BelleBooks, Inc.
ISBN 978-0-9673035-4-3 

Summer in Mossy Creek
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are either the product of the authors' imaginations or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons (living or dead), events or locations is entirely coincidental.
Copyright © 2003 by BelleBooks. Inc.
Printed and bound in the United States of America. All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without permission in writing from the publisher, except by a reviewer; who may quote brief passages in a review Published by:
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First Edition June 2003
1098765432
Cover art: Laura Austin 
Cover design: Martha Shields
Mossy Creek map: Dino Fritz

Summer in Mossy Creek
Welcome from the Mossy Creek Storytellers Club
Welcome back to Mossy Creek, Georgia, the small mountain town where love, laughter and kindness are facts of life but people cheerfully live up to the stubborn pioneer-era slogan still painted on a grain silo at the town limits: "Welcome to Mossy Creek. The town you can count on. Ain't Goin' Nowhere, And Don't Want To." The namesake creek circles the town like a moat, and people like it that way.
"Creekites" come in every size, shape, color and country of national origin, but they all share a love of small town living and sheer, feisty independence. Whether it's feuding with their snobby neighbors down in the "big town" of Bigelow or one-upping Governor Ham Bigelow, an arrogant native son who wants to see Mossy Creek tamed once and for all, Creekites are always ready for a fight or a celebration.
The writers who contribute their voices to the Mossy Creek Hometown Series think of themselves as The Mossy Creek Storytelling Club, and they tell these Creekite tales with a true love for the town and its quirky people. So pull up a chair on our porch, sip some iced tea, enjoy the sweet whisper of the creek and the view of the Southern mountains, and join us for a warm, poignant, funny, crazy summer in Mossy Creek.
Many thanks to Laura Austin, who contributed the art that graces this book's cover, also many thanks to Lillian Richey for the whimsical "A Guide to the People and Places of Mossy Creek" readers will find in the back this book. Thanks once again to Wayne Dixon, aka Bubba Rice, for contributing recipes so wickedly good only a Southern bubba could have created them, and thanks to Ali Cunliffe, copy editor extraordinaire, who makes sure we don't mess up the spelling for words like extraordinaire.
Happy reading!
The Mossy Creek Storytellers Club

LAURIE and TWEEDLE DEE
Chapter Eleven

The year I turned thirty-seven, my life got hit by a bus, which is how Tweedle Dee and I ended up in Mossy Creek.
Actually, the bus started barreling my way the previous spring when David, my husband, politely informed me that be wanted to move on to greener pastures. So the next few months were spent dividing "ours" into "yours" and "mine," meeting with lawyers to deal with the paperwork that left a greasy film on my heart and finding a place to live that I could afford on my own.
The whole thing put enough strain on my health to push me into seeing the doctor. Nothing was found on the tests, so my "not feeling sick but not feeling well" was put down to stress, and friends gently suggested that, since David had already found his greener pastures, maybe I should start looking for companionship too. I knew what they meant, but I was feeling too fragile to entertain the idea of Men. Still, after slogging through the workday, it was also hard to come back to an apartment that felt too empty to be a home.
I tried a few adult education classes, but meeting people who were transient acquaintances made me feel lonelier than being alone, so I stopped going. The only thing I stayed with was the storytelling meetings. I loved storytelling. I attended the workshops the group offered, bought suggested books for beginning storytellers, practiced diligently in the evenings, listened avidly when the other members told stories at the monthly meetings—and never had the nerve to put my name on the sign-up sheet to tell a story of my own.
As the long Thanksgiving weekend suddenly loomed before me, the idea of a companion became more appealing. So, one evening on my way home from work, I stopped at a strip mall and walked into the pet store. An hour later, I walked out with a cage, a variety of food, several toys, a book...and Tweedle Dee, a blue, baby parakeet.
I spent most of that long weekend sitting next to the cage and talking to him while I read the budgie book to learn about my new little friend. What I learned very quickly was that Tweedle Dee had his own ideas about the world. He wouldn't sit on a finger. He'd sit on a wrist, an arm, a shoulder or any other part of me he deemed a suitable perch, but the only time he would sit on a finger was when he wanted to do kisses—that is, have me lift him up so that he could gently nibble on my chin. He was perfectly happy playing with his own toys during the day, but when I got home, he wanted out so that he could play with his person.
I tried to teach him to say, "Tweedle Dee and me," once he started vocalizing more, but what he learned to say was "Tweedle Dee is me." Which actually made more sense. So I’d come home to happy chirps followed by, "Tweedle Dee, Tweedle Dee, Tweedle Dee is me."
For Christmas that year, I bought myself an Irish whistle. I loved Celtic music and thought it would be fun to learn to play some. Besides, the Irish whistle was also within my budget, which a lot of other instruments weren't.
Now, if I'd been a more experienced bird owner, I might have realized that a baby parakeet who was learning to vocalize in his own selective way and an Irish whistle in the hands of a very novice player were not necessarily the best combination. But I didn't realize, so I happily practiced each evening while Tweedle Dee perched nearby to listen.
The first song in the instruction book was "Twinkle Twinkle Little Star." Since I had trouble covering the whistle's holes to get a clear note, it tended to come out as Da-da, da-da, da-da sour note. Da-da, da-da, da-da sour note.
Which is exactly how Tweedle Dee learned to whistle it—and what Tweedle Dee knew, he knew and there was no changing it. I progressed to other songs, and we ended up with these strange duets. He'd wait for me to hold a long note in the song I was working on, then chime in with da-da, da-da, da-da sour note.
