"We have always been D__ville people," was the quote from one of the more established families in the area, as I interviewed the visitors of the small but gracious seaside community.
Miss A__ stared eloquently across the water and rested her dainty gloves on her ivory parasol handle as i interviewed her
"We have been coming here, oh, since I can remember," she continued, a hint of a nostalgia in her voice
She then nodded back at the tasteful cottage, adding, "And Maman and Papa long before that."
I found out, while interviewing with the lovely demoiselle of the house, that the A___ Family is accustomed to spending their Thanksgiving holidays at the seaside, among other occasions. They currently reside in the bustling town of M____, a fact Miss A___ has little to comment on beyond a rue shrug.
"It is the employment there, what can I say?"
One is hardly surprised at her opinion, however gently expressed- M___ is hardly the social capital of the world, or even of the area. Small wonder, then, that she and her family make the arduous carriage ride to their haven at D___ville as often as feasible.
When I mention this, she gives a small laugh.
"Arduous? Heavens, no. There are so many quaint inns along the road, and the restaurants..." -she kisses her fingers in the French fashion, reminding me that, of course, she has toured Europe and even parts of the Pacific.
"Why the restaurants?" I ask, already knowing the answer.
Her skill in the kitchen is a well kept secret, but any who are privileged to know and visit her may be delighted with the creations that issue forth. Small wonder, then, that she mentioned the restaurants as bright spots, but just as smoothly avoids any revealing comments. "I simply enjoy sampling the food wherever I am, you know, plus the pauses along the road give my dear Jacques a chance to stretch his paws, don't they my darling?" (This last was addressed to her diminutive terrier, though to refer to him as a dog seemed almost insulting in light of her obvious appreciation of his intellectual and even personable qualities.)
Before I could ask any more questions, I heard a voice from inside their summer home calling the Mademoiselle by name.
She turned to me with an enchanting smile.
"It has been a pleasure to make your acquaintance, albeit during an interview, and I do hope you found what you were wanting?"
I assured her that I had, in abundance, and that the pleasure was mutual.
With that, she dropped a small curtsey, as I walked off into the sunset, literally, musing over the conversation and my notes.
A holiday in D___ville indeed....
The End
Wednesday, October 27, 2010
Once upon a time....
There was a small wolf who fell out of bed.
Well, to be precise, he didn't fall out of bed. His name was Wolfling, and he grew tired of sleeping nicely next to the little boy who owned him, and that was where the trouble all started.
Rule Number One of the Code of Stuffed Animals stated that, "The first duty of each Stuffed Animal is to make his or her Child happy. Sections A, B, and C detailed how this could be accomplished during Playtime, Sadtime, and Sleeptime, respectively.
While Rule Number One could be hard, especially during long travel days and teary times at home, Rule Number Two was no easier. "Only let Children, not Grownups, know you are alive." Children, now, were different, as everyone knew, but Grownups could be dangerous.
Rule Number Three was the last and best of the rules. "Watch over your Child." Naturally, this was close to the other two rules, because making someone happy is a good way of taking care of them, and being an innocent stuffed animal gave you more time with your Child.
Now, when Wolfling fell off, he felt very sorry to have possibly broken Rule 3, because how can you watch over your Child when under the bed? As Wolfling lay under the bed and felt like a horrible Stuffed Animal, he heard the beginnings of a noise. And this noise went on and on, and eventually his small furry ears recognised it for a storm outside. And before long, he heard another noise, one he recognised. A Child whimpering. And it was his own Child up on the bed, afraid of the storm, and alone. Wolfling felt worse and worse.
But just then, one more noise started. The bed above him was creaking. And in another minute, he was pushed aside as something else crawled underneath the bed slats with him. Something brushed him to the side, then touched him again more carefully. Wolfling smiled, because he recognised that hand.
It only took two seconds for the hand to recognise Wolfling's furry self too, and only one more before he was tucked up *very* tightly next to his child. The storm went on outside, but under the bed was warm and safe. And they both sighed contentedly. And went back to sleep.
The End
There was a small wolf who fell out of bed.
Well, to be precise, he didn't fall out of bed. His name was Wolfling, and he grew tired of sleeping nicely next to the little boy who owned him, and that was where the trouble all started.
Rule Number One of the Code of Stuffed Animals stated that, "The first duty of each Stuffed Animal is to make his or her Child happy. Sections A, B, and C detailed how this could be accomplished during Playtime, Sadtime, and Sleeptime, respectively.
While Rule Number One could be hard, especially during long travel days and teary times at home, Rule Number Two was no easier. "Only let Children, not Grownups, know you are alive." Children, now, were different, as everyone knew, but Grownups could be dangerous.
Rule Number Three was the last and best of the rules. "Watch over your Child." Naturally, this was close to the other two rules, because making someone happy is a good way of taking care of them, and being an innocent stuffed animal gave you more time with your Child.
