When the days stay mild and the sun is out, some sprites dream of the gardens they are going to plant, but the dog likes to dream of the walks he is going to take. To him a walk is a sort of adventure or little voyage of discovery in which he finds out for himself what the world is like in a certain place. A walk satisfies in a measure the instinct to reach out into the unknown and it furnishes the mind with an interesting picture for reflection. I do not mean the kind of brisk walk that is taken by the humans for exercise, but the kind upon which one sets out with a carefree heart and open mind and a mild portion of curiosity.

A dog’s most vivid and pleasurable memories come not from standing on the sites of historic events or counting the miles he needs to travel to keep in shape but from exploring the streets and roads and paths to see who he will meet and what will happen. For instance, he will not remember the angry old man waving his stick but he will recall clearly the scents worth following, the collie he met and would like to know better, the wall that bordered a forest bumpy with vine-covered boulders, a friendly woman with the time to give him a friendly stroke, and the furze and broom yellow in the rocky pasture, the marvelous cool water at the bottom of a waterfall, a lie down under a rustic bench on the hilltop, the horse that snorted when he came near.

The heat was unrelenting.

From a thick gnarly branch of a shady oak, under a new moon, Elf watched his Fairy languorously dance with the fairies about the reedy cradle in the center of the magic ring. Diadem atilt, her face flushed and wings droopy, she carefully traced the circle steps that she might take every clammy hand that wound round to greet her.

Carabosse struck a pose on the ancient spot, a glacial boulder serving as her platform. A queer silence fell over the crowd, more than a few sprites remembered that infamous temper of hers and held their breaths as she lifted her wand over the new infant and introduced in a singsong voice, to the beat of the cicadas, her gift of a spell.

Of the Canyon and the Sea,
Of the Mountain ridges be,
Like the wildcat, coyote
Born beneath the stars, live free.

‘Now please let us go to the waterfall!” The pixies wailed.

Carabosse drew a thunder clap from the sky to silence the din. The sticky air seemed to hang molasses-thick; the gleam in Carabosse’s dark eyes so fierce, it felt to Fairy that the continent might move if she didn’t intervene.

“Please excuse their impatience,” She consoled her old friend. “They mean no disrespect to you. The babe is honored and blessed; now let us go break the ocean waves to celebrate.”

It looked to Elf as if a spell of black intent was about to be spoken, he knew Carabosse well enough to know that she was thinking of doing something, and feeling someone had to be prepared for the rage, he bravely leapt off the branch, puffed up, purposely flew low, swooped in and buzzed over all their solemn heads, singing his own jolly best wishes for the little one to live a long happy life. This raucous invasion broke loose the sacred binding magic of the fairy ring and the dancers wasted no time to use his marvelous distraction to flee. Hastily they glided off pulling the cradle along after them with the help of spider webs and some strong crèche ants.

Later, before they turned in for the night, Carabosse admitted over a drop of dandelion wine, to thoughts of changing those she deemed most unmannerly into stink bugs.

“I am quite grateful for your thoughtful intervention.” She told Elf tenderly. “I think my reputation has suffered quite enough.”

In the morning, the Magician found toadstools marking the sacred spot, and remembered when he too had once been part of their magic.

How a Fairy Breaks Her Promise

Elf says that he has to drive to Cambria today and if you'll promise not to stop at a single nursery you may come along. You have been hacking at the acacia and would much rather go to Cambria.

"Will we be anywhere near that restaurant on Moonstone Beach, the one that's supposed to have the best steamers on the shore? Could we have dinner there?"

"We can, and you shall have a Lemon Drop. You've been a good girl and haven't looked to right or left."

The restaurant is crowded but your Elf, in the Lordly way you like, asks for a table looking out over the water. While he is taking photographs of the sun setting over the ocean, you disappear. There is a Fairy nursery just down the road in town, you remember.

When you return he looks suspiciously at the large paper grocery box you are carrying.

"It's only a peppermint geranium and two columbines," you apologize, " and we didn't stop at it."

Reflection of a repentant fairy:

It's naughty to equivocate
and hide your motives from your mate.

It is torrid.

The only reason to get out of bed is to shower. Thank God for the luxury of a Sunday newspaper delivery!

At dusk Elf drags himself into the garden to water the baby perennials but that’s about all that can be done for them. Fairy intends to feed the roses but instead opens a bottle of cold ginger ale. About six thirty she starts to think about clothes for the morning. A final, long, cool bath helps before dinner.

When Fairy has drooped into her freshest organdie, Elf is in the kitchen cracking crabs for a summer salad served in bed in front of the fans…

Together they stir up some claret lemonade.

Elf strains several lemons into a pitcher, Fairy sugars to taste, fills it up with half claret and half cold soda water and stirs it well. When she serves it she loves to decorate it with lemon slices on top.

They would sit out on the deck but the neighbors are disagreeable.

When the Galileo thermometer says 90, put a leash on your tongue, for tempers are short and emotions only skin deep.

The moon in Topanga’s fairyland

Sleep is far away. The waxing moon has crept under the browning pine and glows directly onto the bed. Fairy steps into her slippers and goes down the stairs to find her Elf out under the jasmine in his pajamas peering intently into his telescope. “Beetles.” He grumbles, and then blows his nose loudly, but they both know nothing can be done. He will remove the poor tree tomorrow.

