Chapter Sixty

THE ANDERCHRONICLES

By Me, Ellee

[WARNING: The following story has been rated FNF*]
*Fiction NOT Fact

[Second Warning: Please be aware, the only thing real in this story is the daffodils. Everything else is just pure fiction, although VERY GOOD FICTION, I admit, but fiction nonetheless. However, to some individuals it will seem real—they need to consider electric shock treatment, and double up on Prozac.]


[NB: Don't miss the special "Anderchronicle Video" at the end of this story, put together by ACAnderFan. We thank her]

". . . Beside The Lake,
Beneath The Trees . . ."

Daffodils were in full bloom. It was that season of the year, the little two-week, all-too-brief period of time when the magnificence of these delicate spring flowers was being displayed everywhere—in store windows, at sidewalk stands, in little gardens surrounding outdoor cafes, along window ledges and balconies, in hotel lobbies and on tables. But the very best display of all, and the most stunning, was a place I didn’t even know about, until Andy took me there a few days after his mother’s tea party.

“Ellee,” he had said, his blue eyes dancing as they sparkled, “remember on Christmas night, when we spent the evening playing in the park with all those incredible snow diamonds? After it was all over you said something quite remarkable. I’ve spent considerable time since then thinking about it. You told me how every so often a special gift is given. Something magnificent, awesome, breathtaking and beautiful—BUT only for a short period of time, and only for those who have eyes to see. Ellee, you shared that gift of Christmas Night magic with me, and taught me how to see, and now . . . well . . . I have a gift I want to share with you . . .” His eyes at that moment were shimmering even more than a few seconds before, if that was possible, and then . . . “it is a gift of Springtime Magic.”

The smile lighting up his face crinkled the corners of his eyes, and caused a soft glow to wash over his demeanor. Then, squeezing my shoulders as he drew me close enough for our noses to kiss, he told me to “ get ready; you have just ten minutes,” after which he hurried me off in the car to a special place tucked away from the pubic eye—inside the grounds of a private residence, about an hour’s drive away.

When we got out of the car, Andy put his hand at the small of my back, steering me toward the tall, eighteenth century English ironwork gate. The house behind the gate was stone, with gables and parapets and balconies, as well as huge arches framing each window. “Friends of the family,” he said, “away for a few weeks—their loss. They’re missing the most spectacular season of all.”

And he was right. When we had stepped our way over the cobblestone path, through a small grove of trees laden with new leaf buds, just waiting for the signal to burst into kelly-green glory, the setting for Wordsworth's poem lay before us in all its splendor ! It was simply breath-taking—the lake, the trees, the daffodils. It was all there, in a private little wonderland, or Springtime Magic, as Andy had called it.

I could feel it pulling on me, so much so, all at once I ran toward it, and when I got close to the lake, I stopped, and reaching toward the sky, I twirled round and round, throwing my head back and squealing like a child. Andy was laughing.

“See, I told you I knew where Wordsworth’s poem was. It may not be Ireland, but no matter. It couldn’t be any more enchanting than this.

Then he reached for my hand, reeling me back to him, where he put his arms around my waist. At that moment his eyes started flashing their dazzling brilliance as he began,

“Ellee, *I wandered lonely as a cloud that floats on high o’er vales and hills . . .” He drew another breath, and was about to deliver the next stanza of Wordsworth's poem on daffodils when I broke in with,

“Andy, wait!—Stop!”

He stopped, “Ellee! Don't interupt me! This is important, you know.”

“Uhhhhh . . . Andy, clouds aren’t lonely.”

His body sunk slightly as breath suddenly escaped, his hands quickly falling from my waist; an incredulous look came across his face and he blurted out, “Elleeeeee, this is a poem !! Just let me recite it! Pleeeease.”

“I know, Andy, but clouds are never lonely. Clouds are just little droplets of water, actually millions of them—all huddled together, so how can they be lonely?”

“But this is literature for cryin' out loud!—it’s figurative; it doesn’t need to be literal.”

“Ohhhh I know, Andy, but scientifically, it’s not very accurate.”

