FUZZ ORDAINED: Air Academics

Arthur Braling was less prepossessing in the world of primary colors, but so many things are.  He was not without a certain charm, red curls combed high above a bright, eager face.  He wore a red necktie over a white shirt, not because Mershon College had any rules about this, but because he happened to like to wear neckties.

This was really all most of his classmates knew about Arthur: “He likes to wear neckties.”  It was all most of them really wanted to know.  A small coterie of associates found him useful.  His notes were always complete and he always remembered which paragraph the professor really leaned on in a lecture.

With a smile, Arthur was always willing to supply missing details of an assignment, cram information into other brains the night before an exam, and warn that a prof had reached a point where a pop quiz was inevitable.  Despite unheroic proportions, he was this close to being named honorary captain of the Mershon Wrestling Team; Coach knowing very well who had kept his wrestlers eligible during a rocky period.

Being useful is far from the same as being interesting.  Arthur’s only close friends were leftovers from high school, relationships maintained from kindergarten on, who kept in touch via emails filled with esoteric trivia quizzes.

Unencumbered by social obligations, Arthur had plenty of time to explore the town, the campus, and the respective libraries of each.  He had acquired the habit, encouraged by his roommate, a late sleeper, of taking a long, leisurely stroll in the early hours of morning.  The whole town could be covered end to end in about half an hour, but Arthur preferred a leisurely pace.  He could visit the neighborhood where you saw where the railroad tracks had run, when the trains were still running.  Blocks and blocks of houses here had no sidewalks in front of them.  The neighborhood with the churches and the homes bankers had built a century or more before was another direction.  Still another was the new part of town, with the elementary school, and the expanse of identical houses.

Today’s walk had taken him past the Mershon Museum of Fine Arts (closed at this hour, but with much to read posted on the outdoor announcement board) and Griese park.  He tried to take this walk at least once a week.  He knew about the plan to turn the park into a passive one—had signed a petition against it that was going around—but supposed he could take a walk here either way.

He liked the sense of elusive history in the park, a little harder to find than in his walks through the Grandview cemetery, at the other end of town, or on campus, with all its commemorative plaques.  These corners where feet had worn the grass away in shortcuts had probably been mutilated that way for generations, while the names and the dates scrawled in the concrete went back some forty years.  He paused before one of the oil drum trashcans.  Could an expert tell the age of an oil drum by some features unobserved by the uninitiated?  Could that expert do it even through what was obviously the ninth or tenth coat of industrial green paint?

Turning slowly, he studied Griese park: the old swings, the broken benches, the backstop at the softball diamond.  How old were these things?  If he got involved in the movement to preserve the park as it was, he’d have excuses to dig through the back issues of the Mershon Messenger.  No time, really, he supposed.  His eyes swept across the view again, resting on the woman who read on the bench no longer than on the trash cans.

Julia Sangerman yawned and brushed her hair back from under her glasses.  Bringing a book out here to read still seemed a little extreme, but it was quieter than the lounge in the dorm.  And getting out of her room was vital.  Over the summer, Meredith had developed a fitness mania, which involved an early morning nude exercise session.

“Exercise rags just constrict the muscles, Jul.  You have to try this!”

Julia had no objection to getting up at this hour, but watching her roommate flop around to “Bohemian Rhapsody” before breakfast was more than flesh and blood could bear.  Besides, Meredith’s intention to run a marathon had not changed her habit of staying out until one in the morning.  Some day, that girl was going to break down completely, and Julia wasn’t planning to be there to watch it happen.

She shifted the big book on her legs.  Last year, she had done her early morning reading in the library after breakfast.  Cutbacks meant the building didn’t open before ten now.  Any extra credit she could scrape together, she could use.

Julia was quite a respectable student.  Left to herself, she could easily have achieved a 3.5 GPA, with time left over for a life.  At Mershon, this would have graduated her cum laude.  But her grandparents, whose funding took care of her room, board, tuition, textbooks, and microwave popcorn, would settle for very little less than 3.95 and summa cum laude.  More than just these four years’ schooling hung on this result.  The estate would one day be divided among six cousins, five of them divvying up half of it, with the other half going to the one with the best academic credentials.  Julia wanted that money: it would cover a master’s degree, a doctorate, and a number of years of study in Europe.

Such exalted and expensive goals were difficult to reconcile with a naked roommate defining triceps to The Best of Queen.  (She could at least have edited out “Fat-Bottomed Girls”.)

She slid her thin skirt a little tighter around her thighs, braced the books against the breeze, and slid out the paper she was using to take notes.  A butterfly flitted across this page, on its way to an odd young man swinging a bag of books as he strolled along the crooked path.  Her eyes followed it for a space, but not as far as Arthur’s smiling face.

In a tree above the bench, a small bird broke suddenly into a high trill.  Arthur looked up, but rather too far up. Neither he nor Julia heard a short snort of disgust, or the cry of “Watch this!”

“Oopf!”  Arthur’s right toe caught in a crack just as his bag of books was on the upswing.  The straps tore loose from his hand, sending eight hundred dollars’ worth of the wisdom of civilization in the general direction of the singing bird.

“Heads up!” he shouted, seeing the bag start back down, well short of the feathered musician.

Julia’s head did come up, allowing Arthur’s investment to land squarely in the middle of the kingdom of the Ostrogoths.  Books and bookbag bounced forward, sending Julia’s bookmark in one direction, and her notes in another.

“Hey, I’m sorry!”  Four hands grabbed for the notes.  Julia’s hair was not thick enough to provide a good cushion as foreheads met.  Arthur pulled back in time to swat her flying glasses, sending them into the grass under the bench instead of onto the cracked pavement.

“Good one!” Julia told him, reaching down for them, between her ankles.  She did not notice, in doing so, the knee—not hers, as they were deep in grass now–on the hem of the skirt.  Glasses in hand, she came up, only to come back down.

“Oh!  Sorry!”  Arthur jumped back, slipped, and saw one foot headed for the glasses in her hands.  Twisting desperately, he sent the foot instead into the spine of the Ostrogoths, and himself sat down hard next to his bookbag.

The pair paused, glaring at their common enemy, those inanimate objects strewn in the grass.  Arthur got a knee under himself and grabbed for his bookbag.  A cloud—or something—drifted across the sunlight, making him mistake his aim.  He took the bag up by the bottom seam.

He distinctly remembered zipping the bag shut.  He always zipped the bag shut.  Still, books, notebooks, pencils, pens, and one disc flew free.  A breeze he had not noticed until now took a personal interest in his History 211 notes.

