James Choron April, 2011

I’ll Never Leave You, Mama

It was a warm and sunny day in late spring, and the two little boys had been
out, like most of the local children, playing in the forest, and picking
berries… a common enough passtime for a pair of six years olds in a sleepy
little Russian village. It was 1962… a tense year for the world as a whole,
but not so tense for the inhabitants of Stoyietal, which, having been
bypassed by the recently constructed M-8 Motorway, was a lethargic place,
with most of the local “community” life centered around the usual Russian
activites of work, school, The Party and The Church. The old Moscow to
Yaroslavl Highway… the road that bisected the little city, was mostly unused
now, and generally served only to provide transport into Moscow the products
of the local factory, a conduit for heavy trucks laden with bricks, lumber,
cement and other items necessary to the building boom instituted a few years
earlier by then Premier Nikita Kruschev. In short, life was good in
Stroyital.

The two little boys crossed the old highway north of the city and started
out into the forest in the general direction of Taratovka, the next little
village, some five kilometers distant. They had intended to walk to
Taratovka, picking berries as they went, and catch the local electric train
back to the Stroyietal Platform… a two or three minute ride. Sasha and
Pasha… Alexander and Pavel… had been friends for all of their short lives.
They had both been born in Stroyietal, had grown up together, living in the
same building, in adjoining flats, and… that very year… starting school
together at Public School 284. They were typical “best friends” and were
certain that they would be so for “life”.

The trip through the woods to Taratovskaya was without incident. The boys
had, in fact, a little trouble managing the heavy bucket that now coutained
some five kilograms of berries that they had picked along the way. They were
glad to get on the train, even for the three minute ride back to their own
platforn… just so they could put it down and rest their tired little hands.

The conductor… there were live conductors in those days… announced
Stroyietal Platform. Of course, the boys were already aware of this fact.
They picked up their bucket and left the train along with all of the other
commuters. It was now only a short walk home for them. They would make it
long before supper, and have plenty of time to wash their berries… and of
coursse… cram a few down as they did it.

Fifty feet from the platform, they came to their first, and only obstacle.
The road leading to their block of apartments crossed the old Moscow to
Yaroslavl Highway, just as it came out of a blind curve. The boys looked
carefully… both ways… then started across. They never saw what hit them. The
hugh Zil truck… what the locals call a “Trumanski”… because it is a direct
copy of the GMC Ten Ton Army Trucks that Truman sent to the Soviet Union on
“lend lease”… rounded the curve in a scream of brakes and blaring horns. The
driver saw the two boys, but only too late… He literally ruptured the break
lines on the heavily laden truck trying to stop…. but…

Ten tons of cement in hundred pound bags added to the weight of the moving
truck made stopping impossible. The truck skewed, first to the right, and
then to the left, in a screem of tires and a cloud of dust as the driver
fought for control. He tried with all his might to herd the big machine away
from the two little boys and into the opposite ditch… It was an exercise in
futility…

With a sickening thump, the front of the Zil crashed into little Sasha
Lushkov, tearing him away from Pasha, who was clear of the road surface, but
only just…

The driver of the truck finally stopped the vehicle. Knowing what had
happened… what he had done… he jumped from his cab and ran to the crumpled
body of the little boy, now lying in a mangled heap, some twenty feet from
the roadbed. Little Pasha began to cry as he realized what had happened to
his “best” friend, and ran home, as fast as he could. It wasn’t far… not
far at all.

Strangely enough, Sasha still alive when the driver found him. He remained so
for several minutes… long enough for his friend, Pasha to return, leading
their distraught parents… Also surprisingly, the little boy was still
conscious… barely…

The local Militia, who had arrived to question the driver of the truck and
take the necessary statements had already summoned an ambulance. It was, of
course, too late… Little Sasha died in his mother’s arms, looking up in
seeming wonder at her pain-twisted face, and that of his best friend. He
could hear the plea in the voice as his mother begged him not to “leave”…
not to “go away”… In his little mind, he was unaware of his own condition…
only that his mother was afraid that he would leave her, and that she would
be “lonely”…

“Don’t cry, mama,” he whispered. You won’t be lonely… I’ll never leave you…
I’ll always be with you”. Then, he closed his little eyes, and died.

The funeral was one of the biggest in the history of Stroyietal. It wasn’t
every day that a child died. The schools turned out, the factory closed.
Everyone attended. The truck driver who had, of course, been absolved for
his part in the death, walked solemnly and silently beside the tiny casket,
huge sobs wracking his body as the procession wound it’s way to the
cemetery. Like everyone else in Stroyietal, he knew the family. His own
children were not much older than little Sasha.

Two years passed.

Another child came the following spring, and Pasha, still stopped by the
Lushkov’s flat every day to say hello. Sasha’s toys were still on the shelf
in the living room, and his little wooden chair still stood beside the
kitchen table. From time to time, his little sister would play with them,
but, even as she grew, she never sat in the little wooden chair. In time,
the Lushkovs decided that they needed more room, and began the process of
moving to a slightly larger flat that had become available on a different
floor of the building. As always, Sasha came over to help…

They were just getting ready to make the final trip, when someone noticed
that they had forgotten Sasha’s chair. It was still standing in its usual
place, beside the kitchen table. Irina Lushkov, Sasha’s mother, put down the
load of books that she was carrying, and stepped back into the now empty
flat. She quickly went into the kitchen and grabbed the little chair,
thinking to put the books in the chair, which was quite tiny and not heavy,
and take the entire load to the new flat all at once. When she stepped into
the kitchen, she noticed that the little chair was gently rocking back and
forth, shifting slightly from one side to the other as if someone had just
been sitting there, and had risen suddenly. She looked around the room. It
was empty. She called out to Pasha, who had been “helping” them move, and
asked him if he had been sitting in the chair. The boy came running back
into the flat, to see what his friend’s mother wanted, but, his answer to
her question was, of course… no… He had been well out into the hallway at
the time. Irina Lushkov looked around to see if the toddler, Marina, was in
the room… No… also in the hallway.

Strange… She then reached down to pick up the little chair… At first, it
seemed unusually heavy, and slightly cool to the touch… As she picked it up,
a tiny, child’s voice said… “Mama… I told you that I’d never leave you. I’ll
always be with you…”

Pasha, who was, at that time, standing just behind her, also heard the
voice… and recognized it instantly as that of his little friend… Today,
almost forty years later, a far-away look still crosses the big man’s
weathered face face as he tells this story… “As far as I know,” he says,
“Sasha is still with them… They live downstairs you know…”

© 2011: Dr. J. Lee Choron; All rights reserved unless specifically granted
by  the author  in writing.

