Melissa's Magic Bracelet

Melissa’s Magic Bracelet

                                                By Valerie L. Egar

“Wow, a bracelet!” Melissa’s eyes glowed. She pulled a circle of turquoise beads from the small box and stretched it over her wrist. It fit perfectly.   

Of all the birthday presents she received, she liked the bracelet from Grandma and Grandpa best.  The beads were the same color as the eggs shells she found in spring at the bottom of trees, after baby robins hatched. The same color as the ocean water in Key West when her family vacationed there. It was her favorite color and she was happy Grandma and Grandpa knew that.

The next day Melissa found a four-leaf clover on the school playground. She picked it and ran to show her teacher, Mr. Wilkins.  He showed her how to press it in a book, so she could save it.

“Aren’t four-leaf clovers lucky?”

“People think that because they’re rare,” said Mr. Wilkins.

“I think I found it because my bracelet is magic,” said Melissa.

“I think you found it because you noticed it looked different from the others,” said Mr. Wilkins.

That evening, Melissa went to the Dairy Delight with her best friend Cary. She saw a dollar bill blowing across the parking lot and picked it up. “Look what I found!”

“Oh my,” said Cary’s mother.  She looked around to see if anyone was chasing after it, but no one was.

“I found the dollar, because I have a magic bracelet,” said Melissa.

“I think you found it because it blew this way,” said Cary’s mom. “I bet you found money before and you didn’t have the bracelet.”

“That’s true,” said Melissa. “But only pennies and a few coins. Never a dollar.”

More magic happened the next day at school. Though the class was supposed to have a math test, Mr. Wilkins was absent and hadn’t left the tests for the substitute. In gym, they got to play volleyball and Melissa’s team won. Lunch was pizza. Magic was everywhere!

“But Melissa,” Dad said, “the lunch menu was printed in the newspaper last week before you had the bracelet, and pizza was what was going to be served today.”

“But the cafeteria lady could have changed her mind and served Tuna Noodle Awful,” said Melissa.

“Has that every happened?”

“No, but there’s always a first time.”

Dad sighed.

Every time Melissa mentioned her bracelet was magic, somebody pointed out there was no such thing. Dad explained that the bracelet gave her confidence, and that’s why she got an ‘A’ on her science test. When she made cookies and they came from the oven soft and delicious—as they had never before— Mom said the magic was that cooking took practice and Melissa was getting better at it. Her bracelet had nothing to do with it.

Melissa’s Grandma visited on the weekend and they took a long walk along the river.  Melissa told her all that happened during the week. “I think my bracelet is magic, but everybody says there’s no such thing.”

“What do you think?” asked Grandma.

“I think it is, but I want to know what you think.”

Grandma smiled. “The way you see the world is magic, Melissa.  Was finding the four-leaf clover a thrill?”

“Yes! The dollar too.”

Grandma laughed. “Winning  volleyball, pizza for lunch, no math test— you saw magic in that, too.”

“It was a good day!”

“Yes. But to many people, it would just be another day. How you saw it made it magic.”

Melissa thought about that.

“You put the magic in the cookies you baked and in your science test.”

“So, it’s not the bracelet?”

 “A pretty bracelet always helps make magic,” Grandma said. “It’s a little like Superman’s cape.” Grandma pointed to the pretty turquoise bracelet she was wearing and winked.

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Copyright 2017 by Valerie L. Egar. May not be copied or reproduced without permission from the author. 

Published May 7, 2017 in Journal Tribune Sunday (Biddeford, ME).

Victory for the Wee People

                                 Victory for the Wee People

                                                           by Valerie L. Egar

           

Bronwyn, one of the Wee People, stood on a thin branch in the oak tree and looked down. She saw two red trucks and a group of people walking back and forth, talking. “The road will cut through right here,” a man said.

“What about that tree?” another man asked. He pointed to the oak. Everyone consulted a large piece of paper with drawings on it.

“The plan shows the road running through it. The tree has to go.”

“Oh, no!” Bronwyn screamed, but she was so tiny only a few people heard and they thought it was a cricket.

The tree was old and had survived many seasons— spring floods, summer droughts, autumn hurricanes and winter ice storms. Its age gave it deep roots and a trunk so large, three people would need to hold hands to encircle it. Best of all, for hundreds of years, Wee People made the ancient tree their home.

