Grandpa Joe was known for two things: his legendary blueberry pancakes and his equally legendary hangovers. Last night’s town picnic, featuring a particularly potent batch of homemade elderflower wine, had resulted in a hangover of epic proportions. This morning, Grandpa Joe woke to the sound of howling wind and crashing rain – Hurricane Harriet, as the news called it.
He stumbled to the window, his eyes squeezed shut against the ferocious gusts. “Mildred!” he croaked, his voice like gravel gargling with brine. “Mildred, is this the apocalypse?”
Mildred, his ever-patient wife, peeked her head into the bedroom, her expression a mixture of concern and amusement. “Joe,” she said, adjusting her spectacles, “it’s just a hurricane. Though, admittedly, a rather boisterous one.”
“Boisterous?” Grandpa Joe grumbled, clutching his head. “This isn’t boisterous, Mildred, this is a full-blown… a full-blown… what’s that thing they call it on the news… a… a meteorological… a… a… windy thing!”
Mildred sighed. “It’s a hurricane, Joe.”
Suddenly, a particularly violent gust of wind rattled the window. Grandpa Joe jumped, his eyes wide. “Mildred! I think it’s trying to get in! It’s after my pancakes!”
Mildred chuckled. “Don’t be absurd, Joe. The hurricane wants nothing to do with your pancakes. It’s probably after the loose garden gnome you haven’t secured in weeks!”
Grandpa Joe peered out the window again, his eyes squinting. And then, amidst the swirling debris, he saw it: a small, ceramic gnome, airborne and sailing away like a tiny, terracotta torpedo.
“Ah,” he said, a slow grin spreading across his face. “So that’s where it went! I knew I should have put him back in his little house. Now the hurricane has better things to do than bother with my pancakes!” He settled back into bed, a contented sigh escaping his lips. “Maybe I’ll just have another nap… and then some more pancakes.”