“Ohhhh all right,” he acquiesced after a few seconds, sighing wearily, “I’ll begin again. I wandered . . . uh . . . as a cloud that floats on high o’er vales and hills, when all at once I saw a crowd, a host of golden daffodils.”

His eyes followed his hand as he waved in the direction of all the daffodils, but suddenly his gaze snapped back to mine to catch my reaction.

“Yes, yes, I know, Ellee . . .” sarcasm seeping into his tone, “ . . . one usually doesn’t use crowd in reference to daffodils—crowds are for people. Are you okay with that, or do you want me to change it to, say . . . a bunch, a large bunch? And what about host? Can you go with that?”

“Host is all right, Andy, but I’d change crowd to a large bunch.”

“Oh! Okaaaaay.” He was rolling his eyes, but continued,

“ . . . when all at once I saw a large bunch, a host of golden daffodils . . . beside the lake, beneath the trees . . . fluttering and dancing in the breeze . . .” Once again he stopped, then added, “Ellee, honey, tell me, is it acceptable for them to flutter and dance in the breeze?

“Well, fluttering is agreeable, but dancing? I don’t know about that one.”

“Why, because they don’t have legs???” I could see a little smirk in his eyes.

“Precisely.” There was one in mine, too, as I wrestled with that naughty little grin trying to take hold.

He rolled his eyes again, but still went on . . .

Continuous as the stars that shine
And twinkle on the Milky Way,

"Ohhhhhhh, Andeeeee, that's not going to fly either. There's just too much wrong with it . . ." I paused, "You do see them, don't you?"

"See what?"

"—those blaring misconceptions of reality that people take for facts."

"Well . . . I guess I hadn't really noticed any . . . uhhh, blaring misconceptions of reality, but . . . go ahead, my dear, please feel completely free to point them out."

"Well, for one thing, Andy, a star is not really a star, but a giant ball of glowing gas. AND for another thing, giant balls of glowing gas don't twinkle!"

"You don't say!"

"I do say! Furthermore, the light or twinkling coming from those gaseous balls is nothing more than nuclear fusion giving off large amounts of energy —which when some of it reaches the turbulence of earth's atmosphere, gets bent, giving it the appearance of twinkling."

For a few seconds he just stared at me while each of his eyebrows took a turn flexing. I could tell he was deep in thought. But all of a sudden, he stepped away from me, and then spreading his arms wide in the air, began dramatically reciting,

I wandered . . . as a cloud that floats on high o’er vales and hills,
When all at once I saw a large bunch, a host of golden daffodils.

Beside the lake, beneath the trees,
Fluttering and . . . and responding to the currents of air whose molecules were wildly agitated at that particular moment.

Continuous as the giant balls of gas that give off large amounts of nuculear energy,
And get bent entering earth's turbulent atmosphere after passing the Milky Way,

They stretched in never-ending line
Along the margin of a bay:
Ten thousand saw I at a glance,
Tossing their heads in sprightly dance . . .

He continued on to the end of the poem, and then took a sweeping bow, while I cheered loudly, yelling "Bravo, Bravo!" and clapped enthusiastically until my hands hurt.

“Andy, your thespian talents are unparalleled!”

“Yes, and your scientific and linguistic analyses are unparalleled, too, my dear. Wordsworth is turning over in his grave, I’m sure!”

“No he’s not! He most likely has a great sense of humor, too, Andy.”

“Nothing like yours, Ellee!”

And with that he scooped me up in his arms and held me tightly, his scintillating blue eyes capturing mine, his grin spanning from dimple to dimple.

Then suddenly, it happened so fast I just didn’t see it coming, I found myself looking up at blue sky—Andy had carried me beside the lake, beneath the trees and laid me down among all those golden daffodils, which were fluttering, and . . . well . . . quite frankly, I have to admit, actually dancing in the breeze.

Bye for now,
Love,
Ellee

*Poem: "Daffodils" 1804 by William Wordsworth
Alternative version 2007 by who else—Me, Ellee (tehee)

Anderchronicles Video