The Rose Room

Marathon Memories

On Saturday, May 1st 2010, I finished the Illinois Marathon. Here is everything I can remember about that life experience.

Overall
I finished in 5:28. That’s 5 hours and 28 minutes. Never in my wildest dreams did I think it would take me that long. I started out with the 4:45 pace team. 4:45 was an aggressive time but I sincerely believed that if I worked hard I could finish between 4:45 and 5:00. 5:00 was my drop-dead, almost-taking-it-easy, there-is-no-question-I-will-make-this-time pace. 5:00 was practically my long slow distance TRAINING pace, and believe me, I trained slooooooooow. Not ‘slow’ relative to a faster runner, slow relative to me. So, what happened? How did I work so hard for so many weeks and feel my body get so strong and finish at a time almost a half-hour after my fallback? Well, I’ll tell you. Following is an almost mile-by-mile review of my first marathon. If you want drama, read miles 10, 14, 25 and 26. That’s when the juicy stuff happens.

Start corral, and final potty breaks
(dedicated to: Beth and Nando)

This is the largest “team” I’ve ever been a part of, in terms of people I know running this race. There is a group of 11of us running the half and full marathons. Pre-race we all mange to find each other fairly easily, which doesn’t happen too often. Tim, the overall coordinator and common thread between most people, has us meet at the ‘farthest East port-a-potty.’ Although it sounds funny to say, these are brilliant instructions.

In our group there are three first time marathoners, all women, two half marathoners, and six experienced marathoners. The six experienced runners are all trying for a less-than-4-hour run. We take turns standing in line for the port-a-potties then one of the late-joining runners invites us up to her hotel room to pee. Her hotel is literally on the start line. It’s the most bizarre hotel placement I’ve ever seen. A long line of us troops upstairs to take advantage of running water and a flushing toilet. Ahhh, heaven.

After that we re-collect for one last round of well-wishes then head off to the start line. I am told I will kick the race’s ass. While I’ve felt capable of this feat before, I have never once felt as though I had that power for this distance. But I appreciate the confidence and spirit.

Here are a couple general observations about the race: a) it’s small and b) I like the town spirit. I can compare this event to ‘Go St. Louis’ which I’ve participated in twice. It’s not just a race – it’s a community sponsored party. Instead of hearing “go runners!” you hear “go Champaign-Urbana!” The local radio station has a team of hosts covering, each sounding a little thrilled and amazed to be doing something they haven’t done before. Local shops are out in droves. Families line the street with small children who have likely been brought out just as spectators, not necessarily as cheerleaders for relatives. These two small, central Illinois towns are clearly thrilled to have us here, and have turned out with signs, billboards, ti-shirts, balloons, bullhorns, cow-bells, pom-poms, soaped windows, and thousands if not hundreds of thousands of volunteers. I am reminded of how wonderful this kind of community spirit and generosity feels.

As I stand in line for the start these are some of the thoughts in my head: I haven’t corralled up for a race by myself in a long time. I haven’t stuck myself immediately behind a pacer since my first run. I haven’t been this warm at the start line in a long time either. The weather looks like it really wants to rain. It still smells like rain, as is has since last night. I am standing by a number of people who say this is also their first marathon, and we all wish each other well. We joke about crawling to the end, but vow that we will get there somehow.

Eventually, the gun sounds. At least we assume it sounds; we’re far in the back and can’t hear anything. But after several minutes the wall of people around us begins pressing forward. Unlike the Shamrock Shuffle, an 8K I ran a few weeks ago, everyone knows to save their energy until they cross the starting pads. No one dances in line trying to run early, which is probably due to a combination of the weather and an understanding of the energy needed to get through this distance. It only takes about 5 minutes or so to reach the start. I’ve been in races where it took me upwards of 30 minutes. Again, this race is small.

Miles 1-12
(Mile 1= me. Miles 2-12 openly dedicated).

The woman holding the 4:45 pacing sign managed to cross the start line waaaaaaay ahead of me, and most of her eager followers. It’s a pain in the butt to try to catch her. She is also running way ahead of pace. Even when I finally catch her around the second mile she is pushing too hard. It takes her until mile 4 or 5 to realize this, and she slows way down, thus confusing almost everyone following her. She calls out to all of us to stay behind her otherwise we’ll burn out, and I can’t help but think she’s also reminding herself of this too.

The first mile of a race is always a jumble. You never run at your settled pace since you’re fighting everyone else (who are also fighting each other and you) to get into a comfortable position. The mile 1 marker comes before you even know you’re running. I try to think of some profound thoughts as keepsakes for myself but come up dry.

By mile 2 the grit is setting in. By mile 3 most of us are covered in sweat. Not “sweaty,” but literally covered in it, head to toe. At the first water stop my cup is only about a quarter full, which is much less than I need but I figure it’s early on and the crowd is thick so rather than trying to grab another I’ll just deal with it.

I remember almost no scenery from this early part of the run. I know we were running along residential and small business streets. At one point I do remember running along the street where Emily and I watched Mark run last year. It’s an adorable street with a Starbucks, Dunkin’ Donuts, cutely-named bar or two, etc. I remember last year being lucky enough to watch the winner run by, and crying. I told Emily how important and cool it was we got to see the winners. Winners astound me with their physical abilities. They always make me cry.

It is difficult to stick with the pacer. It means I’m not inside my own head, but am instead constantly watching her. I don’t like this. I don’t like it so much that all other distractions are really making me mad, including the cheering spectators. I ask myself harshly what the hell is wrong with me, since ANY race spectators deserve THANKS, not anger. I don’t know if I’ve spent too much time running by myself on back roads or what, but I have a serious problem with the early spectators. I hope I never feel that way again.

At mile 8 I remember thinking there are 18 more whole miles to go, and feeling a little scared. At mile 10 someone calls out “10 whole miles gone!!!” to which a runner responds “only 16 more to go!” A marathon is a long, long way.

Very shortly before that mile 10 exchange there had been a water station, which everybody walked through. This is rare. Typically some people walk, some people keep running, some people skip the water altogether. But everybody, en masse, slooooooows waaaay down and walks, savoring their water for several feet. Around this time I feel hurt. I am hurting. I ran 10 miles just two weeks ago in a taper at just about this pace, and felt awesome and refreshed. Maybe it’s the distance stretching out in front of me which is affecting me so much, but I am hurting. Not quite physically, but psychically. I’m blocking out all of the people cheering, blocking out the other runners, trying to focus on the pacer, and am not happy. Between miles 10 and 11 I walk for the first time. It’s only a little bit – maybe a minute or two – and I’m angry with myself for doing it. My feet cramp, which has never happened to me before. I vow to drink Gatorade at the next stop. If I recall correctly, the additional electrolytes should help prevent cramping. I am concerned that I feel no joy during this race.

Around mile 11 – just after the mile marker – there is supposed to be a cheering crowd of people I know. I am wearing a jacket around my waist which has my inhaler, two packages of shot blocks, and two Clif bars. This is much more food than I will need but my sweet husband wanted me to be safe. The jacket is weighing me down and the food is banging into my legs with each running step. I decide to throw the jacket at my friends. I fish out one Clif bar and plan to take another hit on my inhaler then be done with it. At the mile marker I slow down to a regular walk, searching for them. Nothing looks familiar. I scan both sides of the street looking for a recognizable face, house, or inflatable rally monkey. Nothing. I do see the first runner down of the race, being helped into an ambulance by EMT’s. I join those around me in staring at him with sympathy. He looks young – maybe 30s – and fit with a long, lean body. It’s surprising to see someone of that age and build down so badly so early in the course.

By mile 12 I realize I am not seeing my friends (turns out we missed each other due to the distracting ambulance) and I feel deflated at the thought of having to keep my stupid heavy jacket. I am personally pissed off at each food item in my pockets. I open up one of the Clif bars to eat it just to get it out of my pocket and choke on the first mushy bite. The peanut butter tastes drier than normal, and my mouth is too dry to properly chew it. About a block later I see a trash can and throw the stupid thing away, relieved that my pockets are a little lighter.

Miles 13 & 14
(Mile 13 = Tyra, Mile 14 = BJ and Tariq)

Between miles 10 and 14 I alternate walking and running. It’s probably about a 50/50 deal. Just before mile 12 the marathon and half marathon courses split. I semi-choose, semi-by-rote follow the full marathon course. I am slightly jealous of those running the shorter race, but I didn’t sign up for the half.

Mile 13 is dedicated to my friend Tyra. Tyra always amazes me with her positive attitude. I’d thought this would be a good mile to make hers since at mile 13 I had expected to be happy. 13 miles is something I am very used to. It’s a challenge for me, but it’s one I’ve managed several times before. I make a decision while running to try to feel happy. Along this stretch there are not a lot of spectators and I recall a lot of sunshine. I recall running as though I was just gritting it out; just trying to stick out the miles, fighting to find a pace that felt at all comfortable and not torturous. Somewhere between 13 and 14 I took three breaths on my inhaler, hoping that would make the running more comfortable. I realize again I am deriving no joy from this at all; not even any satisfaction from my effort. Mile 13 is hard.

At mile 14, I deeply fear I cannot do it. Meaning, I feel in the core of my being that I am not going to finish this race. The 5:00 hour pace group – which consists at this point of a single sign holder and two runners – passes me. I feel defeated and pissed. I am so miserable I want to cry, but don’t want to dehydrate myself or lose my pride by doing so. I walk, and have a pull-no-punches talk with myself. I consider back-tracking along the course, finding the half/full split, and finishing along the half marathon route to have at least accomplished SOMEthing. I consider trying to cut through side streets and find the stadium and just sitting in the bleachers. I realize that what I am doing right now isn’t even something I want to be doing. Not only am I afraid I’m not going to finish, I don’t WANT to keep going anymore. I see parents with adorable daughters watching the course and I think about my Emily, and how today we could be riding her bike in the driveway instead of my being stuck here. I tell myself to buck up, that THIS IS THE RACE, that this is the event I’ve been expecting since November. I remind myself today is my one shot, my only go at completing this distance since I’ve already sworn I would never do it again. I try running and realize that, if it’s going to be this awful, then I can’t do it. What I’m feeling is different than standard fear or nerves: it’s sick and horrible. I hate it, and I hate myself for feeling it.

