Naomi Jackson's Blog, page 6
April 4, 2017
Through the Book Portal
Today’s blog post was supposed to be a lyrical, finely crafted look at the beauty of escapism in fantasy novels. Unfortunately, lyrical, finely crafted prose has proved to be impossible right now. Because I’m sitting in a doctor’s office with a sinus infection, worrying that if I don’t get better that I’m going to have to take time off from my new job. (Calling in sick on your third day cannot be a good way to make friends with your boss). In the midst of all of the glaringly ugly real world (and grownup) problems, there is a subtle hint of irony, though. These problems are the reason escapist literature is so important. These are the problems that made me an author.
I wrote Hobo Stew because of a headache. Those eight words were a very easy, neat, and succinct way to sum up a time that was absolutely none of those things. Migraines are not easy. Being eleven and spending your days going from one doctor to the other is not neat. And spending almost a year bedridden was not succinct.
All of the “normal” child hood experiences were not open to me. It was like one of those Victorian novels, where the sickly child is kept in the (nicely furnished) attic with a stack of books for company. And for a while I would read, anything, everything, book after book. But there were so many hours in a day, and my eyes (not to mention my poor aching brain) could not keep up. The times where I couldn’t read anymore were the worst. Those were the times when I would lay perfectly still, counting my breaths, wondering if I was actually alive, or if I was in some sort of half-way existence. Those were the times when being trapped in my own head was inhabiting the most horrible prison of all.
But then I found a way out. I don’t think that it’s surprising that Hobo Stew starts with the old trope: children from our world discover a magic portal to another world. Because I had written a few things before I had gotten sick, but they had been hobbies, little stories to entertain myself. Hobo Stew was something bigger, something more engrossing. It was my portal out of the pain. It was an entire world where I was in control, and where I could choose the ending. Well, if I made it to the ending.
I did. God was writing a master story of my life, and over time the daily pain faded into a haunting memory. Sometimes I look at the hand written rough draft, lovingly penciled onto yellow legal pads, and marvel that not only was I able to finish the rough draft, but here I am, all these years later.
Sitting in a doctor’s office with a sinus infection, grateful to be alive. Grateful to be publishing Hobo Stew. Grateful to help others, children and adults alike, escape some of the annoyances of life. And maybe I can inspire someone else to make their own way of the pain, too. What experiences have books helped you get through? Do you have a favorite "book portal" to a treasured other world?
I wrote Hobo Stew because of a headache. Those eight words were a very easy, neat, and succinct way to sum up a time that was absolutely none of those things. Migraines are not easy. Being eleven and spending your days going from one doctor to the other is not neat. And spending almost a year bedridden was not succinct.
All of the “normal” child hood experiences were not open to me. It was like one of those Victorian novels, where the sickly child is kept in the (nicely furnished) attic with a stack of books for company. And for a while I would read, anything, everything, book after book. But there were so many hours in a day, and my eyes (not to mention my poor aching brain) could not keep up. The times where I couldn’t read anymore were the worst. Those were the times when I would lay perfectly still, counting my breaths, wondering if I was actually alive, or if I was in some sort of half-way existence. Those were the times when being trapped in my own head was inhabiting the most horrible prison of all.But then I found a way out. I don’t think that it’s surprising that Hobo Stew starts with the old trope: children from our world discover a magic portal to another world. Because I had written a few things before I had gotten sick, but they had been hobbies, little stories to entertain myself. Hobo Stew was something bigger, something more engrossing. It was my portal out of the pain. It was an entire world where I was in control, and where I could choose the ending. Well, if I made it to the ending.
I did. God was writing a master story of my life, and over time the daily pain faded into a haunting memory. Sometimes I look at the hand written rough draft, lovingly penciled onto yellow legal pads, and marvel that not only was I able to finish the rough draft, but here I am, all these years later.
Sitting in a doctor’s office with a sinus infection, grateful to be alive. Grateful to be publishing Hobo Stew. Grateful to help others, children and adults alike, escape some of the annoyances of life. And maybe I can inspire someone else to make their own way of the pain, too. What experiences have books helped you get through? Do you have a favorite "book portal" to a treasured other world?
March 28, 2017
King Ginger Meets Rufus
One warmish spring day, King Ginger sat shedding his fluffy winter coat on the Smith’s doorstep as a surprise. Yawning and stretching, he looked around. Right next door was Number 3, so he could keep an eye on the doings of the King St. Kid’s Club. It being spring break, almost every kid who lived on King St. was playing around Number 3. Number 1 also had good sun, and King Ginger liked that just fine.
Fanny Brown came to sit on the porch beside him. King Ginger liked Fanny Brown as far as humans go. She was quiet and her hands were gentle. She always let King Ginger decide whether or not he wanted to be scratched. Today, he did.
James Wilson's car pulled up into Number 2’s driveway. King Ginger closed his eyes and let Fanny Brown finish. Then, with all the pomp befitting a king, he sat up.
There was a grasshopper on Miss Smith’s prize geranium. It would have to wait. There were bigger games afoot.
All of the kids were running for Number 2’s front yard. “Uncle James has brought our dog!” shouted one of the Plummer boys.
“Back up,” said James, getting out. “We don’t want to scare Rufus!” James opened the back door and pulled out a leash. At the other end was a dog.
“I don’t like dogs,” Fanny whispered. “They’re big and dirty and noisy. I wish Mr. James hadn’t offered to give him to the Plummers.”
King Ginger’s sentiments exactly.
James let Rufus off the leash to explore. At first, Rufus smelled all of the kids, but then he spotted King Ginger. King Ginger saw him coming, and suddenly remembered he was due for a bath. Flexing his leg gracefully, he began to thoroughly wash.
Rufus stopped at the top step and snuffed experimentally. King Ginger looked at him. Rufus backed up. Then he barked. King Ginger pursed his whiskers. Rufus barked again.
King Ginger went back to washing his white middle.
Rufus touched King Ginger’s caramel back with his slick nose. Four long claws streaked through the air. Rufus yelped in surprise and ran to the safety of James’ car. The kids gasped. King Ginger assured them that he was perfectly all right.
Rufus did not come back to the Smith’s porch all that day, and King Ginger liked that just fine.
The next morning King Ginger was on the Smith’s porch when James walked up. Trailing behind was Rufus, who kept forgetting his tail was attached to his body.
When Sarah opened the door, she asked: “I thought you gave that puppy to the Plummers?”
James nodded. “They’re at their grandparents today, so I said I’d keep an eye on him.”
“Well—would you like to come in?”
“Yes, please,” admitted James shyly. “Stay, Rufus,” he added over his shoulder.
But Rufus did not stay. As soon as the door shut behind James, Rufus climbed right through the cat door. King Ginger stretched out on the porch railing and waited.
Moments later, Rufus came flying out the cat door, something lacy clamped in his teeth. The door burst open and out ran James, and Sarah and even Miss Smith, who was flapping her apron.
Rufus streaked down King St., the whatever-it-was flapping behind him. When he passed Number 3, the entire King St. Kid’s Club poured out to join the chase. And it was quite the chase. At last, Tom Richards and James cornered Rufus and got the thing away from him. James tried to wipe some of the slobber off before he handed it back to Miss Smith.
“I’m terribly sorry about your piano scarf,” he said. Sarah could barely manage a weak smile before Miss Smith grabbed her hand and jerked her into the house.
James ran a hand over his face. He patted King Ginger sadly. “Just between you and me, old fellow: sometimes I wish Rufus was more like you.”
King Ginger stuck his nose in the air.
All the next week, King Ginger tried to ignore Rufus. But it was hard. Rufus dug up all of Mrs. Hurst’s tulip bulbs. He ate March Richards’ rag doll. He turned over trash cans. The humans said it was lucky that Rufus outgrew the cat doors after only a few days. No matter what Rufus did, the Plummer boys stoutly declared that he would get better. And even King Ginger had to admit he did. He began to sit. He began to stay. He did not howl all night. And he quit eating the mail. The humans said that the Plummer boys were doing a wonderful job of training Rufus. King Ginger knew that Rufus had discovered the power of lulling humans into carelessness.
