Wednesday, April 24, 2013
Folklore, Fakelore and Poplore: Quotes from Marshall Fishwick's 1967 Saturday Review Article
"Folklore is the country mouse talking. Taken to the city, cheapened by charlatans and opportunists, folklore became fakelore, as the mass took over from the folk. For some, the sad tale ends here. But wait - there's another mutation. Using the new urban material with its chrome and kitsch, imaginative artists, ad men, and script-writers are developing a poplore which is as true to its environment as was folklore to an earlier one. Call it poplore, and ask if it doesn't complete the circle."
- Opening lines of Marshall Fishwick's fascinating article, "Folklore, Fakelore, and Poplore" from the August 26, 1967 issue of Saturday Review
"Studying the meager Bunyan material in 1920, Constance Rourke concluded that there was no live prototype for Bunyan, a conclusion with which Professor Daniel Hoffman concurred a generation later. Paul owed much of his fame to a free-lance advertising man, William B. Laughead, hired by the Red River Lumber Company to sell their products. When other ad men and promoters joined in, Paul came to symbolize the cult of bigness and power in a booming chauvinistic democracy. He mirrored a bumptious, optimistic nineteenth-century robber baron - the collective state of mind of people whose primary task was the physical mastery of nature. Bunyan was company fakelore - in a business civilization, the most likely to succeed." - Fishwick, "Folklore, Fakelore, and Poplore"
"Thus fakelore is to folklore what the pseudo-event is to the real event. And thus the emergence, in the Eisenhower years, of a new Gresham's law of American public life: counterfeit happenings will always drive spontaneous happenings out of circulation. Poison tastes so sweet that it spoils our appetite for plain food. When the gods want to punish us, they make us believe our own advertising." - Fishwick, "Folklore, Fakelore, and Poplore"
Saturday, April 20, 2013
Step Away from the Screen: Psychopolitics, the Boston Marathon Attack and Books
Big news stories, like the Boston Marathon attack, tend to make folks... obsess.
I get it.
I, too, am easily hypnotized by the unending stream of information provided by our amazingly futuristic media systems. It's easy to get sucked in, and then feel compelled to "keep up" with the updates like it's our duty.
Don't think you're intelligent just because you can rattle off the timeline of events in Boston, or stayed up late to watch a high-speed car chase. Knowing the latest gossip about the Tsarnaev brothers, Syria, or the Kardashian sisters, or whatever cable news is pushing, does NOT make you a productive citizen.
To be well-informed, and thus to construct your own opinions and share them with others, you have to know more than what is supplied by mass-media. Do your own research, be aware of what you're consuming and make use of the myriad information portals available.
I've learned to turn away from the screen(s) during major events, at the point when the facts are laid upon the table. At some point the news changes, and the only "new" information consists of various people asking "why," speculating, grasping for answers. I turn away from this unending carousel of mumbo-jumbo and tap into a different sort of resource. I talk to people, and I turn to books for answers.
Following this latest American terrorist attack, I picked up my copy of Psychopolitics, gritted my teeth and made some pretty interesting discoveries...
I know, you don't have time to join the Audrey Book Club. Instead, snack on this selection from Psychopolitics. I've transcribed the closing statements of Chapter 2: War and Terrorism. The bolded bits are deserving of your attention, but I recommend reading the entire dialogue presented for a better understanding -- the big picture, if you will.
Psychopolitics: Conversations with Trevor Cribben Merrill by Jean-Michel Oughourlian
(Translated from the original French by Trevor Cribben Merrill, MSU Press, 2012)
Jean-Michel Oughourlian: "From a Girardian point of view, popular terrorism is situated in a presacrifical time: this time, violence has seeped inside the community, as was the case before the advent of the scapegoat mechanism. The enemy is everywhere and nowhere and is by definition impossible to identify before it acts. Soon everyone is the enemy of everyone else, and we find ourselves in a sacrificial crisis, with blind and undifferentiated violence spreading everywhere.
Contrary to conventional warfare, in which it was necessary to defeat the enemy and conquer his territory, at stake in the war against terrorism are the members of the population. Machiavelli, after having recognized cynically that 'men willingly change their ruler, hoping to fare better,' warned: 'no matter how powerful one's armies, in order to enter a country one needs the goodwill of the inhabitants.' Obviously, MacArthur had read Machiavelli, and Bush had not!
David Galula observes, for his part: 'What, then are the rules of counterrevolutionary warfare? ... Very little is offered beyond formulas - which are sound enough as far as they go - such as, "Intelligence is the key to the problem," or "The support of the population must be won."'
With terrorism, the mutual respect between soldiers, the respect of Napoleon at Austerlitz for the two emperors he was fighting, even the respect of soldiers like Montgomery and Eisenhower for a soldier like Rommel, is replaced by contempt.
The loyalist forces or the occupying army have contempt for the terrorists and do not apply the laws of war in dealing with them. During World War II, the Germans shot the resistance fighters, whom they deemed terrorist, without hesitation, while respecting the laws of war when dealing with military prisoners.
The resistance fighters (from their point of view), deemed 'terrorists' by the reigning government or the occupying forces, also have profound contempt for the soldiers of police against whom they are fighting and whom they qualify as 'forces of repression.'
In an insurrection or a war of the type now called terrorist, the noble feelings that predominated in conventional wars are replaced by degrading feelings: as we have just said, the enemies feel contempt for each other, but also hatred, resentment, envy, jealousy. From a Girardian point of view, in mimetic psychology, the enemy is viewed as a model-rival or even a model-obstacle, who inspires nothing but negative feelings.
To these feelings is added another that is even more deleterious: suspicion. The enemy is within, among us, he can be anybody, even my next-door neighbor. Therefore I have to be suspicious of everyone. Suspicion corrodes social bonds: the English were horrified to discover that the terrorists who blew up buses and subways were British citizens! They stoically bore the brunt of the V1 and V2 bombardments, which were far more destructive, but to discover that some of their fellow citizens , who lived among them, detested them, felt contempt for them, and wanted to kill them, scandalized them in the extreme.
After generalized suspicion comes fear. This fear is dirty, it plagues the population, and it is fear that gives to this type of conflict the name terrorism. The population may indeed become terrorized, and the government may adopt degrading measures in order to 'terrorize the terrorists,' and humanity retreats on every front. As Galula writes: 'Some counterrevolutionaries have fallen into the trap of aping the revolutionaries on both minor and major scales, as we shall show. These attempts have never met success.'
Insurrection, revolution, and now terrorism spring up on rotten ground: poverty, humiliation, resentment, frustration. Terrorism is a deferred reciprocal violence, that is to say a form of vengeance. The study of vindictive processes and vindicatory techniques teaches us that violence cannot erase vengeance; only money can: 'blood money.' That is why I hazard a hypothesis; terrorist violence, which is a terrible vengeance, is soluble in a single substance: money. Instead of spending astronomical sums on arms, let us spend instead on roads, hospitals, schools, houses, businesses, to create jobs and so on. Instead of financing war, let us purchase peace.
On this point, I am in complete agreement with Guy Sorman: 'In the year 328 before our era, and if the Roman historian Quintus Curtius is to be believed, Alexander the Great attempted in vain to conquer Afghanistan. After some savage but inconclusive battles, negotiations began between the tribal chiefs and the Greek general. The latter wanted to arrive in India. "Why are you fighting us?" said the Afghans, "when it would be enough to buy us off?"
What is extraordinary is that all of the values of war that we spoke of earlier, courage, heroism, and so on, are perverted by terrorism in the sense that terrorism is the result of humiliation, poverty, weakness. He who wishes to fight against terrorism is plagued by suspicion, poisoned by negative feelings: after suspicion, fear. He becomes in a certain sense paranoid, because he suspects everyone, is afraid of everyone.
TCM: If we go a step further, as Jacques Attali writes in a recent book, toward creating nanotechnologies and miniaturized nuclear weapons, we are going to mistrust the air that we breathe, the water that we drink, medicine, vegetables, the animals that we eat, we are going to mistrust literally everything, and life will become untenable. The terrorists must laugh when they see the most important figures of the West standing in line with their shoes in hand, undressing and getting dressed again before getting on the plane: it's ridiculous. (pages 21 -23)
My goal is to share philosophical theories with you, not to frighten or start an argument.
Buying into the fear won't help, but rational discussions with a firm grasp of the situation, and an open mind, might just make things better.
Making Things Better, my friends, is the goal.
It's the sole purpose of humanity.
I get it.
I, too, am easily hypnotized by the unending stream of information provided by our amazingly futuristic media systems. It's easy to get sucked in, and then feel compelled to "keep up" with the updates like it's our duty.
Don't think you're intelligent just because you can rattle off the timeline of events in Boston, or stayed up late to watch a high-speed car chase. Knowing the latest gossip about the Tsarnaev brothers, Syria, or the Kardashian sisters, or whatever cable news is pushing, does NOT make you a productive citizen.
