The color of bridesmaids dresses and food should not be partnered inside Sammie's head. A lighthearted tale.
Sammie slipped her hands into oversized oven mitts imprinted with the names and renderings of herbs, then she hefted the bubbling pot of potatoes for mashing to a cutting board near the sink. A slight movement in the window's reflection caught her attention. She grinned when, as if by . . . magic, a crudely drawn smiley face appeared in the mist collected on the glass. Another guest had arrived.
Geoffrey, third cousin on her mother's side. The childlike smiley face was his trademark signature.
She hadn't heard the doorbell because it didn't ring. The bell didn't ring because it would never occur Geoffrey to enter using a door. If memory served Sammie correctly, Geoffrey's favorite mode of channeling was the laundry chute.
She sighed. As if by magic, indeed.
Her cousin materialized beside the kitchen's center island, took up the bowl of fresh garden salad and whistling "Put On a Happy Face," carried it to the dining room.
Via the pass-through from the kitchen to the dining room, Sammie gave a cursory once-over to those relatives already engrossed in animated conversation around several platters of hors d'oeuvres centered on her large oak table. She almost laughed out loud while inventorying the New Age witches, wiccans, wizards and warlocks of cyberspace -- her family. She wouldn't trade them for a bucket full of sanity.
Well, maybe tonight she would.
Their "craft" was en vogue, it seemed. The Internet had made her family rich, and they showed no shame in boasting.
For an economical $389, Cousin Geoffrey's IncreasePositionAndGain.com offered a variety of spells entitling the purchaser to a quick boost up the corporate ladder. With a $195 spell from Uncle Maxwell's RevengeThouShaltHaveIt.com, the handsome ex-boyfriend who'd slept with your recently-divorced neighbor on more occasions than he would ever admit to, would sadly become portly and bald overnight. Your basic $5 spell, and he became a wart-festering toad.
Why, if even the dourest maid visited MakeHimLoveMe.com -- her $119 in the form of cash, check or credit card -- Aunt Hagatha could conjure for her the most dutiful lover. Two procured spells got any fair maid or bored housewife an obsessed enthusiast adept at resourceful lovemaking and unbridled passion.
At Uncle Jasper's IsItABabyYouWant.com, a fertility spell produced twins for a mere $114.60 (the price had to be an even number for the spell to work) or triplets for $217.83 (an odd number, of course) or . . .
Enough! Sammie shuddered at the thought of the eight robust babies born to an Illinois woman last year. She tossed a pinch of salt over her shoulder and added another pinch to the potatoes. Just once couldn't she have a normal family gathering? With relatives that arrived by conventional means: car, train, bus, burro?
"No," she whispered, pouring a generous amount of canned milk atop the melting butter in the potatoes. "Not the clan of Plummer-Weathersby. We're not meant to be conventional."
Tonight the eccentric band had assembled to solve the color of her bridesmaid dresses, and Sammie was in dire need of their help. In three days the dresses were to be fitted and sewn -- by conventional means, thread and a Singer sewing machine, fabric and a seamstress.
For weeks now, in the day's lull, in connected moments of obscene quiet, every color that entered her head was somehow tied to food or drink. The basic little black dress became black forest cake or black bean soup.
At least in Sammie's muddled brain.
A sky blue satin bodice with a double-layered tulle skirt became bleu cheese dressing. An ivory dress with cinnamon flowers at the waist became French toast. If the flowers changed to pale yellow or sage, Sammie saw buttery squash or fresh greens. The sleeveless A-line cafe latte organza with the chocolate bolero jacket became hash browns, brownies, brown gravy on rice.
Ugh!
If she succumbed to these musings, she'd soon have no hope of fitting into her own beautiful gown. Unless, of course, she partook of one of Aunt Lola's weight loss spells and forgot she ever joined Weight Watchers. Heaven knows dear Lola had offered, and Sammie had been tempted.
"It's that confounded diet you've chosen to suffer that's making you connect food to color, you know." Sammie turned to find her tall, handsome father mucking a bit of ash from his tie.
"I've lost thirteen pounds, Daddy." She smiled. Gordon Weathersby -- warlock extraordinaire -- preferred the sunroom, but he had entered through the chimney again. It seemed four hundred years of de-materializing and materializing had thrown her father's compass slightly off.
"You couldn't spare three," he grumbled.
She tugged the folded handkerchief from his suit pocket. With his salt-and-pepper brow raised, she spit on the handkerchief, swabbed soot from his cheeks, then returned the burgundy scrap of silk to whence it came. She handed him the bowl of mashed potatoes. "That's sweet of you to say."