So – I can’t do it. I consider what that means. I have 12 miles to go at this point. 12 miles. That’s 1 mile less than a half marathon. I like half marathons. When I consider that distance, I recognize that in fact, I can do 12 miles. I am still standing, therefore I know I can. I have 12 miles in me. I think about the race, and how I felt when I registered. I felt overwhelmed and terrified, to the point where it took me weeks to even TELL people I’d signed up, because the distance felt so frightening. I think about the charity for which I am running. I think about my friends and family, who I harassed and begged for money – for their own, hard-earned money – and who so optimistically and generously gave to me. And I think about that goddamned half/full split again, and my thoughts when I ran to the right rather than along the shorter straight-ahead route. I think:

I didn’t come here not to finish.

And this thought, this short, clichéd, grammatically poor, action-movie, Rocky-Balboa-esque thought, is what carries me through to the end of the race. But I don’t realize that quite yet. No, first I have to figure how, exactly, I’m going to get through the remaining 12 miles.

And then, like a school kid realizing the secret to a word problem, the answer hits me. I’m going to walk. For the rest of the race, I will walk. Not run. Not take walking breaks. Walk, as quickly and powerfully as I possibly can.

Since I’ve started running training, walking has felt like a cop-out to me. Walking, even speed walking, isn’t as much of a challenge as running. Running kicks my butt but makes me feel powerful. It’s been a long time since I’ve derived satisfaction from walking. But then another realization breaks over me, and brings me such joy I can liken it to religious insight:

I haven’t felt this way since my first race.

My first race: the Go St. Louis 2008 half-marathon, which I entered with the intention of walking. I was scared but hopeful, and when I finished (having unexpectedly run almost 5 miles of the course), I felt amazingly proud of myself and like an Olympic athlete.

This marathon was another first race for me. My first race I’d ever entered honestly not knowing whether or not I could cover the entire distance. This race was my very first full marathon. And, no matter how I got there, the achievement was in covering the miles. I didn’t have to do it as a winner, or do it pretty, I just had to do it. I had to reach down, pull out those miles which were buried somewhere inside me, and finish. Upon realizing this, a sense of blissful relief washed over me, and I launched into my personal Act II of the race.

Miles 15-19
(Miles 15&16 – openly dedicated. Mile 17 = Aaron. Mile 18 = Stephanie. Mile 19 = Linda Waco)

Mile 15, I am walking. To address my cramping feet – which on and off cramp for the remainder of the race – I have ingested both Gatorade and water, and now take 1 shot block. I take it with a cup full of water, like I’m supposed to. My sides have also been cramping throughout the race, and I managed to run thru the pain in the earlier miles. But now, shortly after my decision to walk, my entire mid-section cramps. And stays cramped. For approximately 6 miles. No, that is not an exaggeration.

When I say “cramps” I mean “turns as hard as a rock from my chest to my groin.” Every inch of my abs freezes up. Literally, the last time I felt like this, I was in labor, having my child. If I stop and think about it, the pain is almost excruciating. So, I don’t think about it – as much as possible. I feel thankful that I am already walking and settling into a pace, because if I had been running then this probably would have sent me to the sidelines, crying. A race official passes me on his bicycle on the sidelines and asks if I am okay. By this point I have heard at least one other ambulance, and am picking up from the officials that this is not a good day. I smile and give him a thumbs-up because I feel strong in my decision that, unless my body physically brings me down, I am stomping out this mother.

At mile 17 there is a water station and I take Gatorade again, hoping this will help with the cramping. It does not. This is so frustrating that I consider asking the next person I see to tell me on the fly if they think I need more or fewer electrolytes. Since the next person I see looks like she’s 12, I skip this idea. I also think of Aaron, who chose this mile because he wanted a prime number. This calls to mind a couple other memories of Aaron. In one, he is talking to me on the phone after our friend Mikey died. Mikey has been on my mind a lot over the past couple days since he attended grad school in Champaign-Urbana, and so I feel like I’m in “his” town. In my other memory, Aaron, Don and I are sitting around a large dinner table with other friends for a post-college group meet-up. We are joking about another friend who would only get tires installed on his car as long as they were non-religious, anti-tract-housing tires with hot sauce on top. We are all three cracking up, throwing out more descriptors, wiping tears from our eyes. It’s a great memory. At mile 17 I have 9 miles to go, which is a beautiful cubed number. I wonder if Aaron realizes that although 17 is prime, 9 certainly is not. Although, to be fair, he didn’t get his first numeric choice.

Miles 18 and 19 come along. I see another runner, this time a man who looks to be in his 40s but also in very good shape, being taken away on a stretcher. I also see a different ambulance driving by with sirens. The sirens make me almost physically ill: it is a tough, tough race. I have never, in any event, seen this many runners down. It is a horrible feeling.

I am in a pack of people now, and we all stick together more or less until the end of the race. However, I am the only consistent pacer. Everyone else is alternating running and walking. They run past me, throwing sweat and puffing with exertion, and after a few blocks I pass them as they slow to a hobble. I am grateful again that I a fairly fast walker. I’m not a race walker per se: there is a technique to race walking I’ve never been taught and which I have not mastered on my own. But I am a naturally swift, steady walker and my legs are powerful from 20 weeks of training. I have been holding at between a 13 and 13:30 minute pace since I started walking and feel as though I could keep it up forever. It is a challenging gait for me but conservative enough that I know I can sustain it in this heat. I give major applause to every person who runs by me, and send out wishes that they be able to start again once they stop. I wonder if I am annoying them each time I pass. I feel happy and strong. I feel like a different person than I was a few miles ago. At mile 19 a young college-age-looking guy with a beard volunteering at a water station gives me a happy yell. “YEAH!!!” he yells. “YOU ARE DOING THIS! RIGHT HERE, RIGHT NOW – YOU ARE!!!” This happens to be exactly how I too feel at that moment, and he secretly becomes my favorite person on the course. I feel so honored he gave up his time to cheer me, and everyone else like me, on.

By this time, I am smiling at and thanking the spectators, occasionally cheering with them. A couple people recognize Team Hole in the Wall as a charity and yell out that it’s a great cause. I smile and wave and get tears in my eyes. At mile 19 I think of my relative, Linda Waco, who did the breast cancer 3 day charity walk. It’s a walk I very much want to do some day. I think that I know how she might have felt along her course: proud and tired and elated and exhausted, all mixed in together.

Miles 20-24
(Mile 20 = Linda Matula, Mile 21 = Jeff G., Mile 22=Michelle K., Mile 23 = MJ & Don, Mile 24 = Jenn & Rex)

Mile 20. We’re passing through a winding subdivision and some very nice houses. Not too long ago we passed a sign someone had placed in their yard saying “Mile 20 is 2 blocks ahead!” At this point every ounce of motivation helps. Almost immediately after we hit mile 20 a nice suburban woman yells “You’re almost there!” If there is one request I think any racer could make of any spectator, I think it would be that they never yell “you’re almost there!”

Around mile 14 or 15 I had a conversation with two nice young men about what constituted “the home stretch.” One asked the other “mile 20? Is that the home stretch?” The other answered “6 miles to go? Maybe. Maybe 24?” I answered “25?” and then a couple of us said at the same time, “Nah. 26.” “When you see the stadium” one of them said. I laughed “the last .2. At the last .2 you can honestly say you’re at the home stretch.” (Please note, these sentences were more or less gasped out in between breaths. None of us are just milling around). I happened to see them at the feeding station once the race was over and found out they finished about a minute ahead of me. I’m probably more than 10 years senior to them and most likely trained harder. I’m guessing they ran pretty much for the hell of it. They were super friendly and we all congratulated each other – it amazes me the types, the many, many different types, of people you meet in a race.

But, back to my point. Spectators, we love and appreciate you (if we’re in nasty moods that’s OUR ungrateful problem, not yours). But please, please – unless we can literally see the finish line, we are not “almost there.” Unless the next mile is literally around the corner and we are literally 10 feet or less from the corner, the next mile is not “just up ahead.” We know how far we have to go. We are all in a place inside our heads where we’re gutting out the pain and calling on our inner stamina. We know we need to keep gritting on through and we’re not “almost there.” Please don’t say we are. It gives us false hope, and that hurts.

At what was probably mile 21-ish Thin Lizzy’s version of “Whiskey in the Jar” comes on my ipod. I’d started playing music somewhere into My Own Personal Act II. I’d been holding on to the idea that when it came to the last 6 miles at some point I’d try running again. Since this is one of my favorite songs, it seems like a fine time to try.

I run as best I can. My stomach is finally less solidly cramped than it had been. It still hurts, but I breathe through it. My feet are burning. During the race I’d been cognizant of my feet pounding much more so than normal, even in my still fairly new, very comfortable, specially designed running shoes. I normally train on gravel and asphalt and was surprised by how hard my feet were hitting the ground. Throughout the race they went from plodding to pounding to hurting to all out burning. My right foot in particular is very painful. My lungs are burning, and my left shoulder is twinging in pain. But I manage to run for the entire song. I check my pace at a couple points and see I am running right around 12 minute miles. 12 is slow for me – it’s a very, very slow run for me. But it was the best I can do.

After the song ended I begin walking again. I hear yet another ambulance siren. When I first stop running I can only walk about a 15 min/mile, and I calculate that the little bit I gained by running I would lose by the crash and slow walk after the run. I work my pace back up to 13:30 min/miles, but this is getting more difficult to sustain. I have to push much harder now to keep it consistent. I tell myself if I can keep it between 13:30 and 14 then that is fine, I just need to keep pushing.

I noted that the song came on my ipod “at what was probably mile 21-ish.” I’m not certain about that, though. See, the distance between mile 20 and the next mile marker seems interminable. I’m experienced enough to know what a mile feels like. I may not be able to tell to the exact tenth, but there is a big difference between one mile and two. After awhile I joking wonder if I’ve passed mile marker 21 and not realized it. A little while later I think– no, seriously, did I miss the sign? A while after that I see the next mile marker. Squinting, I realize it says mile 22. Yes! Vindication – I had indeed missed the orange balloon signifying mile 21. Thank god. I know I am fatigued, but if I am mistaking one mile for two then I am in big trouble.

Right at mile 22 is a misting station. Blissfully I pass through it, the cold water shocking me. A young girl who keeps trading places with me (she passes me, I pass her, repeat) says: “Less than 4 to go, right?” I cheer and pump my fist in the air. I love, love the camaraderie of races. I love it at all points through the event, but there is something particularly poignant about the tail end. We are all in this together. We are all miserable and hurting and eager to be done, but we are cheering for the people around us as well.