To be well-informed, and thus to construct your own opinions and share them with others, you have to know more than what is supplied by mass-media. Do your own research, be aware of what you're consuming and make use of the myriad information portals available.
I've learned to turn away from the screen(s) during major events, at the point when the facts are laid upon the table. At some point the news changes, and the only "new" information consists of various people asking "why," speculating, grasping for answers. I turn away from this unending carousel of mumbo-jumbo and tap into a different sort of resource. I talk to people, and I turn to books for answers.
Following this latest American terrorist attack, I picked up my copy of Psychopolitics, gritted my teeth and made some pretty interesting discoveries...
I know, you don't have time to join the Audrey Book Club. Instead, snack on this selection from Psychopolitics. I've transcribed the closing statements of Chapter 2: War and Terrorism. The bolded bits are deserving of your attention, but I recommend reading the entire dialogue presented for a better understanding -- the big picture, if you will.
Psychopolitics: Conversations with Trevor Cribben Merrill by Jean-Michel Oughourlian
(Translated from the original French by Trevor Cribben Merrill, MSU Press, 2012)
Jean-Michel Oughourlian: "From a Girardian point of view, popular terrorism is situated in a presacrifical time: this time, violence has seeped inside the community, as was the case before the advent of the scapegoat mechanism. The enemy is everywhere and nowhere and is by definition impossible to identify before it acts. Soon everyone is the enemy of everyone else, and we find ourselves in a sacrificial crisis, with blind and undifferentiated violence spreading everywhere.
Contrary to conventional warfare, in which it was necessary to defeat the enemy and conquer his territory, at stake in the war against terrorism are the members of the population. Machiavelli, after having recognized cynically that 'men willingly change their ruler, hoping to fare better,' warned: 'no matter how powerful one's armies, in order to enter a country one needs the goodwill of the inhabitants.' Obviously, MacArthur had read Machiavelli, and Bush had not!
David Galula observes, for his part: 'What, then are the rules of counterrevolutionary warfare? ... Very little is offered beyond formulas - which are sound enough as far as they go - such as, "Intelligence is the key to the problem," or "The support of the population must be won."'
With terrorism, the mutual respect between soldiers, the respect of Napoleon at Austerlitz for the two emperors he was fighting, even the respect of soldiers like Montgomery and Eisenhower for a soldier like Rommel, is replaced by contempt.
The loyalist forces or the occupying army have contempt for the terrorists and do not apply the laws of war in dealing with them. During World War II, the Germans shot the resistance fighters, whom they deemed terrorist, without hesitation, while respecting the laws of war when dealing with military prisoners.
The resistance fighters (from their point of view), deemed 'terrorists' by the reigning government or the occupying forces, also have profound contempt for the soldiers of police against whom they are fighting and whom they qualify as 'forces of repression.'
In an insurrection or a war of the type now called terrorist, the noble feelings that predominated in conventional wars are replaced by degrading feelings: as we have just said, the enemies feel contempt for each other, but also hatred, resentment, envy, jealousy. From a Girardian point of view, in mimetic psychology, the enemy is viewed as a model-rival or even a model-obstacle, who inspires nothing but negative feelings.
To these feelings is added another that is even more deleterious: suspicion. The enemy is within, among us, he can be anybody, even my next-door neighbor. Therefore I have to be suspicious of everyone. Suspicion corrodes social bonds: the English were horrified to discover that the terrorists who blew up buses and subways were British citizens! They stoically bore the brunt of the V1 and V2 bombardments, which were far more destructive, but to discover that some of their fellow citizens , who lived among them, detested them, felt contempt for them, and wanted to kill them, scandalized them in the extreme.
After generalized suspicion comes fear. This fear is dirty, it plagues the population, and it is fear that gives to this type of conflict the name terrorism. The population may indeed become terrorized, and the government may adopt degrading measures in order to 'terrorize the terrorists,' and humanity retreats on every front. As Galula writes: 'Some counterrevolutionaries have fallen into the trap of aping the revolutionaries on both minor and major scales, as we shall show. These attempts have never met success.'
Insurrection, revolution, and now terrorism spring up on rotten ground: poverty, humiliation, resentment, frustration. Terrorism is a deferred reciprocal violence, that is to say a form of vengeance. The study of vindictive processes and vindicatory techniques teaches us that violence cannot erase vengeance; only money can: 'blood money.' That is why I hazard a hypothesis; terrorist violence, which is a terrible vengeance, is soluble in a single substance: money. Instead of spending astronomical sums on arms, let us spend instead on roads, hospitals, schools, houses, businesses, to create jobs and so on. Instead of financing war, let us purchase peace.
On this point, I am in complete agreement with Guy Sorman: 'In the year 328 before our era, and if the Roman historian Quintus Curtius is to be believed, Alexander the Great attempted in vain to conquer Afghanistan. After some savage but inconclusive battles, negotiations began between the tribal chiefs and the Greek general. The latter wanted to arrive in India. "Why are you fighting us?" said the Afghans, "when it would be enough to buy us off?"
What is extraordinary is that all of the values of war that we spoke of earlier, courage, heroism, and so on, are perverted by terrorism in the sense that terrorism is the result of humiliation, poverty, weakness. He who wishes to fight against terrorism is plagued by suspicion, poisoned by negative feelings: after suspicion, fear. He becomes in a certain sense paranoid, because he suspects everyone, is afraid of everyone.
TCM: If we go a step further, as Jacques Attali writes in a recent book, toward creating nanotechnologies and miniaturized nuclear weapons, we are going to mistrust the air that we breathe, the water that we drink, medicine, vegetables, the animals that we eat, we are going to mistrust literally everything, and life will become untenable. The terrorists must laugh when they see the most important figures of the West standing in line with their shoes in hand, undressing and getting dressed again before getting on the plane: it's ridiculous. (pages 21 -23)
My goal is to share philosophical theories with you, not to frighten or start an argument.
Buying into the fear won't help, but rational discussions with a firm grasp of the situation, and an open mind, might just make things better.
Making Things Better, my friends, is the goal.
It's the sole purpose of humanity.
Wednesday, April 10, 2013
George Bernard Shaw on War
"Until a war has produced its final results, no one can tell whether it has been worth while or not ... War is always wasteful, cruel, mischievous, destructive, demoralizing and detestable to every humane instinct; yet it is not always unavoidable; and often it effects social changes that occur only under its terrible pressure. The war of 1914-18 made an end of four empires which might have endured for four centuries more at peace. Whether it was worth the bloodshed and devastation it cost depends on whether the new republics make their citizens better than the old empires did. But if they do, it still remains true that it would have been wiser to make the changes reasonably than violently."
-- George Bernard Shaw, in an interview with Octavio Novaro for the January 1, 1944 issue of "Pic" magazine (Vol. XV, No. 1)
-- George Bernard Shaw, in an interview with Octavio Novaro for the January 1, 1944 issue of "Pic" magazine (Vol. XV, No. 1)
Tuesday, March 12, 2013
House Hunting and Etsy Avoidance Issues
Sean and I are about to begin our house-hunt in earnest.
We're spending the afternoon with our agent, touring some of the houses on our ever-changing list.
Properties are selling fast, it seems, but many more are being listed.
We're anxious, hopeful and kinda freaked out!
I took advantage of this unexpected day away from the bookshop to introduce a new batch of pretty things to my Etsy shop, Hobgoblins!
I'll readily admit that I have been ignoring my poor Etsy shop these weeks following the Valentine's Day rush. Virtual must-do's have piled up in my absence. What was meant to take an hour or so somehow turned into three hours of shooting, writing listings and responding to messages.
Check out the new Etsy stuff here: https://www.etsy.com/shop/hobgoblins?ref=si_shop
I plan to add more neat items, like vintage ladies magazines like Mademoiselle, Glamour and Charm (from the 1950s and 1960s), as well as cute black and white photos of schoolgirls, later this week.
Finally, a use for my pink tablecloth.
These magazines are a bit musty-smelling, but their advertisements (which greatly outnumber the articles) are wonderful! Here are a few teaser shots to whet your palate:
We're spending the afternoon with our agent, touring some of the houses on our ever-changing list.
Properties are selling fast, it seems, but many more are being listed.
We're anxious, hopeful and kinda freaked out!
I took advantage of this unexpected day away from the bookshop to introduce a new batch of pretty things to my Etsy shop, Hobgoblins!
I'll readily admit that I have been ignoring my poor Etsy shop these weeks following the Valentine's Day rush. Virtual must-do's have piled up in my absence. What was meant to take an hour or so somehow turned into three hours of shooting, writing listings and responding to messages.
Check out the new Etsy stuff here: https://www.etsy.com/shop/hobgoblins?ref=si_shop
I plan to add more neat items, like vintage ladies magazines like Mademoiselle, Glamour and Charm (from the 1950s and 1960s), as well as cute black and white photos of schoolgirls, later this week.
