Once, there was a Grandpa who lived all by himself at the edge of the woods. He walked with a slight stoop, but he always kept a cheerful heart and a twinkle of mischief in his eyes. Perhaps it was those eyes, which had seen so much, that drew him often to the nearby village. Grandpa adored the market and all the people he met there.
It was a bright, sunny day, and Grandpa could hardly wait. He pulled on a clean pair of pants, shook the pebbles out of his old shoes, and set off toward the village. On the way, he met a skunk who got spooked and—pfffft!—sprayed him with its stinky spray.
“Well now, at least today won’t be boring,” Grandpa chuckled and kept going, smelling like a barnyard.
When he reached the village, he headed straight for the egg seller. He wanted breakfast‑for‑dinner French toast. But a strange stink hung in the air. People nearby were giving Grandpa the stink eye. Grandpa tried to play it off.
“Ms. Kathy, your hens must’ve laid some stinky eggs. What on earth are you feeding them?” The seller just rolled her eyes and shook her head. She knew exactly where that nasty smell was coming from. Grandpa waved it off and moved along. As for French toast, he could only dream.
It was the same at the butcher’s. “Joe, you’ll have a parade of foxes at your door today! I can smell that meat all the way from the woods,” Grandpa shouted the moment he reached Butcher Joe, trying to cover up that the smell was coming from him. The butcher scowled at first, then burst out laughing with the others. “Those foxes would come after you first, Grandpa,” he said, still grinning—he knew what was really going on.
Grandpa struck out at the butcher’s, too, so he decided he’d at least have a nice glass of grape juice. Even there, he had to mask the unpleasant cloud around him. “Johnny, Johnny, I think the grapes in your barrel have turned. Pour me a glass of white grape juice.”
“They were just fine until you walked in, Grandpa. And I’m not pouring you anything that’s turned—it might make you sick,” protested Johnny, the juice man.
Grandpa left the juice stand empty‑handed and headed home instead. He smiled into his mustache the whole way—what a day at the market!
The next morning, Grandpa woke with fresh pep. Yesterday hadn’t gone the way he planned, but today would surely be better.
After breakfast, he put on clean, good‑smelling clothes—so everyone would know that stink wasn’t his—and set off for the village. This time he met a gaggle of geese. As he drew near, the geese started flapping, running, and swooping around him—honk, honk!
“All good—I don’t smell a thing,” he said, checking himself as he passed the geese.
But when he finally reached the market, everyone nearly split their sides laughing at the sight of him. Grandpa looked himself over—his shoes, his pants, even his neat Sunday jacket. He couldn’t find a single reason anyone should be laughing.
“Grandpa, you look truly fabulous today! Those feathers in your hair really suit you,” little Annie chirped.
“All dressed up just to impress you, Annie,” Grandpa laughed from the heart and was quick with another joke: “At least I’ll have something to offer Ms. Kathy if her hens run out of feathers. Can’t have them running around the yard all bald.”
“Grandpa, let me pluck those feathers out so people don’t laugh at you,” called Mr. Mayor as he strolled by.
“Oh, no you don’t. I’m proud of the decorations on my head. And I’m glad folks are laughing—laughter is good medicine,” Grandpa replied. He spent the whole day at the market with those goose feathers in his hair. At last, he gathered up his groceries and, amid everyone’s teasing, headed home.
The next morning was rainy and gray. But Grandpa decided a little rain wouldn’t stop him from going to the market. He pulled on his old raincoat, tugged on his rain boots, and set out on his next adventure.
He didn’t get far before a problem blocked his path by the creek. The water had spilled right over the footpath, and Grandpa had to tiptoe through the grass. He stepped carefully; the wet grass was slippery. He was just about past the puddle when—whoops!—splat! He landed right in the mud.
“Yesterday I was a goose; today I’ll be a frog,” Grandpa said with a chuckle, then climbed out of the puddle and carried on. His raincoat wasn’t clean anymore, and he ignored his muddy boots. Surely, at the market, everyone would think that was how it was meant to be.
When he finally reached the village, everyone stared at him with bright, shining eyes. Grandpa just nodded and grumbled, “Go on, take a good look. It’s the newest fashion. The big‑city folks in Paris wear it, too.”
“More like sewer rats dress like that, not gentlemen,” the old baker cackled. He hadn’t finished laughing when Grandpa tossed a clump of mud at him. His white baker’s apron ended up spattered all over.
“Now you’re a fine gentleman, too,” Grandpa said with a laugh—and so did everyone around.
Suddenly, another blob of mud flew from around the corner and smacked Butcher Joe right on the forehead. He didn’t hesitate—he grabbed some mud and smeared a stripe across little Annie’s cheeks. It didn’t take long before the whole village was slinging mud. The Mayor tried to calm everyone down, but the moment he opened his mouth, he got a mouthful of stinky mud. The mud fight went on and on. If the sun hadn’t set, it might still be going.
Once it was dark, Grandpa, ever the joker, announced, “See? In the dark you can’t even tell we’re all covered in mud.”
People laughed and happily headed home. Content with the wild day he’d had at the market, Grandpa made straight for bed. All night, he wondered what adventures tomorrow’s market would bring…