On Clever Writing

I recently read a book called Three Men in a Boat. (To say nothing of  the Dog) by Jerome K. Jerome. (His parents were so original with his name.)  This highly amusing book made me laugh out loud several times. It even made my older sister laugh out loud when she read it. That must mean it's funny.  And I don't mean lol-you-may-have-just-cracked-a-smile-or-perhaps-let-out-an-amused-snort laughing out loud. I mean tears-running-down-your-face, wouldn't-want-to-read-this-book-in-public-for-fear-of-looking-like-you're-crazy laughing out loud.

I read another of his books which is a compilation of some essay-type writings.  They too were funny. I decided I would like to try to write something copying his style of writing, so I did. I don't know how well I accomplished that, but it was fun to write.  You should definitely NOT judge his books by this next piece of writing I'm going to share. 

On Clever Writing

By Melody Beerbower, March 22, 2012

    Often I feel like writing something clever, but whenever I sit down and decide, "I think I shall write something clever today." nothing comes to mind.

    However, when I'm snuggled down in bed with the covers wrapped cozily about me, my mind wanders and I think up the cleverest things. They make me chuckle and I think I should like to write them down-- only my bed is too warm and I haven't any paper and pencil handy. So I leave it till morning. As a precaution I replay the words in my head -over and over- even picturing how they would look on paper.  I drift off to sleep and my dreams are filled with it. It winds it's way in and out of them in the strangest fashion.

   When I awake in the morning I have a haunting feeling that there is something I've forgotten, and that I had imagined something very clever last night, but I can't quite grasp it.

   Well, that's the way it goes with dreams.  I remember one time I had the most enjoyable and fantastic dream.  I was quite excited by it. When I awoke I lay with my eyes closed, replaying the most interesting parts in my head. I reviewed everything very closely so as to make sure I would remember it. Then I opened my eyes. 

  Have you ever noticed how the sophisticated  light of day vanishes all the fancies of the night? Try as hard as I might to conjure up my dream all I could produce was a vague impression of danger and romance and a chase and some great sacrifice on my part. Who or what I had sacrificed myself for I do not know, but it must have been something noble because I felt so grand inside.

   Now bedtime is not the only time Cleverness strikes.  It often happens at such convenient times like when I'm sitting in the car wishing I had brought along some bit of paper and a pencil to jot down my ingenious ideas. Of course had I brought them, my mind would be blank and my paper merely covered in doodles.

   Often it sneaks up on me when I'm talking,or rather listening, to a particularly dull person. And I'm paying more attention to how the end of their mountainous nose bobs up and down as they speak, or how they have a stray piece of dandruff below their hair line, and have made a rather half-hearted attempt at applying their makeup today. The person generally is too busy talking to notice I'm not paying attention, and I'm too busy not paying attention --being caught up in all my clever musings-- to notice how remarkable it is he hasn't noticed yet.

  And so cleverness comes and goes...and some are more clever than others to capture it and put it down on paper.

This is me sitting on our chicken coop writing a song called "An Awkward Day", which I may or may not post depending on my gumption. (And yes, I'm wearing red pants.)

When The Clock Struck One

This is a story I wrote in 2009 some time.  My oldest sister wrote the last five sentences for a pretend ending for some school paper of my younger sister.  I stole them, and wrote this story based of of them.

When the Clock Struck One

By the one and only Melody Beerbower

            The clock struck one. One a.m. It was then that the Morris family remembered that they were to be evicted at two. Jumping out of bed and scrambling into his clothes, Norman rushed to wake his three children. He rapidly dressed his youngest child in all the clothes she had, the other children doing the same. His wife ran around in a frightened state packing, unpacking, repacking.

 Being irresponsible and headstrong, Norman was never able to keep a job, so here they were six months behind on the rent, hardly any food and little money to buy that necessity. And now in just half an hour they were going to lose their house. The minuets flew by like seconds. Norman called to his wife. The children were ready. They all gathered in a solemn group in the living room. He was about to speak, when a resounding knock was heard on the front door. Mrs. Morris almost screamed!

