Magic
By Edie Williams
July 15, 2024
July 15, 2024
Magic words are a powerful form of communication with children. Use these words often, and the magic wears off. Use them to solve multiple problems, and the words become commonplace. But, used to solve one intractable problem, magic words will make a difference.
When my daughter Rachel was four years old, she began having difficulties falling asleep. Like most kids that age, she wanted to stay up and have more playtime. She would drag out the process of getting ready for bed with multiple pleas for one more story or another drink of water. Once we completed the night-time routine and tucked her in bed, she would talk or sing to herself and then come running to me, complaining that she couldn’t sleep. This night-time habit, at times, was disruptive and resulted in crankiness the next day, and that’s when the power of magic words was discovered. I explained that magic would always work but took a minute to kick in. Before I said the magic words, she needed to find a comfortable spot in the bed and close her eyes. Then I would pull up the blankets, tuck her in for the second time that night, and say gibberish words with great majesty. Magicians, beware; it is vital to prepare and say the exact nonsensical words every time you use them; otherwise, the magic won’t work.
In my lifetime, I’ve had the privilege of knowing two people, Elwood and Gloria, whose use of magic made them unique. I was in fifth grade when I met Elwood, a Northville State Hospital patient, and a man with a head full of magic stories.
Needing extra income to establish our farm, Dad worked as a night watchman on the hospital grounds. Over time, he became friends with the staff and arranged to take a few patients fishing under the railroad bridge at nearby Waterford Pond. My job of handing out bamboo fishing poles and hooking worms allowed me to meet Elwood and his magical-thinking comrades. They were a rag-tag group of guys sitting with their fishing poles in folding chairs at the pond’s edge, lost in their private worlds of magic.
Elwood sat down next to me. Fiddling with a squirming worm, he contorted his mouth, opening it wide and moving his lips and cheeks back and forth while I waited for his thoughts to burst into words.
“Been living at Northville for a time,” he began.
Not knowing what to say, I nodded.
“I limp when I walk,” he continued.
“I noticed, but it’s more of a shuffle.”
“Yup,” he said, trying to hook the worm.
“Need help with that,” I asked.
Ignoring my offer, he asked, “Know how I got that limp?”
“How?”
“I fell off the top of the Empire State Building, and the doctor sewed me up wrong.”
“Really,” I replied, accepting his weird behavior as expected for someone from Northville State Hospital. “You manage it well. I hardly noticed. Where are you from?”
“Parma, Ohio. Say, you ever been to the Toledo Zoo?”
“Nope. Grandpa took me to the Detroit Zoo last year, but I’ve never been to Toledo.”
The worm finally hooked; he threw his line into the pond, squared his shoulders, and asked, “In the Toledo Zoo, what is the animal closest to Broadway Street?”
“I have no idea.”
“It’s the seal,” he exclaimed.
Holding his head sideways as if listening to something, he reached into his jacket pocket and pulled out a wad of papers topped with an Ipana Toothpaste advertisement. “Look,” he said, shoving the wad at me. Pulling a small bit of paper from the wad, he waved it in front of my face and said, “It’s written down, so it must be true.”
In the fall of 1953, Elwood began working and living on our farm. He may have been the first person in Michigan’s mental health system to be released into what we today call Adult Foster Care.
“I thought he could help me care for our pigs,” Dad said. “It took a bit to convince hospital staff to allow him a day pass and help me for a few weekends.”
The arrangement worked, and he became our farmhand full-time. Dad converted a small shed behind the barn into a bunkhouse with bedroom furnishings and a wood stove. For his labor, Elwood was given fifteen dollars a week and a pig he named Marge to raise. When Marge was sold at the market, Elwood received the profit.
Mom insisted Elwood bathe twice weekly and wash his face and hands before each meal. Elwood would loudly complain, telling her he was allergic to cold water. Washing completed, Elwood would sit at the table, move his jaw, purse his lips with a grimace, and take out his story wad. Thumbing through the wad, he regaled us with magical stories about his past. At the end of each recitation, he’d often ask, “Do you know which animal at the Toledo Zoo is closest to Broadway?”
In unison, we’d shout, “The seal.”
Elwood was always surprised we knew the answer.
It was Christmas morning that cemented his place in our family.