She will make a Vitamin C Fizz to soothe their colds. She takes a lemon and an orange from her garden and squeezes the juice. Elf adds the gin.

“Let’s go sit in the peach blossoms.” It is heaven there. A sweet heavy perfume rises with the breeze. Hiding behind the olive tree, the moon makes an eerie, unbelievably beautiful world of ebony and silver. The doves coo a lullaby.

“That’s the way it is,” whispers Elf, “a few moments of magic and long stretches of the same old thing.”

“Do you mind this same old thing?” Asks Fairy.

“No,” he answers, and she can hardly speak for the fluttering of her wings.

It will probably be a torrid day, but the good gardener is out before breakfast while the dew is wet.

With the kitchen scissors she cuts back the faded roses. They look like wilted debutantes who have been dancing too long at the ball.

From the heap of compost concealed behind the rockery covered in orange lotus, she gives each bush a spongy topper. This will have to do in lieu of parasols.

After breakfast she will spend the day soaking their beds.

It should be done at twilight, but by then, she is dressed in her prettiest summer frock. If there is one thing more ruinous to a lady’s hands than watering it is weeding. And she knows better, for in inspired exalted moments, she has done them both. The manicurist’s worst nightmares are her nails.

The pixies have gathered together for Blue Columbine Fairy’s farewell, and spend the day sipping Horse’s Necks in the shade. She leaves a little flimsy, her lacy frock slipping off her shoulders.

How to Make A Horse’s Neck.

Two lumps of broken ice in a tumbler and fill it with cold ginger ale, add the peel of a lemon with one end hanging jauntily over the top.

The Indifferent Mole.

There are in Elf and Fairy’s world two types of time. They are perpendicular to each other: real time and imaginary time. A mathematician would tell you that some roots are real and some are imaginary and when they appear together, that’s what makes them complex. Some of these interesting roots are real and equal, and they are called double roots. It is in similar roots that Fairy and Elf live.

The indifferent mole.

Last night Elf forgot to pull the curtains - so giddy was he, after the late and unusual spring monsoon. This was Mother Nature’s gift to all those who still weed by hand, and he, for one, was honored. In the early morning he opened the window to watch Venus rising and after, he went out on the deck to cherish the sun coming up the hill, gilding the eastern Santa Monica Mountains. Something moved in the vegetable garden. It was a mole, a little brown runt of a creature brazenly eating the rocket Fairy raised from seed.

“Go away,” he shouted, “Am-scray.” The mole, caring nothing for Pig Latin, gave an indifferent glance and took another bite.

Elf flew up in a fury and when his wings sodden damp with the dew wouldn’t lift, he found himself reduced to brandishing his arms about like a mere mortal man. Only then would the mole descend down into the dark earth beneath the violets.

At breakfast, Fairy asked him curiously what in the world he was shouting at in the early hours.

On the table was a bowl of wind-ravaged roses, oriental poppies and dill.

“Do you suppose moles are deaf? I know they are blind. He was rude and arrogant and just thinking of himself until I dashed at him.”

Fairy offered Elf a thick rasher of bacon.

“Why?” Asked Fairy meditatively, “didn’t you bless him with a moving spell?

In some corner of the heavenly garden we’ll spend eternity growing the flower combinations we forgot.

A Gardener's Schedule.

A gardener’s schedule.

Monday wash away the aphids with kitchen soap and water. Weed.

Tuesday send the little boys out with buckets to gather snails. Weed.

Wednesday spray for mildew and apply chicken manure. Weed.

Thursday apply rose, citrus and tomato food. Weed.

Friday spray red spider and thrip with Bordeaux. Weed.

Saturday apply bone meal and pick off rusty leaves. Weed.

Sunday you will probably stay in bed. Anoint yourself with a homemade honey and peppermint lotion, yogurt and egg conditioner, lemon balm for insect bites, or go to Sienna Day Spa and let Sally truly pamper you.

The children want to set up a target at the bottom of the garden and throw balls at the green nectarines and they want to teach the dogs to fetch in the vegetable garden and they want to pick a bouquet of your prized ranunculus.

“Never mind,” Says your Mother. “They can take their bows and arrows and play Robin Hood in the wildwoods in July with their grandfather.”

When having guests,

A good fairy should be civil

To her friends and family,

And always stop in time to wash

Her hands and feet for tea.


Fairy does her best but falls a little short of the task. Brynhildr frowns at the sight of Fairy’s dirty fingernails.

The Valkyrie, who has climbed up the tree house to speak with Carabosse, notes vituperatively that Fairy has brought her gardening indoors.

Actually Fairy is a little relieved to have a reason to leave their company, and goes down to the waterfall with a scrubbing brush. She is even more pleased when Elf comes by and offers to take her for a late afternoon ride.

When riding with an elf, a Good Fairy never

Tries to read maps upside down,

Cries “Oh Look!” at a flowering meadow when he is passing a truck,

Insists on taking such a charming lane which ought to come out very near where he is going but never does,

Keeps telling him how hungry she is when he is trying to find some place to dine on a strange road,

Calls attention to the heat when he doesn’t have air conditioning,

Begs him to stop at the quaint little antique store or whimpers while passing her favorite nursery,

Gives a little shriek when he just misses a fruit bat.