Nestled together in a small cleft at the base of the tree, they stayed warm in winter. As spring came and the weather grew mild, they occupied the entire tree, frolicking among the leaves. Wee children attended school on the branch near the sparrow’s nest, while stores and businesses lined the lower branches. Fireflies lit the tree for summer parties and in the fall, the Wee People surfed the wind riding on colorful leaves.

The news quickly spread through the community and they gathered to think what they might do. All of them felt sorrowful. The tree held their history: this was where they made clouds and designed snowflakes . This is where they put the rainbows in dewdrops. Though there were other trees, this was their home, and they didn’t want to leave.

 “Oh, what can small, invisible creatures like us do to stop our tree from being cut down?” Bronwyn cried.

“Bad luck to the ones who do such things!” yelled Orson, one of the fiercest of the Wee People. “We can make sure of that!”

Starina was more level headed. “Our tree would still be gone. We want to make sure they don’t cut it down.”

“People don’t discourage easily, especially where roads are concerned,” Elfred said. He was old, and had seen many communities destroyed.

“Oh, I think we may be able to manage it,” said Starina.  “But we need all the Wee People magical power we can muster.”

Never had a road contractor experienced so much trouble! On the first day of work, he couldn’t find the plans, even though he’d placed them in the truck. When the foreman arrived, his plans blew away in a strong wind and disappeared. Work stopped for a few days while the plans were replaced.

When the work resumed, equipment breakdowns began. The bulldozer ran out of gas. One of the dump trucks mysteriously stopped running. Every time someone neared the tree with a chainsaw, it stopped running, or the chain broke.

The weather was odd, too. Downpours so hard that no one could see a thing. Tennis ball size hail. Wind so strong, people had to run for cover. Soon, the workers became wary of the job site. “Something strange is going on here,” they said.

One of the workers saw an interesting article in a newspaper and showed it to the foreman. In Iceland, the article said, roads are designed to avoid rock formations that house elves. Roads curve to avoid destroying the elves’ homes. “Do you think something like that is going on here?”

“Well,” the foreman said, “we’ve had nothing but trouble from the start. You might be right.”

The foreman talked to the contractor who talked to the engineer who talked to the people who ordered the road built. They were serious people and no one wanted to mention elves or Wee People or fairies. Instead the engineer used words like “bedrock,” and “substrate” and “chronological anomalies.” No one knew what in the world he was talking about, but it sounded smart and important, so when he suggested moving the road a mile away, they agreed.

 The Wee People laughed merrily and danced in the moonlight until dawn.

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Copyright 2017 by Valerie L. Egar. May not be copied or reproduced with permission from the author. 

Published April 30, 2017, Journal Tribune Sunday (Biddeford, ME).

Winter's Jealousy

Winter’s Jealousy

                                                     By Valerie L. Egar

           

Spring! Robins arrived and started hunting for good places to build nests. A few green shoots poked up in the woods and a light breeze carried the scent of thawing earth.

            In the Kingdom of Wee People, King Orin issued a proclamation: to celebrate spring’s arrival, everyone was invited to a kite festival. Afterwards, King Orin and Queen Lilliana would open their castle for a moonlight ball and everyone could dance until dawn.

            Every fairy in the Kingdom scurried to find things that could be fashioned into tiny kites— dried leaves, petals from a snow drop, stray feathers, bits of milkweed down.

Brock busied himself weaving thin reeds together to make his kite. He painted a purple butterfly on it with the blackberry paint he’d made in the summer.

Nixie made a box kite by lashing red tulip petals she’d cut into rectangles onto feather shafts. Her kite was well-made, and when she tested it, it flew well.

Donella took a shriveled leaf that cupped just enough to catch the wind and painted a fierce face on it. She braided a long tail from milkweed silk and attached it to the leaf. Now she had a dragon kite, with a very long tail.

 All across the Kingdom, tiny hands worked to make kites to welcome spring and as the wee people made their kites, their excitement grew. Spiders spun thread to tether the kites and a helpful beaver gnawed sticks into small pieces for the wee folk to use as reels. Birds were put on notice to leave the air space free and a gang of blue jays promised to patrol.

Everything was ready for a perfect spring celebration. With the warmer weather, even the apple tree opened a few early blossoms.

