Toadstool Bouquet: Short Fiction by Alfred Hamilton

By Alfred Hamilton

Toadstool Bouquet is a collection of short stories and word sketches written for fun. There is no general theme, and no point of view is espoused, at least not deliberately. The author enjoyed writting them and hopes theyll be read in the spirit in which they were written.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Xlibris US
• Release date: Oct 5, 2000
• ISBN: 9781469115665

Alfred Hamilton

Alfred Hamilton is the pen name used by a retired technician. Reading, writing, and woolgathering are his principal passtimes, but he bikes and swims for exercise, and occasionally scuba dives. He is an amateur paleontologist and often provides brute labor at fossil excavations. He enjoys travel, especially foreign travel. He and his wife have four children and six grandchildren, and make their home in Albuquerque, New Mexico. The author enjoyed writing these stories, and hopes they'll be read as they were written; for fun, and with tongue firmly in cheek.

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Contents

Learning Experience

Cora Jean’s Vocation

Seeds

The Gardener

One Man’s Meat . . .

Conversations at Dawn

Authenticity

Red

Toadstool Bouquet

East of the Sun and West of the Moon

Learning Experience

E very human interaction is a learning experience. The lesson

learned is sometimes surprising though, depending as much upon what the learner is open to learn as anything else.

The Laboratory from which I retired maintained an educational outreach program, encouraging both active members of their staff and retirees like myself to spend some time each week in the public schools working with teachers to support and extend instruction in mathematics and in scientific and technical subjects. When I was invited to participate as a science advisor, I thought it sounded like a lot of fun, and it has been.

So it was that I found myself standing in front of Miss Hallberg’s third grade class, protected only by my lab coat; an implicit assertion of omniscience, gravity, and adult authority. These assertions were completely bogus of course, and the kids saw through them at once.

Do you know the T. V. Science Guy?, called a voice from the back of the room. Are you the T. V. Science Guy?, asked another. The T. V. Science Guy’s funny.

Class, said the teacher, This is Mr. McCarthy. Mr. McCarthy is a scientist, and he’s going to show us some . . . Sean! Sit Down! Some interesting facts about common items we all have in . . . Not now, Wanda! Wait a few moments, please.

But I’ve got to real bad, Miss Hallberg! protested the small girl in the front row.

Oh, all right, but come right back. Sean, if I see you out of your seat again, you’ll go to time out. Facts about things we all have in our homes. Please give Mr. McCarthy your attention.

Miss Halberg’s amazing. Not only can she think about several things at once, she can do so while being constantly interrupted and engaged in strenuous physical activity.

Today, I said, We’re going to learn how scientists called chemists are able to tell which things dissolved in water make acids and which make bases. Does anyone here know what chemists do?

Hands went up. Lots of hands went up. Sylvia raised both hands, and said in a loud voice, Chemists make pollution.

She sounded very sure, and I admit I’m not sure she’s altogether wrong, but Miss Hallberg intervened. I believe you mean they work on reducing pollution, don’t you?

Sylvia didn’t look convinced. I think she liked her own answer better.

Make bombs, said Louis. Make bombs and blow up stuff!

Cool, man! Juan’s voice was happy and excited. Can we make a bomb, Mr. Carth . . . Mr. Science Guy?

I explained with some difficulty that not all chemists make bombs, and that besides, if we made one, their parents and the teachers at the school would be mad at me. I could see that in their eyes this argument held little merit, so I pressed on.

We are going to test different solutions using red cabbage juice as an indicator. Does anyone know what an indicator is?

Wanda returned as I asked the question, and she answered as she took her seat. It’s a thing to keep babies in.

Are you sure Wanda? Miss Hallberg asked gently.

When my brother was born, he had to stay in an indicator for two days, responded Wanda.

I think you mean an incubator, said Miss Hallberg.

Oh replied Wanda.

An indicator, I said in my best didactic voice, Is a substance or device which tells something. In the case of the cabbage juice, it turns different colors depending on whether it’s in acid or basic solution. As I spoke, I set up six sets of small labeled glass jars holding vinegar, solutions of baking soda, drain cleaner, aspirin, antacid tablets, lemon juice, and water. Now please divide into six groups. There should be four in each group.

The next few minutes were pure pandemonium.

I get to be with Rochelle! Miss Hallberg, don’t I get to be with Rochelle?

No! We’ve already got four! Miss Hallberg, tell Cindy we’ve got four already.

Cindy, you can fit with Wanda, Jean, and Gordon. Sean! why are you standing on your desk? Sit down! No, come here. Miss Hallberg turned to me and said We have twenty seven students today, so there will be three who don’t have a group.