Summer Vaporings

Summer vaporings.

Leave the chores for the day. Forget the pots of sunflowers that aren’t transplanted, the weeds that need pulling, and the roses that need washing with soapy water. Go fishing.

Lure your friend from his office with some fat bait from your garden. Pack the picnic basket with cold sausages, a thermos of chicken broth, a loaf of fresh French bread, some tasty cheeses, a red fat tomato, a small jar of gherkins, a jar of delicious Topanga olives and a bucket of fresh strawberries. Also a corked bottle of chilled Lemony Fizzle made with your own lemons.

Find a sunny dry place on one of the granite rocks that hang over the waterfall. Two robins are taking a bath just below the spot where your feet hang. Speak in whispers. Let your date bait your hook for you and prop your pole with rocks so you won’t have to hold it. Be as lazy as you want in the warm afternoon sun.

With droopy eyes, lie quietly with your head in his lap and watch the dragon flies buzz the orange poppies. Point out to your friend the wedge of a pale moon hanging above the yellow broom. Wait and a gentle breeze will drift across your face and cool your flushed cheeks. This is the perfect time and place for a nap from exhaustion.

How to make Lemony Fizzle.

Strain four or five fresh lemons into a pitcher with three ounces of gin, add powdered sugar to taste and fill with carbonated water, stir and serve.

Fairy’s Money Spell

Fairy is obliged to cast a money spell and she will do it the way it should be done, in the grace of a new moon. Flying low to the ground in the dense cloud of a dewy dawn down to the bottom of Grandview, she has the good fortune to find a rusty horseshoe on the trail to the waterfall. When she gets home she uses a wire brush to clean the rust out of the nail holes.

In the darkest part of the garden, before the crescent moon rises, she lights a white birthday candle. She takes seven tiny pieces of green paper and writes on each her best wishes for Brynhildr and Troll’s prosperity. She rolls the papers tight and pokes them through each of the holes in the horseshoe.

As the moon rises she carries the candle out into the darkest part of the garden, sits by a rosemary bush and on a separate piece of paper, writes their money wish and burns it there with a sprig of new rosemary over the candle. This must be done in the moonlight too.

She buries the horseshoe under a marigold bed and forgets about it almost at once, which must be done or the spell will be broken. She will do this again under every crescent moon until midsummer.

The faeries believe that if you have to wash your blankets in May, wash them before the moon is waxing or you will wash a dear one away.

Do nothing of this kind of magic for your own needs, or you will wish away a dear one in exchange.

Troll is lolling on the bedroom deck, stretched out in the sun with a mirror on his freckled chest. Like a molting elephant seal, some lower bits of him are motley, still healing from his poison oak, but he has an audition tomorrow and his face, he will tan.

Brynhildr lies next to him with the Sunday comics over hers. The telephone rings. If they lie perfectly still, one of the children might answer it.

No such luck. Troll glances over at his Valkyrie, and knows what must be done. Off he trundles down the stairs, taking his time.

“Well,” She shouts down, lifting a corner of the paper, “who was it and did you invite them for dinner?”

“Yes,” He confesses sheepishly, “But I couldn’t help it. It was Fairy and Elf.”

He is visibly having a brilliant idea. “We can ask them for a money spell! That’s the rule. If the faeries invite themselves for dinner, they must give you a free spell! It’s them what invited they for dinner.”

Troll was excited, and when excited, there are some trolls who have trouble speaking.

Brynhildr loves a good money spell, especially with this month’s mortgage looming. Troll grins as she blows him a languid kiss. She will have poor Bay serve lemon drops before dinner out on the terrace. Fairy loves her lemon drops.

She reminds the Troll the golden rules when dining with the Faerie World.

Don’t talk about servants, politics, religion, racial bias, or the children’s private school.

Use the finest china, your best silver and your newest serviettes.

Try to look like people of leisure.

It is almost sunset and Elf is lying on a toadstool in the meadow up on Tuna when Fairy finally finds him. She explains the predicament and although he is reluctant, if it is to help Carabosse, then one must go.

“They’ll want money spells,” says Elf, grumbling, ”They always do.”

“We can shower together in the waterfall,” Fairy proffers, as she snuggles up against his chest.
“To save time.”


April is the best month for gardening. A gloomy June day is comfortable too.

Notes for next spring’s garden:

Plant bare-root roses and bare-root fruit trees. They are so much cheaper than buying them by pot at the nurseries.

Fairy needs a personal squirrel.

She needs help getting organized. Even sprites have paperwork to file. Carabosse advises her to get rid of the clutter; while some ballast is good for pixies, too much and you can feel bogged down.

Fairy does feel a little bogged down. Carabosse thinks squirrels are old-fashioned; she insists they call in the local expert. A lovely English woman they are certain is half-pixie. Gaily she leads them on a merry march through the tree house in search of things they no longer need or want.

Some hours later, the paperwork has all gone to its proper place and ten cardboard boxes filled with clothing and other assorted items have being whisked away in Paula Pop-ins' car.

Elf comes home to find Fairy and Carabosse dancing around the fire pit.

“Oh, darling, it’s lovely. And a bargain, too. We saved a fortune in late fees.”

Carabosse can be a very clever fairy when she puts her mind to it.