Winter glanced into his crystal ball and grew jealous. Though the wee folk liked sledding and ice skating, no one ever welcomed him or celebrated his arrival as enthusiastically as they did spring’s. They might sing songs around a bonfire or build a snowman or two, but even people who liked him were always happy to see him go.

“I’ll fix this!” Winter said. He took a big breath and began to blow. The sky darkened. The air grew nippy.

“Oh no!” King Orin thought.  “It feels like snow!” He consulted his weather oracle, Breena.

Breena held a feather in the air and cast a handful of salt into the wind.  She shook her head. “Winter’s trying his hardest to conjure up snow for tomorrow’s kite festival.”

“Terrible!” roared King Orin.

 Queen Lilliana started to cry. “There’s nothing sadder than apple blossoms killed by snow.”

Everyone in the Kingdom was worried, but Breena had an idea. She whispered in King Orin’s ear and he agreed her idea was a good one. He sent messengers throughout the Kingdom asking everyone to gather at the castle later that evening.

As the wind blew and a few snow flurries fell, King Orin addressed the crowd. “Before we celebrate the arrival of spring, I asked all of you here for a Thank You Celebration for Winter. I am so grateful for the quiet of winter, when I can think and plan for the new season.”

A wee farmer added, “Yes, I’m grateful for snow that waters the earth.”

Other voices chimed in. “Winter is the coziest time of year.” “ We’d never have hot chocolate if it wasn’t for winter.” “ Nothing is prettier than frost on window panes.” “I love snuggling under the blankets on long winter nights.” “The stars shine brighter in winter and without leaves on the trees, I can see them better.”

On and on the wee folk talked. Winter was so interested in what they had to say, he stopped blowing to listen.  They liked him!

King Orin said, “Each season in its own time, and we thank Winter for the time he has given us.”  Winter’s cold heart thawed and he smiled. He thought he’d enjoy seeing some colorful kites in sky, and though he would never admit it to anyone, he loved the scent of apple blossoms.

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Copyright 2017 by Valerie L. Egar. May not be copied or reproduced without permission form the author. 

Dirty Duck

Dirty Duck

                                                                           by Valerie L. Egar

            A flock of ducks roamed the barnyard on Krista’s parent’s farm. Though all of them were white, Krista knew how to tell them apart: some had a feather or two missing, or a different curve to their tail feathers. Others had freckled bills and one walked with a slight limp.

Krista fed the flock every morning and evening. They came to her call, “Here, duck, duck, duck, duck, ducks!”  A few bold ones stood close when she threw them cracked corn. Krista tried to teach them to eat from her hand by sitting still as a garden statute, but they shied away.

            In the spring, yellow ducklings quacked and followed their mothers around the barnyard. Krista liked watching the ducklings and noticed one stood out from all the others, because his downy feathers were unkempt and messy. Though Krista knew dirty feathers could mean the ducking was sick, she saw how eagerly he ate and knew he was healthy. She named him “Dirty Duck.”

            Dirty Duck was friendlier than the other ducklings and soon learned to take food from Krista’s hand. When she gently picked him up, he didn’t resist and allowed her to carry him around the barnyard. He was always the first to come running when Krista called.

            By the end of the summer, white feathers replaced fuzzy yellow down on all the ducklings. Krista easily recognized Dirty Duck: his white feathers were as soiled and sloppy as his downy feathers had been. From his head to his tail, he was freckled with dirt and true to his name, “Dirty Duck.”

            Krista had an idea. If Dirty Duck had a bath, maybe he would look like the other ducks.

            “Mom,” Krista said, “May I give Dirty Duck a bath in the tub?

            Mom thought for a moment.  She didn’t think ‘bath’ was the right word, because soap might harm the duck. Swimming in water might clean him up though. Since the farm didn’t have a pond, the bathtub was the only option.

“Will you help me scrub the tub after Dirty Duck swims in it?”  Mom asked.

            Krista promised that she would.

            Mom helped Krista run water for Dirty Duck. They made sure the water was room temperature, not too hot, not icy cold. They didn’t put anything in the water, so it would be like an outdoor pond.

            Krista went outside and called the ducks. She picked Dirty Duck up, carried him into the house and put him in the tub.

