mini dramas

the stage 

Drametta Number One
The other evening, I posted the following on Facebook:

“Friday Night Entertainment: Dog bites sheep. Sheep runs. Kids chase sheep. Sheep runs. Kids and Dad chase sheep. Sheep runs. Night falls. Dad falls. Sheep runs. Kids and Dad and big brother (who had to jump out of the shower) chase sheep. Sheep runs. Sheep gets caught. Big brother gets back in the shower. Medicine is applied to sheep’s face. Suppertime. The end.”

Annabelle, pre-bitten 

*Both sheep had blood on them. The kids had blood on them.
*My husband wrenched his back.
*The dog bit the sheep because the sheep was getting too close to the dog’s food. This means our dog is not a sheep eater. This is comforting.
*Annabelle appears to be fine. More skittish than normal, but fine.

Drametta Number Two
On Sunday, my husband stayed home from church to burn the brush piles. (The brush piles are a result of many hours spent cleaning up the fence line.) We were having guests for lunch, so he would be able to do the last minute meal prep, too.

As we left church, I called my husband to rattle off a string of getting-ready orders. Our guests ended up arriving at the same time we did, and as we were getting out of our respective cars, my husband sprinted out of the house, yelled hello to the company, grabbed a rake, and took off down to the field. Apparently, the fire was getting out of line? As I led the guests inside, I cheerfully told the kids to change clothes and then to go see if their father needed help.

And so there I was in the kitchen with our guests, chatting on about all manner of things while heating up the brown rice, setting the bowls of salsa and sour cream on the table, and trying to pretend that it was normal for me to prep Sunday lunch while the rest of the family fought fires.

Through the window, I saw my older son sprinting back across the field toward the house. A couple minutes later he burst through the door and yelled, “I need both fire extinguishers and the keys to Dad’s truck!”

“Okay, here you go,” I said, calmly handing him the items and then, turning to the guests, “I’m sorry everyone’s run off like this. I’m sure they’ll be up soon.” I began pat-pat-patting out the corn tortillas.

In his rush, my son just missed crashing the truck into the chicken coop.


My younger son was waddling across the field with a bucket of water.


My younger son had stripped off his shirt and was—oh yes, but of course—beating out the flames.


My older daughter was beating out the flames with her jacket.


By now the guests were standing at the kitchen counter, watching the goings-on through the window with me. “It’s Murch TV,” I quipped.

The man said, “Your husband has a good heart—just look at him work!” I thought he meant that my husband was a good guy, but after a bunch of “good heart” comments I caught on. He meant “good heart” literally, a physically strong heart able to withstand strenuous exercise…and while breathing smoke.

The extinguishers did their job and the firefighters soon trooped through the door, smokey and soot-streaked, eyes bright with excitement. My husband came over to the sink to wash his hands and murmured under his breath to me, “I was this close to calling the fire department.”

Note the spent extinguisher in the foreground.

I lifted the last of the tortillas from the cumal and lunch was served.

The end.


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