Harold thought the Wimple-Dimple Dimmer-Wimmer was an excellent piece of machinery.

He knew what it was the first time he saw it. He thought that was weird, that he knew it was a Wimple-Dimple Dimmer-Wimmer, and plus, it’s a pretty weirdo name anyway.

“Hey,” Harold said, “that’s a Wimple-Dimple Dimmer-Wimmer.”

“Is that a bug?” Harold’s mother asked, whirling around in alarm.

“What?” Harold asked.

“Is it a bug?” Harold’s mother repeated, crossing her arms and hunching up her shoulders the way you do when you think there might be a really big bug nearby.

“No, it’s a Wimple-Dimple…Dimmer…Wimmer,” Harold said, slowing down. Why did she think it was a bug? It was right there, right there, a Wimple-Dimple Dimmer-Wimmer, plain as day. 

“Harold, please don’t go playing in that pile of junk. You’ll get hurt,” Harold’s mother told him.

“It’s not junk, it’s a W…I will not get hurt!”

“It is junk. Just like everything else in this garage. We’ll have to clean it out before we can put the car in here.”

Harold thought, I don’t see any junk, but didn’t say it out loud because he knew his mother saw only junk.

Just then Harold’s father came into the garage with a box.

“Oh,” he said.

“‘Oh,’ indeed,” Harold’s mother said. “We’ll have to clean everything out before we can put the car in here. Well, back to the moving truck,” she said with a sigh.

Harold’s father looked around. “Cool stuff,” was all he said.