I'm Sorry

I don't know about you but I've found myself apologizing to my children way more often than I'd like to.  Whenever I am convicted to apologize to my kids I always remember a specific story that my father use to tell me.  I use to think this story was about my dad and his father.  But apparently it was about a family friend.  It's interesting how as a kid the story that formed in my head has stuck with me even into adulthood and it has effected my parenting style.  Family stories are important.  My father and his brothers are storytellers.  I have learned so much from them and their stories.  This story is the essence of the lesson I learned from the story they told to me.  Thanks, Dad, for letting me share this important story about a father who loves his child and finds a way to make right a wrong.  That is a lesson all parents need to make peace with.

I’m Sorry
By Kristen S. Sandoz

A handsome, dark haired, deep eyed boy ran frantically into his family’s farm house.  “Father!  Father!” he yelled.

His father’s looming figured darkened the door way to the kitchen scanning the boys muddy clothes.

“The cows were supposed to be in the barn an hour ago.”  He said in a quiet sort of growl.

“But father, I…” the boy began.

“I don’t want excuses boy.  I want obedience.  Now come here.”  His eyes were foreboding and his face was hard as he began to remove his belt.

“Father, please, the cow…” the boy tried again.

“Now!” barked his father.

The boy knew there was no arguing, it would only make it worse.  He stepped forward and took his whipping as bravely as any seven year old boy could have.  Then he climbed the stairs to his room, where he would spend the rest of the evening without supper.  Through his window he watched his father head out toward the pasture to finish his job.  A light rain began to fall, but no tears fell down the boy’s solemn face.  His job was to bring in the cows and he had failed. 

The father was in a dark mood.  He was not a tall man but he was broad and muscular like a tree trunk.   He had lived a hard life leaving home when he was fifteen to work on a logging crew.  Even so, whipping his children was not his favorite task and yet, it was necessary.  With four daughters, only one son, and twins on the way there was little room for lack of discipline.  On a small family farm everyone had to pitch in to make a living.  Seven year old boys had to learn to carry their load.

He stormed passed the barn and headed down the hill to the lower pasture.  He could see some of

the cows grazing near the creek at the bottom of the hill.  Bringing the cows in from pasture was

really a simple job.  A job even a seven year old could do.  Usually, they’d come with little encouragement knowing a warm barn and food were waiting for them.  Today they were reluctant to move along.  The father gently cooed them forward as he walked behind them toward the creek trying to scoop them a little closer together.

That’s when he heard it, a strange heavy panting coming from the creek.  He walked to the bank and peered down.   He caught his breath.  One of the cows had fallen into the creek and couldn’t get up.  Its head was barely above the water line and the cow was in a panic.  Signs of a struggle were all about.  Mud along the bank had been matted down.  Branches from the tree close by were broken.  It was clear the cow would drown if something wasn’t done immediately. 

The man clambered down the bank and rested a hand on the cow’s hind quarters and spoke soothingly to it.  He reached her head and even his toughened heart sank to his stomach at what he found.  He knew instantly it was the boy and all the pieces fell together, why he was late, his muddy clothes, the frantic look, the back talking.  The boy had done his job or at least he had tried.  He had come upon the same cow in the creek and did his best at trying to help the cow up.  But her 2,000 lbs was too much for his small seven year old frame.  Somehow the boy knew if he left the cow alone even for a couple of minutes to get help that she would die.  So he formed and executed an ingenious plan.  The boy found a sturdy branch on the tree with a “Y” in it.  He broke the branch off at just the right length.  He shoved the end into the mud under the cows head and placed the “Y” under her neck lifting her head out of the water just enough for her to breath.  Then he ran. 

After an hour or so the boy watched his father through his bedroom window walk slowly back to the house.  Did his father find the cow?  Did his plan work or was it too late?  He heard the farm house door creek open and slam shut.  He heard is father’s deep low voice saying something indistinguishable to his mother in the kitchen.  Then he heard his father’s heavy plodding footsteps climb the farm house stairs.  The boy turned to the bedroom door and froze.  Something was wrong.  His father never came upstairs.  He stood motionless and watched with Jersey sized dark brown eyes as his bedroom door opened.  His father stepped into the room an unreadable look upon his face.  Without any words his father stepped forward grabbed the boy by the arm and lifted him onto his shoulders. 

It was at least a mile walk into town but the father tirelessly carried his son all the way stopping only to buy his son an ice cream cone before heading back to the farm in the same manner.  Although no words were spoken the boy knew what his father meant.  He knew his father had found the cow and that it was because of his seven year old plan that she was still alive.  The boy felt happy.  He had done his job and his father was proud of him.  He knew, too, that this was his stern yet loving father’s way of saying what he did not have the words to say, “I’m sorry”. 

I wonder what family stories have effected your life?  Please share.  I'd love to hear about them.  Then share them with the Littles in your life.

