flax-golden

solitary contemplation

There’s a saint in the window of the building across the street.

I don’t know which one, I’m not good with saints.

He faces the window, but he doesn’t look out. He looks down, like he’s distracted. Lost in his thoughts rather than watching the street or the trees.

The building used to be a school, a Catholic one, I think, but it’s closed now. I doubt whoever put him there even considered how he’d look from the outside.

People walking by stop if they notice him. Sometimes they keep looking, long after they must realize he’s not a real person, like they’re wondering what he’s doing.

Meditating on the unknown thoughts of a lonesome saint.

About flax-golden tales. Photo by Carey Farrell. Text by Erin Morgenstern.

angel tech support (ATS)

Anyone who finds out is usually surprised that angels need tech support, that it’s even a job. But that’s because we’re good at it.

You’d never know we’re here, that’s the point.

Have you ever seen a cherub? They’re chubby. Those fluffy little wings aren’t enough to keep them up, but they wouldn’t be as cute with a proper wingspan, so adjustments have to be made.

We have other ways to keep them airborne.

It’s all about appearances.

Miracles have to look miraculous.

No one wants to see the wires.

About flax-golden tales. Photo by Carey Farrell. Text by Erin Morgenstern.

frosted like cookies

He paints his roof every December, but no one ever sees it actually being painted. One chilly night the sun sets on shingles faded down to almost-bare wood, and the next morning it rises over a rainbow. A shock of color amongst the leafless trees.

They say he must hire painters, since he’s too old to manage it himself. If there are such things as nocturnal roof painters.

He never says how it’s done. He just smiles and offers any inquiring neighbors brightly frosted sugar cookies.

Each year it’s different. Puzzle pieces or patchwork or looping swirls, but always vibrant and cheerful.

Some people call it an eyesore, but I think it’s nice to see something so warm as the cold settles in.

About flax-golden tales. Photo by Carey Farrell. Text by Erin Morgenstern.

Due to unforeseen circumstances, there is no flax-golden tale for Friday, November 26th. This is the very first missed week since flax-golden tales began in July of 2009. I’d tell you how many weeks that is, but I’m not up for the math at the moment.

There will be a new tale next Friday. And of course, you are welcome to peruse the archives at any time.

Thank you for understanding!

helping hand

The sign said they were Extra Hands, without elaborating on their purpose.

So I asked the shopkeeper what they were for, after he finished getting a stuffed jackalope down from a high shelf for a blue-haired lady.

He told me that they were exactly what the sign said. Extra Hands, for doing anything you might need a hand with.

The blue-haired lady bought a dozen.

I only bought one, even though I felt like they should stay in pairs, because they were kind of expensive.

I was going to give it to my sister for her birthday, but now that I’ve had it for awhile, I think I’m going to keep it.

It opens jars and pours my coffee. It signs for packages and pets my cats.

It’s actually quite helpful.

About flax-golden tales. Photo by Carey Farrell. Text by Erin Morgenstern.

seasonal binding

My next-door neighbor wraps her trees each November.

Tying up the remnants of autumn in lengths of rope and string.

Binding them to ward off winter.

She explained it to me once, the fall after I moved in, over cups of apple cider held in fingerless gloves.

She does it every year.

I’m not really sure it works.

But sometimes those last few leaves seem to hold on to her trees a little longer.

After the rest of the trees on the street have given up.

Before they finally succumb to the frost.

When the snow comes, she replaces the strings with bright red ribbons.

About flax-golden tales. Photo by Carey Farrell. Text by Erin Morgenstern.