Early one morning, King Ginger went decided to visit Mrs. Wilson. She wasn’t getting around like she used to, and he worried she might be lonely now that her son, James, had gone back to the city. King Ginger strolled into her kitchen through the cat door and meowed in greeting. He had never been interested in TV, so he didn’t know that thieves wore black caps. He also didn’t know what a gun looked like. But he did know what fear looked like. And Mrs. Wilson was a picture of fear.
“King Ginger!” Mrs. Wilson whispered in a shaky voice.
The strange man stopped rummaging in a dresser drawer and snapped, “Shut up, lady!” He touched the gun in his back pocket for effect.
Mrs. Wilson whimpered.
King Ginger was a good monarch, and a good monarch protects his people, so he hissed and showed his molars.
The man sneered. “You a tough kitty?” With that, he grabbed King Ginger’s tail.
Mrs. Wilson squealed.
The man shot her a dirty look. “SHUT UP!”
King Ginger strained to make contact with his torturer’s skin.
Mrs. Wilson squealed again.
“That’s it!” And with his free hand, he drew his gun.
At that exact moment, Rufus tore the cat door frame out of the wall and sailed into the kitchen with it still hanging around him.
Everyone froze. They all eyed each other.
Then Rufus did something that King Ginger had never expected. He didn’t sit down and watch. He didn’t yawn and walk away. He didn’t even burst out into a loud guffaw.
He bit the man on the leg! With a yowl, the robber sent King Ginger flying into the air. King Ginger extended his landing gear and attached himself to the man’s head.
When the police arrived, Rufus and King Ginger were sitting on the thief side by side. The newspaper man put their picture on the front page. After that, King Ginger and Rufus had a silent understanding. King Ginger would always be king, but Rufus was chief of security. And King Ginger liked it that way just fine.
Fanny Brown came to sit on the porch beside him. King Ginger liked Fanny Brown as far as humans go. She was quiet and her hands were gentle. She always let King Ginger decide whether or not he wanted to be scratched. Today, he did.
James Wilson's car pulled up into Number 2’s driveway. King Ginger closed his eyes and let Fanny Brown finish. Then, with all the pomp befitting a king, he sat up.
There was a grasshopper on Miss Smith’s prize geranium. It would have to wait. There were bigger games afoot.All of the kids were running for Number 2’s front yard. “Uncle James has brought our dog!” shouted one of the Plummer boys.
“Back up,” said James, getting out. “We don’t want to scare Rufus!” James opened the back door and pulled out a leash. At the other end was a dog.
“I don’t like dogs,” Fanny whispered. “They’re big and dirty and noisy. I wish Mr. James hadn’t offered to give him to the Plummers.”
King Ginger’s sentiments exactly.
James let Rufus off the leash to explore. At first, Rufus smelled all of the kids, but then he spotted King Ginger. King Ginger saw him coming, and suddenly remembered he was due for a bath. Flexing his leg gracefully, he began to thoroughly wash.
Rufus stopped at the top step and snuffed experimentally. King Ginger looked at him. Rufus backed up. Then he barked. King Ginger pursed his whiskers. Rufus barked again.
King Ginger went back to washing his white middle.
Rufus touched King Ginger’s caramel back with his slick nose. Four long claws streaked through the air. Rufus yelped in surprise and ran to the safety of James’ car. The kids gasped. King Ginger assured them that he was perfectly all right.
Rufus did not come back to the Smith’s porch all that day, and King Ginger liked that just fine.
The next morning King Ginger was on the Smith’s porch when James walked up. Trailing behind was Rufus, who kept forgetting his tail was attached to his body.
When Sarah opened the door, she asked: “I thought you gave that puppy to the Plummers?”
James nodded. “They’re at their grandparents today, so I said I’d keep an eye on him.”
“Well—would you like to come in?”
“Yes, please,” admitted James shyly. “Stay, Rufus,” he added over his shoulder.
But Rufus did not stay. As soon as the door shut behind James, Rufus climbed right through the cat door. King Ginger stretched out on the porch railing and waited.
Moments later, Rufus came flying out the cat door, something lacy clamped in his teeth. The door burst open and out ran James, and Sarah and even Miss Smith, who was flapping her apron.
Rufus streaked down King St., the whatever-it-was flapping behind him. When he passed Number 3, the entire King St. Kid’s Club poured out to join the chase. And it was quite the chase. At last, Tom Richards and James cornered Rufus and got the thing away from him. James tried to wipe some of the slobber off before he handed it back to Miss Smith.
“I’m terribly sorry about your piano scarf,” he said. Sarah could barely manage a weak smile before Miss Smith grabbed her hand and jerked her into the house.
James ran a hand over his face. He patted King Ginger sadly. “Just between you and me, old fellow: sometimes I wish Rufus was more like you.”
King Ginger stuck his nose in the air.
All the next week, King Ginger tried to ignore Rufus. But it was hard. Rufus dug up all of Mrs. Hurst’s tulip bulbs. He ate March Richards’ rag doll. He turned over trash cans. The humans said it was lucky that Rufus outgrew the cat doors after only a few days. No matter what Rufus did, the Plummer boys stoutly declared that he would get better. And even King Ginger had to admit he did. He began to sit. He began to stay. He did not howl all night. And he quit eating the mail. The humans said that the Plummer boys were doing a wonderful job of training Rufus. King Ginger knew that Rufus had discovered the power of lulling humans into carelessness.
Early one morning, King Ginger went decided to visit Mrs. Wilson. She wasn’t getting around like she used to, and he worried she might be lonely now that her son, James, had gone back to the city. King Ginger strolled into her kitchen through the cat door and meowed in greeting. He had never been interested in TV, so he didn’t know that thieves wore black caps. He also didn’t know what a gun looked like. But he did know what fear looked like. And Mrs. Wilson was a picture of fear.
“King Ginger!” Mrs. Wilson whispered in a shaky voice.
The strange man stopped rummaging in a dresser drawer and snapped, “Shut up, lady!” He touched the gun in his back pocket for effect.
Mrs. Wilson whimpered.
King Ginger was a good monarch, and a good monarch protects his people, so he hissed and showed his molars.
The man sneered. “You a tough kitty?” With that, he grabbed King Ginger’s tail.
Mrs. Wilson squealed.
The man shot her a dirty look. “SHUT UP!”
King Ginger strained to make contact with his torturer’s skin.
Mrs. Wilson squealed again.
“That’s it!” And with his free hand, he drew his gun.
At that exact moment, Rufus tore the cat door frame out of the wall and sailed into the kitchen with it still hanging around him.
Everyone froze. They all eyed each other.
Then Rufus did something that King Ginger had never expected. He didn’t sit down and watch. He didn’t yawn and walk away. He didn’t even burst out into a loud guffaw.
He bit the man on the leg! With a yowl, the robber sent King Ginger flying into the air. King Ginger extended his landing gear and attached himself to the man’s head.
When the police arrived, Rufus and King Ginger were sitting on the thief side by side. The newspaper man put their picture on the front page. After that, King Ginger and Rufus had a silent understanding. King Ginger would always be king, but Rufus was chief of security. And King Ginger liked it that way just fine.
March 21, 2017
Beauty and the Book
I didn’t start out life this well read. I spent a long, long time on a dusty shelf, of no use to anyone. People came in and bought the books on cooking, books on herbal remedies, books on little village architecture. Books that were useful. No one wanted a book that made you laugh or cry or spend hours writing fanfic by candle light. No one wanted…me. #depressing
And then she came. A young girl in a blue dress with a pretty smile. Sure, people said that she was strange. But I didn’t mind what anyone said when I was with her. Because she wasn’t just strange. She was special. For a while I would spend a few days of bliss in her pocket and then have to be returned to the book shop to rot on my dusty shelf. But then the shop owner GAVE ME TO BELLE. My existence was forever changed.
