(The story cut to 100 words.)
Mom arranged six birthday candles on the cake as CIndy’s anticipation mounted. She couldn’t wait to see her new red scooter.
Daddy came in, carrying a beautifully wrapped box that wasn’t big enough to hold a scooter. When Cindy tore off the wrapping paper, she found a bucket, filled with sand.
“Thank you,” Cindy whispered politely and fled, tears flowing.
“Honey, we were just kidding,” Mom tried to soothe.
Daddy carried Cindy into the kitchen where a new scooter leaned against the refrigerator.
Through her tears the scooter wasn’t as bright red as she thought it would be.
(The original story, 310 words.)
Cindy and her Mom put the last of the six little birthday candles on the newly-baked cake. Her anticipation mounted. Today she fully expected to get the new red scooter she wanted with all her heart.
Dad came in the back door, carrying a large, beautifully wrapped box that didn’t look big enough to hold a scooter. He set it on the kitchen table with a thump.
“Cindy, open your birthday present!” said Mom, standing her on a chair and handing her a pair of blunt-end scissors to cut the ribbon.
Sure enough, there wasn’t a new red scooter in the box. There was a sand bucket, filled with sand. Nothing else. Useless on a winter day in northern Ohio. Trying to be polite, Cindy struggled to smile as Mom said, “What do you say?”
“Thank you,” Cindy managed to get out before she fled to her bedroom and curled into a ball in the narrow space between the bed and the wall. Tears of disappointment flowed down her face.
“That didn’t go as we thought,” Cindy heard Dad say. “I’ll go out and get her real present and you get Cindy.”
“Cindy, where are you?” called her mother. “We were just kidding. We have another present for you. One I think you’ll like a whole lot better.”
Cindy made herself into a tighter ball. Tears continued to flow uncontrollably.
“There you are! Come back into the kitchen. Dad has something else for you, for your birthday.”
Cindy obediently stood up and tried to brush away her tears and look happy. When she walked into the kitchen, the big box was gone and there was a new red scooter leaning against the refrigerator.
“Thank you,” she whispered. The scooter didn’t look as bright red as she thought it would. And her tears continued to flow.
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I like both of them!
It reminds me of a long forgotten wagon:
My birthday was April 1, 1945, I didn’t get a present until until days 11 days later, when my father gave me a special Red Wagon. It was special because I could ride it myself by pushing and pulling on two bars. I never saw one before and, to this day have not seen one. I just loved it and was riding around on the sidewalk and laughing as I rode. I passed by our house and my father was standing there. He looked very sad and i asked him why. He simply said that our President just died.We both were soon crying.
It was time to put away the wagon. The next day there was no wagon and no one would answer my questions about where it was. I know now, many years later, that my father was always frustrated that he could not communicate well in English. He was born in Russia and also could not remember enough to communicate well in Russian. i believe now that he just did not have the tools to explain what happened.Even knowing this, it is still a mystery to me!
c Norman F. Estrin, My red wagon, Jan.29, 20119
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My heart aches for that little boy. I grok.
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Your words prove that sometimes a joke, funny to some, is not so funny to another. They also provoke thoughts about deeper issues beyond the “paling” of the scooter.
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