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Tinker Bell does not live in Aspen

Dear Editor:

She visits. But she doesn’t live here.

Neither does Captain Hook. He can’t get the gang blank down.



Peter Pan does, though.

He has a little green house with a pointy green roof like his hat.




His hat is different from Robin Hood’s.

Robin has a thing about who’s rich and who’s poor, he checks at the door.

But Peter doesn’t. He serves everyone. You can play boule in his court any time.

It’s sunny often.

His body stays boyish, his belly only a little softer in winter.

He’s shorter than the Jolly Green Giant, but they get on well.

They eat mostly green stuff. It turns cheeks red.

Peter splashes in the swimming pool late at night with the bears, when they come down the mountain to feast from gourmet trash bins.

He nods in conversation about the stock market, as if he knows. But he doesn’t.

Money appears in the fruit bowl on his table and he gives it away.

He spends just enough time with the fairies, sifting particles from the air to keep it clear.

But he’s good at hanging in bars.

When someone hurts, he holds them as long as they need, if he’s had enough sleep.

He grooms horses, plays poker with dragons, and will stay up all night debating if need be, even with a unicorn or a dragon.

He winks at monsters, wrestles wart hogs, curtails marauding conquerors, amuses judges, assures lost knights, dances with aging princesses, justifies angry sons and daughters, forgives the accused, smiles when a former senator gets drunk and bellows ubiquitous at her side.

Does he ever lose his temper, you ask? Of course. That’s what makes some of the pine trees gnarly in places. But he cools down and sulks alone, then thinks of Paradise and eventually remembers that it is maintained, not JUST spontaneously combusted, though that works when one is right on center.

His driveway is painted gold to make people happy, but underneath is pure, good ole dirt.

He goes to city meetings. He sits in a rocker or stands in the corner, arms folded, piping up

on occasion.

He truly loves all the interesting people who come to visit AND

likes it when town empties when the snow melts.

He has one job he takes seriously – if need be.

He checks the Magic stream flowing down from the Stars.

If it gets clogged here or there like a chimney sometimes does, he tweaks or clinks or plunges or brushes. Does whatever it takes. Complains if it happens frequently, you

can tell by the way the chipmunks who live in his garden wall shake their tiny paws toward the ground and roll their eyes up toward the sky.

Are you wondering, like I did, who loves HIM?

Anyone who notices the little green shoes with the curly toes.

Don’t forget to tell him you love him, when he passes by.

That Magic’s awful important.

Sarah Pletts

Aspen

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