If one thing is certain, it is this: a coven of fairies inhabits a small friendly aspen grove in the Wyoming Mountain Range. As they overlook the natural beauty of the mountain range, they often ride the Wyoming wind down the slopes to spread their innocence and magic over each dell and valley. Their illustrious presence ignites an inconsequential collection of old trees and yields a supernatural dream land lost in time. My spirit rides with them on a summer wind and sets upon a fallen tree with a trickle of their best magic, unless of course that is the whisper of a familiar creek cutting its way under my feet.
The laughter of the creek remembers the ever changing visages it has been allowed to don as an accessory to every mystery, adventure, or excavation which has taken place on his shores: the roaring Mississippi, the great ocean, the peaceful lagoon, the swimming hole, the washer woman, the waterfall, stealer of shoes, destroyer of homes, but always the percussionist writing the soundtrack to a divine childhood adventure. The surface of the water knows each of its visitors as the best of friends. The creek has fed the eager throats of rancorous children at play, has mingled with the tears from external monsters, and has washed clean any grime that life has accumulated. It is a friend, an adversary, a constant companion.
The splashing feet of thirteen roaring children disrupt the water and the creek yet again gets to play. My cousins stomp this ground that’s theirs; no one enters this sacred grove without an escort by this court of kings, and princesses, and murderous thieves. An infinite accumulation of forgotten scraps seek to build a children’s city of adventures, a Mecca for imagineers. Trees condemned to firewood, become the essential keystone in a teepee, barbed-wire fences that awaited an infirmary gain new strength as they hold together palaces; every neglected piece of wood and lost nail is enriched with the enchantment of the place, and altogether they create a rugged metropolis of dreams.
As the calls ring out, the attacks are waged, and the building plans are drawn up, I sit a phantom in their playground reveling in their play. My eldest cousin, by definition the mayor, stomps the ground authoritatively. He swings me over his shoulder as I laugh shrilly and feign escape. He will be a father any day now. I recognize the mayor who’s still within him, and know he will make a loving dad. My sister and our cousins attempt to free me, and skirt the heels of our strong and enviable mayor. Eventually I am released, though they three would claim their heroine role in my liberation. The four of us are sisters and cousins, but mostly kindred spirits. Even now through school, hard decisions, or stitches of laughter we continue to rescue each other. Despite all the action, the littlest of the troupe gather dandelions. Always the sweet ones they continue to this day to be beautiful young women defining themselves through their flowers. I see the young me, creative and bossy; and hope that she’s still with me somehow. On the brink of adulthood, I hope I have her confidence. On the cusp of adventure, I hope I have her veracity. And as I enter the world independently, I hope she comes with me to keep me curious and hopeful. I need to see the world, as she does in Kidstown, with unlimited malleability and opportunity.
As the band of miscreants disperses, I watch as the echoes of my sister, the queen, and my cousin, the witch, seek to build the fairest house in all the land. They traverse the kingdom in search of good soil, a fine view, and mostly the adoration and jealousy of their fellow inhabitants; for they will certainly sit and marvel at such a house as theirs, yet unfinished. They decide upon a hollowed tree, whose roots descend into the water. It is prime real estate. As they build, their rubber boots fill with the creek’s water, but it just chortles and gulps at their feet as they run to fetch the tools, hammering vitality into the floor and walls. Three two-by-fours and six nails create an all encompassing haven. It is a detective’s office, a hide-away from forest assassins, and a perfect landing for launching pebbles at their neighbors prized Native American home.
As the vibrations reverberate from the victimized branches that make a home, the cries of magic Cherokee princesses mingle with the lighthearted braying of our beloved hoof-toed neighbors. Beyond the walls of willow intertwined, our four-legged friends are drawn by the frivolity that hangs musky in the air. The wisp of their tails catching devilish flies and the grumble of their exhaling breaths mingle with the rhythm of the river to accompany our merry dance of run and play. Perhaps they are speaking to my grandfather as he tends their every need, brushing their manes coming in from an afternoon ride; we can hear him shaking the oats beckoningly, but he knows he can come no closer, without a proper invitation.
As the twilight approaches my cousins seal the town to intruders:
KIDSTOWN: Do not enter! Or the wrath of the 13 shall be upon you.
As the enchantment of the fairies begins to wane, the potent presence of a precious treasure draws the phantom children into grandma’s kitchen, and away from their ulterior lives of mischief. Without their melodious voices to liven the, the magic withdraws more quickly. I am left tracing my toes in a creek which is in fact, never the same creek twice. As the water runs over the bed of stone I am reminded of the change that separates children’s adventures from my own. The skeletons of a forlorn town lie now in the imaginations that hold them together. The thirteen, looking upon our early oasis, find peace in the paradoxical balance between change and eternality.