Elf made whitings in white wine for dinner. He cooked them in a casserole with kosher sea salt, pepper and chopped mushrooms in butter. He used Sauterne; a glassful poured over them, and baked them in a moderate oven for about twenty minutes and served them with grilled baby zucchini and summer squash.

Long after everyone else has gone to bed, Fairy lies awake in a white mist, fragrant with late blooming jasmine and cold with no stars, no moon, not even the shadows of branches across the sky. Somewhere in the brume, the owls are calling.

She lives over again the heart felt conversations they have had this week. Her dear friend Carabosse wants to find Princess Thunderthighs and tell her the truth. Fairy does not think this will turn out well.

Carabosse has softened with age and experience. She still has a sharp tongue but she is no match for the bellicose creature that has conspired with the magician to cause them so much pain.

The despairing, hungry yaps of the coyotes haunt the calm of the canyon. It is too dismal for Fairy to sleep. She goes through the wood down to the waterfall to collect ferns for transplanting in gullies more barren. She cuts down dead swords for the little boys to find in their morning play.

With damp grubby hands, a basket of curling young fronds for other sandy beds and a queer sort of exultation in her heart, she strolls home at dawn along silent, roundabout roads.

In the afternoon she will mulch the new pear tree and fill the flowers along Fernwood Pacific with nectar for the hummingbirds. It is obvious that she must support her old friend, but she means to avoid that magician at all cost. They must find an ally, a mediator, a therapist, a miracle worker.

Brynhildr! Of course! It’s obvious, she says out loud, of course. Look how well she has tidied up her little troll! An extremely weary Fairy climbs into bed with her good idea.

If the coyotes would go to sleep!

Things NOT to be purchased for the garden this year:

A bar on wheels. Have you ever pushed a baby carriage up and down steps and hillsides? A tray with a basket handle and a rack for glasses is much easier and less ostentatious.

Cushions that have to be brought in every time it rains and before the dogs take to sleeping on them.

Couch swings with springs that rust unless you are willing to paint them once or twice a season.

A table with an umbrella stuck in the center. Attractive but why not sit on folding chairs under the shade of your own trees? A folding bench makes a fine rest for the tray.

Remember your grandmother’s advice that true beauty is best left unadorned. Let the focus be your garden, not the furniture.

Make it easy to find a place outside to have a quiet moment in the early evening when there are no blowers and weed abaters and builders. Lie alone to admire the serenity of the quiet starry nights we are so blessed to have in Topanga Canyon. Lure your neighbors to come with promises of a roaring fire and hot spiced rum. Make sure they are walking home.

Children will love the thrill of doing homework by the light of a lantern out in the wild woods listening to their elders conversing relaxed and happy. Dinner can be served as a picnic on the blanket, easy and light.

Recipe for Hot Spiced Rum.

Dissolve two or three lumps of brown sugar in a little boiling water for each tumbler, one wine glass of old Jamaica rum, a bit of butter just rounder than an acorn, a teaspoon of spices; nutmeg, cloves and cinnamon. Fill with more boiling water and stir well.

Can be served from a thermos.

The Subtle Violet Fairy

The Subtle Violet Fairy.

“Did you ever see a Violet Fairy creeping in a rock garden, along a border?” asks the alluring advertisement in one of those greasy old magazines that was lying around the mechanic’s lounge for the Magician to read while he waited for his smog test.

No, he never did and he’d like to.

On his way home, he stopped at the Seed and Feed to get a package of seed for creeping violets and also a pot of lavender, the Fairy’s faithful love. Every year she grew them all varieties, in all her favored gardens. Mostly in masses, with rosemary and sage, she liked plants that didn’t need much effort or water. In early Venus Moon mornings, she would arrange them in dewy bouquets for impromptu Fairy Rings, where she danced wearing sweet pea and pear blossoms, in still life compositions that drove flower painters mad with envy.

Days later he found he couldn’t stop thinking about the Fairy. Tomorrow before sunrise, the Magician thought, he will go out to watch Venus rise and dance as the moon rises with her, to feel again the cool damp air on his skin, and he will touch the lavender buds gently, to remember her scent.

Fairy was most beautiful when she was in her garden, wearing only mud like war-paint and petals in her hair and skirts of peach blossoms and red cyclamens.

Such contemplation doesn’t help with dinner plans.

It is Sunday evening. He would like to put his feet up, read the paper, cozy and warm in front of the crackling fire, but Princess Thunderthighs and his children expect a culinary extravaganza.

From the freezer, he pulls out a package of tacos from Trader Joes and a bag of frozen corn kernels. There are cans of green beans in the pantry for those who insist on eating vegetables, and, for the head of the family, a cool case of beer.

Although he was loathe saying so out loud, what he really needed was a wand enhancement, but that took money. As if she was reading his mind, his girlfriend croaked his name from the bedroom. He had almost forgotten! With fiendish inspiration he took the creeping violet seeds, his trowel and a small plastic bucket out to the back garden behind his kitchen and started digging around in the earth in the rock wall. He was careful to keep every pink worm live and squirming as he placed them in the bucket.

Dinner fit for a Princess!

An Old Gardener's Chantey.

Scab is the fungus that’s blighting that leaf.
Yo, ho! Spray with Bordeaux!
Leaf curl and fruit rot what cause so much grief,
Yo, ho! Spray with Bordeaux!

