I remember the first time we found a fairy ring in our
woods. My siblings and I, being the children of a farmer, knew better than to
tramp through the back fields on our own. There were no restrictions, however,
to the pinewoods that crept up alongside our gravel driveway and curled around
the calf hutches near the field nearest our neighbors. We would often go
exploring, as if the sparse tree cover was enough to create a Narnia in our
minds. Near the old crabapple tree we discovered it; the lop-sided circle of
mushrooms carved into the pine needles was a novelty for everyone. According to
our mother, a fairy circle is a special place where the little people come to
dance in the middle of the night. When no one was looking, I knelt within the
ring and prayed a secret prayer, hoping that it was real.
Though I would never admit it openly to
my younger brothers and sisters, I believed that our small scrap of pines was far
wilder than it let on. Having roamed the countryside since we could toddle, we
were quite aware of the common wildlife that called our woods “home.” One had
only to wander through with open ears to know that it was alive. Birds called to each other in
a chorus of voices. My favorite was the cardinal’s “what-cheer, what-cheer,
what-cheer, wheet, wheet, wheet,” or the chickadee’s “chick-a-dee-dee-dee.”
Squirrels chattered and scolded each other in the patchy sunlight, occasionally
kamikaze-jumping to the opposite
tree, causing branches to snap and creak under their weight.
One of my favorite pastimes, besides
exploring the woods, was tree climbing. My father once instructed us on the
best kinds of trees to climb; low-lying pine limbs were preferable to the slim
branches of the maples. I loved to
scramble up a tree’s sappy branches to reach a bird’s nest, though I learned
from an early age that mother birds do not appreciate children stealing their
eggs. Perhaps their beady eyes had spied the same broken eggshells that I found
near the firewood pile, thinking that I was culprit. What use had I for birds’
eggs? The fairy folk were guilty in my mind.
There was one particular summer that I
crafted houses for my secret friends. Prickly branches and twigs along with
damp, musty-smelling bark were molded into huts, leaning against the aging oaks
on the edge of our woods. Pine-scented needles, soft and green all year long,
were made into bedding, while acorns became cups and soup bowls. A bright blue
jay’s tail feather served as a flag. My brothers and sisters never believed me
that the crude structures were fairy homes. I’m not even sure if the fairies ever appreciated my hard
work because I never saw them. I knew that they were there, though. Fairy rings
are a sure sign of them.