It wasn’t long before I was rooting for Belle with all my heart. She totally wasn’t into that whole “poor provincial life” that everyone else was doing. She had big dreams, she was going places. Unfortunately, other people didn’t seem to care. Like that horrid Gaston. I was there when the illiterate brute proposed to her. The idea! They could never have been canon!!!
But just when it looked like the worst was over, Phillippe came back without Belle’s father! The plot got a little muddy around there; we got locked in a strange castle by a beast; there was a talking candle stick…But I didn’t despair. Because in my very own pages a prince is mistaken for a pauper until chapter three. And who am I to judge a talking candlestick? (I did wish that I could eat chocolate, but alas, I have no mouth.)
And in the end, it wasn’t long before there was something there that wasn’t there before. She held his paw while he tried to feed the birds, and then there was that epic snowball fight. *sigh* The beast started listening to Belle read me aloud. They would stare endlessly at each other, pretending not to hear the candle stick and the teapot sing romantic songs in the background. #beastelle was going strong.
And then that Gaston showed back up, tramping around in his horrible boots, thinking he was the sooooo amazing. *eye roll* And when he tried to KILL THE BEAST!? Don’t get me started. I can’t even!!!
Eeeeeeeee!! The spoilers were right about a happy ending! I mean, come on. True love between book lovers? That’s a thing that you can’t help but ship!
I don’t spend much time in Belle’s pocket these days. I’m too well loved. You see, the Beast gave Belle a library, and she turned around and shared it with her village. Now I’m in a new pocket every week.
And then she came. A young girl in a blue dress with a pretty smile. Sure, people said that she was strange. But I didn’t mind what anyone said when I was with her. Because she wasn’t just strange. She was special. For a while I would spend a few days of bliss in her pocket and then have to be returned to the book shop to rot on my dusty shelf. But then the shop owner GAVE ME TO BELLE. My existence was forever changed.
It wasn’t long before I was rooting for Belle with all my heart. She totally wasn’t into that whole “poor provincial life” that everyone else was doing. She had big dreams, she was going places. Unfortunately, other people didn’t seem to care. Like that horrid Gaston. I was there when the illiterate brute proposed to her. The idea! They could never have been canon!!!
But just when it looked like the worst was over, Phillippe came back without Belle’s father! The plot got a little muddy around there; we got locked in a strange castle by a beast; there was a talking candle stick…But I didn’t despair. Because in my very own pages a prince is mistaken for a pauper until chapter three. And who am I to judge a talking candlestick? (I did wish that I could eat chocolate, but alas, I have no mouth.)
And in the end, it wasn’t long before there was something there that wasn’t there before. She held his paw while he tried to feed the birds, and then there was that epic snowball fight. *sigh* The beast started listening to Belle read me aloud. They would stare endlessly at each other, pretending not to hear the candle stick and the teapot sing romantic songs in the background. #beastelle was going strong.
And then that Gaston showed back up, tramping around in his horrible boots, thinking he was the sooooo amazing. *eye roll* And when he tried to KILL THE BEAST!? Don’t get me started. I can’t even!!!
Eeeeeeeee!! The spoilers were right about a happy ending! I mean, come on. True love between book lovers? That’s a thing that you can’t help but ship!
I don’t spend much time in Belle’s pocket these days. I’m too well loved. You see, the Beast gave Belle a library, and she turned around and shared it with her village. Now I’m in a new pocket every week.
March 14, 2017
Ivy and the Great Big Storm
It had not rained that hard in a very long time. Just the shear power of it caused Ivy and Everly to sit with their noses pressed to the glass, mesmerized by the downpour.
Lightning shot across the sky as Ronan came in, his heavy boots thumping on the floor.
He didn’t have to say anything for the girls to know the answer. “The path is flooded, isn’t it?” said Everly.
“Everly will have to spend the night here!” said Ivy.
Ronan nodded, his face breaking into a smile. “You got it!”
They squealed and clapped their hands together. It wasn’t every day that the two best friends got to have a sleepover.
“We should bake,” said Ivy.
“Or read aloud.”
“Or work on our quilt.”
“Or rehearse our play!”
Ronan held his hands up. “Hold on, hold on you two. You’d better see if Mother has anything that she needs for you to do.”
Mother was in the kitchen, standing at the little sink that Father had made from a turtle shell. She did look like she needed a little help, because she had Winnie on her hip and the twins holding onto her skirt.
“What can we do, Mother?” asked Ivy.
“Would you look after the babies for me? I really need to get this supper going.”
Everly smiled. “Of course Mrs Higganbotham. Ivy and I will play with them.”
But it wasn’t that easy. Because Winnie and Bobby and Lula did not want to leave Mother. Because they were afraid of the storm.
Everly laid a blanket down in the center of the living room. “Let’s read to them,” she said. But before she had got two pages into Mr. Spider’s New Web, they had started crying.
Ivy and Everly looked at each other.
They tried dolls and piggy back rides and hand clapping games. They tried dancing and telling jokes and everything else they could think of. Everything worked…for a minute. But then the rain would pound and the lightning would flash and the thunder would growl and the babies would cry. A lot. There was a lot of crying.
Ivy crossed her arms. “This is hopeless. They hate the storm, and the storm isn’t going away.”
Everly went back to the window. “There are raindrops the size of Inkelwhips out there!” Sometimes being only six inches tall had its downsides. Like when the raindrops were as big as you were, and the storm itself seemed more giant than a mountain.
“Exactly, the storm isn’t going away,” said Ivy. “So what are we going to do? They can’t cry like this forever.”
Everly looked around the room with its polished walls and postage stamp artwork. Mother Higginbotham had hung them carefully beside the portraits of each of her children. It was a pretty room, but it offered no inspiration.
Mot came scampering down the stairs, across the floor, and up the wall. He shook his head at the babies, as if to say why are they crying?
Ronan followed him—down the steps and across the floor, at least. He didn’t climb the walls like a green lizard.
“What’s up, sis?”
“They’re scared of the storm,” said Ivy.
“Any ideas?” added Everly.
At first, Ronan just scratched his chin. But then he smiled. “You were scared when you were little, too. We used to make tents.”
“That sounds like a great idea!” said Ivy. “Do you think that Violet and Zeph would help?”
“I’ll get them,” said Ronan. “And some blankets.”
“You’ll help us, won’t you Winnie?” asked Everly. “We need to get the table cleared off, right? That would make a great base for a fort!”
“I’ll get some pillows!” said Ivy.
Violet and Zeph came trooping down with blankets and a lantern and picture books, Ronan following them with a chair. “I think this would make a good entrance tunnel, don’t you?”
“Here, help me move this,” said Ivy.
So Ronan and Zeph and Bobby all helped shift the heavy wooden table. Father had made it many years ago when a branch had fallen from Old Friend. There were still little knots in the oak wood that Ivy loved to rub with her hands.
As soon as the table was in place, Violet and Zeph started spreading the blankets out.
“Let’s use this quilt to bridge over the entrance tunnel,” said Zeph.
“And this one for the back entrance!”
“Here’s the quilt from Mother’s bed,” said Ronan. “It should be the main walls. It’s the biggest.”
“Yeah,” said Winnie around his thumb.
“We need provisions,” said Ivy. “Everly, Bobby, I need you to go on a mission to get some food.”
Everly saluted and took Bobby by the hand. “Expedition out.” They snuck around the corner, Bobby’s chubby toddler legs trying to keep up with Everly’s smooth stride. “There’s the enemy,” Everly whispered.
Bobby looked from Mother to Everly and back. “Whoa.”
“We need to use silence and stealth to get over…there.” She pointed to the cookie jar.
They crawled on hands and knees under the kitchen table.
Mother walked from the sink to the fireplace, humming to herself.
“I’m going in,” hissed Everly. She darted up, grabbed the jar, and got back under the table in a flash. “Lead the way, Bobby.”
When they got back to the safety of the living room, cookie jar in tow, Bobby thumped his chest proudly.
“Mission complete,” said Everly.
“Fort complete,” countered Ivy.
“It looks really good! And cozy!”