Happy Tales!
Kristen

 

Ch. 11: Dragon's Tongue & Hag's Feet

Chapter 11

Dragon’s Tongue & Hag’s Feet

By Kristen S. Sandoz

2013

Let us take a trip to a much happier story than the one of Little John I last told.  Of course, this means we head back to the Witch Hazel’s cottage which is incidentally called, Butterbrick Cottage.  Why is it called Butterbrick you are wondering?  Well that is because their sweet Jersey cow made the most fabulous sweet cream butter, which Pearl would store in crocs all throughout the year.  This butter was of such high quality that it would age in those crocs and become, over time, the most delicious butter you could ever imagine.  These days the butter you get in little boxes at the store with its pale lifeless yellow color does not even compare to the butter Pearl would sell in little bricks from the front step of the little cottage.  Her butter was a bright rich deep yellow and had the taste of heaven.  So the cottage became known as Butterbrick.  The name may not come from an exciting story, but I bet you wish you could have tasted some of that butter?

 

At Butterbrick Cottage we find Pearl busy at work.  She is such a mess with a blackened apron, disheveled hair and a rug beater in hand that it is hard to remember she is a person of royal heritage.  One thing I admire about Pearl is that she is not afraid to get her hands dirty by doing a good honest day’s work.  Today she is beating the rugs. A job which takes a great amount of gusto and is a good job to do when you are feeling a bit frustrated like Pearl was feeling at the moment. But that is yet another story and I will not go off the trail for it.  You will perhaps hear about it one day.

 

For now Pearl has been cleaning the cottage since sunrise trying to prepare it for Hazel’s return home.  The Witch Hazel has been on a long journey collecting a rare healing herb that was in full harvest on the far side of the kingdom in the Numinous Mountain range.  This particular herb, known to many as Dragon’s Tongue, was only found in that part of the kingdom and it could only be gathered every seven years at precisely the right time.  Healing herbs can be persnickety things for they require proper gathering and storing in order to maintain their fullest healing abilities.  Dragon’s Tongue was even more fussy for its window of harvest was so short and so long in coming. 

 

On top of this the harvesting was a dangerous business and often with small yield.  It was a favorite of the dragon population which lived in the Numinous Mountains.  The herb was really a wild flower with very dark indigo colored petals that formed a cup and drooped down toward the ground like a sad puppy.  Out of the cup hung the stamen which was bright orange and coiled into a spiral at the end much like the tongue of a dragon.  The dragons loved it because the petals and stamen were very sweet and if eaten in a large enough quantity would put them in to the most pleasant delirium.  The dragons would hoard the flowers and guard them fiercely.  One could always tell when a dragon had indulged in its Dragon’s Tongue stash for its tongue would be a bright blue from the pigment of the petals.  Fortunately, a dragon in this state could be easily persuaded to do just about anything.  Some say that gold and treasure is a dragon's weakness.  I say it is Dragon's Tongue. The former makes them greedy and mean.  The latter giddy and almost tame.

 

I should also tell you that Dragon’s Tongue made a very beautiful dye but required such an immense amount of the herb to actually dye a piece of clothing that is was a color only royalty could afford to wear.  In this kingdom the blue and orange of the Dragon’s Tongue were the colors of the King and his royal family.  No one else was allowed to wear those colors together. 

The journey to the Numinous Mountains was long and the work was hard for Hazel once she got there.  She had been gone a fort night when one of her doves arrived at Butterbrick Cottage with a message for Pearl telling her she would return home on the evening of Saturn’s Day.  Pearl knew Hazel would be tired and worn out from this journey.  Pearl wanted to make it easier on Hazel by having Butterbrick in tip top shape.  It was just one way she could show her kind and faithful Aunt how much she loved her.

 

Pearl had more planned for Hazel than just a tidy cottage.  She knew that the single most loving thing she could do for Hazel was to rub her tired and abused feet (Hazel was not a small women and her feet complained about this greatly).  If we could peek into the deepest part of Pearl’s soul we would discover that this was the one job Pearl dreaded more than anything else, even mucking out the pig pen.  Pearl’s horror of this job was not at all unfounded.  I think any girl or even boy her age would recoil in dreadfulness upon seeing the Witch Hazel’s old and haggard feet.  They were the only part of Hazel, besides her wrinkly face, crooked nose, knobby hands, and crackly voice, which lived up to the title of witch.  Nay, they went beyond witch and into the hag category.  I will not attempt to describe Hazel’s feet to you.  I’m afraid it would be too disrespectful to her.  However, I’m sure you can imagine your own grandmother’s cracked, scaled, and gnarly feet.  Then enhance that image with the Old Hag Filter and that would be what the Witch Hazel’s feet looked like.  Now let me ask you, would you want to wash those feet? 