"Hogwash," he said. "The truth isn't sweet. It's simply the truth."
Sammie lifted the gravy tureen and followed him into the dining room just in time to see Aunt Hagatha, with a theatrical whirl of her hands, change the dress on the mannequin in the corner from pale pink to lacy yellow. Sammie pictured those little pink umbrellas you find in tropical drinks, then that plate of buttery squash and sighed.
Would this weird companioning inside her brain ever end?
Aunt Lola wiggled her nose and the mannequin's lacy yellow frock became deep red. Sammie pictured red velvet cake with thick white frosting, the butter-cream kind. She was starved!
Her father pulled out a chair and gallantly motioned her to sit. He sat at the table's head, of course. Before Sammie could turn to Lola to tell her she rather fancied the richness of the red dress (hers was after all a December wedding), Cousin Geoffrey snapped his fingers and the dress became lime green.
Sammie tasted sorbet. Was choosing a simple dress color so hard?
The theatrics kept up for several grueling hours as guests continued arriving, each with a new opinion, a dazzling color. The pot roast was gone, crescent rolls devoured, the salad but a couple slices of tomato and a few pieces of wilted lettuce in the bottom of the bowl.
Finally Sammie couldn't take anymore.
"Stop, please. All these colors, all this food! It's making me dizzy and bloated." She wouldn't tell them she'd finally made a decision. Not yet.
Her father rose, signaling the table's occupants to silence with a stony stare. "You should go up to bed, dear."
Sammie loved when he did that. She hooked her arm through his and bade everyone good night. At the bottom of the stairs her father kissed her lightly on the forehead and winked.
"Whatever decision you've reached, child, I'm sure it is the right one."
How did he know? Well, duh, Sammie. He's a warlock. "Thank you, Daddy." She started up the stairs, fumbling in her skirt pocket for her cell phone. As soon as she was safely in her bedroom, she'd call Darren -- and then she would pack.
By midnight, they'd be on their way to Las Vegas. No bridesmaid dresses necessary.
While quite funny, this satire rings very true. Many young brides find their families overwhelming when it comes to their suggestions for marriage. It certainly served up an Addams family of witchery and food. I think I'll go eat now.
Now in its second edition, To Build a Tunnel is the first book of the trilogy, The Chronicles of Henry Roach-Dairier. This fantasy will be enjoyed by youth ages 10 or 11 and up, as well as adults. Younger readers enjoy the adventure. Adults see the a
The third book of the trilogy, The Chronicles of Henry Roach-Dairier, this volume, as with the others, will appeal to both adults and young adults. Readers will experience several levels of meaning from literal to social satire.
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The first instalment of The Tales of Bowen unfolds a mesmerizing anthology of narratives intricately woven together by a grand overarching storyline, set against the enchanting backdrop of the mystical realms of Dagonfell.
Sammie slipped her hands into oversized oven mitts imprinted with the names and renderings of herbs, then she hefted the bubbling pot of potatoes for mashing to a cutting board near the sink. A slight movement in the window's reflection caught her attention. She grinned when, as if by . . . magic, a crudely drawn smiley face appeared in the mist collected on the glass. Another guest had arrived.
Geoffrey, third cousin on her mother's side. The childlike smiley face was his trademark signature.
She hadn't heard the doorbell because it didn't ring. The bell didn't ring because it would never occur Geoffrey to enter using a door. If memory served Sammie correctly, Geoffrey's favorite mode of channeling was the laundry chute.
She sighed. As if by magic, indeed.
Her cousin materialized beside the kitchen's center island, took up the bowl of fresh garden salad and whistling "Put On a Happy Face," carried it to the dining room.
Via the pass-through from the kitchen to the dining room, Sammie gave a cursory once-over to those relatives already engrossed in animated conversation around several platters of hors d'oeuvres centered on her large oak table. She almost laughed out loud while inventorying the New Age witches, wiccans, wizards and warlocks of cyberspace -- her family. She wouldn't trade them for a bucket full of sanity.
Well, maybe tonight she would.
Their "craft" was en vogue, it seemed. The Internet had made her family rich, and they showed no shame in boasting.
For an economical $389, Cousin Geoffrey's IncreasePositionAndGain.com offered a variety of spells entitling the purchaser to a quick boost up the corporate ladder. With a $195 spell from Uncle Maxwell's RevengeThouShaltHaveIt.com, the handsome ex-boyfriend who'd slept with your recently-divorced neighbor on more occasions than he would ever admit to, would sadly become portly and bald overnight. Your basic $5 spell, and he became a wart-festering toad.
