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The Way of the Owl

By M. Therese WittenauerPublished 2 years ago 7 min read

Maggie sits in class, tapping her pencil absent-mindedly. It’s indoor recess today, and the whole class voted to play Hangman. Maggie has learned to hate Hangman, and the class hates when she plays, too. Maggie has a mind for language, and the other kids hate how fast she can solve their word and how impossible hers are to guess. Her particular finesse for Hangman is due to her passion for words and advanced reading ability. It also doesn’t help that she’s spent most every Monday night of her 11 years watching “Wheel of Fortune” with her Grandma Lynn. Instead of protesting at the suggestion, Maggie decides some rest and staring into space would do her good. Her mind hasn’t had enough time to ruminate and imagine. Also, she starts sweating at the thought of conflict. She pulls her hood over her head and rests her head on her desk. But as it turns out, ruminating and imagining isn’t really what her mind wants to do; it prefers sleep in this moment.

Maggie starts to wake at the sudden feeling of a paper ball hitting the back of her head. But, she’s too slow in waking, because the loud tap of Mrs. Wildersmith’s ruler on her desk jolts her up.

“I’m sorry,” Maggie says, groggily lifting her head. “Is recess over?”

“It most certainly is,” scowls Mrs. Wildersmith, pulling the hood off her head. “We are starting our Math lesson. Everyone else has their books out already. No hoods in class.”

“I didn’t mean to fall asleep.”

“Just get your book out, and give me your homework.”

“...homework?” Maggie timidly asks.

“That’s another 0% in the gradebook,” Mrs. Wildersmith sighs, walking away and shaking her head.

Maggie gives a deep sigh and gets her Math book out, slumping back in her seat. She can feel all eyes on her, then a gentle tap on her shoulder.

“I tried to wake you up, I’m sorry,” whispers Maggie’s only friend in class, Natalie.

“It’s okay, thanks anyway,” Maggie whispers back, without turning her head. She’s become somewhat of a master at ventriloquism this year, having the only person she talks to sit behind her and a particularly stern teacher.

Maggie tries to pay attention during the dreaded Math lesson. But, she finds that now is the time when her brain wants to ruminate and imagine. She doesn’t learn about the quadratic formula, but she does imagine a most excellent future life for herself. She lives in a cottage overgrown with ivy, and wildflowers joyfully overtaking the yard. It’s quiet, peaceful, and there are no neighbors. She welcomes a visit from Natalie from time to time, though. She decides the best words to describe the place are “tranquil,” “serene,” and “serendipitous.” She doubts any of her peers have even heard of that last word. It’s a shame; it’s such a good one.

-----------------

Maggie’s house is walking distance from the school, so her Grandma Lynn lets her walk home. At first she insisted on picking her up, but Maggie begged to walk, noting how miserable it was for her to wait with everyone else she didn’t want to talk to. Natalie’s mom was always first, so once she was gone, it was utter torture. Grandma Lynn couldn’t argue with such a sincere and eloquent plead.

Maggie flings open the storm door, letting it slam hard behind her.

“Maggie, please!” shouts Grandma Lynn from her napping couch.

“Sorry, Grandma,” Maggie says, gently pushing Grandma up so she can slump on the couch next to her.

“Bad day?” Grandma yawns.

“Yes. I forgot to do my homework again.”

“Oh, Maggie,” Grandma says sympathetically. “I thought you said you didn’t have any homework when I asked you to help me learn my lines?”

“I forgot.”

“You wanted to forget.”

“...I would much rather learn more words.”

Grandma Lynn chuckles and brings Maggie close to her, kissing her curly-haired head.

“It was too cold for outside recess,” Maggie laments.

“They wanted to play hangman again?”

“Yep.”

“You fell asleep?”

“Yep.”

“Maggie dear,” Grandma chuckles again, “one day you will meet friends who can give you a challenge at Hangman.”

“I don’t know. I think I’d rather be by myself. I’ll live out my days playing myself in Scrabble. At least I’ll be an enthusiastic contender, and I’ll always win.”

“Surely you want friends?”