Neither did Pearl.  This is, however, where the weeds are separated from the flowers.  Pearl was a real princess and despite how much she dreaded the job of washing Hazel’s feet she knew how much it meant to Hazel, so Pearl did it anyway.  She didn’t merely wash Hazel’s feet she did it with joy because she knew her adoptive old Aunt did so much good for the world and got so little in return.  Who was there to love and care for Hazel?  There was no one, except Pearl.  So like the daughter of a true king Pearl held her head up high, smiled her sweetest most genuine smile, sang a tranquil melody, and rubbed the Witch Hazel’s nauseating feet with not a hint of repulsion to be found.  That, my friends, is a true princesses and a true prince would do the same. 

As you can see “True love is the most testing pursuit” and that is well known. Our Pearl is passing the test.

 

1…Now my story is done.

2…I love you!

3…Please, kiss me.

Ch. 10: The Bane of Little John

Hey Friends! 
Just wanted to let you know that I did the final edit on this one myself in order to get it out faster.  Editing is not my strong suit so I hope you can forgive any mistakes and just enjoy this important story.  My boys had plenty of things to say about this story.  Some were very profound.  I'd love to hear what thoughts you and your kids have regarding this story so feel free to leave a comment.

Happy Tales!
Kristen

Ch. 10

The Bane of Little John

By Kristen S. Sandoz 2013

I think now it is a good time to tell you the story of Little John.  Oh, I know you have already heard part of his story.  He was a bandit who helped rob from the rich to give to the poor.  A seemingly honorable occupation, but a bandit he was and one does not merely become a bandit, a thief, or a lying beggar overnight.  We must always remember that everyone has a story and some stories are not happy ones.  Some are complicated, hard, rot with pain, and very sad.  Such is the case with Little John.

Before I tell you the rest, or rather I should say the beginning, of his story I need to tell you about one very important little thing called a Soule Locket.  Every child ever born in the world in which this particular kingdom exists is given a Soule Locket on the evening of the seven night of life.  This Soule Locket is given them by the Keeper of the Lockets.  He is a mysterious and elusive man known for his wisdom and power.  Some would call him a wizard others a warlock but regardless of what you call him he is good.  He appears to baby and, sometimes mother, that magical night of the baby’s life, much like the fairy in Pinocchio but with less glitter and sparkle.  He places a single Soule Locket, engraved and fashioned by his own hand so that no two lockets are the same, on the neck of the baby and whispers a blessing which he encloses in the locket.  This blessing becomes what is known as Soule Dust and it is the single most precious element in this mystical world.  Most children are taught at an early age to guard and protect their Soule Lockets. Some never learn their true value therefore lose it or carelessly give it away.  Still others are forced to pawn it in order to maintain their own miserable existence.  Then there are those who have them ruthlessly stolen from them.  If the truth be told a Soule Locket with its contents fully intact is a priceless and highly coveted possession that some would even kill for one.

I hope you have a clear understanding of what a Soule Locket is.  Now let’s get back to Little John.  He was the youngest child of a beloved and faithful priest.  The priest had three daughters and another son, named Benjamin, who was the eldest.  When Little John was four his older brother was 16.  Most people in their village called him Big Ben for he was a large and strong lad for his age.  In fact Little John was called little because his small boy stature next to Big Ben made for a decided contrast which was hard to ignore.  The two boys, despite their age and size difference were very close.  Big Ben loved having a brother to look after, wrestle, tease, teach, and love.  Naturally, Little John thought the world of Big Ben.  How could he not?  Big Ben was kind, brave, sharp, and strong. Everything a young boy admires.

That is why it was a total surprise to everyone when an outbreak of the pocks infected all five children of the priest’s family.  All recovered from the illness except Big Ben.  His fever lingered and soon an infection set in that eventually took his life.  Little John was devastated.  How could a strong lad like Big Ben die and he himself, who was so weak in comparison, live?  The question was too incomprehensible for Little John and the hole left in his heart was far too great for any answer to fill.  He became a sullen boy, quiet and brooding never saying much and smiling even less.  For two years he wandered the forests around his home endlessly neither playing nor hunting like he and his brother use to do.  He wandered and did nothing more. Every effort was made by his parents to help him process his older brother’s death.  But eventually they concluded it was something he must work out on his own.  They let him be and instead lifted up prayers on his behalf.

When Little John was six a strapping young nobleman in his year of Quest came seeking a temporary resting place from the priest of this small village in which he was passing through.  No one expected Little John to even notice.  But notice he did and the family thought for sure this Quester was the answer to their prayers.  He was handsome, friendly, and fun.  Little John took an instant liking to him.  The Quester gave him rides on his horse and taught him sword play. They went fishing and played hide-n-seek in the forest.  To Little John it was as if Big Ben had returned from the dead. 

