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Marge, unfortunately named, poor girl, was one of those
smart kids of the larger size. She was the type who knows and seeks a lot but
doesn’t say much. It was better that way. She had noticed that, from when she was younger.
Least said, least hassled.
Often adults didn’t even notice that she was there, with a book, somewhere within earshot of their conversations. She was so quiet that she became functionally invisible.
On this particular day, her mother and her mother’s best bosom friend from the 80’s had been discussing sightings of an impossible creature quite near home. Their home was further down the dirt road from where Thaga and Ooog’s mailbox sat at the end of a long path.
The moms were rattling on about people talking about wildmen, or mountain apes, or something big and hairy in the neighborhood. They agreed that it was nonsense, and that people will invent something to talk about if they don’t have anything real to discuss. They continued drinking coffee, and making lunch.
Marge heard all of that, and she knew better. She was up on the lore. At 13, she had seen all the videos, and read some of the books, whatever the local library carried on the subject of forest people. What she hadn’t known until that Tuesday was the local connection.
“Ah ha!” Marge said to herself and began to sketch out a plan to meet some of these beings, if she could.
She had heard that gifts of food were often a good introductory gambit. The next order of business would be where to station this gift in hopes of it being noticed by the right creatures, not raccoons or seagulls, hopefully, nor crows.
As it happened, Marge had ranged the neighborhood pretty thoroughly, and she knew that there was a path from the road, at Thaga’s mailbox, that led past the house and then on into a very large meadow next to an ancient and deep stand of Douglas firs, which she had never entered, for one reason or another. She had gone no further than the meadow.
Marge thought maybe the far edge of the meadow would be a good place for a first attempted contact. It just felt likely, in a general sort of way.
So, the next day she purloined an unopened package of Nutter Butters from the kitchen, and told her mother that she would go for a walk for a while. Her mother said to take her phone, and to come back in a couple of hours. This was her regular way of entertaining herself, so it raised no flags with her mom, Enid.
So, there went Marge, in her overalls, a pair of Carhartts that she loved, with a green sweat shirt underneath. Her long curly brown hair was up in a messy ponytail, and she wore electric blue high top tennies. The effect was just a tad eccentric.
She traveled up the dirt road from home to the lonely mailbox and entered the path leading into the meadow, skirting Thaga and Ooog’s place carefully. She didn’t know them and didn’t want to intrude. She did stop to admire their vegetable garden for a moment.
Once clear of their place, she entered the meadow proper. It was like maybe ten acres of tall grass, blackberry vines, a few stumps, some brush, and various left over bits from the old days of logging. Flowers bloomed everywhere. There were Fireweed, berry blossoms, huckleberry bushes in bloom, and flowering things she didn’t know the names of. The place was electric with spring and promise. It was heavy with charm; drowsy sweet breezes stole across the scene.
Onto this stage Marge arrived with her cookies, looking for a proper gifting spot. It needed to be up off of the ground she thought. These forest people were tall and raccoons and such were short, she knew.
It also needed to be noticeable. It had to be perfect. She gazed around. Her eye landed on a nice stump with blossoming blackberry vines encircling it. It was old, having been there since the first logging in the area. It was about five feet tall. “Perfect,” Marge said to herself.
The word “perfect” can be a spell sometimes. It spreads its beneficence in widening rings. Sometimes it works that way.
Then, like all reckless maidens in all the tales of old, she became sleepy. The sun was warm, the breeze was tender. Marge relaxed into the day and fell asleep right beside the gifting stump.
Some distance away, deep in the great forest, though the actual distance is a bit indeterminant, Twigg lifted up his head. He thought he had heard something. He cocked his head from side to side, attempting to catch it again.
He laid aside the supple branchlets that he had been weaving and told Ramona that he thought he might go for a little walk.
“I feel like walking for a while, Mama,” he said.
“Alright, Sweetie,” said Ramona, who was no fool. “Just be sure to come back!”
