A land called Honah Lee

Her girlish eyes were completely and entirely enraptured with the world he painted through his calm, deep voice. She knew the tale almost as well as the voice which told it. This time every night was sacred to her little heart. Hanging on his every word, she once again entered the land far away and full of enchanting fairies and delightful creatures - a world as real and familiar to her as our own is to us. He sang the words, while she lived them. Her ears tingled with glee at his tale, though she did like to imagine herself as a female Jackie Paper. Or just that she was a boy. (Because, truth be told, this girl truly believed - or wished so earnestly that she thought she did believe - she would one day grow up to be a boy, though evidence and everyone around her protested.) A soft, clear voice rang out these words and filled the little white room with melody, much as the sun fills the earth with light:

Puff, the magic dragon lived by the sea
And frolicked in the autumn mist in a land called Honah Lee,
Little Jackie Paper loved that rascal Puff,
And brought him strings and sealing wax and other fancy stuff. Oh

Puff, the magic dragon lived by the sea
And frolicked in the autumn mist in a land called Honah Lee,
Puff, the magic dragon lived by the sea
And frolicked in the autumn mist in a land called Honah Lee.

Together they would travel on a boat with billowed sail
Jackie kept a lookout perched on Puff's gigantic tail,
Noble kings and princes would bow whene'er they came,
Pirate ships would lower their flags when Puff roared out his name. Oh!

Puff, the magic dragon lived by the sea
And frolicked in the autumn mist in a land called Honah Lee,
Puff, the magic dragon lived by the sea
And frolicked in the autumn mist in a land called Honah Lee.

A dragon lives forever but not so little boys
Painted wings and giants' rings make way for other toys.
One grey night it happened, Jackie Paper came no more
And Puff that mighty dragon, he ceased his fearless roar.

His head was bent in sorrow, green scales fell like rain,
Puff no longer went to play along the cherry lane.
Without his lifelong friend, Puff could not be brave,
So Puff that mighty dragon sadly slipped into his cave. Oh!

Puff, the magic dragon lived by the sea
And frolicked in the autumn mist in a land called Honah Lee,
Puff, the magic dragon lived by the sea
And frolicked in the autumn mist in a land called Honah Lee. 

The Little Girl is not so little now, and her Daddy doesn't sing to her every night before bed anymore. But occasionally, she'll slip away to Honah Lee, rekindle old friendships and frolic with her dear magic dragon.

 {listen here}

Memories of Spring

Why is it that I always feel the urge to write late at night? Why does my mind work best in those quiet moments just before I fall asleep?
These questions are left unanswered. I can't tell you why this is - but tonight I'm taking advantage of it. (That, and I can't sleep. It's that Sunday afternoon nap, I tell you. And the bug buzzing around my room probably has something to do with it.)

It seems to me that memories are best triggered by smell. The sweet fragrance of the patches of yellow and white honeysuckle bushes wafts through the air. At the smell, I remember Springs past: running barefoot over the soft, green grass, bouncing, flipping, jumping on that old, worn trampoline while the metal springs whine and screech in rhythm, or playing as a pilgrim in a lonely, consecrated cabin in the prairies, or a passenger on a boat, or a superhero with super strength, or the power of flight or X-ray vision, fighting the good fight in an old warehouse -- all from the real protection of the four walls of the wooden tree house which took on many forms back in its prime.
I thought of those soft giggles of dear, little friends, the wild, silly games of Tag, the enticing fear of slipping from the safety of a wood plank, the fence, or trampoline onto the "lava" ground. I saw the bright sunshine cast its rays on familiar faces, and of course, I remembered the piles and piles of sweet, luscious honeysuckles we plucked from the bushes and sucked and sipped on until there was not one more drop to be sucked or sipped.

What is it about childhood memories that is so bittersweet? Perhaps it's sweet to revisit happy, simple times and places, but bittersweet to come to realize these are times and places we will never again live in.

My little Fred is in a happier place now. We'll always love you, Fred.


*Yes, Fred is a fish. He died after 3 years with me. Just because he's a fish, doesn't mean I can't love him. Maybe I'm a little pathetic, but stop laughing.

Bye forever, Fred.