brewers baseball and things

more turtle and hare

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Muggy Doodle in colored pencil postcards, two or three a week, then three, four, sometimes more. The pictures were no longer of stadiums, but a hot dog wrapper on a warning track or peep-hole in a home run fence. They served everyone well. The fields had no name and the towns were strange sounding, to the tree house people anyway. They had never heard of them. They sat in a circle, passed the postcards around, and recited the towns and states in sort of a trance, over and over,

T-i-o-g-a
W-a-m-s-u-t-t-e-r
P-o-c-a-t-e-l-l-o

Texas-Wyoming- Idaho

T-i-o-g-a
W-a-m-s-u-t-t-e-r
P-o-c-a-t-e-l-l-o

Texas-Wyoming- Idaho

Thanks to Sister Crop Science and her connections at the post office, the tree house was awarded its own address. They tracked Muggy’s movement on a makeshift map pinned to the house’s eastern wall. That’s where shadows from the branches formed and twirled into impossible shapes. The other walls were covered with Muggy’s cards.

It was when crickets rubbed body parts and made electric symphonies that the postcards started arriving more frequently, in a flurry, six or seven a day. There was no more room to mount them. They weren’t even postcards. They were cut outs, the flip side of food items, the grey backs, perfect card board to scribble and doodle and so Muggy did just that; transforming the backsides of Ritz Crackers and Fruit Loops into postcards. He cut them nice and square with address on right side and stamp in upper right hand corner. The post office people bit the bait.

The cards kept coming.
Muggy kept moving.

T-i-o-g-a
W-a-m-s-u-t-t-e-r
P-o-c-a-t-e-l-l-o

Texas-Wyoming- Idaho

T-i-o-g-a
W-a-m-s-u-t-t-e-r
P-o-c-a-t-e-l-l-o

Texas-Wyoming- Idaho.

It was when piles of leaves began to swirl in street corners that Muggy wrote about the six-shooter. By then the cards were arriving a dozen a day. Scared the Jesus back into Sister Crop Science. She’d seen this behavior before and knew the pattern, knew what was next – Road kill. Muggy could never kick the habit. Her mind started spinning like a roulette wheel, one anxiety after another, but solutions were sprinkled around the wheel and she landed on one – Brew a batch of Tabasco sauce so strong it kills rabies in road kill and saves Muggy’s life. And so she did.

Muggy must have felt Sister Crop Science’s tinkering in the lab. It came to him as a warm wind. He soon revealed in postcards that he would be visiting the burial mound of his great Uncle Otto or rather his split burial. His legs were buried beside four willows angling, and his arms and a few other parts north and west of there, along six spotted cliffs. No one had every heard of a split burial, but they now had a nose for where Muggy might be.

It was there, between four willows angling and six spotted cliffs, Muggy explained, where Uncle Otto had first seen the giant beings from the North. They rolled into town with six shooters in their holsters, wood clubs at their sides and red stitched spheroids in their hands. They swung those clubs; smacked red stitches, and spheroids did fly. That’s when Uncle Otto slipped into the wooded area behind the old rantoon. He waited day and night, too scared to move because the giant beings liked to shoot off their six shooters for no reason at all. Muggy waited for two whole sun rises and when he was sure they was gone, he sprinted round the field and picked up scraps, splinters and shards of wood the great beings had left behind.

Uncle Otto toiled away for two more sunrises, transforming the wood shards of the giant beings into arrows and then he buried them somewhere. Uncle Otto never did tell Muggy where he hid those arrows, not by quadrants or latitudes and longitudes and not by city or town name. He only said they were buried between four willows angling and six spotted cliffs and so that’s what Muggy wrote to the tree house people and his words split them into two camps.

Sister Crop Science waited. She breathed. She brewed up a few more batches of Tabasco sauce….. for Muggy and she wasn’t alone.

Timba danced in circles and drifted away.He disappeared. He was hungry…… to find those arrows and he wasn’t alone either.

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Author: Steve Myers

I grew up in Milwaukee and have been a Milwaukee Brewers baseball fan for as long as I can remember.

2 thoughts on “more turtle and hare

  1. I used to do something similar with maps, tracing Welsh place-names in England, English in Wales, Spanish and French in the USA, imagining wavelets of history coming and going with settlers and conquerors.

    • i don’t remember when i learned what Milwaukee possibly meant in Ojibwe and Potawatomi languages – ”gathering place by the water,” but i do remember being excited and thinking, god that makes sense. There was another way of seeing things, an older way that also struck me as a new way since the three rivers still emptied into Lake Michigan.

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