Wednesday, December 8, 2010
Tuesday, December 7, 2010
The Ants and the Empanada
This post is followed by the revision which is a class project.
It was a Monday, like any Monday or any of the other days, and a gathering of ants had surrounded a lone scout ant as he fought for his breath in order to report to the foreman. The scout ant had run all the way home to tell the others about the huge sack of trash he had found next to the trail on the edge of the forest. The foreman ant had told the scout to slow down, breathe, and explain exactly where this sack of trash had been found.
“It’s Taco Bell!” The scout yelled, ecstatic that he had found such a prize. Then he fainted, which is not uncommon for an ant in a very high stress moment.
“Check his pockets!” shouted several ants who were watching the excitement. Two had already taken his boots.
“Adam!” Shouted the foreman. “You take ten other worker ants and go see if you can learn more about this ‘sack of trash’. Although ants enjoy looking for food near to their homes, none could resist the thought of a possible Taco Bell caramel apple empanada. It was the only viable explanation for the permanent smile etched on the scout’s face.
“You workers are to go out there, somewhere, and find that Taco Bell bag, or whatever it is,” said the foreman, trying to sound like this was not at all interesting. He always tried to sound like things were not interesting because he thought that it made him sound like a real foreman. “When you find it, bring it back here. And make sure you see me first!”
They would leave in the morning. That was Monday, although none of the ants knew it. Now it was Tuesday, and they still were completely unaware of the idea of time at all. All they knew was that they had been walking since breakfast and it must be lunch by now.
“OK, let’s stop here.” Adam said, as they came to a stick which was stuck in the dirt. The stick had been there for over a year now, but the ants had never been this way before so they had no idea about the history of the stick, nor of anything else in this part of the forest.
“What do we have to eat?” asked Bob and Karl, as they walked up from the rear where they had been examining the first end of the stuck stick. “I hope someone brought coffee!”
“Over here!” shouted Isaiah, who happened to be the group’s largest ant. He also was the bravest and the best cook, the perfect ant to bring with you if you’re going to need to stop for lunch or for any other meal. “There’s sugar and only a little bit of milk, so go easy, alright?”
“Who made these sandwiches?” Asked Bob. “They taste horrible!” He grimaced, as he took another bite.
“I think they’re leftovers from the last hike we took,” Said Pete. “Remember when the foreman sent us to find that flying saucer? That was fun!”
“Yea, that was weird.” Said Donny, looking at the sky as if another flying whatever would appear and whiz past their heads. “The flying saucer had never been found, and no one was sure about what it might have been.
The flying saucer had flown straight over the ant village, causing several old lady ants to drop their groceries and run for cover. The foreman jumped to the ground, quivering in the dirt with all of his hands over his head and his feet kicking in the air. He later explained how that was part of the training he had received in ant-to-ant combat school, a course he took in order to qualify for the foreman position in this particular village.
“One must not run!” He had said to the crowd of young ants, who had gathered to watch him dust off his trousers after the flying saucer had passed directly over his head. “One must always hug the ground in order not to be hit by whatever that thing was!” Then he fainted.
“You kick like a girl!” said one of the younger ant kids. They all began laughing and ran off to tell all the other little kid ants about the foreman, which they considered to be the best part of the whole flying saucer incident.
After finishing lunch, the ants started off again towards the field. They each were carrying a cup of hot coffee so the next several yards went rather slow. It won’t do to spill your coffee when you have finally gotten the correct sugar to milk ratio worked out, with much arguing and explaining and attempts at teaching the finer points of stirring.
“It’s just ahead! I can see the path!” Yelled Bill from the top of a blade of heavy grass. Bill was the only ant in the group who was thin enough not to make the blade of grass bend, allowing him to reach maximum altitude, a fine art which Bill had trained at for more than a year, although he had no idea it had been that long. “Probably about three clicks!”
“What’s a click?” asked Tom, looking at Steve with that puzzled look only Tom could make.
“He just made that up,” answered Steve. “He just likes to sound smart, because he went to school through the third grade.”
“Wow,” said Tom. “I had no idea he was that smart.” Tom had tried the second grade, but the numbers and all that ‘what color is an apple’ stuff gave him headaches, so his mom had sent him to worker ant school. “I can spell ‘ant’,” he said, “But I don’t remember where the ‘q’ goes.”