The family was so pleased with Little John’s happiness they begged the Quester to stay with them for a whole month for they had grown fond of him as well.  He was a great help around the priests homestead.  He chopped and stacked firewood, hunted game, and escorted Little John’s sisters into the village where he would often buy them little luxuries such as fragrant soaps or silk flowers for their hats.  He would never return to the priest’s home without something special for the Misses.  One time he even brought her a five pound bag of sugar, an expense which far out paid his boarding fees.  He seemed to take delight in entertaining, helping, and giving to everyone.  Light had returned to their dim part of the kingdom.

Then one day the Quester was gone and with him went Little John’s Soule Locket and with the locket went the spirit of Little John once again.  It was quite a nasty turn of events.  Over the course of his stay the Quester had gained more and more trust from the family.  Little John loved and trusted him most of all.  The Quester knew this.  In fact his single plan for staying with the family at all was to obtain at least one valuable Soule Locket.  Originally he thought it would be from one of the sisters. He was very good with the ladies.  But when he realized how attached Little John was to him he knew that Little John would be his easiest prey.  In the end all he had to do was ask Little John and the locket was his.  Having got what he came for he left.

You may have already ascertained that this Quester was none other than the malignant Duke Monstroke himself in his true year of Quest.  Only he was bored with the whole thing and had already wasted all of his money in his first three months of quest on drinking too much, showing off for beautiful women, and gambling with men who were clearly smarter than he.  Now in order to survive he spent his time looking for weak, innocent, people to prey upon.  He would either convince them to give him some of the dust from their locket or just out right steal it all together.  Although he was handsome and seemingly kind, his true self was neither of these.  He was the most devious wolf in the most striking sheep’s clothing. 

Poor Little John had not a chance.  Once Monstroke knew he had the lad’s heart he set his teeth deep and when for his very soul.  This he obtained when he left.  Little John was happy to give him his Soule Locket but he did not expect him to leave the very next morning without a word of farewell.  This was the end for Little John.  He was but a shadow after Monstroke.  A shadow that somehow managed to live until he turned 10 at which point he ran away from home never to be heard of again.  He eventually joined a band of thieves that took their grievances with the wealthy to a new level.  They robbed from the rich and gave to the poor and this occupation was a type of revenge for Little John, who by this time was a huge hulk of a man, just like his late brother Big Ben.  Every wealthy man he robbed from he imagined was just like Monstroke (which was not at all true) and although it made his heart sing in the moment it did not bring him peace and it never brought back his Locket.

So there you have it a sad sad story!  I hope you can sleep tonight without having dreams of revenge on Monstroke yourself.  As for me I like to remember the wise words of the gracious Witch Hazel, “It is not revenge that brings peace but a heart of forgiveness and one is much harder than the other.”  I also hope you remember to heed the warning she always tells Pearl, "If you are not willing to give your life for it, don't give your Soule for it either."

 

1…Now my story is done.

2…I love you!

3…Please, kiss me.

Go. Heal Thyself, Girl!

Go.  Heal Thyself, Girl!

A story of personal healing

Ever since I gave birth to Thing 1 I’ve struggled with slouching.  I figured it was a combination of things;   engorged breasts, that would have won money in a wet t-shirt contest, muscle fatigue from holding a well fed baby, and stomach muscles that had been stretched beyond reason.  Two more babies and nine more years under my belt and I’m still struggling with slouching.  In fact it’s been getting worse.  For at least the last year and a half I’ve been consciously trying to fix the problem.  I check in with myself regularly throughout the day, “Am I slouching?  Yes!  Stop that!” I’ve been working on my core trying to bolster those muscles and give my shoulders a break.  All to no avail.  What is my problem?  I was a dancer for heaven sake.  Dancers don’t slouch!  They have lovely posture (and small breasts, I might add).

Yesterday, I woke up and put on a real new bra.  Not a nursing bra or the bandeau bras I’ve been sporting for the last 9 years because they are comfortable and what’s the use with real bras anyway when every hour your size seems to change.  It took me two hours to get this real bra picked out.  I asked the sales gal where the A cups were.  She said that Victoria’s Secrets doesn’t carry A cups.  Then she added, “And you are definitely not an A cup”.  Uh, yes I am.  In collage I was a 36B and now, well, now I just have pocket flaps.  She smiled and measured me.  I was pretty sure she was trying to boost my ego along with my boobs because she said I measured at a 34C or a 32D.  What!!!!  If I told my three nicely endowed sisters and mother that I was a C or D cup I would never hear the end of it.  Whatever Victoria’s!  Low and behold I walked out of there with three 32D bras that are way more comfortable than my 36Bs ever were!  How was I supposed to know? Victoria’s wasn’t even around when I started wearing bras.

Yesterday I woke up and put on my new 32D bra.  I brushed my teeth.  I checked in with myself, “Am I slouching? No!  Cool.  Maybe all those exercises are finally paying off?”  I moved on.  I check in throughout the day as usual.  Each time my answer was the same, “Am I slouching? No!”  I can’t believe it.  I have never given myself a positive answer to that question and now three in one day.  Unreal! I get ready for bed, put my PJ’s on and brush my teeth.  One last check in, “Am I slouching?  Yes!”  Huh???