Tags: story

• Articles

Administrator August, 2009

A Faery Myth

The Wonderful  Tune

Maurice Connor  was the king, and that’s no small word, of all the pipers in Munster. He could play jig and planxty without end, and Ollistrum’s March, and the Eagle’s Whistle, and the Hen’s Concert, and odd tunes of every sort and kind. But he knew one, far more surprising than the rest, which had in it the power to set every thing dead or alive dancing.

In what way he learned it is beyond my knowledge, for he was mighty cautious about telling how he came by so wonderful a tune. At the very first note of that tune, the brogues began shaking upon the feet of all who heard it – old or young it mattered not -just as if their brogues had the ague; then the feet began going – going – going from under them, and at last up and away with them, dancing like mad ! – whisking here, there, and everywhere, like a straw in a storm – there was no halting while the music lasted !

Not a fair, nor a wedding, nor a patron in the seven parishes round, was counted worth the speaking of with out “blind Maurice and his pipes.” His mother, poor woman, used to lead him about from one place to another, just like a dog.

Down through Iveragh – a place that ought to be proud of itself for ‘t is Daniel O’Connell’s country – Maurice Connor and his mother were taking their rounds. Beyond all other places Iveragh is the place for stormy coast and steep mountains : as proper a spot it is as an in Ireland to get yourself drowned, or your neck broken on the land, should you prefer that. But, notwithstanding, in Ballinskellig bay there is a neat bit of ground, well fitted for diversion, and down from it, towards the water, is a clean smooth piece of strand – the dead image of a calm summer’s sea on a moonlight night, with just the curl of the small waves upon it.

Here it was that Maurice’s music had brought from all parts a great gathering of the young men and the young women – O the darlints ! – for ’twas not every day the strand of Trafraska was stirred up by the voice of a bagpipe. The dance began; and as pretty a rinkafadda it was as ever was danced. “Brave music,” said every body, “and well done,” when Maurice stopped.

“More power to your elbow, Maurice, and a fair wind in the bellows,” cried Paddy Dorman, a hump-backed dancing-master, who was there to keep order. ” ‘Tis a pity,” said he, ” if we ‘d let the piper run dry after such music; ‘t would be a disgrace to Iveragh, that didn’t come on it since the week of the three Sundays.” So, as well became him, for he was always a decent man, says he: “Did you drink, piper ?”

” I will, sir,” says Maurice, answering the question on the safe side, for you never yet knew piper or schoolmaster who refused his drink.

“What will you drink, Maurice?” says Paddy.

” I’m no ways particular,” says Maurice; “I drink any thing, and give God thanks, barring raw water: but if ’tis all the same to you, mister Dorman, may be you wouldn’t lend me the loan of a glass of whiskey.”

“I’ve no glass, Maurice,” said Paddy; ” I’ve only the bottle.”

“Let that be no hindrance,” answered Maurice; my mouth just holds a glass to the drop; often I’ve tried it, sure.”

So Paddy Dorman trusted him with the bottle – more fool was he; and, to his cost, he found that though Maurice’s mouth might not hold more than the glass at one time, yet, owing to the hole in his throat, it took many a filling.

“That was no bad whiskey neither,” says Maurice, handing back the empty bottle.

“By the holy frost, then !” says Paddy, ” ’tis but could comfort there’s in that bottle now; and ’tis your word we must take for the strength of the whiskey, for you’ve left us no sample to judge by :” and to be sure Maurice had not.

Now I need not tell any gentleman or lady with common understanding, that if he or she was to drink an honest bottle of whiskey at one pull, it is not at all the same thing as drinking a bottle of water; and in the whole course of my life, I never knew more than five men who could do so without being overtaken by the liquor. Of these Maurice Connor was not one, though he had a stiff head enough of his own – he was fairly tipsy.

Don’t think I blame him for it; ’tis often a good man’s case; but true is the word that says, “when liquor’s in sense is out;” and puff, at a breath, before you could say ” Lord, save us!” out he blasted his wonderful tune.

‘Twas really then beyond all belief or telling the dancing. Maurice himself could not keep quiet; staggering now on one leg, now on the other, and rolling about like a ship in a cross sea, trying to humour the tune. There was his mother too, moving her old bones as light as the youngest girl of them all: but her dancing, no, nor the dancing of all the rest, is not worthy the speaking about to the work that was going on down upon the strand.

Every inch of it covered with all manner of fish jumping and plunging about to the music, and every moment more and more would tumble in out of the water, charmed by the wonderful tune. Crabs of monstrous size spun round and round on one claw with the nimbleness of a dancing-master, and twirled and tossed their other claws about like limbs that did not belong to them. It was a sight surprising to behold.

But perhaps you may have heard of father Florence Conry, a Franciscan friar, and a great Irish poet; bolg an dana, as they used to call him – a wallet of poems. If you have not, he was as pleasant a man as one would wish to drink with of a hot summer’s day; and he has rhymed out all about the dancing fishes so neatly, that it would be a thousand pities not to give you his verses ; so here’s my hand at an upset of them into English:

The big seals in motion,
Like waves of the ocean
Or gouty feet prancing,
Came heading the gay fish,
Crabs, lobsters, and cray fish,
Determined on dancing.

The sweet sounds they follow’d,
The gasping cod swallow’d;
‘T was wonderful, really !
And turbot and flounder,
‘Mid fish that were rounder,
Just caper’d as gaily.

John-dories came tripping;
Dull hake by their skipping
To frisk it seem’d given;
Bright mackrel went springing,
like small rainbows winging
Their flight up to heaven.

The whiting and haddock
Left salt water paddock
This dance to be put in:
Where skate with flat faces
Edged out some odd plaices;
But soles kept their footing.

Sprats and herrings in powers
Of silvery showers
All number out-number’d.
And great ling so lengthy
Were there in such plenty
The shore was encumber’d.

The scollop and oyster
Their two shells did roister,
Like castanets fitting;
While limpets moved clearly,
And rocks very nearly
With laughter were splitting.

Never was such an ullabulloo in this world, before or since; ’twas as if heaven and earth were coming together; and all out of Maurice Connor’s wonderful tune !

In the height of all these doings, what should there be dancing among the outlandish set of fishes but a beautiful young woman – as beautiful as the dawn of day.  She had a cocked hat upon her head; from under it her long green hair – just the colour of the sea – fell down behind, without hinderance to her dancing. Her teeth were like rows of pearl; her lips for all the world looked like red coral; and she had an elegant gown, as white as the foam of the wave, with little rows of purple and red sea weeds settled out upon it: for you never yet saw a lady, under the water or over the water, who had not a good notion of dressing herself out.