No one else had to listen to it, and it entertained both of us. At that point in my life, that was all that mattered.
As winter gave way to spring, I went back to the doctor because I hadn't been able to shake that "not well" feeling. In fact, that feeling had been getting stronger There was another checkup and more tests, which I didn't expect to come out any differently than the last set. But that was before I understood that my feet were stuck to the pavement and the bus was heading my way.
The same week the divorce was finalized, David married his greener pastures, the company I d worked for downsized my job out of existence and I got the results of the tests.
As I sat in my living room, with Tweedle Dee perched on my shoulder making worried little chirpy sounds when nothing he did produced a response, I thought. If I got hit by a bus tomorrow, what would I regret not having done?
The answer was easy. I loved stories. I'd always wanted to write stories. I'd dreamed of a life beyond the nine-to-five routine, where the days would flow instead of being cut up into segments. There would be routine, sure, but not the same routine. Maybe a walk to a coffee shop, where I would sit for an hour making notes and watching the world. Then home to write for hours and hours if inspiration struck, or to read or dream if that's what the day called for. Time for work, time for friends, time to simply be.
I could do it. There was enough money from the sale of the house for me to live on until my retirement fund was sent to me, and since old age wasn't something I had to save up for anymore, there was no reason for me not to use the money.
I could do it. But not here. I'd taken the apartment because I'd needed a place to live, but I didn't like it, had never felt comfortable in it and didn't want to stay there. I didn't even want to stay in the area, even though that would have been the prudent thing to do. No, I wanted a clean start for this pocket of time where I would live out a dream.
So I had a yard sale, and what I couldn't sell, I donated or gave away. By the time I was done and packing up my old Toyota hatchback, which was literally held together in places with duct tape, I had a box that had a set of sheets, some towels and a few plates, mugs, glasses and silverware; three boxes of books, one of the new paperbacks I hadn't read yet, one filled with storytelling books, and the last with favorite books I wanted to revisit; a file box with all the important papers I would need; a couple of shoe boxes of my favorite CDs and cassette tapes; two suitcases stuffed with clothes and toiletries; my Irish whistle and music books... and Tweedle Dee.
We trundled out of western New York on a fine spring morning and headed south to visit my friend Nadine, who had relocated to Richmond, Virginia, a few years before. It took two days to get there since I didn't want to push my luck—or the Toyota, loaded down as it was—by trying to make the drive all in one day. But we got there and had a lovely visit. When we left several days later, Nadine's insistence that I call her on a regular basis was the only indication that she was concerned about this road trip I was taking from life. I hadn't wanted to spoil the visit by telling her about the bus heading my way, so I promised to call and trundled out of Richmond, heading south. Tweedle Dee was a terrific companion, but he was a lousy navigator, which is why we ended up in Georgia on our way to South Carolina.
It was late in the afternoon when, shaky and finally admitting that we were very, very lost, I passed a white silo with the words "Ain't goin' nowhere and don't want to" painted on it. It made me smile and gave my heart a little lift. I was still smiling when I drove into Mossy Creek and found a place to park near Mama’s All You Can Eat Café.
I got out of the car, not sure if my leg muscles were going to stretch all the way after driving for so long, and looked around. The town square was an enticing bit of green, and I spotted a bench. Now if Mama's provided takeout. I'd be all set. I'd been living on takeout since we'd left Nadine's simply because it was a whole lot warmer down South at that time of year than it was in western New York, and I couldn't leave Tweedle Dee locked in the car while I went inside someplace to eat. I had these horrible visions of coming out after an hour and finding baked budgie. But I really needed to eat, so I went inside, hoping I could get something to go.
I could, and did, along with a large Coke for me, a small cup of water for Tweedle and a copy of the Mossy Creek Gazette.
As I stared at the passenger door while Tweedle Dee made his cht cht cht scoldy noise because I was doing nothing when I obviously should have been doing something, I realized I had a slight problem.
"Need a hand?" a male voice asked.
That was exactly what I needed, but there I was, feeling limp and looking wilted, and there he was, wearing that nice uniform with a badge pinned on it.
"Umm,,,"
"The square’s a nice place to have a bite to eat." 
"'That's what I thought," I muttered. 
Cht cht cht!
"Doesn't sound like he wants to be left behind." There was laughter in that voice.
I sighed quietly, handed over the food and the Gazette, got Tweedle Dee out of the car and followed the officer to the bench in the square, with Tweedle chirping at the top of his little lungs to let the whole town know he had arrived.
I put Tweedle's cage on the bench, took my lunch and paper from the nice officer, and set that on the bench, too.
Feeling awkward, I smiled at the man who was still watching me. "Thanks for your help, officer." 
"Chief, actually" he said. "I'm Amos Royden, Chief of Police here in Mossy Creek." He looked at me expectantly. 
"I'm Laurie Grey." 
Cht cht cht!
"And that's Tweedle Dee."
I thought I detected a twinkle in Chief Royden's eyes as he said, "Hey, Tweedle Dee."
Tweedle hopped from perch to bars, studied the man who was studying him, and said, "Tweedle Dee, Tweedle Dee, Tweedle Dee is me." Then the scolding started in earnest. 
"Hush'" I said sternly. "You'll get your French fry."
Yep, there was a definite twinkle in those eyes. The man probably thought I was a lunatic. Or, at the very least, eccentric. Couldn't blame him. Right about then, I was wondering about me, too.
