DIFFERENT VERSIONS

A hilarious recounting of three sides of the same story!

ABOUT THE AUTHOR Born and raised on a farm near Rochfort Bridge, Alta., during the Great Depression, Ardith was married by the age of 17. She and her husband raised three sons and lived on a farm for 60 years. Now widowed, and retired from teaching, Ardith spends her time writing, painting and travelling. Her entertaining stories and poems have been published in various literary magazines and anthologies.

Everyone makes themselves the hero of their own storytelling. Here are three versions of something terrible but exciting that happened on our farm one day. It was raining pitchforks and devils, and our side road was gum-slick. My husband, Mike, poked his nose in the kitchen door and called, “You’ll have to take the truck today. The car will slide into the ditch.” Water dripped from his hat brim, his nose and his elbows.

I stared at him. “I can’t take that old truck on the highway with no brakes. You still haven’t fixed them.” I was slapping sandwiches together for my lunch at school. I mustn’t be late.

Mike said nothing, as usual, turned and shut the door. I still had to get our son, Bruce, ready. “Come on, Honey, pull off your jammies so Mummy can help you with your shirt and overalls. It’s raining today, so Daddy will probably keep you in the house.” Bruce struggled to get the shirt over his head. I helped him. “Left hand here, right hand there,” I chanted, determined to use every opportunity to teach the child. “Left foot there, right foot here,” I sang as I stepped him into his overalls. “Snap, snap and that’s that!” I told him as I buckled his braces. He started to whimper.

“What?” I said impatiently. I had to get going. “Me go too,” Bruce said. “See Daddy.”

“Come on, then. Hurry.” I jammed his hat on his little round head and pushed his arms into his jacket.

“Right,” he said. “Right.”

“Yeah, right,” I agreed, helping him into his tiny rubber boots. I held open the door and watched him toddle down the steps.

Turning to the mirror, I put on lipstick, my only makeup. I dug out my raincoat, pulled on my rubber boots and snatched up my lunch and purse. The rain was still pouring down. Bruce stood in the lee of the south side, sheltered from the downpour. Mike was nowhere in sight. But the truck was running. He always started the vehicle for me. “You stay there,” I called to Bruce. I bounded into the truck, slammed it into gear and stepped on the gas while waving goodbye to Bruce. The truck didn’t budge. I gunned the engine until the truck suddenly shot forward. As I made a U-turn in our yard, I heard a strange roar coming up from the motor. Now what? I stopped. Climbed out. Looked at the truck.

There was Mike, clinging to the front bumper, his face ashen, his body stretched under the truck. “Oh, Mike,” I cried. “Are you hurt?”

“Only my dignity.” He crawled through the mud until he was clear of the truck before standing up.

“What were you doing?” I demanded. “Setting up the brakes,” he said. “You damn near killed me!”

My knees buckled. What he said was true. Had I not heard the roar of his voice I could have dragged him all the way to school.

MIKE’S VERSION

It was raining pretty good so I told my missus that she’d better take the truck, ’cause she’d have trouble with the car. She up and claimed that she wouldn’t take that old truck until I fixed the brakes. So I figured I’d better set them up before she headed out. I jacked up the truck and started the engine. The kid followed me out. I crawled underneath. I was setting up the brakes when I felt the truck sag. I figured it was the kid crawling in. First thing I knew the truck slammed into gear and the engine revved up to about a hundred miles an hour. But the truck was hung up on the jack. I saw my life flash before my eyes. If that hindend differential hit me in the head, I’d be a goner. So I grabbed the front bumper and hung on. Just then the truck fell off the jack and took off around our yard like a bat out of hell. I drug around with my ass scraping gravel. And I seen the kid pointing at me, crying. I hollered myself hoarse. Seemed a dog’s age before she heard me. Stopped. Then she cried and carried on just ’cause I said she nearly killed me. I had to gather up the kid and drive my missus to school. Huh! I was the one that was shook up. But my wife always gets excited over every little thing.

BRUCE’S VERSION

Daddy fixed truck. Mummy drove truck over him. Daddy hung on. I cried. Daddy cried. Mummy stopped. Mummy cried. Then I went for a ride.

The moral of the story? Always check under the truck before driving away!