Finally, a use for my pink tablecloth.
These magazines are a bit musty-smelling, but their advertisements (which greatly outnumber the articles) are wonderful! Here are a few teaser shots to whet your palate:
Thursday, March 7, 2013
Brief Book Review // Brief Life Review
Audrey's quick review of When Darkness Falls, by C.S. Harris:
It's always a pleasure to read a book as prettily crafted as this lime-and-black hardcover. The dust jacket is equally attractive, and made me feel quite edgy while reading on the bus. A clever cover is what sells a book, and the jacket artist deserves a cake for this pretty little number!
Harris's latest Sebastian St. Cyr mystery was richly detailed and well-crafted. Jewel thieves, Prinny, mixing of London's poor and wealthy, hookers, fashion, private gentleman's clubs, street sweeps and the seediest corners of Seven Dials all received a bit of the limelight. Harris deftly made use of interesting figures from the era, including French revolutionaries and London's burgeoning ton.
This well-researched historical (Regency) thriller featured The Hope Diamond, a gem whose monetary value my life will ever equal. And I'm okay with that. The lead characters, Sebastian and his shockingly-independent new wife, Hero, made for delightful reading. The book culminated in a wild rooftop chase that left me guessing until the very end. It's hard not to enjoy a well-written novel with dark intrigue and scenes of such heart-pounding suspense!
On with the show...
Hectic. That's how I would describe life, this week. Productive, though. Tuesday marks the beginning of The Great House Hunt. Sean and I are excited, but scared witless at times.
We can do this.
We can do this.
The bookshop is, as ever, a wild mess of wondrous people and things.
I think I'm getting a Subaru.
I'll miss the Jeep.
I'm out of wine, out of brown ale, and out of time.
Enough with this word nonsense.
Here are some videos which have captured my attention, this week:
A video by Dennis Trainor, Jr., and not just Rand's filibuster. Worth your time!
Inappropriate. Clever. Palmer Squares. Terminal Knowledge. Chicago.
Watch this, then make these noises at a loved one. It's worth it.
It's always a pleasure to read a book as prettily crafted as this lime-and-black hardcover. The dust jacket is equally attractive, and made me feel quite edgy while reading on the bus. A clever cover is what sells a book, and the jacket artist deserves a cake for this pretty little number!
Harris's latest Sebastian St. Cyr mystery was richly detailed and well-crafted. Jewel thieves, Prinny, mixing of London's poor and wealthy, hookers, fashion, private gentleman's clubs, street sweeps and the seediest corners of Seven Dials all received a bit of the limelight. Harris deftly made use of interesting figures from the era, including French revolutionaries and London's burgeoning ton.
This well-researched historical (Regency) thriller featured The Hope Diamond, a gem whose monetary value my life will ever equal. And I'm okay with that. The lead characters, Sebastian and his shockingly-independent new wife, Hero, made for delightful reading. The book culminated in a wild rooftop chase that left me guessing until the very end. It's hard not to enjoy a well-written novel with dark intrigue and scenes of such heart-pounding suspense!
On with the show...
Hectic. That's how I would describe life, this week. Productive, though. Tuesday marks the beginning of The Great House Hunt. Sean and I are excited, but scared witless at times.
We can do this.
We can do this.
The bookshop is, as ever, a wild mess of wondrous people and things.
I think I'm getting a Subaru.
I'll miss the Jeep.
I'm out of wine, out of brown ale, and out of time.
Enough with this word nonsense.
Here are some videos which have captured my attention, this week:
A video by Dennis Trainor, Jr., and not just Rand's filibuster. Worth your time!
Inappropriate. Clever. Palmer Squares. Terminal Knowledge. Chicago.
Watch this, then make these noises at a loved one. It's worth it.
Tuesday, February 5, 2013
Book Review: India Black and the Shadows of Anarchy by Carol K. Carr
That sultry London madam and spy, India Black, has wormed her way back onto my bookshelf with the latest Madam of Espionage adventure.
Ms. Black would not have been impressed by my lack of decorum. I was giddy as a schoolgirl upon the arrival of Carol K. Carr's India Black and the Shadows of Anarchy (release date: February 5, 2013).
This fourth installment in the India Black series takes the reader on a rather frightening romp through the grubbier side of London. The whisperings of class warfare have stressed the poor inhabitants of England's greatest city -- and they would do well to be concerned.
A terrorist cell of exiled anarchists are plotting to shock London with a series of attacks, and it's up to India to save the day. Sly, headstrong and street-smart to a fault, the Madam of Lotus House may have finally met her match.
With help from street urchins and various high-ranking government officials, India must reign in the radicals which threaten London and the ever-charming Prime Minister, Benjamin Disraeli.
Once again, Carr's research has served her well. The streets of London come to life in this fast-paced mystery, filled with real revolutionaries and those just playing the part.
What once thrilled me about India's peacock-like character only annoyed me, this time around. She's too headstrong, and too unwilling to compromise. At times I wanted to shake her vigorously, or slap some sense into her thick skull.
Though she always manages to come out on top, it would serve India well to realize that she cannot do so without some help from others. What's more, she must learn grace and gratefulness - lessons that will be hard for someone so confident of herself.
If sexy spies, secret organizations and a good bit of chaos sound good to you, pick up a copy Shadows of Anarchy. You, too, may be annoyed by India, but you won't regret this good read.
Get it while it's hot!
My review copy is available at the Curious Book Shop, at a steep discount.
India Black and the Shadows of Anarchy
February 5, 2013
Published by Berkley Prime Crime
Trade Paperback -- $15.00
Other Good Reads:
Monday, December 3, 2012
Thursday, November 8, 2012
I've Already Peaked: Harry Potter Fan Fiction
Want to know something embarrassing?
I used to write Harry Potter fan fiction.
I had a sweet pen name (GodricsHollow).
I had fans, even. I was beloved and famous, dammit!
I even made it onto SugarQuill. SUGARQUILL.
My stories can be found on Fanfiction.net and DiagonAlley, and other sites devoted to fan stories based on the canon. It was a community of creative young fans who used their talents to lengthen the Harry Potter glow, between book releases. Wholesome fun on the internet (nevermind the slash).
Those long-ago days were the peak of my professional writing career, thus far.
I figure I should preserve my past literary endeavors before they disappear into the internet abyss.
Here's the glorious, original version of one of my favorite fics, Home Where It Used to Be.
Yes, I seriously did a cross-fic about the Weasleys, set to the sweet, whiny tunes of John Mayer.
Mock me if you must, but I suggest you save your sanity by skipping over this stuff.
- - - - - - - -
Published on FanFiction.net on September 5, 2005.
Disclaimer: John Mayer and George Weasley. You know what they've got in common? They're both copy written, worth millions, and I believe that I'm engaged to both of them. Obviously, it's not true. I'd never be engaged to them both at the same time, of course! So, while their hearts may belong to me, their bodies, possessions, and everything associated with them do NOT belong to me… yet. '1983' is a wonderful song sung by John Mayer on either his Room for Squares cd or his Any Given Thursday live cd. BUY THEM BOTH!
A/N: I did the math. Fred and George were 6 years old in 1983. It was a perfect opportunity that I could NOT pass up. If you're interested in my idea of a 6 year old Fred and George, check out my fanfic Oak Leaves! Enjoy the fic!
Home Where It Used to Be
1983: A George Weasley Songfic
Lyrics by John Mayer
George Weasley was now a grown man. It had been over a decade since he had left Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry and begun Weasley Wizard Wheezes with his brother, Fred. Everything had changed slowly over the years, some for the better and some for the worse. The wizarding world had undergone immense changes. The Dark Lord, Voldemort, had been defeated midway through the previous November, only 7 months ago. Every time it appeared as if He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named had been vanquished, he had sprung back with an even greater force. Finally, the fear was gone. Wizarding families were coming out of hiding, mourning losses and celebrating survival. Perhaps the greatest loss to the wizarding world was the death of the former Headmaster of Hogwarts, Albus Dumbledore. Every wizard had suffered a personal loss, though. The more active in the 'Light Side' one had been, the more they lost. The Weasleys had not come out of the nearly two-decade war unscathed. Arthur and Molly Weasley had ended their lives side-by-side in one of the Final Battles. Other fatalities that had dumfounded the Weasley siblings were those of Angelina Johnson, Parvati Patil, Remus Lupin, Sybil Trelawney, and dozens of others. Many had been gravely wounded, including Ginny, Ron, Harry, and Hermione. The two latter had become an adopted part of the Weasley family, taking refuge in the Burrow when they had to stop going home to protect their own families.
Now, it was May, more than half a year after Arthur and Molly's deaths. Heartbroken, their children did not know what to do with the Burrow, Grimmuald Place, or even with their own lives. Fred and George had held onto Weasley Wizard Wheezes throughout the war and now that the apprehension was gone, wizards were gobbling up the popular pranks like a box of Bertie Bott's. Everyone was eager to put the rough times behind them and move on with their lives, rebuilding all that had been destroyed. Some things, though, could not be ignored.