"Welcome to Mossy Creek, Ms, Grey.", Chief Royden said. "Hope you enjoy your visit." 
"I'm sure I will," I replied, trying a smile I hoped made me look like a normal person.
I breathed a sigh of relief when he went away, then settled down to my meal. Before Tweedle could start up again and possibly get us arrested for disturbing the peace, I broke open a French fry, blew on it to cool it off so he wouldn't burn his tongue and slipped it into the treat dish. As we ate, I looked around—and felt the tightly coiled tension inside me ease.
Have you ever gone to a place you'd never been before and recognized, on some level, that you'd come home? As I looked around, that's what occurred to me. I'd come home. I opened the Gazette and began scanning the pages for an ad for a bed and breakfast or an inn or someplace I could stay that wouldn't object to my having a fluffy blue roommate.
Sometimes Fate just takes you by the hand. I did find an ad for the Hamilton Inn, but I also found a small notice about a cottage for rent, fully furnished. The notice said to call Mac Campbell and gave a phone number. I flipped back to the front page to check the paper's date. Today. Maybe...
I stuffed the debris from our meal into a nearby trash receptacle, grabbed the paper and Tweedle Dee, stuffed him back in the car, then went into the cafe to use the pay phone. Yes, the cottage was still available, and Mac Campbell would meet me in an hour to take me over and show me the place.
I had an hour to kill, so I retrieved Tweedle Dee, tossed the paper in the car and the two of us took a stroll. So what if people noticed that I was walking down Main Street carrying a budgie in a cage? I'd just be that eccentric Yankee.
Well, people did notice—hard not to with Tweedle happily chirping at the whole world. I just hadn't been in town long enough to realize that little stroll had pretty much assured my welcome In the Mossy Creek community.
I met Mac Campbell, saw the cottage...and before the sun had gone down, I had signed a lease, had a set of keys, directions to the Piggly Wiggly (which, Mac explained with admirable self-control when I stared at him, was the grocery store) and a promise that he'd call first thing Monday morning to arrange to have the phone turned on.
So I unpacked the Toyota—and almost heard the poor car groan with relief—made up the bed so that I could fall into it as soon as I needed to, left a protesting Tweedle Dee in the living room, and trundled off to the Piggly Wiggly to get enough of the basics and frozen dinners to last me at least through the weekend.
I stayed vertical long enough to put the groceries away, make sure Tweedle had food and water, pull the most recent Sharyn McCrumb paperback out of the to-be-read box, and crawled into bed. I didn't manage to finish reading the back cover copy before I was sound asleep.
Over the weekend, Tweedle and I got acquainted with our new home. One room had a desk, two small bookcases and a phone jack—just about everything a wanna-be writer needed. I also went over to Hamilton's Department Store. When I trundled back to the cottage, my groaning Toyota held a small microwave, a CD/cassette/radio boom box, a touch-tone phone and a laptop computer and printer.
As soon as the phone was turned on the following week, I called Nadine to give her my new address and phone number.
"You're where?" Nadine said.
"Mossy Creek. In Georgia."
"Why are you in Georgia?"
"I was going to South Carolina, remember?"
"I remember. Where is Mossy Creek?"
"In Georgia," I repeated patiently.
"Where in Georgia?"
Long pause.
"Sorry," Nadine said. "Forgot who I was talking to. I'll look it up on a map. Tell me about the cottage and the town."
So I did. I told her about the little screened porch off the kitchen and the flower beds I could play in. I told her about the bookstore and the library, the potpourri and candle shop, the beauty salon, the coffee shop next door to a bakery and the bookstore.
"Sounds like you'll have everything you need," Nadine said, laughing. "And it sounds like you can't get too lost."
"Most of it's on Main Street."
"Uh huh."
I couldn't really take offense at this lack of optimism about my getting from one place to another. Before moving to Richmond, Nadine had lived in the same house for several years—and I got lost every single time I went to visit her. Come to think of it, that's probably the real reason she'd insisted that I keep in touch. She'd probably worried that I'd start out for South Carolina and end up in South Dakota.
The conversation ended with my getting her email address and promising to send her mine as soon as I got one.
All in all, it was a good beginning.

The following Monday, I began my new routine as writer wanna-be. After spending a little time over breakfast and writing an email to Nadine, I put a notebook and a couple of pens in my World Wildlife totebag and walked up to Main Street and the Naked Bean. I chatted a bit with Jayne Austin Reynolds, the owner, while she made my coffee and put shortbread cookies on a plate. Then I settled down at one of the little tables, opened my notebook and got to work.
I wanted to tell a story about romance and magic. I wanted a tall, handsome, dangerous hero. I wanted a powerful heroine who, in spite of herself, would swoon for the hero. Now, all I needed was a story to go with the things I wanted to put in it. I spent a happy hour making notes and getting nowhere. Then I went home for Irish whistle practice because Tweedle tended to get cranky if we didn't have whistle time together. During the afternoon, I did practical, mundane things, made more story notes, had dinner, then spent a leisurely evening reading and practicing the stories I had learned. That was my routine for the first week, with added stops at the bakery or bookstore on my way home from the Naked Bean.
The next week, things started to change, but I didn't recognize the moment when it happened.
I was in the Naked Bean, on my second cup of coffee, busily scribbling notes for my fantasy romance, when a woman and two children came in. The boy started making a commotion, waving his arms around and telling his sister something about being "this big."
