Inside Grandma’s formal parlor I threw myself onto the hard settee and tugged at the lace on my dress. At Grandma’s house I have to wear a dress, and a hat, the bigger the better in her opinion. No jeans and sweatshirts are allowed.

“Stop fidgeting,” Grandma ordered. “A proper young lady sits on the edge of her seat and slides back quietly and softly, making no other movement except to sip her tea and nibble her refreshments. The irrefragable wisdom is underscored in the finest etiquette books.”

This Sunday afternoon turned into a day that left one lying low and slithering around like a snake searching for a mid-season snack. Even the weather played along. Gray clouds hung low and rain fell in big, fat drops, splashing hard against the small picture window. I wanted to do something with action involving the outdoors. No amount of pleading with Mama would induce her to nod her head and free me to bundle up and go outside.

Poggmiller tramped to one corner of the room and stretched a hand toward an easel draped with a purple velvet cloth. With a quick snap of his fingers the cloth scrunched into a small glittery ball. The ball ricocheted around the room like a shooting star racing across the night sky, then hung near the center disguised as a crystal light. Poggmiller waved a hand at the blank canvas and threw out another toothless smile. “Please, don’t be shy. Step up and enjoy the feast.”

With a snap to his single suspender running up his ample chest and over his back-side, Poggmiller rubbed his boney fingers together, like twigs to start a fire. Fine silvery sparks formed a long arch from his fingertips to a set of narrow double doors wedged into a section of the curved wall. “Place a hand upon this nobble Peter and begin your journey.” Poggmiller jabbed a finger at the old, dingy doorknob on the double doors. “But beware, a nobble does not respond to the touch of fear or indecision.”

Peter studied the small opening anxious to gain entrance into the new world, but there was no way he could fit through the hole in the tree. He fingered a path around the massive trunk hoping to discover a larger access. Laura tugged at the moss and the bark, mixing her curiosity with his.

With his fingers pressed together and his thumbs tucked underneath, Peter measured the hole. The opening stretched five hands wide. “Laura, I think you can fit through the hole.” His voice filled with excitement over his calculation. “Once you are inside you can look for another way for me to get in.”

When we heard the news of a dead baby whale on Cape Lookout’s shore my two younger brothers begged Mama to see it with their own eyes. We piled in the car and drove the twelve miles to the edge of the earth. Before my brothers dashed off in hopes of returning with the prize of a whale’s tooth for a souvenir, Mama took their handsaws. “You can’t run with a saw in your hand. You could fall and cut yourself.”