The front flap flipped open. “Come on in!” said Violet.
Everyone crawled in, Ronan having to sit with his knees above his ears.
“Tell a story,” said Violet, curling up in a little ball.
“Zeph tells the best stories,” said Ronan.
Zeph grinned. “Thanks.”
“Tell us one,” said Everly.
So Zeph did, while everyone passed the cookie jar around and settled in more comfortably.
“Happy,” sighed Winnie. Did you have any traditions when you were growing up to ward off storm induced tears? Is there something you still do? I'd love to hear all about it!
Lightning shot across the sky as Ronan came in, his heavy boots thumping on the floor.
He didn’t have to say anything for the girls to know the answer. “The path is flooded, isn’t it?” said Everly.
“Everly will have to spend the night here!” said Ivy.
Ronan nodded, his face breaking into a smile. “You got it!”
They squealed and clapped their hands together. It wasn’t every day that the two best friends got to have a sleepover.
“We should bake,” said Ivy.
“Or read aloud.”“Or work on our quilt.”
“Or rehearse our play!”
Ronan held his hands up. “Hold on, hold on you two. You’d better see if Mother has anything that she needs for you to do.”
Mother was in the kitchen, standing at the little sink that Father had made from a turtle shell. She did look like she needed a little help, because she had Winnie on her hip and the twins holding onto her skirt.
“What can we do, Mother?” asked Ivy.
“Would you look after the babies for me? I really need to get this supper going.”
Everly smiled. “Of course Mrs Higganbotham. Ivy and I will play with them.”
But it wasn’t that easy. Because Winnie and Bobby and Lula did not want to leave Mother. Because they were afraid of the storm.
Everly laid a blanket down in the center of the living room. “Let’s read to them,” she said. But before she had got two pages into Mr. Spider’s New Web, they had started crying.
Ivy and Everly looked at each other.
They tried dolls and piggy back rides and hand clapping games. They tried dancing and telling jokes and everything else they could think of. Everything worked…for a minute. But then the rain would pound and the lightning would flash and the thunder would growl and the babies would cry. A lot. There was a lot of crying.
Ivy crossed her arms. “This is hopeless. They hate the storm, and the storm isn’t going away.”
Everly went back to the window. “There are raindrops the size of Inkelwhips out there!” Sometimes being only six inches tall had its downsides. Like when the raindrops were as big as you were, and the storm itself seemed more giant than a mountain.
“Exactly, the storm isn’t going away,” said Ivy. “So what are we going to do? They can’t cry like this forever.”
Everly looked around the room with its polished walls and postage stamp artwork. Mother Higginbotham had hung them carefully beside the portraits of each of her children. It was a pretty room, but it offered no inspiration.
Mot came scampering down the stairs, across the floor, and up the wall. He shook his head at the babies, as if to say why are they crying?
Ronan followed him—down the steps and across the floor, at least. He didn’t climb the walls like a green lizard.
“What’s up, sis?”
“They’re scared of the storm,” said Ivy.
“Any ideas?” added Everly.
At first, Ronan just scratched his chin. But then he smiled. “You were scared when you were little, too. We used to make tents.”
“That sounds like a great idea!” said Ivy. “Do you think that Violet and Zeph would help?”
“I’ll get them,” said Ronan. “And some blankets.”
“You’ll help us, won’t you Winnie?” asked Everly. “We need to get the table cleared off, right? That would make a great base for a fort!”
“I’ll get some pillows!” said Ivy.
Violet and Zeph came trooping down with blankets and a lantern and picture books, Ronan following them with a chair. “I think this would make a good entrance tunnel, don’t you?”
“Here, help me move this,” said Ivy.
So Ronan and Zeph and Bobby all helped shift the heavy wooden table. Father had made it many years ago when a branch had fallen from Old Friend. There were still little knots in the oak wood that Ivy loved to rub with her hands.
As soon as the table was in place, Violet and Zeph started spreading the blankets out.
“Let’s use this quilt to bridge over the entrance tunnel,” said Zeph.
“And this one for the back entrance!”
“Here’s the quilt from Mother’s bed,” said Ronan. “It should be the main walls. It’s the biggest.”
“Yeah,” said Winnie around his thumb.
“We need provisions,” said Ivy. “Everly, Bobby, I need you to go on a mission to get some food.”
Everly saluted and took Bobby by the hand. “Expedition out.” They snuck around the corner, Bobby’s chubby toddler legs trying to keep up with Everly’s smooth stride. “There’s the enemy,” Everly whispered.
Bobby looked from Mother to Everly and back. “Whoa.”
“We need to use silence and stealth to get over…there.” She pointed to the cookie jar.
They crawled on hands and knees under the kitchen table.
Mother walked from the sink to the fireplace, humming to herself.
“I’m going in,” hissed Everly. She darted up, grabbed the jar, and got back under the table in a flash. “Lead the way, Bobby.”
When they got back to the safety of the living room, cookie jar in tow, Bobby thumped his chest proudly.
“Mission complete,” said Everly.
“Fort complete,” countered Ivy.
“It looks really good! And cozy!”
The front flap flipped open. “Come on in!” said Violet.
Everyone crawled in, Ronan having to sit with his knees above his ears.
“Tell a story,” said Violet, curling up in a little ball.
“Zeph tells the best stories,” said Ronan.
Zeph grinned. “Thanks.”
“Tell us one,” said Everly.
So Zeph did, while everyone passed the cookie jar around and settled in more comfortably.
“Happy,” sighed Winnie. Did you have any traditions when you were growing up to ward off storm induced tears? Is there something you still do? I'd love to hear all about it!
March 6, 2017
A Potion Problem
“Sylvia Quackenbush, you are an idiot,” said Lucille.
Dean didn’t say anything. He was shocked. He was annoyed.
He was also a chinchilla.
“Did I miss something, or was this some kind of sick joke?” continued Lucille. “Do you regularly offer to help dudes and then—poof!—they’re a chinchilla? I bet you’re selling their fur on the black market, right?”
“Cut her some slack,” broke in Dean. “I mean, potions are hard. And she’ll fix it. You can fix it, right?”
“You’d better be able to fix it,” said Lucille, “because otherwise you’re going to have to deal with all twenty eight members of the varsity football team.”
“Yeah, we have a big game Friday,” said Dean, a little more nervous than before. “I don’t think chinchillas are all that great at blocking tackles.”
“Give me a minute,” snapped Sylvia. She was frantically looking through a huge leather bound book.
Dean and Lucille looked at each other. The clock (Mr Burnbaum’s lizard tongue original) ticked loudly. Lucille sighed. “That was three minutes, I timed it. Haven’t you found the answer?”
Sylvia bit her lip. “I know I’ve seen the formula in here…was it on the left page…here’s that dragon’s gall beauty scrub…”
“This is taking too long,” said Lucille. “I’m asking the Googoyle.”
“That may be a good idea,” said Dean. He didn’t want to offend Sylvia, but picturing life as a chinchilla was making him feel a little nauseous.
“Who mixes up a love potion with a recipe for human a’ la small furry animal?” muttered Lucille as she walked over to the black box. When she opened it, the Googoyle sighed. “Enter your search,” he mumbled.
“Reverse a chinchilla potion.”
“There are 300,452,684 results. Would you like me to…” he trailed off. Maybe he was asleep.
“Read me the WikiHow article,” said Lucille.
It sounded like a lot of mumbo jumbo to her, but Sylvia was scribbling notes furiously. “Ok, got it,” she said. The Googoyle fell asleep again.
“You have pretty handwriting,” said Dean. “Sort of, unique.”
“Unique is the right word,” snorted Lucille. “It looks like chicken scrawl.”
“At least I can write,” said Sylvia. “Doesn’t your hand cramp up because you only ever text?”
Dean smiled.
“Don’t smile at me, chinchilla,” snapped Lucille.
He raised his lip and showed off a toothy grin.
She laughed. “Bro, you’re crazy.”
“Drink this,” said Sylvia, handing him a vial of gross smelling liquid.