“I have one! Natalie can visit sometimes. At least she doesn’t mind asking me what my big words mean.”

“What about me?”

“Grandma, that’s a given.”

“Thank you, dear.”

They sit for a moment. Maggie pulls out a book to read.

“Wait a second,” Grandma says, gently taking the book and closing it.

“I have a story I want to tell you.”

“But I’m just getting to the good part and – “

“You can read after dinner, okay?”

“Okay,” Maggie tentatively agrees.

“Oh, wonderful! My friend, Freya, wrote this for me in our creative writing class in college. I asked her to bind me a copy.”

Grandma pops up and pulls a small, worn, leather-bound book from the shelf next to the couch. She sits next to Maggie, Maggie pulling a blanket over herself and scooting close to Grandma.

“No no, you’re not reading along this time,” Grandma says. “You always read ahead, and that way you’re not really listening.”

“But - “ Maggie protests.

“The kinds of stories I tell you are meant to be heard, not read. You’re taking away my role as storyteller!” says Grandma

Maggie sighs and gets comfortable on the opposite end of the couch. It's impossible to argue with a seasoned actor.

“Owls are nocturnal creatures,” she begins…

-----------------

…They prefer to be seen only when they want to, and this is not very often. Yes, that’s partially because they are predators and they need to sneak up on their prey to kill and eat them.

But, I like to think they also find peace in the solitude. Why else would they hoot so much at night? They do not like to be seen, but they do want to be heard. Is it a warning? A call to other owls? “I’m here. I want to be alone, but it’s good to know you’re out there, too.”

The owl that took residence in my old barn as a child was my only friend growing up. At least it felt like that, at times. I had a couple school friends, but more often than not I’d prefer to spend an evening reading in that barn with a lantern. I liked the coziness and the old-timey feel of it. Soon those couple friends moved on without me. I guess they thought I didn’t like them because I didn’t want to hang out as much as they did. They said I preferred my books and stories to real, live people. They didn’t understand that my mind needed to imagine. I needed my barn/book time to recharge. It gave me a kind of life that I couldn’t describe then.

Losing some friends didn’t bother me too much; I liked being by myself. But, I also liked knowing that I had people there for me. I couldn’t say in words at the time that I needed companionship, but I didn’t need to be joined at the hip.

Then, one night, as I was a bit more solemnly reading in some soft hay, I heard the gentle “hoot” of an owl. I couldn’t tell if it was coming from outside or in. I lifted up my lamp and looked up into the rafters - nothing. I took my lantern outside and tried to see up into the trees - again, nothing. So, I went back inside the barn and settled in again.

Just as I was about to go back inside, I heard the hoot again. This time, I looked into the rafters again, two glowing eyes shone back at me! I should mention that owls have always freaked me out. The way they can turn their heads completely around? No, thanks. I quickly picked up my things, but I dropped my book right at the door. Then, I heard the hoot again. “Done for,” I thought. I paused a moment to slowly pick up the book, realizing I probably shouldn’t make any sudden moves, and nothing came after me. I decided to test this; that hoot didn’t sound menacing. I committed to overcoming my fear. The story was getting too good to stop, anyway.

Night after night for the rest of my high school days, I read in the barn with the company of the owl, the periodic hoots letting me know she was there. She never came down from the rafters while I was there, and I never tried to force her down or get a good look at her. The more I spent time with her, the more I realized I was a lot like her. Content with slight solitude, and a gentle, slightly distant companion.

-----------------

“Maggie, you are not unlike the two in this story,” Grandma Lynn says, gently closing the book.

“I seem to be the only one,” laments Maggie.

“Sometimes it isn’t the worst thing to be the only one” says Grandma. “I know it’s hard, though.”

“Everyone acts like there’s something wrong with me because “socializing” sounds like the worst thing in the world to me.”

“Natalie understands, right? And so do I. That’s two. And owls have made it a lifestyle.”

“...owls are wise,” Maggie says, warming up and finding a positive.

“Yes, and you are too,” Grandma Lynn says with a smile. "You'll find how to fit into this world just as you are."

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family

About the Creator

M. Therese Wittenauer

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