Now, when Wolfling fell off, he felt very sorry to have possibly broken Rule 3, because how can you watch over your Child when under the bed? As Wolfling lay under the bed and felt like a horrible Stuffed Animal, he heard the beginnings of a noise. And this noise went on and on, and eventually his small furry ears recognised it for a storm outside. And before long, he heard another noise, one he recognised. A Child whimpering. And it was his own Child up on the bed, afraid of the storm, and alone. Wolfling felt worse and worse.
But just then, one more noise started. The bed above him was creaking. And in another minute, he was pushed aside as something else crawled underneath the bed slats with him. Something brushed him to the side, then touched him again more carefully. Wolfling smiled, because he recognised that hand.
It only took two seconds for the hand to recognise Wolfling's furry self too, and only one more before he was tucked up *very* tightly next to his child. The storm went on outside, but under the bed was warm and safe. And they both sighed contentedly. And went back to sleep.
The End
Thursday, October 21, 2010
Once upon a time...
There was a traveling bard, who made it back to his old home city. He remembered it as a city of music, and stories, and when he returned, he found it much the same, but himself changed. Surrounded by so many, so many people, he was glad that he still was himself enough to speak out, share what he had. And so he did.
But before long, he realised that he only ever shared part of what he held inside himself. He told stories upon stories - but not all the stories. There were some he felt too uncertain to be shared, like newborns. He sang songs upon songs, yet neglected to mention the ones he had himself written. He told himself in time he would sing those too, that they were yet too raw, too unpolished. What was truer, he realised, in quiet moments in his attic room, was that he felt himself too raw, too unpolished. Who was he to offer his own work, with such an array of stories and songs from other more experienced bards?
One day, though, he was feeling ill from the crowds and clamour, however friendly, and escaped to the countryside. He sat under a tree, wishing for some wisdom to fall from above, and he paced a field, hoping some answers would spring up under his feet. He would gladly suffer bruises and tumbles as long as they took him in the right direction....
Finally, tired, and no closer to an answer than before, he trudged back to the city. Hoping against hope, he kept his ears open, and eyes expectant. Still nothing. Yet when he reached the square, and saw the friendly nods of the merchants and heard welcoming cries from the urchins on the street, he found that he had found his peace. For as long as he was there, he was there, to sing and story and serve. Beyond that, he could not ask for so much more. And he need not force openness from himself, but neither need he hide in his attic and fine-tune what was in his heart into an age past living. Thus he climbed his stairs with a lighter heart and dusty boots, a new story already forming in his mind, a story of himself....
There was a traveling bard, who made it back to his old home city. He remembered it as a city of music, and stories, and when he returned, he found it much the same, but himself changed. Surrounded by so many, so many people, he was glad that he still was himself enough to speak out, share what he had. And so he did.
But before long, he realised that he only ever shared part of what he held inside himself. He told stories upon stories - but not all the stories. There were some he felt too uncertain to be shared, like newborns. He sang songs upon songs, yet neglected to mention the ones he had himself written. He told himself in time he would sing those too, that they were yet too raw, too unpolished. What was truer, he realised, in quiet moments in his attic room, was that he felt himself too raw, too unpolished. Who was he to offer his own work, with such an array of stories and songs from other more experienced bards?
One day, though, he was feeling ill from the crowds and clamour, however friendly, and escaped to the countryside. He sat under a tree, wishing for some wisdom to fall from above, and he paced a field, hoping some answers would spring up under his feet. He would gladly suffer bruises and tumbles as long as they took him in the right direction....
Finally, tired, and no closer to an answer than before, he trudged back to the city. Hoping against hope, he kept his ears open, and eyes expectant. Still nothing. Yet when he reached the square, and saw the friendly nods of the merchants and heard welcoming cries from the urchins on the street, he found that he had found his peace. For as long as he was there, he was there, to sing and story and serve. Beyond that, he could not ask for so much more. And he need not force openness from himself, but neither need he hide in his attic and fine-tune what was in his heart into an age past living. Thus he climbed his stairs with a lighter heart and dusty boots, a new story already forming in his mind, a story of himself....
Monday, October 18, 2010
Once upon a time...
There was a misplaced dragon.
He had been minding his own business, comfortable on a store shelf with other dragons like his shiny self, when suddenly he was picked up, purchased, and popped in a bag. When he was pulled out, he found himself surrounded by big, intimidating dragons on a bookshelf. On one side a fat purple Grorkle was waiting impatiently and flicking fire between his teeth. Two double-headed blues looked at him curiously from all angles. And various others examined him head to toe and made indistinguishable comments through the sound of their wings and teeth and clawed feet. The poor new dragon was rather frightened.
