New stories: A super-September read-aloud twofer
"The Shattering, Beautiful, Filled-Up Life of Arthur T. Bowl" and "The Little Chalet with the Good-Enough View"
320 Sycamore Studios believes that reading with kids can change the world for the better. Each month (except for August-ish), we share (at least) one original story and one post about the amazing power of books and reading. Everything is completely written by a human.
Heya ...
People leave all kinds of household treasures out on the sidewalk for giveaway where I live in Germany — dishware, books, framed pictures, floor lamps, dining room chairs, etc. We’ve actually furnished a good part of our home just from neighborhood scavenging.
A while back, my wife and I were out walking the pug or finishing a run or something and we happened on a pair of bowls.
Michelle thought they’d be perfect for her morning yogurt-granola-fruit parfaits and I thought they’d be perfect for those nights when I just want cereal for dinner. (Which is every night, pretty much).
As we walked back, I wondered what it would be like to be a bowl.
As one does.
Anyway, the first story is the result of that wondering.
The other was inspired by a road trip we took to France.
We were staying at a chalet outside a mountain village south of Lake Geneva and one day we went out exploring. The pavement ended and the road turned rocky, rutted, and steep. And then it got steeper. Like, mountain-climber steep.
And yet it was still a road.
To our amazement, we came upon a tidy chalet wedged into the mountainside. Who lived here? What did they do? How did they even drive here? Their car tires would need track spikes.
We walked onward and upward, with the epic alpine view breaking through the forest now and again. And here was another chalet. What was going on? Who ... how ... what ... ?
We never found out, but after we’d checked out of our AirBNB and were driving away, I jotted down some notes that turned into the second story.
I hope you and your kiddos like them.
Story No. 1: The Shattering, Beautiful, Filled-Up Life of Arthur T. Bowl
My name is Arthur T. Bowl. I’m a bowl. And this is my story.
I am made of earth and I took shape in fire.
I don’t remember much of the before time, only that I was a lump of wet clay.
My first true memory is of plopping onto a spinning metal disk. The whirling made me dizzy, but I delighted in my shape-taking.
I was baked and painted and set on a shelf. There were other bowls like me, but we were all a little different.
The world passed by outside our shop window. I loved watching the birds, so free and easy. And in my dreams, I flew.
One day a boy came into the store, tapped me with his finger, and said to his mother, “This one! I’m going to call him Arthur T.”
Hands nestled me in paper, snugged me into a box, and carried me home.
My new life began.
Mostly I lived in darkness, stacked with other bowls, none of them like me. I listened and I dreamed. Mornings were best, when the door would open and the boy carried me to a table and filled me with cereal and milk. When he was done, the boy would say, “Thanks, Arthur T. Bowl,” and dash off to his day.
Hands washed me, dried me, and put me away. But sometimes I came out again in the evenings to be filled with soup or mashed potatoes or chili. And sometimes, after another wash, I was set to dry in the cool air.
That’s when I could watch the ribbon of sky through the kitchen window, and sometimes birds. What it must be to be a bird, I thought. To float along the air. To rise and fall and soar.
When the boy played with me, I was more than Arthur T. Bowl. I was a hat. A drum. A bathtub boat. The boy rolled me on the carpet. “Look, Arthur, you’re bowling” he laughed. He crayoned circles around me. He turned me into a snipe trap. I held the popcorn while he watched the movies.
Those were good days. But days go by. And days become years.
Other bowls came. And time on the shelf grew long.
The boy’s voice was the same but his face had changed. It was an old face. But it was happy.
One day, hands nestled me in paper again, snugged me into a box, and carried me. Upstairs. In the new darkness, I felt movement, a jostling. Heard muffled thumps. Then stillness.
Years passed.
I didn’t mind so much. My memories filled me up.
Mostly.
Until one day I heard the boy’s voice again. I heard the box opening and saw light again. I felt myself being unwrapped and held again. The boy’s voice was the same but his face had changed. It was an old face. But it was happy.
The boy carried me downstairs and to the kitchen. He presented me to a child. A girl.
This was my bowl, he said, and now it’s yours.
She clapped her hands and hugged me close.
It was like the old days again. The cereal, the bath, the cool air, the games. The glimpse of sky through the window. The birds in their glorious flight.
Then one day the girl dropped me.
I had never fallen before and I rather liked it. I was a bird at last, floating and tumbling in the free air.
Until I hit the hard tile of the kitchen floor and I shattered.
The girl wept. The boy hugged her.
There, there, he said.
After a time, he swept me into a dustpan and held me over the kitchen trash bin.
Then he paused.
I have an idea, he said.
Hands carried me to the basement. The boy and the girl cleaned the pieces of me and arranged me into something new. Once they were satisfied with my new shape, they set me in a circle of wet cement and exclaimed what a lovely pattern I made.
Once I dried, I was lifted one last time and set in the earth behind the home, near the garden.
Most days the man and girl walk out back to greet me. Afterward, I watch clouds parade across the sky. Some evenings there are fires and roasting marshmallows and laughter. Late at night, I watch the stars in their slow whirl. There is the sun and the birds and the flowers. On wet mornings, snails tickle across me.
The grass grows, the garden grows. Fall comes and the growing stops. In winter we sleep. Then everything begins again.
And each day fills me up.
Story No. 2: The Little Chalet with the Good-Enough View
South of the great Lake Geneva, beyond the regal resort towns that clutch close to the shoreline, the land rises steeply, catches its breath, and then rises again, first in forested ridges and valleys and then to the great serious mountains, and ultimately to the looming snowy bulk of Mont Blanc itself, lord of the Alps.
This is a story of the land of the ridges and valleys, the in-between land, where there lived a solitary, kindly farmer named Jean-Luc Moreau who decided one day that he wanted a chalet with a good-enough view.
