Old Maggie’S Spirit Whispers

© 2011 by Jeanne McElvaney. All rights reserved.

No part of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted by any means without the written permission of the author.

First published by AuthorHouse 07/14/2011

ISBN: 978-1-4634-3085-6 (sc)

ISBN: 978-1-4634-3086-3 (ebk)

Printed in the United States of America

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Contents

Critters and Creatures

~ One ~

Sound/Silence

~ Two ~

Serendipity

~ Three ~

Heart Song

~ Four ~

Our Story

~ Five ~

Play

~ Six ~

Relationships

~ Seven ~

Money

~ Eight ~

Choices

~ Nine ~

Color

~ Ten ~

Nature

~ Eleven ~

Change

~ Twelve ~

Ambivalence

~ Thirteen ~

Creativity

~ Fourteen ~

Trust

~ Fifteen ~

Time

~ Sixteen ~

Wounds

~ Seventeen ~

Routines & Comforts

~ Eighteen ~

Sensuality

~ Nineteen ~

Body/Symptoms

~ Twenty ~

Food

~ Twenty-one ~

Gratitude

~ Twenty-two ~

Mystery

~ Twenty-three ~

Family

~ Twenty-four ~

Friendship

~ Twenty-five ~

Music

~ Twenty-six ~

Home

~ Twenty-seven ~

Imagination

~ Twenty-eight ~

Allies

~ Twenty-nine ~

Perceptions

~ Thirty ~

Numbers

~ Thirty-one ~

Regret

~ Thirty-two ~

Intuition

~ Thirty-three ~

Mood

~ Thirty-four ~

Movement

~ Thirty-five ~

Passion

~ Thirty-six ~

Contrast

~ Thirty-seven ~

Possibilities

~ Thirty-eight ~

Desires

~ Thirty-nine ~

Symbolism

~ Forty ~

Common Sense

~ Forty-one ~

Conversation

~ Forty-two ~

Honor

~ Forty-three ~

Pets

~ Forty-four ~

Comforts

~ Forty-five ~

Praise

~ Forty-six ~

Dreams

~ Forty-seven ~

Authenticity

~ Forty-eight ~

Courage

~ Forty-nine ~

Perceived Flaws

~ Fifty ~

Age

~ Fifty-one ~

Art

~ Fifty-two ~

Community

~ Fifty-three ~

Deserving

~ Fifty-four ~

Love

~ Fifty-five ~

Old Maggie’s Everyday Expressions

Aproneer—shopkeeper

Anywhen—at any time

Baffounded—perplexed

Blutterbunged—confounded

Bruzzle—to make a great to-do

Cat-Latin—idle talk

Clapperclaw—scold

Crastine—postpone

Darkmans—night

Davering—walking aimlessly

Ferry-whisk—haste

Fubbery—deceit, cheating

Glunch—to frown

Gratulate—to rejoice

Gowpen—measured by a handful

Gadji—Gypsy outsider

Hurpled—shrugged against the cold

Inwit—conscience

Libidinist—one given to lewdness

Mawmsey—sleepy

Mimping—making one believe a sham

Minnie—grandmother

Minnock—favorite darling

Moanworthy—sad

Mort-heads—large turnips used like a pumpkin

Nicknackitarian—dealer in curiosities

Nuncheon—lunch

Nyaffle—eat fast

Offmagandy—choice delicacy

Ostentiferous—that which brings strange sights

Outcumlin—stranger

People-day—a day of visiting

Picktooth—leisurely

Potsheen-twang—lie

Prinkle—tingling sensation

Psychomachy—conflict of body and soul

Pudding-leather—stomach

Quignogs—ridiculous notions

Raw-gabbit—speaking confidently when ignorant

Sad bread—poorly made bread

Scruze—squeeze

Seeksorrow—making oneself vexed

Sensorium—the place of common sense

Sloven’s Year—wonderfully prosperous season

Stultiloquent—babbling

Tazzled—untidy hair

Thumbass—fumble with hands

Thrunched—angry

Traumaticks—herbs to cure wounds

Unbosom—reveal in confidence

Ugsumness—terribleness

Yeepsen—double handful

Most of these words come from The Word Museum

by Jeffrey Kacirk

Old Maggie’s

Spirit Whispers

I invite you to bring out your colored pens and pencils, your crayons and highlighters. Mark this book with abandon. Turn down the corners of the pages and don’t worry about the chocolate, tea, and coffee stains. It’s all part of an adventure of the best kind.

