Fairy Land Trails and Tales

Fairy hiding

As a child growing up, I not only believed in fairies, I knew they existed for two reasons: One, a dime or nickel miraculously appeared under my pillow when I lost a tooth, and my parents who never lied told me that it came from the tooth fairy. Two, when we drove to Wichita, Kansas from Miami, Oklahoma to visit grandparents, we often drove through Augusta, Kansas late at night when the refineries would be filled with twinkling lights from the light bulbs once used to define the work space. Each time we drove by my mother would remind me or even wake me to show me where the fairies lived.

I only questioned those facts when I wished I had a fairy godmother, like Cinderella's godmother, or a playmate fairy like Thumbelina, but none would appear. After watching The Wizard of Oz each spring I decided I needed to be braver and wish for a Good Witch like Glenda. Clicking my heels together didn't seem to create magic unless I truly believed in my wish. 

Over the years, I told stories about finding fairies in the clover patches when we would spend the afternoons searching for magical four-leaf clovers, but, of course, those were imaginative stories, just like the story I told when I saw Santa fly over one night. I believed. Isn't that enough?

In my twenties I learned to "officially" tell stories at the public library for children, and on my own as a paid teller. In reflection, I realized that the very first story I learned was about a vain young man who was given three wishes by the devil, who disguised himself as a fairy godmother. Stories of wishes and tricksters became my trademark stories. 

Another decade passed and one day in 1983 Jack and I found ourselves standing in front of a quaint fairy shaped Wedding Chapel--The Little Church of the West, where my parents married in 1946.  As we approached the front door, nerves tingled on the back of our necks, or maybe it was the whisper of a fairy telling us our wishes for a happy successful marriage would be granted, only if we worked at it.  

Our children grew up. One by one they left home and created healthy happy homes of their own. (Some wishes and a whole lot of prayers do come true). 

 

One day, this spring of Covid 19, my daughter and I decided to meet for a clandestine picnic at Will Rogers Park. Oh, our secret meeting tickled me because we had not seen each other nor hugged in over six weeks. Dis ease or no disease we needed our hugs. We needed our love in person. We held our picnic in the amphitheater and shared our stories of the last few weeks of travels and fears. Then we walked. 

We walked up to the area covered by gardens. In the quiet undisturbed park we caught sight of the strangest tiny doors hidden under trees and some set aside like a community of fairy villages. On our knees we touched doors, took pictures, and whispered to the diminutive fairies inside. "Hello, you have visitors."

Romantic hideout for fairies.

Gnome homes

Giggling with our private time to tour  the "fairy land trails" we caught ourselves running like children from tree to tree looking for the next fairy tree house. We lost count of the fairy doors.

Toadstool cottage. 

Curiosity took over the day and we forgot for

a few hours about our fear the unknown, about a killer named Covid. 

 

Maybe fairies need a dentist, too?

Our biggest surprise came in the form of a giant chair, that could only fit the Giant who takes care of the park. That might take a late night tour, as I know that the giants and trolls in Norway only come out at night. I think we will choose to believe that  giants exists, and not go searching for them. 

Not having seen everything, we decided that we would return in two weeks when more flowers might be in bloom and more fairy land trails might be discovered.

For other stories about fairies please read:

Dream Fairies https://literallyletty.blogspot.com/2016/08/dream-fairies.html

A Glimpse of Hoar Frost  https://literallyletty.blogspot.com/2017/02/a-glimpse-of-hoar-frost.html 

 

The Weight of Words

The box of memories, like hope, dutifully followed her over the decades from dwelling to dwelling:
     From I street to Park street;
     From Park street to Fairview;
     From Fairview to Nebraska street;
     From Nebraska street to Hal Muldrow Drive.

The box grew heavier year by year, memories blurred, and she wondered how words and sentences of thoughts, ideas, dreams, nightmares, fears, truths and lies could become so heavy to carry.

"The butterfly counts not the months but the
 moments and has time enough. " Tagore 

(note found in journals) 

Once when the box filled, she thoughtfully found a bigger heavier box for the words and sentences of happiness, disappointments, heartaches, joys, frustrations, love, and pure delight in life.  The sturdy box continued to follow her, like a shadow needing a home, as it traveled:
     From Hal Muldrow Drive to Canterbury;
     From Canterbury to Baltic Avenue;
     From Baltic Avenue to Quivira Drive.

Stashed in a far corner of closet the box seemed all but forgotten. Her words continued to tell stories from her heart, ask questions, retell moments with an author's chosen words, decode feelings, describe travels and dreams. Seeking help and understanding from the words she wrote, she drew, she cut and pasted uplifting quotes, pictures and art work that told her stories. 

"The flower looks up high to see the light

and never looks down to see it's shadow." 

(note in her journals) 

One last time that brown corrugated box lined with memories and filled with journals traveled from Quivira Drive to Guilford, where it sat on a shelf never quite out of sight. The brown box sat like an tree stump on the shelves of the curio closet among the puppets, artwork, books, and pictures. Once she thought to decorate the box creating a collage of her life, her family, friends, and travels. That began the argument in her head, why decorate it, why keep it?

Spring came along with a terrifying virus that forced her to think deeply about life and death. The box was a burden she no longer needed. One day while carefully balanced on the ladder, she tilted the box toward the floor, and let years of journals tumble down, then she slowly removed the box from the shelf. In her head she heard the joyous lyrics, "Let it go, let it go, can't hold it back anymore..."

Now it was the corrugated elephant in the room, she could no longer hide it nor avoid it. 

The guidelines were created.
  No rereading. 
  No reliving. 
  Glance only. 
  Acknowledge.
  Tear and trash. 

She cheated a few times. Took notes from travels they had taken, scribbled a few dates and memorable moments that made her laugh again and whispered "Yes."

With each trip to the trash bin she felt her shoulders ease until at last fifty years of journals were gone. She stood alone in the back yard smiling as the birds chirped at the feeders, the doves cooed and the Cardinals squabbled. Her thoughts spread in a smile across her face. 

"Our lives become rich

without baggage from the past."

(note found in her journals)

*Dedicated to my sister Jonya, who said about her journals, "I do not need to read them. I have already lived that life!"

Other posts by Literally Letty with similar themes:

The Address Book

And Her Monkey Named, Woo.