Natasha Oslinger
26 Letters
There is no better place to begin, I suppose, than with the withered warmth of a worn hue of olive green. To me, this shade felt like the median of a somehow iridescently brilliant spectrum and the dullest lichen climbing up the oaks. It did not contain a matte pastel, but neither did it hold a glossy glow. It was an in between shade, the color, a cover, providing quaint refuge to the words in between. The words my grandfather would read me every night before bed. It felt as though I was living in a miniature city, you see. A Northern English tiny town with little streets and little features, inhabited rather slowly by tiny Northern English creatures. This minute town became a quaint sort of refuge to wrinkled, stout, and strongly accented townspeople, each with a very discernible way to order a cuppa lee and a cheeky bowl of chips. My grandfather was one of these tiny creatures, as was I for a while, but this was always his home, and I preferred coffee to rosy.
It was in this miniature town that I encountered a rather unproportionally grand book. I find it hard to recall the details of The Faraway Tree, other than the olive green tint of its binding. It was well kept but obviously loved, standing several inches taller and thicker than its neighbors on my bookshelf. The book's front cover bore the words “The Faraway Tree” as well as the aged and enchanted tree towering into the cracks in the clouds. I remember Moon Head. Moon Head sat atop the tree. “How ridiculous!” I thought, “A character with a moon for a head! Above all, for the name of this character to be simply “Moon Head” was outlandish. I thoroughly judged the laziness and lack of creativity of the author. I often wondered what my most discernible feature was, what predominant aspect of myself would be my namesake if I was to become an anachronism in The Faraway Tree. I, aged 10 or 11 at the time, prodded my face in front of the mirror by the heavy wooden door in my bedroom. “Perhaps my hair,” I thought as I pulled at my shoulder length, frizzy hair. I liked to imagine what everyone's juxtaposed name would be, what less than delicate feature would be victimized.
My grandfather had the look of someone who has known and seen the world, an acquaintance with the very wind that had stained the porous skin of his face with red and purple spider veins. The same wind that constantly kissed the tip of his crooked nose with a soft shade of loving plum. He held the The Faraway Tree with his warm rough hands, speckled with age spots and discoloration, revealing the many years they had borne bitten nails and carried wood for the fire. He would read each line in a steady and soft tone, changing pitch to represent each character. The protagonists of the novel consisted of three children named Bessie, Jo, and Fanny. They encountered the Faraway Tree while walking through the dense woods around their cottage. This was where they would later meet Moon Head and a plethora of other whimsical characters living in the colossal tree. That was how the book was meant to be read. With a hoarse English accent. My grandfather's accent.
I could never forget the way my name sounded with his voice. The accent mixed with his many years. The “na” would come out quickly, followed by an English “tash” as in gash rather than the American “tosh” as in mosh. Finally followed the swift and final “a.” I always remember how people say my name. The way Macy called me a simple “Tash” (as in mosh) but with a sort of musical scale tracing each syllable. As if it were spelled “Taa-hosh.” Or the way Skylar almost squawked “Natasha!” with the raise of the “ta” several octaves—almost to a screech. I imagine if Moon Head were to say my name it would come out as a booming and boisterous exclamation. I often imagined that I found the Faraway Tree in my very woods.
I lived in a Northern English district named Eden. Perhaps the Faraway Tree would appear in Eden’s woods. Perhaps it would bear an apple that much like Eve, I too would eat. I wanted this book to show me everything it knew. This marked my decent into the impregnable world of literary understanding, and I was only breaching atmosphere. I would find myself, at an hour of the morning in which only the pheasants were awake, creeping out of bed and across the rickety burnt floorboards, hypnotized by the allure of the fanciful world living in The Faraway Tree. I was cornered, I was trapped. “Zugzwang,” the book would whisper in a sinister tone as I approached the bookshelf, as if I was nothing more than a defenseless pawn protecting my king. The pages would fall open in my hands like they were made of literary honey, “Checkmate.”
I would sit sprawled out on my bedroom floor as the sun made a shameful ascent into the horizon. The book, redolent of binding glue, begged not to be closed, and I longed to understand why this work of fiction could grasp me so completely. I hungered to extract every letter from every word and examine its purpose, find its divine meaning then use that knowledge to craft my own works of brilliant language and bring life to my miniature town in Eden. I was at a complete loss in the presence of something so noble, weighed down by the elegant verbs, gorgeous nouns, and royal adjectives. I was perplexed, dumbfounded, up until the moment I realized, or should I say accepted, that this novel was nothing more than 26 letters. It must have been the sun illuminating my once dismally dim room, but it felt more like a lit light bulb sprouting out from the top of my head.
That's the thing about stories, I realized. Every smooth word my grandfathers spoke to me, every divine word home inside The Faraway Tree, every word in this very essay: all just different combinations of 26 simple letters. Perhaps that was the allure of The Faraway Tree. All this magic and wonder was brought together by 26 letters and my grandfather’s voice. I never wanted it to end, and that's the brilliant thing about stories, you see. They never really come to an end. Not really.