Up she danced at last to Maurice, who was flinging his feet from under him as fast as hops – for nothing in this world could keep still while that tune of his was going on – and says she to him, chaunting it out with a voice as sweet as honey -

” I’m a Iady of honour
Who live in the sea;
Come down, Maurice Connor,
And be married to me.

“Sliver plates and gold dishes
You shall have, and shall be
The king of the fishes,
When you ‘re married to me.”

Drink was strong in Maurice’s head, and out he chaunted in return for her great civility. It is not every lady, may be, that would be after making such an offer to a blind piper; therefore ’twas only right in him to give her as good as she gave herself – so says Maurice,

I’m obliged to you, madam :
Off a gold dish or plate,
If a king, and I had ‘em,
I could dine in great state.

With your own father’s daughter
I’d be sure to agree;
But to drink the salt water
Wouldn’t do so with me ! ”

The lady looked at him quite amazed, and swinging her head from side to side like a great scholar, “Well,” says she, ” Maurice, if you’re not a poet, where is poetry to be found?”

In this way they kept on at it, framing high compliments; one answering the other, and their feet going with the music as fast as their tongues. All the fish kept dancing too: Maurice heard the clatter, and was afraid to stop playing lest it might be displeasing to the fish, and not knowing what so many of them may take it into their heads to do to him if they got vexed.

Well, the lady with the green hair kept on coaxing of Maurice with soft speeches, till at last she overpersuaded him to promise to marry her, and be king over the fishes, great and small. Maurice was well fitted to be their king, if they wanted one that could make them dance; and he surely would drink, barring the salt water, with any fish of them all.

When Maurice’s mother saw him, with that unnatural thing in the form of a green-haired lady as his guide, and he and she dancing down together so lovingly: to the water’s edge, through the thick of the fishes, she called out after him to stop and come back. “Oh then,” says she, “as if I was not widow enough before, there he is going away from me to be married to that scaly woman. And who knows but ’tis grandmother I may be to a hake or a cod – Lord help and pity me, but ’tis a mighty unnatural thing! – and may be ’tis boiling and eating my own grandchild I’ll be, with a bit of salt butter, and I not knowing it ! – Oh Maurice, Maurice, if there’s any love or nature left in you, come back to your own ould mother, who reared you like a decent Christian ! ”

Then the poor woman began to cry and ullagoane so finely that it would do any one good to hear her.

Maurice was not long getting to the rim of the water; there he kept playing and dancing on as if nothing was the matter, and a great thundering wave coming in towards him’ ready to swallow him up alive; but as he could not see it, he did not fear it. His mother it was who saw it plainly through the big tears that were rolling down her cheeks; and though she saw it, and her heart was aching as much as ever mother’s heart ached for a son, she kept dancing, dancing, all the time for the bare life of her. Certain it was she could not help it, for Maurice never stopped playing that wonderful tune of his.

He only turned the bothered ear to the sound of his mother’s voice, fearing it might put him out in his steps, and all the answer be made back was – “Whisht with you, mother – sure I’m going to be king over the fishes down in the sea, and for a token of luck, and a sign that I’m alive and well, I’ll send you in, every twelvemonth on this day, a piece of burned wood to Trafraska.”

Maurice had not the power to say a word more, for the strange lady with the green hair seeing the wave just upon them, covered him up with herself in a thing like a cloak with a big hood to it, and the wave curling over twice as high as their heads, burst upon the strand, with a rush and a roar that might be heard as far as Cape Clear.

That day twelvemonth the piece of burned wood came ashore in Trafraska., It was a queer thing for Maurice to think of sending all the way from the bottom of the sea. A gown or a pair of shoes would have been something like a present for his poor mother; but he had said it, and he kept his word. The bit of burned wood regularly came ashore on the appointed day for as good, ay, and better than a hundred years. The day is now forgotten, and may be that is the reason why people say how Maurice Connor has stopped sending the luck-token to his mother.

Poor woman, she did not live to get as much as one of them; for what through the loss of Maurice, and the fear of eating her own grandchildren, she died in three weeks after the dance – some say it was the fatigue that killed her, but whichever it was, Mrs. Connor was decently buried with her own people.

Seafaring men have often heard, off the coast of Kerry, on a still night, the sound of music coming up from the water; and some, who have had good ears, could plainly distinguish Maurice Connor’s voice singing these words to his pipes: -

Beautiful shore, with thy spreading strand,
Thy crystal water, and diamond sand;
Never would I have parted from thee
But for the sake of my fair lady. [a]

[a] This is almost a literal translation of a Rann in the well-known song of Deardra.

Source: Thomas Crofton Croker – Fairy Legends and Traditions, first published 1825

republished by: Collins Press, Cork, 1998.

Tags: elves, faeries, faery, fairies, fairy, kin, myth, story, tale

• Articles

James Choron July, 2009

Chariots of Fire

The UFO wave of 1972-73 was the last “classical” UFO wave to sweep North America… at least the United States. It began in the fall of 1972, as a group of isolated, but seemingly consistent sightings in the Southwestern and Southeastern parts of the country, and eventually turned into a nationwide phenomenon. Now, many people will attribute these sightings to “natural” occurrences, and the U.S. Government certainly has ample “explanations” for each and every sighting, from “atmospherics” to “weather balloons” to “planetary alignments”… still… I know what I saw, and it wasn’t a weather balloon.

It was the second Friday in November, 1972, and the Center (Texas) Roughriders had just taken a 48 to 0 drubbing at the hands of the Carthage Bulldogs… at their homecoming… Now this kind of humiliation at one’s homecoming might sound just ghastly to any football fan, but it was not, in point of fact, the worst defeat suffered by the Roughriders that season… they had a perfect season, that year… didn’t win a single game. But, they did manage to get into the record books, two weeks later, when the (Longview, Texas) Pine Tree Pirates defeated them 72 to 0…with Pine Tree set up to score again when time ran out. It was the worst single defeat ever suffered by a Texas High School Football Team… a record that stands to this day…

It’s fairly easy for me to remember the date, because, even if the football game, that night, was less than memorable… what followed it was not. LaMoine, Charlie Harmon, Pedro and I, and another friend of ours named Rick Bauer, were all loaded into my old ’56 Pontiac (Old Matilda) and were headed home after the game. I usually got the driving detail in those days… with the rest of the guys buying the (35 cent a gallon) gas, since Old Matilda was one of the biggest cars in Center, she could accommodate something like ten of us if we packed her right. This was an especially useful characteristic on Wednesday nights, when you could get into the Apache Drive-in, and see a fairly good “B” movie for “One Dollar A Car”… no matter how many people were in it… and we could easily get ten or twelve in the car and another four (five, if one of them was short) in the trunk.