The war's effects swiftly ran through George Weasley's mind as he trudged up the muddy dirt road to the south of the little town of Ottery St. Catchpole. The sun was weakly shining on him and flowers were blooming along either side of the road. Ahead of him was a span of oak trees. Beyond that, George knew what he would come upon. Beyond the trees was the Burrow.
I've these dreams
I'm walking home
Home where it used to be
As George rounded the bend, his breath caught in his chest. The Burrow, although nearly abandoned for the past few months, looked desolate. The only sign of inhabitance were the few scrawny chickens that were still pecking around the front yard. None of the Weasley children had had the nerve to journey to the Burrow since the end of the war. Bill was working for the Ministry of Magic in Germany, trying to straighten out a few curses that were still lingering around an abandoned Death Eater hide out. Charlie was at Hogwarts, helping Headmistress McGonagall rebuild the spells that had broken around the castle at the demise of Dumbledore. Percy was buried in work at the Ministry or Magic, trying to help the new Minister, who had only been appointed a month ago, with getting situated. Ginny and Ron were still in St. Mungo's, although recovering very quickly now. Fred and George had been swamped with orders, and also Fred was still grieving the loss of his fiancée, Angelina.
The only reason George had ventured to Ottery St. Catchpole was because he had been sent an urgent owl the day before about the Burrow. It was being auctioned, off and a "rightful owner must claim all property immediately". Shocked and unsure of what to do, George had come to the Burrow to see what could be done. Upon his arrival, the half-dozen loyal hens in the yard rushed up to George, clucking happily. Grinning, he crouched down and took a muffin out of the pocket of his indigo robes to feed to the chickens.
And everything is
As it was
Frozen in front of me.
Crossing the threshold into the entrance hall gave George a strange feeling. The thought that the Burrow was to be sold to another wizard was unimaginable. How could anyone but a Weasley live in this house? As he walked down the hall, he peeked into the living room with its immense stone fireplace. Molly had already begun decorating for Christmas with garlands and strings of cranberries and popcorn that she had draped around the room. Even in the middle of May, the decorations did not seem out of place at all. Childhood memories came flooding back to George, and he could practically hear the laughter of days gone by reverberating in the house.
Here I stand
6 feet small
Romanticizing years ago
He made his way towards the back of the house, not quite sure as to what he was going to do. He stepped into the bright kitchen and walked a lap around the worn, wooden table that had weathered so many meals, experiments, and even food fights. George flicked on the wireless to give him a bit of distraction. It would not do to be blubbering like a baby at a time like this.
It's a bittersweet feeling hearing
"Wrapped Around Your Finger"
On the radio
An advertisement for Mrs. Skower's All-Purpose Magical Mess Remover ended and the soft strains of an old song floated into the room. George recognized it in a moment and a huge smile spread across his freckled face. The song, Celestina Warbeck's 'This Magical Mood', had been Molly Weasley's favorite song, and for a good reason. It was the best song to waltz to. George sank into a chair and leaned his elbows onto the tabletop.
He could almost see his brothers taking turns learning to waltz with their mother, laughing loud with bright eyes and faces red with excitement. She had insisted that all of her children knew how the dance properly by the age of eight. Every winter, the children would finish their lunch and then go twirling around the cozy kitchen as if it were a grand ballroom. Whenever someone ran out of breath and needed a break, the next Weasley would jump in, forming a never-ending dance routine. Each year, the steps got more complicated and the tempos grew faster. Needless to say, knowing how to dance had absolutely been a benefit for Fred and George at Hogwarts. The Yule Ball in their sixth year had been the prime opportunity to show off their dancing skills. Fred had made quite a scene spinning around the dance floor with Angelina.
And these days
I wish I was 6 again
All happy thoughts instantly vanished with the memory of the Angelina and the night of the Yule Ball. They had been so innocent back then. No one could have guessed at the events that were to occur during the next few years. George's head made a soft 'plunk' as it landed on the table before him, causing a little cloud of dust to fly up around him and settle in his Weasley-red hair.
A day didn't pass without George going through a series of "what-ifs". What if his parents hadn't been right in the line of fire that night? What if Fred had been killed? What if Voldemort hadn't been finished off that night? What if one of his brothers, or even Ginny, had fallen victim to the Death Eaters? These thoughts weighed heavily on George. There was always the feeling that he could have done something a little differently; that changing his actions would have led to a life that did not have to be lost.
Oh make me a red cape
I wanna be Superman
The waltz on the WWN ended and George spiraled out of his thoughts. He rose and switched off the loud rock music that was now playing. Wandering out of the kitchen, George headed up the stairs to explore the house. First, he came to Percy's door. It stood open and George smiled with approval. Percy, being ever resourceful, must have cast a dusting spell or something of the sort. Even though his room had not been cleaned for at least seven months, it was still spotless and everything had a clean gleam to it. Chuckling, George continued up the stairs.
The next landing was home to Ginny's room. Actually, it had originally been Bill's room. When Ginny was born, Bill and Charlie moved into the fourth floor bedroom, relinquishing his room to little Ron and Ginny. It had undergone a continuous change of decoration as Ginny's obsessions changed. One day, George had been in the room and it had been a pale pink with dolls and teddy bears on every surface. Not a week later, George had been shocked to find the pink walls covered with Weird Sisters posters, makeup and accessories on her dresser, and all of the dolls and bears stuffed into the closet.
Since then, the walls had been stripped and they had faded to almost white. On Ginny's bed was one solitary doll. On her nightstand were framed pictures of her friends from Hogwarts that winked and waved at George as he took a closer look. There was one astonishingly 'friendly' looking picture of Ginny and Harry from what must have been her sixth year, right before the first big attack on Hogwarts.
George continued up the stairs to the third floor. The one he had anticipated since he first decided to come back home to the Burrow. This was the floor with his and Fred's bedroom. George swung the creaking door open to find the room practically untouched. It still looked like the bedroom of two teenage boys, if not marginally neater. Beaming, he crouched next to his bed and rooted around under it for the worn shoebox that had always been there. The twins had kept the first production of each Weasly Wizard Wheeze in the box, as a kind of miniature museum of Wheezes. Shocked, George pulled his arm out from under the bed without the box. He laid flat on his stomach and peered into the dim shadows. There was nothing.
A bit annoyed, he got up and glared around his room. That box had contained everything from the first Ton Tongue Toffee and beyond. Suddenly, he spotted the infamous shoebox. It was sitting innocently on top of the boys' now-empty dresser. George rushed over to it, gave the charm to unlock it, and pulled off the lid. On top of the pile of first-edition Wheezes was a bit of folded parchment. He unfolded it and gasped at what he found.
Fred and George,
As disappointed as I am with the fact that you hid these from me, I won't do away with them. I'm proud of you two and proud of how well you've done since you left Hogwarts. Weasley Wizard Wheezes has done very well. You've grown into two of the finest young men I've ever known. Keep up the good work, and never forget your meager beginnings.
Mum
George smiled and wiped a tear from his cheek. He folded the note, put it back into the box, and left the box on the dresser. Not wanting to stay in the room for any longer, George continued up to the fourth floor of the house.
The door in front of George had a little sign hanging crooked that had "Ronald's Room" burned into the wood. George opened the door and peeked in. He had never ceased to be surprised by his brother's choice of decoration. Orange was not a color that suited a Weasley very well. Even though, Ron had remained a faithful Chudley Canons fan. Even now at St. Mungo's, Ron had a new Canons bedspread and pillows to keep him company. Looking around, George spotted the second bed that Mr. Weasley had added to Ron's room, as a way to tell Harry that he was always welcome at the Burrow. Both Ron and Harry's trunks were sitting in the room as well, a Gryffindor scarf trailing from one.
George stepped back out onto the landing, closing Ron's door behind him. All of the bedrooms had emitted a sense of innocence. George knew that none of the Weasleys would ever feel that particular feeling again. They had been through far too much to ever return to their naive happiness that they'd been living in before the Dark Lord had wreaked havoc on not just wizards, but the whole world.
Oh if only my life were more like 1983
All these things would be more like they were at the start of me
A loud clatter game from above George and his hand jumped to his wand, which was withdrawn and pointing wildly about him before he even realized that he had moved. Calming down, he put his wand back into his robe pocket and chuckled at his jumpiness. The ghoul in the attic above him gave a moan and banged on a pipe or two before settling back down. Fifteen years ago, George never would have been so on-edge and paranoid.
Had it made it 83
George pulled down the trap door into the attic and slid down the ladder. He lit the tip of his wand and climbed up into the attic. Expecting to have odds and ends chucked at him immediately by the foul-tempered ghoul, George shielded his face. Instead, all that he felt was a whoosh of cold air and sudden silence. Curious, he looked about and found himself face to face with the ghoul that he and his brothers had despised all throughout their adolescence. The ghoul had an expression of pure shock on its opaque face. Instead of moaning obnoxiously or banging around valuables, the ghoul merely nodded in approval, gave George what could only be considered a friendly grin, and floated over to a corner. It stayed in the corner and watched George with interest.