 Norman talked to her in a cool, reassuring voice. “Take the children out the back door and run to where we hid the wagon. I will stay here and stall them.”

“No! Come with us.” she implored in a low voice. Knock! Knock! Knock!  

“Open up!” a bumming voice cried, “Open up in the name of the king! I have orders to throw you out and arrest Norman till the debt is paid!”

“You know what,” Norman whispered to his frightened wife, “I think I’ll run with you now.”

Quietly they opened the backdoor and shut it again when everyone was out. They walked swiftly and quietly until they were out of sight of the house. Then picking up the youngest child they ran. They ran for what seemed like hours, but actually was only a few minutes. When they found the wagon they sped off at top speed.

Crossing the state border Norman thought their trouble was over.  But then something shining in the moon light loomed before them, a dark, rushing mysteriously wild thing that sparkled cruelly in the moon light. The hungry waters boiling, churning, foaming, looked like they wanted to swallow them alive. Norman pulled up short afraid to go on, not able to turn back. Just then he heard a cry. Not waiting to see if it was them or not, he urged the terrified horses forward into the raging current. He instantly regretted his decision. The infuriated waves beat the wagon back and forth.

Oh, the fear! Oh the terror! Disaster struck! The wagon tipped! They all fell into the ragging water and in one terrible second all were drowned never to be seen again by mortal eyes.

I realize people are not normally evicted at two in the morning, but it was just for a dramatic effect.  Also, why they did not pack sooner I don't know.

The White Camel of Camelot

It's hard to keep a blog.  And yes, I realize I have not posted anything in a long time.  But as no one's life depends on my posting something, and there are more important things to do in life than post goofy poems few people read, I have not made any zealous efforts to post.  Enough of that.  I'm here now, and I shall publish something.  I haven't written anything much lately, so I shall pull from my old store of writings.

 Let me take you back through the years to a time where knights were brave, maidens fair, and evil dukes abounded...

The White Camel of Camelot

By Melody Beerbower, October 5, 2010

It was long ago in a camel lot.

A dark, stormy knight and his maiden fair 

Searched for a camel in that lot,

All covered with snow white hair.

The moon was raised above the trees,

Spreading its silvery glow.

From a sky as vast as the sea,

It watched the fugitives down below.  

The danger was great and the search was long

So many camels were in that lot.

But close by the gate the white camel was found,

The greatest camel in the camel lot.

To the back of the camel the knight lifted his maid,

And kissing her hand implored,

“My dearest, please do not be afraid.

I’ll save you from that cowardly lord.”

Then he to mounted the camel’s back.

Down the road it started to trot.

It headed through the woods to a little shack,

Far from the camel lot.

Suddenly, there was a noise,

Like a mighty rushing sea.

“Oh no!” cried the maid, “We will both be destroyed.

“That’s Lord Rhup coming after me.”

 

“Fear not! He shall not catch us.

Fly on my glorious steed!

Kick up your heels! Let fly the dust!

What we need right now is speed!”

 The camel ran on with clumsy grace.

Lord Rhup’s stallions catching with ease.

Never was there such a slow race,

Weaving in and out of the trees.

 

It’s true the white camel’s the best in the camel lot’

If to go a great distance you need,

For endurance and strength— these things he has got,

But the thing that he lacks is the speed.

The moon looked down on the scene with wrath.

Who he was trying to help no one could tell,

For as he brightened the fugitives path,

He lit up Lord Rhup’s as well.

 

 Soon the fugitives came to a glen

Surrounded by massive trees.

They were also surrounded by Lord Rhup and his men,

When the white camel fell to his knees.

Angered the knight jumped from the camel’s back,

Drawing his glittering sword.

He shouted, “You shall not take the fair maiden back

That is my solemn word!’

 

Lord Rhup just smiled and looked at his men,

And all the bows he had there.

“I think not,” he said and smiled again,

As a dozen arrows were loosed through the air.