Rust’s on our roses, the hollyhock’s dying.
Yo, ho! Spray with Bordeaux!
All goes to rot when the gardener’s flying.
Yo, ho! Spray with Bordeaux!

There were few things Elf liked to do more than fly. He had been yearning for this moment all winter. What bliss to scoot through the sky, gliding with wings spread wide open, wind whipping wildly all around. Elf loved the feeling of soaring up in a silky convergence although the wild ride of coring a thermal thrilled him too. What a blast to be spun up through the clouds as if riding on the back of a bronco. There were peaceful winds that sailed you along and angry winds that were as hard to ride as Brahmas. If he was fortunate enough after to find a friendly wind to help him along, just when he had begun to fatigue, then he felt blessed indeed.

Elf flew through the mist, over woods, green hills and small canyon waterfalls. In the late afternoon the Anabatic winds came off the ocean up the hills making his flight a dream. He sailed then with some playful condors until the sun slipped below the horizon leaving in its stead a bright magenta madness. He hovered for a moment in reverence to watch Mother Earth’s gentle breathing below and then a cloud caught him, sucking him up fast into her moist air.

Merry shouts of warning came from his flying clansmen from fields of yellow mustard below. Beware! The light is going! Elves must end their flights before night fall or they risk being mistaken for fire flies by little boys who capture them in jam jars and use them for flash lights. Fairy said this was an urban myth but Elf was not one for taking chances.

After the rain, a beautiful afternoon at Abuelita’s.

“True, he was a sweet soul and an angel of a husband; but it could try one’s patience, when the Toad in him returned, amid those days of our connubial bliss, and took my angel’s place! “

Carabosse recollected the tale of her late Prince Charming. Half the time he was a kind wonderful creature, and at other times a hideous monster. Against everyone’s good advice, she had taken a chimera to be her better half.

Fairy listened to the laments flitting across her table and almost began to drift away. Fairies have shorter attention spans than most children. Neither should be medicated, just gently reminded of what they were supposed to be doing before they got distracted…

Carabosse looked askance at her friend and poured her another margarita which revived the Fairy enough for the most important part of her news.

“So painfully acute was my sense of being snubbed by the Court, and after all I had done for their Excellencies.” Her cheeks began to flush red just at the memory of those days of shame and innuendo. “All that was required of them was a simple invitation!”

She waited for the waiter to bring another pitcher of margaritas to their table before continuing.

”I am certain it was because I had married a Bullfrog! It shocked everyone that I could, of course! But there was just that awful risk of my getting no husband at all. I was not after all in the fresh bloom of youth. My biological clock was ticking!"

Fairy gave a sympathetic look although she had heard this tale so many times before.

“In a word, he told me he was a fair prince, a victim of a bitter scorned ex-girlfriend. I thought, poor angel, a Prince from Paradise, and cursed for life, yet I grew to love those green warts of his, and he came to love me and my impetuous ways. So when he offered me his webbed appendage, I married him on a whim, and the promise of a transcendental kiss, where, by what seemed like the best luck in the world, I found myself smitten by, and smote again, and wooed, and won and yes, impregnated by a Bullfrog all in the time it takes for a rose bud to open! “

Carabosse flew up above the table stricken with torment.

“And yet when our baby came, I just could not overlook her inherited defects which were so offensive to our fairy circle. Owing to those extempore circumstances, I rashly gave my baby up for adoption for what? For some ridiculous trifling imperfections? And I have spent most of my life grieving for our long lost child, warts and all!”

Fairy looked longingly at the empty pitcher on the table with the hope that the waiter might soon reappear.

“My dear,” Fairy said, tenderly, “Perhaps then this is why you were so precious and wicked at Princess Aurora’s christening?”

“All I ever wanted was to have my little Princess back. And I have made the decision – at last! I want her to know that I am her true mother! She will never get to meet her true father, the Prince Bullfrog, may he rest in peace! But it’s not too late for me! I have flown into Topanga Canyon for this very reason! I must find our dear little Princess Thunderthighs!”

"Oh, no, my sweet potato!" cried Fairy, wings aflutter.

"Yes! It is true!" repeated Carabosse, "Princess Thunderthighs is my long lost daughter!”