In any case, we were on our way home after the latest insult to our school pride on the football field, and were, in spite of this, in a generally good mood. I had a route I followed, which sort of went in a big circle, starting at the football field, and dropping people off until I eventually wound up home, myself. We had just gotten to Rick’s house and were all standing out in his front yard talking, when Pedro looked up at the sky and said “What’s that?”

Naturally, we all looked up…

Above us, in a perfectly clear Autumn sky, against a backdrop of stars, were three fairly large silver lights. They seemed to be moving, in a triangular, or diamond shaped formation, from roughly West to East… They looked to be, from where we were standing, about the size of a dime, and were circular. Each one, had a smaller, blinking greenish-blue light in the center, and a red light, that didn’t blink, in “front”… that is to say the part that was facing the direction that they were going… and they were going fast.

Now, anyone who has watched an airplane, especially at night, realizes that speed is not always reflected in what you can see. The sky is big, and even if a plane is moving relatively fast, it appears to move fairly slowly, because it is high up, and is seen against such a vast background. As I said, these objects appeared to be about the size of a dime, but they also appeared to be fairly high up… which means that they were huge… They were also moving fast enough that we had to physically turn to track them with our eyes… pretty fast.

Abruptly, they just stopped… They didn’t slow down. They stopped. They were completely dead in the air for a period of several seconds… still in their triangular formation, and still “pointing” the same direction… but absolutely motionless.

As we watched, a thin line of reddish light began to dart between the three shapes. It would go from one to the other, almost as if they were “shooting” it at each other… but… it didn’t seem to be a hostile act… Then, they began to move again, just as suddenly as they had stopped… in exactly the opposite direction. They headed back in the direction from which they had originally come.

Once again, they stopped suddenly, then seemed to shoot straight up, until they were almost out of sight. They then stopped again, seemed to change position slightly within their “formation” and started off, at what was literally a blinding speed, this time to the North, zig-zagging as they sped away…

A few seconds later, we heard a rumble from the East, and sonic booms, as what were obviously three very fast moving Air Force jets came into view from toward the Louisanna border. We were, in fact, so busy watching the show, that we hadn’t noticed several other cars that had stopped along the street, and their occupants were also watching the objects as they danced across the sky. One of these cars contained Ed Roberts and “Uncle” Charlie Johnson, two of our local police officers. Ed, a former Military Policeman, was observing the objects through a pair of binoculars, while Uncle Charlie was on the car radio, describing the scene to Mr. Buck Carriker, who was, at that time, Chief of Police. About every third word he uttered the phrase “Hell no, Buck, we ain’t drunk”.

Pedro (Charles Emanis) and I both worked for the “Champion”, a local newspaper. I had my camera in the car, as usual, but, this was years before the invention of “passive night optics”, and taking photos of the event was hopeless, event though we both tried. It didn’t matter. The story was all over the news the following day. Someone at Barksdale Air Force Base “leaked” the story to the press about how they had scrambled fighters to intercept three Unidentified Flying Objects, after reports of them had absolutely flooded all of the base’s incoming telephone lines. Barksdale was, and is to this day, headquarters for the 8th Air Force, one of a handful of bases in the U.S. which had, and still has, nuclear armed B-52 bombers airborne at all times as part of what was once called the “failsafe” system. They were naturally a bit concerned at the thought of “foreign”, unidentified aircraft invading their air space.

We “learned” two days later, from an “official” U.S. Air Force spokesman… who was intervied on every television and radio station in a three state area… that the incident had all been a “big misunderstanding”… that no fighters had been dispatched, since the Air Force “knew all along” that the “UFOs” in question were actually a “weather observation balloon, launched from a facility near Longview, Texas, which exploded due to unfavorable atmospherics, producing the “abnormal” lighting effects that had been wittinesed”.

Maybe they were right… On the other hand, it was 1972… maybe some long-haired hippie freak put LSD into the Center Water Supply, and we were all hallucinating… maybe… but I don’t think so…

Tags: story

• Articles

James Choron January, 2009

The time eventually came that just as Papa had promised all those years before Sherry and I got that “pretty piece of paper” that legally made us “man and wife”. It was hot that year, even for May in East Texas . Most people who were old enough said that it had already been the hottest spring since the end of “the war”. Of course even with Vietnam still raging, there was no doubt in anyone’s mind which war they were referring to. It promised to be a real scorcher of a summer. Not a sign of a breeze was stirring. The twenty-year-old air conditioner in our church struggled mightily – aided by antique ceiling fans – to keep everyone as comfortable as possible. Outside, the sun beat down from a clear blue sky and shimmering ripples of reflected heat rose lazily upward to meet again their source. The service was set to begin at two o’clock but as usual people began arriving a little after noon.

We had gotten up around six am and it had already been a long day.  Several months before, while everything was still in the ‘planning stage’ Sherry had found Mama Carries old wedding dress – perfectly preserved – and had decided that it was the ‘only thing’ to wear for her own wedding. Fortunately the two were about the same size and no alterations had been needed. Still, on the morning of May 19th 1972, exactly  67 years after it had been worn for the first time, it took us six hours to shove, cram, prize and push Sherry into it and all of the accompanying petticoats and other accessories.

It’s supposed to be ‘bad luck’ for the groom to see the bride just before the wedding, but that little bit of superstition came a little late for the two of us. Besides, if I hadn’t been there it would have taken a week for her to get dressed.

“Can’t you hold your breath Baby Girl?

“I am holding it Jimmy.”

“No you’re not, you’re talking.”

“Am not.”

“Are too, now shut up and hold your breath. Why in the name of God do you gotta wear all these damned drawers and petticoats anyhow?”

“The dress won’t hang right if I don’t.”

“Won’t ‘hang right’? Like who’s gonna know?” I pulled and tugged while she struggled and grunted.

“I will.”

“You don’t count. Now shut up and hold your breath and help me.” She clammed up and began to wiggle her bottom as I continued to pull at the recalcitrant petticoat. “Jesus Christ Baby Girl. We’ve still gotta get the dress on you over all of this.”

“We’ll make it.”

“Why couldn’t we get married at some nice nudist colony?”

She began to laugh. It was a good five minutes before we could resume the struggle.

Papa and Mama Carrie were sitting in the kitchen drinking coffee. They weren’t about to come into the bedroom while we fought the battle of the gown. Every once in a while we’d hear one of them laughing. Finally Mama Carrie got up and walked to the door, opened it just a crack and stuck her head inside. “What’s keeping you two? It’s eleven o’clock and we’ve got to be at the church by twelve-thirty.”