But, being rather spunky, as most small dragons are, he bristled his spiky wingtips, arched his back, and showed his own teeth. He might be half their size, but if they attacked, he would give them scars to remember him by. He rattled the last of his scales, pointed his ears, and was about to make his first move when, suddenly, he heard approving laughter over his head. Looking up, he saw a graceful red dragon hover, then land. Once down, she bowed her head politely, and, more than a little surprised, the small dragon bowed back. "Greetings," she said in melodious tones. "I am Garnet, or Garnie, for short. And these are the rest of the dragon-band. Forgive them, they are very curious and not very mannered. But we welcome you all the same."
And with that, she gently touched his nose with hers in salutation, and the other dragons followed suit, even down to the swaggering grey one. As they went through introductions, the small dragon relaxed. While he had expected to be handled and dropped by some child, after purchase, he was hardly about to say no to new friends of his own kind.This looked to be a very good year...
The End
There was a misplaced dragon.
He had been minding his own business, comfortable on a store shelf with other dragons like his shiny self, when suddenly he was picked up, purchased, and popped in a bag. When he was pulled out, he found himself surrounded by big, intimidating dragons on a bookshelf. On one side a fat purple Grorkle was waiting impatiently and flicking fire between his teeth. Two double-headed blues looked at him curiously from all angles. And various others examined him head to toe and made indistinguishable comments through the sound of their wings and teeth and clawed feet. The poor new dragon was rather frightened.
But, being rather spunky, as most small dragons are, he bristled his spiky wingtips, arched his back, and showed his own teeth. He might be half their size, but if they attacked, he would give them scars to remember him by. He rattled the last of his scales, pointed his ears, and was about to make his first move when, suddenly, he heard approving laughter over his head. Looking up, he saw a graceful red dragon hover, then land. Once down, she bowed her head politely, and, more than a little surprised, the small dragon bowed back. "Greetings," she said in melodious tones. "I am Garnet, or Garnie, for short. And these are the rest of the dragon-band. Forgive them, they are very curious and not very mannered. But we welcome you all the same."
And with that, she gently touched his nose with hers in salutation, and the other dragons followed suit, even down to the swaggering grey one. As they went through introductions, the small dragon relaxed. While he had expected to be handled and dropped by some child, after purchase, he was hardly about to say no to new friends of his own kind.This looked to be a very good year...
The End
Sunday, October 17, 2010
Once upon a time...
There was a Greek lizard. It lived on a bright white balcony, not too far from the coast, and spent its days climbing the stucco walls of the house or soaking up the sun. Sometimes other lizards scurried across the warm pavement from nearby houses, and they would sit companionably on the flat rooftops and watch the world below. In the evenings, the bugs came out along with the stars, so the lizards would pick out the different constellations during dinner. They had to be careful of the bats that came swooping through the night, but beyond that, life was sweet, and very contented.
As the years went on, the lizard grew old, and soon spent less time wandering and more time relaxing. It spent the mornings sleeping under the geraniums on the balcony, and the afternoons sitting with friends. And each evening was one more hello to night and goodbye to day. Since one rarely knows which lizard is which, and how old they grow, no one thinks of endings and goodbyes. Instead, the lizards could be said to live on and on like the stars, and watch over the little Greek houses.
The End
There was a Greek lizard. It lived on a bright white balcony, not too far from the coast, and spent its days climbing the stucco walls of the house or soaking up the sun. Sometimes other lizards scurried across the warm pavement from nearby houses, and they would sit companionably on the flat rooftops and watch the world below. In the evenings, the bugs came out along with the stars, so the lizards would pick out the different constellations during dinner. They had to be careful of the bats that came swooping through the night, but beyond that, life was sweet, and very contented.
As the years went on, the lizard grew old, and soon spent less time wandering and more time relaxing. It spent the mornings sleeping under the geraniums on the balcony, and the afternoons sitting with friends. And each evening was one more hello to night and goodbye to day. Since one rarely knows which lizard is which, and how old they grow, no one thinks of endings and goodbyes. Instead, the lizards could be said to live on and on like the stars, and watch over the little Greek houses.
The End
Wednesday, October 13, 2010
Once upon a time...
There was a fat baby.
A very fat baby.
A very very fat baby.
He was so fat that he had wrinkles inside the wrinkles on his arms, and folds on top of the folds on his legs. But he was so cute and so cheerful that no one even thought to suggest he go on a diet or do something about his appearance. He eventually, naturally, got older, and while he did slim down a little, there were no compliments or psychological transition in his relationships. Instead, total strangers continued to coo silly things to him and once the stewardesses on the airplane whisked him away from his mother so they could enjoy playing with him, and possibly even show the pilot. The mother, who was a little surprised, was still a calm sort of person who knew that her small person would be returned by the end of the flight. And so he was, covered in lipstick kisses and with what looked like chocolate smears on his mouth. As everyone knows, babies should not eat too much chocolate, but he was getting to an almost older age when it was safe. In any case, he suffered no permanent damage from the chocolate (or the kisses or temporary kidnapping) and carried on quite happily with life. On that particular trip, indeed, there were photos taken of him with any number of beautiful women, who left their respective kiss marks and/or affectionate pinches on his cheeks.