When I weaned Thing 3 a couple months ago I actually cried for my sorry droopy little sisters.  Poor things! They worked hard for me and now their usefulness is over.  Done.  Never again will they nourish another human being, of course, my husband has a different opinion.  But I just wanted them to live out the remainder of their deflated little lives in contentment knowing they served faithfully and well.  They were troopers and maybe they even deserve a little purple heart tattooed over the top of them. 

I have discovered, however, that my sisters have will.  They shall not let life pull them down.  My sisters have been lifted and they are singing hallelujah!  These girls have life left in them yet.  They are standing ready to take on the world.  You go girls!  As it turns out my new 32D has miraculously healed me.  My slouch is gone.  Those maybe two pound weights have been slung back into their rightful position and I find myself over compensating, leaning back even, with the change in weight distribution.  As if my whole body is rejoicing with the ease in which I can stand straight now.  I find myself asking, “Was it really that simple?  All I needed was a new well fitted bra?” Amazing!

Here is my plea for all of women kind.  Please, if you slouch, go get your sisters lifted.  No matter how small you think you are give them the support they deserve.   Go.  Heal thyself, girl!

Justly Story Ch. 8: A Friendship & A Name

Ch. 8: A Friendship & a Name

Kristen S. Sandoz

2013

 

Besides the Witch Hazel’s nasty hens there were plenty of other animals at the cottage who had less pernicious stories to tell.  But I will save that for another day.  For now let me just give you a roll call of the others.   There were two majestic roosters who did not always get along, the older rooster having one blind eye which made him all the more cocky.  Then there was the sweet old Jersey cow who gave her milk faithfully and without complaint each morning.  Her name was Blue and everyone loved her.  She had tender doe eyes with long lashes and she listened with a mother’s ear to anyone who talked to her.  Brother was the old mutt, who mainly slept on the hearth until he was kicked off by the cat. Then he would move to the sunny cottage step where he could keep an eye on the comings and goings as he dozed. 

 

Pearl and Hazel also kept a sow and her fella.  Here and there they would produce a litter of piglets all rosy pink and full of squeals.  There was a team of smoky carrier pigeons who lived in the loft of the cottage.   Hazel used these pigeons to communicate with Pearl when she was called away on various healing journeys.  They were truly amazing birds and once in a blue moon or so Hazel’s birds would arrive home with a message from a far off land in which she had left them for that purpose.  Those days were exciting ones at the cottage.  A message from a distant friend was always welcome.  Lastly there was a young yet stubborn mule whom Hazel understood completely.  She never made him work when he didn’t want to, but then she only fed him if his work was done.  In this way the two got along perfectly.  Oh, yes!  I mustn’t forget the cottage cat, Bloom, a grey puffball of a thing, who thought she was a queen.  She would be incensed if she knew I had left her for last.  As far as she is concerned the cottage is hers and all who lived there existed in order to do her bidding. 

So there you have it the lively cast of characters who lived at the Witch Hazel’s cottage.  But they are not what today’s story is about.  Today Justly meets Pearl.  If you remember Justly had swung his pup on his shoulders and with a stick in his hand was making his way toward Pearl. 

 

Now I must confess that I have greatly inflated the excitement of this first encounter.  I have perhaps led you to believe that some great and amazing thing or conversation took place on this first meeting when in fact the greatest thing that came from it was a friendship and a name.  A relatively commonplace conversation took place between the two and it went something like this.

 

“Good morning, Princess,” Justly called from a little distance.

 

“It is a good morning, but I’m afraid that your eyes must be bad or you would see that I am most definitely not a princess,” Pearl answered back with a good humored laugh not realizing at first that Justly was indeed blind.  Justly continued toward the sound of her voice and came into a patch of sunshine near the well where he set his pup down to play.

 

“Oh, how your pup shines like a copper penny in the sunlight!  Where did you get such a fine animal?” she asked in awe.

 

“My eyes are truly dark but my arms are quite strong.” And to prove this point he flexed his left arm and asked, “May I help you draw water and I’ll tell you my story?” 

 

Pearl snickered at the sight of this strange boy with dark handsome eyes flexing a rather limp looking muscle mass before her.  But she agreed and was happy for the company. 

 

At this point Justly, while helping Pearl with her chores, proceeded to tell her the whole story of who he was and how he acquired the pup and why he was at her cottage.  The story amused Pearl very much, being an orphan herself.  She was also impressed with the sensitivity this boy show toward a helpless little animal and his capable attitude despite his handicap. He was most definitely the kind of person she wanted to be friends with.

 

When his story ended the chores were pretty much done and all that was left was milk for the cat and cream for the butter. 