“Mama Carrie, her butt’s bigger than yours was when you were her age. We can’t get this stupid petticoat pulled up.”

“Shut up Jimmy. My butt is not big!”

“Yes it is,” I grinned, “but I like it that way. Now you shut up and help me pull.”

“I never have this much trouble with my ‘Halloween’ dress.”

“Mama Carrie was a year or two older when she bought that dress.”

“Not that much older.”

“It was enough. Now shut up and help me pull. Quit  breathing for heaven’s sake.”

Sherry exhaled hard and with four hands pulling we gave it another try. Still no luck.  The petticoat kept hanging just as we got it up to the lace frill around the bloomers that went with the outfit.

Mama Carrie walked slowly into the room and surveyed the problem. “Now Baby,” she smiled. “Jimmy’s got a point. You are… just a tad… bigger than I was when I married your Papa Pete… in the hips anyway. She shook her head and made little clucking sounds as she traced a circle around us and appraised the situation. Finally she came to a decision. “Jimmy, hold this for a minute”. With Sherry’s help she removed the petticoat and handed it to me.

“Now Sherry, shed the bloomers.”

She did.

“Here Jimmy. Hold these and give me the petticoat. We’ll put it on her first and then pull the bloomers up under it. She needs the petticoat to make the dress hang right but if we can’t get the bloomers up nobody’ll notice that. She can put on a pair of regular panties and pull them up under the petticoat.”

I nodded and took the bloomers.

It was still a struggle but with six hands working we got finally got the thing pulled up and in place. Finally, she stepped into the bloomers and carefully pulled them into place. “See… it worked. Thanks Mama Carrie.”

I grinned. “Yeah, thanks.”

It only took a few more minutes for her to slip the gown on over all of the underclothes. I buttoned as she smoothed and straightened. I smiled as I eyed the end result. “You’re beautiful Baby Girl,” I winked at her. “Even if your butt is too big for that petticoat.”

“Shut up Jimmy.”

“Why? I told you I like it that way.”

We both started to laugh.

Mama Carrie just shook her head in resignation and went back out into the kitchen to her now cold cup of coffee.

The six hour ordeal finally ended with Sherry standing in front of the full length mirror on our closet door and admiring herself as she pinned her veil into place. It only took me about five minutes, as usual, to put on my dress blue uniform jacket and adjust my cap. We walked out of the bedroom arm in arm, just as we would walk down the isle in less than two hours.

Papa and Mama Carrie rose from our tiny kitchen table and admired us as we walked into the room but they didn’t waste too much time doing it. As soon as both of them had decided that we both looked the way we should we loaded into Papa’s little Ford and set off for the church.

Our church had been built in the middle of the last century and air conditioning was a – much later – addition to the original plan of the little white frame building. With Papa being the only doctor in the county for so many years everyone knew him, and us, and the place was packed to the rafters. Even the parish hall, where we were supposed to wait for the services to begin, had people milling around in it. Now we were glad to have so many well-wishers, but it was hot. There’s no way to exactly describe how hot it was. You just have to live in East Texas to truly “appreciate” it. The ancient air conditioners wheezed and the even more ancient ceiling fans whirred and it was still blistering.

Papa wiped sweat from his brow and combed his unruly silver mane for the tenth time in as  many minutes and scowled. “I hope Ronnie keeps this short. Even the statue of the Holy Virgin’s breaking out in a sweat.” He tugged at his necktie while I ran two fingers down the front of my high collar hoping to let a little air inside my jacket.

Only minutes before the services began, Papa stepped over to the church proper and collared Father Brandley, our old parish priest, at Divine Infant  Catholic Church – and one of the guests of honor — and his young replacement Father Ron in the foyer as they greeted arriving guests. He had intended to let both of them know that we all wanted them to keep it short, but he didn’t have to.

Father Brandley had served our congregation for over forty years before his retirement, and naturally knew everyone in town. The old priest wiped has brow as his piercing eyes swept the crowd. “Jaysus wept, it’s hot today.” He crossed himself briskly. The inside of the church was like an oven. Even ceiling fans going at full tilt, the residual heat from a packed-to-the-rafters congregation was oppressive. He reached into a tiny cabinet, took out a pitcher and glass and poured himself a drink of tepid water. He then passed it on to Father Ron. “Here Ronnie, take a sip.” He nodded, as much to himself as to the younger man. “Take th’ pitcher an’ glass t’ th’ pulpit wid ye’ — Yer no after knowin’ how dry this wark can be as yet, but yer soon t’ be after larn. “Now, as I was sayin’ Ronnie. Keep in mind th’ farst rule o’ effective preachin’, which is this. Allus remember that th’ moind can only absarb tha’ what th’ arse can endure. Keep it shart. Tis too ‘ot fer ye t’ be windy.”’

The younger priest nodded as he wiped sweat from his own brow.

Papa came back to the parish hall and made his report. After about five minutes we heard the first strains of the processional and went to take our places in the foyer as we waited for Mrs. Harrison to begin playing the traditional ‘wedding march’.

The dear old soul did things right. She played four choruses of “ruffles and flourishes” and then went into the wedding march. We set off down the isle. Papa and Mama Carrie waited proudly on either side of the altar for us to complete our march arm in arm. We had decided not to have bridesmaids or groomsmen because we had so many relatives and friends who would be offended by not being chosen. We walked our last few yards as “officially” single people alone, save for each other.

As we passed the section where our relatives sat we both stifled laughter as a tiny hand clapped my cousin Beverly on the shoulder. “Mamma?”  She ignored him. “Mamma?”  The little voice began again, this time just a bit louder and shriller. Still, she continued to ignored him. At least she tried. “Mamma?” This time the child was loud enough to be heard by the entire pew, by us, by Papa and Mama Carrie and by Father Ronnie. The five-year-old boy’s voice was pleading. “Mama, I gotta pee.” Beverly was mortified and looked it. “Shut up Mikey,” she hissed. The child grimaced.  “Mama, I gotta pee bad”. She grasped the child’s hand and squeezed tightly – perhaps a bit overly so – perhaps intentionally. “I thought I told you to shut up Mikey.” Then we all started snickering again when we heard a tiny, apologetic “uh-oh”.

We couldn’t help laughing that time. Neither could Papa, Mama Carrie or Father Ronnie.