It was chilly enough to warrant a bon fire. They invited their friends to come. Fairy filled the vases of the house with the bulbs of the season, grape hyacinths, daffodils, jonquils and ranunculus. A delicate pot of Lily of the Valley looked lovely between the wood bowls of mulled wine at one end of the candlelit table and her chocolate fondue pot on the other. The children descended upon the basket of enormous strawberries placed there for dipping like pirates on a treasure chest. Elf makes his coq au vin with three plump kosher chickens from Trader Joes. He has been baking them in olive oil, caramelized onions, and red wine with fifteen whole cloves of garlic and a pound of Portobello mushrooms a coupé rudement in a moderate oven for hours. He was out in the garden taking cuttings for his bouquet garne when the guests begin to arrive. He has been weeding all day and planting the bare root plums. After fifty, a man is either a drunkard or a gardener. An old French proverb. Three loquacious fairies sitting in the garden chairs around the roaring fire felt some pity for poor Princess Thunderthighs. What shrewish gossips held court in Topanga coffee shops! Could she help leaving those slimy tracks when climbing out of her scum covered pond? Was her greenish hue something she could change? The magician had got her to wear her hair just like the short shaggy gamine look the fairy had worn. He’d bought her a shirt exactly the same as the one fairy had loved. But these feeble attempts of fine finishing were fruitless. Her ways were still so loud and vulgar, her laughs a course croak. She was and always would be a bullfrog. As much as he longed for his Pygmalion, it was quite clear to the wags that she would never become a fair lady. And yet they all agreed she was good for him. A bullfrog was exactly what he needed in his life! Who else would have helped him get his life up and running? Before her, all he had ever known was the amateur magic left over from his college days. For years, since his wife divorced him, he’d been living off of a trust with no ideas of professionalism or responsibility. His wife paid for everything the children needed. His grandmother bought his clothes. As the troll pointed out, his studio was in a converted garage competing for space with the washing machine and dryer amid empty bottles and cans waiting to go to be counted up at the recycling vendor. Who else could have sobered him up? Who else would have wanted him? He was lucky to have her. And what are a few slimy tracks on your sheets or on the piano when you have someone who can pay their own way? Princess Thunderthighs was definitely someone with enterprise and energy and invaluable connections and in light of their latest internet evil, obviously shared his shady moral compass. Who else would have helped him so convivially with his attention-seeking charity stunts? It was a perfect match. So why couldn’t they just go back to their stagnant pond and leave Fairy and Elf alone? So why the flame jobs, and why the hang up calls? Why the random emails? Why the lurking beneath their tree? Why the lies and games? Why be a cowardly troll when one could become a real magician? None of it made sense. When the guests left and the children were sound asleep, elf heated up her lavender warmer and put them on his fairy’s feet. She felt loved and safe.
	Things for a mortal to do once the storm has passed: Make a lattice for the sweet peas. Put some bone meal on the perennial border and cultivate it. Spray the delphinium shoots with Bordeaux. Finish pruning the bush roses. Buy a new pair of gardening shears and find a hiding place for them. With this in your mind, you may go to the market to make gingerbread on parade for afternoon tea. You drain the juice from one can of mixed fruits and put the fruits in a well-buttered baking pan. Mix and sift two cups of flour, one teaspoon ginger, a quarter cup of sugar, a quarter teaspoon of cinnamon, three quarters of a teaspoon of baking soda. Add a quarter cup of shortening, one cup of molasses or golden syrup, one egg and half a cup of sour milk which you will stir until smooth. Pour the mixture over the fruit and bake in a slow oven. Serve cut into squares and covered with whipped cream. If the sun comes out in the late afternoon, take a walk into Red Rock, but avoid the urge to go in the creek. Even the fairies cannot bathe for weeks after a rain. The frogs are not sure they want to stay. The humans do love their grey water.

Carabosse had something very important to confide to the fairy.

They suggested sweetly that Elf go practice his flying. He had spent the morning making certain the guest was comfortable and that everything was in order. Carabosse was known for her quick temper and impetuous spells.

A garden book on her table. Clean linen on the bed which he liberally doused with lavender scent. Fresh towels in the bathroom, and lavender bath powder and salts and fresh soap.

Boxes of tissue and fine linen hand towels.

Thimble and thread and despite his misgivings, needles and pins.

Someday they would have a chaise longue for the guest to nap on without disturbing the bed.

When she wanted to be, Carabosse was a charming, serious-minded fairy, and although her attention to details was perfunctory at best, she could cast an almost perfect spell.

For lunch, Fairy made her fromage a la crème. (This will show her dear friend that she hadn’t completely lost all refinement while living out in the woods, as Carabosse called Topanga). She served a pound of cottage cheese molded in her best china bowl, with powdered sugar and a bowl of thick, sour cream.

Fairy admired her dear old friend for her relentless interest in new spells.

Long ago Fairy exhausted that enthusiasm.

“Let’s go to the Waterfall this afternoon and absorb a lecture on turning gossips into harps. You didn’t know that the earliest harp was just a common bored wife and if we go around to the Waterlily or Café Mimosa, I am sure we might find one or two. Wouldn’t you love just casting that one naughty spell again, for old time’s sake?”

“Not without some fine-tuning,” Fairy answered, laughing.

“Oh well, if you won’t go to the coffee shops, we could go to that Mexican restaurant!”

“I thought you had something terribly important to tell me!” Fairy said, gently, to change the subject.

She did, and what Carabosse told the Fairy that afternoon was absolutely shocking.

Shocking news is pleasant taken with a pitcher of margaritas served on the sunny deck at Abuelitas overlooking the sun-dappled creek.