Julia had her glasses in one hand, and slapped the other toward the fleeing flashes of white.  “I’ve got….”

Her feet were still behind her on the bench.  As she lurched up to capture more pages, one shoe hit the concrete support.  The shoe came loose, throwing her off balance so that she knocked Arthur’s bookbag from his hands.  She used her nose for this.

“Whose side are you on?”  Her head continued into his chest like a cannonball in a blanket.  He hadn’t touched a woman’s hair since he was four.

Julia started to say “I….” but felt her glasses slip from her hand.  She swept around to grab them before they bounced.  Arthur, always helpful, had made the same grab at the same time.

“Long time no see,” Julia noted, as their heads collided once more, this time cheek to cheek.

“Sorry.”

“Don’t give up now.  You’re just getting the hang of it.”  Pushing back with one foot, she snatched at her specs, bringing her bare foot down on a book which had been six inches away just a moment before.  Not knowing what it was, but feeling sharp corners, she threw her weight to the other side, twisting to look.  Her other foot, however, was insecure on a small stack of paper discussing Jeffersonian democracy.

“Hang…ack!”  Seeing her falling, Arthur had moved forward automatically but did so more quickly than he intended as one of Julia’s flailing hands took hold of his necktie.  A move the wrestling coach would have admired enable him to avoid crashing facefirst onto the bench, but he had to add another twist to avoid kicking the tumbling Julia.  One more sagacious twist was too much to ask of fate.  His face buried itself in the grass, coming down with enough momentum to pull Julia, who still had a grip on his tie, up and over.

Julia jumped up as he squawked.  She had not ridden on a man’s man since she was three.  She landed on all fours, her hands square on top of Arthur’s extremely dull disquisition on Thomas Jefferson and religious change.

Sitting up, Arthur might have caught an indiscreet glimpse of his future had he not had to roll away or get kicked in the face as Julia scrambled to catch a stray page of trivia about Amalric of the Ostrogoths.  What his eyes spotted instead was his forlorn, empty bookbag.  He took hold of that as he came around.

He was already moving it when he realized one of Julia’s feet was caught in a canvas handle.  He did not have time to slow down, and Julia landed hard in the dewy grass as pages flew up from under her hands.

Arthur got his feet under him.  “I’m really….”

“You’re sorry!” snapped Julia.  “I’ve heard it before!”  She caught up the heaviest thing at hand and flung it up at him.

Paul had no interest at all in his Business Administration minor, but his parents had insisted.  The Public Relations textbook flying through the air represented two weeks’ salary at his cafeteria plate-scraping job.  It was going to miss him high and wide: to catch it, he needed to jump up on the bench.

Julia repented the second the book left her hand, charging after it.  You didn’t throw textbooks, which cost their weight in dollar bills.  It was in Arthur’s hand by now: such heavy reading sent him backward over the bench.  Julia had to skid sharply to avoid dark brown shoes, and sat down hard in front of the bench.  She was up again almost immediately, flailing at the stapler which had slid under her just before she landed.  This left her no time to notice the figure limping around the bench.  The two heads which came together should have been used to this by now.

She caught hold of his shoulders; he grabbed an arm.  For a moment they clung to each other, huddling for protection against what was obviously a hostile universe.

Arthur came to his senses and tried to push her away, but Julia pulled him closer.  “Listen!” she whispered.  “We’ve got to do this scientifically.”

“Got it,” Arthur replied.  “You grab the books, and I’ll get all the papers together.”

“Sounds good,” murmured Julia.  “On three?  One…two…three!”

They dropped away from each other, moving on all fours through the dirt and scraggled grass. Julia snagged the stapler first, while Arthur slapped his hands down on pages of Jefferson.  From the stapler, Julia moved to the Public relations text, bouncing back for a moment when the wind ruffled the pages at her.  But the best defense…she pounced on the book.

Julia had more to handle, by weight, but the books took less actual travel.  Arthur found that a list of Ostrogothic kings could apparently take wing without warning, apparently aiming for the next zip code.  He threw himself bodily on the sheet of paper, and took on a grim grin as it crumpled beneath him.

Julia moved more slowly: she had already encountered a stapler, and she knew pencils lay in wait, their leads all sharp for the dense.  Then, too, she had to keep part of an eye on the unguided and possibly lethally thick skull of her fellow hunter, bounding after loose paper.  Arthur was doing his best, for his part, to follow paper and watch out for her remarkably solid cranium.  Eyes may stray, though, while two people crawl on all fours around spots where dogs had paused.

“Gotcha!” cried Arthur, snatching at a pair of fugitive fragments of his genius.  He wasn’t aiming to bump hips with Julia, but he hadn’t done much to prevent it, either.  The papers crumpled in his grasp as she swung her hips right back at him, nearly knocking him over.

“You play fair or I’m telling the lifeguard,” he snarled, shoving a hand against her to push off in pursuit of another list of Ostrogoths, just as she was about to snag a pen.

Eventually, she rose, pens and such tucked in the canvas bag, books stacked by size in her arms.  “This might be all,’ she called.  “Did you have four pencils and a pen?”

“Just right,” said Arthur, coming up from under the bench, a massive wad of undergraduate notes clutched to his chest.  “Let’s see what’s here.”

Julia came to her feet, looking around.  “I don’t see any more.  “You must have….”  She turned to face him, and found no face.  Looking down, she found him sitting crosslegged in the dirt, the papers heaped in the fortress formed by calves and thighs.

She set the books on the bench and came back up, her head cocked to one side.  “You want some fresh ground pepper on that salad?”

“No, thank you.  And I didn’t order these assorted greens.”  Arthur plucked a few leaves from among the paper and flung them aside.

Julia watched him sort the pages into piles, feeling a little ridiculous so many miles above him.  Checking her skirt and seeing it was already grass-stained, she sat down across from him, just in time to keep the fourth pile from taking off in a sudden breeze.

“I guess we can’t drop anything if we’re down here already.”  She tucked one ankle under herself. He grinned up at her; she was still taller even sitting down.  “Oh, don’t bet on me when it comes to dropping things.  I could drop a porcupine cover with Krazy Glue.”

She laughed, and pushed her disarranged hair back from her forehead.  “My name’s Julia, by the way.”

“I saw that.”  He pointed to her name on the first stack of paper, and shifted the finger to the next stack.  “I’m Arthur.”  The finger moved on to the third stack.  “I see you’ve got Dr. Bronson this semester.  What’s he like?”

