Of Orphaned Boots and Other Things

It was his night to have the kids, and Tim was determined to make this one count. He’d been losing them lately. Once a week wasn’t enough time to feel connected.

So he took them to the beach. It seemed perfect—fun, yet unstructured enough to give them time to talk while playing. The kids always wanted to go to a movie, and that hadn’t been helping.

Unfortunately, work ran late, and Tim didn’t have time to go home and change before he picked them up. When he told them the plan, his daughter sneered.

“You’re going to the beach in jeans and work boots? Nice.”

She was 13, which was probably part of the problem.

His son—ten, and easier—liked the idea, so Tim forged ahead. When they got to the water’s edge, he stripped off his boots and socks and rolled his pants up most of the way to his knees.

His daughter rolled her eyes. “Embarrassing.”

But once they started splashing around, they seemed to have fun. The kids got their shorts and t-shirts soaked, and while Tim had a fleeting thought of how mad his ex would be about that, he didn’t worry about it too much. They were enjoying their time together and actually doing it together for once. That was the important thing.

He did worry, though, when it came time to leave, and he discovered one of his boots was missing. He dragged the kids up and down the beach looking, but it was gone.

Shit, he thought, but didn’t say aloud with the kids there. Those were expensive boots.

“Why would someone steal one boot?” his daughter asked.

“Maybe one of those big birds took it,” his son said. “To make a nest.”

Tim said, “It could have washed out into the water.” They spent some time staring out at the waves, but if the boot was there, it had already sunk or floated too far away to be seen.

“Well, come on,” Tim said. “It’s getting late.” He had a spare pair of boots he could wear to work tomorrow. Not as good, but they’d do. He scooped up his socks but left the orphan boot lying on the sand.

“Aren’t you going to take that one?” his daughter asked.

“No point. Not much I can do with one boot.”

As the kids got in the truck, Tim thought about the next family to come to this stretch of beach. Why would someone leave one boot? the kids would ask.

Because things never work out the way you expect, Tim thought, and he drove his kids back to their mother’s house. 

A Fair Trade

Tommy was a giant, but he was a very little giant—just now four years old. As such, he was always forgetting things and doing things wrong.

Like his blocks. He knew it was important to pick them all up before he went to bed. The end of the giant day was the beginning of the human day, and if he left his blocks lying around, a human might find them. He knew that. But no matter how hard he tried, it seemed like there were always four or five that got away from him and he forgot to go looking for them.

“You’re going to lose those blocks, Tommy,” his mom would say. “Some human’s going to think they were made for him, and you’ll never get them back.”

“I know, Mommy,” he’d say. “I’ll be careful.”

But he was four years old, and it was hard to be careful. One day it happened just like his mom said it would. Tommy got up in the morning and found that some of his blocks were missing. He discovered them cemented to the ground by the unbreakable bond that happened when a human found a giant object and used it for himself. Humans had built a tiny playground beside Tommy’s blocks. They were lost to him forever.

“Don’t come crying to me,” his mother said. “If I told you once, I told you a thousand times.”

Late that night, Tommy snuck out of bed to spy on his blocks. A man and a little girl came to the playground. They were so tiny Tommy could crush them—except he couldn’t, of course. Giants couldn’t touch humans.

The man sat on one of Tommy’s blocks while the girl played on the swings. Then she came over and climbed around on the blocks while the man told her to be careful.

“They look like a little giant kid left his blocks lying around, don’t they Grandpa?”

Tommy made a fist. So give them back, he thought. But he couldn’t say anything.

The man laughed. “You’ve got quite an imagination there. I’d hate to be standing around when one of those block towers fell over.”

The little girl chewed on her lower lip. “I bet he’s sad we took his blocks.” She reached into her jacket pocket and pulled out a handful of tiny objects. “I’ll leave him some of my marbles. That way it’s fair.”

The man laughed again. “You’re a card. You sure you want to leave those?” She nodded, and he said, “Okay, then. Let’s go get some lunch.”

Once they left, Tommy snuck out and picked up the marbles she’d left. He had to pinch them between his fingernails they were so tiny, and he’d never be able to use them for anything, but having them made him happy. He went home and put them in a bowl on his display shelf.

He slept well that night. Maybe humans weren’t so bad after all. 

Of Wardrobes and Magic

I took this picture because the statue reminded me of my favorite childhood story. You might think I mean Peter Cottontail or The Velveteen Rabbit or The Runaway Bunny, but no. I’m talking about The Lion, the Witch and the Wardrobe.

If you’ve read the book (or seen the movie, for that matter, though people who watch instead of read make me sad) you remember what the White Witch did to her enemies. She turned them to stone with one wave of her magic wand. I always thought it was a horrible fate—left frozen to be aware time was passing, but not able to join in. I’d have felt better if she’d just killed people.

The moment I saw this statue, I thought he looked like one of the White Witch’s victims. I don’t actually remember if there were any rabbits discussed among her statues, but I suppose my thinking first of Narnia says more about what the book meant to me than it does about this statue’s resemblance to any particular character. Narnia was one of the most important parts of my childhood.

I was seven when I first read The Lion, the Witch and the Wardrobe. I was 37 when I last read it—it’s one of those stories I have to pull out and revisit from time to time. I imagine anyone who attaches a particular significance to books and literature probably first developed that love during childhood. I would guess we each have a particular story we can point to as the one that first showed us what a magical world books could be.

I remember one of my favorite games in the years after I first visited Narnia. I would go into my closet and shut the door—and how I wished for an actual wardrobe! I spent a minute in there, stumbling around and pretending I couldn’t find the back. When I came out, I pretended I was in the magical land of Narnia, where animals could talk (though my hamster never managed the trick) and danger lurked everywhere.

The magic doesn’t end with childhood books, of course. I still sink into magical worlds, especially if Stephen King or Jasper Fforde is writing them. Nothing matches the wonder of the first time, though—because it was a new experience, because a seven-year-old is more prone to believing in magic. Narnia has earned a forever spot in my heart. It’s what I always think of when I feel surrounded by wonder and have a sense of the world as a thin curtain. And really, the story is a perfect analogy of the magic of reading. You open a book cover instead of a wardrobe door, but you still find a new and exciting world on the other side.

So forgive me if every stone statue makes me feel sorry for the White Witch’s victims and every closed door seems to be an invitation to discovery. I can’t help but see magic in the world—I’m a reader.