Well, maybe they can help me, I answered. At once many of the children already in groups of four asked to help too.

When the groups had at last formed, I gave each a set of jars, and an empty jar. Into this I poured the dark purple cabbage juice. I also gave each group a plastic egg carton and an eye dropper for each of the jars.

Sean, Manuel, and Jolene, the kids without a fourth, helped me pass things out. Jolene wrinkled her nose at the strong smell of the cabbage.

This smells very bad, she remarked.

Purple is pretty. I like purple. Sean had stopped moving for the first time since I’d been in the room.

In each group, I said, take turns using the eyedroppers. Put a dropper full of cabbage juice in the first compartment of your egg carton, and, using a fresh dropper, add a dropper full of water.

Hands scrambled busily.

I’m first!

No, I am! Miss Hallberg! Tell Jason I’m first!

Jason, let Anne have her turn. Jason, Rochelle, Cindy, Jackie, Robert, and Susan, you be the recorders for your groups. Take out a sheet of paper and write down what happens. Miss Hallberg somehow restored order, and soon each group had carried out my instruction.

It didn’t do nothing.

Did too! The purple got lighter!

How do you write ‘purple’, asked Cindy. I can’t spell it

I explained that the purple had only gotten lighter because it was diluted. Water isn’t either acid or base. It’s in the middle. We call that neutral. Now put a dropper of juice in the second compartment and, add a dropper of vinegar.

Vinegar really stinks, observed Jolene.

0ooh! Look, Miss Hallberg! It turned pink!

Pink is a pretty color too, Sean said in a wondering tone.

How do you write ‘pink’, asked Cindy.

P i n c k, Gordon’s voice held great assurance.

Cindy printed the word, and looked at it dubiously. I don’t think there’s a k, she said, and put a line through the superfluous letter.

Wanda’s hand flew up. I got to go again. Real bad!

Miss Hallberg sighed. All right, Wanda. Hurry back.

Class, I said, Vinegar is an acid. What color does acid turn cabbage juice?

PINK, came the response from all corners of the room.

Blue? asked a small, confused voice from the back. Miss Hallberg went at once to help.

Now, put a dropper full of cabbage juice in the next compartment of the egg carton, I instructed, and, using a fresh eyedropper, add a dropper of baking soda solution.

Ohhhs and Ahhhs came from the various groups of children.

Look! It turned blue!

No! It’s green

It’s not either! It’s blue. Isn’t it blue, Mr. McCarthy?

Actually, I think that shade is blue-green. I’d call it turquoise. I try to be diplomatic.

I can’t write turquoise, said Cindy, her voice full of sad resignation.

That’s all right Cindy. You may put down either blue or green, Miss Hallberg told her.

Next we tested lemon juice concentrate. Again the children exclaimed over the color, a much deeper shade than that produced by the dilute vinegar.

That lemon juice smells very sting-y, said Jolene.

Cindy wrote It’s pinc, and drew a line through the words. Then she wrote It’s very very pinc After a moment she looked again at the color of the mixture, drew a line through her second record, and wrote simply, red.

Wanda returned, and insisted it was her turn to use the eyedropper.

What would happen if we mixed all this stuff together? Would it explode? asked Louis hopefully.

Naw, answered Juan. I did it already. It just made grayish purple. Somewhat more happily, he added, It makes lots of bubbles when you put lemon juice in the baking soda.

Miss Hallberg looked at Juan’s egg carton. What a mess! Juan, take your carton to the sink and rinse it out. Then come back and sit down and do only the things Mr. McCarthy tells you to do.

Louis looked worried. But don’t scientists sometimes blow stuff up? he asked pensively. I assured him that they sometimes do, but added that they do many other things as well. He seemed quite relieved, at least by the first part of my answer.

One by one we tested the other solutions, and the children remarked upon each shade of pink, blue, purple or green. Sean looked at the growing rainbow in the bottom of his egg carton with real attention. He was able to accurately name each shade.

Once more, Wanda left us, and once more returned.

Our hour drew to a close. As we cleaned up, I asked the class if they liked chemistry, and received a happy chorus of yes.

What did you learn about chemistry today? I inquired.

Chemistry is about bad smells, said Jolene.

Sometimes you can make bombs to blow up stuff, said Louis.

There’s lots of hard words to write, but it’s fun anyway, Cindy allowed.

You get to make really pretty colors, said Sean.

I decided not to ask Wanda.

Cora

Jean’s Vocation

I I can’t, Mr. Crabbe! I can’t wait that long."

