On this rainy afternoon, Linda was headed for the local public library where she had promised to read stories to the children after school. She herself was feeling none too chipper, none too magical—the lack of which qualities usually made for a trying afternoon. On her way out the door, she grabbed her magic pouch. Reaching in, she pulled out a stone, and began to finger it in her pocket as she walked over the colorful wet leaves plastered to the sidewalk like a magic carpet.
[What about the magic pouch? It was a small leather bag containing small stones and found objects worth nothing on the open market. The baubles simply delighted those who saw them or held them in their hands. Soon their imaginations would take off in some unexpected direction—out the window, down the lane, or to the stars. A certain power would take hold, pushing thoughts a wee bit further than might be expected.]
The stone today reminded Linda of her own childhood when she looked forward to story time at the library because in her small town, that was the biggest excitement to be had on a summer’s day. An old lady whom everyone called Aunt Hattie would appear in her sensible shoes, grey skirt, and lilac blouse with a brooch at the neck and seat herself on a low chair covered in crimson velvet.
Aunt Hattie always told a little story about herself before she began the reading, a story that somehow explained why she chose that story to read on that particular day, or how that story had affected her a long, long time ago, when she was young and heard it for the first time.
Then she would transport us to some distant place, around the corner, where all things were possible and even small acts had great significance, where everything was connected, where conflicts could all be resolved, where bad people received their just deserts, and good people basked in the glow of admiration and respect.
Yes, the pouch had again worked its magic. Linda took a deep breath, “From now on, I am Aunt Hattie when I go to the library—maybe at other times too.”
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