As he walked away, her heart swelled for him, and she wept just a tear or two.
Fate, or fortune, led him right out of the trees and into the meadow. He cast his gaze about looking for anything different or special. He saw it. There was a ring of Fireweed flowers placed on the top of a small stump a bit further on. He went right over there to see if there was more to see. There was.
The cookies lay in the middle of the ring. “Oh!” said Twigg to himself. He looked around, wondering what to do. He thought they were probably a gift. He had heard that sometimes people would leave gifts for beings such as himself. Surely, they were meant for him.
Then he noticed Marge sleeping in the grass beside the stump. To Twigg she seemed small and vulnerable. She caused him no fear. He perceived that she had brought the gift, hoping to meet someone like himself and he was touched.
He carefully lifted the crinkly package, attempting to be silent, and smiling at the sleeping girl, he took his gift home.
Marge’s phone woke her. It was her mother.
“Better come home now, Marge,” said Enid. “It’s time to start dinner and for you to do your assignments.”
“OK, mom. Be there in a couple of minutes,” said Marge.
When she stood up and checked the stump, she found that the cookies were gone. She smiled a secret smile of pure joy and trooped on home. She determined that next day she would come again with another gift.
Twigg arrived home still smiling.
“Look, Mama! Someone left me a gift in the meadow!” he said.
“I wonder who is was,” said Ramona, but Twigg didn’t mention the sleeping girl.
“Well, that’s nice, Honey. I’ve never seen those before,” said Ramona.
After dinner, they all had Nutter Butters for desert. Everyone liked them quite well. They were reminiscent of peanut butter, of course, and all Twigg’s people love peanut butter.
As he drifted off to sleep in his new, larger, bed, he determined that he would go back to the meadow the next day.
Thursday, after school, Marge asked her mother if she could take some fruit for a snack. Enid said, “sure,” so Marge got a plastic grocery sack and into it placed an orange, an apple, and a banana. She put her phone in her pocket and quickly left, taking the same route she had taken the day before.
The Fireweed flowers were dried up, so this time for a nice presentation she gathered some fern fronds and arranged them nicely. She placed the fruit up there, making a pleasant composition with them. Then she sat down to wait. She made a serious effort to stay awake.
She didn’t have to wait long.
At about the same time, Twigg thought it would be a good time to go for a little walk around the area. He told Ramona and Ralph, who was at home, that he would be back in a little while.
“Take the cats, Twigg,” said Ramona. So he did.
“Maybe the cats will help him,” Ramona told Ralph after Twigg had left.
He went straight to the stump. Marge was awake this time.
It was the sweetest of meetings. Neither feared the other.
Marge watched Twigg arrive with a big smile on her face. She looked up at him full on confidence. Twigg grinned down at her. When she saw Bob and Berry, she was delighted to meet them.
Twigg sat near her, cross legged on the grass. Even sitting, he was pretty big for a young guy, and he made her feel delicate for the first time ever.
“These cats are Bob and Berry,” he said. “They are friendly. Don’t worry.”
Berry and Bob sat there by Twigg smiling their best cat smiles, with their tails wrapped around their feet.
“My name is Marge,” said Marge. “I brought you some fruit. Thanks for coming again.”
“My name is Twigg,” said Twigg. “I figured you wanted to actually see me. So I came back.” They both laughed. Then they both got the silly giggles.
Marge showed him how to peel the banana and the orange. He ate them right there, to please her. He liked the banana best. He’d had apples before, but not the other two.
They talked about this and that, as young things do, for a couple of hours.
“Let’s be friends forever and ever, Twigg,” said Marge. She looked serious for a minute, waiting for him to answer.
“We will,” said Twigg. “I promise you this.” So it was settled.
Then they both went home to their parents, full of the happiness of newfound friendship.
Eventually, Twigg told Ramona and Ralph about his friend, Marge. But Marge kept her lip buttoned about Twigg. It was best that way. Nobody would get it at her place.