After Bill climbed down from the grass, the ants moved more quickly than they had been going since starting out that morning. It was already half past lunch and most of the ants back in the village were just getting up from naps. Real worker ants don’t take naps. They don’t feel pain and they certainly don’t cry. Not in public anyways. Ted had cried three times since leaving the village that morning. Once because a bumble bee got too close, a second time because it came back, and the third time because he had realized that he had stopped crying from the bee’s return and immediately started crying again. “That’s only two and a half cries!” he sobbed, trying to catch up. He didn’t mind being teased; he just wanted them to know it wasn’t three times.
“Stop!” ordered Adam. The ants had reached the path at the edge of the forest. “Isaiah, you and the crybaby go and check out this path. Just over in that ditch is the empanada.”
The two were gone a very short time when they returned to the base of a small alder tree where the other ants were waiting. “It’s not an empanada.” They said. Their faces showed the unbearable grief. “It’s just a few hot sauce packets and some Pepsi spilled on the sack. We also found that flying saucer. You were right, Tim, it was a Frisbee!”
It was a Monday, like any Monday or any of the other days, and a gathering of ants had surrounded a lone scout ant as he fought for his breath in order to report to the foreman. The scout ant had run all the way home to tell the others about the huge sack of trash he had found next to the trail on the edge of the forest. The foreman ant had told the scout to slow down, breathe, and explain exactly where this sack of trash had been found.
“It’s Taco Bell!” The scout yelled, ecstatic that he had found such a prize. Then he fainted, which is not uncommon for an ant in a very high stress moment.
“Check his pockets!” shouted several ants who were watching the excitement. Two had already taken his boots.
The ants went back to their homes, each thinking about what to do with the sack. George, who had once found a beetle, thought he should be the best choice to be sent out in the morning. It was about a month ago, George was scrounging around a pile of leaves, looking for some lunch, and a beetle jumped out! George bravely fell back to a safe distance and cowered behind a pine cone. The beetle took the opportunity to slowly waddle away.
Eric thought about the sack well past bedtime, which was around seven since his mother thought he needed extra rest after the excitement of the afternoon. He was sure that he knew what a sack was, and wanted the chance to find one. He would show that sack what it means to be handled by an ant!
Jeremy, who had no idea what was going on, insisted that if the other ants wanted a sack they should just make one. Jeremy was very industrious, yet not very smart.
Olivia, the only girl ant to consider going out for the sack, knew that she would find it. She always told the others that girl ants are better than boy ants at just about everything, except looking silly.
At sunup the next day, just after breakfast, each of the ants who wanted to go out showed up in the village square. All but Jeremy had boots, Olivia had a sack to put the sack in, and George had drawn a map. Eric was still in bed.
They stood in the square until the foreman showed up, he liked an extra cup of coffee after his breakfast and was usually late.
“Joey!” shouted the foreman, calling for the scout ant who had seen the sack. “Which direction did you say this sack was?”
“Why?” asked Joey, with a very puzzled look.
“Well,” continued the foreman.” We’re going to go get the sack. Did you forget where its at?”
“No.” said Joey “But why do you want it?”
“To eat it!” shouted all the ants together.
“Oh.” said Joey. “I already ate it.”
I did not want to revise this story. When I wrote it, I just started thinking about Adam, the chief character in the story as well as the leader of the ants on safari. He loves empanadas.
The positive feedback, along with the comments and suggestions which I received in class were really unexpected. I had no intention of revising the story at all, and wished that I could tell more about the individual ants. This story could really go on for quite awhile; the sack could have been carried away by a fox, causing the outing to last a week as they followed it. I really wanted to have them spend the night with a little campfire and marshmallows, ending with the big ants tucking in the little ants.
I couldn’t think of any way to change this story without it being a complete change. Like how would I change my kid? Would I give him green hair? Wouldn’t he still be the same kid, only looking different? I can’t have a green haired ant story.
If I were to continue with a change, I would keep the original draft, adding a little to the beginning. I would talk about the daily workings of the village, with all the ants going about their own ant business, which is much like the way we go about our own business, only on a smaller scale. The ending would definitely be reworked, I had wanted to go on while dreaming it up, but then realized that it needed to be short enough to read in class, keeping in mind that other students were to read their pieces as well.