When he got old enough to grow out of the baby fat, he was informed that, rather than being unique in his adorable obesity, his sister had also charmed strangers and endured sweet affliction (and chocolate). Both children, indeed, were to be congratulated that they do not to this day bear permanent stretch or red marks on their well-used cheeks. Both continue to frequent airplanes, but there have been no bribes or temporary kidnappings reported. And while neither sibling has yet found a spouse and married, the world surely awaits with anticipation the day when more fat cheerful babies appear to lighten mundane life and attract the adoration of the masses.
The End
There was a fat baby.
A very fat baby.
A very very fat baby.
He was so fat that he had wrinkles inside the wrinkles on his arms, and folds on top of the folds on his legs. But he was so cute and so cheerful that no one even thought to suggest he go on a diet or do something about his appearance. He eventually, naturally, got older, and while he did slim down a little, there were no compliments or psychological transition in his relationships. Instead, total strangers continued to coo silly things to him and once the stewardesses on the airplane whisked him away from his mother so they could enjoy playing with him, and possibly even show the pilot. The mother, who was a little surprised, was still a calm sort of person who knew that her small person would be returned by the end of the flight. And so he was, covered in lipstick kisses and with what looked like chocolate smears on his mouth. As everyone knows, babies should not eat too much chocolate, but he was getting to an almost older age when it was safe. In any case, he suffered no permanent damage from the chocolate (or the kisses or temporary kidnapping) and carried on quite happily with life. On that particular trip, indeed, there were photos taken of him with any number of beautiful women, who left their respective kiss marks and/or affectionate pinches on his cheeks.
When he got old enough to grow out of the baby fat, he was informed that, rather than being unique in his adorable obesity, his sister had also charmed strangers and endured sweet affliction (and chocolate). Both children, indeed, were to be congratulated that they do not to this day bear permanent stretch or red marks on their well-used cheeks. Both continue to frequent airplanes, but there have been no bribes or temporary kidnappings reported. And while neither sibling has yet found a spouse and married, the world surely awaits with anticipation the day when more fat cheerful babies appear to lighten mundane life and attract the adoration of the masses.
The End
Saturday, October 09, 2010
Once upon a time...
There was a village girl.
When she turned twenty-one, she moved to the city. There, instead of being a village girl, she was considered an almost-woman, and given a basket for her birthday. She lifted the lid and looked inside. There was nothing. She was told, "This is for whatever you pick up on your way."
Through the summer days, she learned that 'whatever' didn't really mean 'whatever'. To some people, it meant knitting needles for time with friends. So she started carrying around a respectable pair of needles. To others, it meant schoolbooks for being wise. So she added a schoolbook. New friends told her baskets were for carrying money for pretty clothes, and others said special food should be carried instead. Eventually, though, the girl began to run out of room in her basket. And it got heavy. And it took so long to pull out the correct item for each activity that the girl often got flustered and dropped everything.
One day, the girl was so busy rummaging through her basket to make sure she had everything possible she would need for a day in town... that she took a wrong turning down a road. When she looked up and realised where she was, she almost turned back. But then a bright maple leaf by the roadside caught her eye. It reminded her of the fall back home in the village, and how she and her brother used to throw leaves in the air to make their baby sister smile. Smiling herself, the girl picked up the leaf and put it in her basket. As she did so, she saw some scattered chestnuts a little farther down, which reminded her of harvest days and roasting nuts with her father. She kept walking, and picking up memories from the roadside, until her basket started overflowing. She looked at it, swinging from her hand. Life had been much simpler when all she had were pocket in her aprons. No, she corrected herself. Life had been much simpler when she only carried what she wanted to carry.
She returned home, thoughtfully. Once she was in her small attic room, she emptied out her basket, feeling almost guilty as she did so. She set everything on a shelf, within easy reach. The next day, she only put back in what she knew she needed for that day.
And a bright red maple leaf.
There was a village girl.
When she turned twenty-one, she moved to the city. There, instead of being a village girl, she was considered an almost-woman, and given a basket for her birthday. She lifted the lid and looked inside. There was nothing. She was told, "This is for whatever you pick up on your way."
Through the summer days, she learned that 'whatever' didn't really mean 'whatever'. To some people, it meant knitting needles for time with friends. So she started carrying around a respectable pair of needles. To others, it meant schoolbooks for being wise. So she added a schoolbook. New friends told her baskets were for carrying money for pretty clothes, and others said special food should be carried instead. Eventually, though, the girl began to run out of room in her basket. And it got heavy. And it took so long to pull out the correct item for each activity that the girl often got flustered and dropped everything.