“Merry Christmas,” I overheard Elwood say as he slammed the back door, stomped the snow, and mucked off his boots onto the kitchen floor.
“Looky there,” he continued, “Santa filled all the kids’ stockings. I never heard him last night. I tried to stay awake.”
Wait, does Elwood believe in Santa Claus?
“I’ve never laid eyes on Santa either,” Dad replied, “but Elwood, I think he left something for you.”
This was news, and I jumped out of bed and headed for the kitchen.
Elwood slid his jaw back and forth and stuck out the tip of his tongue. “Hey, whatcha doing up so early?”
Grabbing my filled stocking, I pushed the one marked Elwood toward him. “Here, this one is for you.”
With a thud, Elwood sat down and reached for his stocking. “Ain’t never got one of these before.”
“Not even as a child?” I asked.
“Maybe. I can’t remember. Sometimes, things don’t work quite right in my head.”
“Well, Santa left this stocking for you.”
As I watched, Elwood emptied the sock, examining each item and piece of candy. Gleefully, he shook the Empire State Building snow globe. But his eyes bulged when he pulled out the gray stuffed seal toy. Elwood hollered and puckered his lips. “Can you believe it? Santa knows which animal in the Toledo Zoo is the closest to Broadway.” Reaching into his pocket, Elwood pulled out his story wad and thumbed through until he found the Seal story. “See,” he happily cackled, shoving the story across the table. “I wrote it down. Even Santa knows it’s true.”
By now, everyone was awake.
“Max,” Mom, wrapped up in a bathrobe, said, “Is the coffee ready?”
“Yup, percolating now. Give it three more minutes, and then pour a cup.”
“Mrs. Ellison, Santa knows about the Seal,” Elwood grinned as he pocketed the story wad.
“Well, what do you know,” Mom replied.
In 1966, my family sold the farm and moved to Bellaire, Michigan. Elwood was discharged from Northville State Hospital and went to live with his family in Ohio. I lived in Detroit and was a student at Wayne State University. As time went on, I forgot all about him. In 1968, I got a telephone call from my Dad, inviting me to a family reunion. I was told there would be a surprise guest. Elwood was our surprise. We hadn’t seen him for many years. He still held his head sideways as if listening to something the rest of us didn’t hear, and he contorted his jaw when trying to form words.
Elwood asked us if we knew what animal in the Toledo Zoo was closest to Broadway.
“The Seal,” we shouted.
Elwood was amazed we knew the answer.
I met Gloria on New Year’s Eve while employed as a psychiatric social worker in a large university hospital emergency room. It was half past eleven in the evening, just before the magic hour, when 1980 disappeared and 1981 began. She was brought into the Psychiatric Emergency Room by security, who had found her wandering about in the hospital parking lot, muttering to herself and appearing agitated. Gloria was a tall, gaunt woman with unkempt brown hair that ended above her shoulders. She wore a tasseled scarf wrapped around her head, several layers of baggy clothes, and a colorful skirt that swept the floor. Her bearing was almost regal.
Gloria’s medical file told me she was a mental health consumer and well-known street person who lived in a rooming house. Pacing back and forth, she started her story with magic words, “Hello, I’m Gloria. Help me solve a problem. To save let Gloria. First shrault and salt Gloria. Boss Gloria. Help me solve a problem.” She repeated her magic several times until she calmed down and took a seat.
“I tried to make a collect call to my husband,” she said and began to loosen her head scarf.
Nodding, I waited for her to continue.
“I wanted to wish my husband Happy New Year. But I didn’t have enough change.”
“Change?” I asked. “You were calling from a phone booth?”
She stared at me like I was from another planet.
“No,” she said, “I used the hospital lobby pay phone. I told the security guard what happened. Such a kind man. He offered to escort me here so I could speak with you.”
Her head scarf removed, Gloria began to fidget with the tassels and mutter a few of her magic words while I tried to maintain a calm demeanor.
“What’s wrong with wanting to talk with your husband on New Year’s Eve?”
“Nothing,” I replied. “I think it’s a fine idea.”
Gloria squared her shoulders and graced me with a smile. “I wanted to speak with my husband, and so I phoned him collect. But the Palace wouldn’t accept my collect call.”
