I've always believed in magic. Some of you may scoff at that, which
is understandable. The common urban life with its endless strings of malls
and coffee shops and office buildings leaves little room for anything but
cold, hard, and, dare I say it, boring sensibility.
Yet once one gets out into the country with the little villages that still dot it, he'll find that a touch of folk mysticism still remains. I grew up with a distinct faith in such things as fairies and enchantments. My parents did not have a television when I was young, so my toddlerhood entertainment was crawling through the ranch lands hoping for a peek at the sprites my mother had mentioned or venturing out into the nearby woods atop my father's horse, his strong arms around me. And sometimes, when the weather turned cold and night intruded early, I'd sit in the den, eyes wide as I watched my mother perform her little spells. They were nothing serious, just trivial twists of light, color, and shadow, butterflies and birds and flowers that so vividly lit up the room on those dark nights. She'd tell stories with the lights, stories about princesses who lived in the flowers and brave knights transformed into birds.
My father was always there, too. He never missed a performance. Sometimes he'd laugh at my reactions, his mossy green eyes-the one thing I inherited from him-lighting up. He loved Mom-perhaps too much. I never did hear the story of how my parents met, but I had always been reminded of the story where a farmer spied a fairy woman dancing and subsequently captured her for his wife.
I don't remember any fighting, those terrible arguments the other kids at school were so frightened of. Of course, I was only four at the time Mom threw our things in the back of her truck. I do remember watching my father standing at the gate as we drove off.
We lived with Grandma after that. I liked her. She was a sweet little old woman who was born, raised, and planned to die just outside of Burley, Idaho. She was cookies, pasta, cornbread, and hugs. She was also stories. Grandma told stories that exceeded even Mom's, stories about pioneers and the Shoshone people and jaguar spirits in the jungles of South America. She could make light and shadows dance, but she was more famous for her cures. She couldn't do much about cancer or anything like that, but she could fix little things.
Grandma didn't understand why Mom divorced my father. It was the one thing they argued about.
"I always liked Justin," Grandma would say as if her opinion was what the media desired. "He's a nice, good man. Honest and hard-working. No Shoshone or Chilean blood, but a good man just the same."
Mom would just sigh and roll her dark eyes. "S?, Mama. But I want something more than that. Justin was boring. I want something more exciting. And Nevada needs something more."
"You don't need more! Nevada would have been fine there. You always want too much. You won't even let Justin see his own daughter."
This was when I would chime in. "I'm happy here. I don't need Daddy."
"See? She doesn't need her father," Mom would say.
"And she's happy here!" Grandma would shoot back.
My contribution never settled the argument. I was always the median, but never the peace-maker.
Our Burley experience lasted three long and happy years. For me, anyway. Then cancer reached Grandma, and the fourth year was nothing but hospitals and doctors and tears. But there were still cookies and pasta, cornbread and hugs, and stories until the day Grandma went to heaven.
Then there was the city. Even when we were with Grandma, Mom would drive every morning to the city to work for her company, whatever that meant. When we moved there, I didn't mind it. It wasn't Burley, but it was exciting. And it seemed that Mom was satisfied there. She met a nice man who told her he loved her and bought her a ring. But the wedding never happened.
Mom wanted to leave again, and I didn't want to go.
"What about my friends?" I screamed, my twelve-year old lungs reaching their max. "What about what I want?"
"You'll make new friends," she replied calmly. "And you don't even know what you want."
I don't think she did.
And so it was settled. We both left. She for wherever, and me back to my father.
To be continued.
Yet once one gets out into the country with the little villages that still dot it, he'll find that a touch of folk mysticism still remains. I grew up with a distinct faith in such things as fairies and enchantments. My parents did not have a television when I was young, so my toddlerhood entertainment was crawling through the ranch lands hoping for a peek at the sprites my mother had mentioned or venturing out into the nearby woods atop my father's horse, his strong arms around me. And sometimes, when the weather turned cold and night intruded early, I'd sit in the den, eyes wide as I watched my mother perform her little spells. They were nothing serious, just trivial twists of light, color, and shadow, butterflies and birds and flowers that so vividly lit up the room on those dark nights. She'd tell stories with the lights, stories about princesses who lived in the flowers and brave knights transformed into birds.
My father was always there, too. He never missed a performance. Sometimes he'd laugh at my reactions, his mossy green eyes-the one thing I inherited from him-lighting up. He loved Mom-perhaps too much. I never did hear the story of how my parents met, but I had always been reminded of the story where a farmer spied a fairy woman dancing and subsequently captured her for his wife.
I don't remember any fighting, those terrible arguments the other kids at school were so frightened of. Of course, I was only four at the time Mom threw our things in the back of her truck. I do remember watching my father standing at the gate as we drove off.
We lived with Grandma after that. I liked her. She was a sweet little old woman who was born, raised, and planned to die just outside of Burley, Idaho. She was cookies, pasta, cornbread, and hugs. She was also stories. Grandma told stories that exceeded even Mom's, stories about pioneers and the Shoshone people and jaguar spirits in the jungles of South America. She could make light and shadows dance, but she was more famous for her cures. She couldn't do much about cancer or anything like that, but she could fix little things.
Grandma didn't understand why Mom divorced my father. It was the one thing they argued about.
"I always liked Justin," Grandma would say as if her opinion was what the media desired. "He's a nice, good man. Honest and hard-working. No Shoshone or Chilean blood, but a good man just the same."
Mom would just sigh and roll her dark eyes. "S?, Mama. But I want something more than that. Justin was boring. I want something more exciting. And Nevada needs something more."
"You don't need more! Nevada would have been fine there. You always want too much. You won't even let Justin see his own daughter."
This was when I would chime in. "I'm happy here. I don't need Daddy."
"See? She doesn't need her father," Mom would say.
"And she's happy here!" Grandma would shoot back.
My contribution never settled the argument. I was always the median, but never the peace-maker.
Our Burley experience lasted three long and happy years. For me, anyway. Then cancer reached Grandma, and the fourth year was nothing but hospitals and doctors and tears. But there were still cookies and pasta, cornbread and hugs, and stories until the day Grandma went to heaven.
Then there was the city. Even when we were with Grandma, Mom would drive every morning to the city to work for her company, whatever that meant. When we moved there, I didn't mind it. It wasn't Burley, but it was exciting. And it seemed that Mom was satisfied there. She met a nice man who told her he loved her and bought her a ring. But the wedding never happened.
Mom wanted to leave again, and I didn't want to go.
"What about my friends?" I screamed, my twelve-year old lungs reaching their max. "What about what I want?"
"You'll make new friends," she replied calmly. "And you don't even know what you want."
I don't think she did.
And so it was settled. We both left. She for wherever, and me back to my father.
To be continued.