“Sweat.  He likes sweat on the faces of students who can’t guess what he’s going to do next.  I’m glad to have those.  I could have printed out new pages, but those have all my corrections, and I don’t want to start over.  He’ll ask for them two days before I expect.”

“Thanks for the warning: I’ve got him in spring.  I’ll lay in some aspirin.”

“Tranquilizers,” she corrected.  “And don’t get him the period after lunch.  Bad for your digestion.”

“Maybe I’ll change my major to Physical Education.”  Arthur glanced at his watch.  “Speaking of digestion, it’s about time for breakfast.”

Julia didn’t often eat breakfast, but it sounded like a good idea just now, perhaps due to all this exercise. 

She set her hands on the bench to pull herself up.  Nearly there, she whirled, almost falling back on top of him.  Arthur put up both hands to catch her, abandoning the piles of paper he had so painstakingly gathered.

“Are you all right?” he demanded.  “What happened?”

Her eyes narrowed in suspicion but, realizing he had been down on the ground all along, pulled herself back up.  “I’m okay.”

“All right.”  Arthur pulled the four piles of paper together into one.  “Um, I like your perfume, by the way.”

“I’m not wearing any.”  Julia reached for the stack of textbooks but paused, looking back at him under the crook of her elbow.  “Why shouldn’t I remember you, with all these bruises?”

She was frowning.  Arthur frowned back.  “What?”

She straightened, the books gathered between her arms.  “Didn’t you just…whisper in my ear that I should remember you?”

“No.  But it’s not a bad idea.”  Arthur reached past her and took up his canvas bag.  Shaking it a little, he held it open.  “Here.  Unless you want to carry my books to school for me.”

Her mouth jerked up on one side.  “Put the papers in there.  They won’t get away this time.”

“Good thought.”  He slid the stack in among his pencils.  “Ready?”

On My Summer Vacation I….

     The unofficial start of summer, Memorial Day, has come and gone, despite the fact that June is not quite here yet, and the vacation season is upon us.  Vacations became a major subject with postcard artists around mid-century, when postcards stopped being everyday communication ad became brief messages from far away (postage went up, and telephones became more common.)  So there are plenty of postcards which deal with how much better a couple of weeks away from the daily grind can make you feel.

     Well, actually, I found just one, seen at the top of this column, and THAT is mostly an ad for the healthy effects of visiting the baths in Hot Springs.  There are MANY more postcards about how rotten vacations make you feel.

     Whether this is an accurate reflection of the strain of moving outside one’s routine and working hard to have fun, or just an expression of guilt at leaving your friends behind in the humdrum reality from which you have escaped, the theme of “Wow, I’m exhausted; wish I was back there mowing the lawn and kicking the air conditioner with the rest of you” is to be found on card after card.

     Yes, these cards say, all the overeating, overdrinking, overexposure to fresh air and sunshine, and over (pick what you like to do when YOU’RE out of town) takes its toll.  That peanut butter sandwich and 1 ounce bag of chips down in the receiving room sure looks good when you’ve been in sidewalk tables consuming steaks two inches thick and beverages with umbrellas in them.  Gosh, you tell your friends, you don’t know if you’ll survive.

     If you have the kind of friends most of us have, this is going to convince nobody: that’s part of the reason for sending such cards.  You’re rubbing it in their faces.  But there is another theme which is more realistic, and which they WILL believe.

     Whether YOU’RE exhausted or not, these cards tell your friends, your supply of ready cash has died while out of town.

     In fact, those peanut butter sandwiches may be cut down to one slice of bread for the first month or so after you get back to work, and you will be well into October before you can go to the vending machine and pay for that ounce of salted carbs again.

     Your friends, who have taken out loans for exotic vacations themselves, will appreciate the thought that after your swell trip, you’ll be sticking those souvenir umbrellas in paper cups of tap water at lunchtime for some days to come.

     If they envy your tan, you tell them by postcard, they should reflect that, after all, it cost you roughly twenty bucks per square inch.  You may hint that blue sky and sunshine alone did not cost you your savings, but at the same time, you ARE thoroughly broke now.  And if they are STILL jealous of what you did on your summer vacation, however much it put you in debt….

     After all, you’re not claiming you didn’t have a good time.

Mouths of Babes

     We have discussed hereintofore the ways in which postcards were the texts of their generation: a quick message (which, in some areas, allowed a person to send a message in the morning, get an answer before lunch, and reply by sunset).  We have also discussed how the characters on the card could speak for the sender in both caption and image, rather in the vein of people who reply to a text with a film clip of a sitcom star palming his forehead in response to a fine old joke.

     But it must be almost weeks since we have discussed how the characters on the cards also provided a shield for the sender.  Children were especially ripe for this kind of protection.  A kid could say something meaningful (though the meaning here is a little obscure) which you could, if the recipient of the card responded badly, could be denied.  (“Ah, that was just the first postcard I picked up.  I didn’t even look at the picture.”)

     Which could be very useful when it came to affairs of the heart.  You could use the cute kid card as a hint, if your chosen was someone susceptible to hints.

     And if not, not.  You could always just say “Well, I thought it as a cute card myself.”

     This was also important because postcards had one feature which, in a perfect world anyhow, electronic love notes do not.  ANYBODY could see them: the mailman (always labeled in cartoon and comedy as an incurable gossip), any neighbors who happened to be on hand when the mail was delivered, your parents and/or siblings if you live with them…and this was true at both ends of the message.  The sender ran the same risks as the recipient (and don’t forget the good old boys sorting mail at the post office.)

     This may help explain why so many postcard albums were sold during the Postcard Fad Years of, oh,1905 to 1912 or thereabouts.  It was very handy to have everybody know you were a postcard collector.  This would hide the occasional blush-making card among the other cards your other friends kept sending you AND gave you the excuse “Oh, good!  Another card for my collection of cute kids!”

     Who could object to pictures of cute little children?  Especially if they added another layer of security by talking in baby talk.

     Your parents might be dubious about your excuses, but this pretense provided THEM with a reason to ignore the occasional not-very-subtle caption.  Cute card: that’s why she ran upstairs with it.  She wanted to put it in the album right away.  Cute card.

     There was a vast variety when it came to cuteness

     And subtlety.  The cute kids postcard became like any other part of the courtship process.  You try this style, and if it doesn’t work, you move on to some other artist who might have a lighter touch.

     Or not.

     And, if worse came to worst, there were options for that.

     For all customers.  Maybe YOU couldn’t say it, but the kids on cards could.

FUZZ ORDAINED: The Angel and the Phronik

     Unfirom blinked.  He could still see the survey crew, and the park.  Now, though, there were new colors, paler shades of the real greens and blues he’d seen a moment ago.  This alternate August N. Griese park always bothered his eyes.  It was out of focus.

