Grandma’s stuck … please help! |

Grandma’s stuck … please help!

The little cowpoke pulled the cook’s face close and spoke, his big brown eyes wide with wonder, “Grandma’s stuck!”

Yes, indeed my friend Ruby was stuck in the corn bin.

Earlier, the two older siblings had asked, “Do you want to jump with us?” They were having a blast, climbing the latter mounted inside, doing creative dives into the piled corn.

“Look Grandma, this is a power dive.” They invented gorilla dives, dog dives, Superman dives, and everything that eight and ten year olds can cogitate. Grandma, giving away her age, suggested a swan dive which they in turn invited her to execute.

“Grandmas don’t jump, Ruby said sheepishly. “More than likely, they break when they fall. Anyway, I think it is time for us to get out.” That was the moment she found that while getting in had been easy, exiting the small hole, about five feet above ground level, was not possible to any adult other than a midget contortionist.

“Don’t worry Grandma, I’ll get you out!” The older one ran, yelling to get help, “Grandma’s stuck in the corn bin!”

Ruby’s face was turning bright pink. “Stuck in the corn bin,” was just about the last confession she wanted to have made in her behalf. It was an incredibly inconvenient and embarrassing thing to happen. “Oh, my!” she mused. The already overburdened ramrod had his branding iron stuck in at least three other jobs, the cook was headed to town for grub, and the hired hand was busy doing whatever hired hands do when no one is watching. How was she going to explain this one? She could bribe the little ones with candy, but she would probably have to threaten the adults.

Ruby twisted and turned, trying to get out before anyone came to rescue her, but to no avail. “Bring a wrench,” she yelled to the gathering rescue team already rushing toward her, amusement plastered all over their faces.

She was lying on her back, half in and half out, of the opening with her legs flailing in a helpless motion like flipped over cross country skier. The ramrod looked the situation over and lifted his arms in a motion to help her partly emerged body exit with some exhibition of gracefulness, but a look of hopelessness gathered his brows together in the shape of a ‘W’ as he wondered. ” What…where…why…Where do I put my hands to pull a grape through a sieve? What happens when the grape falls broken and bruised on top of me? How did the grape get in there, and why? What was it doing in there?” All good ‘W’ words. His arms fell at his sides.

“Go get a wrench,” he said to the eight year old. “We’ll have to widen the opening.” More ‘W’ words.

Ruby was thinking” I told you to bring a wrench,” but she was in no position to be anything but hospitable. It took a while to find the right size wrench which gave everyone time to consider the general random theory of odds of someone getting stuck in a corn bin.

“This story does not leave the farm. What happens in Vegas stays in Vegas.” she said as she tumbled to the ground. But, I was there and saw it all. A story is a story. The press is no respecter of persons.

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