Fairy woke with the feeling that something was awry. Was that a thump she heard? Elf didn’t stir, and she was relieved to hear the dog snoring under the bed. And just as she lay her head back down on the pillow, there, she saw them, two round black shapes fluttering in the silver moonlight outside her window. Leaping up, she threw the window open to the night and was immediately overcome by the distinct and rather overwhelming aroma of mothballs. Could it be? “Who is there?” She shouted into the wind and gusts of petulant rain, but in her heart she already knew the answer. The black shadow hovered just a few feet away in the long willowy branches of the mustard tree. Two black wings beat furiously. But as soon as she saw that the tiara on the creature’s head was askew, half dropped over an eye, then Fairy knew and shouted so loud she woke both the dog and the Elf. So to let Elf go back to sleep Fairy quietly put on her rain boots and old slicker and made her way carefully over the ravine checkered with moss and wet oak leaves. The moon nearly full she could see quite clearly the little creature in her garden. Carabosse! Black bats flew around her face. Her dark hair hung damp and scraggly and yet Fairy could see that there were still a few sparkles clinging to her eye lashes. It was her! Fairy was certain! Carabosse! The ground squished under their little feet as they jumped up and down with glee. Carabosse with her sharp tongue but lovely heart had come to visit them! How wonderful! Fairy ushered the wicked fairy into their tree house just as the night began to leave. A black mist was rising with the light over the mountains to the East. Elf woke up and made a roaring fire. Fairy had been too busy in the garden weeding and so had been lackadaisical about the shopping so they made do for breakfast with their house guest. Recipe for Devilled Tomatoes. You must slice six medium tomatoes, soak them well in French dressing to which you have added a tablespoon of Worcestershire sauce, dip each slice in corn meal and sauté in butter. Add half a cup of chopped bacon. Brown the slices gently for about four minutes on each side. And you are careful not to break them.

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To Elf, who wants to go flying


I will spade your perennial bed
And pack your magic flute,
If you’ll bring me back a rose garden
Preferably bare root

It is March and the fairy violets are opening. The boys are tired of raking leaves and helping their mother weed. They want to express their spring fever in the Topanga tradition and march off with their cardboard boxes and what’s left of their winter sleds to slide down the ice plant and roll in the sour grass. Fairy has soaked sweet pea and nasturtium seeds all night, which she will mix with Lupine and Sunflowers. California poppies, the red and the orange, are mixed with sand to help them spread, and she will go out at sunset with gay abandon and her old shovel into the spaded beds.

Perhaps this afternoon she will dig in some plant food around the Irises. Perhaps she will take the children for a drive down the PCH to the beach to scout for Whales. Or again, she might just sit in the sun.

It is one of those moments of utter contentment that come so rarely to a mother who gardens.

By mid afternoon she finds herself drifting out of her comfy hammock concealed amid the pink blossoms of the Asian plum, and intoxicated by its heavenly perfume, she goes into the kitchen to double boil dark baker’s chocolate and pours it to line the paper cups. She will harden it in the fridge and serve filled to overflowing with fresh berries and cream she whipped herself. This is one way to make sure Elf and their pixies will always remember to come back to her from their Spring flings

It’s always the thing and the thing and the thing. This is what the little troll thought as he pulled out of the school parking lot and headed towards the coffee shop. It’s hard to live in a house where the only sane creatures are your dogs. No humdrum domestication here. No, Sir. This was a full on three ring circus. Emceed by She Who Really Must Be Obeyed, herself, Brynhildr, his better half, his Valkyrie, condemned to living the life of a mortal woman and making him pay for every single minute of it.

And while it was true that Brynhildr was still stuck in their remote castle behind a ring of fire on the mountain, she was definitely not sleeping. Nor did the ring of fire seem to be keeping anyone away. There was always someone with problems descending upon them. And most of the time his wife came and went as she pleased. Topanga has an excellent fire department just down the hill. No ring of fire could keep this woman down.

However, she had long ago grown weary of the hardship of her fate and she wanted help with the mortgage. That part she had made quite clear. While she hadn’t thrown a boulder at him since the unfortunate instance on the Boulevard last year, she could still throw a mean spear and one day soon, if he didn't get a role of some substance and support, he knew she would throw it at him. Brynhildr always got the last word.

Fortunately for him, she still kept her second husband’s cloak of invisibility in her closet.

And lately, without her knowing, he had taken to wearing it.


The quinces in the garden are blooming. In this intoxicating perfume, Fairy watches the children slide down the muddy slopes through the sour grass on their snow sleds, trampling the clover. Fortunately it is a hardy weed. She laughs to see the boys stop to suck the smelly nectar from its yellow flower. She follows them to search for tadpoles in the rippling creek but can find none. They scour the bare branches of the deciduous trees looking for owls’ nests. Using a broken hoe, they explore a hole in the ground and find nothing. Winter is reluctant to leave this year. She wishes she had the time to stop for such things at least once a day.

But all the fairies know that at any time now the bumblebees will come back to Topanga for spring. There is so much work to do to get the beds ready for their arrival. For what would the fairies do without the bees and the honey they make?

The Elf tries not to nag his fairy but she is behind on a few chores. The birds need their nests blessed. The trees want blessing for their buds to promote new growth. Gently, he scolds her that Mrs. Spider has been back three times to ask that she come bless her web on the bare root rose where hundreds of her spider babies cling. She wants it done before the winds blow and scatters those tiny orange spinners out to face the world on their own.

The lupines need opening and the orange poppies too; the yellow tobacco wants dusting. Elf says this, pointedly, as he brings her a cup of tea in her favourite china. He tells her that not only has her friend in Old Canyon who has just had her fourth baby found the time to pull open several of the lupines on her road as well as some tulips but the beleaguered fairies on the Boulevard have also managed quite well with their wisteria openings. Fairy feels rather unaccomplished.

She gives her dear friend the lizard a new tail and a lecture to stay away from the cats before she goes back to bed. Sixty degrees at noon is not her idea of a spring day. She is no April fool. Elf makes a nice cozy fire with his magic driftwood powder and follows her in to her chamber. He knows his fairy; she will get it all done in her own time. This is why he cherishes her.