     The grey-haired human costume had vanished, returning him to his natural form, providing the only sharp, clear colors in this universe.  Unfirom was a tall, brilliant angel, his aura clearly defined, his wings perfectly defined, his robes falling in creases evenly spaced around his body, his face proving that it is possible to be both ageless and timeless, and yet immediately identifiable as an old fuddy-duddy.

     He frowned at the pale browns and blues of the survey crew.  They’d started early.  Shrugging, he turned to the tennis players.  The park was waking up.  He sighed.  That meant it was time to alert the phronik.  It was time, in short, to get to work.  He sighed again.

     It was not that Unfirom disliked his assignment to Griese Park.  Liking or disliking an assignment was alien to angelic dignity.  That which was given him to bear, he would bear.

     He did wish the phronik were less generous about giving him things to bear.

The place to start was the patch of weeds in that space too narrow to mow between the fence around the tennis courts and the sidewalk.  His third step nearly came down on a tiny creature who sat cross-legged among the dandelions, weaving a necklace of grass.

     “Good morning, Sweet Pea,” he called, drawing back his foot.

     She paid no attention to the foot.  “Good morning, Mr. Angel.  Does this mean it’s daytime again?”

     “The sun’s up.”

     Sweet Pea, still weaving the necklace, rolled onto her stomach and set her chin on the sidewalk.  Her toes wiggled thoughtfully.  “Should I ask HIM, then?”

     Sweet Pea was a small woman with a head out of proportion to her body, and eyes out of proportion to her head.  A teeny pink skirt clung to her waist as an ornament only, as it offered no cover.  She was a phron.

     “Where are your sisters?” asked Unfirom, feeling a change of subject would improve the conversation.

     “Oh, in the park somewhere.”  She waved both hands up behind her.

     “Let’s go find them.”

     She kicked her feet behind her.  “Why don’t we stay here and let them find us?  I might be about to see a bunny.”

     Unfirom considered pink toes.  Angelic faces lack the ability to show slyness, so his expression did not change as he inquired, “What if Primrose is about to see a bunny?”

     Sweet Pea rolled over, planting her palms on the ground.  “It’s not her turn!  She saw six yesterday!”  She frowned, setting her left index finger on her chin.  “Or did she see the same bunny six times?”

     “Let’s go ask her.”  Unfirom waved to the park.  Rising on invisible wings, Sweet Pea flew as far as his right shoulder, and sprawled out.  His upper lip twitched, but he did not shake her off.

Unfirom knew from experience that there was no hope of success in hunting for a phron.  Even in a park as small as this, there were simply too many places to hide.  The easiest, if most abhorrent to an angel, method to finding a phron was to wander without direction.  So Unfirom looked around, chose the direction most likely to lead him to a phron, turned his back on it, and strode away.  An easy amble would have worked better, but there was a limit to Unfirom’s adaptabilities.

     “How come we can’t watch bunnies instead of people?” the phron on his shoulder asked him.

     “I’ll explain when you’re older,” the angel replied.   “Aha!”

     “Aha!” echoed Sweet Pea, rising.  “What is it?”

     A small white paper bag was rolling in the grass.  Griese Park sat within three blocks of no fewer than seven fast food joints, for which reason its detractors on the City Council referred to it as Greasy Park.  Stooping, Unfirom snatched up the bag, giving it a little squeeze.

     “Ah, get out!” snarled a voice from within.

     “You get out,” the angel replied, rolling the bag up from the bottom.  A pair of legs emerged, and a brilliant blue skirt, followed soon after by matching blue eyes in a large head.

     A mouth was included.  “I thought all you guys were supposed to do was kiss sleeping babies and pull little kids out of frozen rivers.”

     “I scored poorly in baby-kissing.”  Unfirom bounced the rolled bag on the ground.  It swung as if caught by a wayward breeze, and twirled into one of the dented oil drums which served the park as garbage cans.  “Have you seen your sisters?”

     “Lots of times.”  Bluebell wrinkled her nose.

     Angelic noses do not wrinkle.  Unfirom did raise an eyebrow.  “Recently?  It’s time to go to work.”

     “We think Primrose is going to see a bunny,” Sweet Pea put in.

     “That twitch?”  Bluebell snorted.  “She wouldn’t even look at a bunny unless it was one she cut out with one of her bunny cookie cutters.”

     “Ooh, that’s right: she can make her own bunnies!”  Sweet Pea slapped her palms against the soles of her feet.

     “Almost as fast as the bunnies do,” yawned Bluebell.

     “To work,” said Unfirom.  “The morning’s first target is within reach.”

     “Well, those loafers should help, if we have to,” Bluebell declared.  “They probably found an ice cream….”

     “Wait!”  Unfirom raised a hand.  He had heard the start of a duet.

                                    “Percolator, coffeemaker,

                                    Subaru and Studebaker:

                                    All you got is all you’re gonna get:

                                    Waddya bet?”

     Beneath empty swings sat Primrose and Meadow Saffron, the remaining pair of Unfirom’s tribulations, singing as they played an elaborate form of pattycake, using hands, feet, and any other body part within reach.

                        “Mamma made her money with a shake of her hips

                        And bought a place that manufactured buggy whips;

                        They made so many dollars she was getting bored:

                        Along game a joker name of Henry Ford!

                                    “Percolator, coffeemaker,

                                    Subaru and Studebaker:

                                    All you got is all you’re gonna get:

                                    Waddya bet?”

     “Is anyone ready for work?” Unfirom inquired.  The first two phronik were swinging on the hem of his robe.

     “He’s giving us a choice,” said Primrose, continuing the game without looking up.

     Meadow Saffron slapped her own right shoulder twice with her left hand, and then Primrose’s left shoulder.  “No, he’s not.  I can tell.  It’s the way those lines at the sides of his eyes squinch up.”

     Primrose slapped each of her own knees, and then Meadow Saffron’s elbows.  “I really ought to work on my cookbook, you know.  There are only twelve recipes ready.”

     Meadow Saffron’s palm bounced off her own ears and then Primrose’s nose.  “You do know all your recipes are pretty much the same, don’t you?”

     Primrose punched Meadow Saffron in the mouth and then kicked her in the stomach.  “What do you know about research?  Or cooking?  And how am I supposed to do any real work with that itty-bitty kitchen in the park lodge?  She stamped both feet together on an already flattened cigarette butt.  “AND ants all over the place?”

