(An attempt at rural Maine story telling by one who lives there)
You've heard me speak of my boy Egbert? No? Well sit down for a spell and I'll tell you something about him.
I'll confess dearie, my boy was slighted when they was passin' out brains. Don't get me wrong, Egbert's a real cunnin' boy. He's respectin' to his mother and I and he don't have nothin' bad to say 'bout nobody. The problem with Egbert is, he gets these ideas. Once in that head of his, there's no gettin' 'em out. You could loosen a bear trap from the leg of a ornery Black bear easier than talk Egbert out of one of his fool brained ideas. Egbert might not be a bright boy but you have to hand it to him, the boy's got more than a skrid o'moxie. When Egbert sets his mind to something he see's it through. The result may require a trip to the nearest emergency room, but the boy finishes what he starts. Another thing 'bout Egbert; he's most apologetic. "Daddy" he'll say, "I ain't niver gonna do somethin' that crazy agin." and the boy means it too, but the next day he'll be out there buildin' stilts with springs or putting wings on his bike. You see, there's no teaching Egbert, you can preach 'til you're blue in the face or can tarn him 'til he's blue and black, but he'll just look up at you with those big cow eyes, and you just know he has no idea what he's done wrong.
One of Egbert's ideas, however, really took the prize. He was watchin' the evening news and there was a report on the running of the bulls in Pamplona, Spain. I tried to get to the remote and turn the channel onto something more soothin' for Egbert's imagination, but I was too late, you could just see by the look on that boy's face that an idea had already sunken into that head of his and I swear you could hear the gears a'turning . "Egbert!" I said, "Whatevah fool idea you've just hatched in that skull of yours, forget it; your ma and me are fed up with your shenanigans!" Well, I might as well been talkin' to the cat for all the good it did, 'cause before I could get another word in, Egbert was out the door faster than...well, faster than the last time he got one of his hair-brained schemes.
I've learned to just let Egbert have his fill. You leave him to his idea and hope he don't kill himself. Trying to stop Egbert is like tryin' to dam up a river, eventually it's gonna burst and flood everything in sight. So I just let Egbert go his way and everything seemed quiet for a couple of days. I actually figured that maybe the boy had given up on whatever plan it was that had struck him, but I should have realized that there is always a calm before the storm and with Egbert there was always a hurricane brewin'.
So here I was not thinkin' much about Egbert since I had some holes to fill in my old pick-up truck. The thing had done rusted to pieces and I had to bondo 'er up. I wasn't at it for long before I heard a lot of barking and yelping off in the direction of my corn field. When you hear such a ruckus, you naturally think of Egbert, so I figured I better see what the commotion was about. As I approached the corn field, the barking got louder, yet I couldn't see anything unusual, so I walked to the edge of the field and proceeded to walk parallel with the outer row. I noticed an opening in front of me and as I approached, I noticed a pole, one that I'd been using for my Kentucky Wonder Beans, driven into the ground with the runners still clinging. Tied to this pole was a large slice of ham, identical to the one I had seen this morning in my wife's ice box.
This opening was easily 10 feet wide and went the distance of the corn field, almost as if someone had cut the field into two sections. The commotion was coming from the other end of this opening a good 200 yards away. That's when I saw Egbert, running for dear life, surrounded by about a dozen dogs and they were all coming my way. Egbert fell once when he tripped on a beagle and while down a chow ran over his back, but the boy was undaunted and quickly rose and continued his frantic race. The darned fool was having his own running of the bulls and sure enough his race looked no more ridiculous, than those runners in Spain. As he approached the end of his run, he finally noticed me standing there, but he didn't stop, not my Egbert, he gave one last kick that would have made Joan Benoit Samuelson proud and finished with a full burst of speed.
Well, I done what I usually do--sent him to bed without his supper--but I knew that would have no effect on him--it never does. Sure enough, the next day he came to me looking all shy with them big wide eyes of his, saying he was sorry--and I know he was, but I also know he didn't learn a darned thing.
So what was I gonna do? I patted him on the back and called him a good boy. Now, don't go telling him I said this, but, you have to hand it to my boy, he might be shorta brains, but he's got one wicked good imagination. It's hard not to be proud of a boy like him.
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