The Worm Watcher (a short story) written in 1995

This story was the description of an actual event that occurred while I was observing Kyle.  The assignment was to write an observation piece, so here it is, I named myself Debbie--I was doing daycare at the time, so it worked as a role in the story.



He crouched, silently looking at the damp soil.  It was early spring, and what might soon become a flower bed was yet covered with mashed leaves and scattered old bricks.  The air was fresh, but the sun was warming.

He was young, not yet four.  He was sturdily built, with cropped dark hair and round dark eyes.  His face was already slightly browned and his cheeks rosy.  He had a handsome face with even features, and round ears that protruded slightly.  He wore grey sweat pants, a green and black checked flannel jacket and white sneakers.

His arms rested on his bent knees.  His short chubby fingers, relaxed, fell between them.  Other children played near by on swings and trikes, and dug in a near by sand pile.  It seemed a day made for children.  A day care attendant stood supervising the activity.  The boy called to her,  "Look Debbie, a worm!"

The attendant walked over to join the boy.  "What have you got there, Kyle?" she asked.

He reached down and picked up a little red earthworm and dropped it into the palm of his hand where it wriggled into a circle.

A little girl with wispy, white-blonde hair, and a small fair boy with large, blue eyes, came over to join the woman.  They gazed curiously at the worm.

"See.  It's my worm.  He likes me."  Kyle spoke very seriously, very matter of fact.  they all gazed silently at the worm for a moment.  Then in the same grave tone, Kyle continued.

"He likes to live in the sand too."

He wrapped his fingers around the worm, concealing it from the curious eyes of the others and ran, in a sudden burst, to the nearby sand pile.  Crouching again, he carefully set the worm down in the sand.

He watched momentarily as the worm wriggled; then he grasped a handful of sand and sprinkled it carefully over the worm.

"He likes to be in dirt," he said.

After covering the worm completely with several fists full of sand, Kyle began to poke carefully into the sand with his finger, looking for the now buried worm.  He didn't find the worm that way, so very carefully he scooped away a layer of dirt.  He looked, then scooped again, ever so carefully.  Again, dark sober eyes searched the sand thoroughly for the small red worm.  Putting his hands on his knees, he straightened slightly and looked up.

"I can't find my worm," he shouted.

At this he stood and brushed his hands together.  Sand loosened and fell from them.  He looked up.  The spring sunshine fell full on his face.  Suddenly his face changed from a look of serious contemplation to a mischievous grin.  Without warning, he sprang into the air, jumping gleefully about on the sand where he had moments before so carefully placed his worm, thoroughly pouncing on that spot of sand.

"He's gone now," Kyle announced with a lopsided grin, and he ran off to join the other children.

by Sherri S. Crowley

A Single Summer Hour (short story) written in 1994

The screen door closed behind her with a bump and Sherri hesitated for a moment before making her way to the front steps where she carefully jumped--jump, jump, jump, jump--four steps to the sidewalk below.  It was a green summer day, warm and luxurious.  Sherri could hear bees buzzing in the sunshine.  She could smell the warm roses along the driveway near the white picket fence which separated her yard from the white clapboard house next door, where a kind, white-haired widow lived.

Muffin, the big yellow tom cat, rubbed against Sherri's legs.  Sherri sat where she was, on the bottom step of the porch, and stroked the cat's neck and the top of his head.  Muffin purred his appreciation--a mellow sound that blended with the buzzing of the bees and the warm smell of the roses into a mist of contentment that seemed to engulf the small girl who sat, with a bemused look, on the bottom step of the tidy, red-brick house.

The girl was about five years old.  Her hair was chestnut brown as were her eyes and the freckles sprinkled across her nose.  She wore a saffron-yellow, sleeveless, cotton shirt that buttoned down the front and was cut short so that her tummy showed.  Shorts and white tennis shoes completed the outfit.  Sunshine warmed the top of Sherri's head and made her shoulders hot as she stroked the now dozing cat.