One day, the girl was so busy rummaging through her basket to make sure she had everything possible she would need for a day in town... that she took a wrong turning down a road. When she looked up and realised where she was, she almost turned back. But then a bright maple leaf by the roadside caught her eye. It reminded her of the fall back home in the village, and how she and her brother used to throw leaves in the air to make their baby sister smile. Smiling herself, the girl picked up the leaf and put it in her basket. As she did so, she saw some scattered chestnuts a little farther down, which reminded her of harvest days and roasting nuts with her father. She kept walking, and picking up memories from the roadside, until her basket started overflowing. She looked at it, swinging from her hand. Life had been much simpler when all she had were pocket in her aprons. No, she corrected herself. Life had been much simpler when she only carried what she wanted to carry.
She returned home, thoughtfully. Once she was in her small attic room, she emptied out her basket, feeling almost guilty as she did so. She set everything on a shelf, within easy reach. The next day, she only put back in what she knew she needed for that day.
And a bright red maple leaf.
Wednesday, October 06, 2010
Once upon a time...
There was a little girl who lived by the sea.
Most of her friends lived in a nearby town, in tall houses with big gardens.
But she lived in a small cottage with the beach for her garden and the sea for her neighborhood.
While her friends had riding lessons and music tutors, she spent her afternoons scrambling over the rocky cliffs or digging for mussels that her mother cooked. She did have ballet classes with her friends, but since she was browner and skinnier, she stood out a little at recitals. But all in all, she was content, and life was good.
Except for one thing. She was not allowed to have a pet. She never asked for a pony, like some of her friends, or anything expensive. "Just a little dog, the smallest we can find? Or a cat?" Her parents always said no. Her father was allergic, they reminded her. "What about a bird?" Birds (and their noise) were meant for the sky, she was told, not a cage or a very small house."What about a turtle? Or a fish?" There were plenty of fish in the ocean, they reminded her gently, and turtles too. It wasn't the same, she thought to herself, but what else could she do about it? Being good parents, they tried to make it up to her in other ways, especially with hugs, so she could never go away too upset. "But still," she often thought to herself while outside, "it would be really nice to not be on my own all the time."
One day, when life was especially empty and all her friends were off having fun with their pets, she sat gloomily on her favourite rock. She dangled her feet in the water and whistled to herself, and wished on the water sparkles to some day have a pet. She found that she could squint her eyes and see shapes in the reflections of clouds, and got so caught up in finding a dog, a cat, a bird, a turtle, a fish... that at first she didn't notice something brush her leg. The next time, though, she did, and startled so badly that she almost fell into the water. Quickly pulling up her wet brown legs and tucking them under herself, she inched back enough to be safe from sharks or jellyfish, and peered over the edge. Nothing.
She sat back. Maybe it was just her imagination, or one of the turtles that lived in the area. Her hair was still wet from a swim, and kept swinging in her face, so she pulled it down so she could braid it out of the way while she mused over the situation. This kept her occupied for a moment.
When the little brown girl looked over the edge again, she was suddenly face to face with two very wide eyes. She blinked her own, just to make sure. Chitterchitter, said her visitor curiously. Unsure of the correct response, she chittered back politely and added, "Nice day, isn't it?" The dolphin appeared to nod. After another minute of inspection on both sides, the girl decided more action would be a good next step. "May I join you?" she asked, and slowly swung her lungs back into the water. She'd heard from her fisherman father that dolphins, like most creatures, dislike sudden moves. And from history and biology lessons, the girl knew that dolphins were naturally friendly and inquisitive. Armed with these facts, but still drawing a deep breath, the girl slipped into the sea. "Would you like to join me for a swim?" The dolphin made a smiling face and bobbed. Perhaps, the girl thought, dolphins got lonely too. So off they went, staying close to the shore, just to be on the safe side.
When the sun started sinking lower, the girl knew it was time to start heading for home and helping with dinner. The dolphin would only follow her in so far, before pausing and making unhappy noises. Treading water, she ventured a gentle pat on its rough head. "I'm sorry, but I need to go. I will be back tomorrow after school, though, if you're around?" And then, in a rush, "It would be really, really nice if you're around." The dolphin chittered again in a friendly way, and rubbed up against her hand. "Maybe yes? I'll be looking for you... and thanks." With a final rub, the girl swam toward the shallows. When she climbed out and turned around, there was nothing to be seen but the reflections on the water, and what might have been the flick of a tail.
Her mother and father were tired that night, or they might have asked why their daughter had that particular soft smile on her face and seemed more tired than usual too. She didn't even put up her normal protests at bedtime, when being tucked into her bed in the loft, just kissed them both and snuggled under her quilt.
