Once upon a time or two, there was a green- why do I always write tales of green characters?- shoelace. It was an old shoelace, laced with history. Okay, that pun was just too much. I apologize, and will never do that again. Also I must confess that it was not, er, given to having a rich past. Rather, it had led a boring life, as the lives of shoelaces generally go. Again I apologize for the inaccuracy, but I cannot promise to cease exaggerating, because more good stories contain a few stretches, and I cannot stray from this tendency.
So, where were we? Once upon a time or two... or two? It only happened once to this particular shoelace (and we have yet to discuss what that “it” even is), so another inaccuracy has surfaced, though of a different nature. Once upon a time, though I cannot say exactly when because of the inaccuracy of carbon dating (drat these inaccuracies!), but I suppose it was as normal a time as any in the life of a shoelace... one day in the life of this particular green shoelace... are there more green shoelaces in the world? I cannot say with certainty. One day in the life (as much as a shoelace can be alive) of a perhaps non-exclusive green shoelace-
At this point, I believe it is better to abandon this whole story and start over, don’t you? Let’s try again.
There were four children in the Riddle family. Now, you may be thinking, “Oh, what a keen last name. I should like to be called Riddle.” The Riddle children would not agree, for the other children at Ray Monteray Boarding School had developed a painfully long list of jokes at the expense of their names. The second child, who otherwise had the lovely name of Thomas Winston James Riddle, had be dubbed “Pawn” by his peers due to his habit of following his older brother everywhere and doing his pointed but not unkind bidding.
It was nearly futile to avoid the bidding of Richard McCurdy Paul Riddle. His mother often said he had a silver tongue, as there was seemingly no situation he could not talk himself out of or into. Of course, you and I know that he did not really have a silver tongue, because that would render the eating of pudding and strawberries and dog biscuits impossible, which is not suitable to any child. By silver tongue, his mother meant that anything he said sounded like the best idea you’d heard since the teacher declared no homework over the holidays. Thankfully, the training of a faithful nursemaid when Richard was an infant left him a good boy, only tainted by the occasional misjudgment, usually when blueberry pie before dinner was involved. I could say that he had a sweet tooth, but never having tasted any of his teeth nor having any desire to do so, I cannot say it with accuracy. There, see? I am improving.
The third Riddle child was a girl, Alicia Lavender Katharine, though she had never been called anything but Kate except by her father, who called her Chickadee for no apparent reason. I suppose he had a reason, but he never told me, and I didn’t have time to ask. Kate, much to her dismay, had a head full of curls. Well, to be more precise, her head was full of brains (about as much as everyone else I imagine, though she did use hers more than most) and her head was covered in curls. Kate didn’t exactly hate the curls, though she wished everyone else did. It was a trial having a rows of ringlets that were perfectly sized for putting one’s finger in. Kate’s hair never had a day to itself. Mrs. Riddle had the same hair, and everyone told Kate how lucky it was that she had got it.
Mrs. Riddle indeed had a head full of curls, but her curls reached long down her back, or over or shoulders, or straight up in utter rebellion first thing in the morning. Mr. Riddle would say that her hair had a mind of its own, and Mrs. Riddle would reply that it had two minds and they kept arguing. She always won however, arranging the spirals in the morning and brushing them into fluffy mounds before bed. She knew how to cross her i’s and dot her t’s, which is a strange way of saying she knew when to be proper and refined. But she also liked shocking the neighbors by climbing trees holding snakes and making cupcakes for Mr. Riddle long after dark.
Mr. Riddle was the opposite. When I say the opposite, I don’t mean the opposite of his wife, but the opposite of what you would expect. Instead of being sensible and level and keeping his wife calm, he would dance with her in the kitchen while the cupcakes baked, nearly trampling the poor cook who just wanted them to go to the parlor and read like ordinary folks so she could get on with the dough. Mr. and Mrs. Riddle would finally go to the parlor and read, brushing cupcake off of Shakespeare as they turned page after page on midsummer nights. Now I happened to chance upon Mr. Riddle in his business one day, and he was buttoned up very nicely. He too knew how to cross his i’s and dot his t’s when the time came, and he hosts a very nice tea.