I slow my pace as I round a curve into a shaded section of the greenway. Even though it’s a suburban walking path a block from my house, I always steel myself at this particular juncture. It feels like the forest primeval is closing in. Mature maples and oaks muffle the grinding gears of delivery trucks. The canopy dims greens to shades of gray. I square my shoulders and advance into the shadows.
A stab of sunlight bounces off shiny colors at the base of an oak tree. Glass rocks are sprinkled on the ground, like spilled skittles. I lean closer. Nestled in the crook of the trunk is a surprise. Someone has constructed a fairy land tableau. Two miniature houses. (Victorian, I’d say.) Gold foil-wrapped coins form a walkway. A fairy with dragonfly wings sits regally on a mushroom (a repurposed spool).
I cringe, but wanting to be a better person, reach for a positive attitude.
The scene is creative. It’s a magic trick, a surprise of happy colors here in the shade. And I have to admire the engineering required to construct a six-inch Victorian.
I feel lighter, having shed the weight of negativity.
I continue my stroll and reverse course for home. Directly across from fairyland number one, facing the direction I’m now headed, lies another miniature scene. Fairyland number two is a condo-plex on the ground at the base of the tree. A couple of clotheslines tacked waist-high on the trunk, with shirts and dresses hanging there. Ladders running from the condos up to the laundry. Path lights.
The fairies have gone too far.
The nerve of these pixies. They think the aesthetic of oak trees needs improvement. They decide these trees now belong to them, to use as they please. They sail in here all Christopher Columbus and stake a claim on somebody else’s land.
Indigenous civilizations already reside in the underbrush. Ants, worms, centipedes, spiders, beetles, mice, and other creepy-crawlies that I’m normally opposed to. After a night of foraging, they discover the pixie on their front stoop, its dragonfly wings becalmed.
Centipede: Hey. What the hell is that? You think it’s dead?
Mouse: Nah. If it were dead, it would smell better.
Spider: And taste better, too.
These pixielands are piles of glue, plastic, and dye, as useful in the landscape as styrofoam cups. Will the fairies come back to clean up the mess their colony leaves behind? The cute Victorian houses will be reduced to rubble by marauding raccoons. The path lights will succumb to the ravages of ill-mannered cockapoos. The poisons in the adorable clotheslines will end up in the tiny bellies of spiders that were minding their own business.
I dislike sticking up for nature. Nature and I are not friends. But fairies should hang their laundry in their own backyard.
A stab of sunlight bounces off shiny colors at the base of an oak tree. Glass rocks are sprinkled on the ground, like spilled skittles. I lean closer. Nestled in the crook of the trunk is a surprise. Someone has constructed a fairy land tableau. Two miniature houses. (Victorian, I’d say.) Gold foil-wrapped coins form a walkway. A fairy with dragonfly wings sits regally on a mushroom (a repurposed spool).
I cringe, but wanting to be a better person, reach for a positive attitude.
The scene is creative. It’s a magic trick, a surprise of happy colors here in the shade. And I have to admire the engineering required to construct a six-inch Victorian.
I feel lighter, having shed the weight of negativity.
I continue my stroll and reverse course for home. Directly across from fairyland number one, facing the direction I’m now headed, lies another miniature scene. Fairyland number two is a condo-plex on the ground at the base of the tree. A couple of clotheslines tacked waist-high on the trunk, with shirts and dresses hanging there. Ladders running from the condos up to the laundry. Path lights.
The fairies have gone too far.
The nerve of these pixies. They think the aesthetic of oak trees needs improvement. They decide these trees now belong to them, to use as they please. They sail in here all Christopher Columbus and stake a claim on somebody else’s land.
Indigenous civilizations already reside in the underbrush. Ants, worms, centipedes, spiders, beetles, mice, and other creepy-crawlies that I’m normally opposed to. After a night of foraging, they discover the pixie on their front stoop, its dragonfly wings becalmed.
Centipede: Hey. What the hell is that? You think it’s dead?
Mouse: Nah. If it were dead, it would smell better.
Spider: And taste better, too.
These pixielands are piles of glue, plastic, and dye, as useful in the landscape as styrofoam cups. Will the fairies come back to clean up the mess their colony leaves behind? The cute Victorian houses will be reduced to rubble by marauding raccoons. The path lights will succumb to the ravages of ill-mannered cockapoos. The poisons in the adorable clotheslines will end up in the tiny bellies of spiders that were minding their own business.
I dislike sticking up for nature. Nature and I are not friends. But fairies should hang their laundry in their own backyard.
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