She spent the next day trying to focus on school and not build her hopes up... though she did allow herself to check a book on dolphins out from the school library. She read it on the way home, rushed through her homework and chores, and then headed out to the rock. No dolphin. She sat there for a while, but just as she was beginning to give up, she felt a familiar nudge against her leg. And this time, she was the first to give the greeting chitter, before jumping in and swimming off in the afternoon sun with her new pet.
The End.
There was a little girl who lived by the sea.
Most of her friends lived in a nearby town, in tall houses with big gardens.
But she lived in a small cottage with the beach for her garden and the sea for her neighborhood.
While her friends had riding lessons and music tutors, she spent her afternoons scrambling over the rocky cliffs or digging for mussels that her mother cooked. She did have ballet classes with her friends, but since she was browner and skinnier, she stood out a little at recitals. But all in all, she was content, and life was good.
Except for one thing. She was not allowed to have a pet. She never asked for a pony, like some of her friends, or anything expensive. "Just a little dog, the smallest we can find? Or a cat?" Her parents always said no. Her father was allergic, they reminded her. "What about a bird?" Birds (and their noise) were meant for the sky, she was told, not a cage or a very small house."What about a turtle? Or a fish?" There were plenty of fish in the ocean, they reminded her gently, and turtles too. It wasn't the same, she thought to herself, but what else could she do about it? Being good parents, they tried to make it up to her in other ways, especially with hugs, so she could never go away too upset. "But still," she often thought to herself while outside, "it would be really nice to not be on my own all the time."
One day, when life was especially empty and all her friends were off having fun with their pets, she sat gloomily on her favourite rock. She dangled her feet in the water and whistled to herself, and wished on the water sparkles to some day have a pet. She found that she could squint her eyes and see shapes in the reflections of clouds, and got so caught up in finding a dog, a cat, a bird, a turtle, a fish... that at first she didn't notice something brush her leg. The next time, though, she did, and startled so badly that she almost fell into the water. Quickly pulling up her wet brown legs and tucking them under herself, she inched back enough to be safe from sharks or jellyfish, and peered over the edge. Nothing.
She sat back. Maybe it was just her imagination, or one of the turtles that lived in the area. Her hair was still wet from a swim, and kept swinging in her face, so she pulled it down so she could braid it out of the way while she mused over the situation. This kept her occupied for a moment.
When the little brown girl looked over the edge again, she was suddenly face to face with two very wide eyes. She blinked her own, just to make sure. Chitterchitter, said her visitor curiously. Unsure of the correct response, she chittered back politely and added, "Nice day, isn't it?" The dolphin appeared to nod. After another minute of inspection on both sides, the girl decided more action would be a good next step. "May I join you?" she asked, and slowly swung her lungs back into the water. She'd heard from her fisherman father that dolphins, like most creatures, dislike sudden moves. And from history and biology lessons, the girl knew that dolphins were naturally friendly and inquisitive. Armed with these facts, but still drawing a deep breath, the girl slipped into the sea. "Would you like to join me for a swim?" The dolphin made a smiling face and bobbed. Perhaps, the girl thought, dolphins got lonely too. So off they went, staying close to the shore, just to be on the safe side.
When the sun started sinking lower, the girl knew it was time to start heading for home and helping with dinner. The dolphin would only follow her in so far, before pausing and making unhappy noises. Treading water, she ventured a gentle pat on its rough head. "I'm sorry, but I need to go. I will be back tomorrow after school, though, if you're around?" And then, in a rush, "It would be really, really nice if you're around." The dolphin chittered again in a friendly way, and rubbed up against her hand. "Maybe yes? I'll be looking for you... and thanks." With a final rub, the girl swam toward the shallows. When she climbed out and turned around, there was nothing to be seen but the reflections on the water, and what might have been the flick of a tail.
Her mother and father were tired that night, or they might have asked why their daughter had that particular soft smile on her face and seemed more tired than usual too. She didn't even put up her normal protests at bedtime, when being tucked into her bed in the loft, just kissed them both and snuggled under her quilt.
She spent the next day trying to focus on school and not build her hopes up... though she did allow herself to check a book on dolphins out from the school library. She read it on the way home, rushed through her homework and chores, and then headed out to the rock. No dolphin. She sat there for a while, but just as she was beginning to give up, she felt a familiar nudge against her leg. And this time, she was the first to give the greeting chitter, before jumping in and swimming off in the afternoon sun with her new pet.
The End.
Saturday, October 02, 2010
Once upon a time there was a lump of clay in Hungary. It was dug out of the ground, cleared of sticks and stones, and processed till it was pure and smooth, ready for the potter.