Somewhere around this point in time, a blister on my left middle toe bursts. Burning pain consumes my toe, gently spreading across the top of my foot. Were I doing anything other than plowing through the last few miles of my first marathon, I would stop whatever I am doing and probably yell obscenities. Instead I think “Ow” and “I didn’t think that would actually happen during the race.” I hope my toe won’t get too much more irritated or infected, and then don’t have the energy to think about it anymore. Then, my right shin starts to sharply burn. I have never had shin splints, or any problems with my shins. I get really pissed that I might start having them now.

Goddamn it, I tell my shin, (possibly out loud, I am honestly not sure). Goddamn it, I do not have time for you to hurt too. I’ve never had a shin problem and don’t know how to help you out. And I’ll say right now that you are NOT bringing me down. I didn’t come here to not finish. So if you want to hurt that’s your prerogative, but I am not going to fuss over you. You are getting ignored, start right now. Burn away, I don’t care.

I swear, after I get done telling my shin off, it actually starts to hurt less. In retaliation, though, my left shoulder twangs like it is getting pinched out of my socket. So I tell my shoulder that it isn’t even heavily involved in the forward motion, so it can shut up too. It doesn’t listen as well as the shin.

At mile 23 the course crosses back over itself – with mile 19 being on one side of the street and mile 23 across the other. I jog through this, as I have every other intersection during the entire course. I figure that since I am capable of running for short bursts then I can try to get across intersections as quickly as I could. Quite a bit of this mile is along a several lane road, with orange cones set up to section off the racers. We are squeezed down to pretty much single file, and passed by yet another ambulance. Everyone walks at this point. Everyone. The road goes slightly uphill, and in between the heat, the traffic, and the slight climb it feels as if there was a group consensus to say screw it and walk. Since I had been walking and holding a steady pace I actually end up passing several people, which has to be done on the grassy shoulder and is tricky. People in cars honk at us and roll down windows and cheer; kids stick their heads and arms out of windows and “WOO!” us. I admire their ability to encourage such a sweaty, red, beaten-down bunch. I hope none of them are discouraged from trying this on their own one day.

My other significant thought from the latter half of mile 23 is: thank you, little baby Jesus, for creating shade trees. The combination of cars and sunshine of the first half of this mile was causing my vision to waver. Ever since my first race I’ve worn a baseball cap for distances. I’m not a baseball cap kind of girl, but I’ve grown a decent collection that I use just for running. They have prevented headaches and dizziness on more than one occasion. But this late in the course I am incredibly grateful for the shade given by the overhanging, mature trees and their beautiful full branches.

Mile 24. This is Jenn and Rex’s mile. Jenn made a joke that at mile 24 she had no expectations that I’ve ever have both feet off the ground at the same time. As a joke back to her, I plan a jump for some point during this mile. Exactly at the mile marker there is an arrow on the ground indicating the course turns to the right. I try to leap like a gazelle over the head of the arrow but instead trip-hop over it almost as though I’m stumbling. It’s a testament to how tired I am, and I feel foolish and embarrassed by my lack of grace. But I find having the silly joke motivating, and it makes me smile.

We are back in a subdivision. I know the steepest, longest hill of the course is waiting on this mile. Luckily, my training run has an almost-as-long and even steeper hill. I climb the hill, even bettering my pace back up to 13 min/mile. I feel immensely proud of myself. It occurs to me that for 4 miles now every step I’ve taken is farther than any step I’ve taken before, since my longest training run has been 20 miles. This thought overwhelms me and I almost sob. I have to breathe slowly through my mouth to calm down. My brain goes haywire during long distances, but I’m going to save crying like a fool for the finish line.

I’m passing by a traffic controller, turning a corner. Just before I spot the next marker he informs us “it’s exactly 1.3 from here.” 1.3 miles. Like an idiot I realize that 25, not 26, is my last full mile. It’s impossible to do math when you’re this tired.

Miles 25 & 26.2
(Mile 25 = Mark. Mile 26-finish = Emily)

Mile 25. It’s my last full mile. It’s the distance around my subdivision at home. Home. My family. I try to think of Mark, to whom I’ve dedicated this mile, but it’s difficult to hang on to a thought. Mark, though, deserves recognition. When I first registered and thought I was taking on something insane, his response was “Cool, baby.” Semi-casual, semi-surprised, communicating that he knew that of course I could do it. As the more experienced marathoner in our household, he has made sure I can get in my long runs by adjusting weekend training. He enthusiastically shouted to others about my charity fundraising, drumming up support. He will be proud of me for not quitting. While it’s almost impossible for me to focus my thoughts now, Mark rightfully deserves a heartfelt dedication.

In my stream of consciousness I think of Emily, which makes me choke back a sob, so I deliberately try not to think of her. I think of mothers and daughters. I think of my mom, who this week refused to be moved to an independent living facility in order to stay in a nursing home. She’d rather remain where she is, even though she is still young enough to have other options, rather than try something new. I know I should have more empathy or at least sympathy for her, since she has gotten a raw deal in life. But the refusal to try infuriates me. I resent the position she in which she has put her children.

I think of Emily. I think of myself, of my life, of where I came from and how I’ve grown into who I now am. It hits me that decades ago, a couple years ago, weeks ago, days ago, mere hours ago during this race I never believed I could finish. I was pretty sure the last 6 miles would come from somewhere, but I had not internalized their ownership. During my first race I proclaimed that marathoners were crazy (which they are) and that I was happy and fulfilled knowing I would NEVER be one of them (which I was). But here I am. I see the stadium.

Mile 26. It sits just before mile 13, denoting the half marathon’s final full mile marker. Several people fly through my brain. Emily again, my beautiful daughter. Dena, looking at me during my first race and proclaiming “come on Amy, it’s time to run” (Dena, I am still sorry for the look of death you got in return). Alicia, who ran her first half marathon in November and MJ, who ran her first in March. Don, who seemed convinced I would kick this race’s butt. Every coworker who wished me luck. Every other runner I know in this race and the friends who came out to cheer us on. BJ, who made sure I did not give up on my first Shakespeare in the Park production and who I know would have given me one hell of a talking to several miles ago when I was questioning my ability to finish the race. Michelle Hennan, who told me that as I crossed the finish line I’d be thinking: “I can’t believe it. I’m actually finishing a marathon.”

Immediately after mile 26 the course rounds a corner and runs up to the stadium. You enter the stadium running on to the football field, like an enthusiastic college team pumped up by the cheering crowd. It may be the fatigue talking, but I swear at this point every race official looks on with something approaching awe as people drag themselves up the final drive. I am trying to beat 5:30. My right foot is on fire and both feet feel like hamburger. It spurns on a feeling of wanting to collapse, but I run the last .2 miles. I’m going to show this race that it didn’t kill me. I’m going to show my doubting self what I’m made of. I imagine, over and over again, myself crossing the line and quietly finally indulging in sobs of gratitude. It’s corny, but it’s also a profoundly private and emotional thought.

Life often works differently than the way you plan it to, though. As I plod through the dugout I hear a bellow: “GOOOOOOO AMMMMYYYYYYY!!!!! WHOOOO HOOOOOO!!!!!!!” It’s Mark, standing at the entrance, holding a video camera, waiting for me. I know that he must have been worried, since I am so far off my time. In another race, had I been so far over time, I would have felt annoyed with myself and apologetic. Under the circumstances, knowing how hard I’ve worked, knowing I stuck it out the only way in which I could, knowing that I overcame self doubt so severe that I contemplated walking off the course, I feel elated. I am finishing. I am finishing a marathon.

Mark jumps on the course to run with me, and to show off how strong I now know I am I run full out. I break into a sprint. I run so hard I pass people several strides in front of me, which I generally might consider insulting but they were in my way. I pound, I fly over the finish line, completely forgetting to look for myself on the Jumbo-tron. I almost completely blow by the nice lady holding finishers medals, since I’ve long since forgotten that there’s a medal waiting for me at the end of this race. After I realize she’s there I at first try to awkwardly grab the medal from her, but she’s waiting to hang it around my neck so instead I lean over and accept it like a real athlete.

My right foot is killing me. My legs are burning and wobbly. It hurts to breathe and even my arms are limp. Every muscle in my body aches. Mark gives me a huge hug, and I finally give in to the overwhelming day and cry and cry. I can’t even describe my pride and joy.

Afterwords
(Dedicated to anyone who has read this far)

I won’t spend too much time on the mechanics of post-race talk. However, the following things are communicated to me:

a. It was a horrible race. “Brutal” seems to be the most descriptive term.
b. Temperatures reached over 70 degrees. For the first two hours of the event humidity was over 90%.
c. No one made their hoped for/projected times. No one. Not the seasoned runners. Not even folks who were more trained and prepped for this race than they had felt for any other. Everyone was slowed by the conditions.
d. My feet hurt so much because the ground was concrete, not asphalt. Asphalt is slightly more absorbent. I’m glad that difference wasn’t just in my head.

Later we find out the male winner finished in 2:30, the female in 3:00. 2:30 is awfully slow for an elite level male runner; 3 full hours is almost abysmally slow for an elite woman. Those times are a testament to the tough conditions we all fought through. Additionally, nearly everyone I talked to stated that at some moment they considered dropping out. Not just the fleeting thought of “why am I doing this?” but serious thoughts of chucking it all and stopping. Everyone agreed that, aside from those who had experienced the horrific, unseasonably hot 2007 Chicago marathon, this race had the greatest number of ambulances and downed runners of any event they’d seen. Mark said he also felt uncommon, painful cramping that he could not cure.

Now, the day after the race, I feel good. My legs hurt like hell yesterday, but they’re much better today. They feel stiff and sore, but overall I’m okay. My biggest complaint is a blister on the ball of my right foot that is literally larger than my big toe. The middle toe on my left foot looks as though it’s been shredded, but it’s not that painful. However my right foot is so tender I can barely stand on it, and I have to walk with a limping gait along the outer rim of my foot. My blister is so hideous I had my husband photograph it: I’m proud of how ugly it is. Check out his flickr account if you want to see.

