A Fable

Once upon a time there was a fair maiden held prisoner by a wicked wizard, for such nefarious purposes as even the Evilist of Evil Overlords among you can only speculate. The wizard's lair was located just a stone's throw from the Town of Deeping (or in the vernacular, Ye Olde Towne of Deeping), and was surrounded by a swamp, creatively known as The Swamp of Deeping (or in the old vernacular, Ye Olde...well, you get it).

Upon this swamp the wizard had placed a number of enchantments, not only to deter ardent suitors who attempted to rescue the maiden (how come you never hear of unfair maidens being rescued? "She cheated at volleyball in gym!!" "Oh, well, she's out, then...") ) and incidentally to protect his collection of Star Wars Action Figures all in the original packages (but that is neither here nor there). Where was I? Oh yes, of all the fearsome enchantments one could possibly encounter should one (or more) attempt to traverse the Swamp, the worst by far was that placed upon the fallen timbers that lay half submerged within the foul, murky waters (what did you expect, a crystal-clear spring??). To an observer these logs appeared to be in terrible pain, for they groaned and sighed (and sometimes sang old Captain and Tenille songs) at all hours of the day and night, and should any erstwhile hero attempt to rescue the maiden by stepping on this collection of waterlogged limbs, they would rear up, entwine him in their branches, beat him to a pulp and drag him into the inky depths, never to be seen again.

Now as it happened, one day there came a young man whose purer heart (and Cheerios Secret Decoder Ring)had allowed him to bypass the majority of the canny old wizard's spells. Past the choking grapevines, past the flesh-eating fish, past the flying monkeys (oops, wrong story) he went, until all that stood (or lay) between him and the fair maiden was a seemingly harmless causway of wood. However - he had heard of this enchantment, and so rather than step across the groaning, wheezing logs, he tiptoed carefully in between them - the water was, conveniently, not so deep after all - rescued the fair maiden and lived, as you may expect, happily ever after.

Years later, whenever his children and grandchildren plied him for the story of how he rescued the fair maiden, he would puff on his pipe, stretch out his feet to the fireplace and say, "Why, it's very simple. I just let Deeping's logs sigh."

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Now, did you see that coming, or not?

This fable comes to mind in response to a recent comment posted about the essay, recently posted on this blog, about Barn Coats. Persons who apparently have entirely too much spare time on their hands have been wondering, at what moment does a seemingly innocuous coat metamorphose into such a garb as can then be elevated to Barn Coat status, and just exactly what does it take, they ask, to make it so? The final proposition was that the wearer had something to do with it as well.

And of course I couldn't let it go. In stewing over this conundrum - and I HAVE been stewing, through horse feeding, trash-can retrieving, outdoor Christmas UNdecorating, and laundry - put succinctly, how much crap must be put into, and rubbed onto, a Barn Coat, and how long must it be worn so, the actually become a, or rather THE Barn Coat? And does this crap put INTO the Barn Coat include the wearer?

I submit that the whole thing is probably a chance combination of all the right elements at the right time (not unlike the Big Bang, but fortunately on a much smaller scale, or it would blow the closet apart...) and indeed the wearer probably provides the final catalyst...

...you didn't think I would just let that post go, did you??
(Heeheeheeheeheeeeeeee!!!)