So there was great goodwill all around, and it was this feeling that every creature mattered that inspired Kona and Gwendolyn to make a brilliant plan to help the thirsty animals in Gooseberry Park.
First, they decided, they would need a crow.
Kona and Gwendolyn had been staying up late, trying to work out a master plan, and it did not take them long to realize they needed a crow. And not just any crow. They needed Herman.
All crows are smart, but Herman was a genius. This was common knowledge in Gooseberry Park. The annual crow chess match actually had to be canceled because Herman had won seven years in a row and everyone was too humiliated to try to beat him after that. Crows have their pride.
Kona and Gwendolyn needed a genius. The problem of getting water to all the newborns and the elderly in Gooseberry Park was a mathematical problem, said Gwendolyn. It involved volume and capacity and distribution and a flowchart.
“What’s a flowchart?” asked Kona.
“It is a mathematical map,” said Gwendolyn.
Kona was terrible at math. Especially fractions. When he and Professor Albert went to Bay Hay and Feed and Professor Albert ordered a quarter pound of oat biscuits, it just did not make sense to Kona. He watched the clerk put the biscuits on the scale, and all the numbers made his head spin. Kona could not understand why oat biscuits had to be so complicated. Couldn’t they just ask for five? It was easy to count to five. But no, the clerk had to put biscuits on the scale, then take biscuits off the scale, then put biscuits back on the scale. Just so Kona could have a snack. A one-quarter-pound snack. Whatever that was.
Kona couldn’t wait to find Herman.
Herman lived with his mother and four sisters in a Douglas fir on the east side of the park. They had always been a close family, and Herman would probably never leave home. Herman was something of a misfit out in the world. When all the other crows got raucous and felt like dive-bombing a boy on Rollerblades to make him drop his french fries, Herman held back. He was not raucous. He was quiet. He liked to read and to think. Reading and thinking bores most crows, so they found Herman boring.
But his family didn’t. They were all readers and thinkers. At suppertime every member of Herman’s family ate with a book in one foot. They hardly said a word at all during supper. Yet they felt quite warm toward one another. And they all felt loved for who they were.
So Kona knew that he would probably find Herman at home.
“Herman!” Kona called up the tree. “Herman! Are you home?”
Kona waited. He waited and waited. He waited and waited and waited.
“Herman?” Kona called again. “Are you there?”
Kona felt that Herman was there. But Herman would not answer him.
“It’s just that I have this mathematical problem to solve,” called Kona, “and I’m terrible at math and especially fractions, and I was just thinking maybe you—”
Suddenly a shiny black head appeared from between the tall upper branches.
“What kind of problem?” called Herman.
Kona smiled.
“Mathematical,” he said. “And moral. It’s a moral problem, too.”
“Mathematical and moral sounds nuclear,” said Herman.
“Oh, no,” said Kona. “Nothing like that. Heavens no. This concerns babies and the elderly.”
“Precisely,” said Herman.
“And the drought,” said Kona, finally getting to his point.
“Oh,” said Herman. “That. What a mess. It’s all the fossil fuels, you know.”
Kona was starting to feel very dumb. Much like all the crows who used to lose the chess matches.
“I didn’t know,” said Kona. “But Gwendolyn and I were wondering—”
“Who is Gwendolyn?” asked Herman, hopping to a lower branch. Above him, four crows’ heads had popped out and were watching.
“Are those your sisters?” Kona asked.
“Yes. Who is Gwendolyn?” asked Herman, hopping down a few more branches.
“She’s my friend, a hermit crab,” said Kona. “We live together.”
Herman cocked his head to one side.
“Hermit crabs fascinate me,” he said.
“Me, too,” said Kona.
Herman hopped onto a branch that was even with Kona’s big chocolate-brown head.
“I am good at solving problems,” said Herman.
“I know,” said Kona.
And that was the beginning of an amazing adventure.
5
Up All Night
Stumpy was a collector, and most everyone in Gooseberry Park knew that if you wanted to see something interesting, stop by Stumpy’s house.
Stumpy rotated her collections, so old ones were always going out and new ones were always coming in.
Murray was in charge of the going out. Everything went to the charity drop box in the Big Bear parking lot. One time, when Stumpy decided to let go of her jingle bell collection, Murray carried seventy-four bells to the charity drop box in one night and jingled all the way. More than one child awoke as Murray flew overhead, rushing to the window in hopes of seeing Santa. But it was only a little bat with seventy-four jingle bells attached to his feet. One child tried to tell her parents the next day about the Christmas bat, but the parents just shook their heads and gave her more vitamins.
So Stumpy’s collections were well known, and while the animals of Gooseberry Park very much enjoyed the restaurant napkin tour, the rubber bouncy ball tour, the sparkly bracelet tour, and many others, no one ever imagined that one of Stumpy’s collections would turn out to be important. Even lifesaving.
But indeed that was about to happen.
Kona and Gwendolyn and Herman had put their heads together through the dark hours of the night, and they had made a plan. A plan, said Herman, for the dog days.
Herman explained that dog days were long, hot summer days. He said that humans call them dog days because that’s when dogs just lie about and sleep all day, but that really it has to do with the dog constellation Canis Major in the summer sky.