At the same time, there was a school class preparing for a field trip to the nearby craftshop. One little boy in particular, with big grey eyes, was excited. His great-grandfather had been a potter in Budapest, and his mother had told stories of the old days, of the pots and vases and bowls he crafted and that she still had. But when the mother tucked her child inside his water slicker that morning before school, and kissed his little face sticking out of the hood, she told him, "No matter what you make, I will love it!" He nodded obediently, but didn't say aloud that he wasn't so sure about that.... Mothers have to like what their children make, but what if he made something really ugly? Who would want to tell stories later about that?
He worried about this through the first few classes, and only ate half his sandwich at lunch. He made a face at a nearby pigeon and informed it sternly that if he wasn't going to eat his food, the pigeon couldn't either. He stuffed the other half inside his lunchbox and stomped off, feeling a little braver. He held on to that thought during the bus ride into town and refused to think about anything else. When he stepped carefully through the rough wooden door of the pottery barn, though, he was too intrigued to remember the lunch or his bravery... there was too much to see. Wheels and stools and shelves and mud everywhere!
He soon learned it was not actually mud... it was clay. Sometimes very wet clay, with extra water, called 'slip' that potters rubbed around their pots or with a sponge... sometimes very dried and flaky clay that had fallen or been rubbed away. Before he knew it, he was sitting on his own small stool at his own spinning wheel and waiting for the pottery instructor to hand him his very own lump of clay to work with. The first girl in the row got hers, and then the second girl, and then a boy, and another girl, and so on... but when the instructor got to him, she paused. By that time, the assistants and other children were busy beginning with their clay, and the air was filled with a whirring noise.
The grey eyed boy looked up curiously at the instructor. She looked down at him a moment thoughtfully, but instead of giving him the lump of clay she held in her hand, she reached past him to a shelf and handed him another instead. He looked at it silently. At first he couldn't tell what the difference was, but then he saw that the colour was a little different. He picked it up and held it closer. It was black. He looked down the row, and saw red, brown, light tan, and everything in between. But no other black. Even the smudges on the wheels and floor (and walls) were the other colours.
When he looked back at the instructor, unsure if he was allowed to ask questions, she just nodded at him reassuringly. "The first lump of clay I was ever given was black, too." Normally he would have had so many questions, even if he kept them in his head. But somehow, her nod and few words made it all better. Content, he turned to the challenge of making something from what sat on his wheel. Soon he was spinning it with the foot pedal, and trying gently to shape the clay with his fingers. Sometimes it leaned too much one way and he had to correct it hastily. Sometimes it collapsed altogether and he had to stop the wheel, squish all the clay together again, and try again. The noise of the other wheels, other students, and the voice of his teacher giving a brief history lesson of pottery all faded away. It was just him and the clay and his wheel, spinning together....
When he felt a gentle hand on his shoulder, he slowed his wheel done and reluctantly pulled his hand away from last touches to his creation. He had no idea how long it had been since he'd started, and as he stretched he realised he was stiff from sitting so still, so long, and that the room was quiet. He looked up and saw the other students were gone, though he could hear them faintly in the next room. The instructor was standing by him. "It is beautiful." He looked down, and felt that what she said was true. It was beautiful. He was glad she let him carry it to the shelf where it would wait until it was ready for baking.
He waved goodbye politely with the other students, and spent the rest of the day in a happy daze. His mother asked him three times at dinner if he'd had fun at pottery (and gave him two helpings of broccoli when he accidentally said yes to that too). The next day was a blur until the pottery van showed up with the finished pieces. He had been so eager to see his, but suddenly felt almost shy, and hung back. The assistant handed out the pots to the students one by one, and the grey eyed boy gave polite congratulations to all his friends as they showed off theirs. All the while, though, he kept his eyes out for his, and was just starting to get worried when he saw his own special instructor walk up to him with a carefully wrapped package. He opened his hands to take it, but instead she knelt down, jean-covered knees in the dirt, and held it so he could unwrap it himself. He knelt down too, which made her smile, but he could tell from her face that she knew how important this was. Oh so slowly he pulled away the brown paper... and then, there was his bowl. Smooth and black and curvy-- and beautiful. He could see that one side was the tiniest bit slanted, and as he turned it over it looked like a half finger smudge on the bottom, but you could hardly tell.
Over his head he could hear his teacher going on about such an *unusual* colour and how much talent he had and thank you so much for the pottery class the children really enjoyed it.... He supposed she was talking to his instructor, but the instructor looked like she was paying more attention to what he was saying with his hands as he ran his fingers over every centimeter of his bowl. When his teacher finally paused for breath, he finally looked up at the instructor. He realised she had grey eyes too, and smiled at a private thought. Maybe there was a magic to black clay that only grey eyed people could bring out? She nodded at him as if she had heard what he was thinking, all of it, but just to make sure he added, "And thank you. Very much for the grey clay, and helping me make my bowl. I love it."
And so did his mother.
The End.