     Meadow Saffron dove down to snatch the cigarette butt from under her opponent’s feet.  Sweet Pea sped down between the two combatants, the game having obviously moved beyond pattycake.

     “Spoilsport,” grunted Bluebell, as Primrose and Meadow Saffron slapped the intruder’s arms and thighs in agreement.

     “There is work to be done,” said Unfirom, with no change of expression.

     “Keep spanking me and we won’t have to,” whispered Sweet Pea.  She looked over her shoulder as Primrose, and spotted something farther back.  “Ooh, those men are back with their sticks and bracelets!  What do they want this time?”

     “I told you.”  Unfirom’s voice lowered a bit under the weight of frustration.  “They are surveying this park to show whether it would be economically viable to make changes the city has in mind.”

     Primrose slapped her hands to her hips.  “Well, tell them we need a better kitchen!”

     “Oh, oh, and new benches!” said Bluebell.  “Because people can’t sit on the broken ones and drop their ice cream bars for us.”

     “We could use a band shell,” meadow Saffron suggested.  “So we could sing along.”

     “Or a gazebo,” sighed Bluebell, falling over on her back and floating along a breeze, crossing and uncrossing her feet.

     “And paint the horsey swings!” cried Sweet Pea.

     “And a newsstand on the corner!” shouted Primrose, kicking herself in the forehead.  “There used to be one!”

     “Actually,” said Unfirom, “As I have mentioned, the museum people would like to turn this into a passive park, which would set off their new building and attract the right sort of people.”

     “What’s a passive park?”  Meadow Saffron tossed herself onto her stomach in the grass, examining the handle of a broken plastic spoon.

     “Fountains and flower beds, primarily,” the angel said.  “People walk through it and take pictures in it.  There are signs to keep people off the grass, and sometimes a guard to make sure no one picks the flowers.  Dogs are not allowed.  It will be peaceful and decorative and very appropriate when the new museum building goes up across the street.”

     The phronik flew back from his face to make sure he wasn’t joking.  “No track?” Primrose demanded.  “What about the gorgeous guys running around it in their teeny teeny shorts?”

     “No more puppies being walked on strings?” squeaked Sweet Pea.

     “No more bottoms in white tennis panties?”

     “What about the playground and all the ice cream those little kidleys drop?”

     The angel shook his head. “That is all wrong for a passive park.”

     “Let’s drop something on them!”

     Bluebell and Primrose shot into the air.  “Something sharp and heavy!”

     With skill born of much practice, Unfirom caught all four pairs of wings as the phronik rose to the assault.  “That will do no good.”

     “They’d just send more, right?” sighed Meadow Saffron.

     “The park is not our assignment,” the angel intoned.  “If this must become a passive park, we shall work as we always have.  There is a target for us now.”

     “Two more?” demanded Meadow Saffron.  “Already?  This IS an active park!”

     Unfirom strode forward, releasing the phronik one at a time to flutter alongside.  “This way.  Quickly, before others arrive.”

     He stopped five yards from a bench constructed of L-shaped concrete blocks with boards bolted to them.  A young woman with masses of hair of an indeterminate shade sat there reading a book on Ostrogoths.  She was doing so through very thick eyeglasses.

     “Her?” demanded Blubell.  “Never!”

     “Look.”  Unfirom did not need to point.  His voice compelled their eyes toward the concrete path that ran parallel to the cinder track.

     A smallish young man with a prominent Adam’s apple, clear complexion, and what might almost be described as a red pompadour was moving in long, easy strides along the path, swinging a canvas bag.  Bright, wide eyes turned left and right, nostrils widened and narrowed as he took in deep breaths of the morning air.

     “Well, okay,” said Bluebell.  “He might be that desperate.”

     “Aw, I think he’s cute.”  Sweet Pea rose a little in the air for a better view.

     “His name,” Unfirom informed them, “Is Arthur.  Her name is Julia.  They are sophomores at Mershon College, but they have not yet met.  They will meet next semester, in their Political Science 203 course.”

     Meadow Saffron yawned and stretched her toes.  “Yes.  But when are they going to DO It?”

     “Next May,” the angel replied.  “Because she feels sorry for him.”

     Four pairs of eyes turned to Julia.  “Ooh, I could just bite her!” cried Sweet Pea, curling tiny fists.

     “He will be so shocked when he finds out about this, three weeks later,” Unfirom went on, “That he will never ‘DO It’ again.”

     “Oh no oh no oh no oh no,” said Primrose, her hands to her throat.

     Meadow Saffron showed no signs of yawning now.  “We have to help!”

     “You know what to do,” said the angel.  “If you can force them to meet now, and make sure they are attracted to each other, you can change the outcome.”

     The phronik swirled into the air, taking up positions in the tree behind Julia’s bench.  Each tucked herself into a hiding place among the leaves.

     Unfirom strolled over to stand under the tree, his hands folded back under his wings.  “You do remember that they can’t see or hear us?”

     Primrose sniffed.  “You do your job.  We’ll do ours.”

Why Is She There?

     The postcard shown here came into inventory with a number of other World War II  postcards, and it attracted my attention for a number of reasons, including, but not limited to, where a pilot might encounter a cavalryman trying to execute a jumpy, why the pilot is wearing a parachute (unless he’s going to be next on the horse), why we have THREE people in full uniform, and, most of all, what is that woman doing on the scene anyhow?

     The answer to that last one is simple, really. She’s there to help sell the postcard, rather like the young lady shown here trying to wash her dog.  The joke doesn’t have anything to do with WHO is washing the dog, nor how that person should be dressed.  But at least she is a part of the gag, unlike the lady in the first postcard.  And that rather scanty outfit is practical, as anyone who has washed a large dog will understand.

     There are plenty of postcards ABOUT good-looking young women.  What I was wondering about was how often the ladies walked into a joke where they were not essential, but just helpful in catching the eye of the customer.  Here, for example, all we REALLY need for the gag are the cows.  Having someone to milk the cows helps focus the joke.  Having someone in high heels is not positively essential.

     And there are some jokes which are just funnier, really, if the punchline goes to a woman.  A man could just as easily have been walking Fido here.  But he would have seemed either inconsiderate or just stupid, whereas this young lady can just be classified under, say, “Blonde Jokes” as we take the postcard to the cash register to buy it.

     This joke didn’t particularly REQUIRE a woman either, or a very tiny woman (look at her height compared to that of the mailbox and/or newspaper.  Of course, this was during World War II, when men overseas were thinking of the “little woman” back home.)

     There is no reason for a female patient crossing her legs for this card.  Would anybody have bought it without her?

