Sunday, November 20, 2011

Like a Hag in a Fairytale

    Before beginning this wildly-silly post, I have to share some things.

    Have you ever witnessed a miracle?  Think about it . . .
    On Thursday, I did.  Today I witnessed another one.
    The blogfest began (which by the way is now listed as one of the tabs on my blog, along with the iPad2 giveaway and info about my book).  I read stories of hope and loss.  Most of all, I read stories that brought healing.  
    Your kind words about me blessed my heart.  What shone far above anything though, was your kindness to each other.  I felt so very honored to see your beauty--your hearts--and it continues on.  The support and generosity you've shown to me and others--it's amazing!  
    In addition to that, Zeke's story was released on Friday, 11/18, and now, "The Golden Sky" is currently in Amazon's top 100 U. S. books about grief and dying.  Zeke's story is spreading and hopefully helping others.


    Now, onto the post of the day.
Photobucket
P. S. This picture has nothing to do with today's post.  I just have a thing for ninjas.

    On Friday, Cade was supposed to have the day off so we could go visit Zeke's grave and honor him on his birthday.  Well, it didn't work out that way, so I took the Scribe (my nine-year-old) to the mall to sell books and hand out flyers.
    There's something magical about being nine.  I know that sounds strange since wise people say the odd numbered years are the hardest; that's why they're "odd."  But even if it's hard, nine IS magical.  I remember that whenever I hang out with my kid.  
    Every time someone walked by at the mall, she'd run over and hand them a flyer about my book.  She had no idea I'd pay her real money (vs. the Monopoly kind I gave her in kindergarten).  All she knew was that we sat next to The Popcorn Hut, and if she helped, she'd get to try the white chocolate popcorn.
    So, things went well, but what shocked me was when some people were mean.
    "What's wrong with them?" the Scribe asked when two people said they didn't know what we were selling, but they WERE NOT interested.  
   And I had to admit, they were so mean, their faces looked ugly like greed!
    "Well," I whispered.  "Do you remember how you thought craved pumpkins had powers?"
    She nodded because this past Halloween, she was convinced, when you carve a pumpkin, part of your soul goes into it, and when it rots, well . . . then you know what your true soul looks like.
    Realization lit her eyes.  "We don't even need a pumpkin this time!  We can see if people are nice or not.  Wow, salesmen must know everything about how people really are inside." 
   We were like the ugly hags in fairy tales--the ones who sit in the forest and wait to see if the peasants will be nice to them.  It was epic--I've never wanted to be ugly quite so badly!  
    "You're right," I said.
    "Yeah."  She bit her lip, then continued, "We know everything . . . because we're salesmen!" 
   I nodded, suddenly feeling terrible for being rude to a vacuum salesman last week--seriously, what if he was an angel in disguise?!  But thinking about it further, it wasn't very likely; he HAD looked like a hungry wolf in need of cash and my fine china.  
   I pulled myself from my thoughts as I saw a new person walking closer.  "Hey, look at twelve o'clock."  The Scribe, that spy in training, looked right where I told her to.  "That person's going to be nice."  
    "You wanna make a bet?  He's a swerver if I've ever seen one!"
    "A swerver?"
    "Yeah, one of those people who don't even say anything; they just swerve out of the way instead of saying 'no thanks' or shaking their head nicely."
    I snorted.  "He is not a swerver.  He's a nodder, at the least."
    "Seriously, how much will you bet on it?" the Scribe asked.
    "Well," I dug through my pockets quickly, "how about a penny."  I set some change out and we shook on it.
    The man sauntered closer.  He looked at shops.  His plaid jacket reminded me of black licorice and mints all mixed up.  Then, that scoundrel of a man--who once had a twinkle in his eyes--acted mean to the Scribe!  He didn't talk . . . He didn't nod.  He puckered right up like he'd lost his dentures!
    "See," the Scribe giggled.  "Now, that is a swerver if I've ever seen one."
   "But how did you know?" I asked, thinking she's half-spy, half-physic--the best combination EVER.
    "Well, he did seem a bit cranky.  I knew he might swerve since he didn't have a cane."
    "'Cause people with canes can't swerve?"
    "Exactly.  So, they have to nod; it's obvious when you think about it."
    The day went quickly after that.  We met more nodders, swervers and "angels" as the Scribe called them.  We even met a cougher; the woman saw us and conveniently had an asthmatic fit right there in front of a posh manikin.
    It was a wonderful day though, even if it was Zeke's birthday and a reminder that I'll always miss my son who died.  Heck, we even sold some copies of the book, and met a woman who reads my blog--that was a shocker!
    Anyway, all of that was wonderful, but the best part for me was when the Scribe and I got popcorn.  At one point, I giggled so hard, a kernel almost flew into my lung.
    "I learned something today," the Scribe said, pocketing all of the change she'd won from me, plus what she'd earned for helping.  "I learned that it's always good to be nice.  You never know what other people are going through.  And . . . if someone hands you a flyer, you should wait until they can't see you if you'd like to throw it away."
    I smiled through a mouthful of white chocolate.  "You know what I learned?"  I asked and she shook her head.  "I learned that you are a very hard worker AND a good judge of character.  I don't think I should bet against you anymore, though.  You're taking all of my money."
    "But why, Mom?  I like it when we make bets.  You know, I'm trying to earn money for an art kit!"