I glanced up, saw  the distracted look on Jayne’s and the mother's faces and said to the boy, "I knew of a frog once that tried to puff himself up to be 'this big.' It didn't turn out well for him."'
"Yeah?" the boy challenged.
So I launched into the Aesop's Fable about the frog who tried to prove to other frogs that he could puff himself up as big as a cow and puffed himself up so much he blew up.
The girl made a face and said, "Ewwww."
The boy wanted to know how far the frog’s guts splattered.
"Far," I said solemnly. "Really, really far."
He grinned at me.
The mother, having concluded her transaction with Jayne, gathered up her children and left.
Jayne placed a fresh cup of coffee on the table. "You didn't mention you were a storyteller as well as a story writer." 
"Oh, I'm—" Something inside me stifled the denial, something that asked, If not now; when? "—pretty much a beginner." 
"You did real well."
I felt a warm little glow and left the shop without a suspicion in the world. Shows you how much I knew.
Over the next few days, when a customer came into the Naked Bean while I was there, Jayne would call out, 
"Laurie, we were just talking about such-and-such. Do you know a story about that?" A lot of times I did, since I'd learned a goodly number of short folk tales and fables. So I would tell the story and go back to my struggle to do something with my hero and heroine.
Then, one morning, Jayne said, "I was thinking it might be fun to have a little story program here one evening. Just a few stories, some coffee and treats. Something like that."
'"That does sound like fun," I said enthusiastically.
"How's Thursday evening?"
"Sounds good. Who's telling stories?"
"You are." Jayne went back to her counter.
I bolted from my chair and followed her. "But ...But I've never actually told to an audience before."
"Won't be an audience. Just a few people I'll mention it to when they come into the shop. You can just tell the stories you've already told." 
"But I've already told them."
"Only one or two people have heard each one. So the other stories will be new. Besides, it would be a little something extra for the shop." 
That clinched it, I hadn't known her long, but I thought of Jayne as a friend, and I could do this to help a friend.
I trotted home to email a couple of people from the storytelling group I belonged to, asking for tips on telling to an audience—which it wouldn't be, since, as Jayne had pointed out, the news about the storytelling program would be spread by word of mouth.
Jayne hadn't mentioned that all it took was telling the right person or two for the whole town to know about it.
So Thursday evening arrived. So did the audience. My nerves bounced on the ceiling as the place began to fill with people. There was Maggie Hart and her mother, Millicent, as well as Maggie's friend, Tag Garner. There was Hank and Casey Blackshear. There was Sandy Crane and her husband Jess, who had come in his capacity as a reporter for the Mossy Creek Gazette. There was Pearl Quinlan, who owned the bookstore, and Ingrid Beechum, who had provided some of the treats for the evening. Even Ida Hamilton Walker, the mayor, showed up. So did Amos Royden, Chief of Police. There were more people there, way too many people there, but I didn't know them. I wasn't sure which was worse—making a debut in front of strangers, or telling stories to the people I knew.
The one thing I was sure of is I would have run out the door and kept going if I could have gotten through the crowd. Which is probably why Jayne had put the "stage" area as far from the door as possible.
So I told my stories. And I survived telling my stories. And people made a point of telling me they'd enjoyed the stories—including Chief Royden, who also inquired after Tweedle Dee. I even survived people saying they were looking forward to coming back next Thursday.
"Next Thursday?" I whispered frantically to Jayne.
"We'll talk about it when you come by in the morning ."
I had a pretty good idea how the conversation would go—and it did. I had a week to come up with a new set of stories. Oh, help.
The Saturday after my storytelling debut, I stared at my laptop's screen, then slumped in frustration.
"My hero is tall, dark and dangerous," I muttered. "How could he be boring?"
Cht mumbled Tweedle Dee. He was busy tugging on the gold chain attached to the tiger eye pendant.
"Right," I said sourly. "He's not small, blue and fluffy. How could he not lie boring?"
Cht
I'd been wearing that pendant, along with a long, scooped-neck dress, to try to get into the heroine's skin, so to speak. But Tweedle couldn't resist playing with my jewelry and kept landing on my chest. Unfortunately, bare skin doesn't provide anything to hold onto. After the second time he slid headfirst into my bra, I took off the pendant and put it on the desk for him to play with.
So there he was, giving me his best innocent look with his beak and one foot filled with gold chain.
And something clicked.
I opened a new file and my fingers danced on the keyboard as I wrote the story of "Tweedle Dee and the Jewel Thieves." I had the setup (visiting my aunt, who owned a bed and breakfast on the coast of Maine). I had secondary characters (the sheriff, who was a friend of my aunt's, and two gentlemen, who were staying at the B&B while touring the area to research the water-worn caves that, according to local lore, had been used by pirates of old). I had the problem (a series of jewel heists in the surrounding towns). And I had Tweedle Dee, the Houdini of parakeets, who always managed to escape from his cage and hide somewhere convenient in order to go on an outing with me.