“Whoever this girl is, she must be pretty special to go through all of this trouble to ask her on a date,” said Lucille. “Are you sure it’s not Fanny Fanbollum?”
“Noooooooo, it’s not Fanny. I mean, she’s great and all, but cheerleaders aren’t my thing.”
“Oh, you like your girls to have brains?” Lucille winked at Sylvia. “See, girl, there’s hope.”
Dean blushed under his chinchilla fur. He had to hold his nose with a paw to get the formula down. “Uggggggggghhhhh, nassssty!”
“You’re human!” gasped Sylvia.
Dean whirled to face the mirror. He had never so happy to see a pimple right on the tip of his very human nose in all his life.
“That’s the good news,” said Sylvia. “The bad news is that the love formula didn’t work because I’m missing an ingredient.”
“Oh,” said Dean.
“We could try something else. Something along the same lines.”
“Umm, ok.”
“Do it,” said Lucille. “I’ve always wanted to see what Dean would look like as rooster or a cockroach.”
“Shut up,” said Dean.
Lucille stuck out her tongue.
“Here’s one that makes you always tell the truth,” suggested Sylvia.
“Oh, brilliant,” said Lucille. “What happens when she asks if something makes her butt look fat?”
“True,” said Dean. “Although she’s not fat. But, you know…”
“Yeah, best to stay away from truth potions,” agreed Sylvia. “What about Idiotic Amounts of Bravery? That could help you ask her out.”
“Well…”
“Or Super Human Good Looks?”
“Scratch that one,” said Lucille. “If Dean gets any handsomer, the entire cheer squad is going into cardiac arrest.”
“True,” said Sylvia. “He’s handsome enough already.”
“Really?” asked Dean.
Sylvia blushed. “I just mean that, mathematically speaking, your face does follow the Golden Mean.”
“That’s nerd speak for ‘You’re hot,’” said Lucille, popping her bubble gum. “This is getting good.”
“I think you’re face follows the Golden Mean, too,” said Dean to Sylvia. “I mean, I would think that, if I knew what it meant.”
Sylvia turned pink all the way to the roots of her brown hair. “Really? I could totally teach you about the Golden Mean. It’s this awesome number…”
“I’d love to learn about it,” said Dean. “But it sounds really complicated. Now that I’m human again, why don’t I take you to lunch so you’ll have plenty of time to explain it?”
“Hold on a sec,” broke in Lucille. “Did you just ask Sylvia on a date?”
Dean froze. “Ummm…”
“Whoa,” gasped Lucille. “Is Sylvia the girl you liked all along?”
“Umm, I mean, well…”
“I’d love to go to lunch with you,” said Sylvia.
“Really?”
“Really.”
“Wow, bro,” said Lucille. “You’re smooth.” What would you do if you got turned into a small furry animal? Would you go out to lunch with the person responsible?
Dean didn’t say anything. He was shocked. He was annoyed.
He was also a chinchilla.
“Did I miss something, or was this some kind of sick joke?” continued Lucille. “Do you regularly offer to help dudes and then—poof!—they’re a chinchilla? I bet you’re selling their fur on the black market, right?”
“Cut her some slack,” broke in Dean. “I mean, potions are hard. And she’ll fix it. You can fix it, right?”
“You’d better be able to fix it,” said Lucille, “because otherwise you’re going to have to deal with all twenty eight members of the varsity football team.”
“Yeah, we have a big game Friday,” said Dean, a little more nervous than before. “I don’t think chinchillas are all that great at blocking tackles.”“Give me a minute,” snapped Sylvia. She was frantically looking through a huge leather bound book.
Dean and Lucille looked at each other. The clock (Mr Burnbaum’s lizard tongue original) ticked loudly. Lucille sighed. “That was three minutes, I timed it. Haven’t you found the answer?”
Sylvia bit her lip. “I know I’ve seen the formula in here…was it on the left page…here’s that dragon’s gall beauty scrub…”
“This is taking too long,” said Lucille. “I’m asking the Googoyle.”
“That may be a good idea,” said Dean. He didn’t want to offend Sylvia, but picturing life as a chinchilla was making him feel a little nauseous.
“Who mixes up a love potion with a recipe for human a’ la small furry animal?” muttered Lucille as she walked over to the black box. When she opened it, the Googoyle sighed. “Enter your search,” he mumbled.
“Reverse a chinchilla potion.”
“There are 300,452,684 results. Would you like me to…” he trailed off. Maybe he was asleep.
“Read me the WikiHow article,” said Lucille.
It sounded like a lot of mumbo jumbo to her, but Sylvia was scribbling notes furiously. “Ok, got it,” she said. The Googoyle fell asleep again.
“You have pretty handwriting,” said Dean. “Sort of, unique.”
“Unique is the right word,” snorted Lucille. “It looks like chicken scrawl.”
“At least I can write,” said Sylvia. “Doesn’t your hand cramp up because you only ever text?”
Dean smiled.
“Don’t smile at me, chinchilla,” snapped Lucille.
He raised his lip and showed off a toothy grin.
She laughed. “Bro, you’re crazy.”
“Drink this,” said Sylvia, handing him a vial of gross smelling liquid.
“Whoever this girl is, she must be pretty special to go through all of this trouble to ask her on a date,” said Lucille. “Are you sure it’s not Fanny Fanbollum?”
“Noooooooo, it’s not Fanny. I mean, she’s great and all, but cheerleaders aren’t my thing.”
“Oh, you like your girls to have brains?” Lucille winked at Sylvia. “See, girl, there’s hope.”
Dean blushed under his chinchilla fur. He had to hold his nose with a paw to get the formula down. “Uggggggggghhhhh, nassssty!”
“You’re human!” gasped Sylvia.
Dean whirled to face the mirror. He had never so happy to see a pimple right on the tip of his very human nose in all his life.
“That’s the good news,” said Sylvia. “The bad news is that the love formula didn’t work because I’m missing an ingredient.”
“Oh,” said Dean.
“We could try something else. Something along the same lines.”
“Umm, ok.”
“Do it,” said Lucille. “I’ve always wanted to see what Dean would look like as rooster or a cockroach.”
“Shut up,” said Dean.
Lucille stuck out her tongue.
“Here’s one that makes you always tell the truth,” suggested Sylvia.
“Oh, brilliant,” said Lucille. “What happens when she asks if something makes her butt look fat?”
“True,” said Dean. “Although she’s not fat. But, you know…”
“Yeah, best to stay away from truth potions,” agreed Sylvia. “What about Idiotic Amounts of Bravery? That could help you ask her out.”
“Well…”
“Or Super Human Good Looks?”
“Scratch that one,” said Lucille. “If Dean gets any handsomer, the entire cheer squad is going into cardiac arrest.”
“True,” said Sylvia. “He’s handsome enough already.”
“Really?” asked Dean.
Sylvia blushed. “I just mean that, mathematically speaking, your face does follow the Golden Mean.”
“That’s nerd speak for ‘You’re hot,’” said Lucille, popping her bubble gum. “This is getting good.”
“I think you’re face follows the Golden Mean, too,” said Dean to Sylvia. “I mean, I would think that, if I knew what it meant.”
Sylvia turned pink all the way to the roots of her brown hair. “Really? I could totally teach you about the Golden Mean. It’s this awesome number…”
“I’d love to learn about it,” said Dean. “But it sounds really complicated. Now that I’m human again, why don’t I take you to lunch so you’ll have plenty of time to explain it?”
“Hold on a sec,” broke in Lucille. “Did you just ask Sylvia on a date?”
Dean froze. “Ummm…”
“Whoa,” gasped Lucille. “Is Sylvia the girl you liked all along?”
“Umm, I mean, well…”
“I’d love to go to lunch with you,” said Sylvia.
“Really?”
“Really.”
“Wow, bro,” said Lucille. “You’re smooth.” What would you do if you got turned into a small furry animal? Would you go out to lunch with the person responsible?
February 21, 2017
What I Learned from Uncle Andrew
Loki. Voldemort. The Joker. Hitler. Sometimes, super villains have as much name recognition as the Heroes they battle.
