We used to live in the Black Forest of Colorado, and the names and details were NOT changed. Until today, I had pronouced the name of the elementary school Wol-ford. Now, in light of the fact that it's in the 'Black Forest' I think it should probably be pronouced, "Wolf-herd". I don't mean to frighten you little Academy School District kidlings, I'm just sayin'. . .
Black Forest Cookies
Hans believed in magic. The evidence was too overwhelming
for his sensible lobe to overcome. In fact, his powers of reasoning
brought him to the conclusion that the world was filled with hundreds of
varieties of magic. Pollywogs turned into frogs, caterpillars turned into moths
and butterflies, and seeds as small as a fly turned into apple trees.
Nobody in Hans’ family ever thought to correct his ridiculous
belief in magic, since his parents and grandparents on back through the
generations had come to the same conclusion. They rather encouraged it. A few
frowning teachers said to each other that the Andersons had carried it a bit
far when they discovered that the boy’s middle name was ‘Christian’, but what
business was it of theirs? The fact that the Andersons lived in the “Black
Forest” just outside of Colorado Springs, Colorado had nothing to do with
magic. Hans Christian’s Anderson of fairytale fame didn’t live in the German
Black Forest. That was the Brothers Grimm.
But Mr. and Mrs. Anderson plied their son and his twin
sister, Gretel with fairytales from the
time they were no bigger than their thumbs. They held nothing back. Hans had
nightmares for a week when they read him the grim “Fitcher’s Bird” at
bedtime. Greta was vastly afraid to wear
red to her grandmother’s house after a thorough perusal of ‘Little Red Riding
Hood.’ But they mostly got beyond the
side effects of the more ghastly tales as they graduated from their woodland
school of “Wolford Elementary “ and
moved on to the aptly-named terrors of ‘ Challenger’ Middle School.
The Anderson children each joined a scout troop and so it happened
that the Boy Scouts began their popcorn sale at the same time as the Girl
Scouts began selling chocolate covered mint cookies. (Do they have any other
types? Perhaps they do.) It made sense for the twelve-year-olds to go out
together and though the houses in the Black Forest are very far from each
other, they set out on foot.
They had walked only
a few hundred feet when they saw their next-door neighbor cutting wood. They offered their wares, and though the man
was diabetic, he understood his neighborly obligation and bought a package of
popcorn and a package of mint cookies.
The next neighbor was also outside, repairing a bat house in
advance of the miller moth season. He also succumbed to the social pressure and
bought one of each.
But the social pressure to buy from
door-to-door-selling neighbor kids diminishes as distance from their residence
increases. With the houses each on at least five acres, they found social
pressure did not avail by the third house from their’s. “NO! I don’t want any
of your overpriced stuff! I’ll go to Walmart if I want a treat,” the man
snapped.
But Hans had great belief in his salesmanship
after two consecutive successes. ” Wouldn’t you like to help out the Boy Scouts
or Girl Scouts? We’d sure appreciate it.”
“I don’t think so,” the bearish man
growled. “What have the Scouts ever done for me?” Now this was an unanswerable question. The children had sledded past when they saw
him shoveling snow. They were glad to be on fast-moving bicycles when they saw
him hauling slash. The man continued. “How
about you kids help me weed my garden for an hour and then I’ll buy some
cookies and popcorn?”
Neither Hans nor Gretel was a mathematician,
but they did know their share of the profit from the cookies and popcorn and
they each happened to know the current minimum wage. They turned away,
murmuring of the man’s ‘rudeness’, which is what being honest out loud is often
called.
The next three driveways were marked
with ‘no soliciting’ signs, and they were beginning to weary of their long walk
in the woods when they came upon a driveway with a mailbox designed to look
like birdhouse. The house was hidden in the trees, but they reasoned together
that such a friendly little mailbox hinted a generous,
cookie-and-popcorn-liking resident.
An ancient log cabin huddled in
advanced ruin just behind the first curve. “It’s probably one of the original
cabins from the days when they lumbered for the Santa Fe railroad,” Hans said.
Gretel could see the black widow spider webs even from that distance and didn’t
much care what its condition implied.
The A-frame house at the end of the
quarter-mile-long drive was painted white with red trim. Some unemployed
carpenter had decorated it with elaborate filigree and elaborate woodcuttings
builders call ‘gingerbread.’ Alpine strawberries laden with tiny fruit adorned
both sides of the walk. Gretel pointed to one, almost as big as the end of her
thumb, that lay like a jewel against the green leaves. Hans picked it and
popped it furtively into his mouth.
Hans nodded toward an ancient Cadillac
parked behind the house. “I bet you an old woman lives here,” the boy said. He rang the silver bell that hung beside the door.
An ancient female, bent almost double and rheumy
eyed, pushed open the screen door and squinted at them.
Gretel pitched her cookies. The old
woman cupped her ear. “I can’t hear you, dear, in all this wind. Come in please.”
They knew better than to go inside a stranger’s house. But they were too
well-mannered to refuse.
The house smelled of mothballs,
mildew and wood smoke. A fire burned low in a corner wood stove. “Cookies did you say? Yes I have some for you. It’s been a long
time since children came asking for cookies. But I always keep some, just in
case.”
“No, Ma’am,” Gretel said. “I’m a
Girl Scout and my brother is a Boy Scout and we’re selling cookies and popcorn.
Or rather we’ll taking orders to be delivered later.”
The woman bobbed her head and smiled
as Gretel spoke. She hadn’t bothered to put in her dentures that day. ‘I think I have peanut butter cookies. Do you
like peanut butter?”
Hans raised his voice very much
louder than was polite. “We’re not here to eat your cookies! We’re SELLING
COOKIES and POPCORN!”
“If you want popcorn, you’re going
to have to build up that fire good and hot. Boy, will you put in another good
log into the stove? It’s chilly in here
anyway.”
Hans had noticed the woodpile as
they came in. He sidled toward it, keeping watch on the old woman at the screen
door. Sparks burst from the dying log when he added the fresh one.
“Thank you, boy. Now you’ll have to keep watch until it’s hot
enough. I’ll see about your sister’s cookies. You
should try a few yourself. You could use a little fattening.”
She shuffled to her dank little
kitchen at the back of her gingerbread cabin.
When she returned with four-year-old
chocolate covered mint cookies on an ancient china plate, the door stood
slightly ajar but the room was empty. She shuffled all around the room, feeling
with her arthritis-knotted hands in case her eyes deceived her. When she
certain that there was no other human life in her parlor, she sat beside the
stove and folded her hands in her lap.
“Well, I suppose they forgot something
and will come right back. I don’t think this fire is quite hot enough for that
boy yet, anyway. What a treat to have unexpected visitors! ” And she waited and
rocked in her creaking old chair until the daylight had fled.