I had my second setup (a picnic on the small beach that was part of the B&B property). I had danger (Tweedle attracting the attention of a hungry gull and taking shelter in one of the caves). I had suspense (one of the guests entering that same cave and, upon whistling a particular sequence of notes, opening a hidden entrance behind which was a secret chamber filled with loot). I had more danger (the other gentlemen revealing A Clue that made my aunt and me realize her boarders were the jewel thieves) and an attempt to call for help on my aunt's cell phone, which was thwarted when the thieves realized they'd been found out. Then there was the climax, with the thieves threatening my aunt and me, and Tweedle, sensing his people were in danger, bravely leaving the cave and, flying for his life while being chased by a whole flock of gulls, zipping past one of the thieves at the same moment I flung the plate piled with the picnic scraps at one thief and my aunt scooped up a handful of potato salad and hit the other one right between the eyes. The gulls, having lost sight of the blue budgie lunch special, weren't about to give up the scraps, and the resulting food fight and birdy free-for-all successfully distracted the thieves until the sheriff's timely arrival with his deputies. The thieves were taken into custody, the cave was located and Tweedle was able to whistle the particular sequence of notes that opened the hidden door, thus revealing the secret chamber and helping the sheriff recover the loot.
It was the wee hours of the morning when, exhausted and gleeful, I ran off a copy of the story and made a backup copy on a disk. I put Tweedle back in his cage (he'd fallen asleep perched on top of the pendant) and fell into bed.
The next morning, I read the story. It stretched reality to the point of being a tall tale, and I doubted there was an editor anywhere who would take it, but...maybe I could tell it at the next Thursday evening storytelling program at the Naked Bean.
Energized by that thought, I spent most of the day working through the story while Tweedle preened his feathers and chirped encouragement.
On Monday, I went to the Naked Bean just to take a walk and get out of the cottage for a while. But I didn't stay as long as usual, being too eager to get back to working on the story,
By late morning, I took a break for whistle time, mostly because Tweedle Dee was making such a racket I couldn't talk over him. So I started out with the first songs "Twinkle, Twinkle Little Star," "On Top of Old Smokey," and "The Water Is Wide." They were the songs Tweedle whistled with me, joining in as a duet whenever I held a long note. Then I progressed to some of the new songs I was practicing. Or tried to. I was still having a lot of trouble hitting the notes in the next octave. Giving in to a need to vent a little, I took a deep breath and blew into the whistle, which sent Tweedle into a tizzy.
Or maybe it was the banging on the front door that set him off.
I dropped the whistle on a chair and hurried to the front door, reaching it at the same time Amos Royden, Chief of Police, opened the door and started to step into my little hallway.
We stared at each other.
"I was passing by and heard your smoke alarm go off," Chief Royden said. "I thought you might need some help."
"Smoke alarm?" I said blankly.
He frowned. "It's stopped now."
I felt my lace get really really hot. "Oh. That wasn't the smoke alarm. That was 'D.'"
He looked puzzled. "Dee? The bird?"
Cht cht cht
A free-flying budgie and an open door weren't a good combination, so I stepped back and said, "Won't you come in, Chief Royden?"
Leading the way into the living room, I picked up the whistle. I played a note. Or tried to. "D."
He didn't look puzzled any more. But he didn't have time to say anything because Tweedle Dee shot off the top of his cage and flew toward us at a height that would have let him land on the top of my head but was a collision course with Chief Royden's nose.
The Chief ducked. As he straightened up, Tweedle circled around to land on his shoulder.
"Tweedle Dee, Tweedle Dee, Tweedle Dee is me," Tweedle Dee said happily.
"Hey, Tweedle Dee," Chief Royden replied cautiously.
Deciding to show his favor, Tweedle whistled. Twinkle Twinkle Little Star," sour notes and all. Then, having done his share of entertaining our guest, he flew back to his cage to see if I'd put anything in the treat dish since the last time he'd checked.
"Are you going to arrest me?" I asked.
His eyes were twinkling again. "For imitating a smoke alarm with a penny whistle?"
"No, for assaulting a police officer with a budgie."
Amos Royden laughed. "I like you, Laurie Grey."
I like you, too. "Thanks for stopping by, Chief."
He accepted the dismissal and left.
I knew I was giving mixed signals, and I knew he was puzzled by it. It wasn't because I didn't like him, it was because I did. But that wasn't something I wanted to explain, so if I couldn't help giving mixed signals, I could be kind enough to keep my distance whenever possible.
Tweedle Dee and the Jewel Thieves was a rousing success on Thursday evening. Amos Royden was there, but he left after telling me it was a fine story. I didn't think anyone else paid attention to his quick departure.
Shows you how much I knew about things like that.
The next morning, still feeling that warm little glow of success, I sauntered up to the Naked Bean and noticed the new sign in the window
LAURIE GREY, STORYTELLER THURSDAY EVENINGS AT 7 P.M.
That was definitely a warm fuzzy. It was the rest of the sign that had me whimpering,
FOLK TALES FABLES FURTHER ADVENTURES OF TWEEDLE DEE
As I rushed into the shop, Jayne looked at me and grinned. "Morning, Laurie. How do you like the sign?" 
"It’s great," I stammered. "It's wonderful. Really, But..." 
"But?"
"But I don't have another Tweedle Dee story," I wailed.
Now, a rational, reasonable person who was also a friend would say something like, "Oh. Golly. I didn't think of that. I'll change the sign right away." Or, "I just needed to fill up the space. No one will notice what stories you tell."
A rational, reasonable person who was also a friend would say something like that, wouldn't she?
What Jayne said was, "Then you'd better sit down and start writing, because folks are expecting another Tweedle Dee story on Thursday." 
I slumped my way to "my" table, opened my notebook and stared at a page as blank as my mind. Actually, my mind was blanker. At least the page had those nice blue lines running across it.
I drew a square and filled it in. I turned the square into a box and cross-hatched the other sides for shading. I drew a few spirals. I was working on something viney going all the way up the margin when Jayne brought over a cup of her specialty coffee and a couple of shortbread cookies. "You're not writing," she said. 