But when was the last time you thought about Uncle Andrew? Unless you read The Magician’s Nephew in the last week or so, you probably don’t even know who I’m talking about. He is the sort of person who is afraid of everything and makes nasty experiments on innocent guinea pigs. And he sends Polly (a little girl who is one of the main characters) to the Other World, a place he knows nothing about, and is terrified of going to himself. And when Diggory (who is a little boy and the other main character) is furious that Uncle Andrew would do such a thing, Uncle Andrew is confused by his anger.
“‘Rotten?’ said Uncle Andrew with a puzzled look. ‘Oh, I see. You mean that little boys ought to keep their promises. Very true: most right and proper, I’m sure, and I’m very glad that you’ve been taught to do it. But of course you must understand that rules of that sort, however excellent they may be for little boys--and servants--and women--and even people in general, can’t possibly be expected to apply to profound students and great thinkers and sages. No Diggory. Men like me, who possess hidden wisdom, are freed from common rules just as we are cut off from common pleasures. Ours, my boy, is a high and lonely destiny.’”
And what does Diggory think? “As he said this he sighed and looked so grave and noble and mysterious that for a second Diggory really thought he was saying something rather fine. But then he remembered the ugly look he had seen on his Uncle’s face the moment before Polly had vanished: and all at once he saw through Uncle Andrew’s grand words. ‘All that he means,’ he said to himself, ‘is that he thinks he can do anything he likes to get anything he wants.’” And we agree with Diggory. Uncle Andrew is a rotten person, who thinks that he can do whatever he wants. Which we know, he can’t. We aren’t frightened by him, really, and we certainly don’t admire him. Probably we are more frustrated and annoyed by him then anything. Uncle Andrew is certainly no supervillain.
But Uncle Andrew is not the only villain in this story. Have you ever heard of the White Witch? She enslaves Narnia, makes it winter for a hundred years, turns people into stone at will. She certainly has the makings of a supervillain. And when Diggory is angry that she has destroyed everyone else who lived on her planet--killed everyone she ought to have known and loved with a single word--she gives herself a rousing defense.
“‘I had forgotten that you are only a common boy. How should you understand the reasons of State? You must learn, child, that what would be wrong for you or any of the common people is not wrong in a great Queen such as I. the weight of the world is on our shoulders. We must be freed from all rules. Ours is a high and lonely destiny.’”
“Diggory suddenly remembered that Uncle Andrew had used exactly the same words. But they sounded much grander when Queen Jadis said them; perhaps because Uncle Andrew was not seven tall and dazzlingly beautiful.”
And that’s the point. We are quick to recognize wrong when it is cowardly and looks like a mop walking around the wrong way up. We don’t struggle with romanticizing the person who copies off of our homework or cuts us off in traffic. Rarely do we give a second thought to the people on TV who are arrested for felonies. But what about when they are seven tall? Dazzlingly beautiful? When they do their work on a large scale with a great deal of confidence. When they swagger and have witty comebacks. When they unleash their nefarious plots with presentation? What do we do then? Nobody wants to wear a t-shirt that says “Uncle Andrew kept on rubbing his hands and bowing.” But a haughty queen riding atop a hack cab, her hair flowing as she beats policemen off with a iron bar? In a minimalist design that would make an epic t-shirt. But when it comes down to it, what is the difference between Uncle Andrew and Jadis?
There is nothing super about a “super” villain. Jadis is only Uncle Andrew with more power. No amount of careful costuming and tragic backstories can make a Villain into a Hero. When we are watching or reading the “Greats” of Bad, we need to remember that the faults we see in ourselves and those around us are not sanctified when they are committed by “supervillains.” Learn the same lesson that Diggory did. Just because it sounds grander when Jadis says it, doesn’t mean that it is grander. Wrong is wrong, no matter who does it--or why. Is there a villian in a book that drives you crazy? A villian that you think gets way more sympathy then they deserve? I'd love to hear all about it in the comments below!
But when was the last time you thought about Uncle Andrew? Unless you read The Magician’s Nephew in the last week or so, you probably don’t even know who I’m talking about. He is the sort of person who is afraid of everything and makes nasty experiments on innocent guinea pigs. And he sends Polly (a little girl who is one of the main characters) to the Other World, a place he knows nothing about, and is terrified of going to himself. And when Diggory (who is a little boy and the other main character) is furious that Uncle Andrew would do such a thing, Uncle Andrew is confused by his anger.
“‘Rotten?’ said Uncle Andrew with a puzzled look. ‘Oh, I see. You mean that little boys ought to keep their promises. Very true: most right and proper, I’m sure, and I’m very glad that you’ve been taught to do it. But of course you must understand that rules of that sort, however excellent they may be for little boys--and servants--and women--and even people in general, can’t possibly be expected to apply to profound students and great thinkers and sages. No Diggory. Men like me, who possess hidden wisdom, are freed from common rules just as we are cut off from common pleasures. Ours, my boy, is a high and lonely destiny.’”And what does Diggory think? “As he said this he sighed and looked so grave and noble and mysterious that for a second Diggory really thought he was saying something rather fine. But then he remembered the ugly look he had seen on his Uncle’s face the moment before Polly had vanished: and all at once he saw through Uncle Andrew’s grand words. ‘All that he means,’ he said to himself, ‘is that he thinks he can do anything he likes to get anything he wants.’” And we agree with Diggory. Uncle Andrew is a rotten person, who thinks that he can do whatever he wants. Which we know, he can’t. We aren’t frightened by him, really, and we certainly don’t admire him. Probably we are more frustrated and annoyed by him then anything. Uncle Andrew is certainly no supervillain.
But Uncle Andrew is not the only villain in this story. Have you ever heard of the White Witch? She enslaves Narnia, makes it winter for a hundred years, turns people into stone at will. She certainly has the makings of a supervillain. And when Diggory is angry that she has destroyed everyone else who lived on her planet--killed everyone she ought to have known and loved with a single word--she gives herself a rousing defense.
“‘I had forgotten that you are only a common boy. How should you understand the reasons of State? You must learn, child, that what would be wrong for you or any of the common people is not wrong in a great Queen such as I. the weight of the world is on our shoulders. We must be freed from all rules. Ours is a high and lonely destiny.’”
“Diggory suddenly remembered that Uncle Andrew had used exactly the same words. But they sounded much grander when Queen Jadis said them; perhaps because Uncle Andrew was not seven tall and dazzlingly beautiful.”
And that’s the point. We are quick to recognize wrong when it is cowardly and looks like a mop walking around the wrong way up. We don’t struggle with romanticizing the person who copies off of our homework or cuts us off in traffic. Rarely do we give a second thought to the people on TV who are arrested for felonies. But what about when they are seven tall? Dazzlingly beautiful? When they do their work on a large scale with a great deal of confidence. When they swagger and have witty comebacks. When they unleash their nefarious plots with presentation? What do we do then? Nobody wants to wear a t-shirt that says “Uncle Andrew kept on rubbing his hands and bowing.” But a haughty queen riding atop a hack cab, her hair flowing as she beats policemen off with a iron bar? In a minimalist design that would make an epic t-shirt. But when it comes down to it, what is the difference between Uncle Andrew and Jadis?
There is nothing super about a “super” villain. Jadis is only Uncle Andrew with more power. No amount of careful costuming and tragic backstories can make a Villain into a Hero. When we are watching or reading the “Greats” of Bad, we need to remember that the faults we see in ourselves and those around us are not sanctified when they are committed by “supervillains.” Learn the same lesson that Diggory did. Just because it sounds grander when Jadis says it, doesn’t mean that it is grander. Wrong is wrong, no matter who does it--or why. Is there a villian in a book that drives you crazy? A villian that you think gets way more sympathy then they deserve? I'd love to hear all about it in the comments below!
February 14, 2017
Cinderella's Slipper
Life isn’t easy when you are size four and a half. Throw in being made of glass, and things just get even more complicated.
