The Day I Gave Up On Fairy Tales

Except perhaps for Evil Queens.

Puffy clouds floated above Pinnacle Peak, the sunlit mountain that towered over my childhood. July in Alaska was my favorite month of the year. The sun warmed my arms, and green filled the air as my little sister and I swung back and forth outside our homestead cabin.

I stared at the opposite side of Eagle River Valley. Always dark and foreboding, like Maleficent the Evil Queen in Sleeping Beauty. We’d seen the movie in town just last week, and I was having nightmares of the Queen’s pale face and evil voice.

Winding the chains of the swing, I spun around and around. Sunny—dark, sunny—dark. Dizzy, I pushed the frightening memory out of my head.

Our mother had gone to Anchorage to do laundry and errands by herself for a change, she said. I heard the squeaking z-z-z-z, z-z-z-z of a saw and Dad whistling as he cut plywood to finish the cabin floor.

Life was peaceful when we were home with Dad.

“What should we do?” Little sister looked at me. She knew I’d come up with a plan. I saw my older sister sweeping the porch and opening the door to put the broom inside.

Jumping off the swing, I said, “Let’s see if Linda wants to play with the rabbits. We hardly ever get to play with her. But, it will be fun!”

I didn’t believe Mom when she said, “Trouble starts anytime I let that girl out of my sight! Everyone gets along until Linda goes out and someone starts crying.”

Linda rarely went out of the house while I escaped to the outdoors before breakfast.

“Yay! Bunnies, Bunnies!” Sharon clapped her hands.

Mom wanted animals and would randomly bring creatures home and say they were for us. Back in May, she came home with three giant rabbits.

These were not cuddly bunnies but full-grown rabbits. I chose the pure white one and called it Snow White. Sharon picked the tan one, Cinderella, and Linda got the pure black rabbit she named Sleeping Beauty. We listened to a lot of fairy tales in our family.

Sharon had a kitten, and our older brother, John, had a goat. Mom promised I could have a puppy next year when I was eight and old enough to take care of it.

Even though Linda was nine, Mom said she was not responsible and would probably kill any animal she had. So she was ecstatic to have a silky black rabbit of her own and soon tamed it to sit quietly on her lap.

Sharon’s rabbit was too big for her five-year-old arms to hold, and once, it clawed three deep scratches on her stomach when she tried to pick it up. I thought rabbits were boring and mostly ignored Snow White. A dog was all I wanted.

But, three sisters, three rabbits — I liked that idea.

Weren’t there three sisters in Cinderella? Three pigs? Three Billy Goats Gruff? I loved something about us all having a rabbit, each a different color and each with a fairy tale name.

We spent the morning creating little rabbit salads decorated with bluebells and tender leaves of willow and dandelions and carried them to the rabbit hutch.

There, lifeless on the wire floor of the cage, were three little naked pink corpses. We knew nothing about boy and girl rabbits and the inevitable appearance of babies. The adult rabbits hopped around, ignoring the dead babies.

“Go get Dad,” Linda told me. But, of course, we didn’t know that baby rabbits were born hairless and tiny.

“Looks like either Cinderella, Sleeping Beauty, or Snow White must be a daddy rabbit,” he laughed as he removed the dead bodies. “We don’t need more animals, that’s for sure.”

It seems odd we kids weren’t upset by the dead animals, and as usual in our family, there was no explanation.

Since Linda was older, I waited for her to tell us what to do next.

“It’s so sunny; let’s wash our dolls and all their clothes,” she said. “We haven’t washed them in a long, long time.”

Mom often reminded us, “What would someone think if your dolls are all dirty, their hair is a mess, and their clothes are dirty? What kind of girls don’t take care of their dolls?”

I thought leaving them in their doll bed and playing outside where everything was already dirty was safer.

We carried our seven dolls and two shoeboxes of clothes outside and lined them up on the redwood picnic table. I looked at Linda, who thought for a minute.

“We don’t have a bathtub for them, so, Cindy, why don’t you go get the big green Tupperware salad bowl? Sharon, get the dish soap, too. I’ll get some water.”