"Hey!" came a shout and the screen door opened and closed again with a bang as Terry, Sherri's older brother--a cropped headed freckle face 7 year old full of mischief, bounded through it.  Let's play in the sandpile."

Roused from her reverie, Sherri raced with her brother across the green lawn, past the side of the garage where tall hollyhocks grew, to a large sand box framed with rough planks and shaded by a large chestnut tree that seemed to lean over the picket fence to watch their play.  The sand was smooth yet gritty, hot on top and white, but brown, moist and cool as they dug their hands and now bared toes deeper into it.  They covered their toes and patted the sand firmly around their feet until nothing could be seen of them.  Then they wiggled their toes and watched as the sand cracked and then erupted and their feet sprang free spraying sand all around.

Next, they began constructing a great mound.  They scooped and pushed sand with their hands, then they patted and smoothed it until it was firm all around.  Finally, they began--each on a side--to tunnel carefully through to the center.  When their fingers met they crowed with delight pulling forth sand crusted arms and hands.  They rubbed and shook and jumped about, and the sand cascaded down from their clothes and bodies.Then remembering that across the road were friends and tire swings, and things to fill a summer's day, they raced back across the yard, abandoning sand and shoes, cats and flowers to another hour.

By Sherri  S. Crowley
Obviously, this assignment was to use sensory details.  I quite enjoyed recreating these memories from my childhood.  I had forgotten about this story.  It was fun to read it again.

Christopher Rabbit and the Carrot-Crumble Pie (Short Story) written in 1993

As I recall this story was written to a specific prompt.

This is too boring Christopher thought.
Christopher Rabbit was digging carrots with Alex and Alexandra Rabbit in the warm sun of a crisp, fall afternoon.  It was the kind of afternoon that made Christopher want to play football.  Christopher sat back on his haunches and looked around.  Alex and Alexandra, Christopher's brother and sister, worked steadily, pulling long, orange carrots out of the cool brown earth.
Christopher looked into his own basket.  A few carrots lay scattered about the bottom of the basket.
It's gonna take forever, Christopher thought.
Mother Rabbit had told her children that they must each pull a basket full of carrots today.  When they finished they could have a special treat--carrot crumble pie.
A fly buzzed around Christopher's long ear.  He watched it carefully out of the corner of his eye.  Stealthily he adjusted his position.  There!  He caught it.
"Hey, you guys,"  Christopher called in triumph.  "I caught this fly right out of the air.  D'ya wanna see?"
"Christopher, why don't you get to work?" Alex said.
"Yeah, we're way ahead of you," Alexandra agreed.
Alexandra hopped back to look into Christopher's basket.
"Gee, Christopher, you hardly have any carrots at all."
"Lemme see."
Alex hopped back too.
"Boy, are you slow, Christopher," Alex said.
"Am not," was Christopher's reply.  "I caught this fly right out of the air."
He let the fly go now and it buzzed out of his hand and into the pale blue sky.