“Palace?”
“Yes, the Palace in Jordan. The King is my husband. You know he’s married to an American, right? I wanted to see him when he visited the White House this year, but he had to leave on business before I could make travel arrangements.”
“I can understand how that would make anyone angry.”
“Anyone? I’m not anyone. Imagine how I felt when some palace lackey prevented me from speaking to my husband.”
After repeating her story several times, Gloria calmed down, thanked me for listening, and left.
Gloria rarely came into the Psychiatric Emergency Room but would call our crisis hotline when she had enough change. In her deep and somewhat raspy voice, she would start every call by saying, “Help me solve my problem. To save let Gloria. First shrault and salt Gloria. Boss Gloria. Help me solve my problem.” The rest of the conversation concerned what bothered her with an occasional repeat of the magic words.
The last time I saw her was on a humid Monday night. My family and I decided to eat dinner at a local German restaurant. After we were seated, I noticed Gloria sitting in the restaurant’s back booth. A waitress was serving her dinner. Gloria’s bearing was almost regal as she muttered between bites.
When a waitress arrived to take our order, I asked, “Who is that woman sitting in the back booth?”
“That’s Gloria,” the waitress replied. “For years, she’s been a Monday night guest here. She is served with respect and never charged for her meal.”
When Gloria had finished her meal, she passed by my table on her way to the door. Glancing in my direction, she nodded and gave me a regal smile. Then, Gloria left the building.
Over the years of working the evening shift in the psychiatric emergency room, I came face-to-face with magic in many forms. Some folks used magic to survive, while others seemed possessed by their magic. The older I became, the more I wished for magic words or pixie dust to alleviate my advancing years’ aches and pains. These days, however, the only magic available to me is in the form of old lady pills used to control my blood pressure or keep my arteries open. Real magic is only for the very special, like Elwood, Gloria, or the young.
I remember the night I received a call on the crisis hotline from my husband, Don. In the background, I could hear our 16-month-old daughter, Sadie, screaming in the bathtub because she was terrified that the baby shampoo used to wash her hair would burn her eyes.
Don yelled into my ear, “For God’s sake what are the magic words?”
When my daughter Rachel was four years old, she began having difficulties falling asleep. Like most kids that age, she wanted to stay up and have more playtime. She would drag out the process of getting ready for bed with multiple pleas for one more story or another drink of water. Once we completed the night-time routine and tucked her in bed, she would talk or sing to herself and then come running to me, complaining that she couldn’t sleep. This night-time habit, at times, was disruptive and resulted in crankiness the next day, and that’s when the power of magic words was discovered. I explained that magic would always work but took a minute to kick in. Before I said the magic words, she needed to find a comfortable spot in the bed and close her eyes. Then I would pull up the blankets, tuck her in for the second time that night, and say gibberish words with great majesty. Magicians, beware; it is vital to prepare and say the exact nonsensical words every time you use them; otherwise, the magic won’t work.
In my lifetime, I’ve had the privilege of knowing two people, Elwood and Gloria, whose use of magic made them unique. I was in fifth grade when I met Elwood, a Northville State Hospital patient, and a man with a head full of magic stories.
Needing extra income to establish our farm, Dad worked as a night watchman on the hospital grounds. Over time, he became friends with the staff and arranged to take a few patients fishing under the railroad bridge at nearby Waterford Pond. My job of handing out bamboo fishing poles and hooking worms allowed me to meet Elwood and his magical-thinking comrades. They were a rag-tag group of guys sitting with their fishing poles in folding chairs at the pond’s edge, lost in their private worlds of magic.
Elwood sat down next to me. Fiddling with a squirming worm, he contorted his mouth, opening it wide and moving his lips and cheeks back and forth while I waited for his thoughts to burst into words.
“Been living at Northville for a time,” he began.
Not knowing what to say, I nodded.
“I limp when I walk,” he continued.
“I noticed, but it’s more of a shuffle.”
“Yup,” he said, trying to hook the worm.
“Need help with that,” I asked.
Ignoring my offer, he asked, “Know how I got that limp?”
“How?”
“I fell off the top of the Empire State Building, and the doctor sewed me up wrong.”
“Really,” I replied, accepting his weird behavior as expected for someone from Northville State Hospital. “You manage it well. I hardly noticed. Where are you from?”