This piece was never intended to be part of a larger piece, though I will keep it just in case the ants decide to go on another outing.
The Ants and the Empanada
by Wayne Koehler
by Wayne Koehler
It was a Monday, like any Monday or any of the other days, and a gathering of ants had surrounded a lone scout ant as he fought for his breath in order to report to the foreman. The scout ant had run all the way home to tell the others about the huge sack of trash he had found next to the trail on the edge of the forest. The foreman ant had told the scout to slow down, breathe, and explain exactly where this sack of trash had been found.
“It’s Taco Bell!” The scout yelled, ecstatic that he had found such a prize. Then he fainted, which is not uncommon for an ant in a very high stress moment.
“Check his pockets!” shouted several ants who were watching the excitement. Two had already taken his boots.
“Adam!” Shouted the foreman. “You take ten other worker ants and go see if you can learn more about this ‘sack of trash’. Although ants enjoy looking for food near to their homes, none could resist the thought of a possible Taco Bell caramel apple empanada. It was the only viable explanation for the permanent smile etched on the scout’s face.
“You workers are to go out there, somewhere, and find that Taco Bell bag, or whatever it is,” said the foreman, trying to sound like this was not at all interesting. He always tried to sound like things were not interesting because he thought that it made him sound like a real foreman. “When you find it, bring it back here. And make sure you see me first!”
They would leave in the morning. That was Monday, although none of the ants knew it. Now it was Tuesday, and they still were completely unaware of the idea of time at all. All they knew was that they had been walking since breakfast and it must be lunch by now.
“OK, let’s stop here.” Adam said, as they came to a stick which was stuck in the dirt. The stick had been there for over a year now, but the ants had never been this way before so they had no idea about the history of the stick, nor of anything else in this part of the forest.
“What do we have to eat?” asked Bob and Karl, as they walked up from the rear where they had been examining the first end of the stuck stick. “I hope someone brought coffee!”
“Over here!” shouted Isaiah, who happened to be the group’s largest ant. He also was the bravest and the best cook, the perfect ant to bring with you if you’re going to need to stop for lunch or for any other meal. “There’s sugar and only a little bit of milk, so go easy, alright?”
“Who made these sandwiches?” Asked Bob. “They taste horrible!” He grimaced, as he took another bite.
“I think they’re leftovers from the last hike we took,” Said Pete. “Remember when the foreman sent us to find that flying saucer? That was fun!”
“Yea, that was weird.” Said Donny, looking at the sky as if another flying whatever would appear and whiz past their heads. “The flying saucer had never been found, and no one was sure about what it might have been.
The flying saucer had flown straight over the ant village, causing several old lady ants to drop their groceries and run for cover. The foreman jumped to the ground, quivering in the dirt with all of his hands over his head and his feet kicking in the air. He later explained how that was part of the training he had received in ant-to-ant combat school, a course he took in order to qualify for the foreman position in this particular village.
“One must not run!” He had said to the crowd of young ants, who had gathered to watch him dust off his trousers after the flying saucer had passed directly over his head. “One must always hug the ground in order not to be hit by whatever that thing was!” Then he fainted.
“You kick like a girl!” said one of the younger ant kids. They all began laughing and ran off to tell all the other little kid ants about the foreman, which they considered to be the best part of the whole flying saucer incident.
After finishing lunch, the ants started off again towards the field. They each were carrying a cup of hot coffee so the next several yards went rather slow. It won’t do to spill your coffee when you have finally gotten the correct sugar to milk ratio worked out, with much arguing and explaining and attempts at teaching the finer points of stirring.
“It’s just ahead! I can see the path!” Yelled Bill from the top of a blade of heavy grass. Bill was the only ant in the group who was thin enough not to make the blade of grass bend, allowing him to reach maximum altitude, a fine art which Bill had trained at for more than a year, although he had no idea it had been that long. “Probably about three clicks!”
“What’s a click?” asked Tom, looking at Steve with that puzzled look only Tom could make.
“He just made that up,” answered Steve. “He just likes to sound smart, because he went to school through the third grade.”
