Talked about NEIBA, the bookshow and Damages, the TV show, and this and that. A few weeks ago in the Boston Globe I saw an essay contest where one had to write the Back Story of a nursery rhyme, fairy tale character. Baa Baa Black Sheep came to me right away, and I spent a couple hours over the course of two evenings writing it. S.O. thought it was pretty good and so did my writing group. But it didn't win, alas, and I had yet once again to Suck It Up. In fact the Globe has not announced the winner, but it's been weeks (Sept. 13th) since the Globe said the winner would be notified, and I haven't heard squat, so here is Baa Baa Back Story:
Baa, baa, black sheep,
Have you any wool?
Yes sir, yes sir,
Three bags full.
One for the master,
One for the dame,
And one for the little boy
Who lives down the lane.
I used to go along to get along. Chilling in the pasture, chewing my cud, emitting a bored little baa every now and then. But cud-chewing seriously concentrates your thoughts and my thoughts were that black sheep had more fun, yanno? Lots more fun. White sheep are about a dime a dozen. There are a gazillion of them, standing around in the field and grousing about life. They really have something to bleat about when the sheep dog who thinks he’s a Prussian general totally humiliates them. Yes sir! Yes sir!
You might say white sheep are dyed in the wool.
Speaking of wool, I have it in spades. Wool to die for. Dense, thick, cream-colored wool, rich with lanolin. My mistress likes to dig her fingers into my neck and rub my head. . And at last shearing, I had six bags full of it! Six. But it was white. Yanno?
I always wanted to be a black sheep. Black sheep are hot. Black sheep are rebel dudes. Ewes dig black sheep. What it boils down to, is black sheep have more fun.
Dude, I decided to become a black sheep. Hold it right there! I didn’t roll in the mud by the peat bog or anything gross. Not me. I managed my transmogrification to brunette with logic and ovine cunning. First thing I did was to change my name from Norman to Devony, which means “dark-haired.” When I began referring to myself as “Devony Dude,” those slackers in the pasture didn’t even notice. That’s the quality of life on my hillside.
It took several passes of the full moon to hatch my plans and figure everything out. The toughest part was learning to bleat in English. I learned “blaaaaack,” first. That wasn’t too bad. “Dye” was harder, but before long I could bleat, “Blaaack Dyyyyyye.” Then I worked on “Four Bags.” “Baaaaags” wasn’t bad, I mean “baaaaad.”
Chewing a cud does give a dude a dexterous tongue, and I would amble down by the fence to practice alone, where the pale ones wouldn’t hear. That was how I met the groomer, a large red-faced woman who brings shears and other instruments of torture. She was walking along the fence inspecting our flock. The Little Boy Who Lives Down the Lane was with her. He’s a pipsqueak who needs at least four years of time-outs. I don’t like him because he throws stones and sticks at me and lets the dogs into the pasture to chase us.
“I’m going to enter the contest at the fair,” he said.
The groomer looked down at him. “What contest is that?”
“You ought to know, the Sheep Grooming Contest.” I'm gonna comb some ol’ sheep until its wool falls out.” He laughed his tough-kid laugh.
The sheep grooming contest! Would that include the sheep dyeing contest? I didn’t like that kid at all, but this might be my only opportunity. I walked to the fence and stared at them. Then, I bleated, “Blaaaaack Dyyyyye! Fourrrrr Baaaaags!”
“I’d swear that sheep was talking to us,” said the woman.
“Dumb ol’ sheep,” said the boy. He was the kind of kid who would have stomped on Charlotte and torn down her web. .
“Siiiiister?” I performed my best bleat. Maybe the kid had a sister who was into glamming up and hair coloring.
They stood and stared at me for a while.
I bleated, “Blaaaaack Dyyyyyye!” again.
“If that don’t beat all,” the woman said, but they turned around and walked away. The kid looked back over his shoulder and crossed his eyes at me. Cute.
