One Way To Get To The Head Of The Line...
One moment she had been standing behind Mrs. Glouchester's ample rear covered in yards of a mini-print of what had to be thousands of bunches of posies. She had just gotten onto the end of the long snaking line slowly slithering toward Mr. Harrod's lemonade van. Mr Harrod was one of her father's best friends, who usually used his van for shampooing rugs, except for these ten days in August when it was time for the fair and he became the best lemonade and lemon-ice maker she had ever met in all her eleven years. One minute she was standing there almost tasting the icy lemonade and thinking maybe she would get a lemon ice too, seeing as to how it was so particularly hot, and the next, well those posies on Mrs. Glouchester's bottom spread out into a whole field and there was a buzzing in her ears like a swarm of bees but the funny thing was, there weren't no bees, and even funnier was that she had gotten to be looking up at a circle of people calling "give-her-air-give-her-air" and the sky was this bright blue, the clouds puffy and white just the way they were in one of them picture post-cards and best of all Mr. Harrod himself was kneeling on the grass, holding a cup of lemonade, telling her he had called her daddy, and she was alright and to just sit up real slow and have a sip whenever she felt ready.
29 October 2012
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