The Fairy Tree

I climbed my first tree when I was four years old. It was a gnarled old Jacaranda which bordered our pretty little suburban home in Khumalo, Bulawayo, in a then-sane kind of Zimbabwe.

The reason for my climb was not altogether my own idea. “If you climb up the tree…” said older sister Vivien, a very mature and grown up 10 year-old with red curls and a temperament to match, “you will be able to see Fairyland.”

Our mom had read us books filled with deliciously magical fairy tales, and the mere thought of actually seeing the glittering towers of Fairyland sent me scurrying up the tree; ably assisted by my older sister, who shoved me onto the first branches. Her evil grin was not seen, as my eyes were looking to the top of the tree she told me to head for.

I saw the silvery towers and the clouds, and I was enchanted!

Much later, and having indeed fallen (though not badly) on my descent, my mother soothed me, punished the vengeful sister, and explained that it wasn’t Fairyland I saw, but towers of a cement factory. She insisted on advising me that Fairyland was just a fun place we imagine when we cuddle up and listen to stories at bedtime. I did not believe her. Nor did I believe my sister was my sister: she was a witch, hell-bent on my ultimate destruction.

I refused to believe Fairyland was not real.

I am the mother of three adult children who can attest to the fact that their childhood was centered around exploring their environment, and then building on that to create their own fairyland.

Our huge Mimosa tree, the tree they all played under as little ones in our Johannesburg home, was a ‘fairy tree.’ It happily grew mushrooms for them at its base. As a dutiful mom, I explained that these mushrooms were fungi which must not be eaten, but whose cousins from the friendly greengrocer shop could be eaten, and indeed were. These mushrooms were also tables for the fairies who lived in a hollow in the kindly tree. The children understood that these ‘little folk’ hid away and could never be seen unless they were seen in the mind’s eye. This was an easy concept for the children; for as we know, children’s minds are veritable theatres of everything imaginable.

I utilised the fairy home in the tree for many magical occasions, such as a receiving centre for the precious baby teeth my children lost. As soon as a baby tooth fell out (or was yanked out, as my son preferred to do to his little sister per a length of string and a slammed door), the tooth was dutifully placed in a little box with a note to the Tree Tooth Fairy and placed on a branch. After they were asleep, I would dip a 50 cent coin in glue and then glitter, and place it in a matchbox which, too, was covered in glitter. I’d add a teeny thank you note, and in the note I would comment on the clean lovely tooth that came from such a good child who brushed his/her teeth! I knew this was a gross manipulation, but what the heck?

The little matchbox – with its gift of a magical coin, and even more magical fairy letter – would be discovered the following morning with sheer delight by the recently gap-toothed child, with a lisped whisper, “Oh Mommy, LOOK!”

The fairy tree also served as a marker for animal funerals. Two dogs, three cats, a few goldfish and a box full of murdered silkworms had been sent to a Fairy Afterworld with serious pomp and ceremony, and little crosses marked their graves.

The children had decided that their pets had to be Christian, even though ours was a Jewish home. This was debated and voted on, based on the fact that the making of a cross with two twigs tied together was infinitely easier than trying to create a Star of David. However, the appropriate words were said at each funeral, urging the Fairy Gods to consider them Jewish creatures, and provide the necessary kosher meals.

The Fairy Tree was also the place where serious commitments were made. The heart-rending handing over of dummies (pacifiers) by each child at approximately age three was done here. We would solemnly ask the fairies to accept the ultimate gifts of love for their baby fairies, and then the treasured ‘kiddie tranquiliser’ would be offered in a dutifully decorated box, placed high up for the fairy moms to collect later.

My husband or I would role play ‘Dummy Fairy,’ and seize the box with its precious cargo. Then a little treasure -possibly a small toy or a chocolate – would be left on the deranged-and-traumatised-but-now-sleeping child’s pillow as a thank you for the greatest gift a three year old could give. In the morning, I would crow with delight together with the excited, still-suffering, addicted child and say, “You see? The fairy mom is SO HAPPY! WELL DONE!’

Weddings happened under the tree, too. Nikki married Wayne; Michelle married Greg; and Jonny who thought weddings were silly, waited until he was 35 to change his mind.

When the band struck up and my princesses of Fairyland took to the dance floor on the arms of their Fairy Princes, I was returned to that treetop in Bulawayo where I did, indeed, look straight into the very heart of Fairyland. My sister had told the truth after all.

Gill Katz is the accomplished author of two children’s books, multiple TV series, a theatre production and a magazine. She is also the mother of three grown-up children – one of them Michelle from They Call Me Mummy.