When my daughter Mary was little I used to tell her an
ongoing bedtime story about the adventures of two little girls, Molly and
Jenny. They lived in the forest with their parents and were always going off on
their own to explore, which usually led to them getting into trouble of one
kind or another. Fortunately they were good friends with a flying horse who
would come rescue whenever they called him with a magic whistle. Usually they
would call for their friend the flying horse right about the time that I, the
one telling the story, had gotten them into some fix and had no idea how to get
them out of it again.
The challenge was to come up with a new adventure for Molly
and Jenny every night, and often I’d get a story going and find myself in
the middle of it with no idea where things were going to go from here or what
to tell next. It was complete story improv. My daughter didn’t seem to notice or care that the plots of the Molly and
Jenny stories were contrived and cobbled together from lots of other stories.
She loved them, and that was good enough for the both of us. During the telling
we entered that timeless time of story. The years have flown by, but Molly and
Jenny are still two little girls having adventures.
Mary’s favourite Molly and Jenny story, the one she asked me
to tell many times, was about how the girls went to visit their reclusive old
grandpa, who lived in a shack on the very top of a mountain peak. The peak was
so sharp that the house balanced, teetering, on the very tip of it. The fun of
the story was how Molly and Jenny would have to be very careful moving around
their Grandpa’s house so it wouldn’t tip too far one way or the other and come
crashing down the mountain. I probably got the idea from the Chaplin film The Gold Rush where something similar
happens to a trapper’s cabin on the edge of a precipice (a visual gag imitated
many times, for example in the Looney Tunes cartoon in which Bugs Bunny
accompanies Christopher Columbus and the two of them share a bowl of soup which
slides across the table between them with each rise and fall of the waves).
I never wrote down any of the Molly and Jenny stories, and
I’m sorry for that. It would have been great fun to have them on paper so we
could read them again after all these years.
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