“Wow,” said Tom. “I had no idea he was that smart.” Tom had tried the second grade, but the numbers and all that ‘what color is an apple’ stuff gave him headaches, so his mom had sent him to worker ant school. “I can spell ‘ant’,” he said, “But I don’t remember where the ‘q’ goes.”
After Bill climbed down from the grass, the ants moved more quickly than they had been going since starting out that morning. It was already half past lunch and most of the ants back in the village were just getting up from naps. Real worker ants don’t take naps. They don’t feel pain and they certainly don’t cry. Not in public anyways. Ted had cried three times since leaving the village that morning. Once because a bumble bee got too close, a second time because it came back, and the third time because he had realized that he had stopped crying from the bee’s return and immediately started crying again. “That’s only two and a half cries!” he sobbed, trying to catch up. He didn’t mind being teased; he just wanted them to know it wasn’t three times.
“Stop!” ordered Adam. The ants had reached the path at the edge of the forest. “Isaiah, you and the crybaby go and check out this path. Just over in that ditch is the empanada.”
The two were gone a very short time when they returned to the base of a small alder tree where the other ants were waiting. “It’s not an empanada.” They said. Their faces showed the unbearable grief. “It’s just a few hot sauce packets and some Pepsi spilled on the sack. We also found that flying saucer. You were right, Tim, it was a Frisbee!”
The Ants and the Empanada
(Revised)
by Wayne Koehler
(Revised)
by Wayne Koehler
It was a Monday, like any Monday or any of the other days, and a gathering of ants had surrounded a lone scout ant as he fought for his breath in order to report to the foreman. The scout ant had run all the way home to tell the others about the huge sack of trash he had found next to the trail on the edge of the forest. The foreman ant had told the scout to slow down, breathe, and explain exactly where this sack of trash had been found.
“It’s Taco Bell!” The scout yelled, ecstatic that he had found such a prize. Then he fainted, which is not uncommon for an ant in a very high stress moment.
“Check his pockets!” shouted several ants who were watching the excitement. Two had already taken his boots.
The ants went back to their homes, each thinking about what to do with the sack. George, who had once found a beetle, thought he should be the best choice to be sent out in the morning. It was about a month ago, George was scrounging around a pile of leaves, looking for some lunch, and a beetle jumped out! George bravely fell back to a safe distance and cowered behind a pine cone. The beetle took the opportunity to slowly waddle away.
Eric thought about the sack well past bedtime, which was around seven since his mother thought he needed extra rest after the excitement of the afternoon. He was sure that he knew what a sack was, and wanted the chance to find one. He would show that sack what it means to be handled by an ant!
Jeremy, who had no idea what was going on, insisted that if the other ants wanted a sack they should just make one. Jeremy was very industrious, yet not very smart.
Olivia, the only girl ant to consider going out for the sack, knew that she would find it. She always told the others that girl ants are better than boy ants at just about everything, except looking silly.
At sunup the next day, just after breakfast, each of the ants who wanted to go out showed up in the village square. All but Jeremy had boots, Olivia had a sack to put the sack in, and George had drawn a map. Eric was still in bed.
They stood in the square until the foreman showed up, he liked an extra cup of coffee after his breakfast and was usually late.
“Joey!” shouted the foreman, calling for the scout ant who had seen the sack. “Which direction did you say this sack was?”
“Why?” asked Joey, with a very puzzled look.
“Well,” continued the foreman.” We’re going to go get the sack. Did you forget where its at?”
“No.” said Joey “But why do you want it?”
“To eat it!” shouted all the ants together.
“Oh.” said Joey. “I already ate it.”
I did not want to revise this story. When I wrote it, I just started thinking about Adam, the chief character in the story as well as the leader of the ants on safari. He loves empanadas.
The positive feedback, along with the comments and suggestions which I received in class were really unexpected. I had no intention of revising the story at all, and wished that I could tell more about the individual ants. This story could really go on for quite awhile; the sack could have been carried away by a fox, causing the outing to last a week as they followed it. I really wanted to have them spend the night with a little campfire and marshmallows, ending with the big ants tucking in the little ants.
I couldn’t think of any way to change this story without it being a complete change. Like how would I change my kid? Would I give him green hair? Wouldn’t he still be the same kid, only looking different? I can’t have a green haired ant story.
