This never happened before. I don’t know if this story belongs in the reality blog or the fantasy blog. I keep them away from each other, just as I do in my life. Fairies actually don’t belong in tiny houses, and my pleasant life demands that they stay on their own side of the river. This week there was some trespassing going on behind my back, and the flooding only made it worse.
It seems my tiny house resort is built upon the playground of Beloved, the first recipient of the bubble rider fairies. I am not certain that I can park my tiny house on hallowed ground without stirring up a witchy potion that will burn a hole right through the cauldron.
Just this once, I will tell a story of both tiny houses and tiny sprites; of yesterday and tomorrow; of joy and sorrow, pain and pleasure.
And then we will sort the laundry.
Once upon a time, there was an old lady, a shriveled up, used up, washed up old woman who had accomplished all that she had set out to achieve long before her life was meant to be over. On her sixtieth birthday, she had been given a gift. She got her life back. Her own life. No longer her husband’s nursemaid nor her children’s cook, she was handed the task of holding her own life to her heart. To treasure. To honor. To elevate. To share.
If she was provided with the means to accomplish this task, it was not to be found in her purse. Creativity was an absolute necessity in this endeavor. If there would be tiny income, there would have to be tiny expenses. The castle would have to go. A lifelong camper, she had long ago learned to make do. She had also learned to squeeze every drop of usefulness out of a thing, be it an apple, a coat, or a pillowcase.
More often than not, it wasn’t a thing that was on hand but a thought. Like Uncle Sir Isaac inventing calculus so that physics could be explained, the old lady invented an alternate reality, with witches and moon dancers and gnomes. She called it Figment, after Uncle Fig, and she divided the two worlds with a river that was already running through the area anyway, knowing by now that life was too short to spend any of it arguing with Mother Nature.
The old lady started getting younger, and indeed her wrinkled old self began to fill out and fit around herself better. She was down to about 55 mph in Figment when the mud from the rains started getting into her engine. When the rains had stopped and the ground had dried, an assessment found uprooted trees and fallen eaves. Over at the village of tiny homes, the swing set had tipped over and an old grave was uncovered beneath it.
“Here Lies Beloved”,
the headstone read above smaller letters:
“worlds baldest viking”.
The cleanup went on from the Equinox until the Ice Moon. The Home Depot had run out of brooms for Halloween rides, lumber for Homecoming floats, and candles for Christmas displays.
But the New Year started with great hope and fireworks. Life on both sides of the river was just about perfect again.
I have elected to ignore the history of the Tiny Estates location and accept that everyone has a past. This is where I will both play solitaire and dance under the full moon. It is in Figment and it is not in Figment. Uncle Isaac probably explained it in The Principia.