Winston and Jo (Jo is on the left)
Let me tell you a little story: About three years ago I was up late. It was a humid night. Lightning scored the sky and thunder rolled and crashed and it was impossible to get to sleep although my 6 month old son had finally collapsed in a sweaty heap on the sofa and was snoring rhythmically through his pink bow-shaped lips. I was in the kitchen making up a batch of peanut butter and pickled herrings parfaits- an old family recipe and my solution for abysmal weather, when I heard a sound behind me. It was rather like the sound of slowly escaping air from a balloon and when I turned around, my wooden spoon at the ready, I spied a very large, very loose skinned and moist toad. I like toads. I once kissed one on a dare when I was ten years old. And no, I did not get warts; although sometimes they’ll pee on you if you hold them too tightly. This however, (I could tell from the way he covered his mouth delicately before he cleared his throat) was a very well-behaved toad.
“Where did you come from?” I asked.
“From downstate” said he, blinking at me with his great, golden eyes. “It was a wearying journey.” He cleared his throat again and smiled tentatively. “You are a writer,” he stated. “Barely,” I replied, self-consciously picking dried rice baby cereal out of my hair. “I am Winston and I have a proposition for you,” he said. “I will tell you a most wonderful story if you will give me one of those delicious puddings. I am exceedingly fond of peanut butter.” I hesitated. “Well, really there’s barely enough to go around. My husband always has seconds. “It is a wondrous tale,” he persisted. “Full of magic and prophecy.” He saw me wavering and continued. His voice was as deep and velvety as dark chocolate. “There are PoodleRats and soothsayers,” he said. I licked parfait off the spoon and considered. He raised himself up on his haunches and inflated the sac under his chin. “There is a boy named Feltus Ovalton LeRoi!” he proclaimed and in the hush that followed this pronouncement, when even the thunder had ceased its endless clamor for a few seconds, I felt the blood shoot to my brain.
Ok- dramatic I know but the muse is a strange bedfellow; not that I’ve ever had Winston in my bed! Anyone else want to share the source of their inspiration?
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