 

“Please, for all your help, come in and meet my aunt and have breakfast with us.  I will get your pup a bowl of milk as well, for he looks famished!” remarked Pearl.

 

This was not an invitation Justly could turn down for he, too, was famished.  “Indeed my lady.  We would be honored,” said Justly tipping an imaginary hat and bowing the best gentlemanly bow he could imagine.

 

“Come on then, Court Jester.  I’ll race you to the front door!” Pearl challenged as she bumped Justly’s bowing hip bone with hers throwing Justly off balance and tumbling him to the ground.  This may seem unfair or malicious to you, considering the state of Justly’s eyes, but it was all in good fun and he scrambled to his feet and made a decent effort at racing Pearl.  He was a boy, after all, and I have not met a boy yet who can pass up a chance at competition. 

Of course Pearl won, but when Justly arrived at the door she was just setting down a bowl of milk for Bloom, who was not pleased at sharing her throne with a rascally pup.  As she set a second bowl down for the pup she patted his head and scratched his ears and said, “There you are little shiny Copper.  Enjoy!”

 

There you have it, both the story of how Justly and Pearl became friends and how Copper got his name.  I do hope you weren’t too disappointed in this first encounter.  I know it is rather ordinary, but then, Pearl was an ordinary girl.  She had no particular good looks or special intellect.  She was just like any other girl, and just like other girls she had a few talents: she could sing to soothe the soul and a bit of wisdom when she chose to use it.  Otherwise she could have been you or me, if you are a girl, that is. 

 

What’s that?  Oh yes!  There is that.  She was also a princess, but remember, she does not know this, so it doesn’t really count.

 

This part of my story finally comes to an end.  But don’t be gloomy for, as the Witch Hazel has remarked, “One chance meeting is sometimes the beginning of a beautiful story.”

 

1…My story is done.

2…I love you!

3…Please kiss me.

Justly Story Ch 7: The Nasties

Ch. 7: The Nasties

By Kristen S. Sandoz

2013

Some time ago I began to tell you about Justly's quest to find a new place to sleep for himself and his new pup.  They had been outcast from the Royal City on account of the pups imperfect eye color.  The pup had one flame orange eye and one ice blue eye and this was entirely unacceptable for a hound of the King.  Justly had saved the pup from an untimely death on account of this imperfection.  As a result Justly had to leave the city and his warm comfortable bed under the Baker's oven.  Last time Justly had just fallen asleep under an ancient walnut tree to a lullaby from a lovely voice and finally drifting of into a splendid dreaming about his mother. 

Now, on with our story.

The voice that sang Justly to sleep belonged to our beloved Pearl and in the morning Justly heard Pearl’s voice again, along with a robust and craggy alto, and knew instantly that he was in the presence of royalty.  He knew also that this tree would be his new home.  He resolved to dig out some of the rotten interior of the old walnut tree as well as some of the soft dirt around its base in order to give himself better protection from the elements.  Soon after these thoughts Pearl and Hazel’s song ended, the old heavy cottage door creaked open and Pearl stepped out of the door to draw water from the well.  Justly, wanting to make friends in his new neighborhood, hoisted the little pup onto his shoulders and approached Pearl.

She was carrying a wooden pail.  She used this pail daily to draw water from the well to fill up the cistern in the cottage kitchen and to water the cottage’s small family of hard working farm animals.  These animals included 25 hens who looked lovely from a distance, but have a story all their own.  Actually, this story is a worthy one to tell so I will indulge my own love of chickens and tell it now. 

You see these ladies and their ancestors before them were rare breeds of chickens.  Hazel and her mother before her had collected them from all over the known world during their healing journeys.  It had turned into quite a hobby or even an obsession for Hazel.  It was a way she could stay connected to her late mother.  Oh, what a sight these ladies were!  Any traveler passing by the cottage would immediately notice these exotic ladies from the well-worn path that went passed Hazel’s home.  They were intriguing looking birds, some with puffballs for heads and others with puffballs for feet.  Still others had necked necks or feathers that made them look like a mop.  There were some ladies that were as black as the night with shimmery green iridescence.  There were huge hens that stood almost to your hip and with them were little tiny hens who laid little tiny pink eggs. 

This flock of chickens was so lively looking that often strangers passing by, who did not know better, would have a great desire to get better acquainted with the birds.  They would go to all kings of lengths to call them over to the edge of the road with corn, or bread, or barley berries that they happen to be carrying with them.  The extraordinary flock of hens would waste no time hustling and bustling over to this free fare.  They were like an entourage of fine maidens hurrying to be the first to try on Cinderella’s lost glass slipper.

