Yesterday, just a chance remark when my brother and I were talking led me to think of olden days and dig out a little blue plastic box. In that box, I had stuck a few things from my much, much younger days. It was a fun, light-hearted journey as I remembered putting them there. There was a poem I’d written about being an old maid when I was probably in high school or college. I saw pictures of classmates from grade school, and a folded, yellow-edged story I’d written when I was a freshman in jr. high. It was a western and I’d written it with a black-ink fountain pen. My teacher must have been impressed because she wrote an “A” and “Good” at the top of the first page. Here’s the piece of fiction from my 15-year old self:
Martha let the exciting Zane Grey novel slip from her fingers. With a sigh, she turned over and switched out the light. Westerns, especially Zane Grey’s, were so very interesting. If only she had been born a hundred years earlier. Oh well, she should get some sleep and forget about the old west. There was no use in wishing things that couldn’t be.
“Oh, there isn’t, is there?” came a voice from the foot of the bed.
Startled, she raised up. Standing by her bed was a little fellow about a foot high who went on, “I just heard you wishing that you were back in the old days. I am here to tell you that I will grant you three wishes, but be careful how you use them.”
Martha joyfully clapped her hands. “Oh, but I’ll only want one wish.” Closing her eyes, she whispered, “Oh, I wish I was in Texas in 1857.” Martha opened her eyes and found herself standing in the middle of a dusty street. Suddenly, she heard running horses’ hooves. She drew back in time to just escape being trampled. Then she heard gunshots. People were running from the street. Martha felt herself caught in the rush. Thinking quickly, Martha decided to use her second wish. “I wish the sheriff would arrest those gunshooters. But, before she got the last word out of her mouth, she felt a stinging pain in her arm. She had been shot!
A sympathetic bystander stopped beside her. “Hurt, Miss?”
“I’m afraid so, a little,” replied Martha nervously. “Where is the doctor?”
“Doctor? Sorry, Miss, but there’s not a doctor within a hundred miles.”
“What? No doctor? But–but, I didn’t know the west would be like this!” exclaimed Martha. “I want to go home!”
“I wish I was safely back home in the twentieth century.” No sooner had Martha said this than she opened her eyes. She was back in bed. Sunshine was streaming through her open window. It had all been a dream! Sleepily, she pick up the book she had read the night before. Smiling contentedly, she said, “Well, I’m still fond of westerns, but from now on, I’ll be glad to just read about those gunfights from a nice, safe easy chair.”
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