We reached the front of the church right on cue and Father Ronnie began the ceremony immediately. He never missed a beat. We had already been to confession and taken communion the night before so we had been spared his homily, which had also been kept short due to the heat. All we had to endure was the actual recitation of the vows. I really don’t remember them. I know what they say but at the time, Sherry and I were too lost in each other to pay much attention except for answering when we were told to and waiting for the ‘big moment’. Finally he reached the point that everyone had been waiting for all afternoon – and Sherry and I had been waiting for all our lives. He pronounced us man and wife. He  then smiled and said. “You may now kiss the bride.” I did. We left the church running as the good Father intoned his benediction. He made a flourishing sign of the cross over the assembled congregation. He then raised his right hand in the symbol of the Holy Trinity. “And now may the grace of Our Lord and Savior Jesus Christ, the Love of God and the fellowship of the Holy Spirit,” he solemnly intoned, “abide with each and every one of us now and forevermore – Amen.” We were already half way across the parking lot by the time he managed to get out that “amen”.

***

We didn’t go on a “honeymoon”, after the ceremony we just went home as usual. We were still camped out with Papa Lee. By that time Papa was over 90 years old and had long since given up his medical practice. He wouldn’t admit it but he needed someone there with him and we were glad to take that place. In any event, when we got home that evening after the wedding and reception at the parish hall, Papa and I headed for the kitchen and a cup of coffee while Sherry made a bee-line for our bedroom. In ten minutes flat she reappeared clad in her usual “fashion” for the home – when Papa was at home — barefoot, with her hair down and wearing one of my green Marine Corps tee shirts over what God gave her. Now when you consider that it took both of us over six hours to prize, pull and shove her into that wedding dress, the time it took her to get out of it was nothing short of a miracle. She had a devilish grin on her face and something hidden in clenched left her hand. She walked up to Papa and hugged him. “Papa, we’re married now y’know.”

I knew something was coming. I just didn’t know what. I sat at the kitchen table, sipped at my coffee and watched the show. I knew better than to open my mouth.

Papa smiled and nodded. “Thank you Jesus.” The old man rolled his eyes comically, looked up to the ceiling and crossed himself.

“Well,” she went on with her usually bubbly voice and that evil grin getting bigger by the minute. “I’ve been waiting over three years for this.”

“Funny, I thought it was loner than that.” He chuckled.

“No… not to get married, Papa, to do this..”

What’s that Little Sqaw?”

“This.” She walked over to the kitchen sink, turned on the cold water tap and flipped on the disposal. She turned toward Papa and opened her clenched fist revealing half a package of birth control pills. She then very flamboyantly opened box, took out the plastic topped card inside, then very carefully popped each little plastic bubble and dumped the pill inside into the palm of her hand. “You remember these Papa Lee?”

Papa nodded. “Yeah Little Squaw. I sure do.” He could tell what was coming and unfortunately so could I.

Then, without another word, my new, but not-so-new bride walked back over to the sink and dropped them down the drain one by one. There was a rattling sound that stretched out into infinity as each pill was converted to dust and useless slush by the whirring blades.

Papa shook his head slowly and began to chuckle again. He smiled knowingly at her as he walked over to the table, sat down and began sipping at his coffee. “Somehow I was expecting that.” Then he glanced over the table at me and said “Grandson, you’ve got troubles.”

As soon as the last pill hit the grinder, Sherry came over, plopped down in my lap, picked up my cup, took a long sip of my coffee and said “Oh, it’s no trouble at all Papa.” Then she put her arms around me and chirped merrily “Is it Jimmy?”

“Oh no… No, it’s no trouble at all.” I tried hard to look as happy as she did.

Papa grinned. “Then why does your face look like she just said ‘my, doesn’t he look natural’ or ‘look at all the pretty flowers’?”

My attention was fixed on the three miserable stripes on the sleeve of my dress blues and the equally miserable salary that accompanied them.

It’s a matter of definition really. You see, Sherry and I both being “only” children we had long before decided that we wanted a big family. The problem was our definitions differed considerably. Mine was something like three kids. Hers was a personal baseball team or rifle platoon. It was no secret, especially to my grandfather. It was also no secret that our roles in this ongoing project were, and had long been well defined. I was expected to nod my head in agreement, smile broadly and perform on demand. She was expected to look pretty, be cheerful at all times and swell up as required. The typical Marine Corps couple — something else that in spite of the old man’s wisecracks and ‘knowing’ looks, we had learned, and learned well, from him and Mama Carrie.

A little over ten months later,  with everyone who knew us counting backward on their fingers, in March of 1973, Sherry proved that it really wasn’t any trouble at all. And… there really were a lot of pretty flowers. When our Sammi was born, their room at the Camp Lejune base hospital looked like Sherry had just won the Kentucky Derby. Papa was about to turn 93 years old at the time and Mama Carrie was 86 but they were able to fly out and be with us. Both of them hung around long enough to see her produce one more of their great-grandchildren too.

© 2008 by Dr. J. Lee Choron; All rights reserved unless otherwise specified or granted by the author in writing.

Tags: story, true life, wedding

• Articles

Blacksun January, 2009

He sat across the narrow room from them as they ate their breakfast that morning.  An attractive woman with two children: a boy of around eight years and his younger sister, a wide-eyed and happy five- or six-year-old.  The mother was busy with her children but seemingly without the usual undertone of anxiety that he saw in so many young families these days.  The children also did not display the more common agitated behavior of youngsters who felt they had to compete for attention.  They showed all the enthusiasm and fearless engagement with life that he loved so much about children their ages.  He felt especially enchanted by the girl, but he thought a person would have to be frozen solid not to feel the warmth of her smile and sparkling eyes.  In fact, both children smiled easily, as did their mother.  He imagined the challenges of parenthood had been met head on by her and the father and they had found the right mix for their family.  It was a beautiful example of rightness the three presented that morning and he was thankful for being there to see it.

His own son had a daughter, now in her young teens.  He had not seen her for some time because they lived out of state, but he remembered back to when she had been the same age as the child he watched now.  There was such a wonderful energy with children, such magic.

He believed in magic.  In fact, that was a chief part of the story he was reading that morning.  The book before him was advertised as part of a children’s series about witches, wizards, dragons, and all kinds of magical things, but he loved the whole group of books and had picked up the latest one only a few days before.  It was his daily custom to sit at the McDonalds for an hour each morning and read before taking on the day’s duties.  Because reading was always such a pleasure for him, he thought of his morning routine as eating dessert first for his mind.  But he’d already taken his usual hour and the day, like he, wasn’t getting any younger.  He gathered the detritus of his breakfast, the strawberry jam cup and used napkins as well as the Styrofoam platter that had held his food, and took it all to the waste drop at one end of the room.  Then he came back to the table and picked up his book to go out to his car.

Passing by the young family’s table, the little girl pointed to his book and asked, “Is that a dragon?”  He looked at the cover of the book, which portrayed a beautifully drawn dragon on its cover and then smiled back at the girl.  “Why, yes.  Yes it is a dragon.”  The child spoke as clearly as any adult and was obviously accustomed to speaking with them on a somewhat equal basis.