At the same time, there was a school class preparing for a field trip to the nearby craftshop. One little boy in particular, with big grey eyes, was excited. His great-grandfather had been a potter in Budapest, and his mother had told stories of the old days, of the pots and vases and bowls he crafted and that she still had. But when the mother tucked her child inside his water slicker that morning before school, and kissed his little face sticking out of the hood, she told him, "No matter what you make, I will love it!" He nodded obediently, but didn't say aloud that he wasn't so sure about that.... Mothers have to like what their children make, but what if he made something really ugly? Who would want to tell stories later about that?
He worried about this through the first few classes, and only ate half his sandwich at lunch. He made a face at a nearby pigeon and informed it sternly that if he wasn't going to eat his food, the pigeon couldn't either. He stuffed the other half inside his lunchbox and stomped off, feeling a little braver. He held on to that thought during the bus ride into town and refused to think about anything else. When he stepped carefully through the rough wooden door of the pottery barn, though, he was too intrigued to remember the lunch or his bravery... there was too much to see. Wheels and stools and shelves and mud everywhere!
He soon learned it was not actually mud... it was clay. Sometimes very wet clay, with extra water, called 'slip' that potters rubbed around their pots or with a sponge... sometimes very dried and flaky clay that had fallen or been rubbed away. Before he knew it, he was sitting on his own small stool at his own spinning wheel and waiting for the pottery instructor to hand him his very own lump of clay to work with. The first girl in the row got hers, and then the second girl, and then a boy, and another girl, and so on... but when the instructor got to him, she paused. By that time, the assistants and other children were busy beginning with their clay, and the air was filled with a whirring noise.
The grey eyed boy looked up curiously at the instructor. She looked down at him a moment thoughtfully, but instead of giving him the lump of clay she held in her hand, she reached past him to a shelf and handed him another instead. He looked at it silently. At first he couldn't tell what the difference was, but then he saw that the colour was a little different. He picked it up and held it closer. It was black. He looked down the row, and saw red, brown, light tan, and everything in between. But no other black. Even the smudges on the wheels and floor (and walls) were the other colours.
When he looked back at the instructor, unsure if he was allowed to ask questions, she just nodded at him reassuringly. "The first lump of clay I was ever given was black, too." Normally he would have had so many questions, even if he kept them in his head. But somehow, her nod and few words made it all better. Content, he turned to the challenge of making something from what sat on his wheel. Soon he was spinning it with the foot pedal, and trying gently to shape the clay with his fingers. Sometimes it leaned too much one way and he had to correct it hastily. Sometimes it collapsed altogether and he had to stop the wheel, squish all the clay together again, and try again. The noise of the other wheels, other students, and the voice of his teacher giving a brief history lesson of pottery all faded away. It was just him and the clay and his wheel, spinning together....
When he felt a gentle hand on his shoulder, he slowed his wheel done and reluctantly pulled his hand away from last touches to his creation. He had no idea how long it had been since he'd started, and as he stretched he realised he was stiff from sitting so still, so long, and that the room was quiet. He looked up and saw the other students were gone, though he could hear them faintly in the next room. The instructor was standing by him. "It is beautiful." He looked down, and felt that what she said was true. It was beautiful. He was glad she let him carry it to the shelf where it would wait until it was ready for baking.
He waved goodbye politely with the other students, and spent the rest of the day in a happy daze. His mother asked him three times at dinner if he'd had fun at pottery (and gave him two helpings of broccoli when he accidentally said yes to that too). The next day was a blur until the pottery van showed up with the finished pieces. He had been so eager to see his, but suddenly felt almost shy, and hung back. The assistant handed out the pots to the students one by one, and the grey eyed boy gave polite congratulations to all his friends as they showed off theirs. All the while, though, he kept his eyes out for his, and was just starting to get worried when he saw his own special instructor walk up to him with a carefully wrapped package. He opened his hands to take it, but instead she knelt down, jean-covered knees in the dirt, and held it so he could unwrap it himself. He knelt down too, which made her smile, but he could tell from her face that she knew how important this was. Oh so slowly he pulled away the brown paper... and then, there was his bowl. Smooth and black and curvy-- and beautiful. He could see that one side was the tiniest bit slanted, and as he turned it over it looked like a half finger smudge on the bottom, but you could hardly tell.
Over his head he could hear his teacher going on about such an *unusual* colour and how much talent he had and thank you so much for the pottery class the children really enjoyed it.... He supposed she was talking to his instructor, but the instructor looked like she was paying more attention to what he was saying with his hands as he ran his fingers over every centimeter of his bowl. When his teacher finally paused for breath, he finally looked up at the instructor. He realised she had grey eyes too, and smiled at a private thought. Maybe there was a magic to black clay that only grey eyed people could bring out? She nodded at him as if she had heard what he was thinking, all of it, but just to make sure he added, "And thank you. Very much for the grey clay, and helping me make my bowl. I love it."
And so did his mother.
The End.
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