The Harry Potter Dream

I read all the books, watched all the movies and now I was living the 21st century  Wizarding World of Harry Potter dream. I was delighted that I could laugh at the wonder of audio animatronics (aka robots, to those of us over 60): the elves at Gringott’s Bank were amazing; the toy snakes and owls, that could look and move as realistically as their real life counterparts; the magic mirror that could answer specific questions; the three storey high dragon that spewed flames; the magical knitting needles; the self-stirring cauldrons; and especially the signs, proclaiming Ollivanders - Makers of Fine Wands since 382 BC, Mrs. Skower’s Magical Mess Remover, the Society for the Reformation of Hags, House-Elf Placement Agency. Inside this little old lady still beats a young girl’s heart that fills with mirth and joy. 

I was giddy with delight over the craftmanship involved with the settings, but every so often I was disappointed with myself when I realized that while I was thoroughly enjoying the street shops and rides I found myself analyzing how the special effects were created. What is wrong with me. Reality ought not to rear its ugly head in the midst of all this imagination. At Kings Cross station 9-3/4 a hologram accomplished the effect of running through the wall. The interactive wand, that allowed muggles to perform magical feats, relied on hidden laser beams. I had to stop myself. 

By the way, am I the last person in the world to realize that Diagon Alley is Rowling’s spelling of diagonally. What else don’t I know. I may have to read those books again.  

While we wandered around, I remembered times, long ago, attending the annual summer fair. We were overjoyed at the exotic taste of cotton candy and caramel popcorn. Was there anything to rival the taste of funnel cakes. Here, we imbibed in warm butter beer at the Leaky Cauldron. The heady aroma of butterscotch was intoxicating, albeit it would have been even more perfectly intoxicating with an adult dose of rum (just an observation). We partook of the exploding bonbons and purchased a package of Bertie Bott’s all flavor jelly beans, although I’m still nervous to try one, recalling Dumbledore’s experiences with flavors that included earwax and snot. 

We were charmed by the young boys and girls who were carrying magic wands and wearing black hooded robes, like Harry and Hermione wore at school, but it was creepy to see young male adults wearing them. The cutoff age ought to be ten, no good could come of 20 year old males wearing those robes; even Harry left school and put the robes away before age 18. 

When a visit to the ladies room was warranted, we listened to Moaning Myrtle, which made the time waiting a complete delight, not to mention, speaking of moaning, relief after the long line to enter. 

Last, in the land of Spanish moss, we learned that Spanish moss is neither Spanish nor moss. Instead, it is an air fern that carries jigger bugs, essentially tiny sand fleas. In the interest of recycling, Henry Ford thought the moss could be used as padding in car seats in lieu of horse hair, not knowing that the moss carried those tiny biting bugs. It was the first car recall in history. 

The Last of the Snow Stories

Determined to collect the mail after “the blizzard of ‘016”, I pulled on my fleece lined snow boots, donned my perky new purple wool hat and cloaked myself in an oversize full length fur coat. I was ready! I marched out the front door, ready to do battle with the elements, and promptly found myself calf deep in snow. "Oh!" Scott watched, indoors, warm, amused. Undaunted, unfazed, intrepid, my razor sharp memory recalled the answer to my dilemma. In the closet, still in the box, my brand new light weight solid aluminum LL Bean snow shoes were awaiting their maiden voyage. Victory was mine. I slipped them on over my boots and plodded out to the road. I smiled smugly, my cheeks cherry red against the white snow. I felt like an extra in Dr. Zhivago, even looked like one. Crunch, crunch, crunch, all the way to the post box. Only to find that no mail had been delivered the previous day. Apparently the mail does not go through in sleet, or hail, or foul weather. When I called the post office to inquire about delivery, I was told, somewhat sarcastically, I thought: “There was a blizzard, you know.”  

Later, in the peace of the white out aftermath, while driving through the snow laden driveway, I spotted a deer sitting on the lawn. The deer watched me run the car around the circular drive but made no effort to move. Kind creature that I am, I demanded that Scott shoot the damn thing, otherwise it would chew on what was left of my azaleas and roses. And Scott, card carrying NRA member that he is, marched outside, ready to do battle, not with a gun or rifle, but with two pot lids and banged them together for noise. He can happily shoot an intruder but, apparently, cannot harm a helpless animal. The deer looked at him, then hobbled itself up and attempted to wobble away.  While we both can shoo away a perfectly healthy deer, an animal in distress is another matter, and this deer appeared to be in terrible pain. Its back was broken. It was cruel to leave it in the woods. We couldn’t watch while Ken went out and shot the poor animal. He returned to tell us that the animal had died instantly. Darkness was falling when I called Joe, whose family and friends enjoy deer meat, to come and collect the carcass.  Since neither Scott nor I knew exactly where the deer’s body had fallen, we all donned our coats, called a few friends, turned on our flashlights and walked into the woods.  The wind had come up and whistled through the trees as evening approached. I felt a horror movie coming on. I tripped on a berm and knew it was a human body (it wasn't). I made out a fallen tree and knew it was the deer (it wasn’t). I heard a crackling noise in the woods and knew that an overly large wolf was sizing me up for a late night snack (it wasn't). The various disembodied flashlights casting eerie lights through the woods didn’t do much to alleviate my fears. Was Artemis, the god of all wild animals, ready to pounce on me for killing one of his own (he wasn't). A strong imagination may be a shame to waste, but mine had folded in on itself. I’ve seen enough Stephen King novels to anticipate how this would end (I didn't).  The deer carcass was retrieved, our friends went home, we went back to the house. The end.