"You're not going to get any carrot-crumble pie if you don't get working," Alex warned.
Alex and Alexandra hopped back to their baskets and began pulling carrots again.
Christopher imagined himself catching a whizzing football.  It whistled past his long ear--thwamp--into his outstretched paws.
Christopher was still daydreaming when he smelled something delicious.  His nose twitched as he recognized the aroma of freshly baked carrot-crumble pie.  Christopher looked up.  Alex and Alexandra were gone.
"Great!" Christopher thought, "We're done."
Christopher looked into his basket--a few carrots lay scattered in the bottom.
"How could Alex and Alexandra be finished already?" he wondered.
Christopher picked up his basket and hopped lazily to the house.
"Christopher, you're done," mother said, as she stepped out of the kitchen.  Mother looked into Christopher's basket--then she frowned.
"Christopher, what have you been doing all afternoon?  Your brother and sister came in with full baskets and yours is hardly started.  You had better go back to the garden patch and try again."
Christopher could hear Alex and Alexandra whispering and snickering in the doorway.
Mother went back inside shaking her head.
"No carrot-crumble pie for you, Christopher Rabbit, not until you fill up that basket."
Christopher hopped slowly toward the garden.  He could see the three pies cooling on the window sill.  It wasn't fair that Alex and Alexandra would get pies and he wouldn't.  After all, they liked pulling carrots, and they didn't have to miss their favorite game to do it.
Before Christopher realized what he was doing, he raced up to the window and snatched one of the carrot-crumble pies.  He sprinted swiftly away, but as he ran he heard his mother call.
"Christopher Rabbit, you come back here this instant!"
Christopher ran and ran.  He didn't stop until he was far away.  Finally, he looked back.  His house was out of sight, and no, no one seemed to be following him.
I out ran them, Christopher thought triumphantly.
Christopher sat down and quickly gobbled up the carrot-crumble pie.  It was delicious; but when he was finished, Christopher didn't feel very well.  Suddenly, he realized that he had to go home now, and he realized, with a pang of regret, that he shouldn't have taken the pie without earning it.
It was dusk now, and cold.  Christopher shivered.  He felt nervous as the shadows of the trees began to lengthen.  He had never been out this late before.
Christopher's feet dragged as he began his trek homeward.  He had never walked so slowly.  It was dark when Christopher reached home.  Lights glowed warmly through the windows, but Christopher paused, reluctant to go in.  As Christopher opened the door, he realized what he had to do.
"I'm sorry, Mother," he apologized. "I'm sorry, Alex and Alexandra.  You deserved the carrot-crumble pie for working hard, but I didn't."  Christopher paused, "Mother, can I pull two baskets of carrots tomorrow to make up for stealing the pie today?"
"You did wrong today, but since I can see that you are sorry, and you have apologized, after you pick the two baskets of carrots, you'll be forgiven for stealing the pie."
"Thank you mother," said Christopher.  He felt as if a heavy weight had lifted from his heart.  "I can't wait to pick carrots!"
Everybody laughed.