If I were to continue with a change, I would keep the original draft, adding a little to the beginning. I would talk about the daily workings of the village, with all the ants going about their own ant business, which is much like the way we go about our own business, only on a smaller scale. The ending would definitely be reworked, I had wanted to go on while dreaming it up, but then realized that it needed to be short enough to read in class, keeping in mind that other students were to read their pieces as well.
This piece was never intended to be part of a larger piece, though I will keep it just in case the ants decide to go on another outing.
Gramma
by Wayne Koehler
I must have been about 6 years old. The smell of breakfast cooking and the sound of the skillet on the stove woke me. I was tight inside my sleeping bag on the floor of Gramma’s dining room, which could never be used as a dining room because there were always grandkids needing a floor to sleep on. I opened my eyes to see Gramma and Mom in the kitchen busy with breakfast. Gramma was wiping the pickle jars which she had just put up from Grandpa’s garden. Those were the largest and most delicious pickles on the planet. Mom was frying eggs, and the pancakes were already on the table.
Someone had put the syrup, butter, grape jam. blackberry jam, milk and orange juice on the table in preparation of the rush of kids which would come any minute. The eight plates were already set around the table. I should hurry if I want to eat anytime soon. Maybe Grandpa will eat with us and slip me a cookie.
The pickles were not yet pickles. They were still officially cucumbers, green and large from Grandpa’s garden. Out there were onions, lettuce, radishes, plums, apricots, apples, corn, pears, tomatoes, and pigs. And a secret shed which may have magically turned some of the garden into clear liquid that Grandpa loved to share.
I remember that morning when I was about 6 years old. It is one of the few vivid memories that I have of my childhood. It wasn’t a bad childhood, I have just put other things in my brain and there’s only so much room. Like a photo album. I could always get another photo album, but I only got one brain.
I hold on to this memory because it is one where I can still see my Gramma. She is dead now, and has been for many years. I still see her when I need to, and it is comforting for me. Like I was comforted every time I woke up in her dining room.
I must have been about 6 years old. The smell of breakfast cooking and the sound of the skillet on the stove woke me. I was tight inside my sleeping bag on the floor of Gramma’s dining room, which could never be used as a dining room because there were always grandkids needing a floor to sleep on. I opened my eyes to see Gramma and Mom in the kitchen busy with breakfast. Gramma was wiping the pickle jars which she had just put up from Grandpa’s garden. Those were the largest and most delicious pickles on the planet. Mom was frying eggs, and the pancakes were already on the table.
Someone had put the syrup, butter, grape jam. blackberry jam, milk and orange juice on the table in preparation of the rush of kids which would come any minute. The eight plates were already set around the table. I should hurry if I want to eat anytime soon. Maybe Grandpa will eat with us and slip me a cookie.
The pickles were not yet pickles. They were still officially cucumbers, green and large from Grandpa’s garden. Out there were onions, lettuce, radishes, plums, apricots, apples, corn, pears, tomatoes, and pigs. And a secret shed which may have magically turned some of the garden into clear liquid that Grandpa loved to share.
I remember that morning when I was about 6 years old. It is one of the few vivid memories that I have of my childhood. It wasn’t a bad childhood, I have just put other things in my brain and there’s only so much room. Like a photo album. I could always get another photo album, but I only got one brain.
I hold on to this memory because it is one where I can still see my Gramma. She is dead now, and has been for many years. I still see her when I need to, and it is comforting for me. Like I was comforted every time I woke up in her dining room.
Charlie
(Cognitive Dissonance)
By Wayne Koehler
(Cognitive Dissonance)
By Wayne Koehler
Charlie was a good kid. He played well with the other children, always ate his green food, and never missed a bath. Charlie was his mother’s only child. He grew up learning his numbers, his colors, and a little algebra. By the time Charlie was in first grade he had memorized his multiplication table through the twelve’s.
Charlie was ready for his first day of school almost a full hour before the bus would come around the corner at Mrs. Whipple’s large brick house, making its way along Oak street until it would stop right in front of Charlie’s house. How fortunate for a little boy who couldn’t wait to get to school and learn something new to have the school bus park right outside his front door. He was running for the yard as soon as he heard the bus, dragging the backpack that he had almost forgotten in the excitement and gripping fast the paper bag with his sandwich and banana, he would get milk at the school cafeteria.
