Friday, March 25, 2011

In Preacher's Creek, ch. 3 for Paint-It-Purple Blogfest

In Preacher’s Creek, Ch. 3
Our train of tricycle and rusty red Radio Flyer slowly moved along the restrictions of
the gray uneven sidewalk, thumping over the raised sections where time and water had
moved rock and earth to push up the ancient pitted concrete. My brother Kent, with
his sweat-streaked coal black hair and his black framed magnifying lense-like glasses,
peddled slowly, clearly bored with the straight, narrow, and bumpy.

I stood on the platform between the two back wheels, holding on lightly to Kent’s bony kid shoulders,
thinking random thoughts about the humid June weather, the smelly freshly oiled streets,
Mom’s command for us to stay off the oil or else, and whatever a scrawny four-year
old might think. Behind me in the wagon was Bobby, a lumpy neighbor friend, who
sat benignly in the hot metal and complaining as he always did about anything and
everything, including the smell of the oil puddled in the streets, puddled like black
swimming holes, black glossy swimming holes.

It was then that our lives took a new turn, one that would affect many lives, not just our
own young lives, but the lives of grown-ups who were setting out of one of the greatest
adventures of all. The Christian Church doors opened, and out poured a flood of talking
and laughing people, a flood like a rainbow of paint cans that had tipped over and spilled
the contents down the steps.

The women were all dressed in Easter-like finery—dresses with floral splashes and pill-box hats of all colors topped off with fine nets. The men were dressed in funeral garb, complete with ties wrapped too tightly around their bulging necks, with faces red and bloated. The talking and laughing women walked over to the
school house cafeteria next door, followed by the grim and silent husbands, forced there by custom and by threat, knowing that the next meal on their kitchen tables depended on their attendance at this event.

Out of the church doors came another group, only this time the women were garbed gaily
in gorgeous gowns of pink chiffon, layer after layer of wispy, wafting finery waving in
the wind. Then men followed them, young and fit and happy, laughing about the lucky
lively man who lingered with his love on the top step. The pink-clothed bridesmaids
lined one side of the stairs while the gray suit men lined the other. Between them, the
bride in a glittering and graceful gown of winter white with her willing groom began their

Fate took a hand at this point, and I detected a change in Kent’s long lean legs. He
steered our tricycle entourage onto the oil infested streets and gained speed on the smooth
level gleaming oily black surface. “Noooooo!” I protested but I was almost thrown
off by the g-forces Kent had gained with his grand propelling of our train. In the back,
Bobby was crying, “I’m gonna die…die…” but his voice drifted in the wake of the wind
generated by our rapid locomotion.
Thank you, Erin, for hosting this.

The wheels now had multiple layers of oil coating, and this was when Kent turned his attention to the wedding party. Going the speed of light, our train headed straight for the backs of the pink gowned women. They turned just as we came through them, a spray of sticky syrupy oil splattering across the pink chiffon, creating a new vision of pink leopards, screaming high pitched profanity. The bride was bowled over back onto
the steps, while the groom made his first mistake of his new marriage: he laughed.

The groomsmen were light on their feet, and danced out of the way, but they would have been safe. Our train had lost it load of oil on the bridesmaids and bride.

We headed through the grass, and with great effort, Kent steered us into safer ground,
behind lilac bushes, across two yards, and into our garage, where we collapsed in
laughter and dread.

The original short paragraphs are as follows.  I am adding this in, as I didn't recall (brain-fog-moment) that I was supposed to do this. :)

Kent had wired the wagon to the wheel support, where I stood.  Bobby climbed into the wagon, complaining about everything, including the nasty oiled streets and the hot muggy June weather.  Mom had given us no-nonsense instructions about staying off the streets, so Kent slowly pedaled along the uneven sidewalk.
Just then, a wedding party came pouring out the doors of the Christian Church.  The bridesmaids in pink fluffy gowns along with the groomsmen in tuxedos flowed down the church steps, laughing.  With their backs to us, the bridesmaids were oblivious to us three and our tricycle train.  The bride and groom stood on the top step, preparing to move down.  That is when Kent made a decision.  Peddling for all he was worth, Kent steered through the pools of black oil, and then made a line for the bridesmaids.  They never saw us coming.

This is a true story. I can show you the oil tire marks on the sidewalk in front of the
church.   In Preacher’s Creek  by Susan Kane
This blogfest is being hosted by the following site:   Please check out this site!  Many Thanks! to Erin Kane Spock, an awesome writer, with a great future!


  1. You, too, are an awesome writer with a great future. Thanks for visiting my blog today. Hibbs danced in place at your words. Have a great weekend, Roland

  2. *grins*

    OMG very funny and what a purple prose waterfall you came up with! I can't believe all that came from that little paragraph! Well done, my dear. I enjoyed myself immensely.


  3. WOW< you certainly 'expanded' on what you had there. HEHE. great job.

  4. This was such a fun opportunity to let loose all the crazy alliteration, the lush modifiers, etc. Since this is a true event, it was difficult to hold back. Our parents didn't know about this, until we told them, nearly 40 yrs. after the wedding crashing. They didn't know what to say. :)

  5. LOL!! When I first started reading, it I thought I was reading the original...but then quickly realized it was not!! LOL!

  6. Wow - your purple version is full of wonderful, wonderful imagery. I particularly liked: a flood like a rainbow of paint cans that had tipped over and spilled the contents down the steps.


  7. All that to describe a tricycle crashing a wedding. Excellent. You have the skill for turning a sentence into an epic poem. Great submission. Thanks for participating!


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