Here is the most surprising thing about this experience: I think I will do it again. All through training, through the first half of the race, I swore this would be my one and only. But in spite of the brutality of the day I managed to find my joy in the event. I realized the meanings behind “the race starts at mile 20” and the ethereal phrase “there’s something about that distance . . . .” I found a sense of accomplishment at completing a beautiful, full 26.2 miles under my own power, all in one go.

I realize that my love for running sits with the half marathon. That’s a distance I feel that I can claim and pound through at my own speed. For the marathon, though, I think I would like to experience a good solid walking time again. Or maybe even a walk/run, where there are some speedier passes just to break things up. The thing I enjoyed about this race was simply enduring it. I could see myself enduring it again.

For now, though, I’m going to stare at my beautiful medal and savor weekends without training runs. I’m going to hope my blister heels soon so I can focus on recovery work. I’m going to plan for my half marathon in August. And, in a week and a half, I’m going to Disney World. I will enthusiastically spend every single moment relaxing and watching my daughter’s head explode from the carefully manufactured fun. And I’ll casually and obnoxiously work into the conversation the fact that yeah, I finished a marathon. I never expected that I’d walk half of it. And I’m goddamned proud.

Thank you. Thank you to everyone who helped and encouraged me during this experience. Congratulations to everyone who participated in the race too. We did it. We all did it, and my sincere hope is that, like me, you feel goddamn proud. We finished a marathon. We hated it, we loved it, we kept going. I’m thrilled for each and every one of us. Thank you, thank you, thank you.

Prologue

In this section of the Rose Room I long for the physical form
of books. Books are tactile things – you should hold a book,
experience the particular crinkle of its pages, guide your
hand along its spine and inhale its scent. Musty-odor’d books
take me back to the long upstairs hallway in my grandmother’s
house where the stories my mother read as a child still
adorned the shelves.

In my early adulthood I was taught to make books – to stitch
together their pages and correctly measure their covers. I
was taught this in the basement of a university library -
libraries have a regal, almost mythical air to them. Handling an
individual book offers the sensation of connecting to something
precious, likely to last much longer than yourself. So here -
in a virtual room - the term ‘bookshelf’ is poorly used to describe
masses of typed out text slapped onto a screen. In real life these
stories exist as mini-books – carefully encased in cloth and paper
binding. Pages are designed to break at suspenseful moments,
and the ultimate ‘THE END’ is inked via black felt tip pen.

I wish you could visit these stories on a true bookshelf – but, here, this is the best I can do.

A Fall Afternoon Story

The family crossed the yard, heading towards the horse shed. The boys kicked up leaves as they ran, their cheeks slightly pink from the crisp fall air.

“I don’t know how long we can be out here,” Dylan’s mommy said. “I’m expecting a very important phone call.”

Dylan ran ahead to the horse shed. He wanted to get there first so that he could be the first to pet Bailey, the big horse. He’d let his brother Brandon pet him second, but Dylan wanted to be first.

“Dylan, don’t run!” his mother called, “and be careful around the fence!” Dylan slowed down to a fast walk, but thought his mommy was a little silly for warning him about the fence again. They’d had the electric fence for over a year now and he’d never hurt himself on it.

Dylan’s mommy was walking behind the boys, carrying Delaney in her swing. Delaney, for once, was not crying. Dylan and Brandon hadn’t realized that getting a new baby sister meant that she would cry all the time. Dylan’s mom had told him that he should tell Delaney a story about the horses, about how to ride them and what they liked to do. But Dylan didn’t think Delaney would be too interested in the horses – she wasn’t interested in much besides her bottle.

“Can I hold my sister?” Brandon asked, running over to Delaney as Dylan’s mom set her down outside the door to the shed. “Wait until we’re back inside,” she replied. She turned the swing on and gave it a small push so it would rock back and forth.

“Mom, hurry up,” Dylan said, eager to get in the shed. He wanted to pull the door open himself but his mom was standing in the way and he couldn’t reach. He was very eager to see Bailey. Bailey was a beautiful, tall reddish brown quarter horse and Dylan loved petting him. His mom didn’t spend much time with the horses anymore since Delaney had been born, and Dylan missed petting and feeding them.

Just then, the phone rang. The house had a loud bell on the outside so you could hear the phone from anywhere in the yard. The ring was so loud Brandon seemed surprised and jumped a little, startled. “Oh shoot, there’s my call,” Dylan’s mom said, looking towards the house.

“Mom, get it later,” Dylan moaned. They were so close to seeing the horses! He didn’t want to wait anymore and knew he wasn’t allowed to go in the shed without her. “Please don’t answer the phone,” he begged.

His mom looked at the house, then at Dylan, Brandon, and Delaney, then back at the house. You could tell by the expression on her face that she was going to run back inside. She grabbed both of the boys and quickly said, “You guys stay right here. Do you understand? Stay right here and watch Delaney. I will be right back. I’m just going to pick-up the phone, then come back outside. Promise me you’ll be good.” She held the boys arms firmly, in a way that made them both say “I promise” quietly and stand really still. They watched her run towards the house, hurrying to get to the phone.

“Oh shoot,” Brandon said after she was gone, and kicked at the ground. “Now we have to wait to pet Jack and Bailey.” He made a sad pout and kicked at the dirt again, toeing a small rock with his gym shoe. Dylan looked at the door to the shed, wishing his mom had opened it just a little so he could have snuck inside. He looked beyond the shed to the large field where the horses were kept. He couldn’t see either of them, so he guessed they must be inside the shed. Knowing that made him feel a little bit sadder, since he couldn’t even see them until his mom came back.

Delaney made a small sound like a whimper, and shook her arms. She shook her arms a lot – Brandon said it made her look like she was waving. Dylan thought she looked more like she was hitting herself in the head. Dylan knew that if Delaney started crying then his mom would take them all back inside the house, and he’d never get to pet Bailey. So he gave Delaney’s swing a little push the way his mom did and said, “Hush, don’t cry.”

Delaney waved her arms some more, and scrunched up her face until her eyes her just little sad specks above her tiny cheeks. “Don’t cry Delaney,” Brandon said. He looked at Dylan. “What are we going to do?” he asked. “We’ll have to go inside if she starts crying!” The boys looked over to the house, where Dylan’s mom was opening the door and ducking inside. She didn’t hear Delaney’s whimpers.

Dylan remembered what his mom said about telling Delaney a story. “Let’s tell her a story about the horses,” he suggested. He pointed towards the horse shed and said “Look! Delaney look, look at the shed. That’s where Bailey and Jack live. They’re horses. And you can pet them.” He made his voice sound very excited, so Delaney would understand how much fun the horses were, and wouldn’t cry. Brandon joined in the story, “And we can’t touch the fence,” he added, “or else you’ll get an ouchie and maybe have to go to the hospital.”

“Brandon!” Dylan said, “You don’t have to go to the hospital!”

Brandon replied, “You might have to if you touch the fence too long. My daddy said so.”

Delaney whimpered again. Her brothers thought she sounded a little louder now, and realized this was because the phone had stopped ringing in the background. Delaney sniffled and looked as thought she was about to wail. Dylan didn’t know what to do. He grabbed one of her little hands so she’d stop waving them around. “Delaney, please look at the shed,” he said.

As he said that, Dylan turned to look at the shed again, hoping that maybe one of the horses had come out. He glanced at the wall, and noticed something he did not remember seeing before. In the bottom corner of the wall was a small hole. A tiny stream of light seemed to be coming through the hole, catching the dust particles dancing in the wind.

For a moment, Dylan stared at the hole, wondering why he’d never known it was there. He was so entranced that he didn’t notice Delaney had stopped fussing. He looked at the dust, and thought the light was beginning to grow slightly brighter, and began to look a little orange like a sunset.

“Dylan – what’s that?” Brandon asked, pointing at the hole in the shed. “I think it’s getting bigger.”

The boys looked at each other. Dylan slowly let go of Delaney’s hand. Together, the two brothers walked towards the shed in order to get a better look at the light streaming through the opening.

As they approached, Dylan noticed that not only was the hole getting bigger and the light brighter, but the dust particles themselves seemed to be growing and moving around more quickly. Some of them appeared to be buzzing around the light, instead of just softly floating. The brothers knelt down and Dylan stared at one of the particles, trying to figure out what it was. It looked like something.

“It’s a - bee,” he said. But that didn’t seem quite right.

“It’s a leaf,” Brandon replied. He had a point – the particle looked like a small fall colored leaf, swirling about. But even that wasn’t quite right either.

“It’s a . . .” Dylan concentrated, trying to guess exactly what the thing was. “It’s a . . .person,” he said.

By now the shape was about as large as one of the boy’s hands. It did look like a small person, wearing clothes that looked like a leaf. It was impossible to say if the person was a boy or a girl – it had short hair and shiny dark eyes. It also might have had wings – tiny ones, the color of a spider web.

“It’s a fairy,” Brandon said. Dylan knew he was absolutely right; they were looking at a fairy.

The fairy buzzed around, circling the bright orange light. It seemed unaware the boys were watching it, and seemed to be looking for something. It paused in mid-flight, and seemed to bounce slightly as though it was bobbing on water. Dylan felt like he should say something, but couldn’t think of the right words. He had seen strange creatures before, but never anything like this, certainly not in the middle of the day. Just to make sure he wasn’t seeing things, Dylan rubbed his eyes. People in movies rubbed their eyes all the time, usually whenever they saw something they couldn’t believe. But after he was done rubbing his eyes the fairy was still there, bobbing up and down like a hummingbird. Dylan wondered if the fairy knew he and Brandon were there, since it didn’t seem too interested in them. In fact, the fairy appeared to be looking for something; its eyes darted around the yard.

The fairy’s crabapple-sized head slowly turned, and Dylan could tell it was now staring right at Delaney’s swing. It flew over to the swing, and disappeared from sight.

“It’s going to Delaney!” Brandon said, jumping to his feet. “Dylan, come on!”

The boys ran over to their sister, and found the fairy hovering just above Delaney’s chin. It was staring very intently, almost as if it was trying to figure out what she was. The boys couldn’t be sure, but the fairy might have been tapping its tiny little foot against the air. Delaney was focused on the fairy, her round blue eyes opened wide, as though the sight fascinated her.

“What do you want, fairy?” Dylan asked. He felt like maybe he should swat at the fairy, to get it to fly away from his sister. But he also didn’t want to be rude.

The fairy didn’t respond.

