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I was the last child to give up believing in Santa Claus.

He was dragged from me, kicking and screaming on the inside, as with his passing I had to give up the last of my belief in Magic.

In that scenario my younger sister had confronted my mother with the question, “Is Santa Claus real?”

She was seven years old. I knew, for real, that Santa wasn’t real. But I was not ready to hear it from a grown up!

I was the little girl who remained in her wading pool in the backyard till long after dark- twining my legs together and wishing to be a mermaid.

If I just believed enough…


Finding a Mermaid

I sat on my bureau, my back pressed firmly against my mirror for long spans of time, waiting to melt into it… it had worked for Alice.

And I waited at the window, looking into the dark skies for Peter Pan. I just knew he could make me fly!

Even younger I made cardboard stars, cut them out and taped them to sticks, then danced in the night saying “”BibbidiBobbidiBoo!

But I never did turn into a fairy either.


Firefly Frolic

So I grew, and went into spinning stories and tales. I walked alone in the forest for many happy hours, looking for the magic that is in the world.

The secret home of a small animal, a beautiful rock or a fossil with a locked in secret; a feather, a deer trail, a patch of beautiful bluebells that bloomed every year. All these became my magic. My secrets.


Fairy Wood II

And I drew pictures of princesses, fairies, fairy princesses, mermaids and people flying.

In high school I drew walking eyeballs, monsters and more mermaids. Surreal scenes of imps and creatures creeping about while you slept.




With a sketch pad and pencil I was never bored.

Imagination is such a friend of childhood; all that you can conceive of could be real.

What a challenge to hold onto it as you become and adult. I guess people like Stephen King and Charles de Lint,  Cecilia Dart Thornton and Patricia McKillip have all protected their imaginations deep within their being to bring out and express in wonderful fiction. Musicians tell stories with well woven strands of song and instrument, painting pictures in the mind.

Artists such as myself dream and draw and paint their imaginings on paper. Well, trees and rocks and sand too- any surface is fair game!


And as I do I go backward into the years when I was a mermaid, a fairy, off on a grand adventure.

And I still walk in the forest for hours looking for the wondrous Magic that will always remain there.


Have a good and imaginative day, all!