Don’t get me wrong, I’m not complaining. Not every shoe has the honor of being made by a fairy godmother. My twin sister Right and I had a very special mission to perform: keep Cinderella walking on air so that she could dance the night away.
And did she dance! Such a beautiful dancer, matching the prince step for step. It was all I could do to keep up with them! I have to admit that I sighed with relief when the prince took her out and sat her on the fountain, because I wasn’t sure how much longer I could take it. Of course, Right and I had to giggle when he leaned in for a kiss. Do all princes move this fast? I mean, didn’t Cinderella’s mother ever warn her against kissing on the first date? But…the guy sure was charming. I can’t really blame her.
But then…the big clock started striking twelve. The magic was ending! That’s when the beating started. It gave me a headache, pounding up the gravel of the garden path, skidding along the polished ballroom floor, stampeding up the steps. Whoever designed that palace was definitely not a shoe!! But who am I to fuss? If I was about to go back to being dressed in filthy rags in front of several hundred snobs (with huge feet, I might add) I would run, too.
But the prince didn’t seem to understand the point of her running away. As in, hey it was a nice evening, but maybe I want to be alone when my carriage goes back to being a vegetable. (Apparently, someone had warned the poor girl against trying to explain magical carriages on the first date. Good for them, whoever it was!) But could the prince politely go back inside and try the eclairs from the buffet? No! The prince was chasing us! Run, Cinderella! Run!
And in my excitement—I did the unthinkable. I fell off of Cinderella’s foot. There was a sickening moment in the air where I could hear Right’s gasp and then a THUD against the stone step. I think that the only reason I didn’t break is that, like most pretty females, I’m stronger then I look. But in that moment, I wished I had broken. I was a disgrace to shoes everywhere. I had let Cinderella down (literally, seeing as I’m a high heel).
“What’s this?” said a soft voice. I knew that voice! I knew those leather boots with a scuff on Right’s nose! It was the prince!
After that I hung out while there was a lot of scurrying around and melodrama. I’m just saying, one dance and an almost kiss really shouldn’t turn a whole castle upside down. What would happen if they had a full-scale war? And then came the kicker—the prince was going to marry whoever could put me on. Me. What were they thinking!? I mean, size four and a half is pretty rare. But what if the prince just happened to rule the only kingdom with a psycho who had tiny feet? This wasn’t going to do, not at all. I wasn’t going to go on any foot but Cinderella’s.
I know I should be polite, and say something nice about how everyone is unique and beautiful in their own way. But I am going to be transparent—hey, I’m made of glass, after all! When you’ve seen one thousand eight hundred and sixty left feet, they all look the same: ugly. You know what that kingdom needed? A good podiatrist. And a public foot washing station. And maybe a tad bit of wart zapper—a tad as in, three or four gallons. I hadn’t needed to give myself that heroic, you’ll break before you belong to anyone else, speech. I don’t think there was anyone under a size six, much less a four and a half. (Lucky for the prince. Imagine if Cinderella had just happened to have size seven feet? Or eight and a half? What then, huh?)
We finally got to the last house, and then…I met the stepsisters. Wow. Their feet are so ugly, even their momma doesn’t want to see them! And the shenanigans they went through trying to get me on their foot—I get nightmares just thinking about it. I didn’t fit, even a blind man could see that!
The stepmother started doing the whole “no, there are no other maidens in my house” bit. Seriously? If the prince had fallen for that, he would have been dumber than the stepsisters.
There she was! My Cinderella!! I went on in a flash when the prince knelt to help her. There wasn’t any other foot in the kingdom that I would have rather seen.
Now I spend my days hanging out on a velvet cushion, making snide comments about the peasants that come visit me in the palace. (Their faces! And I thought their feet were ugly!) I guess life may be pretty easy, after all.
Don’t get me wrong, I’m not complaining. Not every shoe has the honor of being made by a fairy godmother. My twin sister Right and I had a very special mission to perform: keep Cinderella walking on air so that she could dance the night away.
And did she dance! Such a beautiful dancer, matching the prince step for step. It was all I could do to keep up with them! I have to admit that I sighed with relief when the prince took her out and sat her on the fountain, because I wasn’t sure how much longer I could take it. Of course, Right and I had to giggle when he leaned in for a kiss. Do all princes move this fast? I mean, didn’t Cinderella’s mother ever warn her against kissing on the first date? But…the guy sure was charming. I can’t really blame her.
But then…the big clock started striking twelve. The magic was ending! That’s when the beating started. It gave me a headache, pounding up the gravel of the garden path, skidding along the polished ballroom floor, stampeding up the steps. Whoever designed that palace was definitely not a shoe!! But who am I to fuss? If I was about to go back to being dressed in filthy rags in front of several hundred snobs (with huge feet, I might add) I would run, too.But the prince didn’t seem to understand the point of her running away. As in, hey it was a nice evening, but maybe I want to be alone when my carriage goes back to being a vegetable. (Apparently, someone had warned the poor girl against trying to explain magical carriages on the first date. Good for them, whoever it was!) But could the prince politely go back inside and try the eclairs from the buffet? No! The prince was chasing us! Run, Cinderella! Run!
And in my excitement—I did the unthinkable. I fell off of Cinderella’s foot. There was a sickening moment in the air where I could hear Right’s gasp and then a THUD against the stone step. I think that the only reason I didn’t break is that, like most pretty females, I’m stronger then I look. But in that moment, I wished I had broken. I was a disgrace to shoes everywhere. I had let Cinderella down (literally, seeing as I’m a high heel).
“What’s this?” said a soft voice. I knew that voice! I knew those leather boots with a scuff on Right’s nose! It was the prince!
After that I hung out while there was a lot of scurrying around and melodrama. I’m just saying, one dance and an almost kiss really shouldn’t turn a whole castle upside down. What would happen if they had a full-scale war? And then came the kicker—the prince was going to marry whoever could put me on. Me. What were they thinking!? I mean, size four and a half is pretty rare. But what if the prince just happened to rule the only kingdom with a psycho who had tiny feet? This wasn’t going to do, not at all. I wasn’t going to go on any foot but Cinderella’s.
I know I should be polite, and say something nice about how everyone is unique and beautiful in their own way. But I am going to be transparent—hey, I’m made of glass, after all! When you’ve seen one thousand eight hundred and sixty left feet, they all look the same: ugly. You know what that kingdom needed? A good podiatrist. And a public foot washing station. And maybe a tad bit of wart zapper—a tad as in, three or four gallons. I hadn’t needed to give myself that heroic, you’ll break before you belong to anyone else, speech. I don’t think there was anyone under a size six, much less a four and a half. (Lucky for the prince. Imagine if Cinderella had just happened to have size seven feet? Or eight and a half? What then, huh?)
We finally got to the last house, and then…I met the stepsisters. Wow. Their feet are so ugly, even their momma doesn’t want to see them! And the shenanigans they went through trying to get me on their foot—I get nightmares just thinking about it. I didn’t fit, even a blind man could see that!
The stepmother started doing the whole “no, there are no other maidens in my house” bit. Seriously? If the prince had fallen for that, he would have been dumber than the stepsisters.
There she was! My Cinderella!! I went on in a flash when the prince knelt to help her. There wasn’t any other foot in the kingdom that I would have rather seen.
Now I spend my days hanging out on a velvet cushion, making snide comments about the peasants that come visit me in the palace. (Their faces! And I thought their feet were ugly!) I guess life may be pretty easy, after all.
February 7, 2017
At Home in Fiction
Have you ever stopped reading in the middle of a paragraph, closed your eyes, and just simply felt yourself inside the book? There is something so compelling about a story that not only has beautiful characters, but a complete world to go around them. And the best part about most of these elaborate fictional worlds is the character’s homes.
I love reading about these dwellings, analyzing them to see what they say about their inhabitor. Take, for instance,Mr. Tumnus in The Lion, the Witch, and the Wardrobe. There were books about Humans in his little cave. Is it possible that he had learned that nothing in Narnia could ever be right without a son of Adam or a daughter of Eve on the throne? Could that be the reason that he makes the fateful decision to take Lucy back to the lamppost, instead of to the witch?
