Stories – Page 6 – tim mcmurdo

digitus volucris

Posted on June 15, 2011 by Tim McMurdo

His name is Eric. I know it is not a great image, but Eric is cute… and single, for all you lady bugs out there. Eric is a very friendly finger bug. He is gainfully employed, has his own place as well as a healthy relationship with his mother. Eric likes short walks on blades of grass and long flights during sunset. The only thing that is missing in Eric's life is a lady companion to share his world.

Do you know a nice girl bug for Eric? If you do, please let me know. Together we can make a difference in Eric's short life.

Come on, hook a bug up!

mission soap box

Posted on June 8, 2011 by Tim McMurdo

Here's how it went down.

First, there was the pre planning: I'd scouted the location the day before and found that the target facility opened at 07:30 hours. I gathered the materials I would need to successfully prosecute the mission. I was equipped with a bottle of the latest liquid detergent, my iPod, a book, iced tea, and most importantly a huge pile of quarters.

My mission was pretty simple. Wash and dry two queen sized comforters that would not fit in our own laundry machines at home. Secondary objectives included getting in and out before the mid day heat set in and the interior temperatures climbed to 180 degrees.

Second, was insertion: I packed the mission equipment and the comforters into the backseat of the car. The vehicle for this mission was the 2006 Chevy Impala. Perfect for the mission, it was big like a battle ship and the silver impala makes every occupant look like they are an old man. A good disguise for the mission. After driving over the mountain and through the woods, I arrived at the objective. It wasn't pretty.

When was the last time that you were in a laundromat? I can't remember my last time, but the place was instantly familiar the moment I walked inside. The same detergent smell, the attendant with the broom and the out of order signs. All of the machines were lined up in rows like armies of short squat robots, ready to devour my linens.

Third, the action began: I left the heavy equipment in the mission vehicle and scouted ahead first. After reconnning the joint, I spied what I was looking for. A Load Master 3000, the most advanced technology of laundry washing machinery. This baby can handle 60 pounds in a single load. Big enough to wash both comforters at the same time, I had found my machine. I returned to the car and hauled in the supplies and the subject bed clothes.

Any old campaigner can tell you that the moment you put your plan together, Murphy will throw you a monkey wrench. The Load Master 3000 was down for repairs and had an out of order tag. I kicked myself in the groin because I should have seen that during the recon (Kicking your own groin is not easy, but I am a specially trained professional, don't try it at home). A quick look around rewarded me with a second Load Master 3000 in working order on the opposite end of the row. I placed the subject comforters inside the machines gaping maul, fired off a cap of detergent and started pumping quarters as though my life depended on it. At $5.75 the machine was ready to go and I punched the start button.

This was the moment of truth. Would the machine do its job? I held my breath and waited. I could hear the blood pounding in my ears. Yes! The machine roared to life like a well drilled trooper. The the big gun was in action!

Fourth, Transition: After 18 bone rattling minutes, the Load Master was finished and ready to spit out its soaking contents. I opened the capsule door and removed the two comforters in one giant dripping wad of cleanliness and ran over the the dryers facing me from the opposite wall. SNAFU number two! The dryers were too small to handle them both at one time. Don't panic, don't panic. In a flash, I came up with an inspired alteration to the plan. I simply used two adjacent driers in parallel. Once again I pumped in quarters until both machines roared to life.

These baby's were awesome. They were like deserts in a can, driving the moisture from the subjects inside. In 45 minutes and a few comforter rotations, I had two clean and dry linen objects in hand and was ready to head home.

Fifth, the recovery and extraction: Mission accomplished, I was ready to go. Two trips was all that was necessary to reload the mission vehicle. Once again, disguised as a balding and fat old man, I cranked the Impala's key and the engine roared to life. The ride home was bumpy but I had made it out alive and in one piece. Not a single casualty was reported in the entire skirmish. The entire action had taken only an hour and fifteen minutes from launch to recovery.

Damn, it is good to be a red blooded American hero! Now I am off to watch Rachel Ray on the Food Network. I'm planning my next mission: 30 Minute Enchiladas. Wish me luck folks.

ninja ewe

Posted on May 25, 2011 by Tim McMurdo

I know that right about now, all of you are wondering why I have posted a picture of tall green grass. I mean, what could be so special about a field of grass? Well, if you squint your eyes and tilt your head just a little to the right, you might be able to make out the outline of a sheep hiding in the grass. If you can't see the sheep at first, try shaking your head vigorously and then take another peek.

If you spot her, congratulations, you have seen Myra Whitsocks, the worlds first (and to my knowledge only) ninja sheep. Once you see her, don't take your eyes off of her or she might slink away and in pure ninja style, pounce on another unsuspecting member of the pasture community. Who knows, it could be you.

You just might find yourself walking along whistling to yourself when suddenly you hear her blood curdling war cry! Baaaaaa! Too late, she jumps out of the tall grass and tags you. Before you know what is happening, Myra disappears into the tall grass, leaving you bewildered.