“Well,” Kona said, feeling rather offended, “not all dogs sleep all day.”
“Indeed,” said Herman. “It’s just the law of averages.”
“The what?” asked Kona.
“Some dogs do and some dogs don’t, dear,” said Gwendolyn.
“Exactly,” said Kona.
Certainly Kona was no dog-day dog. In fact, he’d hardly had any sleep at all what with staying up all night with Gwendolyn and Herman working on the plan, and looking after Professor Albert all day. Why, he had been so groggy that Professor Albert even noticed and gave him extra peanut butter crunchies, which did, actually, perk Kona right up.
But they had made a Master Plan—Kona, Gwendolyn, and Herman—and Herman had drawn it all on the back of a VOTE FOR JEFF sign he’d found beside the library book depository (which was where he and his family borrowed their books). It was, said Gwendolyn, inspired.
And one very important word of that Master Plan was “straws.”
Well, everyone knew who had a lot of those. An entire collection, in fact!
The Master Plan also contained other vital parts. They were:
a cat
a possum
a raccoon
200 owls
20 packs of chewing gum
“It should work,” said Herman.
Kona and Gwendolyn very much hoped so. But they were a little worried about the owl part. Because owls just hate teamwork. Which is why they never play catch, like crows. So getting two hundred owls to do the same thing on the same night in the same way for the same reason . . .
It would take a pretty good talker. It would take somebody who knew how to work a crowd. It would take . . . a motivational speaker.
Luckily, somebody’s long-lost brother was about to show up. Somebody’s long-lost brother who was a motivational speaker and who just happened to be between jobs. Meaning, out of work. And sort of mooching off family. Mooch
ing as in hanging around and eating all their stuff while he was waiting to get motivated himself.
Company was about to come knocking on Murray’s door.
6
Morton
He is eating me out of house and home!” cried Murray as he opened up Stumpy’s cupboards. “And he’s been here only three hours!”
Murray peered inside a Roy Rogers sippy cup.
“Don’t you eat anything besides nuts?” Murray said.
“I love nuts,” said Stumpy.
“I’m going nuts!” wailed Murray.
He looked inside a little red pencil box Stumpy had found by the children’s picnic tables.
“Ooh!” he said. “Raisins. I love raisins.”
Murray stuffed a footful of raisins into his mouth.
He swallowed.
“ ‘If you can dream it, you can do it!’ ” Murray said.
“Do what?” asked Stumpy.
“I don’t know!” cried Murray. “Ask my crazy brother! He says it all the time!”
“Murray,” said Stumpy. “It’s been only three hours. Three hours is not ‘all the time.’ ”
“Time,” said Murray. “Do you know what Morton says about time?”
“What?” asked Stumpy.
“He says time is an illusion,” said Murray. “I don’t even know what ‘illusion’ means. I think maybe it has something to do with those health-food cookies.”
“ ‘Illusion’ means something that seems to be real but is not real,” said Stumpy.
“I was close,” said Murray. “Anyway, I can tell you that three hours with my long-lost brother is really making me lose my mind! Not to mention that I’m eating all your raisins.”
“Surely he’s not that bad,” said Stumpy. “And he’s supposed to say things that motivate. That’s his job.”
“He sure does motivate me,” said Murray. “He is motivating me to move to Florida.”
Suddenly there was a knock at Stumpy’s door.
“Anyone home?” someone called.
“Shhh,” said Murray.
“Yes! Yes, come in, Morton!” said Stumpy. “So nice to meet you!”
Stumpy could see the family resemblance in Murray and Morton. Morton was older and a little balding, but the big brown eyes were just the same.
Stumpy invited Morton to stay for a snack. She put together a nice plate of walnuts and raisins for them all and then asked Morton to tell her a bit about himself.
“Well,” said Morton, “my journey began with a single step.”
Murray rolled his eyes.
“And as I have always said,” Morton continued, “if you can dream it, you—”
“Can do it!” finished Murray. “Which is what is happening right now. I am dreaming I can leave and I am doing it!”
Murray flew out the door.
“See you later!” he called.
Stumpy smiled at Morton.
“You were saying?” she said, passing him the plate of food.
Morton smiled and reached for another raisin.
“It all began at a Zen retreat in Half Moon Bay,” Morton began. “I was searching for answers, and in time I discovered that the answers were already within me.”
“Oh, I know just what you mean,” said Stumpy. “Gwendolyn calls it divine wisdom. She has a lot of it.”
“And who is Gwendolyn?” asked Morton, as had so many others before him. It seemed that all roads led to Gwendolyn.
“Well, I’ll tell you—” said Stumpy.
“First,” Morton interrupted, “have you any blueberries? Or maybe melon? Apples? If the answer is no, then that is perfectly fine. We must be at peace with what is. But if there is any fruit at hand, that would be stellar.”
“No,” said Stumpy, shaking her head. “So sorry. Just nuts. And raisins. I found the raisins in a pencil box a little boy left in the park. The blueberries, raspberries—everything we love to eat in summer—are not here this year. It is the drought, you know.”