     And anybody at all could have been picking a peach.  (At least she’s doing something.  What is the SCOTTIE doing there?  Are we going for double the market?)

     The phenomenon does not begin at mid-century either.  This joke from thirty years earlier could have been done—in fact WAS done—with two men in the role.  But the artist wanted to draw a shapely female golfer, and I bet his sales figures corresponded with hers.

     None of these ladies is quite as pointless as the bysitter in the first postcard. Somebody HAD to be around to deliver, and receive, this joke, and since we’re at the beach, why NOT a couple of healthy young women in 1930s bathing costumes?

     And here, the speaker must really be female, to fit the punchline.

     But, as people who used the same pun in different contexts pointed out, it did not necessarily have to be the pinup model type preferred by other artists.

     The shapely ladies who produce the punchline (or, as here, the straight line) are simply there to nourish the sales figures, to help profits grow.  We could call them womanure.  But I don’t think we will.

Scurvy Rapscallions

    A jolly collection which came into inventory here in Blogsytown is about one fifth of a set of Corsaires.  These are colorful portraits of freebooters and privateers (I don’t see ANYOE using the word “pirates”) from Dominique Leroy here–a captain also known as the Pistol Corsair, who was captain of the Foudroyant (Lightning)—to ship’s carpenters, sail specialists, and even onshore support staff.

     There were eighty-six portraits in the full set, each with a name, a nickname (essential for a pi…corsair), and the role they played aboard whatever ship each served.  It’s a maritime malefactor trading card set–I was half expecting a table of statistics on the back, with voyages, battles, and loot recorded there.  They are individual, colorful, and completely the product of the imagination of artist Etienne Blandin.

      Born into a sailing family in 1903, Etienne was determined to follow the family trade.  But he was expected to do things the right way: one didn’t just run away to sea.  His school had what we would call Sailor Prep courses.  Standards were high, and Etienne simply couldn’t manage the right grades in math, of all things. (Essential for navigation, I suppose.)  Disappointed, he took the advice of his father, who felt the boy had artistic ability.  (Wait a minute: don’t these stories usually work the other way round?)

     He became a painter and an art teacher, but experienced a sort of midlife crisis when only 28.  He’d been painting landscapes and still lives and Biblical scenes, but he looked at his work and decided something was missing.  He gave up painting and turned to studying maritime history.

     When he took up his brush again, he was painting portraits of ships, a genre of paintings which occasionally turns up on postcards as well as in galleries.  These were received very well by the public and by the French Navy, and he was appointed one of the Painters of the Navy, which meant that he could go on missions as a crew member on military vessels (but only during school holidays, since he was also still teaching.)

      The government had made no plans for including the painters of the Navy in any sort of wartime role, and World War II found Blandin working with an infantry regiment before the course of the war lost him that job.  He went back to teaching and painting, which he continued until failing eyesight led to his retirement from both those jobs at the age of eighty.  (In the meantime, he also compiled, and painted over a thousand illustrations for, a reference guide to all known maritime flags.)  He died in 1991, leaving behind a catalogue of paintings unrivalled by other specialist artists.

     Somewhere in the vast world of fans and collectors, there MUST be a guide to his 86 Corsaires which explains when he did these paintings, who decided to make them into postcards, and to what degree each is based on someone he knew personally, or whether all these characters and their wild world sprang straight from his imagination.  Nowadays there’d be a graphic novel series, animated cartoons, live action movies and who knows what-all else.  (Maybe there were, and nobody on the Interwebs wants us landlubbers getting involved.)

    According to a website which shows some 75 of the 86, there are 83 men and 3 women in the set.  They have many things in common—the red bandana, the clay pipe, the eyepatch—but each is an individual with a backstory we are left to imagine.  Because of this, they also do not have birthdates, death dates, or anything else to take them out of a seventeenth-eighteenth century pirate Neverland filled with seaside inns, disreputable hijinx, and high seas adventure.  Yar-har, fiddle-dee-dee indeed.

Fuzz Ordained: Chapter One

            Cool dawn found the park in the possession of those people too busy to use it at any other time.  Two men in their sixties and one in his forties were making their way around the track in pursuit of their health, none paying much attention to the woman of indeterminate age whose shorts were torn in the worst possible place.  She had torn these on leaving the house; like everyone else in the Park at this hour, she felt she didn’t have much time.

            Three tennis players were doggedly indulging in a game of one-and-a-half, since their usual partner for doubles had just been transferred to evening shift.  A couple who had been sharing a fast food breakfast on one of the park’s four benches rose and moved hand-in-hand along the cracked concrete path.  She bumped a shoulder against his left ear, smiling to show she’d done this on purpose.  He smiled back, reaching on tiptoe to kiss her.

            Coming down from the kiss, he frowned, and looked behind him.  “Sir?” he inquired of the nearest bystander, who was standing a few feet beyond the bench.

            “Mm?”  The man turned from his apparent consideration of the life of August N. Griese, which had been summarized in metal and riveted to a boulder, and raised an eyebrow at the young lover.

            “Sorry,” said the shorter man, turning a darker shade of pink.  “But did you just tell me I should remember you?”

            The taller man took off his glasses, the better to regard the speaker.  The other man tightened his grip on the woman’s hand and started walking again.  “Sorry, sir.  Must be hearing things.  Morning.”

            “I heard it too, Petey.  It must’ve come from over there.”  The lovers moved on.  The tall man watched them go, the tiniest of creases between his eyes.

            Turning away from the couple, he saw two men setting up a tripod.  “You’re the surveyors?” he inquired, stepping across to them.  “The last ones set up right there, by that mark.”  He pointed.

            “Huh?  Didn’t see that.”  The surveyor nodded.  “Thanks.  The last guys were about three feet off, though.  Hey, Phil!  Wanna measure a yard off this mark?”

            His partner shrugged.  The tall man echoed the shrug, and moved off, which drew the men’s eyes to him just long enough for the little blue X to pick itself up and mince a few inches along the concrete.  Because such things cannot happen, the men might not have noticed it in any case.

            Certainly they failed to notice their chains stretching as they went about their business.  Chains did not stretch.  And grey-haired men in suits did not suddenly shimmer and vanish, so they didn’t see that, either.

Who What Where Game

     Those of you who have been paying attention (both of you) will recall my constant wailing about the Real Photo Postcards (rppcs) and found photos which leave us mystified because no one, back in the day, bothered to write anything on the back.  Details which might have fleshed out the story of the places and people on the picture simply do not exist, and cannot, after all these years, be salvaged.  It is frustrating, and yet….  Do we prefer the couple above as they are, leaving us to make up our own story about the McDonnans and the mysterious disappearances of Walpurgisnacht 1909?  Or would we like to know that this was Frank and Stella, who ran the first schoolhouse in Cornsilk, South Dakota?