So take a good look at the picture again my friends. You may never have this opportunity to see Myra, the ninja sheep again.

the times, they are a changing

Posted on May 20, 2011 by Tim McMurdo

I was at lunch today when I overheard the following conversation between two big, burly, and mean looking bikers:

Biker 1: If you want the best, you need to watch "Barefoot Contessa", she has the best short ribs.

Biker 2: I don't like her as much as I like Paula Dean. That woman knows how to cook.

Biker 1: She's ok, but she's no Contessa.

Biker 2: That reminds me I need to stop and get potting soil on the way home.

What has this world come to?

the double duck dare

Posted on May 12, 2011 by Tim McMurdo

We don't know why Dooley and Mac agreed to the dare. Fifteen minutes in the middle of the road was a lot of time not to flinch. If they did flinch, the time would start all over again. They huddled together, watching the oncoming cars with their roaring engines and belching tail pipes.

Their friends cheered them on from the side of the road and razzed them the one time they flinched four minutes into their first try. On the second try, they were victorious and were led around the pond in a loud procession of quacking and honking.

When Dooley got home, the ducks playing on the pond could hear his mother yelling.. "If all of the other ducks jumped off a bridge, would you jump too?" Dooley didn't care, his mother could quack all day. After all, this is how legends began.

strange dream

Posted on May 8, 2011 by Tim McMurdo

Last night I had a dream that there were three perfect lights. They were my world and I needed nothing else. The lights hovered in the air and provided everything I needed. Soon though, the world began to change.

The three lights were joined by hundreds if not thousands of smaller pink lights. And other vague shapes began to form.

It soon became apparent that I was inside of a large space. Something like a small circus tent. The strange shapes formed into giant poles wrapped in pink. The sheathed poles stretched to the ceiling of the tent and were connected with strands of the little pink lights.

Suddenly an audience appeared from no where. They sat in long rows and chatted with each other. I could feel a sort of tension in the room as the audience waited for something big to happen.

Soon a beautiful goddess appeared and began to dance with a sword in her hand. As she whirled and swung the sword around her, the little pink lights could be seen to flash reflections off of the polished blade.

Suddenly and army of women with pink hair rushed into the tent and frightened the beautiful sword dancer away. The intruders swept around the interior of the tent until they had chased the entire audience out through the doors and into the world beond.

And then all was quiet and I found myself alone inside the giant tent. Alone with the towering pink poles and the little pink lights. Alone, I found myself longing for the three perfect lights again.

It was a strange dream but, then aren't they all?

interview with barnaby millstone

Posted on May 6, 2011 by Tim McMurdo

Barnaby Millstone is an unassuming figure. When I first met him, he was strolling around the farm yard looking like a portly chicken wearing black overhauls. The truth is that Barnaby is the key to success in the hen house. We asked Barnaby about his reputation as a rising star in the egg laying industry.

Mr. Millstone, how long have you been working on the farm?

I was transferred to Carriage Hill in 2008, so it has been three years now. Prior to that, I was the night supervisor over at Epson Hills farm.

That was quite a change, were you intimidated by the move?

Not really, I have been working towards the responsibility my entire career & the move was the natural next step. I was actually excited to join such a well respected organization. The hens here are well known around the farm circuit and I wanted to work with the best.

How have you been able to impact such a well running egg producing machine?

By listening to the hens. They are in the trenches every day & can see what needs to be done to take us to the next level. I put an incentive program in place that rewards the girls with extra cracked corn for every bonafide suggestion they make. Take a look at Gladys over there. She thought that adding a little more hay to each nest would lessen the chance of egg breakage. And she was right. In addition, the nests became more comfortable and the hens are happier. Morale is important. The result? More eggs and more corn for Gladys.

So teamwork is the key to success?

Absolutely! Each of us play a role on the road to success. My job is to guide and facilitate. The ladies in the hen house are the ones that actually produce. Without them, I am just a pretty rooster in a feather suit. When they are successful, we all succeed. That means more corn for Banaby Millstone… and Mama Millstone likes that!

On that note, we ended our conversation. Barnaby was called to the hen house to celebrate the fourth anniversary of one of his best hens. More corn for Edna!

a mother’s pain

Posted on April 28, 2011 by Tim McMurdo

It has only been six days since they put Ellie into the ground. Not even a week has passed. Not enough time for the shock, the pain or the loss to fully sink in, let alone begin to pass. Still, she had Stella, her oldest and now only child. Stella and her husband, they both needed her. They need her to be there for them, to cook dinner, mend clothes and do the wash. They needed her to make life as normal as possible. Normal? How could that be? Could their world ever be normal again? Little Ellie was dead. Their baby!

Jeanne's hands and body shook with the shock of the pain that overwhelmed her. She felt as though she would collapse in the middle of the side yard. She fought with everything she had in her, to remain standing. Falling meant laying on the ground and Jeanne wasn't sure that she would have the strength to get back up. So she simply stood for a moment with both hands holding to the wash line that helped to steady her and kept her on her feet. Eventually, Jeanne felt she could begin to move again and bent to gather more wet wash from the basket at her feet. Along with the clean linens, Jeanne retrieved two wooden pins from the striped bag tucked inside the basket. She used the pins to place the cloth on to the wash line and then bent down to begin the process again. Cloth, pins, line. Cloth, pins, line. Jeanne repeated the simple work cycle until the basket was empty.