At first the travelers would get all excited to see these exotics running their way.  But as the hens came closer to the offered goodies the more it became apparent to the travelers that there was something quite wrong with these ladies.  Indeed one could not call them ladies at all!  For as they looked like a lovely picture from a distance up close they were a freak show!  Every single one of those ladies was pecked and bloodied.  Not one lady remained with all of her once lovely feathers in tacked.  The fact was these chickens looked nasty.   Not only did they look nasty they acted nasty too, which is why their feathers were in such an awful state.  Many travels stood in shock and horror as these nasty creatures scrambled and fought for the bits of food thrown out for them.  Some travels, mostly of the female kind, would squeal in fear and hurry off down the path as fast as their mode of transport could carry them.  Almost all the travels who looked upon these wretched creatures would be plagued with dreams of these Nasties, as they came to be known,  for weeks to come. 

Why did they look so terrifying?  What had happened to them?  And why did Hazel keep such fowl creatures about her lovely cottage?  Well the last question is perhaps the easiest to answer.  Hazel not only loved these birds and hoped her love would reform them but she also knew that the lesson these birds had to teach the strangers who passed by was a necessary one.  It all started with one cranky hen pecking on all the others soon those birds got big enough and brave enough to peck on others.  Then after sometime the only way those ladies could treat each other was with a peck.  All the hens started pecking on all the other hens until every single one of them looked bloodied and nasty and horrifying.  Sometimes they’d get into such a nasty pecking mess that they’d simply peck one hen to death and they wouldn’t stop till her bones were pecked clean of feathers, skin and meat.  Horrid absolutely horrid! 

As for the Witch Hazel she would warn,  "nastiness begets nastiness, meanness begets meanness, selfishness begets selfishness". 

 

1…Now my story is done.

2…I love you!

3…Please kiss me.

The Egg

The Egg

By Kristen S. Sandoz

2013

 

The other day my five-year-old son had a friend over and they spent a lot of time with our hens.  Later that day when I went to check on the ladies I found two eggs smashed against the fence and evidence of a cover up.  If you have ever raised your own chickens you know how precious eggs are.  I was not happy about this and handled the whole thing very poorly.  That night I was really disturbed by my reaction and it brought to mind an experience I had as a five year old.

 

It was small, black, exquisitely hand painted, and edged with gold gilding.  It was lovely and delicate much like a teacup with gold trim.  You know the kind that even as an adult you’re afraid to touch its dainty handle with your comparatively large and clumsy fingers.  Only a teacup doesn’t quite compare with the fragility of nature.  In my hand I was holding an egg.  It was a gift to my mother from our Japanese neighbor, who moments before had delivered it to our door.  At the age of five I was fascinated with its elegance.  I had asked my mother if I could hold it.  Without hesitation she handed it to me and then turned and left the room.  What was she thinking?

 

I remember exactly what I was thinking as I held that piece of art and stroked its fine detailing.  The thought just came to me.  Not out of naughtiness but out of genuine curiosity.  Somewhere in my short little five-year-old life I had heard that an egg shell was so strong that you could squeeze it and it would not break.  Lord knows why at that moment I chose to test this theory with this particular egg.  I was not thinking about action and reaction.  All I was thinking was how good it felt to squeeze the impressively strong orb in my hand.

 

It’s hard to describe how it felt in my grip.  Perhaps you will have to try it yourself to understand.  But it felt GOOD.  It felt satisfying.  Like pushing myself to an extreme, like holding my breath under water until the very last of my capability and then holding it just one second longer.  I was truly amazed and absorbed in its strength.  Just how much pressure could it handle?  Was I strong enough to break it?  Was it even possible?

 

Then it happened and it was as if the whole world around me slowly imploded into the palm of my hand and I saw for one second, at five years old, a glimpse of the tragedy of many people’s lives.  My chest tightened, my heart stopped, my hand quivered and the feeling of utter despair, irrevocable damage, and life long regret swept through my entire being.  I was left standing with nothing but the shards of a once whole, precious, and beautiful object. 

 

I did what all of us want to do when we experience this type of regret and loss.  I immediately ran to my mother.  I sobbed uncontrollably into her arms for my loss, for her loss.  She let me cry until my tears were dry and then without anger and with true grace she said, “It’s okay.  Accidents happen.  It was only an egg.”  At the time I thought she was putting on an act to get me to stop crying.  After all it was probably the most beautiful thing I’d ever seen in my life up to that point.  Now as an adult I understand.  It was only an egg. 

 

It was a gift to learn deep regret for such a small price.  I have often remembered that egg broken in my hand when I am on the edge of an impulse.  That feeling of immediate satisfaction or pleasure warms itself in my being and then I see a lovely black egg nestled safely in the palm of my hand.  Suddenly without warning my heart stops and instantly my muscles seize up and I am filled with that feeling of regret once again and I am saved.  What cemented this lesson in my mind was my mother’s reaction. She comforted and mourned with me.  If she had yelled and raged or punished me I might have felt duly reward and moved on. 