Unsure of himself, George decided to just act as if the ghoul wasn't there. The change of ways was quite unexpected and George couldn't make head or tails of it. Casually, George riffled through a few boxes of old muggle junk that his dad had stowed away years before. He stubbed his foot on an old school trunk, which he looked at with interest. Pulling it into the light coming from a window, George pulled open the lid. Inside were piles of pictures, old letters from school, and even old Prefect and Head Boy badges. Intrigued, George closed and levitated the trunk down the attic steps, waving a quick farewell to the now docile ghoul. George closed up the attic and continued to levitate the trunk down four flights of stairs and into the kitchen. He emptied the contents of the trunk onto the wooden table and began sifting through the contents, coming across forgotten treasures like pictures he and his brothers and sister had drawn, and even a crown of oak leaves that Molly had lovingly packed away years ago.
Thinking 'bout my brother Ben
I miss him every day
He looks just like his brother John
But an 18 month delay
Besides for seeing Fred every day, George had not seen any much of his siblings for the past few months. They had all kept in touch via owl, but none of them had time in their busy schedules to go visiting. He promised himself that he would owl everyone, including Hermione, Harry, and even Neville and Oliver, when he returned to Diagon Alley.
Here I stand
6 feet small
And smiling cause I'm scared as hell
George had never truly felt 'grown up'. Part of this could have been explained by his choice of career, but still, all of the responsibilities that his friends complained about continuously didn't seem to bother him. Sure, bills had to be paid and things had to be done, but to George it felt like a big game. The pressures of adulthood hadn't set in, he had decided the week before when he talked about this very subject in an owl to Charlie. George had had a tough time, no doubt. Watching friends and family members die around you is not a light-hearted subject. He had his share of problems, but he still kept a cheery outlook on life and woke up each day with a smile. Or, at least he used to, before the end of the war had taken such a toll on him. Realizing how depressed he had become in the past few months, George grimaced. To take his mind off of things, he sorted through more of the pictures from the trunk.
Kind of like my life is like a sequel to a movie
Where the actors' names have changed
Oh well
There had been so many happy times in George's life. Smiling, he pulled out a little pile of pictures from Ginny's third birthday. Fred and George had been six, almost seven at the time. Her hair was curled and framed her chubby little face. Her brown eyes shined as she hugged what was obviously her new doll very tightly. With her other hand, she waggled her fingers at George. The next picture was one of Fred and George, wearing identical outfits and grins. Fred had bits of leaves in his hair and was holding a frog towards the camera. George was watching something on the outside of the picture at the moment, looking thoughtful.
Well these days
I wish I was 6 again
Oh make me a red cape
I wanna be superman
In the pile of pictures were snaps of each of the Weasley children on their first day of school at the Ottery St. Catchpole public school. Also were photos of each Weasley climbing aboard the scarlet Hogwarts Express for the first time.
The farther into the trunk George dug, the older the pictures became. As he thumbed through them, he watched his parents grow younger and younger, holding a baby Percy, a toddling Charlie, and even a little naked Bill taking a bath and giggling madly. Vowing to tell Bill all about the picture in his next letter, George continued to sift through the trunk.
Oh, if only my life was more like 1983
All these things would be more like they were at the start of me
If my life was more like 1983
I'd plot a course to the source of the purest little part of me
As George came across snapshots of his older brothers swimming in the pond in the back garden and pictures from the many pick-up Quidditich games that had taken place over the years, George became more and more nostalgic. With every memory that he was reminded of, he dreaded leaving the Burrow a little more. It was already noon and he hadn't even begun to pack up the family's belongings. Sighing, he started stacking the photos and trinkets back into the trunk.
At the bottom of the pile of things that George had first dumped out, he came across a leather-covered book. He opened it and recognized his mother's handwriting from the note he had found with the Wheezes earlier. The date on the first page read 1970. Guessing that Bill was born around that time, George thumbed through the pages and watched as the dates ranged and jumped, eventually ending in 1999, the year that Ginny, the last Weasley, graduated from Hogwarts.
He was surprised that his mother had kept a type of diary, especially after the whole Dear-Little-Ginny-Being-Possessed-By-The-Most-Evil-Wizard-Ever-To-Roam-The-Earth episode. He skimmed through a few dozen pages, surprised by how many important things he had forgotten.
And most my memories
Have escaped me
Or confused themselves with dreams
If heaven's all we want it to be
Send your prayers to me
Care of 1983
George sighed and got out of the chair, putting the diary into the trunk as well. He walked back down the hall and towards the living room, taking a moment to glance at the family clock on the way. Besides for the 9 hands of the Weasleys, Arthur had added two more little golden hands for Hermione and Harry. The hands were pointing all which ways, many pointing to either 'work' or the also newly added 'St. Mungo's'. George's hand, however, was pointing to the simple, four letter word, 'home'.
You can paint that house a rainbow of colors
Rip out the floorboards
Replace the shutters but
That's my plastic in the dirt
A door squeaked behind George, who spun around to see what happened, reaching for his wand. He was startled to see a professional-looking man standing in the entrance hall and obviously just as surprised to see George.
"Mr. Weasley, I presume?"
"Er, yes. Call me George." George walked toward the portly and well-dressed man and shook his hand. "Can I help you?"
"I'm Willard McDinglebloop, from the Personal Properties Department," he said in a nasally voice.
"Right." After an uncomfortable pause, George continued, "Mr. McDinkleboot – "
"McDinglebloop."
"Right, sorry," George said, trying hard to keep a straight face. "About this whole 'auction' thing. I'd rather not do it. We, my brothers and my sister and I, decided not to sell the Burrow."
"I see…" the man said, scrunching up his face and looking remarkably like Harry's cousin Dudley had when they were younger.
"So. You can just give me the deed and I'll pay you whatever the money was that's owed on the house," George finished lamely.
"Oh. You'll pay the difference, will you?" Mr. Dinkleblubber said with a smirk, "Do you know how much is owned on this, er, home?"
"Well, it can't be that much," George faltered.
"If I'm not mistaken, the bills owed on this house have reached approximately 18,342 gallions, 17 knuts."
For a second, George thought he was going to pass out.
Whatever happened to my
Whatever happened to my
Whatever happened to my lunchbox
When came the day that it got
Thrown away and don't you think I should have had some say
In that decision
"Mr. McBlabberboot – " George began.
"McDinglebloop."
"Right, er, well. That's an awful lot of money and I haven't got it."
"Mr. Weasley," Mr. McBlabberboob began in a stern voice, "If we are finished here, I will bid you good day. Your possessions will need to be removed in the next twenty-four hours. If you are interested, you may owl the Personal Possessions Department for the results of the house auction."
"WAIT!" George reached out and grabbed the arm of the retreating McBlubberoofus. "I – I think that I could come up with the money. If you'll just stop by this address in about an hour, I believe that I'll be able to pay you in full." George handed him a small white card from the pocket of his robes, giving him a reassuring smile.
* * * * *
"You WHAT?!?" Fred shouted in disbelief when his brother broke the news to him.
"I – er – mortgaged Weasley Wizard Wheezes to Gringotts and withdrew our savings," George said sheepishly from behind the counter of their joke shop.
"WHY?!" Fred shouted even louder, banging a crate of Canary Creams down onto the counter that was a violent shade of green.
"To – to er – buy the Burrow."
"Buy the Burrow? From who?!"
George told the whole story to Fred while flailing his arms around and wildly gesturing at nothing in particular, all in a matter of minutes and looked at him expectantly. "And now, Mr. McDinklefisher is going to be here any moment! I couldn't let someone take the Burrow! Do you have any idea how awful that – "
"George!"
"What!?"
"It's all right," Fred said. "I wouldn't have let them take the Burrow either."
"Oh. Right then."
And just like that, the drama that George had felt pressing down on him had vanished. Just because he was a grown man, he wouldn't have to give up his memories and childhood. Every good thing comes with sacrifices, and the Burrow was definitely worth the sacrifice.
A/N: That was REALLY fun to write. I wrote it all in one night and now it's much past midnight and I've got to get up early tomorrow morning. Gah! Oh well. It will be worth the lack of sleep, I'm sure. I hope that you all liked this. I realize that the bold of some lyrics and the spacing of some things are off. They're fine on my computer but they got changed when they were uploaded to ff.net. Sorry.Tell me what you thought and EVERYONE should hear the song '1983' by John Mayer. And while you're at it, listen to '3x5' and 'Love Song for No One'. And finally, check out Oak Leaves, which is my series of vignettes about F&G when they were 6 years old (in 1983… how ironic!). Thanks for reading!
I used to write Harry Potter fan fiction.