Charlie stopped, his mouth wide and eyes scanning the rows upon rows of seats, hoping that someone he knew would be riding also. Then he saw Ray and Pete, two of the neighborhood kids who played with Charlie last summer. Charlie slowly moved towards them, hoping now that they would let him sit there also. Ray saw Charlie coming and moved his things off the seat to make room for him.
“Hi, Charlie!” he said, offering the seat to his sometimes play friend. “I can’t wait to get home today, I got a new game for the Xbox!”
Charlie heard Ray, but was busy looking at the other kids and didn’t answer. Charlie noticed things about these kids that he hadn’t seen before. One kid, a short redheaded boy who Charlie thought he remembered from the weekend at the city pool, was wearing the shirt that Charlie had been looking at when his mother took him to the mall for school clothes. Charlie liked the shirt his Mom had picked for him, but he really wanted the monster shirt.
“No, Charlie.” his mother had told him. “That’s really not appropriate for school.”
Charlie knew his mother was right and quickly went to try on the jeans she had picked for him. Charlie liked having his mother pick out his clothes, it made him feel warm when he finally got the chance to wear them. He remembered the little girl at the mall, her mother was letting her run around and pull stuff off the manikins right there in the store! Charlie knew better than to do this, his mother would not allow that type of behavior.
The little redheaded boy caught Charlie looking at him and stuck out his tongue. Charlie already knew that was beneath a first grader, although he might slip occasionally and do the same to his little sister Carrie. Charlie’s gaze drifted to other kids on the bus, Michael, who lived two blocks away, had the jacket with the Nike swoosh on the breast, his mother must have lots of money. Charlie wished he could wear that jacket, but knew his own would be warm enough.
“We’re gonna get old Mrs. Williams this year!” yelled Pete. Mrs. Williams had been teaching at this school forever, or at least as much of forever as these first graders knew about. Anyways it was a long time, and Mrs. Williams had horses at home so she must have been here in the cowboy days.
“That was a really long, long time ago!” said Ray, staring out the bus window as if the answer were somewhere waiting for him. “My brother had her two years ago.”
“She must be really smart. And old!” added Pete.
Charlie couldn’t stand it any more, as the bus pulled into the school, he quickly got off and headed straight to the new classroom. Inside he saw the jackets of all the other kids. Green jackets, yellow jackets, black jackets, most of them had some sort of decoration. Some were of sports teams, others were famous brands that Charlie had never heard of. He wondered what one of these jackets would look like on him. His mother picked out what was best for him, to keep him warm, to keep him dry; but still, he wondered how it would feel to wear one.
The lunch pails and backpacks also were covered in TV commercials. The show about the little brother and sister who fight monsters after their parents put them to bed, the new movie about the cops who always found the bad guys, and gals. Charlie had kind of wanted a Scooby Do lunch box, but had forgotten about it at the mall so Mom bought a bunch of lunch sacks. Brown paper bags, like the ones Mom got here groceries in many years ago. Charlie thought that was neat, to pretend that he and his Mother were shopping together and putting things into the little brown bags.
During the morning classes, Charlie thought some of the kids were really annoying for teasing the girls and talking back to Mrs. Williams, his Mother had taught Charlie to respect grownups and to not tease. Charlie wondered who these other Moms were and why they didn’t know as much as his own. These seemed to be the popular kids though, Charlie would like to have more friends.
At lunch, Charlie lined up and waited for the class to walk to the cafeteria together. Some of the boys were talking and playing so Mrs. Williams made them go the rear of the line where they had to wait and eat last. Charlie didn’t even think about playing, he was too hungry.
That afternoon, on the way home on the bus, Charlie thought about his day in school. He couldn’t understand how those kids could have learned to act that way when they all lived in the same city, the same neighborhood. Maybe their Moms didn’t know his Mom, and had never been told that it was rude to act like that.
Charlie met his Mom in the kitchen, where she had been making a pie for after dinner.
“Hi Sweetie!” she said, smiling and happy now that her baby was home. “Did you make any new friends today?”
“Can we go to the mall, Mom?” asked Charlie. “I want a new jacket.”
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