The dark knight and his maiden fair

Fell there side by side,

Killed by the arrows that flew through the air.

Together they lived. Together they died.

As the moon slipped behind the last rolling hill,

The knight came to an end. It was all for naught.

He and his maiden lay still,

Next to the white camel from the camel lot.   

That's all for today.
~Melody

The Day I Died

Because I have not posted in a long time, because I think some people will enjoy it, and because I enjoy it myself, I am going to post one of my short stories, The Day I Died. 

This story was inspired by one of Louis L'Amour's books. (I don't remember which.)  I read the first part of the story, where it give a little preview of something that is going to happen later on. It was about a man in a cabin. Two men ride up and start some trouble. You know the man can't die because, well, there are many pages left to read.  But what if the main character did die? What would happen then...

The Day I Died

By Melody Beerbower, Summer 2011

   I remember that day like it was yesterday.  I was sittin’ in my cabin like I done the last twenty years of my life, excepting when I went to town for supplies, which was rare, or when I got visitors, which was even rarer.  I was cut off from civilization by the miles of forests that surrounded my cabin.  Naturally, when I saw two horsemen approaching from a little path through the woods, I was suspicious. 

            I asks myself, “Now what are those two fine gentlemen riding up to my cabin for?” Noticing the Winchester riffles they held across the saddles in front of them, and the pistols prominently displayed at their sides, I answered myself, “Why if they aint lookin’ for trouble call me a jackrabbit.”  So, I picked up me own Winchester and headed out the door.

            “Howdy,” called one of the riders; he was tall, brown haired, brown skinned, and if I could have seen his eyes looking out from his brown cowboy hat they probably-- now this is just a guess mind you-- but, they probably would have been brown.  The other man was short, rather fat, and not at all pleasant to look at.

            “Looks like you’re expecting trouble,” commented the man in brown, indicating my riffle with a wave of his hand.

            “I saw you two ride up, didn’t I?” was my cool reply. “Besides, I was born to trouble.  ’Patches killed my family when I was four years old. Would of scalped me too, only I was a blond and had no hair at the time.  I managed to shoot one of those Indians that day. Been using a gun ever since.”

            “Is that a fact?” sneered the fat man.

            “It is,” was my cordial reply.

            His less cordial reply was to send a bullet zinging into my arm.  I had seen him reaching for his gun and lifted my rifle. We shot at the same time.  The only problem was, his gun was loaded, mine was not.  He sat there on his horse, grinning like a big buffoon. “How does it feel to have led in your arm?” he taunted, drawing his other pistol.  

            I asked him if he would kindly wait a moment, so I could go inside and load my riffle.  He seemed puzzled by my reasonable request, but assented. Well…that is he did not shoot me in the back as I turned and stepped into the cabin.  Returning with my riffle loaded and ready, I looked straight at the fat man, although it pained my eyes to do so.

            “To answer your question; It is very uncomfortable to have lead in your arm.  But as experience is the best teacher, you can see for yourself.”

            Once more our guns fired at the same moment, only this time mine was loaded.  Yet this time there was a third shot.  I had forgotten about the man in brown, but as his bullet slammed into my chest, knocking me to the ground and therefore sending my bullet ricocheting into the trees, I remembered him, and was not likely to forget again.

            On the bright side of things the fat mans bullet missed and went sailing over me into the cabin door.

            “Now what do you have to say for yourself?” the tall, brown man asked.

            “Well…” I sighed, sitting up and looking at my wound, which was bleeding profusely.  “I guess…” I continued slowly, trying to collect my thoughts, “I guess my aim hasn’t improved any since I was four.”  Then, exhausted, I fell over and died.

            Those men were shocked.  They just stared at me awhile, then walked into the cabin. 

            Now the nice thing about being dead is no one can hurt you any longer.  You’re free from pain, and worry-- except maybe about whether or not they’ll carry out your burial wishes. 

            I’d planed out my burial wishes years before, seeing as how I might die at any time.  I wrote ’em up in the most diplomatic way I could on a shingle-- it seemed rather fitting, besides I had no paper-- then tacked them to the wall of my cabin.