“That’s our sister Delaney,” Brandon said. “You better not make her cry.”

The fairy fluttered closer to the baby girl, and came to rest right on top of the side of her swing. Delaney watched the fairy, and smiled a little. The fairy smiled back. Delaney laughed. The fairy laughed too, a laugh that sounded like wood breaking in a fire.

“Ooooh, she looks like fun,” a voice said from behind the boys.

Dylan and Brandon spun around. Standing in front of the horse shed, illuminated by the glowing orange light, was a small boy standing about as high as Brandon’s knee. Although it was warm outside, he wore furry little boots and a long coat. Dylan recognized the boy instantly. “Furfoot!” he exclaimed.

“Who’s Furfoot?” Brandon asked.

“He lives in the woods near Papa’s,” Dylan explained.

Furfoot walked closer to the brothers. “Not really,” he replied. “I live where ever I want to live. Today I was following the Fall Fairies and wondered what this one was looking at.”

Furfoot scurried over to Delaney’s swing, and climbed up one of the bars to look at the baby girl. He said some words to the fairy in a language Dylan and Brandon didn’t understand.

“You shouldn’t be so close to Delaney, you might scare her,” Dylan said.

“She doesn’t seem scared, does she?” Furfoot asked. “I think she likes me. Maybe she’d like to live in the woods with us. I want someone to play with.”

Dylan didn’t like the sound of that. As much as Delaney cried, he didn’t want her to go and live in the woods. “She’s too little to play,” Brandon said.

“She’s as big as I am,” Furfoot replied. “And it doesn’t matter how big you are in the forest. I bet the sprite king could turn her into a fairy. Then she could fly. What do you think?” Furfoot asked the fairy. The fairy responded with some sounds like crackling and a low purr.

“She can’t go in the woods,” Dylan said, “She’s my sister.”

Furfoot and the fairy were chattering back and forth, not paying any attention to the brothers. Delaney waved her arms at the fairy. She gurgled slightly, making what her mom called a ‘happy noise.’ It sounded similar to the noises Furfoot and the fairy were making, and Dylan felt for a moment like his sister was talking to them. He was upset that he couldn’t understand.

“She says she wants to come with us,” Furfoot announced. He raised his arm to grab Delaney by the hand.

“No she didn’t!” Dylan yelled. He didn’t like Furfoot pretending to understand his sister.

“Don’t touch my sister!” Brandon huffed, kicking a rock at Furfoot. “Or my dad will get mad!”

Furfoot looked at Brandon, crossly. He picked up the rock Brandon kicked as if he was going to throw it. But at that moment, Delaney shrieked, startling everyone. Furfoot dropped the rock. Dylan looked at his sister and saw that the fairy was now pulling on her ear, as if it was trying to lift her by it. He was pulling very hard, and Delaney was crying.

“Stop it!” Dylan said, reaching out to swat the fairy away.

“Let’s take her to the sprite king,” Furfoot said. “She’ll make a great new friend.”

Furfoot grabbed Delaney by her foot and started pulling on it. Delaney kicked her little baby legs, continuing to cry. Dylan tried to push Furfoot away, but realized he couldn’t swat the fairy and handle Furfoot at the same time. He turned to Brandon to ask for help.

“It’s not going to work!” Brandon yelled. He sounded very grown-up, like his dad sometimes sounded when he was angry and trying to explain something to the boys. Brandon was staring at Furfoot and the fairy, and had an expression on his face as if they were both doing something incredibly silly. Furfoot, the fairy, and Dylan all stopped what they were doing, waiting to hear what Brandon would say next.

As Delaney quieted her crying, Brandon again said, “It’s not going to work. She’s too heavy for you to carry. Only grown-ups can carry her.”

“We can carry her,” Furfoot protested. “She’s very small.”

“No, you can’t” Brandon said again. “Right Dylan?”

“Right,” Dylan agreed.

Furfoot stuck out his tongue.

“Be nice,” Brandon said, “And maybe Dylan and I will help you.”

“Brandon!” Dylan said. He couldn’t believe his brother was going to give Delaney to Furfoot and the fairy.

But Brandon continued. “Dylan and I will help you carry Delaney, but first you have to pass a test.”

“What test?” Furfoot asked. The fairy chattered something the boys couldn’t understand.

Brandon looked thoughtful. He pressed his lips as if he was trying to make a difficult decision. “Actually,” he said, “I don’t think you could win the test even if I did tell you.”

Furfoot looked eager. “I could pass the test,” he said quickly.

“I don’t know,” Brandon said. He looked over at his brother. “What do you think, Dylan?” he asked.

Dylan didn’t know what Brandon was talking about, but decided to pretend that he did. At least Furfoot wasn’t pulling on Delaney any more. “I don’t know,” Dylan agreed, “it’s a pretty hard test.”

“Tell me what the test is,” Furfoot demanded.

Brandon pointed at the fence. “You have to climb to the top of that fence,” he said. He folded his arms across his chest. “If you think you can.”

Furfoot looked at the fence. “I can do that,” he said. “That’s not hard. I climb trees in the forest all the time. I can climb higher than you.”

“Maybe,” Brandon said. “But I bet you can’t climb that fence.”

Dylan couldn’t believe it. Brandon had actually tricked Furfoot! The small creature strode over to the fence. The fairy flew over near him, cackling away like dried fall leaves.

“And if you don’t climb the fence,” Brandon said, watching as Furfoot reached out to touch the fabric . . .

. . . “You have to go back home.” Dylan finished, smiling at his brother.

“Right,” Brandon nodded.

Furfoot dropped his hand, and gave the brothers a haughty look. “I’ll climb it in one jump!” he boasted. Then, he crouched down, and leapt on to the top of the fence. He paused for a moment, then, fell to the ground, shouting and wildly waving his legs.

“Ow ow ow!”

“You lose, Furfoot!” Dylan said. “You have to go home now.”

Furfoot rubbed the bottoms of his feet. His boots were singed, like paper in a fire. “I did not,” he replied. “I climbed the fence.”

“But you fell off,” Brandon pointed out.

The fairy made angry sounds, shaking its tiny fist in the air. It flew over to Delaney and grabbed her ear and gave a harsh tug. Delaney howled.

“What is going on out here?” Dylan’s mom shouted, storming out of the house, the phone in her hand. “Why is your sister crying?” She started running across the yard. The boys saw her say something into the phone, then drop it on the ground.

Furfoot and the fairy froze. Furfoot looked at Dylan’s mom like she was a ghost. His eyes grew very wide, and his mouth fell open. The fairy let go of Delaney’s ear, and its wings stopped beating. For a couple seconds, they stared at Dylan’s mom as she ran towards them, as though they were unable to move.

Then, the fairy zipped towards the shed door, and disappeared in a small puff of orange light.

Furfoot scrambled after the fairy, and in a split second he too was gone.

Moments later, Dylan’s mom reached the boys and grabbed both of them by the elbow. “Tell me why Delaney was crying like that,” she demanded. “You’ve been alone with her for less than 30 seconds, what could possibly have happened?”

The boys looked at her, wondering what to say. Brandon looked tongue-tied, and Dylan could not think of anything believable to reply.

Delaney whimpered. Her mom turned to her and picked her up out of her swing. She promptly quietly down.

“I asked you boys a question: why was Delaney crying so much?”

Dylan turned and looked towards the shed door. The opening was completely gone now. Dylan didn’t think his mom would ever believe what had happened. He looked back to her.

“I wasn’t bothering her, mom.” Dylan said softly.

“I wasn’t either,” Brandon added.

She looked at both of them. “Is this true?” she asked.

The boys nodded their heads.

She sighed. Delaney waved her arms, and breathed like she was falling asleep.

“Look, boys, I don’t know what was going on here. I asked you to watch your sister while I ran to the phone, and I heard her crying like someone was pinching her. All I did was pick up the phone, then turn around and come back outside. And you tell me neither of you were bothering her.” She looked sternly at the boys, who wondered how they could explain what had occurred. It felt as though she had been gone longer than that, but then again, Brandon thought, maybe time moved differently when fairies were involved.

Dylan’s mom shook her head. “But,” she continued, “You both say you weren’t bothering her, so I believe you. Who knows, sometimes strange things happen during the fall. So, if neither of you was bothering Delaney, that means you were both being good. And, in that case,” she paused, with a small smile in her eye, “Well, then, I guess we should go see the horses.”

Both boys grinned from ear to ear. Dylan ran to the shed.

“I get to pet Bailey first!” he called. As they pushed open the shed door, he looked over towards the fence. There, on the ground, he spotted a series of tiny footprints. He looked up at his mom, but she was too busy to notice. So he quickly ran inside, and waited for Bailey to come over to the rail. As the tall horse approached, the brothers reached out their hands to pet him.

The End

started: August 27, 2004
ended: October 7, 2004

-copyright acr

A Winter Bedtime Story

- for our nephew - Christmas, 2002

Once upon a time, in a small town in the North, lived a young boy named Dylan. It was midnight, two nights before Christmas, and Dylan could not sleep. He was in corner bedroom of his Papa’s house, and did not know what had woken him from dreaming, but knew he had been lying restless for a while. He turned his head to look out the window. The shade was open slightly so he could see the winter night sky. Dylan looked up at the stars; they were easy to see against the darkness. He thought one of the stars was twinkling very brightly. It grew brighter and brighter until it seemed so bright it was almost as if he could reach out and touch it. Then, he realized the bright light was not a star at all, but a candle on the windowsill flickering to life.

Gramma kept a lot of candles in the windows at Christmas, but he knew she blew all of them out when it was time to go to bed. He had helped her blow this one out himself, and remembered seeing the flame rush away into a gray ribbon of smoke. He was surprised to see it burning again.

Dylan sat up in bed, to get a closer look at the candle. It was shining very brightly now. So brightly, in fact, the glow made it difficult to see the night sky through the bedroom window. But Dylan was a clever young boy who noticed many things, and even with the burning candle he still caught a quick movement outside the window. He stood on the bed and pressed his face to the glass to get a better look.

It took a moment for his eyes to recognize the familiar things in Papa and Gramma’s yard. At first everything looked a little different in the night, but after a short while he could see the driveway up to the house, where his mommy would park her car when she came to get him in the morning. Past the driveway he could see the small shed, where Gramma’s pony Lucy rested for the night. On the far side of the shed ran the rows of pine trees, which Dylan had never been allowed to walk through by himself. Gramma always held his hand, saying he was “too little to walk by himself through such a large forest.” Although he could not see it, he knew on the other side of the forest was the lake where he and Papa liked to go fishing in the summer.