26 Letters
There is no better place to begin, I suppose, than with the withered warmth of a worn hue of olive green. To me, this shade felt like the median of a somehow iridescently brilliant spectrum and the dullest lichen climbing up the oaks. It did not contain a matte pastel, but neither did it hold a glossy glow. It was an in between shade, the color, a cover, providing quaint refuge to the words in between. The words my grandfather would read me every night before bed. It felt as though I was living in a miniature city, you see. A Northern English tiny town with little streets and little features, inhabited rather slowly by tiny Northern English creatures. This minute town became a quaint sort of refuge to wrinkled, stout, and strongly accented townspeople, each with a very discernible way to order a cuppa lee and a cheeky bowl of chips. My grandfather was one of these tiny creatures, as was I for a while, but this was always his home, and I preferred coffee to rosy.
It was in this miniature town that I encountered a rather unproportionally grand book. I find it hard to recall the details of The Faraway Tree, other than the olive green tint of its binding. It was well kept but obviously loved, standing several inches taller and thicker than its neighbors on my bookshelf. The book's front cover bore the words “The Faraway Tree” as well as the aged and enchanted tree towering into the cracks in the clouds. I remember Moon Head. Moon Head sat atop the tree. “How ridiculous!” I thought, “A character with a moon for a head! Above all, for the name of this character to be simply “Moon Head” was outlandish. I thoroughly judged the laziness and lack of creativity of the author. I often wondered what my most discernible feature was, what predominant aspect of myself would be my namesake if I was to become an anachronism in The Faraway Tree. I, aged 10 or 11 at the time, prodded my face in front of the mirror by the heavy wooden door in my bedroom. “Perhaps my hair,” I thought as I pulled at my shoulder length, frizzy hair. I liked to imagine what everyone's juxtaposed name would be, what less than delicate feature would be victimized.
My grandfather had the look of someone who has known and seen the world, an acquaintance with the very wind that had stained the porous skin of his face with red and purple spider veins. The same wind that constantly kissed the tip of his crooked nose with a soft shade of loving plum. He held the The Faraway Tree with his warm rough hands, speckled with age spots and discoloration, revealing the many years they had borne bitten nails and carried wood for the fire. He would read each line in a steady and soft tone, changing pitch to represent each character. The protagonists of the novel consisted of three children named Bessie, Jo, and Fanny. They encountered the Faraway Tree while walking through the dense woods around their cottage. This was where they would later meet Moon Head and a plethora of other whimsical characters living in the colossal tree. That was how the book was meant to be read. With a hoarse English accent. My grandfather's accent.
I could never forget the way my name sounded with his voice. The accent mixed with his many years. The “na” would come out quickly, followed by an English “tash” as in gash rather than the American “tosh” as in mosh. Finally followed the swift and final “a.” I always remember how people say my name. The way Macy called me a simple “Tash” (as in mosh) but with a sort of musical scale tracing each syllable. As if it were spelled “Taa-hosh.” Or the way Skylar almost squawked “Natasha!” with the raise of the “ta” several octaves—almost to a screech. I imagine if Moon Head were to say my name it would come out as a booming and boisterous exclamation. I often imagined that I found the Faraway Tree in my very woods.
I lived in a Northern English district named Eden. Perhaps the Faraway Tree would appear in Eden’s woods. Perhaps it would bear an apple that much like Eve, I too would eat. I wanted this book to show me everything it knew. This marked my decent into the impregnable world of literary understanding, and I was only breaching atmosphere. I would find myself, at an hour of the morning in which only the pheasants were awake, creeping out of bed and across the rickety burnt floorboards, hypnotized by the allure of the fanciful world living in The Faraway Tree. I was cornered, I was trapped. “Zugzwang,” the book would whisper in a sinister tone as I approached the bookshelf, as if I was nothing more than a defenseless pawn protecting my king. The pages would fall open in my hands like they were made of literary honey, “Checkmate.”
I would sit sprawled out on my bedroom floor as the sun made a shameful ascent into the horizon. The book, redolent of binding glue, begged not to be closed, and I longed to understand why this work of fiction could grasp me so completely. I hungered to extract every letter from every word and examine its purpose, find its divine meaning then use that knowledge to craft my own works of brilliant language and bring life to my miniature town in Eden. I was at a complete loss in the presence of something so noble, weighed down by the elegant verbs, gorgeous nouns, and royal adjectives. I was perplexed, dumbfounded, up until the moment I realized, or should I say accepted, that this novel was nothing more than 26 letters. It must have been the sun illuminating my once dismally dim room, but it felt more like a lit light bulb sprouting out from the top of my head.
That's the thing about stories, I realized. Every smooth word my grandfathers spoke to me, every divine word home inside The Faraway Tree, every word in this very essay: all just different combinations of 26 simple letters. Perhaps that was the allure of The Faraway Tree. All this magic and wonder was brought together by 26 letters and my grandfather’s voice. I never wanted it to end, and that's the brilliant thing about stories, you see. They never really come to an end. Not really.