           Dirty Duck had never been swimming before. Back and forth he paddled, content to be in the water. Slowly, his feathers whitened.  Krista gently rubbed the top of his head and his neck with a moist paper towel until they were clean, too.

            When he finished swimming, Krista wrapped him in an old towel and carried him outside. “Now you’re not a dirty duck anymore,” she said. He flapped his wings and shook the water off. His white feathers glistened in the sun. “I might have to think of a new name for you.”

            When Krista called the ducks the next morning, Dirty Duck came running. She recognized him immediately because he was speckled with dirt as though he’d splashed in a mud puddle.
            She patted his head gently and sighed. “I guess you’re Dirty Duck and even a bath won’t change that.” He quacked at Krista and happily ate from her hand. 

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Copyright 2015 by Valerie L. Egar. May not be copied or reproduced without permission from the author.
Published November 5, 2015 in Making It At Home (Kennebunk, ME).

Emily Finds A Way

             Emily Finds a Way 

                                                By Valerie L. Egar

           

“Can dog fur be used for anything?” Emily wondered as she brushed Phoenix, a beautiful black and white Siberian husky. He was shedding his winter coat and after she brushed him, long strands of white wooly fur lay in heaps on the floor.

In the Randall family, almost everything was recycled or repurposed. When Emily’s Mom peeled vegetables, she saved the skins for the compost heap. Her Dad made a sturdy garden bench from an old bed he found in the attic. Grandma took the t-shirts Emily outgrew and made a snuggly quilt from them. If everything had a use, what could she do with Phoenix’s fur? 

            Emily swept the fur into a large shopping bag and went to the kitchen to ask  Mom.  “Can we add Phoenix’s fur to the compost?”

            Mom shook her head no.  “That wouldn’t work,” she said. “I can’t think of a thing to do with dog fur except throw it away.”

            “Dad, can you think of anything useful I can do with Phoenix’s fur?”

           Dad thought for a moment and smiled. “We can build a science lab in the cellar and clone a Franken-husky for Halloween.”  Then he laughed. Dad was always joking.

            Emily asked Grandma. Grandma fingered the fur and considered Emily’s question.  She said, “Some people knit scarves from their dog’s fur, but even though you have a bag full, you would need a whole lot more than that.”  Then Grandma added, “You’d also need to spin the fur into yarn first.”

            Emily thought that sounded like an awful lot of work. She felt discouraged, but she wasn’t going to give up, at least not yet.  She stuffed the bag in her closet.

            When she walked to school the next morning, she saw Mrs. Jenkins decorating her lilac bush with thread and small strips of fabric. 

            Emily couldn’t think of any holidays that were coming up. “Mrs. Jenkins, what are you doing?”

            Mrs. Jenkins stopped and smiled. “I like to sew, Emily. All winter, I save scraps of fabric and thread to put out for the birds, so they have something warm to line their nests.”

            Emily thought for a second and had an idea. “Do you think birds might like Phoenix’s fur for their nests?”

            “I don’t know for certain,” said Mrs. Jenkins, “but if I were a bird, I’d like it.”

            After school, Emily took the bag of fur into the back yard and stood by the spruce tree she’d helped her Dad plant last spring.  It had grown and now, it was almost her height. She took tiny clumps of fur and placed them on branches all over the tree until it was entirely covered. The little tree looked like it was snow-covered.

Emily went inside and watched the tree for a long time from her bedroom window. No birds. Maybe it wasn’t a good idea after all. When she told Mrs. Jenkins, she said, “Give it time, Emily. Birds have to discover the fur is there.”

When Emily came home from school, she threw her books on the kitchen table and ran outside to see if any of the fur was missing. Emily thought some of it was gone, but she wasn’t sure. Maybe it just blew away.

On Saturday, Emily woke up early.  She looked out her window and saw a robin in the spruce tree. It took a small clump of fur in its beak and flew away. Then, a small brown sparrow appeared and it pulled some fur off the branch and flew away.  Her idea worked! Emily smiled and rubbed Phoenix’s head. “I knew your fur could be used for something,” she said. “It’s helping keep baby birds warm.”

Copyright 2016 by Valerie L. Egar. Published April 10, 2016, Journal Sunday Tribune (Biddeford, ME).  Like the story? Please share with your FACEBOOK friends.