            When those men walked in there they saw that shingle and started reading. My requests were simple enough: 

          I hereby request that whoever finds me dead, or kills me, as such may be the case, would build me a coffin in which to be buried, if I have not already done so myself.  At last measurement I was five feet three and three quarters inches tall, and weighed one hundred and sixteen and three-sevenths pounds.

          If so possible, I would be obliged ifin’ you buried me under the Eiffel tower.  I’ve always wanted to see Paris.  If this is quite impossible, just bury me facing Paris. 

          I have no living relatives, so all I have left goes to my horse to do with as he pleases.

          Finely, I would like written on my tomb stone: HERE LIES …

That’s as far as I got before my charcoal gave out.  Never did find another thing to write with.  

            Well, those men just stood there puzzling ’bout what to do.   They walked outside and spied my horse's watering trough.  Maybe when I tell you the length of it you’ll know what they did with it.  It was five feet four inches.  These men had no Idea what Paris was or in what direction it lay.  This was cause for a long discussion, which ended by the fat man saying, “We’ll bury him, and some part ought to be pointing the right direction.” 

            As for the tomb stone, they wondered what name to use.  They asked me what my name was, but I did not answer them, after all I was dead.  When you’re alive and someone asks you a question, it’ rude not to answer.  But if someone asks you a question when you’re dead, you better not answer!  Most likely whoever asked you is not expecting a response, and would have a heart attack if you gave one. Then instead of one, you would have two dead people.  Course, it aint polite to be askin’ dead people questions anyway.

            However in this case it would have done them no good if I could answer; I had no name.  My parents died when I was four; I’ve been living by myself ever since.  Folks mostly just call me “Hey, you!”, or that-crazy-man-who-lives-by-himself.  I’ve always called myself I, or me, and occasionally myself.  If I’m in a criticizing mood, I call myself you.

            Well, those men were still puzzled about what to write. Finally the tall one said, “Well, we asked him his name and he said nothing, so we’ll write ‘Here Lies Nothing.”

            “What about a date?” the fat man asked.

            After some thought they decided on just putting a four, the age I was when I first used a gun.  Considerately, they asked my horse what he planed on doing with the house. He said nothing.  They asked if he would mind if they moved in.  He said neigh.  So they moved in, and lived there until they too died.

           

            Since then, People have been puzzled by my grave stone that says: Here Lies Nothing.  “Why would someone bother to put such an obvious statement up?” They would wonder shaking their heads. 

            Then one day along came a scholarly man.  He saw the stone, and exclaimed, “It’s obvious.”

            Everyone else said they already had figured that much out.

            “No, No!” expostulated the wise man, “I mean, it I obvious that whoever put that there did not want anyone to dig there.  So the wise thing to do now is dig.”

            And what do you know, not two feet under my coffin was a gold mine.

            Over the years the rock eroded some.  The re on the end of here is no longer visible.  It now serves as the motto of the very successful mining business, for it now reads: He lied 4 nothing. (the ‘d’ being added on latter)

            And that’s how it happened the day I died.  I think.  I’m not quite sure.  I was dead, you know.

The End

Here is a attempt to replicate the sign:

Here Lied

4

Nothing

It could use some more editing, and I'm not very consistent with my 'accent', but hopefully, (if you made it to the end) you found it amusing.

I just learned in English to day that you are not supposed to use hopefully  to mean "it is hoped" or "if all goes well", as I did in that last sentence.  Rather, to use it correctly, you must use it to mean "in a hopeful manner", which is the actual meaning of hopefully.  But grammar rules were made to be broken, so I will continue to use hopefully incorrectly, at least in informal writing, or until a acceptable replacement word is found.

For those of you who are wondering, I took these pictures last summer. 

To Grieve or Not To Grieve

Don't expect this to be a profound post, because, well- it's not.  This is a poem I wrote attempting to prove to my sister I could write something profound- at ten O'clock at night.  She was skeptical about my ability to do so.  She was more or less right.