And they were friends forever and ever.
Often adults didn’t even notice that she was there, with a book, somewhere within earshot of their conversations. She was so quiet that she became functionally invisible.
On this particular day, her mother and her mother’s best bosom friend from the 80’s had been discussing sightings of an impossible creature quite near home. Their home was further down the dirt road from where Thaga and Ooog’s mailbox sat at the end of a long path.
The moms were rattling on about people talking about wildmen, or mountain apes, or something big and hairy in the neighborhood. They agreed that it was nonsense, and that people will invent something to talk about if they don’t have anything real to discuss. They continued drinking coffee, and making lunch.
Marge heard all of that, and she knew better. She was up on the lore. At 13, she had seen all the videos, and read some of the books, whatever the local library carried on the subject of forest people. What she hadn’t known until that Tuesday was the local connection.
“Ah ha!” Marge said to herself and began to sketch out a plan to meet some of these beings, if she could.
She had heard that gifts of food were often a good introductory gambit. The next order of business would be where to station this gift in hopes of it being noticed by the right creatures, not raccoons or seagulls, hopefully, nor crows.
As it happened, Marge had ranged the neighborhood pretty thoroughly, and she knew that there was a path from the road, at Thaga’s mailbox, that led past the house and then on into a very large meadow next to an ancient and deep stand of Douglas firs, which she had never entered, for one reason or another. She had gone no further than the meadow.
Marge thought maybe the far edge of the meadow would be a good place for a first attempted contact. It just felt likely, in a general sort of way.
So, the next day she purloined an unopened package of Nutter Butters from the kitchen, and told her mother that she would go for a walk for a while. Her mother said to take her phone, and to come back in a couple of hours. This was her regular way of entertaining herself, so it raised no flags with her mom, Enid.
So, there went Marge, in her overalls, a pair of Carhartts that she loved, with a green sweat shirt underneath. Her long curly brown hair was up in a messy ponytail, and she wore electric blue high top tennies. The effect was just a tad eccentric.
She traveled up the dirt road from home to the lonely mailbox and entered the path leading into the meadow, skirting Thaga and Ooog’s place carefully. She didn’t know them and didn’t want to intrude. She did stop to admire their vegetable garden for a moment.
Once clear of their place, she entered the meadow proper. It was like maybe ten acres of tall grass, blackberry vines, a few stumps, some brush, and various left over bits from the old days of logging. Flowers bloomed everywhere. There were Fireweed, berry blossoms, huckleberry bushes in bloom, and flowering things she didn’t know the names of. The place was electric with spring and promise. It was heavy with charm; drowsy sweet breezes stole across the scene.
Onto this stage Marge arrived with her cookies, looking for a proper gifting spot. It needed to be up off of the ground she thought. These forest people were tall and raccoons and such were short, she knew.
It also needed to be noticeable. It had to be perfect. She gazed around. Her eye landed on a nice stump with blossoming blackberry vines encircling it. It was old, having been there since the first logging in the area. It was about five feet tall. “Perfect,” Marge said to herself.
The word “perfect” can be a spell sometimes. It spreads its beneficence in widening rings. Sometimes it works that way.
Then, like all reckless maidens in all the tales of old, she became sleepy. The sun was warm, the breeze was tender. Marge relaxed into the day and fell asleep right beside the gifting stump.
Some distance away, deep in the great forest, though the actual distance is a bit indeterminant, Twigg lifted up his head. He thought he had heard something. He cocked his head from side to side, attempting to catch it again.
He laid aside the supple branchlets that he had been weaving and told Ramona that he thought he might go for a little walk.
“I feel like walking for a while, Mama,” he said.
“Alright, Sweetie,” said Ramona, who was no fool. “Just be sure to come back!”
As he walked away, her heart swelled for him, and she wept just a tear or two.