     A recent collection of Found photography, as it is popularly known (the pros prefer “Vernacular Photography”, shots taken by people with cameras as opposed to artists who used their equipment to express a vision) has led me to reconsider the whole question.  The shot above is the work of what I call a photographoyeur, a sort of filmic peeping tom whose camera was always ready to catch someone bending over too far.  There is nothing on the backside (of the photo) to tell us much and yet, accidentally or on purpose, this picture is identifiable within a few years as to date and can be pinpointed as to place.  It turns out that the Thriller Speedboat Tours still go on around Miami Beach.  They currently employ boats dubbed 06 Thriller and 08 Thriller.  The presence of their 01 speedboat puts this somewhere between 2007 and 2011 or thereabouts.  It might be NICE to know who the model was, since she was clearly an ametur (what swimsuit model actually steps into the water?) but we can’t have everything.

     THIS photo, on the other hand, IS labelled, to a certain degree.  We at least have a date, so we know SOMETHING about the photograph.

     The label, however, tells us a whole lot more about the photographoyeur involved.  As it stands, we don’t even know for sure if the model ever knew she’d been photographed.

     Labels, it seems, give us only what the labeler thought was important at the time, leaving us with certain frustrations which are unlikely to be resolved.  Thanks to the person who labeled the three photos in this set, we know the names and date of the Halloween party.

     But oh, if only they had included last names, it might be possible to do more research into what is the most burning question presented: What the heckfire was Jerry Supposed to BE?  Is he a cat?  A Big Bad Wolf?  A tumbleweed?  The world may never know.

     This pre-party picture is unlabeled, presenting the usual questions: who is this showing off her party dress, and what was the occasion?  We can see a few decorations, and maybe those plastic tubs contain more.  But we do get one hint in a second photo.

     A decoration and/or early guest is waving at us from the left.  THIS gives us a terminus ad quem, a date beyond which speculation cannot go.  Dora the Explorer’s presence makes this a twenty0first century photo, as Dora did not debut until late Fall of 2000.  Not much but, as always, Dora helps out.

     The person who assembled this collection was a connoisseur of photogravoyeur photography, which includes a few even trickier problems.  There are no fewer than four bathing suit photographs with full names and dates.  But they leave out the most important data for those of us who pick up found photography for resale.  See, these were pre-liposuction photos.  What I need to know before offering these for sale is whether the models have relatives who are going to drop by with baseball bats if I show the pix online.  I still insist on the basic principle that labels make things a little easier, in spite of pictures like this last one, which is labeled “Jackie clowning.  Single, huh?”  There are so many things I’d like to…but maybe one of Jackie’s friends still exists to explain.  We can always hope.

Fairy Tales & Such

     Folklore has been passed on in many ways throughout the years, from Grandma’s tales to the Interwebs.  By “folklore” I mean to suggest any sort of knowledge passed on outside of classroom, from stories of Jack and his adventures with princesses and/or giants to that limerick about the Young Lady from Ryan.  Such information may be intoned by Grandma, as above, or scrawled on the restroom wall.

     Over the centuries, people have tried to catch this folklore as it passes, lest it be dropped and lost by a heedless generation.  Sometimes folk collectors are scholars who hang out in bars to document tales of big fish or traditional song parodies.  But sometimes it is the postcard artist who does the job.  The song above, for instance, is referenced on a number of postcards, but only the first line.  The rest of it is lost, at least as far as I can determine on the Interweb sources.

     Some postcard artists, like Hansi, in the reproduction shown here, went out of their way to give us their local lore.  Those headdresses, unique to Alsace, can be seen in postcards by other artists (they are that fun to draw) but the girl in the middle is also offering up Kugelhopf, a traditional (and impressive) Alsatian dessert.  (Alsace is one of the first parts of Europe to be invaded in time of war, and Hansi had the distinction of facing trouble from enemy soldiers in both World Wars.)

     More often postcard artists just used current folklore as a key to entertaining the readers.  Here, for instance, we get a happy ending to the story of someone who was thinking about the verse that “Everybody hates me; Nobody loves me” and having to go out in the yard and eat worms.  (Now largely forgotten, except among bloggers who may not know the poem, but know the feeling.)

     Postcard folklorists are likely, though, to take a turn for the grim.  (Sorry about that.)  Here we see not only an artist’s rendering of a famous tale, but also a reminder that it is only in English that Little Red wears a “hood”.

     This artist is showing us a dramatic point in the tale of Hansel and Gretel, though we see no tempting candy house (and I don’t recall the cat.  Maye ALL the witches in folktales had cats, who never got any billing.  Note to those still looking for dissertation topics—Forgotten Folktale Cats would get you funding in no time.)

     Here’s a rendition of a popular bedtime poem simply meant to be warm and comforting and cute and inspirational.

      The artist seems to have given it more thought and produced this version, bringing out the was menace in this folk poetry.

     Death is a dramatic and fascinating subject, as far as I can recall from my own bloodthirsty childhood in a bygone century.  There were all sorts of formulae handed down on the playgroud to figure out when your own death would take place, and previous generations were no different.  I was NOT taught this one until I saw this postcard, but that may simply be because cuckoos (the bird kind) did not hang out in my neighborhood.  Back in the day, not one but three of these rhymes gave me the same date in April, 2001 as my date of demise, which was fun because that year was so far away as to be unimaginable.  Finding myself in 2001, I had to remind myself several times that this was, after all, merely playground science, like not locking your knees while singing in Chorus.

     I did NOT die in 2001, if you were curious, and I cannot even credit any of the counter-spells taught us in folklore, as in this bit of verse which tells us if we smile three times every morning, do not grumble at lunchtime, and sing every night until the worlds rings around us, we will live to be one hundred.  I might just try it, though like any other fitness program I didn’t get around to it today, and may just start tomorrow.  I wonder which playground savant taught me THAT.

UNSLEEPING BEAUTY: All Awake

     A tremendous party was held as soon as everyone could get inside the castle.  Minstrels recited hastily-composed sonnets on snoozing while dulcimers played in the background.  People milled around in the grand ballroom taking refreshments from long tables against the walls.  Dimity sat at a high table in the back of the room where everyone could see she was alive, even if she did spend a lot of time yawning and setting her head down on the table.  The three knights she had introduced as Sir Ae, Sir Bee, and Sir Ceee sat near her, as yawning and dusty as the princess.