Suddenly Stumpy felt very sad. She felt quite close to tears.
“Oh my,” said Morton. “I am an oaf.”
“Oh, no,” said Stumpy. “Not at all. You’ve only just flown in. You could not know how it has been.”
Something in Stumpy’s face was so honest and so heartfelt that Morton could not help asking:
“And how has it been?”
Stumpy took a deep breath.
Then she said, “I will tell you what drought is. Drought is worry. It is worry above all else. And we mothers, we worry most of all. The streams dry up, and then the creeks, and then even parts of the river. Do you know how many soda cans are at the bottom of the river? I didn’t, until the water dried up.
“The plants die. And everyone who can travel begins to leave. I can’t tell you how many hummingbirds I know who’ve flown to Canada. So many good-byes.
“And there’s so much dust. It affects the children. The baby chipmunks cough as often as the little girls and boys who sit beneath the shade trees with their mothers. The ground is all dust, the wind blows, and babies cough.
“And mothers worry about food. Even nuts can rot in the heat. But those whose children depend on berries and juicy green leaves and those perfect, round little crab apples that always grew in the orchards on the north side . . . They are afraid the food will be gone. It is not yet all gone. But they worry.”
Morton nodded sympathetically. Morton had always been a good listener.
“But thirst, Morton, that is the immediate threat,” continued Stumpy. “Thirst. Gooseberry Creek has dried up, and we have so many new babies in the park who are quite fragile. We also have the elderly—the ancient skunks and gophers who move so slowly, and the older pigeons who can hardly fly at all. They, too, are quite fragile.
“Drought is worry, Morton,” said Stumpy. “Even for Murray. I have seen him sneak away with cups of ice he found on cafe tables and bring them to my children to make sure they are all right.”
Stumpy paused. Then she began to lighten.
“But now, Morton, there has come a new ray of hope,” she said.
“Gwendolyn?” Morton asked instinctively.
Stumpy smiled.
“Gwendolyn is part of the hope. But there are also others. Others who are making a plan to help.”
“And how may I help?” Morton asked.
And although he did not yet know it, in that moment Morton became a volunteer. A volunteer motivational speaker.
They were all certainly going to need one.
7
Only One Owl
Kona was elected to be goodwill ambassador to the owl population in Gooseberry Park. Gwendolyn and Herman and Kona had all cast votes, and the result was Kona 2 and Herman 1. (Kona had voted for Herman because Kona liked him, and also because—unlike Kona—Herman would not have to stand at the bottom of a tree hoping an owl would talk to him.)
It was a job fraught with risk. Owls are not only uninterested in teamwork. They are also uninterested in anything having to do with humans.
Kona could not, of course, imagine being uninterested in humans. Why, Professor Albert was practically his hero. Kona had watched Professor Albert do amazing things, like risking his life to rescue a rabbit on the freeway and wading into the river to untangle a turtle caught in fishing twine. Professor Albert could build birdhouses and rewire old radios, and when he set up his train set in the basement one Christmas, Kona was positively mesmerized. Kona knew many wonderful creatures with wonderful talents, but none of them could create a tiny town with tiny trees and people and dogs and houses and then make a train race around all of them with its whistle blowing.
How could owls be uninterested in humans? But, according to Herman, they were. Maybe it had something to do with being nocturnal. Owls were not usually awake when humans were doing things that might impress them.
But the Master Plan required that two hundred owls be willing not only to work as a team, but also to fly themselves straight into
the world of humans.
And two out of the three master planners were convinced that Kona could talk the owls into it.
“How do I talk to two hundred owls?” Kona asked Herman. “How do I even find two hundred owls?”
“You need find only one,” said Herman. “Her name is Augustina. Convince Augustina, and the other one hundred ninety-nine will fall in line. I’ll take you to her tonight.”
“I hope she doesn’t peck me on the head,” said Kona.
“Oh, no,” said Herman. “Only jays do that.”
“Yes, jays for sure,” said Kona. “I wish they would just politely ask me to go away.”
“She could, however, bite you on the nose,” said Herman. “Be careful of your nose.”
Kona thought about his nose. Then he thought about a surfboard in Hawaii.
Kona sighed.
“All right, Herman,” he said. “See you at midnight.”
Kona hoped Augustina would be in a friendly mood toward noses.
8
The Master Plan
A Master Plan always looks very important on paper, and the Master Plan for Gooseberry Park was no exception. Herman had suggested they show it to Augustina, so when he and Kona started out for the park at midnight (Gwendolyn unlocked the door, as she always did when friends would come and go), the Master Plan had been neatly folded by Herman and tucked under Kona’s collar.
It was a very bold plan and would require all participants to be very daring. Herman had drawn it all out quite carefully, in flowchart fashion.
When Kona first saw the plan on paper, he had to ask Herman what “Houston, we have landed!” meant.
Herman said it was what astronauts always say when their rockets land on the moon. It meant “mission accomplished.”
“Who is Houston?”
“Not a who, a what,” said Herman.
“What?” asked Kona.
“Yes,” said Herman.
Gooseberry Park and the Master Plan Page 2
