Mock Tales

Mock Tale 1/Magic

The space between me and my neighbor measures roughly three inches. As it were, it’s been roughly three years that I have been hanging here, in the corner of an antique shop, just a bit below eye level. For a short time my neighbor was a clown painting. When a hand reached forward with interest, I was sure the hand was for me– I have heard that paintings of clowns have a reputation. I guess I heard wrong, because the clown was eagerly grabbed by the hand and lifted to a smiling face, so endearing.

I don’t mind it, really. I hung for years, many more than three, next to the lighthouse keeper’s bed, just above the side table. Knicks and knacks would come and go, and on the days that the lighthouse keeper felt the need to declutter, a smiling face would glance up at me. It’s a type of magic, being adored like that. Even if it’s just one smiling face. But every story has an ending, even the good ones. I don’t mind that either, really, those years filled me with magic. 

And so here I hang, three years and maybe more, three inches from my neighbor. I’m surrounded by memories - knicks and knacks, other paintings, tea cups on saucers - all who hold the magic from a past that has ended. The magic at the ending of a story is the possibility of a new one beginning.

Mock Tale 3/Wonder

Their story starts at ages nine and nine and a half. They were both the new kids in the same class, and their houses were only a quarter mile apart, separated by a field of seasonal wildflowers. Their moms arranged for them to meet in the field on school days to walk together to the bus stop. For months they would meet with a shy grin, walking wordlessly onward. They found words and wonder during the lunar eclipse of 1971.

That Wednesday they met in their field like always, but their steps were both a bit lighter. A grin and, for the first time, a question. “Why do you seem different today?” was asked with trepidation. A pause, and then, “I’m just thinking about tonight. I guess I am excited.” Their eyes meet, the grins now full smiles, and together, “The lunar eclipse.”

They planned the meeting, their usual spot in the field, the flowers long gone from the winter weather. Gazing through a paper telescope, an almost wordless evening. “I can see the turquoise ring,” was said with a gasp. And for the second time, a question, “Isn’t it wonderful?” They met countless times in that field, gazing at the sky and one another. Not many words are needed to create wonder.

Artwork by Future Friends

Mock Tale 2/Tradition 

I was raised in a baseball loving household. Fans of the sport, our allegiance aligns with the current season’s underdog; we’re suckers for a good comeback story. Besides, we love all of the traditions – singing Sweet Caroline during the eighth inning of a Red Sox game, Thank God I’m a Country Boy during the seventh inning stretch of an Orioles game, and roll calling the lineup at the top of the first inning of a Yankees game. Tributes that beam pride from the fanfared faces of each team’s attendees. We love experiencing them all. Even the family parrot, Spot, participates in the singing.

 
Each of us takes the lead with a particular song. We stand by the TV, dancing and encouraging. Mom serenades the Sox, Dad the Orioles, and Spot sings backup– almost every word. And as the self appointed Most Enthusiastic Family Member, my song is the Fanfare Charge song – I am called upon at almost every game. When moods are lagging I’ll start off the six-note Fanfare, dun-nah’s replace the traditional organ, jubilantly screaming CHARGE with a fist pump. It catches on, we all dun-nah the build up, clapping and flapping.

As far as my memory stretches as a member of this baseball loving family, we’ve sung and cheered and flapped for every team in the League. And as far as I can remember, Spot has always refused to shout Charge. Squawking the initial buildup, flapping his wings with the six-notes, jumping from foot to foot on his perch, but standing still and silent while I scream Charge over all the others. We root for him, the underdog of the Charge song, who can’t seem to get to the finish. “You’ll get it next time, buddy!” we say, as we hand him a peanut. With traditions and the promise of a comeback– the underdog can’t lose.