I had a sweet pen name (GodricsHollow).
I had fans, even. I was beloved and famous, dammit!
I even made it onto SugarQuill. SUGARQUILL.
My stories can be found on Fanfiction.net and DiagonAlley, and other sites devoted to fan stories based on the canon. It was a community of creative young fans who used their talents to lengthen the Harry Potter glow, between book releases. Wholesome fun on the internet (nevermind the slash).
Those long-ago days were the peak of my professional writing career, thus far.
I figure I should preserve my past literary endeavors before they disappear into the internet abyss.
Here's the glorious, original version of one of my favorite fics, Home Where It Used to Be.
Yes, I seriously did a cross-fic about the Weasleys, set to the sweet, whiny tunes of John Mayer.
Mock me if you must, but I suggest you save your sanity by skipping over this stuff.
- - - - - - - -
Published on FanFiction.net on September 5, 2005.
Disclaimer: John Mayer and George Weasley. You know what they've got in common? They're both copy written, worth millions, and I believe that I'm engaged to both of them. Obviously, it's not true. I'd never be engaged to them both at the same time, of course! So, while their hearts may belong to me, their bodies, possessions, and everything associated with them do NOT belong to me… yet. '1983' is a wonderful song sung by John Mayer on either his Room for Squares cd or his Any Given Thursday live cd. BUY THEM BOTH!
A/N: I did the math. Fred and George were 6 years old in 1983. It was a perfect opportunity that I could NOT pass up. If you're interested in my idea of a 6 year old Fred and George, check out my fanfic Oak Leaves! Enjoy the fic!
Home Where It Used to Be
1983: A George Weasley Songfic
Lyrics by John Mayer
George Weasley was now a grown man. It had been over a decade since he had left Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry and begun Weasley Wizard Wheezes with his brother, Fred. Everything had changed slowly over the years, some for the better and some for the worse. The wizarding world had undergone immense changes. The Dark Lord, Voldemort, had been defeated midway through the previous November, only 7 months ago. Every time it appeared as if He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named had been vanquished, he had sprung back with an even greater force. Finally, the fear was gone. Wizarding families were coming out of hiding, mourning losses and celebrating survival. Perhaps the greatest loss to the wizarding world was the death of the former Headmaster of Hogwarts, Albus Dumbledore. Every wizard had suffered a personal loss, though. The more active in the 'Light Side' one had been, the more they lost. The Weasleys had not come out of the nearly two-decade war unscathed. Arthur and Molly Weasley had ended their lives side-by-side in one of the Final Battles. Other fatalities that had dumfounded the Weasley siblings were those of Angelina Johnson, Parvati Patil, Remus Lupin, Sybil Trelawney, and dozens of others. Many had been gravely wounded, including Ginny, Ron, Harry, and Hermione. The two latter had become an adopted part of the Weasley family, taking refuge in the Burrow when they had to stop going home to protect their own families.
Now, it was May, more than half a year after Arthur and Molly's deaths. Heartbroken, their children did not know what to do with the Burrow, Grimmuald Place, or even with their own lives. Fred and George had held onto Weasley Wizard Wheezes throughout the war and now that the apprehension was gone, wizards were gobbling up the popular pranks like a box of Bertie Bott's. Everyone was eager to put the rough times behind them and move on with their lives, rebuilding all that had been destroyed. Some things, though, could not be ignored.
The war's effects swiftly ran through George Weasley's mind as he trudged up the muddy dirt road to the south of the little town of Ottery St. Catchpole. The sun was weakly shining on him and flowers were blooming along either side of the road. Ahead of him was a span of oak trees. Beyond that, George knew what he would come upon. Beyond the trees was the Burrow.
I've these dreams
I'm walking home
Home where it used to be
As George rounded the bend, his breath caught in his chest. The Burrow, although nearly abandoned for the past few months, looked desolate. The only sign of inhabitance were the few scrawny chickens that were still pecking around the front yard. None of the Weasley children had had the nerve to journey to the Burrow since the end of the war. Bill was working for the Ministry of Magic in Germany, trying to straighten out a few curses that were still lingering around an abandoned Death Eater hide out. Charlie was at Hogwarts, helping Headmistress McGonagall rebuild the spells that had broken around the castle at the demise of Dumbledore. Percy was buried in work at the Ministry or Magic, trying to help the new Minister, who had only been appointed a month ago, with getting situated. Ginny and Ron were still in St. Mungo's, although recovering very quickly now. Fred and George had been swamped with orders, and also Fred was still grieving the loss of his fiancée, Angelina.
The only reason George had ventured to Ottery St. Catchpole was because he had been sent an urgent owl the day before about the Burrow. It was being auctioned, off and a "rightful owner must claim all property immediately". Shocked and unsure of what to do, George had come to the Burrow to see what could be done. Upon his arrival, the half-dozen loyal hens in the yard rushed up to George, clucking happily. Grinning, he crouched down and took a muffin out of the pocket of his indigo robes to feed to the chickens.
And everything is
As it was
Frozen in front of me.
Crossing the threshold into the entrance hall gave George a strange feeling. The thought that the Burrow was to be sold to another wizard was unimaginable. How could anyone but a Weasley live in this house? As he walked down the hall, he peeked into the living room with its immense stone fireplace. Molly had already begun decorating for Christmas with garlands and strings of cranberries and popcorn that she had draped around the room. Even in the middle of May, the decorations did not seem out of place at all. Childhood memories came flooding back to George, and he could practically hear the laughter of days gone by reverberating in the house.
Here I stand
6 feet small
Romanticizing years ago
He made his way towards the back of the house, not quite sure as to what he was going to do. He stepped into the bright kitchen and walked a lap around the worn, wooden table that had weathered so many meals, experiments, and even food fights. George flicked on the wireless to give him a bit of distraction. It would not do to be blubbering like a baby at a time like this.
It's a bittersweet feeling hearing
"Wrapped Around Your Finger"
On the radio
An advertisement for Mrs. Skower's All-Purpose Magical Mess Remover ended and the soft strains of an old song floated into the room. George recognized it in a moment and a huge smile spread across his freckled face. The song, Celestina Warbeck's 'This Magical Mood', had been Molly Weasley's favorite song, and for a good reason. It was the best song to waltz to. George sank into a chair and leaned his elbows onto the tabletop.
He could almost see his brothers taking turns learning to waltz with their mother, laughing loud with bright eyes and faces red with excitement. She had insisted that all of her children knew how the dance properly by the age of eight. Every winter, the children would finish their lunch and then go twirling around the cozy kitchen as if it were a grand ballroom. Whenever someone ran out of breath and needed a break, the next Weasley would jump in, forming a never-ending dance routine. Each year, the steps got more complicated and the tempos grew faster. Needless to say, knowing how to dance had absolutely been a benefit for Fred and George at Hogwarts. The Yule Ball in their sixth year had been the prime opportunity to show off their dancing skills. Fred had made quite a scene spinning around the dance floor with Angelina.
And these days
I wish I was 6 again
All happy thoughts instantly vanished with the memory of the Angelina and the night of the Yule Ball. They had been so innocent back then. No one could have guessed at the events that were to occur during the next few years. George's head made a soft 'plunk' as it landed on the table before him, causing a little cloud of dust to fly up around him and settle in his Weasley-red hair.
A day didn't pass without George going through a series of "what-ifs". What if his parents hadn't been right in the line of fire that night? What if Fred had been killed? What if Voldemort hadn't been finished off that night? What if one of his brothers, or even Ginny, had fallen victim to the Death Eaters? These thoughts weighed heavily on George. There was always the feeling that he could have done something a little differently; that changing his actions would have led to a life that did not have to be lost.
Oh make me a red cape
I wanna be Superman
The waltz on the WWN ended and George spiraled out of his thoughts. He rose and switched off the loud rock music that was now playing. Wandering out of the kitchen, George headed up the stairs to explore the house. First, he came to Percy's door. It stood open and George smiled with approval. Percy, being ever resourceful, must have cast a dusting spell or something of the sort. Even though his room had not been cleaned for at least seven months, it was still spotless and everything had a clean gleam to it. Chuckling, George continued up the stairs.
The next landing was home to Ginny's room. Actually, it had originally been Bill's room. When Ginny was born, Bill and Charlie moved into the fourth floor bedroom, relinquishing his room to little Ron and Ginny. It had undergone a continuous change of decoration as Ginny's obsessions changed. One day, George had been in the room and it had been a pale pink with dolls and teddy bears on every surface. Not a week later, George had been shocked to find the pink walls covered with Weird Sisters posters, makeup and accessories on her dresser, and all of the dolls and bears stuffed into the closet.
Since then, the walls had been stripped and they had faded to almost white. On Ginny's bed was one solitary doll. On her nightstand were framed pictures of her friends from Hogwarts that winked and waved at George as he took a closer look. There was one astonishingly 'friendly' looking picture of Ginny and Harry from what must have been her sixth year, right before the first big attack on Hogwarts.
