A Little Cloud Play IP

Jerome was as lazy as a cloud. That’s what his mother used to tell him.

“Why don’t you go run off and play like the other children,” she said. “Instead of lying their in the grass with your nose in that book and your head in a cloud? You need to exercise the body, as well as the mind.”

“But, Mom,” said Jerome, “I’m fine with my book. I like to think about things. And books and clouds help me to think. That cloud for instance.”

”Which?” said his mother.

”The one that looks like Mark Twain,” said Jerome. “He’s puffing on a long white cigar and meditating on our human foibles. I can almost hear him,

“‘Such is the human race. Often it does seem such a pity that Noah and his party did not miss the boat.’

“Don‘t you ever feel that way, Mom?”

“No," said his mother. “And I hope Mr. Twain is satisfied with himself for putting that thought in your head,” said his mother. “Meanwhile, think about more encouraging things as your’re playing along side a friend or two,” said his mother.

“Now, off with you. I insist. Give the rest of the world a chance to enjoy your company. Don’t let those books hog it all.”

“Oh, all right,” said Jerome.

Jerome laid down his book, tightened the laces on his sneakers and left the back yard in search of a playmate.

Kneeling on the front lawn of his little house was George Monroe, surveying an army of ants with his magnifying glass. George and Jerome share a love of clouds.

“Hey, George,” said Jerome. “You want to go the park and climb some rocks?”

“Sure,” said George.

Into the park and up the rocks they went. Pausing every once in a while to be sure of their footing. Climbing in sneakers can be a treacherous affair.

They sat on top of the small mountain of rocks, breathless and happy.

“Good clouds today,” said Jerome.

“And getting cloudier by the minute,” said George. ”Hope we don‘t get rained on.”

“Look,” said Jerome. “There goes Hemingway!”

“I see him,” said George. "What's he doing?"

”Boxing,” said Jerome. ”Ooh! Oscar Wilde just wandered into Hemingway’s boxing glove and his head evaporated. That was ugly. And now I’m feeling a couple of drops."

“I felt it, too,” said George. “Maybe it will pass.”

As the sun tried to break through Edgar Allen Poe’s gloom, along came Bram Stoker, giving the sun little hope in its endevour.

“Look,” said Jerome. “We may get some sun yet. It’s Shirley Temple holding a lollipop.

“Oh, no!” said George. “It’s the wicked witch of the west and her monkey henchmen. That kid doesn’t stand a chance!”

Yikes!” said Jerome. “The poor kid never knew what hit her, George. She's monkey food now.”

When the two boys saw Gandhi cross paths with Winston Churchill all hell broke loose and the two ducked for cover as the thunder cracked and the lightening lit the skies.

What a storm it was.

And the two boys ran home. Laughing all the way.

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