The next day, the little menace was back with a blonde girl a few years older than he was. A blonde! Not too promising, but she had friendly eyes and fed me some herbs. I went through my vocabulary, ending with “maaaaaake ooooover.” The “make” sounded all right, but “ooooover” was a train wreck. Dude, it ain’t easy being a sheep, and a white one with a crummy enunciation at that.
“That’s cool,” said the girl. “I think he’s talking to us.” She wrinkled her nose.
“Taaaaaalk,” I bleated. Their jaws dropped. “Maaaaak ooooover,” I bleated again, and this time the “ooooover,” sounded better. “Blaaaaack,” I said.
The sister seemed impressed, but I could tell, she didn’t get it. I tried bleating, “clue gun,” but that was a total waste of breath.
The next time the blond girl appeared, I bleated, “Baaa, baaa, black sheep.”
“Mr. Sheep, what are you trying to tell me?” She asked.
“Wooooollll,” I bleated. “Blaaaack woooolll.”
“You want to be a black sheep?” she asked. “Don’t you know about black sheep?”
“More fun!’ I bleated. This language thing had become easier with practice.
She giggled. “Cool. I’ll have to think about it.”
“Four bags full,” The four didn’t come out right, but the “baaaaags full” sounded righteous.
Over the next month we worked out the details. In return for a dye job, Kate, the sister, would receive half of my wool, or three of the six bags full. That still left one for my master, who didn’t even know my name, and one for my dame who liked to dig her fingers into the fleece behind my ears. The Little Boy Who Lives Down the Lane insisted on a finder’s fee in return keeping his mouth shut, so he got a bag. I don’t like that kid at all, but whatcha gonna do?
We went to the county fair, and late at night, Kate put on rubber gloves and dyed my creamy pale wool black, the black a raven would envy. The dye smelled worse than skunk, and my eyes watered the whole time she worked on me, but I stifled my bleats of displeasure.
Next morning, the ewes were seriously ogling me. I leaped over my pen and cavorted around the fair, living up to my coloration. I nibbled prize dahlias, and licked the maple frosting off a blue-ribbon cake. I chased chickens and caromed through the cow wash. I butted a fat lady as if I were a goat. Everywhere I went became chaos. I returned to the amorous ewes. Several times. It was a day to remember. And people did. Some guy wrote a ditty about me. Moi! The cool dark dude. And then, wouldn’t ya know, those nursery rhyme books got it all wrong. This is the real ditty.
Baa Baa Black Sheep,
Dude, you’ve got some wool!
Yeah man, Yeah man,
Six bags full.
One for the misses,
One for the mister,
One for the brat and
Three for the sister. ©
You might say white sheep are dyed in the wool.
Speaking of wool, I have it in spades. Wool to die for. Dense, thick, cream-colored wool, rich with lanolin. My mistress likes to dig her fingers into my neck and rub my head. . And at last shearing, I had six bags full of it! Six. But it was white. Yanno?
I always wanted to be a black sheep. Black sheep are hot. Black sheep are rebel dudes. Ewes dig black sheep. What it boils down to, is black sheep have more fun.
Dude, I decided to become a black sheep. Hold it right there! I didn’t roll in the mud by the peat bog or anything gross. Not me. I managed my transmogrification to brunette with logic and ovine cunning. First thing I did was to change my name from Norman to Devony, which means “dark-haired.” When I began referring to myself as “Devony Dude,” those slackers in the pasture didn’t even notice. That’s the quality of life on my hillside.
It took several passes of the full moon to hatch my plans and figure everything out. The toughest part was learning to bleat in English. I learned “blaaaaack,” first. That wasn’t too bad. “Dye” was harder, but before long I could bleat, “Blaaack Dyyyyyye.” Then I worked on “Four Bags.” “Baaaaags” wasn’t bad, I mean “baaaaad.”