"I'm thinking."
"You're not thinking, you're just doodling." 
"These are thinking doodles," I said darkly.
Guess I don't do darkly well, because Jayne just said "Uh huh" and went about her work.
I filled three pages with thinking doodles before I gave up and sulked my way back home to face an empty screen that didn't even have nice blue lines going across it. But the laptop did have a paint program, so I spent the afternoon making computer-generated doodles.
Over the weekend, I heard a whisper of something that gave me hope of finding another Tweedle Dee story, so Monday morning I was at the Naked Bean almost as soon as Jayne opened her doors. Amos Royden had gotten there before me.
Sure that he would have the answer, I practically pounced on him—which he didn't seem to mind until I said, "What do you know about the Ten-Cent Gypsy?"
Jayne spilled coffee beans all over the counter, and Amos Royden got this look on his face, like someone who thought he'd been given a cookie and just discovered he'd swallowed a small toad.
Before I could explain that I'd overheard the words "Ten-Cent Gypsy" and thought I could use it in a Tweedle-goes-adventuring-at-a-carnival story if I could just find out what it was, Amos muttered something that sounded like, "ThankyouGladtobehere," and was out the door.
Turning to Jayne, I said, "What did he say?"
Apparently cleaning up spilled coffee beans causes temporary deafness because all I got at the Naked Bean that morning was coffee and too many shortbread cookies.
I decided to try again on Tuesday afternoon when I did a storytelling program at the Magnolia Manor Nursing Home—an engagement that had been arranged by Eustene Oscar, whose mother was a resident of the home.
After the program, I stopped to chat with Eustene, who just happened to be visiting her mother in time for the storytelling program. I tried to steer the conversation to the Ten-Cent Gypsy while Eustene kept steering it toward what a fine—and unattached—man Amos Royden was.
Finally I sighed. "You're not going to tell me, are you?"
Eustene just smiled.
"It s because I'm a Yankee, isn't it?"
She patted my arm and said, "You're too Southern to be a Yankee."
On the way home, I kept thinking that would be a great line for a story if I could figure out what it meant.

Tuesday evening, I was channel surfing, which usually drives me batty, and muttering about people who put roadblocks in the way of creative flow.
"You started this," I told Tweedle Dee, who was fluffed and comfy on the arm of the couch. "You come up with something."
He didn't even cht at me, so I went back to channel surfing—until I came to an old Western. I have no idea what it was, but there were cowboys and cattle and—
"That's it!" I yelled, jumping up and startling Tweedle so much he fell off the couch. 
I shut off the TV, ran into the other room and fired up the laptop, completely ignoring Tweedle as he chittered and scolded me for scaring him.
That evening I wrote "Tweedle Dee and the Stampede," about how, during a visit to a friend who was working on a cattle ranch one summer, Tweedle prevented a troop of Boy Scouts doing an overnight Boy Scout thingie from being trampled by a herd of cattle by bravely flying off into the night to soothe the restless herd by whistling "Twinkle Twinkle Little Star" all night long.
When I told that story on Thursday night, I had a good idea of how many people in the audience had heard Tweedle whistle that tune by how hard they laughed.
I called Nadine over the weekend, and when I got done telling her the story, she said, "How come I don't get to be in a Tweedle Dee story?" So I wrote one about Tweedle staying with Nadine while I went off to a storytelling workshop and she got to play Dr. Watson to a little blue Sherlock Holmes. Or maybe it was a little blue Lassie. It was hard to tell sometimes.
I sent her a copy of it and got back an email full of those shorthand thingies emailers use that I could never completely translate, but the gist of it was she liked the story.
That story also established me as Mossy Creek's resident storyteller. Besides weekly programs at the Naked Bean and Magnolia Manor, I started doing an every-other-week storytime at the library. I told stories during the Fourth of July festivities and a ghost story night in the town square in August. As the seasons changed, I did programs at the school, told Halloween stories at Pearl Quinlan's bookstore, told Thanksgiving stories at a special storytime at the library—and I was there to celebrate a Mossy Creek Christmas.
I spent Christmas evening quietly at home with Tweedle Dee, having already made merry for most of the day. While I lay on the couch watching It's a Wonderful Life, with Tweedle snuggled up on my chest so that his little head rested against my chin, I realized I'd gotten the gift I d wanted most. I'd gotten my pocket of time. And while I never did write that romantic epic, I'd written my Tweedle Dee stories, sweet and silly things that they were, and had amused and entertained people with them—and had been able to see and share that pleasure with the people who had become so very special to me.
And I tried not to wonder too much about what Amos Royden thought of the Christmas present I'd left for him at the police station. It was one of my favorite Celtic CDs. I wasn't even sure why I'd given it to him, except that I sometimes found myself wishing for a different ending, and I wanted to leave something for him to remember me by.
I wanted to leave something for the rest of Mossy Creek, too—some tangible legacy that wouldn't fade away with memory. Just before I dozed off, I realized I could do just that.

All through the winter months, I wrote Tweedle Dee stories. I polished them and practiced them, preparing each one to add to my legacy. I told friends I was indulging in a "creative liberation" as a way to explain why I was spending more and more time at home—and also as a way of explaining why I was doing storytelling programs every other week at the Naked Bean and Magnolia Manor Nursing home and why, with regret, I was turning down other requests for storytelling programs. I still went to the Naked Bean a couple mornings a week to sit for an hour and watch the world, but I drove over instead of walking the short distance. And if Jayne or another friend asked if I was feeling all right, I would smile and say I was tired, just tired.