Near the edge of the forest he saw it again – a quick scuttle-like movement. He looked over towards the shed to make sure Lucy had not gotten out. She was still there, her head bowed and tail swishing slightly in the breeze. Looking back at the forest, he tried to see if maybe a deer was coming through the pines.

Next he saw the movement a little closer to the house, near Gramma’s flowerbeds. He squinted his eyes, to see if anything had left tracks in the snow. But it was too difficult to see clearly through the bedroom window, so he decided to move to the living room. He thought he’d be able to glimpse more through the great big windows there. He picked up the candle, then very carefully climbed down off the bed. He didn’t want to turn on any lights, lest he wake Gramma or Papa. Dylan had to walk slowly with the candle, so it wouldn’t blow out.

As he came into the living room, he could hear Papa snoring. He had fallen asleep on the living room couch again. His book was lying on the floor. Dylan froze when he realized Papa was sleeping there – then tiptoed around the couch very, very quietly to get to the windows. He knew if Papa woke up he would carry Dylan back to bed – and Dylan was too curious about what moving around outside to go back to sleep.

As Dylan reached the window he carefully set the candle down on the floor, making sure it would not tip over. He looked out the big window, trying to see where the moving thing was now. Soon he spotted something under the tree right outside the big window. As he watched, the thing moved closer and closer to him, until finally Dylan saw clearly what it was.

Standing outside, just on the other side of the window, was a very tiny boy. He was standing on top of the snow, wearing furry little boots and a long coat. He held his own teeny tiny candle, and looked at Dylan as though studying him, trying to figure out what he was.

The boy appeared only as tall as Dylan’s knee. He wasn’t wearing a hat or mittens, but didn’t seem to be cold. Dylan and the tiny creature stared at each other for a few minutes. Dylan at first felt afraid, but the boy looked so surprised and so harmless the scared-y feeling soon went away. Besides, it seemed silly to be afraid of something so small.

Dylan put his hand on the glass, as if trying to touch the boy. After a moment, the tiny creature put his hand on the glass too, as though to see how small his hand looked compared to Dylan’s. Dylan thought the boy’s entire hand wasn’t quite as big as his normal sized thumb.

Dylan wanted to get closer to the boy. He wondered where he had come from, and why he was so small. He wondered if he had a name. He wondered if he would come back in the daytime. He wondered if his Papa knew about the tiny little boy.

Moving slowly, so as not to startle the creature, Dylan stood up. He slid the window open. The tiny boy creature moved back a bit, but he did not seem afraid. As Dylan stepped through the window, he could feel the winter air blowing around him. He had not put on slippers so his feet were instantly cold. As he moved to place his first foot down in the snow, the tiny boy suddenly jumped forward –

- and bit him on the toe!

Dylan was so surprised he yelled “Hey!” and fell the rest of the way out of the window. Landing in the snow with a soft ‘thud’, he saw the boy running away, back towards the forest. He heard him laughing, as though he was playing a game of chase. “Come back here!” Dylan called, getting up to run after him.

As soon as Dylan entered the pine forest, he knew he was seeing things he had never seen before. The trees themselves appeared different – almost as if they were dancing. The snow seemed so white it was almost glowing, and all around him Dylan sensed other creatures were moving, but so quickly he could barely see them. He heard something that sounded like faint music – a soft tune played on whistles. Dylan’s eyes darted around, trying to find the tiny boy creature. He found him just in time to watch him jump on to a tree, like a frog. Dylan ran toward the tree so he wouldn’t lose the boy creature, but suddenly out of nowhere a girl appeared, blocking his path.

The girl had the most beautiful face Dylan had ever seen. She was almost as tall as he was, but she wore a strange dress made of feathers. She had the friendliest blue eyes, and the warmest smile. Instantly Dylan knew not to be scared. He noticed around her neck was a red charm that looked like a ladybug, and tucked behind her back – although he could not be sure – appeared to be small feathered wings.

“Hello Dylan,” the girl said. “What are you doing in my forest?”

“It’s Papa’s forest,” Dylan answered. “I was chasing the little boy who bit me.”

The girl smiled, and looked over at the tree to which the tiny boy creature had jumped. “Tonight it’s our forest,” she said. “We’re enjoying the snow, my friends and I.”

“Don’t mind Furfoot,” she continued, referring to the tiny boy; “He was just playing with you. He thinks it’s funny to bite people on the toes.”

Dylan stared at the girl. He wondered how she’d known his name. Then, a wind blew around them, chilling him right through his pajamas. He felt very, very cold. His feet, covered in snow, were starting to hurt from the sting of the winter air.

But the girl did not look cold at all. She smiled again, and held out her hand. In it was a tiny pinecone, which looked about half-closed. “Hold this,” she said, offering it to Dylan. “It won’t work for very long, but it will help a bit.”

He took the pinecone from her and immediately felt a little warmer. His feet didn’t hurt quite so much. He felt the pinecone shudder slightly in his hand, and saw it close a little tighter. Dylan knew pinecones could close up when cold and wet, so he guessed when this one shut all the way then he would feel the full force of the winter night again. The girl must have given him a magic charm, to help him keep warm.

“Thank you,” Dylan said; “But won’t you be cold now?”

“Oh no,” the girl answered. “I don’t need it – the snow doesn’t bother me at all. But I know human children get cold in the winter. You shouldn’t stay out here anyway,” she continued. “Your Papa will be waking up soon.”

Dylan remembered Papa sleeping on the couch, and the candle he’d left burning near the window. He knew you were never supposed to leave a candle burning by itself because it could start a fire, so he hoped everything was okay. He knew he should probably go back to the house, but he didn’t want to leave the girl and everything else in the pine forest. As he was thinking, the pinecone in his hand shuddered again, and closed even tighter.

“Can you come back to the house with me?” asked Dylan. He wondered what Papa would say if he saw the little girl.

She laughed. “No, silly – we’re not supposed to leave the forest. Furfoot does sometimes, but he gets in trouble for it. I wouldn’t want to leave anyway - I like it here.”

Dylan stomped his feet to keep them warm. Then, he had an idea: “If I go and put my boots on, will you stay here?” he asked.

The girl shook her head. As she did, he noticed her hair fall from around her ears. One of them peaked out – it appeared crinkled, almost like a raisin. “I’m sorry, Dylan, but we are playing all over the forest tonight. Soon my grandfather with start telling stories by the lake, and I want to listen.”

The girl turned to go. Her feather rustled as she moved, and this time Dylan was sure he could see her small wings. “You’d better hurry home,” she said, “Before your pinecone closes all the way.”

Dylan couldn’t believe she was going to leave. Around him he heard loud crackling through the trees, and in front of him he saw something slink from one branch to another, as if heading towards the lake. Something hopped by his shoulder, with a gentle “swish.” The small movement made him gasp, and he realized that all at once everything had begun to move, as if all the creatures of the forest wanted to go with the girl and hear her grandfather’s stories. Dylan’s feet started stinging again, very badly. He did not think he had ever been so cold before.

The girl said one final thing: “I’ll ask my grandfather about you, Dylan. He may have seen you before. You should watch for him,” she suggested with a smile, “The next time you and your Papa go fishing.”

Then, she was gone.

The pinecone in his hand was nearly completely shut. Dylan felt the winter air biting his hands and face. The commotion of the forest around him swelled as creatures of all shapes and sizes danced by, until their noise was so loud it sounded like a thundering train. The whistles shrilled in the air and tree branches crashed left and right. Dylan thought about following the noises, but knew to get to the lake took a very long walk through the trees. Snow blew around his body and he grew bitterly cold, and he realized he had no choice but to get back to the house, or risk possibly freezing in the winter night. Dylan turned, and ran as fast as he could out of the forest.

As he ran, he began to grow sleepy. As he neared the living room window he noticed his eyes were growing heavier with each step, but he kept going until he was right outside Papa’s house. Because the living room window was so big the bottom of the window was very close to the ground, so he was able to easily step through. But as he lifted his foot something outside seemed to catch it, scratching his toe, which surprised him. This caused him to stumble through the window, knocking the candle over. It landed with a “clack.” The candle flame vanished into a ribbon of smoke, and Papa jumped up from the couch with a loud “What’s going on?”

Dylan froze, hoping Papa wouldn’t see him and ask why he was out of bed. Then, he remembered the window was open, blowing cold air into the room. Quietly, he shut it.

Papa turned and saw him. “Dylan!” He exclaimed. “What are you doing up? It’s past midnight!”

Dylan looked at Papa. He didn’t know what to say. He wanted to ask if Papa knew about all of the creatures in the forest, but he wasn’t sure how to begin. He wanted to ask how the feather-girl knew he liked to go fishing. He wanted to ask if Papa had heard of a “Furfoot” before. His head felt very heavy, and he had to open his eyes very wide to keep them from blinking shut. But Dylan had so many questions on his mind; he did not want to fall asleep.

“Were you watching out the window?” Papa asked. “Were you looking at the forest?”

Dylan nodded his heavy head. Maybe Papa did know about the girl and the strange music played with whistles. Maybe he and Papa could put on their boots, and go back outside, and . . . .

Papa picked him up. Dylan put his head on Papa’s shoulder – he felt warm and safe. And immediately realized how good it was to be back inside, where he could snuggle up in his cozy bed. He forgot about his boots, and hugged closer to Papa’s sweater.

“Your mommy used to watch out the window sometimes too, when she was a little girl,” Papa said. “Sometimes she’d sit there all night, looking to see what was going on outside. She was a curious little kid – just like you are.”

Papa carried Dylan out of the living room. “We’ve got to get you under the covers, mister,” he said. “You feel so cold from being on that floor, with no slippers on.”

“Papa,” Dylan said, as Papa tucked him under the covers in the warm bed. He held out his hand, showing Papa the pinecone.

“My goodness! A pinecone! Where on earth did you find that?” Papa asked. He took the pinecone from Dylan’s hand and placed it on the windowsill. “Here, I’ll put it right here next to the bed, so it will be the first thing you see when you wake up in the morning.”