George continued up the stairs to the third floor. The one he had anticipated since he first decided to come back home to the Burrow. This was the floor with his and Fred's bedroom. George swung the creaking door open to find the room practically untouched. It still looked like the bedroom of two teenage boys, if not marginally neater. Beaming, he crouched next to his bed and rooted around under it for the worn shoebox that had always been there. The twins had kept the first production of each Weasly Wizard Wheeze in the box, as a kind of miniature museum of Wheezes. Shocked, George pulled his arm out from under the bed without the box. He laid flat on his stomach and peered into the dim shadows. There was nothing.
A bit annoyed, he got up and glared around his room. That box had contained everything from the first Ton Tongue Toffee and beyond. Suddenly, he spotted the infamous shoebox. It was sitting innocently on top of the boys' now-empty dresser. George rushed over to it, gave the charm to unlock it, and pulled off the lid. On top of the pile of first-edition Wheezes was a bit of folded parchment. He unfolded it and gasped at what he found.
Fred and George,
As disappointed as I am with the fact that you hid these from me, I won't do away with them. I'm proud of you two and proud of how well you've done since you left Hogwarts. Weasley Wizard Wheezes has done very well. You've grown into two of the finest young men I've ever known. Keep up the good work, and never forget your meager beginnings.
Mum
George smiled and wiped a tear from his cheek. He folded the note, put it back into the box, and left the box on the dresser. Not wanting to stay in the room for any longer, George continued up to the fourth floor of the house.
The door in front of George had a little sign hanging crooked that had "Ronald's Room" burned into the wood. George opened the door and peeked in. He had never ceased to be surprised by his brother's choice of decoration. Orange was not a color that suited a Weasley very well. Even though, Ron had remained a faithful Chudley Canons fan. Even now at St. Mungo's, Ron had a new Canons bedspread and pillows to keep him company. Looking around, George spotted the second bed that Mr. Weasley had added to Ron's room, as a way to tell Harry that he was always welcome at the Burrow. Both Ron and Harry's trunks were sitting in the room as well, a Gryffindor scarf trailing from one.
George stepped back out onto the landing, closing Ron's door behind him. All of the bedrooms had emitted a sense of innocence. George knew that none of the Weasleys would ever feel that particular feeling again. They had been through far too much to ever return to their naive happiness that they'd been living in before the Dark Lord had wreaked havoc on not just wizards, but the whole world.
Oh if only my life were more like 1983
All these things would be more like they were at the start of me
A loud clatter game from above George and his hand jumped to his wand, which was withdrawn and pointing wildly about him before he even realized that he had moved. Calming down, he put his wand back into his robe pocket and chuckled at his jumpiness. The ghoul in the attic above him gave a moan and banged on a pipe or two before settling back down. Fifteen years ago, George never would have been so on-edge and paranoid.
Had it made it 83
George pulled down the trap door into the attic and slid down the ladder. He lit the tip of his wand and climbed up into the attic. Expecting to have odds and ends chucked at him immediately by the foul-tempered ghoul, George shielded his face. Instead, all that he felt was a whoosh of cold air and sudden silence. Curious, he looked about and found himself face to face with the ghoul that he and his brothers had despised all throughout their adolescence. The ghoul had an expression of pure shock on its opaque face. Instead of moaning obnoxiously or banging around valuables, the ghoul merely nodded in approval, gave George what could only be considered a friendly grin, and floated over to a corner. It stayed in the corner and watched George with interest.
Unsure of himself, George decided to just act as if the ghoul wasn't there. The change of ways was quite unexpected and George couldn't make head or tails of it. Casually, George riffled through a few boxes of old muggle junk that his dad had stowed away years before. He stubbed his foot on an old school trunk, which he looked at with interest. Pulling it into the light coming from a window, George pulled open the lid. Inside were piles of pictures, old letters from school, and even old Prefect and Head Boy badges. Intrigued, George closed and levitated the trunk down the attic steps, waving a quick farewell to the now docile ghoul. George closed up the attic and continued to levitate the trunk down four flights of stairs and into the kitchen. He emptied the contents of the trunk onto the wooden table and began sifting through the contents, coming across forgotten treasures like pictures he and his brothers and sister had drawn, and even a crown of oak leaves that Molly had lovingly packed away years ago.
Thinking 'bout my brother Ben
I miss him every day
He looks just like his brother John
But an 18 month delay
Besides for seeing Fred every day, George had not seen any much of his siblings for the past few months. They had all kept in touch via owl, but none of them had time in their busy schedules to go visiting. He promised himself that he would owl everyone, including Hermione, Harry, and even Neville and Oliver, when he returned to Diagon Alley.
Here I stand
6 feet small
And smiling cause I'm scared as hell
George had never truly felt 'grown up'. Part of this could have been explained by his choice of career, but still, all of the responsibilities that his friends complained about continuously didn't seem to bother him. Sure, bills had to be paid and things had to be done, but to George it felt like a big game. The pressures of adulthood hadn't set in, he had decided the week before when he talked about this very subject in an owl to Charlie. George had had a tough time, no doubt. Watching friends and family members die around you is not a light-hearted subject. He had his share of problems, but he still kept a cheery outlook on life and woke up each day with a smile. Or, at least he used to, before the end of the war had taken such a toll on him. Realizing how depressed he had become in the past few months, George grimaced. To take his mind off of things, he sorted through more of the pictures from the trunk.
Kind of like my life is like a sequel to a movie
Where the actors' names have changed
Oh well
There had been so many happy times in George's life. Smiling, he pulled out a little pile of pictures from Ginny's third birthday. Fred and George had been six, almost seven at the time. Her hair was curled and framed her chubby little face. Her brown eyes shined as she hugged what was obviously her new doll very tightly. With her other hand, she waggled her fingers at George. The next picture was one of Fred and George, wearing identical outfits and grins. Fred had bits of leaves in his hair and was holding a frog towards the camera. George was watching something on the outside of the picture at the moment, looking thoughtful.
Well these days
I wish I was 6 again
Oh make me a red cape
I wanna be superman
In the pile of pictures were snaps of each of the Weasley children on their first day of school at the Ottery St. Catchpole public school. Also were photos of each Weasley climbing aboard the scarlet Hogwarts Express for the first time.
The farther into the trunk George dug, the older the pictures became. As he thumbed through them, he watched his parents grow younger and younger, holding a baby Percy, a toddling Charlie, and even a little naked Bill taking a bath and giggling madly. Vowing to tell Bill all about the picture in his next letter, George continued to sift through the trunk.
Oh, if only my life was more like 1983
All these things would be more like they were at the start of me
If my life was more like 1983
I'd plot a course to the source of the purest little part of me
As George came across snapshots of his older brothers swimming in the pond in the back garden and pictures from the many pick-up Quidditich games that had taken place over the years, George became more and more nostalgic. With every memory that he was reminded of, he dreaded leaving the Burrow a little more. It was already noon and he hadn't even begun to pack up the family's belongings. Sighing, he started stacking the photos and trinkets back into the trunk.
At the bottom of the pile of things that George had first dumped out, he came across a leather-covered book. He opened it and recognized his mother's handwriting from the note he had found with the Wheezes earlier. The date on the first page read 1970. Guessing that Bill was born around that time, George thumbed through the pages and watched as the dates ranged and jumped, eventually ending in 1999, the year that Ginny, the last Weasley, graduated from Hogwarts.
He was surprised that his mother had kept a type of diary, especially after the whole Dear-Little-Ginny-Being-Possessed-By-The-Most-Evil-Wizard-Ever-To-Roam-The-Earth episode. He skimmed through a few dozen pages, surprised by how many important things he had forgotten.
And most my memories
Have escaped me
Or confused themselves with dreams
If heaven's all we want it to be
Send your prayers to me
Care of 1983
George sighed and got out of the chair, putting the diary into the trunk as well. He walked back down the hall and towards the living room, taking a moment to glance at the family clock on the way. Besides for the 9 hands of the Weasleys, Arthur had added two more little golden hands for Hermione and Harry. The hands were pointing all which ways, many pointing to either 'work' or the also newly added 'St. Mungo's'. George's hand, however, was pointing to the simple, four letter word, 'home'.
You can paint that house a rainbow of colors
Rip out the floorboards
Replace the shutters but
That's my plastic in the dirt
A door squeaked behind George, who spun around to see what happened, reaching for his wand. He was startled to see a professional-looking man standing in the entrance hall and obviously just as surprised to see George.
"Mr. Weasley, I presume?"
"Er, yes. Call me George." George walked toward the portly and well-dressed man and shook his hand. "Can I help you?"
"I'm Willard McDinglebloop, from the Personal Properties Department," he said in a nasally voice.
"Right." After an uncomfortable pause, George continued, "Mr. McDinkleboot – "
"McDinglebloop."