The Hobbit Hole has always been iconic, but think about what it says about the Hobbits, about Bilbo. It is small looking and unpretentious, close to the ground. But it is filled with luxuries and food! (I’ve always wondered how Hobbits, especially bachelor hobbits, always managed to have that much food on hand!) In a way, it is the perfect introvert’s home, buried and retiring. I don’t think it was just to make a word count that Tolkien has Frodo move out of the Hobbit Hole at the beginning of The Fellowship of the Ring. While the Hole was perfect place for retiring, it was not a very good place to plot adventures from.
A character’s home is almost a manifesto of who they are. And characters that do not have a home, like Alan Breck in Kidnapped or Aragorn in The Lord of the Rings, seem to be some of the most dogged and loyal to a place. Alan will never stop loving Scotland, and Aragon’s thoughts never seem to be far from Gondor. Is it a lack of a small place, such as a house, to call their own that causes them to cling so tenaciously to these larger places?
What the author writes says as much about them as it does about their characters. Take L.M. Montogmery’s impeccably neat yellow kitchen as opposed to the cool and aloof garden at F Scott Fitzgerald’s Gatsby party. The difference could not be plainer, one all rigid morals and good humor, the other lavish cynicism. Think of Plumfield in Little Men, bursting to the seams with people, mainly high-spirited and healthy boys. Then think of Badger’s house in The Wind in the Willows, where he lives alone and even his welcome mat is buried with snow (that’s not say that no one ever visits Badger, that’s just to say it is only People Who Matter to Him). What might these differences relate about Louisa May Alcott and Kenneth Grahame?
Most importantly, we-the-readers need these homes, in all of their various idealizations. We need to know that after everything is said and done, the character can go home and be safe at night. No matter how many quests and perils may lead them away, they always have something to go back to. And even those who never go on quests and never face perils need a place where they can be totally themselves; sometimes even a big and friendly world can seem too big and too friendly. When we watch the characters live out their lives, we need to know they have some small place that belongs to them.
That is how I would define “home.” It is a little bit of your world that belongs to you. Do you have a favorite literary home? I'd love to hear about it in the comments below!
I love reading about these dwellings, analyzing them to see what they say about their inhabitor. Take, for instance,Mr. Tumnus in The Lion, the Witch, and the Wardrobe. There were books about Humans in his little cave. Is it possible that he had learned that nothing in Narnia could ever be right without a son of Adam or a daughter of Eve on the throne? Could that be the reason that he makes the fateful decision to take Lucy back to the lamppost, instead of to the witch?
The Hobbit Hole has always been iconic, but think about what it says about the Hobbits, about Bilbo. It is small looking and unpretentious, close to the ground. But it is filled with luxuries and food! (I’ve always wondered how Hobbits, especially bachelor hobbits, always managed to have that much food on hand!) In a way, it is the perfect introvert’s home, buried and retiring. I don’t think it was just to make a word count that Tolkien has Frodo move out of the Hobbit Hole at the beginning of The Fellowship of the Ring. While the Hole was perfect place for retiring, it was not a very good place to plot adventures from.A character’s home is almost a manifesto of who they are. And characters that do not have a home, like Alan Breck in Kidnapped or Aragorn in The Lord of the Rings, seem to be some of the most dogged and loyal to a place. Alan will never stop loving Scotland, and Aragon’s thoughts never seem to be far from Gondor. Is it a lack of a small place, such as a house, to call their own that causes them to cling so tenaciously to these larger places?
What the author writes says as much about them as it does about their characters. Take L.M. Montogmery’s impeccably neat yellow kitchen as opposed to the cool and aloof garden at F Scott Fitzgerald’s Gatsby party. The difference could not be plainer, one all rigid morals and good humor, the other lavish cynicism. Think of Plumfield in Little Men, bursting to the seams with people, mainly high-spirited and healthy boys. Then think of Badger’s house in The Wind in the Willows, where he lives alone and even his welcome mat is buried with snow (that’s not say that no one ever visits Badger, that’s just to say it is only People Who Matter to Him). What might these differences relate about Louisa May Alcott and Kenneth Grahame?
Most importantly, we-the-readers need these homes, in all of their various idealizations. We need to know that after everything is said and done, the character can go home and be safe at night. No matter how many quests and perils may lead them away, they always have something to go back to. And even those who never go on quests and never face perils need a place where they can be totally themselves; sometimes even a big and friendly world can seem too big and too friendly. When we watch the characters live out their lives, we need to know they have some small place that belongs to them.
That is how I would define “home.” It is a little bit of your world that belongs to you. Do you have a favorite literary home? I'd love to hear about it in the comments below!
January 23, 2017
Sleeping Stupid and the Spectacular Spindle
It wasn’t my fault she pricked her finger. I mean, I was just sitting around, minding my own business, and she had to waltz right in and jab herself. I guess I could have gotten up and walked out of her way. Oh, wait. I can’t. Spindles don’t have legs. This is all on you, lady.
I mean, no one has been up in this dreary tower room for years. We’re talking sixteen years, ever since the king had me moved up here. I’m the last spindle in the kingdom, the world’s most precious treasure. I’ve had a good life, no work, just peaceful contemplation. I like it up here, in fact. It’s not like I’ve been lurking, waiting around to draw blood from the first human I see. As far as I’m concerned, they can all just leave me be, thank you very much. If you want to go pricking your finger and falling into some melodramatic faint, be my guest. But don’t blame me. Did I curse you instead of giving you a gift when you were a baby? Did I drag you away from your family and raise you in poverty in the woods? No? See, I’m not the cause of any of your problems.
Boy, humans can be weird. No one comes into a room for sixteen years, and then some blonde decides to prick her finger and faint. And whadda-you-know, some fancy looking dude in a swishy cape has to come leaping in after her. I sure hope he didn’t have the flu or a cold sore, ‘cause he planted a big one on her. I’m talking full lip lock, people. I would have closed my eyes, except that’s kind of hard when you don’t have eyes. Ya know? And when she woke up, she was all like, “oooo, you saved me!” From what!? Come on, people, I’m not dangerous, I’m just a spindle! You would have thought there was a witch determined to kill her and enslave her people the way she was acting!
A few days later I heard a lot of bells and cheering. Sounded like a wedding, if you ask me. A big wedding, the kind that they’d have for a prince and a princess. Not that I was listening for one, or anything. I never get interested in human affairs. They can’t go blaming me if they decided to get married. I’m no match making spindle!
I mean, no one has been up in this dreary tower room for years. We’re talking sixteen years, ever since the king had me moved up here. I’m the last spindle in the kingdom, the world’s most precious treasure. I’ve had a good life, no work, just peaceful contemplation. I like it up here, in fact. It’s not like I’ve been lurking, waiting around to draw blood from the first human I see. As far as I’m concerned, they can all just leave me be, thank you very much. If you want to go pricking your finger and falling into some melodramatic faint, be my guest. But don’t blame me. Did I curse you instead of giving you a gift when you were a baby? Did I drag you away from your family and raise you in poverty in the woods? No? See, I’m not the cause of any of your problems.
Boy, humans can be weird. No one comes into a room for sixteen years, and then some blonde decides to prick her finger and faint. And whadda-you-know, some fancy looking dude in a swishy cape has to come leaping in after her. I sure hope he didn’t have the flu or a cold sore, ‘cause he planted a big one on her. I’m talking full lip lock, people. I would have closed my eyes, except that’s kind of hard when you don’t have eyes. Ya know? And when she woke up, she was all like, “oooo, you saved me!” From what!? Come on, people, I’m not dangerous, I’m just a spindle! You would have thought there was a witch determined to kill her and enslave her people the way she was acting!
A few days later I heard a lot of bells and cheering. Sounded like a wedding, if you ask me. A big wedding, the kind that they’d have for a prince and a princess. Not that I was listening for one, or anything. I never get interested in human affairs. They can’t go blaming me if they decided to get married. I’m no match making spindle!