Dylan pressed his cheek into the pillow. He closed his eyes as Papa kissed him on the forehead. He could not open his eyes again, and knew he’d have to wait until morning to ask his questions. “Good night, Papa,” he murmured.

“Good night, Dylan,” Papa answered. “Sweet dreams.”

As the door closed, Dylan could hear him saying “A pinecone, eh? Where do children find these things?”

His eyes firmly shut, Dylan thought about the forest. He thought about the dancing trees and the fast moving creatures. He thought about the beautiful girl, and wished he’d asked her name. Then, he recalled what she’d said about her grandfather. She had said to look for him, the next time he went fishing. It was a long way until summer, but maybe Papa could take him ice fishing tomorrow, and they could look for the storyteller together. This seemed like a good idea, and it made him feel very glad.

And then – warm, content, and exhausted from his night’s adventures, Dylan fell asleep.

- The End

Dylan and puppies

Summer Story

- This was written for our nephew and his new step-brother summer, 2003. Un/fortunately, at this age their imaginations are so big they find the story too scary to finish. Perhaps next year . . .

. . . (later) yay! As of Christmas, 2003 the children had sat through the entire story. One reported funny dreams the following day.

Once upon a time, a young boy named Dylan lived in an old farmhouse that stood in the middle of a large field surrounded on three sides by tall trees. Dylan had recently moved to the old farmhouse with his mommy, their dogs and horses, Dylan’s new stepbrother Brandon and Brandon’s father Mike. Dylan loved his new home, especially swinging on the wood swing in the front yard, and eating the strawberries that grew in his mother’s garden. When Brandon was over he and Dylan would have contests to see who could eat the most strawberries, until Dylan’s mom would call to them to “save some for later.” Brandon liked the farmhouse too, except for one thing; at the top of the driveway sat a large stone gargoyle – a scowling beast with a heavy chain around its neck. Brandon didn’t like to go too near the gargoyle, since it looked very fierce.

Ever since moving into the farmhouse, Dylan’s mom had been very tired. She spent less time with Dylan playing outdoors, and at night would put him to bed earlier saying she needed to rest. Dylan’s mom had explained to him that moving sometimes made people tired, because it took time to get used to a new place. Dylan didn’t feel sleepy, though. So when his mom would put him to bed he spent time sitting up playing with his toys – quietly so his mommy wouldn’t hear.

One night, when Brandon was staying over, he and Dylan both sat up in Dylan’s room playing with cars. Mike was working and Dylan’s mom had told the boys to go to sleep ‘right away’ because she was exhausted that evening and didn’t want them to keep her awake. The summer sun was still peeking over the edge of the sky, casting long arms of red and gold across the clouds. The round moon was rising, but it made only a faint impression on the sun-cast sky. Normally in the summer Dylan didn’t go to sleep until it was dark out, and he could count the stars shining overhead. So he and Brandon did not feel like sleeping – instead they played with their cars and trucks as quietly as possible so Dylan’s mom would not wake up.

“Dylan,” asked Brandon, “why is your mom so tired all the time?”

“She’s not tired all the time,” Dylan said. He knew that wasn’t really true, but he didn’t want Brandon to say things about his mom. Dylan could sense that her being so sleepy was kind of a bad thing, and he didn’t want there to be anything wrong with her. He wanted her to love the new home as much as he did and to be happy all the time like she used to be.

“Dylan,” Brandon said, running his truck across the length of the bed, “why did your gargoyle move today?”

Dylan wasn’t sure if Brandon was being silly or serious. “The gargoyle’s isn’t alive, Brandon.” Dylan said. “Only things that are alive can move. It’s a statue.”

Brandon squished up his face. He tilted his head and looked directly at Dylan. “It DID move. I saw it. It took off its chain.” Brandon sounded like he was serious, but Dylan felt confident that the gargoyle at the top of the driveway was still wearing its chain, just like it always had. However, he didn’t want to argue with Brandon – then his mom might hear them and be mad that they were still awake. So Dylan decided to change the subject. He said; “Hey Brandon, I bet I can roll my truck all the way across the room.”

“I bet I can too,” Brandon challenged, and the two boys leaned over the side of the bed to push their trucks across the floor. They continued to play with their toys, seeing who could push their trucks farther or faster, until they eventually fell asleep.

Later that night, Dylan felt something shake his arm. “Wake up, Dylan,” Brandon said, “Wake up.”

Dylan rubbed his eyes. “Be quiet, Brandon,” he said. Dylan hated to wake up – in the summer sleeping always felt so nice and cool.

“Dylan,” Brandon whispered, very loudly, “get up.” He kicked Dylan in the shin.

“Owwww;” Dylan whined in a sleepy, soggy voice. “What is wrong with you? Go to sleep.”

Brandon hissed again; “Listen,” he ordered.

Now Dylan was fully awake. He wondered why in the heck Brandon was acting so strangely. He opened his eyes – the room was pitch dark, except for the faint stream of moonlight shining in through the window. Outside he could hear frogs gulping and crickets chirping. Was that why Brandon had woken him up?

“They’re just crickets, silly” Dylan started to say, but then he heard what Brandon must have been talking about. Directly outside his window, Dylan noticed a sound other than the soft chorus of frogs and crickets. “What is that noise?” Brandon asked.

The noise was a scratching sound, like one of the dogs pawing at the door. But it seemed to be coming from right next to Dylan’s bed – on the other side of the wall. It sounded as though something was climbing up the side of the house. Dylan wondered if maybe it was a squirrel, or a raccoon.

Brandon was on his tiptoes, looking out the window. “I can’t see what it is,” he said, and then suddenly his whole body froze, as though he had spotted something that startled him.

“Let me see,” Dylan said, and started moving towards the window. But as he got up Brandon yelled, and quickly ran back to the bed, knocking into Dylan on the way. Brandon was shaking. “It’s the gargoyle!” he gasped.

“It is NOT the gargoyle. Stop telling stories,” Dylan scolded. Although he didn’t want Brandon to know, he was a little scared – but not much. He knew that the gargoyle was just a statue. The noise must be something else.

“It IS, Dylan!” Brandon insisted. “The gargoyle was climbing up the side of your house! It’s going to climb in your window!”

Dylan quickly turned back to the window. The glass was open, but the screen was closed. Maybe whatever it was could rip through the screen . . .. No, now he was being silly. He told himself not to be scared.

“It’s in the attic!” Brandon yelled, pointing to the ceiling. Sure enough, the noise was now coming from above their heads – as though something was clawing across the floor of the farmhouse attic. The sound was very loud; as if whatever was making it had heavy footsteps. The clawing steps walked across the floor of the attic – until they stopped in the far corner of the room.

“What is it?” asked Brandon. He was huddled right next to Dylan, and his stepbrother could tell he was still shaking. Dylan was shaking a little too, now, but he hoped Brandon didn’t notice.

“It’s . . .” Dylan said, trying to think of something that could have possibly climbed up the side of their house and into the attic. It was probably something which normally lived in woods around the farmhouse, like a . . . a . . . his mind raced. Finally, he thought that it must be a squirrel. That made sense; the squirrel had probably gotten lost in the dark and had climbed the farmhouse thinking it was a tree. Now it was even more lost, stuck up in the attic. “It’s just a squirrel, Brandon,” Dylan said, trying to sound sure of himself. “We’d better go up to the attic and let it out. Otherwise it will wake up my mom.”

“Are you sure it’s a squirrel?” asked Brandon, sounding like he didn’t think Dylan was right.

“What else could it be?” Dylan said. He climbed down from the bed. “Come on, Brandon, I’m going upstairs to let it out.” Dylan wanted Brandon to go with him, but he didn’t want to ask – otherwise it would seem like he was scared. Which he wasn’t – Dylan was almost four years old, and he thought that was too old to get scared.

“Okay – if you’re sure it’s a squirrel,” Brandon answered, climbing off the bed. “But you better be right.”

The two boys peered up the stairs leading to the attic. They had tiptoed slowly and quietly from their bedroom so as not to wake Dylan’s mommy – so far they hadn’t heard her move at all. The door to the attic was heavy and creaky, so they had both had to work to pull that open as silently as possible. At one point the door had made a loud CREE-EA-KKK and both boys had frozen in place, sure Dylan’s mom would awaken. They stood so still they didn’t even breathe, until they were sure that she hadn’t heard the noise. Now, they were at the bottom of the stairs, looking and listening intently to see if there was any sign of the creature in the attic. There was none.

Maybe it went away – Dylan thought. He considered telling Brandon they should go back to bed, when Brandon said, “So – are we going upstairs or not?”

“Of course we are,” Dylan said. He paused a moment longer, then began climbing the stairs. The stairway was wide enough for the two boys to walk together, and he and Brandon moved side by side up to the attic. As they got to the top they were able to look around to see if they could find any signs of a squirrel among the boxes and old furniture Dylan’s mommy had stored up there. As they reached the last step they saw something move ever so slightly in the far corner – something too big to be a squirrel.

Dylan and Brandon stepped on to the attic floor. The something in the corner stood up, and looked right at the boys. It had a grin on its face, which was illuminated by the bright moonlight.

“It’s . . .” Brandon gasped, his eyes wide with staring.

“A cat,” Dylan finished, wrinkling his nose in bewilderment. He had never seen a cat near his house before. How had one climbed all the way up to the attic?

Dylan walked towards the cat. Maybe he could keep it as a pet. It was in his attic, after all – he thought it was only fair that he be able to keep it. He knew his mom was allergic to cats, but maybe she would let him have this one if he promised to take care of it himself. He wondered if the cat was friendly; “here, kitty,” he called.

“My name is Long Ear,” the cat replied, with a faint snarl.

Later on the boys could not have told you why, but at that moment neither one was surprised to hear the cat speak. Maybe it had something to do with the moonlight. The moon was beaming like a milky lantern in the sky – shining so brightly it almost blotted out the stars. Its light was pale and eerie, and its light made anything seemed possible. Even a talking cat.

“Long Ear,” Dylan said – it was a strange name. But he had met creatures with strange names before – especially in the forest, outside his Papa’s house. “Here, Long Ear,” Dylan said, calling to him as though he were a pet.

Long Ear snarled again, his lip curling back over one of his pointy teeth. “Why don’t you come here, Dylan,” he said. “You can come too, Brandon.” Long Ear miaowed, his long tongue licking across his nose.