“Dragons aren’t real, you know.”  She spoke with the conviction of a scholar on such matters and her innocent face showed she only wanted to make sure the man wasn’t laboring under any delusions.  Out of the corner of his eye he noted that her older brother was nodding in agreement and there was a slight smile of delight from the mother at her child’s precociousness.  He decided that the day’s routine could withstand a bit of delay.

He slowly changed his face and pretended to be shocked.  “Why, that’s preposterous, my young lady.  Whoever told you such a thing?”  She silently pointed to her brother who had his mouth full with a breakfast sandwich at the moment, unable to do anything except nod in confirmation to the man.  “Well,” he said with a dismissive gesture, “obviously, your brother has been misinformed as well.  I’m sure he wouldn’t tell you such a thing if he didn’t believe it to be true.”  He returned his gaze to the girl and held up the book’s cover so it could be seen clearly by her.  “So, if dragons aren’t real, just how do you think this book’s cover got a picture of a dragon on it?”

“That’s not a picture,” she said condescendingly, “that’s a drawing.”  The mother’s grin grew by another degree or two.  He gave her a quick wink and smiled back at the little girl.

He tried to imitate her when he spoke again.  “I know that.  But it’s a picture nevertheless.  Drawings are pictures from the mind.  Obviously it’s not a photograph of a dragon; dragons simply can’t be photographed.  They’re magical after all.”

The girl seemed to deliberate on the logic of his last statement.  Then she spoke up again, obviously delighted with having found a flaw in the man’s thinking.  “You’re just being silly.  Magic isn’t real either.”  She flashed a look of triumph at the man, satisfied that her argument was complete and without any vulnerability.

“Oh, my dear,” he said, looking sad, “I’m so very unhappy to hear you say that.  Your life must be very dreary indeed.  How can you believe that when magic happens all around you all the time?”

She studied the man’s face for a moment, looking for any hint of deception on his part.  Not finding any, she sat back, looked at her mother, and then back at the man before making a reply.  In a somewhat softer tone, she said, “It does?”

“Oh yes, absolutely!”  He held the book up again.  “Why, this very book is a wonderful magical tool.  With it, I can travel to places I’ve never been before, talk with new and wonderful people,” he looked around, checking that their conversation was not being overheard, “and some of those people aren’t people people, you know.  They’re really elves, you know.”  He straightened back up and continued.  “I can even ride dragons!  So don’t tell me that magic isn’t real.”

The girl was about to speak again when he purposely cut her words off.  With an exaggerated prideful look, he looked down his nose and said, “I can even do magic that I’ll be you can’t do!”

She frowned at the old man’s boast and quickly replied.  “No you can’t.”

“Ah, but I can.  And furthermore, young lady, if you persist in believing that magic isn’t real, you’ll never be able to do the magic that I can do.”  He tapped the book to punctuate his words and posed importantly, looking down his nose once again at her.  He was sure she’d take his bait and he didn’t have to wait long to have his belief confirmed.

“What magic can you do?”

He raised his eyebrows dramatically.  “I can read!”  He puffed out his chest for emphasis.

The little girl smiled brightly and proclaimed that her mother was teaching her to read as well.  He looked back and forth between the little girl and her mother several times until the child began to giggle at his exaggerated perplexed expression.  Then he relaxed his posing and said in an off-hand tone, “Well, I suppose that’s because your mother is a great magician; she can do anything.”

“No she’s not; she’s my mommy.”

“Well, yes, isn’t that what I just said?  That makes her the greatest magician there ever was.  Now you’re being silly.  Didn’t you know that mothers are magicians?”  The girl looked back at her mother with newfound respect.  Then she turned back to the man and answered his question with a small shake of her little head.  “Of course they are,” he said.  “Your mother can perform the most wonderful magic of all.  She can do magic that is more powerful than all the other magics in the world… combined.”

A look of wonder came into the girl’s face as she looked wide-eyed at her mother.  “What magic can you do, Mommy?” she asked almost in a whisper.  The woman briefly looked up at the man and said to her daughter.  “Why don’t you ask the man, Jenny?”  The girl turned back to him and asked him the same question, still in a hushed voice.

“Well,” he said softly, “I’m surprised you have to ask, because I can see with my own eyes that she has already begun to teach you this great and wonderful magic.”  The girl gave her mother another bewildered look and then turned to the old man again.  “The greatest magic in the world,” he continued, “the most power magic that has ever been done by any person, elf, or even dragon, is called love, Jenny.  It is what has made you, me, your brother, even your mommy and daddy all possible.  And mommies can do it better than anybody.  Obviously, you can do it too.  And by the time you are a mommy, you’ll be able to do this magic just as well… maybe even better… than your mommy.”  Then he stood back up and said, “That is, of course, if you stop all this foolishness about magic not being real.”

She quickly wanted to set the record straight with the man.  “I love my mommy… and my daddy and Freddie,” she pointed to her brother, “and Grandma and Grandpa and Potty and…”

Her mother broke in to explain the last name when he raised his eyebrows.  “Potty is our Potbellied pig.  Jenny named her that when she was younger because… well.”  The youngster just kept on reciting the people and things she loved, which was an impressive list to be sure, until she had to pause before finding anyone else whom she hadn’t already named.

Then the old man bowed low to the little girl, to her brother and finally to her mother.  He stood back up again to give them a smile and a tip of his hat.  “Then I shall ask the next very dragon that I see to watch over you and your family, Jenny-who-is-learning-the-greatest-magic-of-all, for you all are a great treasure indeed.  And, as I’m sure your mother can tell you, dragons always do a very good job of guarding treasures.”

Then the old man turned and walked away, knowing that magic was alive and well in McDonalds.

Tags: magic, magick, mcdonalds, miracle, story

• Articles

Lynn OBrien November, 2008

Samhain

The clouds gathered overhead, the full moon shone like a beacon on the brisk fall night. Cloaked figures gathered around a circle….a medicine wheel garden. Everyone wore a black cloak…everyone except the High Priestess, she wore a dark green cloak of the softest velveteen. Her features obscured by the drapes of the hood, she raised her arms to the heavens and called out to the Goddess she loved.

The rest of the coven followed suit, raising their arms as if to gently lift down a sacred and treasured object from overhead. Their voices joined the high priestess’s in praise and reverence. Candles flickered and the winds inside the circle calmed to almost nothing, while the weather outside changed none.

