Kitty Griffin

Billy Butterbean
Here’s a knotty question. Do you know your knots? Knots? Yes, knots. This story takes place back in the early 1700s, way before the states united and way back when wooden ships sailed the oceans and knot knowing was very important.

This is the story of how Billy Butterbean learned to be knotty.


“So Billy,” Pappy said, “you want to be a seaman.”
“Some day I want to be captain of my own ship,” Billy said.
“Then practice your knots, especially your hitches.” Pappy took up his gear. “I’m off to sail away. Give wide berth to that bully, Fulton Pulley and try not to let your tongue tie up when you see Ivy Vine. I’m sure she’s taken a shine to you. Always remember, you’re a Butterbean and Butterbeans make things better. Just ask the men I cook for.”

Shade
“Sorry, I don’t do dead.” The words tumbled out of Leo’s mouth before he could stop them. Like always, he couldn’t close down the rest of what he had to say and he kept going. “Cemeteries are not something I go into willingly and I won’t be going to any cemetery, even a national one, not even for a class field trip.” He gripped the front of his desk and commanded his mouth to shut, which it finally did.
First there was muttering. Some laughter followed by uproarious laughter as the rest of the class took in what he’d said.
One look at Mrs. Fetchko and Leo knew he was in doo-doo. He felt sweat pooling under his armpits. She strode over to the board and next to the neatly printed name, Leo Shade, she added a second check.
Deep doo-doo. Dad had said, “No more calls. Or else.” He couldn’t get another check.
“Mr. Shade, you must enjoy having me call your parents because this seems to be one of those days.”
There. No trial. No nothing. She probably had dad on speed-dial. He knew the drill. Three checks equaled one phone call.

Gretel
A witch’s heart is made of stone. Even though the little girl had pushed the woman into the oven, the stone heart survived. Now it woke, hungry and ready to be found.

Wind streamed through the dark needles of the towering trees. It shimmied the pale silver leaves of the invasive Bloodthorn shrub. Skeletal remains speared on the long, poisonous thorns rattled in response.
Up a ridge, down a valley, round about a small dale, the gust continued until it knocked a loose stone from a heap of broken bricks. The waiting thing stirred.

The pile tumbled free, releasing a mound of ashes sheltered underneath. The ashes flew high into the air casting off into the wind.

In a castle far away, a Queen slumbered beneath a shroud of sticky spider webs. When some of the ashes slipped through the membrane of the webs and landed on her lips the Queen’s eyes opened. Quickly thrusting out her arms, reaching up and breaking the webs, Queen Zenzi shouted, “She’s dead! Mother is dead! At long last.” She sucked in more air. “Effie, get in here. Get in here now.” Zenzi stood up. She screamed, “Effie, where are you?”

On an island where an Abbey sat quietly, a few specks of ash landed on the eyelids of the sleeping Lord Abbot. A long-ago secret tucked deep in his memory bubbled up and woke him. He coughed and choked as bile rose in his throat. He gasped at the pressure atop his breastbone. He tumbled out of bed where he sat for a moment and her voice came back to him, “I have a heart of stone. Oh, it desires you, but not in the way you want.” He recalled the flash of silver as the knife struck out.
As the memory shook him he felt warmth on his chest. He put his hand there and felt wetness. His nostrils opened wide at the smell. Blood.

On the same island in the Abbey hospital, flakes of ash landed on the cheek of a girl who’d been having a pleasant dream. The dream shattered and transformed into a nightmare full of shards of fear. “Hänsel,” she screamed. “Hänsel, where are you?”

A Healthy Society Takes Care of its Sick
We have sidewalks and roads because we are a social society and we need paths to get to each other.
We have towns and cities because we are a social society and we are interdependent.
We are social. We are socialized.
I don’t know who handed out stupid pills, but this idea that “socialism” is going to take something away is like telling a honeybee that it should build a nest and not a hive.
“Socialized” medicine? A society that doesn’t take care of its own sick is itself a very sick society. Is it social or criminal to let your neighbor die because they can’t afford their medicine?
We can’t go back to the days where you paid the doc out of your own pocket or you gave him part of the yield from the garden. Technology had made medical care expensive. But what we can do is be civilized and figure out a way to take care of over forty million people who aren’t insured, or the other millions who are under-insured. The system we have now works for a few. If we are to survive and compete with countries that take care all of their people, then it’s time to come out from under the bed. No one is going to make you line up to see a doctor you don’t want to see or take a pill you don’t want to take.
Ask your doctor this--“Is our present system working? Do you like dealing with insurance companies?”
It’s time for a big enema. Time to clean out the waste and stupidity and make medical care what it should be—available, high quality, affordable, and most importantly-- good for doctor and patient. You can call it whatever you want, but just understand—this is common sense. Not communist sense. Common sense.