Jeanne

Critters and Creatures

 ~ One ~

1815

Old Maggie had lived down the road as long as anyone in Paddington Cove could remember. Like the grove of ancient, gnarled oak trees along the southern edge of her property, she had taken root and shaped the landscape of the village.

That was not to say she was normally seen about the community for she was mostly known to keep to her own place. Many knew her only through the wisdom and lore passed along by tittle-tattle. When it came to shopping, Mr. Hawkins sent Old Maggie’s greengroceries and dry goods along with the supplies going to Oak Tree Manor. It had been that way when he worked for Manny Moser, and it continued when he took over the store several years back.

If she had needs beyond this, it was not common knowledge. The shopkeepers at Stape’s Confectionary and Bakery had never seen the owner of Peacock Corner though they had owned their shop some twenty years or more. No mail passed through the post mistress and though the librarian had seen Old Maggie when he was a lad, he was wont to say he would not recognize her should she make an appearance, and his eyes were still better than most.

It was said an earl had pinned the moniker Old on Maggie’s name when she was just a little girl. If any parts of that tale were still true to the original hearsay, the young, rambunctious earl had come barreling through Paddington Cove during a downpour in the middle of a moonless, spring night. Thoroughly disguised, foxed beyond reason, the drunken earl had not let the weather, rutted roads, or time of day put a stop to his dangerous ride. When his two horses reared up in fright at the sudden and astounding clap of thunder just as the gentleman reached the bridge, he lost control of his carriage. The harness snapped and the horses raced on in terror as the carriage veered through the rotting railing and into the turbulent creek.

Had little Maggie’s grandmother, Annie, ignored the cawing crows flying along the stream and had she not taken her young granddaughter into a night lit only by occasional lightning, the history of Paddington Cove would have slipped significantly to the right. As it was, they arrived in time to find the gentleman face down in the creek with a large swelling on his forehead where he had landed on a stone smoothed by time.

The crone belied her years by her quick action. With determination and intuition, she overcame obstacles most strong men would have found daunting. She showed her granddaughter these attributes were more than enough when weighed against age, both young and old.

When the Third Earl of Dunmore woke with a headache, he was on a straw pallet tended by a wisp of a woman with a kind smile and a child with wise, observant eyes. In the following days, he regained his strength in the soothing silence of the meager hut. Only occasionally were his aches and pains interrupted by statements from the older woman who called herself, Annie.

When he first woke up, he could not recall anything beyond raised goblets and friends urging him to accept a daring bet. The earl could only assume he had taken that challenge and met with an accident. His circumstance and the bump on his head seemed a sure indication that was the case.

Another day passed before he could sit up to eat porridge, and later, soup. The young girl sitting beside him was ever present, looking into his eyes when he was awake, soothing his brow with her cool, small hand when his discomfort made it difficult to lie still and impossible to get up. And when he would drift off to sleep, he would dream of the people who were waiting for him, needing him, and ready to share their lives.

On the third day, any coherent thoughts centered on the state of his carriage and horses, and the crooning chatter from his caretaker only served to aggravate his still-pounding head and bruised body. While he tried to get his bearings in the present, Annie spoke of his future, seasoning her ramblings with words of old. When he asked about his horses, the aging woman waved her hand as though swatting a fly. She had, he thought, no idea of their value and he finally gave up trying to find out what had happened to them. That is when he began listening and heard her wisdom.

In the one-room shelter, he realized he had taken a poorly-chosen path some months previous when he had inherited the wealth and responsibilities of the Dunmore earldom. He had used the power handed to him at an early age to invest in wine, highfliers, and senseless betting. All the while, both family and tenants who depended on his decisions, stood back and hoped all would come to rights before his health and wealth were wasted. And though the young earl could not remember the specific words the woman spoke in an uncommon cadence, he did feel the powerful, encouraging nudge to live his life well and use his power to make a positive difference.