The light from the moon shone on the upturned faces of the night flowers, making them shine and glow with an eerie yet beautiful essence. Off in the distance you could hear the faint howl of a coyote….and the hoot of an owl. Animals of the woods gathered just outside of the circle’s reach, lending their own magick to the sacred ceremony taking place.

Just down the main path from the garden stood a small, church-type building. Once a house, it was made into a sanctuary for the coven, with a house off to the side for the high priestess and her pets. She had a producing garden of fruits, vegetables and herbs just outside her backdoor. Known by the coven as not only the high priestess but a healer and shaman, she made her own poultices, salves, lotions, soaps and so forth.

Tonight, on the night of the full moon, was the Samhain ceremony. Typically known to most others as Halloween, this was one of the most sacred of holidays observed by this coven and others around the world. A day to honor those who have passed over the Rainbow Bridge and to make the veil between the two worlds thin, the coven had much to honor and be thankful for.

After the circle ceremony was over, the group gathered at long tables inside the small sanctuary and feasted on dishes prepared by the coven members earlier in the day. Places were set for those who were feasting from a different world, honored and never forgotten.

wafted in from the other room, sometimes some good old fashioned rock and roll, sometimes newer, more modern pagan rock or quieter, calmer instrumental music played. The people were full of food, good memories and magickal energies. Each shared a story about one of the places that they had set at the table, bringing the spirit of that person to live for those in the room.

Children played and those who knew and understand the ways of the coven were able to take part in the ceremony outside earlier. After all was done, the children dressed up in their finest Halloween attire and traipsed off to go plunder the houses nearby for some sweet Halloween treats.

Watching from her lofty perch on the Moon, the Goddess smiled as she took the hand of her consort, the God. Her children were many in number, even if they were not close by to one another. Yet their energies kept them in touch, even if by the merest threads of magick. One day, their children would be great in number, spreading the word of the Goddess and God all over the world, so that everyone may hear and listen to the wisdom of the ages….Harm ye none, do as ye will!! So Mote It Be!!!

Tags: fiction, samhain, story

• Short stories

Administrator August, 2006

On a long hot summer day, Nadia and her fellow young sea nymphs swam and played in the ocean. Then they decided to go into the cove and tease the human children from the village. This is something they did regularly. See the sea nymphs were magickal creatures that had been around long before humans and felt superior to them.

As they approached the cove, they heard the familiar laughing and splashing of the same children that were usually in the cove. They pulled the same tricks they pulled most days. They tugged on their legs under the water. They pulled their hair. They took turns doing the various things that came to their mind to annoy or harass the children. The children were annoyed and finally gave up trying to have fun at the beach and got out of the water and went home. The sea nymphs swam off laughing to themselves at the fun they had had.

One of the little boys that had been at the cove was named Jack, he was five. When he got home, he was pretty mad about the sea nymphs always ruining his trips to the beach with his friends. After he took off his wet clothes and changed for dinner, he went into the kitchen. His mom was in their finishing up dinner and getting it on the table.

She smiled at him when she saw him come in and said “Hi, Jack. How was your day?”

He looked up at her still annoyed and shrugged. “Okay, I guess” he said.

“What’s wrong Jack?” she asked. “Were the sea nymphs bothering you and your friends?

He looked at her in wide eyed surprise. He had no idea any of the adults knew of the sea nymphs.

“Yes, Jack” she said. “I know about the sea nymphs.”

“You see when I was a young child they played tricks on me and my friends as well.” She said in explanation.

“Really, mom?” Jack asked

“Yes son. You see they have been doing this to each generation of humans since humans first began to venture to the seas.” She continued. “They are older and more magickal than us and feel we are inferior and therefore they toy with us.”

“But mom it isn’t fair.” Jack said.

“I agree it isn’t but it is a part of life.” Then she explained. “You see Jack in life there are people and nymphs that will do mean things to you and you cannot control their actions only your own actions and reactions.”

“I don’t understand” Jack said

“Well, Jack, you have to decide what kind of person you will be.” She continued. “You can either be rude and petty like the sea nymphs or you can be kind and generous and be able to look at yourself in the mirror each morning.”

“I think I understand, mom. But I still don’t think it is fair.” Jack said.

Smiling, Jack’s mom said “I know, Jack. Life often isn’t fair.”

So the next day after school, Jack and his friends were back at the cove playing. Jack had thought about what his mom said but still hoped that the sea nymphs wouldn’t show up today; he didn’t want to deal with them.

Just as the kids were starting to relax and have fun, thinking they had lucked out and the sea nymphs would not come today; they began to feel the familiar pulls on their legs. They groaned out loud and moved to get out of the water. They weren’t in the mood to deal with them today. As they went to get out of the water, they heard a screaming sound. They looked back and noticed that today, unlike most days, that it was only one sea nymph instead of a group, and she seemed to be having some trouble.

At first the kids were going to walk away and leave the sea nymph to her problems, after all what did they care after all the mean things she had done to them. As they started to leave, Jack thought about what his mom said and realized that this was what she was talking about. He had to make a choice as to whether he was going to be mean and petty like the sea nymphs or be kind and generous.

Making up his mind, he called to his friends to come back.

“Come on guys. We can’t leave her like that. We are not mean and petty like they are.” He said.

His friends looked at him in doubt at first and hesitated.

Jack had made up his mind though and he jumped in the water and swam out to help the sea nymph. As he got there he realized her tail was caught by a giant clam. Hard as he tried he couldn’t get it free. He was getting exhausted; when suddenly his friends were all around him helping him. With a mighty pull, they got the sea nymphs tail loose.

The sea nymph was so relieved and shocked.

“I don’t know how to thank you.’ She said

“Why did you help me after all the mean things we did to you?” She asked

“Because.” Jack explained. “Even though you and your friends were mean and petty, we decided we didn’t have to be as well.”

“I will make sure all the other sea nymphs know of your kindness and bravery and that humans should never be treated unkindly again. I want to apologize for everything we did to you and thank you for saving me.” She said with tears in her eyes.

As she swam away she waved goodbye and Jack and his friends waved goodbye to her as well.

From that day forward the sea nymphs and humans were wonderful friends.

***

author bio:

Mundane Name: Debra Clapp

Magickal Name: Lexxa MoonCat

lexxamooncat@hotmail.com

http://groups.msn.com/MollysMagickalCorner/

I am 36 years old share my life in the country in Georgia with my husband of almost ten years, my cat, my dog and my two parakeets. I am an Eclectic Solitary Wiccan. I have been on my path for about four years and still learning so much every day. Telling my nephews bedtimes stories has been the inspiration for my current short story and the beginning of several more still in development. So I am dedicating my first published story to Edward and Alex. They help me see the magick in everything.

Tags: children, debra clapp, story

• Articles