To Grieve or Not To Grieve

By Melody Beerbower, May 2011

Some people believe

(While others do not)

That you shouldn’t grieve

When someone is shot.

I guess it depends

(If you’ll permit me to say)

If their life it ends

Or if they go to the hospital for the day.

Some might point out

(While others might not)

If the person’s a lout

He may need to be shot.

I guess that’s one view,

(But believe me it’s not mine)

Of what you should do

When a lout’s life’s on the line.

Some may dispute

(While others may not)

That if you shoot

You have a right to be shot.

I guess this may sound strange,

(And I think it does)

Especially on a shooting range

Where that’s all one does

Some probably think

(And I would agree with the lot)

That these verses stink

And should promptly be shot.

I guess I must cease

(As soon as can be)

Least violence increase

And they try to shoot me

But if I am shot

(As shot I may be)

I wonder whether or not

You will grieve for me.

You see some people believe

(While others do not)
That you should grieve

When someone is shot.

Have a safe week, and be careful not to get shot.  You never know who will grieve for you.  Since I'm on this topic, here is another good piece of advice:

   "You should always go to other people's funerals, or they won't come to yours."  ~ Yogi Berra

The Lilac's Story

As is fitting for Sunday, here is a serious poem, written from an illustration that Pastor Bayly used in one of his sermons.

The Lilac’s Story

By Melody Beerbower, May 29, 2011

Dedicated to Pastor Bayly

Lilacs’ purple flowers

Blooming unblemished, unstained

Watered by springs gentle showers

Looking more beautiful after the rain.

With water droplets sparkling

On petals of satin and velvet.

Oh what beauty they bring!

Oh what glory unmet!

What a soothing aroma they send

Floating on the spring breeze

Oh that their beauty would not end,

And their glory forever us please.

But the flowers fade away,

And fall gently to the ground.

Forgotten, there they lay.

Stripped of their glory, Stripped of their crown.

They stay there unnoticed,

Trampled under the feet of passers-by.

Here they have come to rest.

Here they have come to die.

The lilacs are a picture

Of how God His Son did send

Into the world to teach her

And be trampled underfoot by men.

Jesus in all His glory and splendor

Came to a world full of pain and strife.

There His life He surrendered,

Dying to give us new life.

Jesus’ beauty exceeds that of the flowers.

He is perfect, without blemish or stain,

Yet He gave up His power,

To end sin’s cruel reign.

Just as the lilacs return in the spring,

So Jesus returned to his glory

He died for our sins, new life to bring

This is the lilacs story.

A reminder of how some things beautiful

For a time are stripped of their glory

To fulfill a purpose meaningful,

Though the way be dark and gory.

Whenever you pass a lilac

Let it remind you of Christ’s glory

How someday He will be coming back

This is the lilacs’ story.

King of the Coop

This is Roman.                                                                                 Roman is a Rooster.

      

Roosters do not lay eggs.  Here are some eggs not lain by Roman:

Roman is mean.  He likes to attack people.  My youngest sister use to be afraid to go outside near him.  "Cock-a-doo not bite me," she would say.

I am some what afraid of him, although he has never attacked me- yet.

Here is a poem I wrote about Roman:

King of the Coop

By Melody Beerbower

Dedicated to our rooster Roman, October 14, 2011

The rooster is the king of the coop.

He rules it with beak and claw.

He struts around,

Tail in the air

Demanding respect from all

The rooster is the ruler of the roost.

He sits upon it with great pride,

Sleeping there

From dusk till dawn

His faithful hens by his side.

The rooster is king of the Cock-a-doodle-do.

He calls it all day long.

So vain because

He knows no hen

Can sing his stately song. 

Hail to the king of the coop!

To the Rooster with bright red crown!

I respect your beak

And your long, sharp claws

And keep my distance whenever you’re around.

For the rooster is also king of the yard,

Or wherever he may be,

So Roman
In every way

That he frightens even me.

(These are hens. They lay the eggs. I have not written a poem about them.)