Garden Goblins

Childhood means many different things to different people. To me it means blue-smurf ice cream, fresh mud between the toes, finding a blue-spotted bird's egg on a spring afternoon. Peter Pan, tire swings, and melted cheese sandwiches. My first memory of childhood has no significance, other than that is what it is: my first memory. Odd it is though, that I first recall the fresh mound of earth beneath the drooping crabapples and climbing roses in Grandpa's yard where we buried old Hunter. I remember the dog to be nothing but a big mutt covered in gray and white shabby hair. He wore a red, spike collar with nametags that jingled as his four, heavy paws trudged against the ground and dark eyes, glum-like, stared lazily forward. I was barely taller than Hunter, I remember because as a little child I had an urge to ride him as if he were a horse, which Hunter wriggled and plodded away from me when I tried.

My tiny hand brushed across the knoll of dirt with wonder, and certainly I did no understand that Hunter was dead. The idea of his bulky flesh underneath the soil and small pebbles was inconceivable, but sill I had bundled together a posy of tulips, plum blossoms, and new lilacs from the yard and laid them atop the grave. In my world of make-believe, Hunter my brave stallion through many adventures, plainly went ahead on one of his own, leaving me to do the exploring.

Plenty of exploring there was, too, in the vastness of my Grandparent's yard. My favorite spot was in the far back, down the crooked sidewalk, pass the blooming irises and cherry tree into the sticky hotness of the greenhouse. Salmon-colored vases lined wooden shelves packed with dirt and an assortment of different flowers, yellow, oranges, and gold. Even now I can feel the small beads of sweat on my forehead, the heaviness of the old water can as I carefully lifted it and watered the pots on the lower shelves. Out of all the flowers in Grandpa's yard, these were the only ones that could not be picked, and somehow that made them appear more special. During my hours of play, imagining me as a princess in search of her lost kingdom, the little greenhouse and all of its special flowers was refuge from the evil sorcerer and goblins outside.

Goblins, for all their ugliness, are nimble creatures, and they frolicked freely in Grandpa's yard, darting from one place to the next. Their simpering, wart-covered faces hid behind tomato bushes and berry trees; their bulging eyes cleverly watching for me, the wandering princess. If I was not careful, they might jump out, seizing me up with their long, bony arms and crooked fingers and pitiless chortling. All in a cheer they would drag me away and throw me down the stone well, which would not be pleasant at all. Not only did all sorts of nasty, slimy bugs invest the well, but there housed the darkest sorcerer ever to live.

The dark sorcerer was the king of the goblins of my make-believe land. He was a spidery looking fellow with a golden smile, and appeared to be somewhat of a gentleman, though a gentleman he was not. His spindling fingers would draw off the shiny, long hat, after which he would give a chivalrous bow until his pointy nose near touched the ground. With long striped pants, a pirates white shirt, and a velvet tailcoat, he greedily sought what his small heart wanted most: gold, gold, gold, and more gold, and a princess to marry. Always, I scarcely escaped the goblins' clutch, hoping never to meet the dark sorcerer face to face, for I certainly would not marry him.

But they would die away when Hunter, my faithful steed, could not longer lug along the exciting journey. A new world of make-believe would emerge, making days of the dark sorcerer and his subjects vanish into the garden soil and rundown well.