“Don’t go, Dylan,” Brandon warned, holding out his hand to keep his stepbrother back. “He’s not a friendly cat.”

Dylan looked at Long Ear. The cat was black from head to toe, with the exception of a white stripe of fur that ran along his belly. His ears seemed to be tipped with white, but Dylan couldn’t tell if they actually were, or if it was just a trick of the moonlight.

“Brandon, why are your nervous?” Long Ear purred, stretching his back. “Dylan should be happy to see me – I bring good luck.”

Dylan took a step towards the cat. “Dylan, don’t,” Brandon urged. But Dylan was too curious not to move closer. “Good luck?” he asked. “For my new house?”

“Yes,” Long Ear replied, his voice dragging a little, like a rusty chain. “You are a very lucky boy, Dylan. I bring good luck to anyone who finds me in their house.”

Dylan took another step towards Long Ear. He realized that the cat smelled foul – like old vegetables rotting in a compost heap. Brandon moved so he was right behind Dylan, and tried to grab a hold of his hand but Dylan shook him off. “Don’t get closer,” Brandon said. Then he pointed at Long Ear; “You stay there!” he ordered.
Long Ear hadn’t moved. “I don’t know why you don’t like me,” he murmured. “Dylan is coming to pet my back.”

Dylan wasn’t sure that he wanted to pet Long Ear. The closer he got the worse the cat smelled. But he thought that it would be neat to have a talking cat as a pet. And if he did bring good luck then maybe his mommy would let him keep Long Ear. Maybe she would even stop being so tired all the time.

“Come and pet me, Dylan,” Long Ear purred. Dylan reached out his hand – he had just a few more steps to take until he reached the far corner of the room. The moonlight in the attic flickered, as though it was light coming from a candle that was being gently blown out. “He’s not going to pet you!” Brandon yelled, and stamped his foot. Dylan was surprised to hear Brandon sound so angry – normally he did not get mad about anything. Why was Brandon so upset over a cat? Dylan didn’t stop walking – as he approached Long Ear he noticed his fur was hard looking and clumpy – as though it had been covered in dried mud.

Long Ear slid towards Dylan. Dylan was so surprised to see him move that he quickly jerked his hand backwards. At the same moment, a great noise filled the room – a thunderous cackling and drumming sound. “Watch out!” Brandon exclaimed.

Fast shadows fell across the walls. The drumming turned into flapping – the beating of two powerful wings. Dylan looked around and saw a crow landing in the attic – on the floor just between him and Long Ear. “Get back!” screeched the crow.

Dylan jumped, falling into Brandon. Long Ear also leapt away, and cowered against the wall.

“Long Ear,” the crow bellowed, turning on the cat. The crow raised its magnificent wings, and towered above the cringing animal. “You do not belong in this house!”

Long Ear hissed, and slashed out at the crow with his claw. “You are too late Banderscratch,” he hissed, “The boy wants to keep me as a pet!”

“The boy didn’t touch you,” the crow cackled, beating his wings again. “Unless he touches you, the spell is not broken. Now I command you to leave this house!” With that the crow rose up, flying above the cat, thundering its wings like a storm. Long Ear let out a rattling breath, and slowly pulled apart into a vapor. He drifted away in a black, slimy mist. As he disappeared the rotting smell lessened in the room, and the crow landed on the attic floor.

Dylan and Brandon struggled to sit up. “What happened? He brought good luck!” Dylan asked.

Black Beak looked sternly at Dylan. “Long Ear was lying to you,” the crow said. “He is an evil creature, who haunts old houses and brings illness and misfortune on their owners.”

“You saved us!” Brandon said. But Dylan still wasn’t sure what was going on. “Who are you?” he asked the crow.

“I am the leader of the crows that have been given the duty of protecting humans from creatures like Long Ear,” he replied. “I also have the power to keep the curse that was placed on him. He will not bother you any more.”

“Where did he come from?” Dylan wondered. He wasn’t convinced that he believed the crow and wanted to hear the whole story.

“Long Ear is very old,” the crow stated, “And spent many years inflicting sadness and suffering on people. If a person takes him in as a pet, then the person will never know happiness for the rest of their lives. Their family will suffer from strange illnesses, and fall into despair. Years ago the good creatures of the forest cursed him so he could not continue to do harm to people. But once every two hundred years Long Ear has a chance to break that curse- if someone pets him on the back, then the curse will be gone forever. Then Long Ear will be able to bring misfortune to people again – unless a crow is able to stop the curse from being broken.”

“So if Dylan had pet him, then the curse would have been broken?” Brandon asked.

“Yes,” Banderscratch answered. “But Dylan couldn’t help what he was doing – Long Ear can put a spell on someone, to try and free himself.”

“What is the curse?” Dylan asked the crow.

The crow blinked before answering. “If I tell you, you have to understand that Long Ear can not even try to break the curse for another two hundred years. You are completely safe from him now.” The crow paused a minute as if he was trying to decide whether or not to continue his story.
“It’s my house – I want to know,” said Dylan.

The crow seemed to smile. “Well then - we turned Long Ear into stone, and placed a heavy chain around his neck. The chain is what binds him as a statue. When the chain is broken, then the crows know that that night Long Ear will try to free himself from the curse again. So far, he has tried four times – and never been successful. As long as there are crows, we will keep him from harming another person.”

Dylan stared at the crow. He wanted to say something, but wasn’t sure exactly how to. He wanted to ask if Long Ear’s curse was to stand as a gargoyle statue at the top of the farmhouse driveway.

“I need to leave now,” Banderscratch said. “Remember, Long Ear can not try to hurt you again. You should go back to bed – and try to get some sleep.” The crow flapped its wings, and flew over to the attic window. Before he left, he turned back to the boys; “Should I tell Furfoot you said ‘hello,’ Dylan?”

Dylan grinned. He hadn’t seen Furfoot in a long time, and was glad to hear that the crow knew his tiny friend. “Okay,” Dylan replied.

“Good night, then,” the crow cackled, and flew away into the moonlight.

“Who is Furfoot?” Brandon wondered. “Is he a crow too?”

“I’ll tell you later,” Dylan said. He didn’t feel like telling Brandon the whole story right at that moment. Besides, he felt like they should do what the crow said, and go back to bed.

“Tell me tomorrow, okay?” Brandon asked. The boys stood up. “Okay,” Dylan answered, walking towards the attic stairs. He figured he could tell Brandon tomorrow while they were outside, eating strawberries. That seemed like a good idea.

The two boys walked slowly across the attic floor, trying not to make it creak too much. Dylan’s mommy was still asleep, and they certainly didn’t want to wake her up. She would wonder why they were up in the attic, and neither boy was exactly sure how to answer that question without sounding like they were making up wild stories

“I told you I saw the gargoyle take off its chain,” Brandon said. “I’m glad Banderscratch came along.”

“You’re right,” Dylan responded. He was staring to feel groggy, as if he were sleepwalking, or waking from a deep dream. “I guess we were lucky after all.”

The next morning Dylan woke up to a smell he hadn’t awakened to since before he’d moved into the farmhouse. Excited, he jumped out of bed and ran downstairs. His mommy was in the kitchen, cooking eggs and bacon at the stove. Brandon sat at the kitchen table with Mike, drinking a glass of milk.

“Mommy!” Dylan exclaimed, running to her.

“Dylan! How you doing buddy?” she called back, stooping down to give him a hug. “I’m making breakfast – I hope you’re hungry.” She smiled, and her eyes looked full of sunshine.

“Are you tired, mommy?” Dylan asked. She didn’t look tired, but he wanted to be sure. Maybe, he thought, she would feel better now, that the curse had been put back on Long Ear.

“Nope, I’m not tired at all,” his mommy said, kissing him on the nose. “I think last night was the best sleep I’ve had in a long time.”

“That’s good,” Mike said, from the table. “I was getting worried about you.”

“Me too,” Dylan confessed, relieved that mom now looked happy again.

“Oh Dylan – there’s no need to worry,” mommy said, “You know sometimes it just takes time to get used to a new house. But I think I’m used to it now, and I don’t feel tired at all. In fact,” she smiled, pinching Dylan on the tummy, “I think today I could eat more strawberries than either you or Brandon – what do you think about that?”

“No you couldn’t!” Brandon yelled. He squirmed in his chair; “I’m going to eat the most strawberries!”

“After breakfast, we’ll see,” Dylan’s mommy said. Dylan pinched her on the cheek, and smiled at her. She looked very happy, and Dylan was glad.

“I love you, mommy” he said.

“I love you too, Dylan” she replied. “Why don’t you get a seat at the table so you can eat your breakfast.”

Dylan crossed the room to the table, and climbed up into an empty seat. He was glad that things seemed to be getting back to normal. He wondered if maybe what had happened the night before had all been a dream. After all, he thought, who ever heard of a talking cat?

“You know what I saw when I got home last night?” Mike said to Dylan’s mommy. “It was the strangest thing – there was this big crow sitting on the roof, looking down at the house. It was like it was watching for something. It didn’t even get scared when I walked by, just sat there.”

“A crow, huh?” mommy said. “Well, maybe that’s a good thing. I remember learning when I was a little girl that crows bring good luck.”

Dylan and Brandon looked at each other. Maybe it hadn’t been a dream after all.

Mommy put some eggs on Dylan’s plate. “Eat them all up,” she said.

“Okay,” Dylan answered. He looked out the kitchen window and saw a crow sitting in a tree. Dylan smiled, feeling safe and happy. He loved his new home. He knew he would be happy in it for a long time.

“You know what else?” Mike asked. “That gargoyle at the top of the driveway looks pretty scary in the moonlight. That thing looked like it was staring right at me – and it looked creepy. Maybe we should get rid of it.”

“Oh, I don’t think we have to,” Dylan’s mommy said. “We should be fine, as long as we’ve got a crow to protect us, right Dylan?” She winked at her son.

Dylan smiled back at his mom. He wondered if she knew about what had gone on in the attic the night before. But, she couldn’t have, he thought, she hadn’t even woken up. Sometimes, his mommy seemed to know things that surprised him. He wondered how she did that.

He decided not to think about it. His food smelled too good to ignore. Just before he shoveled a spoonful of eggs into his mouth he turned to Brandon. “You’re wrong,” he said; “I’m going to eat the most strawberries.”

And, later in the day, he did just that.

And they all lived happily ever after.

The End