The grace of a lie—and the grace of friends who accept it while suspecting it's a lie.
And then came the day when I barely had the strength to get out of bed. Too many storytelling programs. Too many late nights. I'd been working too hard. I was tired, just tired. That's what I told myself while I used the walls to support my unsteady progress to the bathroom and then to the kitchen.
I knew that wasn't true. I hadn't expected to see another Christmas, let alone ring in another new year or see the spring flowers bloom. Now there was no denying that the bus on the Reaper & Scythe line only had a few more stops before it got to me.
But there was still enough time. There had to be enough time.
I felt a little stronger after some toast and orange juice—strong enough to call the sound studio in Bigelow and arrange to have the use of a recording room and a sound engineer for the three days I estimated I would need for what I wanted to do. They couldn't accommodate me until the following week, so I made the other phone calls—one to Dr. Champion’s office to set up an appointment as soon as possible, one to my former doctor’s office to have my medical records available and one to Mac Campbell.
While I waited to go to the various appointments, I made out careful lists.
I saw Dr. Champion. There was nothing he could do except be the physician of record for what would come.
I saw Mac Campbell. There were things he could do—and he did them.
I also stopped at the police station and gave Sandy, the police dispatcher, a set of keys to the cottage.
I'm going out of town for a few days," I said in explanation, "and I'd feel better if someone had a spare set."I
Neither of us mentioned that Mac, as the attorney for the cottage's owner, already had a spare set.
"Do you need someone to feed Tweedle Dee?" Sandy asked.
"No, I won't be gone for more than two or three days. He'll have plenty of food and water for that long."
And we left it at that.

The following week, I set off bright and early one morning and made the twenty-minute drive to Bigelow. I'd found a hotel a few blocks from the sound studio and had booked a room so that I could save my strength. It was a wise thing to do. I worked hard during those days, and crawled back to the hotel each evening. By the afternoon of the third day, I'd done what I'd wanted to do.
And when it was done, I told the men in the studio what I wanted, and when I needed to have it. And I told them why.
Now, I’d heard enough to know about the feud between Bigelowans and Mossy Creekites, but I received nothing but courtesy from those men. Maybe it's because I was a transplanted Yankee and not a native Mossy Creekite. Maybe it's because they couldn't look into my eyes without seeing the truth of what I was saying. Or maybe it's because there are some things even a long-standing feud stands aside for. Whatever the reason, they promised I would have everything I needed by the agreed-upon date.
So I packed my bag, checked out of the hotel and went home.
Tweedle Dee was frantically happy to see me, since he'd never been left alone before. I let him out, gave him fresh food and water, and got into a clean nightgown. He followed me from room to room, as if he didn't trust me not to disappear again.
I forced myself to heat up and eat a bowl of soup. Then I crawled into bed.
Tweedle settled on the pillow beside my head. As I fell asleep, I felt him give my chin a little nibble kiss and heard him softly whistling "Twinkle Twinkle Little Star."

I hoarded my strength like a miser over the next few weeks, and when help was offered, I didn't turn it down.
Sandy Crane came by and helped me clean the cottage. Or, rather, she cleaned and I helped by staying out of the way. Jayne came by with rolls from Reechum's bakery, and shortbread cookies and chamomile tea from the Naked Bean. Pearl came by with new paperbacks and meals from Mama's All You Can Eat Café.
And Mac Campbell came by with the papers I needed to sign, assuring me he'd already taken care of the other things I'd asked of him.
I didn't see Amos Royden. I wasn't sure I wanted to. Besides, from what Jayne and Sandy had told me, Amos had his own problems in the form of a close encounter with the furry kind.
Finally, the evening came when I called Nadine. A hard phone call for both of us, but I was glad to talk to her one last time.

The package from the sound studio arrived on the promised day. I called Mac, and he picked up the package and promised to mail the padded envelope I'd addressed to Nadine.
That night, I packed a small bag with a clean nightgown, a change of clothes and two favorite paperbacks. I hung my favorite dress and the tiger-eye pendant on the closet door where they would be easy to find.
The next morning, I called Sandy at the police station.
"Morning, Laurie," Sandy said.
"Do you still have that extra set of keys I gave you?"
There was a slight hesitation before she said, "We've got them.''' Which made me wonder who had them.
"Laurie? Is there something I can do for you?"
"You could call the paramedics—and Dr. Champion, if you wouldn't mind."
She didn't ask me why. She didn't have to.
"Boo and Andy will be there as soon as they can," Sandy said.
"Thanks. Good-bye, Sandy."
I put down the phone and gathered my strength. I had one more good-bye to make.
Tweedle Dee was silent when I opened his cage. He didn't hop out as he usually did. He just politely stepped up on my offered finger. I lifted him up so that we could look at each other.
"You've been a good friend, Tweedle Dee," I said softly. "I wish I could have stayed around longer for you. But these are good people. You'll do all right here." 
As I started to lower my arm, he stretched his neck in order to give my chin a last nibble kiss. 
I put him back in his cage. As I closed the cage door, I heard Boo and Andy pulling into the driveway.

Seeing Hank Blackshear heading toward me. I waited on the sidewalk outside the police station, dreading the conversation I'd already had a dozen times that day. 
"Afternoon, Amos," Hank said. 
"Afternoon, Hank."