Picking up the empty basket, Jeanne walked back to the house where she checked on Stella, asleep on the rug in the parlor. Stella was inconsolable for the first few days but was already beginning to recover. Yesterday morning, Jeanne had seen her pick up her dolly and play for half an hour or so before putting the worn toy down with a mix of guilt and horror on her face. As though she shouldn't have been playing with her sister so recently buried. This morning, her little baby played until she was worn to a frazzle and fell asleep in the parlor. Jeanne thought it might have been a good sign that Stella would be able to recover in time. Yes, Stella was resilient and Jeanne was thankful for that.

As Jeanne passed into the kitchen, she could see her husband, Asa, talking out next to the smoke house with their neighbor about a sow. The two of them look completely normal in the bright sunlight. Dickering over a sow. Maybe things could return to normal someday. Today, she couldn't imagine how.

Here are the links to the entire series of Elli Claussen stories:

the preacher’s visit

Posted on April 25, 2011 by Tim McMurdo

Tom could see Preacher Mathews coming down the road to town, his head bobbing and swaying back and forth as his old mare picked its way between the ruts that were all too common during the spring rains. There was no rain today but, that damage had already been done. The ruts and holes seemed to multiply overnight until hardly a square yard of road was left untouched. It wasn't the rutted road that captured Tom's thoughts, rather the preacher heading towards his home on a Wednesday afternoon.

The preacher often joined Tom's family for Sunday supper after his weekly sermon. The Schneider farm stood partway between the church and the preacher's small house two miles further along the road. Tom and his wife enjoyed the preacher's company and had reached an unspoken understanding with the man. Tom's wife would provide a good meal and the preacher could enjoy a couple hours of good company. In exchange, the preacher restrained himself from becoming too preachy during his visits.

As the preacher drew near, Tom doffed his field hat as a gesture of respect.

"Paul, what brings you by today? Jen is fixing supper, should I tell her you will be staying? I think she has a custard setting up in the summer kitchen."

"No Tom, I can't be staying long, I'll need to get into town before long. I do need to talk to you and Jen. Can we go inside?"

Tom called his boy, Arron to come and take the preacher's mare.

"Would be best if we could talk alone Tom."

Tom was a bit surprised by the preacher's request. A questioning look crossed his brow as he turned and led the preacher into the house. The preacher waved away Jen's offer of tea and asked them both to sit.

"Alright Paul, must be something important to have you refusing Jen's cooking. What news do you have for us?"

"Tom… Jen, you know the Clauson family pretty well. If I remember right, your girls play with theirs pretty regularly? Well, their littlest one, Ellie has been killed."

Jen gasped out loud as Tom asked the obvious question.

"What's happened to the girl, Paul?"

"She's been attacked by some wild animal. Asa found her down by the creek earlier today when she didn't come running in for dinner."

"Paul, I haven't seen any coyotes or wolves around the place lately. What do you think got her?"

"That's the problem Tom. I've never seen anything like it and neither has Asa. It didn't go for her throat like either of them would, it just tore into her belly."

At this news, Jen could take no more and left the room. Tom's eyes followed his wife with a look of concern. When she had left, he turned to the preacher.

"It would have to be big to take down an eleven year old girl. There have been no bears in these parts for more than 30 years. You sure it's not a wolf?"

"Tom, I don't know what it was. But it tore up that little girl pretty bad. Asa and Jeanne are in pretty bad shape. I'm going into town to spread the word.

With that, the conversation was over and the preacher got up to leave.

"You might want to keep your young ones close to the house till we find what got to Ellie."

As he closed the door behind the preacher, Tom turned to go to his wife. He knew she would be in the kitchen, busying herself with dinner as she tried to take in the preacher's news. They would have to talk to their son and two girls when they called them in. Tom's youngest girl, Sarah would not take the news of Ellie's death well. The girl was Sarah's best friend.

Here are the links to the entire series of Elli Claussen stories:

the skirmish

Posted on April 19, 2011 by Tim McMurdo

The Carriage Hill Mud Hens huddled around their quarterback, Wendell. This would be the last play of the game and they were down by only three points. This wasn't just any game. They were pitted against their arch rivals, the Gamecocks from Holly Meadows.

Sid, their big center took position and stared down the enemy. Sid let loose a low cackle, trying to get the edge through intimidation. He ruffled his feathers in a display sure to set them back.

Then came the signal from Wendell. Sid bent down and picked up the kernel, sending it to Wendell in a perfect hike. With a flurry of cackling and flying feathers, the line went into motion.

The Gamecocks defense came on like a wave but Wendell was ready and left the pocket, looking for an open receiver. However, all of his fellow Mud Hens were covered by the opposing team and Wendell had to run for it.

With just seconds left on the clock, Wendell carried the kernel across the goal line, winning the big game! What a finish! WENDELL HAD WON THE GAME!

But were was the roaring crowd? Where were the adoring fans? The stands were completely empty. Once again, the farmer had picked the wrong time to spread more chicken feed. Wendell was left to enjoy his victory by himself.