Chewing a cud does give a dude a dexterous tongue, and I would amble down by the fence to practice alone, where the pale ones wouldn’t hear. That was how I met the groomer, a large red-faced woman who brings shears and other instruments of torture. She was walking along the fence inspecting our flock. The Little Boy Who Lives Down the Lane was with her. He’s a pipsqueak who needs at least four years of time-outs. I don’t like him because he throws stones and sticks at me and lets the dogs into the pasture to chase us.
“I’m going to enter the contest at the fair,” he said.
The groomer looked down at him. “What contest is that?”
“You ought to know, the Sheep Grooming Contest.” I'm gonna comb some ol’ sheep until its wool falls out.” He laughed his tough-kid laugh.
The sheep grooming contest! Would that include the sheep dyeing contest? I didn’t like that kid at all, but this might be my only opportunity. I walked to the fence and stared at them. Then, I bleated, “Blaaaaack Dyyyyye! Fourrrrr Baaaaags!”
“I’d swear that sheep was talking to us,” said the woman.
“Dumb ol’ sheep,” said the boy. He was the kind of kid who would have stomped on Charlotte and torn down her web. .
“Siiiiister?” I performed my best bleat. Maybe the kid had a sister who was into glamming up and hair coloring.
They stood and stared at me for a while.
I bleated, “Blaaaaack Dyyyyyye!” again.
“If that don’t beat all,” the woman said, but they turned around and walked away. The kid looked back over his shoulder and crossed his eyes at me. Cute.
The next day, the little menace was back with a blonde girl a few years older than he was. A blonde! Not too promising, but she had friendly eyes and fed me some herbs. I went through my vocabulary, ending with “maaaaaake ooooover.” The “make” sounded all right, but “ooooover” was a train wreck. Dude, it ain’t easy being a sheep, and a white one with a crummy enunciation at that.
“That’s cool,” said the girl. “I think he’s talking to us.” She wrinkled her nose.
“Taaaaaalk,” I bleated. Their jaws dropped. “Maaaaak ooooover,” I bleated again, and this time the “ooooover,” sounded better. “Blaaaaack,” I said.
The sister seemed impressed, but I could tell, she didn’t get it. I tried bleating, “clue gun,” but that was a total waste of breath.
The next time the blond girl appeared, I bleated, “Baaa, baaa, black sheep.”
“Mr. Sheep, what are you trying to tell me?” She asked.
“Wooooollll,” I bleated. “Blaaaack woooolll.”
“You want to be a black sheep?” she asked. “Don’t you know about black sheep?”
“More fun!’ I bleated. This language thing had become easier with practice.
She giggled. “Cool. I’ll have to think about it.”
“Four bags full,” The four didn’t come out right, but the “baaaaags full” sounded righteous.
Over the next month we worked out the details. In return for a dye job, Kate, the sister, would receive half of my wool, or three of the six bags full. That still left one for my master, who didn’t even know my name, and one for my dame who liked to dig her fingers into the fleece behind my ears. The Little Boy Who Lives Down the Lane insisted on a finder’s fee in return keeping his mouth shut, so he got a bag. I don’t like that kid at all, but whatcha gonna do?
We went to the county fair, and late at night, Kate put on rubber gloves and dyed my creamy pale wool black, the black a raven would envy. The dye smelled worse than skunk, and my eyes watered the whole time she worked on me, but I stifled my bleats of displeasure.
Next morning, the ewes were seriously ogling me. I leaped over my pen and cavorted around the fair, living up to my coloration. I nibbled prize dahlias, and licked the maple frosting off a blue-ribbon cake. I chased chickens and caromed through the cow wash. I butted a fat lady as if I were a goat. Everywhere I went became chaos. I returned to the amorous ewes. Several times. It was a day to remember. And people did. Some guy wrote a ditty about me. Moi! The cool dark dude. And then, wouldn’t ya know, those nursery rhyme books got it all wrong. This is the real ditty.
Baa Baa Black Sheep,
Dude, you’ve got some wool!
Yeah man, Yeah man,
Six bags full.
One for the misses,
One for the mister,
One for the brat and
Three for the sister. ©
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