Wet weather spring

In the fall of 1973, my mother and father and I were coming back to Tulsa after a weekend at the recently purchased farm. Highway 51 was two lane through Coweta, and the trip took longer than it does now.

Dad was driving, my mother was in the passenger’s seat, and I was perched on the console between them.

To get me to go to sleep, Dad started telling a story about this wet weather spring. He was winging it and didn’t think it would take long to get me to nod off if he spoke slowly and lowered his voice. He told of a family of elves that lived under the tree.

I got drowsy, shut my eyes, and he let the story trail off, only to have me say, “Then what happened?”

He continued, explaining that one elf had a magic pitcher that was never supposed to be touched, but that someone had knocked it over, and water began to pour out.

Again I shut my eyes and nodded off.

And my mother said, “Then what happened?”