From the critters near home . . . . to the wildlands beyond.

Tommy Tales are small adventures with big plans — meant to be read in a few happy minutes, enjoyed with a smile, and written and shared simply for the fun of it.

Tommy Tales — One More House

By the time the porch lamps began making little golden puddles along the streets of Butterfield, Tommy Jenkins had already visited most of the town.

Most was not all.

Tommy was ten years old, a country farm boy with a good heart, a lively imagination, and more plans than there were daylight hours to carry them out. He generally began things with considerable confidence. The necessary details usually caught up with him somewhere along the way.

For Halloween, however, he had prepared.

Behind him rattled a little wooden wagon carrying three flour sacks full of treats. A fourth sack hung over his shoulder.

There were still houses with their lamps lit.

At the next porch, a woman opened her door before he reached the top step.

“There you are, Tommy. I baked this molasses cookie especially for you.”

She held up a cookie nearly as wide as her saucer.

Tommy removed his hat.

“Thank you, ma’am!”

“I thought a boy your size might appreciate a substantial cookie.”

“Yes, ma’am. I surely would.”

He studied it with proper admiration before settling it carefully inside his sack.

“Happy Halloween!”

“And to you, dear. Mind that cookie.”

Tommy intended to.

At the following house, a jack-o’-lantern grinned from the porch rail, its candle shining through a crooked assortment of teeth.

“That is a mighty fine pumpkin,” Tommy told the woman at the door. “I made one with bigger teeth, though. To scare my little sister.”

“Did it?”

Tommy’s face fell a little.

“She put flowers in it.”

“Well, that sounds pretty.”

“It wasn’t supposed to be pretty.”

Then he brightened.

“I put some old dead ones in there when she wasn’t looking. Brown ones. They rattle.”

“And what did she say?”

“She hasn’t seen ’em yet.”

The woman pressed her lips together for a moment before reaching into her basket.

“You know what they say, Tommy. An apple a day keeps the doctor away. Here you go. A fresh, ripe, red apple for you.”

Tommy accepted it, polished it once against his shirt, and lowered it into the sack.

“Thank you, ma’am. Happy Halloween!”

He went down the steps feeling better about the pumpkin.

His sister had not won anything yet.

Two doors farther along, a man brought out a tray of popcorn balls and looked past Tommy toward the wagon.

“Gathering provisions for the winter?”

“No, sir. Just tonight.”

“Just tonight?”

“Yes, sir. I couldn’t get everywhere last year.”

The man nodded gravely.

“Well. We mustn’t have that happen twice.”

He chose a large popcorn ball.

Tommy found a place for it beside two small paper parcels of cookies and a little cake wrapped in a square of clean cloth.

The fourth sack was becoming a very satisfactory sack indeed.

He thanked the man, wished him a happy Halloween, and started toward the next light.

Halfway down the road, something tapped his heel.

Tommy stopped.

An apple lay behind him.

He picked it up and glanced toward the wagon. All three sacks sat where he had put them.

“Huh.”

He returned the apple to the sack over his shoulder and continued.

A few steps later, a walnut rolled past his shoe.

Then another.

Tommy watched the second walnut settle into a wagon rut.

He looked down.

A small hole had opened near the bottom seam of his sack.

“Oh, now.”

He shifted the sack into both arms.

The seam made a soft tearing sound.

Tommy stood very still.

The seam continued without him.

Down went the apple. Down went the walnuts. Down went the popcorn ball, the paper parcels, and the little wrapped cake.

The molasses cookie landed on top.

For a moment Tommy remained in the road holding a sack that had become, for practical purposes, a sleeve.

He looked through it.

Then he looked at the treats.

“Well, that won’t do.”

He hurried to gather everything onto the clean upper part of the fallen sack. The apple needed another polish. One paper parcel had come untucked. The special molasses cookie had lost a small piece from its edge.

Tommy ate the piece.

There was no sense losing that, too.

He examined the three sacks in the wagon. Each was full to the gathered neck. He pressed experimentally against one.

A popcorn ball rose out of another.

He put it back.

Tommy looked toward the next house.

Its porch lamp was burning. Someone was moving about inside.

He considered his hat.

Too small.

He considered the broken sack.

Still broken.

Then he looked down at his shirt.

Tommy smiled.

A little later, he stood in his white undershirt, working steadily beside the wagon.

He buttoned his outer shirt all the way up, tied the collar opening closed with a piece of string from his pocket, and knotted each cuff. Then he turned the whole arrangement upside down.

He held it open by the shirttail.

It was an excellent sack.

The sleeves offered additional room that he had not even counted on.

In went the apples and walnuts. In went the popcorn balls and parcels. He eased smaller things down into the sleeves and laid the large molasses cookie safely on top.

Tommy lifted his invention.

Both hands were required.

He looked at the wagon handle.

Another detail.

Fortunately, he had brought a length of rope to keep the sacks from tumbling off on the road home.

He tied one end to the wagon handle and the other around his waist. Then he gathered up his shirtful of treats and took an experimental step.

The wagon followed.

So did another step.

Behind him, the wheels began their familiar rattle. In front, the stuffed sleeves swung low, their knotted cuffs brushing the dirt.

Tommy’s country-boy smile spread clear across his face.

Everything was working.

Ahead, a woman appeared in a lighted doorway.

“Tommy Jenkins! Are you still out?”

“Yes, ma’am!”

“Well, come along, then. I saved something for you.”

Tommy leaned forward, the rope tightened, and the wagon rolled after him.

There was room yet.

One more house.

Folks celebrated Halloween a little differently back in 1904. We borrowed a bit from later years for Tommy’s evening rounds. We couldn’t very well let him miss out on those popcorn balls.

A note about images — Original artwork throughout The Front Porch has been created from my concepts and creative direction with the assistance of AI.  

Why do I write these? Aw, I don’t know. Just thought it might make you smile.