By Sherri S. Crowley

The Rock (a short story) written in 1992

This is a short story I wrote about an experience my big brother Terry and I had when we first moved to Bountiful, in approximately 1965.  I wrote it up as a short story in 1992 and submitted it as a first attempt for a class I was taking in writing.  I was hoping to become an author of children's stories at the time, but I only wrote a few stories before I got too busy doing daycare and watching my own kids grow up.  The next few stories are what came of the attempt to write for children.

The Rock

     "There's nothing to do here," Ralph grumbled, as he scuffed his sneaker into a rock, sending it scuttering across the driveway.
     Lynda, his little sister, followed behind him quietly.  They had only been living in the new house for a few days.  At first there had been a lot to do.   Running around the empty rooms had been great fun.  Their voices had echoed in the emptiness.
     They had explored the new yard.  It had seemed wide and empty, like the house.  Only one small tree on the side lawn interrupted the smooth green grass.
     Nothing was really the same here.  There were no big trees to climb, no fields, or ditches, or polliwog ponds.  The traffic passed the driveway with a swish, swish, swish; proof enough that no such places existed in this town.
     Ralph wrinkled his freckled nose and stuck his tongue out at the passing cars.  "Yuck," he said.
     Lynda sighed.  "Maybe we'll see another ambulance," she said.
     The two children walked over to the sidewalk near the road.  Mom called it "the busy street."  It had two lanes of traffic going in each direction, and it seemed like it was always full of cars.
     Lynda lay on her tummy on the cool strip of grass between the sidewalk and the road.
     Ralph stood at the end of the driveway and kicked rocks into the road with a sharp quick motion.  They felt lonely and out of place.
     Suddenly Ralph bent over and picked up a rock.  He looked at it.  He could throw a rock farther than any of his friends back home.  He could throw a rock and hit a can in the empty lot behind the old barn, or skip it four times across the polliwog pond.  Where could he throw rocks now?  No place.  Now Ralph felt funny inside--like there was something squeezing his heart.  His eyes got misty, and the cars blurred together, as he gripped the rock tightly for a moment, and then threw it into the stream of passing cars.
     CRACK!  For a moment the children were frozen in place.  Then they ran--ran to the other side of the house and hid behind the corner.
      Peeking around the corner of the house, they watched in horror as a car slowed and turned around.  It turned into the driveway and a man got out and walked to the back door.
      He knocked.
      Dad answered.
      The two men talked for a moment.
      "Ralph!" Dad called, "Come here."
      The children emerged slowly from behind the house.
      Ralph felt sick.  He could see the crack that snaked across the top of the car's window.
      The man from the car looked sternly at Ralph.  He told the children that it took a lot of money to replace a car window and that it was tricky.  Windows didn't always fit right after they'd been replaced.  He said Ralph was to blame so he'd ought to make Ralph pay for it.
      Ralph swallowed hard, "Yes sir," he said.
      The man paused.  He put his chin in his hand and slowly rubbed his thumb across his jaw.
      Ralph looked at his feet.
      Lynda looked at the man.  She looked at Ralph.  She saw dad.  He looked worried and sad.
      The man cleared his throat.  "Well, he said, "I reckon I'll see if that crack gets any bigger before I decide what to do.  I don't like the idea of a rattle you know.  If they can't get the new one in right it'll rattle, that's for sure.  I know where you live if I decide different."
      The man got back into his car.  He drove away.
      Dad knelt down on one knee and put a hand on Ralph's shoulder.  He looked into Ralph's eyes.  He seemed to understand somehow.  "You know," he said, "sometimes when you feel sad and hurting inside, sometimes you feel like you might get even by giving a hurt back.  But it doesn't really work, you know.  A thoughtless act most times leads to trouble.  An action taken in anger always brings you shame."
      The lights on the cars were beginning to come on.  Dusk was settling in.  Daddy held the children quietly in his big arms for a while.  No one said anything.  Then they walked slowly into the house together.

The Airplane Model

This is a poem that I took out of an old Ensign.  It had won a poetry contest.  It was one of my favorite poems for like--forever. . .it is by Sherwin W. Howard

I remember
My father built a model plane,
One of those rubber-powered ones
That grow out of a hundred bits
Of balsa wood and paper held by glue,
And it flew.

I remember
A card table in the front room
And watching from my child-space
While he cut and pinned and shaped
A thousand fractured moments into place,
And it flew.

I remember,
The cool spring Saturday we went
Outside, conspirators in flight,
Propeller wound to nearly snap,
Its wings held up to brush the morning air,
And it flew.

I remember
The soaring arc that climbed past age
Above the narrow city streets
And rushed headlong into a wind
That cut across an ever-widening sky,
And it flew.

I remember,
The ladder and broom that brushed it down
From shingles where it crashed midway
Along a path from man to boy
I watched tight-lipped while shouting loud inside,
It flew, oh Dad, it flew.

Strings (a poem) written in 1977

Can I touch in you the strings
that will make you beautiful?
Will the song that I sing
harmonize with the music in your soul?
Or will my human hands,
with their careful clumsiness,
only cause discord--
because of the imperfection
in their interpretation
of your needs. . .

By Sherri Scovill

Earth (a poem) written in 1978

The earth seemed to live,
and I felt the throbbing pulse of life
as I reached out to grasp
that fistful of soil
I hold so tightly in my hand.

Quiet sounds of a breeze-filled
night pierced my soul,
as under a tree I knelt
and with tears of wonder
bathing my face
gazed into the starlit sky
to see
the beginnings of eternity
while holding
desperately
to the securing solidness
of that bit of you
I grasp.

By Sherri Scovill