     Things had to be explained to Dimity several times: how she had been asleep for more than a day, and had spent most of that time over Sir Ceee’s shoulder.  “I thought I felt bruises on my stomach,” she said.

     While the castle musicians were setting things up for a grand dance, another dusty tired man entered the ballroom.  He spoke to a guard, and was then led up to the thrones of the King and Queen.  He handed up a sealed letter.

     The King broke the seal, read through the letter, laughed, and passed it to the Queen.  She smiled as she read it, and then handed it back.  The King rose and called for silence.

     “This good messenger,” he announced, “Has come by swift horse on the long road south of the Grove of Nasty Nights, with a message from our fellow ruler to the east.  Her Majesty asks that we watch for her three sons, Prince Alain, Prince Archels, and Prince Affretz, who come seeking adventure and may need help or supplies if they make their way through the haunted forest.”

     Several people in the audience guessed at once, and cheered in approval.  Sir Ae, Sir Bee, and Sir Ceee stood up to bow.

     “Are you princes?” demanded Dimity.  “I never guessed!”

     “They must have been, you know,” said the Queen.  “Since you did fall asleep.”

     Dimity, frowned, thinking that over.  “Oh!  I forgot.”

     Somebody laughed.  “Well, I was tired!” said the princess.

     The King started to explain the whole nosiness of the curse at the christening, which the princes had not heard before.  Someone shouted “Look!”

     One punchbowl had begun to emit huge violet bubbles.  These rose into the air, bunching together.  With a little “pop” they fell together into one immense pink bubble.  This bubble hovered for a moment and then disappeared with a second “pop”.

     In its place stood two fairies, Camomile and Snowdrop.  The celebrating people, who had reason to be wary of fairies, pulled back from them.

     “Er, welcome!” said the King.  “To what do we owe this, er, pleasure?”

     “If you had to eat nuts and berries all the livelong week in a forest,” said Camomile, “You’d jump at a chance to get a free meal, too.”  She reached out and caught up an éclair from a refreshments table.

     “Besides,” said Snowdrop, “I think there’s a happy ending coming on.”

     Archels, who recognized his brother’s fairy godmother from pictures, strode forward.  “We looked for you for years!  Now tell us, if you please!  Why did you put that curse on our brother Affretz?”

     Snowdrop raised her nose at the prince.  “Curse?  Rubbish!  That was a gift.  I figured there ought to be one prince, anyhow, who could grow up without thinking all the time how great he was.  I thought he might very likely turn out to be the nicest and most thoughtful prince, and that’s the type, you know, who rescues princesses.  And you see that I was right!”  She nodded to Snowdrop, who was now nibbling a prune kolace.

     “Did you plan all of this?” Princess Dimity demanded.

     Snowdrop shrugged.  “Why don’t we say we did pan all this and then give three cheers for fairies?”

     Nobody seemed especially inclined to give even one cheer.  “Hmm,” said Camomile, around a mouthful of pastry.  “Maybe a few repairs are in order.”

     “A few repairs it is,” said Snowdrop.

     The fairies waved their hands.  Dimity’s mud-stained clothes were replaced by a ballgown of shimmering white, with a silver coronet appearing in her hair, now combed and excellently in order.  Instead of their dusty traveling clothes, the princes now wore royal garb, Alain in a white suit fitted with sapphires, Archels in basic white sprinkled with rubies, And Affretz resplendent in white and emeralds.  Weariness dropped from their faces, and as the three princes came forward together, people did start to cheer.

     “Oh!”  Affretz looked down at his feet and then at Snowdrop.  “I’m not limping!  I can walk like anyone!  I….”

     He had caught sight of his face in a polished silver plate.  “But I’m still ugly!”

     “Well, yes, you look like that,” said Snowdrop.  “The limp was just kind of an afterthought, but I did say you were going to be the ugliest prince in the world, and you have to keep that.”

     While the princes all thought that over, Snowdrop strolled over to the princess.  “Now, let’s wrap up all the business.  Which of these princes do you want to marry?”  She was pointing at one prince in particular, if the princess needed help deciding.

     Dimity stuck out her chin.  “I don’t have to marry anybody.  I was just rescued, that’s all.”

     “Don’t mind her.”  Camomile threw a wink in Snowdrop’s direction.  “Some fairies are way too romantical.  Which of these princes would you like as a partner for the first dance?”

     Dimity was about to object to that, too, but, realizing she wasn’t tired now, looked around the room.  The people were cheering, the palace musicians (who knew all her favorite songs) were ready to begin, and there were, after all, three well-dressed princes just standing there.

     “I really can’t decide,” she said, and, walking over to Affretz, demanded, “Why don’t you just ask me to dance, so I don’t have to make up my mind?”

     Affretz shrugged.  “You don’t have to dance with me,” he said, “Just because you’re grateful and think you have to…..”

     “I’m grateful to all of you,” she said.  “And I’m going to dance with all of you.”  She nodded to Alain and Archels before turning back to Affretz.  “But you first.”

     He looked her full in the face.  She didn’t wince.  “Don’t you think I’m ugly.”

     “I KNOW you’re ugly,” she told him, reaching out to take his hand.  “What I want to find out if you can dance, now that you’re not limping any more.”

     “I’d like to find that out, too,” said the ugliest prince in the world.

     There is little more story to tell.  The three princes, who danced long and late with Princess Dimity and the other ladies of court, and finally led the whole room in three cheers for the fairies, stayed at the castle for several months, discussing with the King and Queen different plans for clearing out the Forest of Dreary Dreans, as well as how to get through the massive thornbushes to get into the silent castle within.  But before anyone had agreed on a plan for either chore, a messenger arrived from their mother about a giant stealing sheep in their fields back home.  The princes all hurried home, and had their hands full for some time with the giant and, as it turned out, his bigger brothers and especially huge uncle.

     Dimity wrote letters to the princes after they left, and occasionally delivered these herself, though she generally took the road around the forest, lest Gelvander be waking up.  She would stay with the queen there for a week or two, once in a while helping out with one of the giants.  Sometimes Affretz would ride back with her to her parents’ castle for a visit.

     Dimity learned early on that the more you got to know someone, the less you actually looked at his face.  No one, except Alain, a little, was surprised when Dimity and Affretz were married.  The story of Unsleeping Beauty and the Three Princes was sung throughout the land and, in its day, was more famous than the story of her cousin, still asleep in that castle surrounded by thorns.  That story hadn’t ended yet, because the right prince hadn’t come along yet.

     But you know how that turned out.

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