She scooped a cup into the big plastic trashcan Dad filled with water he hauled from the creek and filled our makeshift laundry bowl. The three of us spent hours dipping water, swishing little clothes in the bubbly water, and laying everything to dry in the sun.

At lunchtime, Linda made sandwiches for everyone. I proudly stirred sugar and Kool-Aid powder in the pitcher, and we carried the meal outside, where Dad and John joined us.

“Thanks, girls,” Dad said. “You are both so helpful. I sure appreciate it.”

From the left: John, me, Sharon, Dad, Linda. Homestead, 1960. Author’s photo.

Linda lit the propane stove and heated the big tin pan of water to wash the dishes piled on the counter. Mom made her work inside, and she had mastered every type of housework. I swept the rough plywood floor; she wiped the counter.

We scrutinized the kitchen in the small space and, satisfied it would pass Mom’s inspection, we went outside to play until Dad heated beans for supper.

Linda did the dishes, and we played Chinese Checkers, jumping the little marbles clink, clink, and clink until bedtime.

We girls had a triple-stacked bunk bed, constructed to take up less room in our crowded Jamesway. Dad had shortened the legs on each Army surplus bed and connected them. Age determined our position — Linda on the top, I got the middle berth, and Sharon slept on the bottom.

“Alright, everyone. Put your heads under your covers,” Dad warned us before he went through the cabin, spraying heavy-duty flying insect spray.

Since voracious Alaskan mosquitos feast on tender young skin, spraying the cabin was part of our nighttime routine. During the day, a glass bottle of mosquito dope sat by the front door, and we patted it on like aftershave before going outside.

Sharon and I whispered and giggled until Dad slapped on the canvas walls from outside. “Don’t make me come in there!” We knew we’d get three warnings before he lost patience. Linda was quiet.

It had been a perfect day.

The evening sun dimmed, and we slipped off to sleep.

Hours later, Dad shook us awake. “Girls! Get up and come outside. Your mother wants to talk to you.”

Stumbling in our bare feet, we lined up in the yellow-tinted nighttime. Mom paced back and forth, waving the green Tupperware bowl.

“What is my good salad bowl doing outside on the picnic table? Why does it smell like dish soap? What did you do while I was in town, washing laundry and shopping all day? Then, I come home exhausted and find this?”

She slammed the bowl on the table. “Confess. Who did it? Do I have to beat it out of you?”

Linda looked into the distance, avoiding eye contact. Sharon sniffled, taking in small desperate gulps of air. My stomach hurt like the time I fell out of the swing while going way too high and knocked my breath out.

“Answer me. Tell the truth. I’m sick of you kids ruining my things. Whose idea was this? Tell me, or I’m getting rid of your rabbits. Just try me,” she said.

I looked at my sisters. Linda, so pale and frozen; Sharon sobbing, boogers streaming down her face. Then I saw Pinnacle Peak majestic, still visible in the semi-darkness of a midsummer Alaskan night and I felt strong.

“You can’t get rid of Cinderella, Snow White, and Sleeping Beauty. We washed the dolls and their clothes like you always tell us to,” I yelled at the Evil Queen. A hero, like a Handsome Prince.

Or was that just another nightmare? Or my imagined Fairy Tale ending?

Maybe I stood there, saying nothing and the Evil Queen won.

“Well, it must have been Linda’s idea!” Mom screamed.

What happened next? I don’t know, but that day is suspended in time; the three giant rabbits; tan, white, and black — and three young girls.

I wish I knew what happened to them, the rabbits. Maybe Wolf, the husky that ate my brother’s goat the next month, had rabbits for dinner, too.

Did Mom get rid of Snow White, Cinderella, and Sleeping Beauty? I have no idea.

The three sisters? We’re still here—loving each other. But that was the last time the three of us spent a day like that together. Happy.

It seemed like something shattered that day — at least in my heart.

Childhood innocence seemed to disappear that night along with fairy tales. My dreams of happy days with my sisters were replaced with the equally imaginary belief that I could always protect those I love.

Reality, to me, is still the mountains, the trees, the sky, and yes—love.