Fate, or fortune, led him right out of the trees and into the meadow. He cast his gaze about looking for anything different or special. He saw it. There was a ring of Fireweed flowers placed on the top of a small stump a bit further on. He went right over there to see if there was more to see. There was.
The cookies lay in the middle of the ring. “Oh!” said Twigg to himself. He looked around, wondering what to do. He thought they were probably a gift. He had heard that sometimes people would leave gifts for beings such as himself. Surely, they were meant for him.
Then he noticed Marge sleeping in the grass beside the stump. To Twigg she seemed small and vulnerable. She caused him no fear. He perceived that she had brought the gift, hoping to meet someone like himself and he was touched.
He carefully lifted the crinkly package, attempting to be silent, and smiling at the sleeping girl, he took his gift home.
Marge’s phone woke her. It was her mother.
“Better come home now, Marge,” said Enid. “It’s time to start dinner and for you to do your assignments.”
“OK, mom. Be there in a couple of minutes,” said Marge.
When she stood up and checked the stump, she found that the cookies were gone. She smiled a secret smile of pure joy and trooped on home. She determined that next day she would come again with another gift.
Twigg arrived home still smiling.
“Look, Mama! Someone left me a gift in the meadow!” he said.
“I wonder who is was,” said Ramona, but Twigg didn’t mention the sleeping girl.
“Well, that’s nice, Honey. I’ve never seen those before,” said Ramona.
After dinner, they all had Nutter Butters for desert. Everyone liked them quite well. They were reminiscent of peanut butter, of course, and all Twigg’s people love peanut butter.
As he drifted off to sleep in his new, larger, bed, he determined that he would go back to the meadow the next day.
Thursday, after school, Marge asked her mother if she could take some fruit for a snack. Enid said, “sure,” so Marge got a plastic grocery sack and into it placed an orange, an apple, and a banana. She put her phone in her pocket and quickly left, taking the same route she had taken the day before.
The Fireweed flowers were dried up, so this time for a nice presentation she gathered some fern fronds and arranged them nicely. She placed the fruit up there, making a pleasant composition with them. Then she sat down to wait. She made a serious effort to stay awake.
She didn’t have to wait long.
At about the same time, Twigg thought it would be a good time to go for a little walk around the area. He told Ramona and Ralph, who was at home, that he would be back in a little while.
“Take the cats, Twigg,” said Ramona. So he did.
“Maybe the cats will help him,” Ramona told Ralph after Twigg had left.
He went straight to the stump. Marge was awake this time.
It was the sweetest of meetings. Neither feared the other.
Marge watched Twigg arrive with a big smile on her face. She looked up at him full on confidence. Twigg grinned down at her. When she saw Bob and Berry, she was delighted to meet them.
Twigg sat near her, cross legged on the grass. Even sitting, he was pretty big for a young guy, and he made her feel delicate for the first time ever.
“These cats are Bob and Berry,” he said. “They are friendly. Don’t worry.”
Berry and Bob sat there by Twigg smiling their best cat smiles, with their tails wrapped around their feet.
“My name is Marge,” said Marge. “I brought you some fruit. Thanks for coming again.”
“My name is Twigg,” said Twigg. “I figured you wanted to actually see me. So I came back.” They both laughed. Then they both got the silly giggles.
Marge showed him how to peel the banana and the orange. He ate them right there, to please her. He liked the banana best. He’d had apples before, but not the other two.
They talked about this and that, as young things do, for a couple of hours.
“Let’s be friends forever and ever, Twigg,” said Marge. She looked serious for a minute, waiting for him to answer.
“We will,” said Twigg. “I promise you this.” So it was settled.
Then they both went home to their parents, full of the happiness of newfound friendship.
Eventually, Twigg told Ramona and Ralph about his friend, Marge. But Marge kept her lip buttoned about Twigg. It was best that way. Nobody would get it at her place.
And they were friends forever and ever.
🤍
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