in the life of the Blackbird King and Queen and their long-suffering maid.

With at least 24 blackbirds. Plus or minus one that obviously got away and started mutilating local personnel.

And maybe a bake-er.

Oh, and a doctor…or wren.

This was fun!

 

And just FYI: If you make me a pie with live birds in it, I’ll hand you a fork and napkin. Maybe even a plate.

But you’re eating it on your own.

Pi Night was a great success again this year.

My daughter and I--with a little help from two granddaughters and several more super-excited teenagers--made 106.5 pies this year.

We moved the event to our local church to see if more room would allow for more visiting time.

And it did!

A success on all counts!

I love Fly on the Wall days!

Today is that time, once a month, when my blogging sisters and I give you a glimpse into what has been happening in our homes, at our desks and in our heads.

I hope you enjoyed your visit here!

Go, now and see what my two sisters have been up to.

You know you'll like it!!!

Karen at Baking In A Tornado

Marcia at Menopausal Mother        

Hiding Out

 This month, while our children and grandchildren up in Canada are suffering through -40 C (-40 F) temperatures and record snowfall, Husby and  I, together with some friends, are enjoying the sun, sand and snorkeling in Tahiti. 

I know, I know it isn’t fair.

But they are young and strong and we are...erm…less so.

So I refuse to feel guilty!

Here are some highlights!

The very short pathway to paradise!

The aforementioned Paradise!

And at sunset...

A picture EVERYWHERE!

When Cousin Carmen suggests a change in the furniture,
I'm thinking...you know...moving stuff.

Beehive Ginger

Torch Ginger

Tourist.
Okay. Okay. Husby!

Doing what he loves most!

Moorea-Maiao next door.

Ditto!

One of the BIG reasons we travel!

Oh, yeah...and our eight-year-old neighbour does a thing...
2-time Polynesian champion!
Wow!

And that's the first two weeks.

Can't wait to see what the next four bring!!!

Thanks for coming along!

Oh, yes...and our children and grandchildren are fine.

Just fine. ;)

So now you've seen what I'm up to...Go and catch up with my blogging sisters!

You'll be so glad you did! 

Karen at Baking In A Tornado

Marcia at Menopausal Mother