 

I often wish I could recreate this scene for myself adult.  I wish that some how I could learn the pain of regret before the stakes are too high.    I wish I could trust myself with this precious gilded egg and let myself break it.  I wish that I could react as my mother reacted with grace and forgiveness and open arms.  But I can’t help but wonder about the balance between grace and justice.  If my boys were to make a mistake that couldn’t be nicely mended how could I keep them from throwing the baby out with the bath water?  This is not the message I want my boys to get.  This is not grace.  Is there not a good and whole life to be led after regret?  Is there not repentance, redemption, and reconciliation?  Did Christ not die because there are fragile eggs that we just cannot put back together again?  I want my boys to know that I love them no matter what.  I want to echo God’s grace, healing, and love, so they can come to truly understand that neither life, nor death, nor angles, nor demons, nor things present, nor things to come, nor powers, nor height, nor depth, nor any other created thing, can separate them from the love of God, which is in Christ Jesus, our Lord.

Justly Story Ch. 6 Justly's New Bed

Ch 6: Justly’s New Bed

By Kristen S. Sandoz

2013

 

You might remember that I had started to tell you that after Justly took Copper into his care he had to find a new bed to sleep in at night.  Copper was not allowed inside the city gates any longer. He was an Outcaster.  On their first evening as Outcasters Justly came across the little cottage of the Witch Hazel.  Justly could smell the musky scent of oak burning on a hearth.  He followed his nose and carried his new pup to the base of a large walnut tree on the edge of the meadow where the cottage was nestled.    Justly was tired and needed rest.  You can imagine it is hard work carrying a pup through a forest when you are blind.  He had stumbled over a root at the base of this massive tree and decided it was as good a place as any to rest for the night.  He snuggled into a perfect wedge at the base of the walnut tree where he was partially protected from the weather.  Justly began to feel warm and cuddly holding the toasty package of a pup close to his body.  Luckily it was still just the beginning of fall and the weather was unusually warm, as the summer had decided to linger a bit longer this year. 

 

Just as Justly was beginning to drift off to sleep he heard the loveliest sound he had heard since he was a baby being lulled to sleep by his mother’s voice.  He had vage, albeit precious, memeories of this time. Was he dreaming?  He hoped so.  Justly very seldom could recall his mother or her voice and it was such a comfort when he did, having lost her when he was only two years old.  But that is a story for another night.  The voice that was singing a lullaby to him now was a much younger voice than he recalled his mother’s being.  This was a girls voice and it sang…

 

Little one let the moon be thy lovely mother

Sleep will comes when you rest your head upon night’s pillow.

Little one let the stars be thy cozy blanket

Feel Moon’s light kiss your head and sweet dreams to follow.

 

Softly softly mother moon

Sing your babe a lullaby

Whoom la lum dee da doom

Whoom la lum lee doodle lie

Whoom la lum la doodle lum

Softly sing a lullaby

 

 

Little could compare with the sweet rich notes of this lullaby.  Soon Justly was fast asleep dreaming of a time when he and his mother would be reunited.  Ahh…he loved this place.  He loved this tree and his new pup.  He loved his mother.  If only he could stay living in this dream forever.

 

His dream did not last forever.  In the morning Justly was awakened sweetly by this same mysterious voice.  It was not at all an unpleasant way to be woke from his dreaming.  Only this time the sweet and lovely voice had a deep rich voice singing with it and the song of the two voices was more jolly and lively than the night before.  Instantly, Justly discerned that the possessor of the young melodic voice was no ordinary girl but rather the child of royal parentage.  You see Justly made up for his blindness by being able to see into the heart of a person simply by listening to their voice.  It was almost like a special power he possessed and it aided him often in his simple life. 

 

Can you guess who was singing?  Yes, you are a clever reader and I know you have already began to see how special Pearl really is.  He could not see Pearl with his own eyes but his heart told him that girl was a princess. She was HIS princess.  Justly didn’t need his eyes he could see things better if he looked at them with his heart.  Justly’s heart was a far better judge of character than his eyes would have been and this kept him out of a great many bad friendships.  If truth be told your heart is a much better judge of a person’s character than your eyes are as well.  Only you have been in want of trusting the vision of your heart.

 

The voice that came from Pearl’s mouth showed Justly what was inside her heart and he could see that her heart was made out of pure gold, complete honesty, utter loyalty, and selfless compassion.  These qualities are hard to come by in ordinary children and he knew instantly that Pearl was a person worthy of his devotion.  She was someone of true royal blood.  He knew that deep in his heart he was willing to serve her even unto death! 

 

What’s that again?  Justly is going to die!  You know it!  Well we will have to see about that.  He is our hero after all. He’s not?  What ever do you mean?  Not our hero!  He hasn’t done anything to be our hero, you say?  He can’t be a hero because he can’t see?  Well maybe not but just you wait and see what quest our blind friend has before him.  Do you know what the Witch Hazel has to say about heros?  “Heroes often come in the most unlikely packages!”

 

1…Now my story is done.

2…I love you!

3…Please kiss me.