Hank scuffed his shoe on the hot summer sidewalk. "It was a nice service." 
"Yeah."
"We were all pleased that her friend could make it down for the funeral."
 "Yeah, Nadine is a nice lady."
"Mac said you asked him to play the bagpipes at the service."
"Laurie liked Celtic music. It wasn't an Irish whistle, but it was the best we could do."I waited, knowing the question I dreaded most was coming.
 "How’s Tweedle Dee?"
Because Hank was Mossy Creek's vet, I told the truth for the first time that day. "He's grieving. He was all right, pretty much, for those few days she was in the hospital. I think he thought he was just visiting until she came back. But,.," I sighed. "He stopped eating the day of the funeral. He just went into a corner of his cage and hasn't come out since." 
Hank shook his head sadly. "Little bird like that won't last long once he stops eating." 
"I know it."
"Have you.. .Have you thought about finding him another place to live?"
I shook my head. "He's all right where he is—at least until we know if he's going to stay around." 
"You need anything, you call me."
I just nodded, got into my Jeep and went home. I had already lost Dog that summer. I wasn't going to give up on Tweedle Dee easily. I walked into my living room slowly. Not that it would make any difference. Crouching down in front of the cage, I said softly, "Hey, Tweedle Dee." No response. Tweedle Dee just continued to face the back corner of his cage.
"She wouldn't have wanted you to grieve like this. She wouldn't want you joining her so soon. It would break her heart to see you like this." Nothing,
Sighing, I stood up, went into the kitchen for a beer, then came back to the living room.
Laurie had made five sets of the two CDs that contained her Tweedle Dee stories. One set had been mailed to her friend Nadine. One set, with a CD player Mac had purchased at her request, had gone to Jayne at the Naked Bean. Another set with CD player had gone to Magnolia Manor. Another, along with a CD player and all of her books, had been donated to the library. The last set hadn't been specified for a particular person, so I'd taken them.
I thought I understood now why she'd given me the CD of Celtic music at Christmas. Her way of sharing something of herself in the only way she felt she could under the circumstances.
Nothing I could do about that, but...
I went over to the table that held Tweedle Dee's inheritance.
She'd set up a trust fund for her little friend so that his new person wouldn't have to worry about covering any vet bills down the road. Besides that, the inheritance was an Irish whistle and songbooks, a CD player… and a CD that was simply labeled, for Tweedle Dee. Setting down my beer, I opened the jewel case, put the CD in the player and turned it on. A few seconds of silence... then an Irish whistle playing "Twinkle Twinkle Little Star." I looked over at the cage. No response from Tweedle Dee.
I listened for a few minutes as one song followed another. Then I couldn't listen anymore and walked out of the room. But I kept coming back during the evening to turn the CD on again. Disappointed that the little bird didn't respond, I finally went to bed.
The next morning, before I left for work, I turned on the CD. When I got home that night and went to give Tweedle Dee fresh food and water, I noticed the bird was still in the back corner, but there was a small bare patch on the spray of millet attached to the side of the cage, and there were seed husks in the food dish. Not many, but enough to give me hope.
For the rest of the week, I turned on the CD before I left for work. Each evening, Tweedle Dee was still in the corner, still wouldn't respond, but there were more bare patches on the spray of millet and more seed husks in the dish.
On Saturday, I turned on the coffee maker before going into the living room to give Tweedle Dee fresh food and water. I turned on the CD, then went back to the kitchen for my coffee.
By the time I got back to the doorway of the living room, the song was "The Water is Wide." As the Irish whistle held a long note, I heard a soft, hesitant da-da, da-da, da-da sour note.
I stayed where I was, out of sight. As the songs progressed to the Irish/Celtic tunes Laurie had learned more recently, there were no more whistling duets. But in the pauses between the songs, I heard the scratching of a beak selectively picking out seeds.
Finally, when the CD ended, I heard a quiet, sad two-note chirrup, like a question that had been asked over and over again—and an answer was no longer expected.
Setting my coffee mug on the floor, I slowly walked into the living room. Tweedle Dee, perched on his food dish, just watched me.
I crouched in front of the cage,
"Tweedle Dee, Tweedle Dee, Tweedle Dee is me," said Tweedle Dee in a hesitant little voice.
Smiling, I said, "Hey, Tweedle Dee."		

The Bell Ringer
When We Look At The Stars
by Katie Bell
There's a legend in Mossy Creek that I'd like to share with newcomers before you read any further. This land belonged to the Cherokee Indians before we drove them out. Only a few Cherokee families managed to stay here. But that's a story for another column.
Legend has it that a pioneer girl was rescued from bandits by the Cherokees. The Indians took her in, named her Shooting Star, and claimed her as their own. She grew up as the chief’s favorite daughter, married a man of royal blood and together they ruled their tribe. She became a Beloved Woman, which is a title of great respect among the Cherokee.
The night she died, a flock of tiny, bright-colored birds came down from the sky and settled in the trees. When night fell, instead of roosting, they began to chatter, flew across the full moon and disappeared. Some say they were singing as they escorted her soul to the land of her ancestors. I prefer to think she followed them into the sky and began dancing among the stars.
The storytellers of Mossy Creek claim that's where the children's nursery rhyme, Twinkle, twinkle little star came from.
I don't know about that, but I can definitely tell you that there's a lot happening in Mossy Creek this summer, and so maybe a little star-gazing can help us see the light.

"A friend is someone who knows the song in your heart and can sing it back to you when you have forgotten the words."
— Unknown