Things for a mortal to do once the storm has passed:

Make a lattice for the sweet peas.

Put some bone meal on the perennial border and cultivate it.

Spray the delphinium shoots with Bordeaux.

Finish pruning the bush roses.

Buy a new pair of gardening shears and find a hiding place for them.


With this in your mind, you may go to the market to make gingerbread on parade for afternoon tea.

You drain the juice from one can of mixed fruits and put the fruits in a well-buttered baking pan. Mix and sift two cups of flour, one teaspoon ginger, a quarter cup of sugar, a quarter teaspoon of cinnamon, three quarters of a teaspoon of baking soda. Add a quarter cup of shortening, one cup of molasses or golden syrup, one egg and half a cup of sour milk which you will stir until smooth. Pour the mixture over the fruit and bake in a slow oven.

Serve cut into squares and covered with whipped cream. If the sun comes out in the late afternoon, take a walk into Red Rock, but avoid the urge to go in the creek. Even the fairies cannot bathe for weeks after a rain. The frogs are not sure they want to stay. The humans do love their grey water.

If you found him, you could see what a sweet, splendid fellow Sir Galahad was, just by looking at him, let me tell you. If you gazed through his whiskers, there you would find lively elfin eyes that tilted up toward the edges, full rosy lips and the small ears that started off as points to remark upon. That is, if you could get him to speak to you. Just an observation, but that isn't as hard as you might think. Elves are very aware that if they charm a human so, most of the beings completely lose sight of their features, and so fail to realize how immensely important it is to pay attention to them. Within moments most humans become so engaged in what it is they want to tell the elf about themselves, they completely forget the passing thought that who they are actually talking to is a genuine Topanga wood elf. As opposed to the common garden elf that will never talk at all. “Humans alone are bad enough Attached to objects coarse and rough But how much greater their offence is When stuck on the usual self interests.” Sir Galahad and his fairy lived in a small wood house in a tree with their family, and there was no room for self-interest. They were not as unsociable as some of their kindred spirits, but they too had taken to keeping to themselves. They had learned this lesson the hard way. The fact was they had once been kind to an unhappy magician. One who had so many problems their magic had just failed to work no matter what they tried to do for him. And now he was menacing them for more of their favors so much that they were forced to avoid him at all costs. “Dear me,” said Sir Galahad,” What must we do, in order for him to forget all about our magic and leave us alone.” “I cannot make up my mind,” Said the fairy warming her toes by the fireplace. "I cannot make up my mind whether we should become World Travelers or stick by our gums.” This pun made the elf chuckle as they were living in modest gum tree and wouldn't have traded it for all the fine pines and majestic black oaks in the world। Wand in hand, hidden in the damp branches of the red sumac on the hill, angry and malevolent thoughts trembled through the magician's heart as he looked across at the twinkling lights high in the wind blown tree. The wind carried the music and voices to his place in the rain in disjointed tones. He couldn't make out who was speaking. He caught a phrase and lost it. And yet, for him, on this starless night, it was just enough, this watching, this waiting. He knew enough about ancient magic to respect the danger he would place himself in if he was discovered lurking so close. A twig from the pepper tree hanging overhead pushed down by the wind and the wet, caught up his leather hat and removed it from his head. An urgent bluster full of water took the hat from there and dropped it at his feet. The storm was returning. He had told his children that he was just going down to the market and that was an hour ago. It had just begun to pour as he scrambled from out of the poisonous brush, and climbed into his truck. The troll from his cave across the way saw him then, driving up the hill to his children, a horrible slumped hump, a cumulus nimbus, and black in countenance. By too much sweetness, she provoked...

Lost and lonely in his little house nestled above the clouds in the Canyon, the Magician looked away from his computer with opprobrium. Having spent a good hour this evening googling his name, he felt a certain restlessness as he gazed over at the Princess Thunderthighs sleeping peacefully in his bed and thought of all the others who had lain there before her...

Once, long ago, he had had better times, having been listed for many years on the much acclaimed Green Porpoise List as the seventh greatest magician of all time in all of the world and now...

Now, he found himself sipping his fifth screwdriver of the evening and absentmindedly waving his wilted wand in the air, and oh, how he wished that he could remember the spell to turn a bullfrog into a fairy.....

Even fairies have to leave the canyon sometimes. And this is what you would have seen this morning if you had flown with her as she wound her way up Fernwood Pacific. At a glance, you would have noticed that the fruit trees in the winter gardens had awakened into a bountiful spray of pink blossoms. And looking down towards the sea, where Stunt meets Saddlepeak, you would have felt the fog flow through your hair and caress your soul as you gazed down on the mountains, a vision in blue. This is the wild woody lilac waking from its long winter’s sleep.

It was early enough in the morning that the fog had hidden all the developments on both sides of the canyon and even the massive human city down below was shrouded in a phosphorescent white. And as she came over the pass, grey wispy mists cleared as though they were curtains opening to reveal grand batholiths rising up in spectacular geological formations, towering peaks and breathtaking striations, and she shivered remembering the ancient dreams from the time of the glaciers. And of course she had heard prophesies whispered by the wet winds but being a sprite she was not much given to reflection or worry.