On the fourth day he felt renewed, heart and soul. The little one, called Maggie, took his hand and led him out the door of the hut. There in the sunshine were his two horses eating the grasses of the meadow, their broken harness and bridles removed. They had been wiped down and looked in better shape than he. Thanking the little girl, wondering how it had all been managed, he received a shrug much like the dismissive wave the older woman had given him earlier. And then Maggie offered him her hand and they walked to the bridge.

His lordship was still without any memory of the accident, but the extent of his experience was brought to him when he saw the broken carriage submerged in the still muddy, surging stream. He knew he had been saved an early death and understood the reason for any warnings he had endured under Anne’s tender ministrations.

Looking down at the little girl, nothing more than a ragamuffin save for her extreme cleanliness, he saw she was watching his revelations. And it was more than just observing, for the earl was quite certain she knew him in ways he was only beginning to discover. She smiled, for the first time, and squeezed his hand before taking him back to the hut for their midday meal of cheese, bread, and dried apples.

It is said among those who passed the story on from one to another in Paddington Cove that the earl left their care that very afternoon, but he did not leave the village. He stayed at the rather small, but tidy inn at the edge of town until a new carriage arrived. While waiting, he bought the estate just beyond the bridge called Oak Tree Manor. He then parceled off a piece of that land and deeded it to Annie and her granddaughter, Maggie. The earl did not leave the village until he saw them settled into the cottage nestled across the lane from the manor, along a grove of mature oak trees. It sat prettily in front of the creek that had nearly taken his life.

During the days it took to make all this happen, the earl liked to sit in the pub at the inn and tell his story about the night his carriage went into the stream and he was saved by Annie and her granddaughter. He would declare they had saved his life by pulling him out of the water, but they had also given him the life he intended to live when he returned home. The village people listened in awe and laughed every time he called the little girl Old Maggie, but the label stuck because the earl held the little girl’s wisdom in high regard.

Over and over, the earl told his story until nearly every one in the village knew how the crone had listened to the crows and had known she needed to go to the stream on that stormy night when every sensible resident knew it best to stay inside. Annie’s words were repeated until every man, woman, and child carried them into the future.

"One crow swooping down the creek in the middle of darkmans is a sure sign something is about to happen in the night. A murder of crows, cawing against the force of the winds and flying low against the water is more than a whisper of spirit and so I followed. It is wise to heed the messages of the creatures who share our world. Like us, they have their usual patterns and, when their behavior is out of the ordinary, it is clear they are speaking to us in the language of spirit. We are, every time, served by responding."

For the people of Paddington Cove, this was a tale of how the village eccentric saved the renowned Earl of Dunmore on a stormy night but, for Old Maggie, the accident marked the first time she was aware of her grandmother’s ability to listen to the language of spirit. It was the beginning.

Sound/Silence

 ~ Two ~

Old Maggie had lived nearly forever in the cottage at Peacock Corner, many of those years without the company of her grandmother. But the teachings, passed down by Annie, had grown and expanded until her granddaughter lived in comfortable companionship with her own spirit. And on this day, Old Maggie knew, without a doubt, something was afoot.

Walking her land, snuggled in the corner of the road just past Widow Marshall’s place, Old Maggie felt her usual comfort. She enjoyed the smell of the breeze and anticipated the peacocks and peahens that were sure to watch her passing as they sat in the warm autumn sun on the fence just ahead. She strolled along Liminy Creek, listening to its lapping burble, knowing there was a new silence in the air.

Old Maggie did not break her stride or turn her head. Rather she listened to her spirit as well as the sounds of Mother Nature and there it was; the pause sweeping in and out of the woodland quietude. It was louder than either the creek or peacocks, and it came from the corners of change. Walking onward, the muse was aware it was not the silence of stealth. It did not lurk or lie in wait, but hid in fear.

Speaking to her land, a friend in good standing, she aired her view. It would seem we have an outcumlin with us for I sense a stranger as surely as I feel the sun on my back. I doubt it is a fox as the peacocks are comfortable, but I wonder, has a stray dog come to find a home? Or do I have a cat seeking a safe haven?

Stopping at the gentle rise on the path, Old Maggie closed her eyes. Shifting first this way and then that, finding the perfect orientation with her sixth sense, she sent out welcoming currents of warm thoughts. Her matching inner joy brought a smile and, had anyone been present, they would have seen the radiance of love.

