Fairies

By Christine Tailer
HCP columnist

I remember how I always looked forward to the times my Nana would come to our city house and visit with us. She was magical. She sang the most wonderful songs about a little mouse, blue birds dancing on a silver spoon, and children who refused to do their chores. She spoke with the softest, most gentle voice, and when she laughed, which was often, her blue eyes sparkled with adventure.

One summer evening we were sitting on the top step of the front stoop, looking out across the street to the park on the other side. “I wonder,” she inquired most seriously, “if fairies live in the city.” 

My brother and I looked at each other. We had never seen any city fairies, scurrying rats and cockroaches perhaps, but no fairies. Nana rose and took our hands in hers and we walked down the stoop steps, across the street, and into the park.

She asked us if we’d ever lost any of our small treasures, like my brother’s Dinky Toy cars, or my little stuffed animals. “Why yes!” we both exclaimed, and Nana proceeded to tell us how the fairies don’t actually steal, but rather appropriate misplaced items they run across on their travels. 

She continued on, telling us how fairies live under the roots of trees, and that by her reckoning, the city would be a perfect place for fairies to make their home. There were bound to be plenty of small misplaced items, and when the city trees grew so large that their roots pushed up the surrounding pavement, the most perfect, ever so spacious fairy homes would be created. All we had to do was look for pavement that had been displaced by tree roots.

We did not have to go far. We bent down around the base of the first big tree at the edge of the park. We ran our hands along the pebbles and last fall’s leaves, and oh my! I found a wee chair made of twigs that were bound together with thread. Then I found a small table. My little brother found a tiny boat made of Popsicle sticks, and a tin ring. We were instant believers. In time, I grew up and grew older, but the magic of the fairies never left my heart.

Yesterday, Greg and I spent the day finish mowing our six acres of hay fields. Patches of thistle have taken root, and we hope, that with a close cut, it will die out. We shall see, but as we were riding our mowers back to the barn, something caught Greg's eye. There was a flash of a sparkle at the edge of the woods.

Greg climbed down off his mower, ducked under the low hanging branches, and reached down to pull out a beautiful jar from under the leafy dead fall. The jar was in perfect condition, though it was missing its lid. We could tell it was old. A few bubbles shone in its base. The wire, that would have held down the missing glass lid, was a bit tarnished, but otherwise it was in good shape. On the jar’s side, in raised letters, was the word Presto.

Greg and I looked at each other. We'd been working this ground for the past 22 years. How could we have missed seeing this beautiful jar?

We began to look through the underbrush for the lid, or any sign of other treasures. We found nothing. We saw no signs of an early homestead dump site. There was no hillside run that could have carried the jar downhill in the spring rain. We were perplexed, and then I remembered my Nana.

I smiled at my husband. "It was the fairies," I said.

He smiled back and said not a word.

Later that evening, I carefully washed the jar and set it to dry while I researched Presto glass jars. Near its bottom rim were raised words proclaiming that it had been manufactured by the Illinois Glass Company. A mark on its base showed the numeral 1 inside a somewhat flattened diamond. With this information, I was able to determine that the jar had been manufactured before the Illinois Glass Co. had merged with the Owens Bottle Company in 1929, almost 100 years ago.

Oh my! Our creek valley fairies seem to have worked some true fairy magic here. Nana would be so glad to know that the little pixies had managed to carry this jar across both space and time to the spot at the edge of the woods where Greg found it. They had obviously done so with loving care, for it was still in pristine condition, even after being transported here from sometime prior to 1929. They had done a wonderful job, even though they had somehow lost the lid along the way.

Honestly though, I was not worried about the lid. How could I use the jar as a flower vase with its lid in place? This jar was perfect just as it was. I went down to my woodshop and snipped a few Ironweed flowers, and on my way back up to the cabin, I stopped by the little house and snipped a few black-eyed susans. The bright purple and yellow bouquet looked just as it should. My Nana, the fairies, and I were ever so happy.