It’s company policy! You know that. Mr. Ripper says no exceptions.

Wayne allowed no change in expression to betray his glee. He strained to hear the low voices from the back room, while pretending absorption with the stock on his own counter.

It’s cruel, that’s what it is. I was here before this silly policy change. I’ve been here seven years, Mr. Crabbe.

Wayne had timed his request to speak with Crabbe to insure he’d be at hand when Norma slipped away from her counter to sneak a smoke before break. He’d expected her to get a dressing-down, but she was well on the way to getting herself fired! The silly cow! Neither Crabbe nor Claude Ripper, the unit manager, would accept insubordination, and reminding them she’d been there longer than either of them sure wouldn’t help her. It was just too delicious! He couldn’t believe it.

Hey, buddy! You the salesman here? A voice broke in on his enjoyment of the situation developing between Crabbe, the floor supervisor, and the Jewelry clerk.

I am indeed, you feckless fool, thought Wayne. How dare you interrupt this precious moment! Yes, I am the sales assistant, he said. How may I help you?

Wayne Pratt was an excellent salesman. He was a nice looking young man, five feet seven inches tall, with light brown hair and guileless blue eyes. He had about him an air of harmless innocence. His flawless manners and natural sense of style fitted him well to succeed at selling men’s apparel and furnishings, and he was the best they’d ever had at Maxwell and Grant’s department store.

Appearances aside, he was as fastidious as a maggot, with the warmth and loving kindness of a rabid weasel. In the interest of making a sale, no exaggeration, omission of fact, or outright lie was beyond him. Indeed, the more outrageous the insult to the intelligence, taste, and judgment of his customer, the happier the sale made him. Strangely, he escaped the resentment which should have been his due.

Wayne didn’t confine his malice to his customers.

He’d given up torturing small animals when he was fifteen. Mom’s reaction when she’d found him amusing himself with a live frog and a pair of pinking shears convinced him that his little hobby would only bring him trouble. Still, when he gave up the chance to torment something which could never threaten him, Wayne left a void in his spirit which had never been fully filled.

Real villainy tends to be punished eventually, Wayne knew, and he found the thought of punishment applied to himself unbearable. He was a complete coward, and proud of it. In his view, only mental defectives risked harm when they could hide, run away, or blame someone else.

Still, he knew that a word overheard seemingly by chance, an object broken by accident, a nudge at the right moment; all could bring misery, and almost without risk to himself. He was very careful, and was never caught and seldom suspected. His life was full and happy.

Then he met Cora Jean.

It was Friday afternoon. He’d had a great week. His commission was the best he’d ever made, and that sow Norma did get herself sacked! What a scene! Smug, happy, and sure the world was good, he’d picked up a bottle of champagne to celebrate. After all, it took skill to arrange such a commotion without seeming to be involved himself. But if one doesn’t exercise and enlarge one’s talents, what’s life for?

He entered his apartment, put down the wine, turned back to close the door, and there she was.

His first impression was of size. She was big. Not fat, but big. Smaller, she’d have been shapely and cute, if a bit muscular and busty, with soft, dark-brown shoulder length hair and wide blue eyes. As it was, though, she was just overwhelming. At least six feet two and strongly built, she filled up the doorway.

Hi, she said. You must be Wayne Pratt, ’least that’s who the directory says is in five-A. I’m Cora Jean Bayless. I’m just moving into five-B, and we’ll be next door neighbors!

Her voice, deep but less so than might have been expected from her size, had a throaty quality that was familiar. To his horror, Wayne realized she sounded just like his mother. It had taken him years to escape that voice, and here it was again!

Ahhh . . . I’m just . . . That is. . . . babbled Wayne. It was his only chance to make a clean getaway, and he blew it. Later he would come to see this as the moment when he was tried and found wanting, and his life twisted from his grasp and turned into strange new ways.

Cora Jean thrust out her hand, and Wayne stepped back to avoid it. Seeing his retreat as an invitation, she advanced, grabbed his hand, shook it, sat in his only armchair, and began to talk. And talk. And talk. Wayne simply couldn’t take it all in. His first reaction was wordless indignation, a huge protesting exclamation point surrounded by question marks. He crouched against his television, and his main worry was whether, in the small room, he was really out of her reach.

In a few moments, something like coherent thought returned. He noticed that the door was still open. Across the hall in front of the door to five-B, a stack of household goods awaited placement inside.

Wayne was sure he’d never seen such an assemblage of tacky, mismatched items, at once drab and garish, as those in that pile. The worst was a vessel of iridescent bluish glass. What