walter eckland

 

 

 

 

 

 

Please do not start ​

              reading

                   this book

unless and until you have read the other book. By “other book,” I mean, of course (you horse) the first book, which is also all about our little Corie.   

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If you start reading here, without reading the other book, then you’re not going to know anything about Corie, Dad, research, Smelly Timmy, librarians, or the married/dog walk guy who had twins—and aren’t they cute little devils? (emphasis on “devils”)—or the Phillippe (pickle-and-fish) Tree or the President of Perú (still).  

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If you haven’t read the other book, every time I talk about the above mentioned people, places, grapefruits, or things, you’ll scratch your head and wonder and think I’m a terrible writer and (this book = terrible x 2.07) because you will not be able to figure out what is going on.  

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Please understand that I am not just telling you to read the other book so that you or your mom or your wealthy Uncle Bob will buy that book and I’ll make tons of “silver with a little gold and I believe that’s purple on top money”. I don’t make that much money (of any color) every time you buy one book, and what I do actually do to make money, I don’t really want to tell you, partly because it’s kind of dull, and mostly because I’d rather work at a lemonade, water, and cookie stand.  

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Even if it does sell hot chocolate and coffee. 

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And I might.  

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Work at a lemonade stand, that is.  

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So...

I’ll wait until you get a copy (try a LENDING library or buy it or rent it or borrow it from someone you like) of the other book about Corie and read it. 

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I’m waiting...  

I’m waiting...  

I’m waiting...  

I’m waiting...   

                    I’m still waiting...  

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All set? 

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Great!  

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Now we’re ready to go.  

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A lady lived in San Jose, California, and she saw a guy breaking into a museum and she called her police chief and followed the guy in her car (at a very safe distance and with her finger hanging over the send button on her cell phone and the numbers 911 already punched in), and they caught the guy. He was almost as bad—or at least as bad, or maybe worse than the gurgle jar-stealing guy who’s still in jail and not likely to go home for Thanksgiving dinner and pumpkin pie anytime soon or even next century.  

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The lady in San Jose, California got a medal, a great feeling, a museum pass for life, a new funny-looking phone, and a $57,500 reward that she donated to the Pickle-and-Fish Tree Charity Fund, AND she got her picture above the fold on the cover of her local paper, which is called The San Jose Mercury. Her police chief there, who had his picture taken, did not have his picture put on the cover above or below the fold, not even on Page 62. The San Jose Mercury is a fat paper with a lot of pages.  

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I wonder why they call it The San Jose Mercury and not The San Jose Saturn. Saturn is a much more interesting planet than Mercury, especially if you’re talking about things like moons and rings and friends of Jupiter.  

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Anyhoo. Anyhow. Any-Jupiter.   

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Any-other-orbiting-roundish-mass.   

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Any-KEEP-PLUTO-A–PLANET-PLEASE! I really like the little rocky fella. 

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Are you thinking:
• This will be a continuation of the last book.
• This will explain all about the pickle part.
• Corie’s okay, so tell me more.
• How are the fish, and did they go to Perú and have Market (pronounced Mar-Kay) Fish babies?
• Will we go to Perú in this book?
• Will we go to Geneva, Switzerland and see yogurt or yodelers?
• What’s with that boy Corie sits near but not with?
• How’s the head librarian?
• Is Jenna still around? She reminds me of me.
• Will Smelly Timmy break anything? He reminds me of me.
• What about the three-foot-tall skinny branch? Is it still growing? What is it? How skinny is it? Will it have leaves? Will they be purple? Will they be different or the same shape as the other leaves? Can I have a Popsicle right now?
• I’m bored. It’s raining. Hurry up and tell me something

• I have no idea what you are talking about. Who’s Corie? What pickle? What branch? What librarian? What dog walk guy?

If you’re thinking that last one, then you didn’t READ the first book about Corie, or else you did read it and already forgot all about it.
 

                                                     If (READ FIRST BOOK = NO),  

                                                                  then go to the beginning of Chapter One and follow the instructions. 

                                                     If (READ FIRST BOOK = YES + YOU CAN’T REMEMBER), 

                                                                  then have your memory checked. 

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Really. 

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At your age, you shouldn’t be forgetting stuff like that. Have a cheese sandwich and CONCENTRATE for a minute.

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So...  

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You probably gathered from hearing about that San Jose-living lady that donated the $57,500 to the Pickle-and-Fish Tree Charity Fund, that the fund still exists and still takes donations and still feeds people all over the world. It is. It does. And it does.  Xx But that’s not what I’m talking about now. 