Why, if even the dourest maid visited MakeHimLoveMe.com -- her $119 in the form of cash, check or credit card -- Aunt Hagatha could conjure for her the most dutiful lover. Two procured spells got any fair maid or bored housewife an obsessed enthusiast adept at resourceful lovemaking and unbridled passion.
At Uncle Jasper's IsItABabyYouWant.com, a fertility spell produced twins for a mere $114.60 (the price had to be an even number for the spell to work) or triplets for $217.83 (an odd number, of course) or . . .
Enough! Sammie shuddered at the thought of the eight robust babies born to an Illinois woman last year. She tossed a pinch of salt over her shoulder and added another pinch to the potatoes. Just once couldn't she have a normal family gathering? With relatives that arrived by conventional means: car, train, bus, burro?
"No," she whispered, pouring a generous amount of canned milk atop the melting butter in the potatoes. "Not the clan of Plummer-Weathersby. We're not meant to be conventional."
Tonight the eccentric band had assembled to solve the color of her bridesmaid dresses, and Sammie was in dire need of their help. In three days the dresses were to be fitted and sewn -- by conventional means, thread and a Singer sewing machine, fabric and a seamstress.
For weeks now, in the day's lull, in connected moments of obscene quiet, every color that entered her head was somehow tied to food or drink. The basic little black dress became black forest cake or black bean soup.
At least in Sammie's muddled brain.
A sky blue satin bodice with a double-layered tulle skirt became bleu cheese dressing. An ivory dress with cinnamon flowers at the waist became French toast. If the flowers changed to pale yellow or sage, Sammie saw buttery squash or fresh greens. The sleeveless A-line cafe latte organza with the chocolate bolero jacket became hash browns, brownies, brown gravy on rice.
Ugh!
If she succumbed to these musings, she'd soon have no hope of fitting into her own beautiful gown. Unless, of course, she partook of one of Aunt Lola's weight loss spells and forgot she ever joined Weight Watchers. Heaven knows dear Lola had offered, and Sammie had been tempted.
"It's that confounded diet you've chosen to suffer that's making you connect food to color, you know." Sammie turned to find her tall, handsome father mucking a bit of ash from his tie.
"I've lost thirteen pounds, Daddy." She smiled. Gordon Weathersby -- warlock extraordinaire -- preferred the sunroom, but he had entered through the chimney again. It seemed four hundred years of de-materializing and materializing had thrown her father's compass slightly off.
"You couldn't spare three," he grumbled.
She tugged the folded handkerchief from his suit pocket. With his salt-and-pepper brow raised, she spit on the handkerchief, swabbed soot from his cheeks, then returned the burgundy scrap of silk to whence it came. She handed him the bowl of mashed potatoes. "That's sweet of you to say."
"Hogwash," he said. "The truth isn't sweet. It's simply the truth."
Sammie lifted the gravy tureen and followed him into the dining room just in time to see Aunt Hagatha, with a theatrical whirl of her hands, change the dress on the mannequin in the corner from pale pink to lacy yellow. Sammie pictured those little pink umbrellas you find in tropical drinks, then that plate of buttery squash and sighed.
Would this weird companioning inside her brain ever end?
Aunt Lola wiggled her nose and the mannequin's lacy yellow frock became deep red. Sammie pictured red velvet cake with thick white frosting, the butter-cream kind. She was starved!
Her father pulled out a chair and gallantly motioned her to sit. He sat at the table's head, of course. Before Sammie could turn to Lola to tell her she rather fancied the richness of the red dress (hers was after all a December wedding), Cousin Geoffrey snapped his fingers and the dress became lime green.
Sammie tasted sorbet. Was choosing a simple dress color so hard?
The theatrics kept up for several grueling hours as guests continued arriving, each with a new opinion, a dazzling color. The pot roast was gone, crescent rolls devoured, the salad but a couple slices of tomato and a few pieces of wilted lettuce in the bottom of the bowl.
Finally Sammie couldn't take anymore.
"Stop, please. All these colors, all this food! It's making me dizzy and bloated." She wouldn't tell them she'd finally made a decision. Not yet.
Her father rose, signaling the table's occupants to silence with a stony stare. "You should go up to bed, dear."
Sammie loved when he did that. She hooked her arm through his and bade everyone good night. At the bottom of the stairs her father kissed her lightly on the forehead and winked.
"Whatever decision you've reached, child, I'm sure it is the right one."
How did he know? Well, duh, Sammie. He's a warlock. "Thank you, Daddy." She started up the stairs, fumbling in her skirt pocket for her cell phone. As soon as she was safely in her bedroom, she'd call Darren -- and then she would pack.
By midnight, they'd be on their way to Las Vegas. No bridesmaid dresses necessary.