“Parma, Ohio. Say, you ever been to the Toledo Zoo?”
“Nope. Grandpa took me to the Detroit Zoo last year, but I’ve never been to Toledo.”
The worm finally hooked; he threw his line into the pond, squared his shoulders, and asked, “In the Toledo Zoo, what is the animal closest to Broadway Street?”
“I have no idea.”
“It’s the seal,” he exclaimed.
Holding his head sideways as if listening to something, he reached into his jacket pocket and pulled out a wad of papers topped with an Ipana Toothpaste advertisement. “Look,” he said, shoving the wad at me. Pulling a small bit of paper from the wad, he waved it in front of my face and said, “It’s written down, so it must be true.”
In the fall of 1953, Elwood began working and living on our farm. He may have been the first person in Michigan’s mental health system to be released into what we today call Adult Foster Care.
“I thought he could help me care for our pigs,” Dad said. “It took a bit to convince hospital staff to allow him a day pass and help me for a few weekends.”
The arrangement worked, and he became our farmhand full-time. Dad converted a small shed behind the barn into a bunkhouse with bedroom furnishings and a wood stove. For his labor, Elwood was given fifteen dollars a week and a pig he named Marge to raise. When Marge was sold at the market, Elwood received the profit.
Mom insisted Elwood bathe twice weekly and wash his face and hands before each meal. Elwood would loudly complain, telling her he was allergic to cold water. Washing completed, Elwood would sit at the table, move his jaw, purse his lips with a grimace, and take out his story wad. Thumbing through the wad, he regaled us with magical stories about his past. At the end of each recitation, he’d often ask, “Do you know which animal at the Toledo Zoo is closest to Broadway?”
In unison, we’d shout, “The seal.”
Elwood was always surprised we knew the answer.
It was Christmas morning that cemented his place in our family.
“Merry Christmas,” I overheard Elwood say as he slammed the back door, stomped the snow, and mucked off his boots onto the kitchen floor.
“Looky there,” he continued, “Santa filled all the kids’ stockings. I never heard him last night. I tried to stay awake.”
Wait, does Elwood believe in Santa Claus?
“I’ve never laid eyes on Santa either,” Dad replied, “but Elwood, I think he left something for you.”
This was news, and I jumped out of bed and headed for the kitchen.
Elwood slid his jaw back and forth and stuck out the tip of his tongue. “Hey, whatcha doing up so early?”
Grabbing my filled stocking, I pushed the one marked Elwood toward him. “Here, this one is for you.”
With a thud, Elwood sat down and reached for his stocking. “Ain’t never got one of these before.”
“Not even as a child?” I asked.
“Maybe. I can’t remember. Sometimes, things don’t work quite right in my head.”
“Well, Santa left this stocking for you.”
As I watched, Elwood emptied the sock, examining each item and piece of candy. Gleefully, he shook the Empire State Building snow globe. But his eyes bulged when he pulled out the gray stuffed seal toy. Elwood hollered and puckered his lips. “Can you believe it? Santa knows which animal in the Toledo Zoo is the closest to Broadway.” Reaching into his pocket, Elwood pulled out his story wad and thumbed through until he found the Seal story. “See,” he happily cackled, shoving the story across the table. “I wrote it down. Even Santa knows it’s true.”
By now, everyone was awake.
“Max,” Mom, wrapped up in a bathrobe, said, “Is the coffee ready?”
“Yup, percolating now. Give it three more minutes, and then pour a cup.”
“Mrs. Ellison, Santa knows about the Seal,” Elwood grinned as he pocketed the story wad.
“Well, what do you know,” Mom replied.
In 1966, my family sold the farm and moved to Bellaire, Michigan. Elwood was discharged from Northville State Hospital and went to live with his family in Ohio. I lived in Detroit and was a student at Wayne State University. As time went on, I forgot all about him. In 1968, I got a telephone call from my Dad, inviting me to a family reunion. I was told there would be a surprise guest. Elwood was our surprise. We hadn’t seen him for many years. He still held his head sideways as if listening to something the rest of us didn’t hear, and he contorted his jaw when trying to form words.
Elwood asked us if we knew what animal in the Toledo Zoo was closest to Broadway.