Using her voice, she turned toward her cottage and spoke loudly to the landscape all around. It does not matter who has come to visit for all are welcome. I am ready. Nodding to herself, Old Maggie began the walk back and the earthworms beneath the slightly damp path felt the familiar vibration of her steady steps. It signaled the onset of evening.

That same night, in the time after dusk when darkness has yet to deepen, the muse walked out of her cottage with a bucket. She walked with purpose toward the outbuilding feeling embraced by the low hum of evening changes and pleased with the insight she had while preparing her dinner. She knew any critter waiting nearby would find the leftover chicken pieces and soup bone Mr. Hawkins had sent the previous day. Setting the pail on the low bench by the door, she tapped it three times in a spontaneous act of pleasure.

The sun did not rise early enough for the anticipating muse. Quite sure the bucket would be empty and licked clean, Old Maggie was making her way along the short path to the shed before the rooster crowed. She was surprised to find the bone still sitting in the bottom. That changed everything.

It could be a cat, she thought as she carried the pail back to the cottage, for no dog would leave that bone sitting there. Perhaps I should go fishing in the Sweeney this morning, she mused. I am ready for some pan-fried brown trout and a fish head might be just the thing for my visitor.

Old Maggie had an excellent dinner that evening, but the trout remains were still in the bucket the following morning. Trial and error was confirming she had a visitor. The morning remains convinced her it was a person. The only critter she knew who would be so choosy was man.

The muse fixed quite a different meal for her visitor on the third night. The beef and parsnip stew was served on a plate and came with a fork as well as a thick slice of buttered bread. With a satisfied smile, Old Maggie picked up the plate the next morning knowing she had a very hungry friend. The plate had been licked clean.

In the following days, she increased the helping on the plate and listened to the growing silence sweeping around Peacock Corner. In a symphony of breezes, bird calls, and boisterous bees, the occasional hush was an introduction. Though naturally curious, she was not in a hurry to meet the visitor, knowing they would meet when the time was right. But she had come to the conclusion her guest was most likely one of the many soldiers returned from the war with Napoleon. She might not go about the community, but she had her ways and did receive the old newspapers Mr. Hawkins used to wrap her food. The soldiers were coming home in droves and England was welcoming them with no work or food and a severe reaction to any begging and loitering.

Old Maggie set to work to make this particular soldier feel comfortable. A blanket was laid next to the plate, cookies were baked, and when the bailiff across the road at Oak Tree Manor came by with his usual largesse from the estate farm, he was asked for any old clothing, a warm coat in particular. The kind woman bided her time, appreciating this opportunity to honor one of the few who had given so much.

She was so pleased this man had found a temporary safe place; it came as quite a shock to see two lads slipping through the oak trees late one afternoon. One wore the coat dragging on the ground. The other was wrapped in the blanket. Old Maggie stood in her meadow and watched as they moved with speed and stealth, rarely making a sound. When they disappeared over the low ridge, she closed her eyes to fully appreciate the information she had been given.

It is no wonder I felt a prinkle and my tingling skin sent me outside in the middle of scrubbing potatoes, she said to the meadow. It was not your changing colors or even the music of your rustling, drying grasses urging me outside. Rather, it was time to know my ‘soldier’ was instead two lads who are going to need some help in the cold months to come.

Old Maggie returned to her cooking and, this evening, she laid out two large bowls of potato soup, four soda biscuits, six ginger cookies, and two glasses of milk. She tapped the metal tray three times as she had since the first day and made her way back to the cottage, leaving the lads to their dinner.

That same evening, the muse began knitting socks, making plans for the morrow. She was filled with the ebullient energy that comes when we are connected to a purpose of heart. The roaring fire kept her company for hours, mellowing into red embers when it was time to look up from her work.

She spoke to the sleepy cinders with great respect for the way each person’s spirit urges them toward their most fulfilling life. Thank you for guiding me in this. In the rhythm of silence and sound, you urged me to see a desperate need and I am honored. In the constancy of mind chatter, nature’s music, and workaday noise, I was able to take note of the lulls offering insight and direction. Today, the lads stepped through the quiet to make their needs heard. Our adventure has taken a turn.

Serendipity

 ~ Three ~

Old Maggie never walked on the country lane to Paddington Cove, and she rarely walked the same path across her own property to the edge of the community for that would leave a worn trail inviting casual visitation. On this morning,