"Right, sorry," George said, trying hard to keep a straight face. "About this whole 'auction' thing. I'd rather not do it. We, my brothers and my sister and I, decided not to sell the Burrow."
"I see…" the man said, scrunching up his face and looking remarkably like Harry's cousin Dudley had when they were younger.
"So. You can just give me the deed and I'll pay you whatever the money was that's owed on the house," George finished lamely.
"Oh. You'll pay the difference, will you?" Mr. Dinkleblubber said with a smirk, "Do you know how much is owned on this, er, home?"
"Well, it can't be that much," George faltered.
"If I'm not mistaken, the bills owed on this house have reached approximately 18,342 gallions, 17 knuts."
For a second, George thought he was going to pass out.
Whatever happened to my
Whatever happened to my
Whatever happened to my lunchbox
When came the day that it got
Thrown away and don't you think I should have had some say
In that decision
"Mr. McBlabberboot – " George began.
"McDinglebloop."
"Right, er, well. That's an awful lot of money and I haven't got it."
"Mr. Weasley," Mr. McBlabberboob began in a stern voice, "If we are finished here, I will bid you good day. Your possessions will need to be removed in the next twenty-four hours. If you are interested, you may owl the Personal Possessions Department for the results of the house auction."
"WAIT!" George reached out and grabbed the arm of the retreating McBlubberoofus. "I – I think that I could come up with the money. If you'll just stop by this address in about an hour, I believe that I'll be able to pay you in full." George handed him a small white card from the pocket of his robes, giving him a reassuring smile.
* * * * *
"You WHAT?!?" Fred shouted in disbelief when his brother broke the news to him.
"I – er – mortgaged Weasley Wizard Wheezes to Gringotts and withdrew our savings," George said sheepishly from behind the counter of their joke shop.
"WHY?!" Fred shouted even louder, banging a crate of Canary Creams down onto the counter that was a violent shade of green.
"To – to er – buy the Burrow."
"Buy the Burrow? From who?!"
George told the whole story to Fred while flailing his arms around and wildly gesturing at nothing in particular, all in a matter of minutes and looked at him expectantly. "And now, Mr. McDinklefisher is going to be here any moment! I couldn't let someone take the Burrow! Do you have any idea how awful that – "
"George!"
"What!?"
"It's all right," Fred said. "I wouldn't have let them take the Burrow either."
"Oh. Right then."
And just like that, the drama that George had felt pressing down on him had vanished. Just because he was a grown man, he wouldn't have to give up his memories and childhood. Every good thing comes with sacrifices, and the Burrow was definitely worth the sacrifice.
A/N: That was REALLY fun to write. I wrote it all in one night and now it's much past midnight and I've got to get up early tomorrow morning. Gah! Oh well. It will be worth the lack of sleep, I'm sure. I hope that you all liked this. I realize that the bold of some lyrics and the spacing of some things are off. They're fine on my computer but they got changed when they were uploaded to ff.net. Sorry.Tell me what you thought and EVERYONE should hear the song '1983' by John Mayer. And while you're at it, listen to '3x5' and 'Love Song for No One'. And finally, check out Oak Leaves, which is my series of vignettes about F&G when they were 6 years old (in 1983… how ironic!). Thanks for reading!
((I hope that everyone realizes I'm kidding... :P))
Friday, November 2, 2012
Book Review: Rhys Bowen's The Twelve Clues of Christmas
I'm feeling the Christmas spirit a bit early this year, after finishing the latest Royal Spyness mystery novel by award-winning writer Rhys Bowen.
The Twelve Clues of Christmas is the of Bowen's mysteries I've read. It's a light-hearted, Christmas-themed girlie mystery that takes place in 1930s Devon, and is full of strange characters and mysterious murders.
This Christmas caper contains over a dozen murder attempts (some successful, some not), which must be a new personal record! Fear not, those faint of heart. Bowen strikes the right mix of intrigue and innocence in this this, her sixth Royal Spyness installment.
The lovely and impoverished Lady Georgiana Rannoch, sick of her bossy sister-in-law, leaps at the chance to escape dreary old Scotland for the holidays. She responds to an advertisement in The Lady and is soon instated as the fashionable young hostess at Lady Hawse-Gorzley's house party -- for better, or for worse.
A string of apparently accidental deaths plagues the quiet town of Tiddleton-under-Lovey. The clever Lady Georgie cannot help but try to solve the mystery, with help from a comical cast of characters.
Escaped convicts, handsome young lords, a flighty mother and a manor full of strange and suspicious guests made for a quick and easy read with more than enough intrigue to keep the reader guessing. Each character had their own little (or large) secret to protect. Bowen threw in a wild woman, inept inspectors, a village idiot and a classic English hunt, for good measure.
A cheery old-fashioned English Christmas served as a charming backdrop in this novel, and helped to keep things light and humorous amidst multiple gruesome murders. Dangers abound in this town cloaked in mist and surrounded by bogs. Oh, and one must not forget the Lovey Curse -- a centuries-old tale of horror that sends townsfolk into a tizzy!
Georgie the girl sleuth (and great-granddaughter of Queen Victoria) really irked me, at first. She seemed spoiled and whiny, and a bit too dramatic. It was not until the rest of other peculiar house guests arrived that I settled into this book. Georgiana grew on me as I continued to read, and her shenanigans and difficulties made for an entertaining read.
Bowen's latest mystery provides the reader with a vast collection of personalities, which kept me guessing until the last pages of the novel. I was happily befuddled until the end of the book, which was a nice surprise.
Lucky for me, this book features a bonus at the end:
Bowen leaves her reader with a collection of recipes from merry ol' England, and directions for some of the classic holiday games Georgie and the house guests play.
Now, I'm eager to make my own mince pies and sausage rolls... and to convince friends to play a rousing game of sardines!
The Twelve Clues of Christmas by Rhys Bowen
Berkley Prime Crime
On Sale November 6, 2012
Sunday, October 28, 2012
Book Review: The Anatomist's Wife by Anna Lee Huber
The Anatomist's Wife (Berkley Prime Crime, $15.00) is a love story masquerading as a historical crime novel - and it's a good one!
Lady Kiera Darby came to the Gairloch estate in an attempt to hide from London's nobility. Her sister, the countess of Gairloch, welcomed her with open arms following the death -- and resulting mess -- of Kiera's husband, a respected anatomist living in the shadow of the great Burke and Hare scandal.
A painter by trade, Kiera takes refuge in Scotland and removes herself from the swirling world of manners and hateful gossip that plagues her.
An ancient castle beside a turbulent Scotch loch is ideal for a creepy murder mystery. The late Georgian period comes alive on the pages of this fast-paced thriller, as the reader is introduced to a party of selfish socialites visiting Gairloch. Each is hell-bent on getting their own way and climbing into the upper echelons of the ton, acquaintances be damned.
When the beautiful Lady Godwin's mutilated body is discovered in the gardens after dinner, it is clear that a cold-hearted murder walks among them - but who?
The isolated estate is set to lock-down for days, awaiting the arrival of the proper authorities. In the interim, the charming (and stubborn) Sebastian Gage, son of a well-respected investigator, attempts to unravel the mystery on his own terms.
A misunderstood artist with a dark past, the innocent Kiera is immediately suspected as Lady Godwin's vicious murderer. With all signs pointing to her guilt, the young Lady Darby must find a way to convince her family and their anxious guests that she is not the murderer. Independent to a fault, she must learn to work alongside Mr. Gage... and somehow convince him that she has been framed.With all bets against her, Kiera must solve the mystery before the murder can silence her forever.
Many tales of love and loss are woven into the plot of this quick read. Each character strives to find their own sort of happiness, whether that be realized through true love or the beds of their friends' wives and husbands. Unrequited love, unfulfilled dreams and a hunger for something more are what drive Huber's characters to their blessed and bitter ends.
No historical thriller is complete without a bit of romance. Huber's well-crafted characters are at times exasperating, but endearing. As this novel came to an end I slowed my reading, hoping to stretch and savor the last few pages. I didn't want to say goodbye to clever Kiera and the handsome Mr. Gage.
Anna Lee Huber must be awfully proud of her first novel. It is saturated with well-researched historical tidbits, providing a feeling of authenticity often difficult to achieve in this genre. A stellar debut, and I look forward to the next installment of her promising "Lady Darby" mystery series.
Get this novel from your local, independent bookseller!
The Anatomist's Wife: A Lady Darby Mystery
will be released on November 6, 2012.
Audrey Barton has been regularly reviewing fiction and non fiction since 2009.
Please post review copies to:
Audrey Barton
c/o Curious Book Shop
307 East Grand River Avenue
East Lansing, Michigan 48823
"Girlie" historical mysteries recently reviewed, by yours truly:
When Maidens Mourn by C.S. Harris
The Deathly Portent by Elizabeth Bailey
"Girlie" historical mysteries recently reviewed, by yours truly:
When Maidens Mourn by C.S. Harris
The Deathly Portent by Elizabeth Bailey
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