Not too little view, where all he could see was village. And not too much view, with a commanding loneliness. But a view in-between, a view where he could offer his daily respects to the mountains and valleys, yet remain close enough for his many village friends to visit when the mood arose in them.
Thus, Jean-Luc Moreau built a chalet on a shoulder of one of the great ridges, just short of the place where the good road ended.
And he was happy.
Each morning he would step out to his generous balcony to slowly drink his coffee and take in in the bountiful view. He delighted in the ever-changing scene. Clouds moseying across the sky. A silver waterfall ribboning down a far mountainside. Goats bounding across dewy meadows. Hawks, dancing branches, and the cart traffic along the valley road.
What a feast the world was!
However, when Hugo Dubois heard about Jean-Luc Moreau’s chalet, he grew jealous. “Why, I am more of a man than Jean-Luc Moreau!” he boasted to the men of the village cafe. “Surely I deserve more of a view than he.”
Self-convinced, Hugo Dubois built his chalet higher up the mountain than Jean-Luc Moreau’s chalet, past where the good road ended and the way grew rocky, steep, and rutted.
“Now I have the best view in the valley,” Hugo Dubois boasted to the men of the cafe.”
Jean-Luc Moreau wished his neighbor well. Meanwhile, in the mornings, he drank his coffee and kept the landscape company. In the afternoons, he shared bread with friends.
When Fabien Gaspard heard about Hugo Dubois’s chalet, he grew jealous. “Why, I am more of a man than Hugo Dubois!” he boasted to the men of the village cafe. “Surely I deserve more of a view than he.”
Jean-Luc Moreau wished his neighbors well. Meanwhile, in the mornings, he drank his coffee and kept the landscape company. In the afternoons, he shared bread and cheese with friends.
Self-convinced, Fabien Gaspard built his chalet higher up the mountain than Hugo Dubois’s chalet, farther past where the good road ended and the way grew rockier, steeper, and rutted-er.
“Now I have the best view in the valley,” Fabien Gaspard boasted to the men of the cafe.” Hugo Dubois fumed.
Jean-Luc Moreau wished his neighbors well. Meanwhile, in the mornings, he drank his coffee and kept the landscape company. In the afternoons, he shared bread and cheese with friends.
When Thibault Bertrand heard about Fabien Gaspard’s chalet, he grew jealous. “I am more of a man than Fabien Gaspard!” he boasted to the men of the village cafe. “Surely I deserve more of a view than he.”
Self-convinced, he built his chalet higher up the mountain than Fabien Gaspard’s chalet, as far as possible past where the good road ended and they way grew rockiest, steepest, and rutted-est.
“Now I have the best view in the valley,” Thibault Betrand boasted to the men of the cafe.” Hugo Dubois fumed. Fabien Gaspard sulked.
Jean-Luc Moreau wished his neighbors well. Meanwhile, in the mornings, he drank his coffee and kept the landscape company. In the afternoons, he shared bread and cheese and figs with friends.
Then came the time of the fall feast. But who would host it?
A week or so before the feast day, Jean-Luc Moreau saw his three neighbors in the village cafe. “Shall feast at my chalet?” he asked them. “I have a good-enough view.”
Hugo Dubois laughed. “Ha! We shall feast at best chalet. The view is better.”
Fabien Gaspard laughed louder. “Ha! We shall feast at my chalet. The view is even better.
Thibault Bertrand laughed loudest. “Ha! We shall feast at my chalet. The view is best of all.”
Jean-Luc Moreau smiled. “Perhaps we can share. Our friends of the village can have the appetizer at my chalet, the main course at the chalet of Hugo Dubois, the cheese course at the chalet of Fabien Gaspard, and the dessert at the chalet of Thibault Bertrand, where we will also toast our abundance.”
Hugo Dubois, Fabien Gaspard, and Thibault Bertrand all shook their heads. “No. No. No. My chalet, my view.”
And they stomped away. Jean-Luc Moreau called after. “My friends, I will make the appetizer yet, and hope you all change your mind.”
The day of the feast came, and with it the rain.
And the rain and the rain and the rain.
Villagers joked that they would have to swim to the feast.
Of course, the way to the chalets of Fabien Gaspard and Hugo Dubois and Thibault Betrand was so rocky, steep, and rutted, that what was once path was now transformed into a roiling, mud-ful river.
So it was that the villagers gathered at Jean-Luc Moreau’s, at the end of where the good road reached.
When everyone but Hugo Dubois, Fabien Gaspard, and Thibault Bertrand had gathered, Jean-Luc Moreau clapped his hands. “Welcome, my friends, to our good-enough feast!”
Whereupon he brought out endless platters of warm brie with pesto, and basket after basket of baguettes.
Not long after, there came a knock on the door. Jean-Luc Moreau opened it to find Hugo Dubois, Fabien Gaspard, and Thibault Bertrand, looking like wet puppies, soaked and muddy and forlorn.
“We each had the same idea,” said Hugo Dubois.
“We were bringing our food to your celebration,” said Fabien Gaspard.
“But we slipped on the muddy track and it all washed away.”
“We are sorry,” they all said. “May we join you?”
Of course they could.
The villagers laughed and chatted and joked and drank Jean-Luc Moreau’s delicious tea. Late in the evening came the clinking of a spoon on a glass.
“A toast ... ” called Hugo Dubois.
“... to Jean-Luc Moreau ...” said Fabien Gaspard.
“ ... a good-enough man,” said Thibault Bertrand, “and then some.”
“Hear, hear” shouted the villagers.
Jean-Luc Moreau raised his cup and looked from face to face to face. “Why,” he said, “seeing you all, I do believe I have the finest view in all the Haute-Savoie.”
Everyone laughed and then went out to the balcony because the rain had stopped.
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