“The Seal,” we shouted.
Elwood was amazed we knew the answer.
I met Gloria on New Year’s Eve while employed as a psychiatric social worker in a large university hospital emergency room. It was half past eleven in the evening, just before the magic hour, when 1980 disappeared and 1981 began. She was brought into the Psychiatric Emergency Room by security, who had found her wandering about in the hospital parking lot, muttering to herself and appearing agitated. Gloria was a tall, gaunt woman with unkempt brown hair that ended above her shoulders. She wore a tasseled scarf wrapped around her head, several layers of baggy clothes, and a colorful skirt that swept the floor. Her bearing was almost regal.
Gloria’s medical file told me she was a mental health consumer and well-known street person who lived in a rooming house. Pacing back and forth, she started her story with magic words, “Hello, I’m Gloria. Help me solve a problem. To save let Gloria. First shrault and salt Gloria. Boss Gloria. Help me solve a problem.” She repeated her magic several times until she calmed down and took a seat.
“I tried to make a collect call to my husband,” she said and began to loosen her head scarf.
Nodding, I waited for her to continue.
“I wanted to wish my husband Happy New Year. But I didn’t have enough change.”
“Change?” I asked. “You were calling from a phone booth?”
She stared at me like I was from another planet.
“No,” she said, “I used the hospital lobby pay phone. I told the security guard what happened. Such a kind man. He offered to escort me here so I could speak with you.”
Her head scarf removed, Gloria began to fidget with the tassels and mutter a few of her magic words while I tried to maintain a calm demeanor.
“What’s wrong with wanting to talk with your husband on New Year’s Eve?”
“Nothing,” I replied. “I think it’s a fine idea.”
Gloria squared her shoulders and graced me with a smile. “I wanted to speak with my husband, and so I phoned him collect. But the Palace wouldn’t accept my collect call.”
“Palace?”
“Yes, the Palace in Jordan. The King is my husband. You know he’s married to an American, right? I wanted to see him when he visited the White House this year, but he had to leave on business before I could make travel arrangements.”
“I can understand how that would make anyone angry.”
“Anyone? I’m not anyone. Imagine how I felt when some palace lackey prevented me from speaking to my husband.”
After repeating her story several times, Gloria calmed down, thanked me for listening, and left.
Gloria rarely came into the Psychiatric Emergency Room but would call our crisis hotline when she had enough change. In her deep and somewhat raspy voice, she would start every call by saying, “Help me solve my problem. To save let Gloria. First shrault and salt Gloria. Boss Gloria. Help me solve my problem.” The rest of the conversation concerned what bothered her with an occasional repeat of the magic words.
The last time I saw her was on a humid Monday night. My family and I decided to eat dinner at a local German restaurant. After we were seated, I noticed Gloria sitting in the restaurant’s back booth. A waitress was serving her dinner. Gloria’s bearing was almost regal as she muttered between bites.
When a waitress arrived to take our order, I asked, “Who is that woman sitting in the back booth?”
“That’s Gloria,” the waitress replied. “For years, she’s been a Monday night guest here. She is served with respect and never charged for her meal.”
When Gloria had finished her meal, she passed by my table on her way to the door. Glancing in my direction, she nodded and gave me a regal smile. Then, Gloria left the building.
Over the years of working the evening shift in the psychiatric emergency room, I came face-to-face with magic in many forms. Some folks used magic to survive, while others seemed possessed by their magic. The older I became, the more I wished for magic words or pixie dust to alleviate my advancing years’ aches and pains. These days, however, the only magic available to me is in the form of old lady pills used to control my blood pressure or keep my arteries open. Real magic is only for the very special, like Elwood, Gloria, or the young.
I remember the night I received a call on the crisis hotline from my husband, Don. In the background, I could hear our 16-month-old daughter, Sadie, screaming in the bathtub because she was terrified that the baby shampoo used to wash her hair would burn her eyes.
Don yelled into my ear, “For God’s sake what are the magic words?”
|
Edie Williams is a retired university professor and mental health clinician of Social Work. Her family systems research has appeared in numerous social science journals. These days she lives in Seattle and enjoys writing creative nonfiction. Her essays are random memories that comprise the gist of her life.
|
|