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Listen...T

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he universe is a large place. Our sun and our planet and our solar system are teeny, weeny, itsy, bitsy little things in the universe. People shouldn’t go around saying that someone is feeding the whole universe if they’re only feeding just about every starving person on one teeny, weeny, itsy, bitsy little planet.   

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You never know who or what might get mad.

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It snowed again—around 18 inches, or maybe 1.5 feet, or perhaps .4728 meters.

At the time it snowed, there were already three inches of other previously fallen still white snow on the ground.
 

Snow.
 

White stuff.
 

Kind of wet snow.
 

Perfect for snowballs and snow woman-, man- or person-making.
 

It is only December 19th, which is pretty early in the winter. So it should and would stay cold for a while. So the snow shouldn’t melt for a while. So snow trouble could last longer. So someone might have to sew the holes in someone’s snowsuit. So. Sew. So what?
 

So some research was done. Some plans were planned. Some concepts were conceptualized. Some orangey-red spray paint was found that clearly was orangey-red and not that other shade of reddy-orange.

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Old Jack the farmer is great.
 

You know what one of the best things about him is? He likes to be called “Old Jack.” Why? Because he is old and his name is Jack. Hey! That kind of works out, doesn’t it?
 

You know how some people kind of complain if you say they’re old or if you say they’re young or if you say they’re tall or if you say they’re short? Even if they are old/young/tall/short? I guess you’re not supposed to say what people are anymore.
 

If people have a big hunk of roast beef or sausage stuck in their teeth, I don’t think you’re even allowed to quietly and privately mention it to them anymore.
 

Anyhoo, anyhow, anyWatchOutWhatYouSay.
 

Old Jack is great and old and nice and sometimes lonely, and he has a 100-acre farm right in the middle of town just one block from Main Street. He has had that farm forever, or at least since the dinosaurs or since the time when the restaurant/dog walk guy’s father put up his big restaurant sign.
 

That sign: Is it ugly or is it art? Go look and tell me what you think. Everyone seems to have an opinion.
 

Corie likes to visit Old Jack.
 

A bunch.
 

You know how much Corie likes a library, don’t you? Well, she even leaves the library early so she can visit Old Jack at his farm.
 

You know all the things you find on a farm, like cows and sheep and horses and pigs and goats and chickens and growing stuff like corn and peppers and pumpkins and tomatoes and beans? Well, there aren’t any of those at Old Jack’s farm. There used to be, back when Old Jack was maybe called “Not-Quite-So-Old Jack” or even “Moderately-Young Jack.” Now, he’s around ninety-one or ninety-three years old and can’t plant or take care of livestock and doesn’t go out of the house much and gets a little lonely sometimes. He has very, very good teeth though. I guess he brushed them a lot. It’s possible, although really not likely... it’s possible he even flossed. Weird, that flossing business. I never took to it. Did you?
 

Here’s the bad thing: sometimes you need a bad thing to make a good thing happen. A good thing is going to happen (can you guess who’s going to make it happen?), but you have to see the bad to see how we’re going to get the good. By good, I mean quite good, even better than Old Jack’s still-pretty-good teeth.
 

The bad thing is, the big meanie bank that owns the hockey arena from the big Northeast city wants to take away Old Jack’s farm so they can make more money, and they don’t care about Old Jack being lonely. I don’t know why they want to take away his farm. Maybe they want to build something else on the old fields that used to grow veggie-tables. I do not know what they want to build on his beautiful but not-being-used-much-for-growing-and-grazing farmland after they sneakily steal it away from him, maybe a waste water treatment plant or a nuclear power plant or 300 of those tiny little smooshed houses that only come in three dull colors or maybe a big parking lot or an ugly bank branch.
 

Now...
 

Corie has tons and tons of lemonade money—I mean TONS. I’m talking TONS AND TONS! (Psst... I mean BIG BUCKS TONS!) She has money in lots and lots of colors. She has enough money of any color to buy Old Jack’s farm from the big meanie bank that owns the hockey arena in the big Northeast city, and then she could let him live there on his farm forever and ever with or without hockey teams.
 

Corie, as you might have noticed, is getting a bit more mature. She is even mature enough to know that Old Jack would never, ever let anybody do something like that for him, not even a good friend. It’s all about pride. Do you know what that is? No? Please go look it up.
 

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So...
 

…..dilemma, eh?

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