My Thoughts Exactly by Darcy Diggins, BioSPYchologist

1

Initial Remarks

Darcy

The ever-zesty Ms. Earlene can charm fleas off a dog, about that I am not kidding. My grandmother is magnetic, only not scientific. Most folks from town have had firsthand experiences with Ms. Earlene’s gift of influence, and while I am by far her number one fan, I was determined not to listen to her advice to go public with the Dewbabies. I had my mind made up. The background was all right with me. Despite lots of rowdy resistance on my part, my grandmother convinced me to write the following.

This is for the record. Even though I am considered a young sprout, I tend to have adult-like, strong opinions. Most folks don’t expect twelve-year-olds to be as knowledgeable as I am, but I’m uncommon. What you read here is the plucky part of me. I have to tell it like it is even if a certain family member comes out looking like the village idiot.

I wanted to keep Dewbabies a secret with only two exceptions, my best friend and my brother, Kidd, not to be confused with a regular kid brother. Kidd’s real name is Seymour, but as we all know, you cannot call a teenager Seymour. Thankfully, Ronald and Kaye gave him the cool nickname early on. Ronald and Kaye Diggins are the parents of me and my brother, and if you count pets, Diggity Dawg, our Old English Sheepdog.

Dewbabies, as real living beings, will always be hard to believe. The concept of miniature people running around looking all, well, like themselves, that can give people fits. I mention this here and now because it’s the only sensible starting point. But there’s a lot more to it.

Let me explain. Somebody performs a kind deed and keeps it a secret. That’s the easy part to understand. There’s a whole movement around people upping their kindness attitudes. But what nobody knew (until now) is that those anonymous kind deeds are what brings a Dewbabie into the world. And it only happens in the Rainforest inside a pregnant dewdrop. But we all know babies are not capable of running around performing kind deeds. That doesn’t make sense. So, despite the name, there are no babies involved. That’s the crux of it and no respectable seventh-grader needs the pressure of being dubbed a dork for believing in little people. But here I am.

Another thing. For the sake of sensible starting places and the record, Grandma Earlene fell into celebrity status when she became the Ambassador of Dewbabies, self-proclaimed. No one was less surprised than me when Grandma Earlene became a vocal supporter of Dewbabies, the miniature stowaways I wanted to keep a secret. When my grandmother found out the nice little people were homeless after their community in Rainforest was destroyed, she made it sound all natural-like that the Dewbabies ended up in my closet. Of all closets in the world, my closet became their temporary home. In her mind, it was simple. I was, quote, unquote, chosen to keep those precious people out of harm’s way.

Wisdom like that is common coming from Grandma Earlene. It’s her storytelling abilities that propelled her into genuine celebrity status. She makes it easy to latch onto her lovable characters. And that’s how I dropped off the hook. Grandma Earlene found her calling. She lives to entertain young children and their families. She’s everywhere and all over it, and I’m her number one. Always will be.

2

The So-Called Gigs

Grandma Earlene

I get up in the morning stuck between the desire to improve the world and a desire to enjoy it, which makes it hard to plan my days, so I generally don’t. Ronald does.

My son Ronald manages me now that I have the so-called gigs. You know, engagements, scheduled places I have to be, papers that must be in proper order, all that sort of thing. Believe me, if it weren’t necessary or important, I wouldn’t be bothered. I would much rather stay home and be crafty like my friends Mary Louise Tuckeridge, or Grandy Mae Edwards. But my son Ronald is quick like lightning to point out that he is the polishing cloth of my life. He makes me shine. If he were a coffee, he’d be Starbucks. He always crosses his t’s and dots his i’s.

Me? I’m lucky if I can find a pencil, but at eighty-something (not telling) years old, I am not expected to be altogether alert. I could make excuses to make my way through any stumbles, but the good Lord knows I haven’t had to, and for that, I am full of appreciation. I’m forever grateful for all the out-of-the-blue blessings that keep falling like rain from heaven. There have been so many of them I decided it would be best if I quit making mental notes and started taking real ones. Like I told the granddaughter Darcy, seize the thought before the memory monsters eat it like Pac-Man.

Plus, I’m a Q-tip in demand. That’s Darcy’s term for white-haired and elderly. And I have a manager. With that much help, I might as well give my meaty thoughts a solid resting place. So that is what I’m doing. All I do is talk into the microphone thingy and some lady in Kansas sends Ronald the finished documents. I know my limitations. Fighting with computers is one of them.

Very well, then, the relevant content may drift here and there. I have no excuse other then I probably shouldn’t have said pea turkey. Nonetheless, I am going to deposit whatever comes to mind. I apologize in advance for any fog. My recollections are bound to be somewhat peppered by time. I promise to keep my bunny trails to a minimum.

Back to the important stuff. Here’s how I would put it. Things were never the same after the FBI showed up. When the FBI showed up in Old Bern looking for my daughter Estelle, things were not only different, things were exciting. For some reason, the FBI wanted to talk to me as if I were some senior citizen who might possibly be withholding premium insider information.

Most old people are not too fond of the tag senior citizen, especially the ones who shouldn’t be buying green bananas. Not me. I do not much care as long as the label gives me a respectable discount. I know better than to dress like a scarecrow. Take, for example, the elderly gentleman who leaves his house wearing checkered pajama pants and a striped shirt. I do wonder why business owners don’t pay these geezers to stay away. Instead, they offer amazing coupons and personal shoppers to these happy wanderers, which I see as bribes to ensure they come back. Shop every day. We don’t care what you wear. That’s the way I see it. If that’s what they want and everyone is happy, then I have nothing further to say about it. I dress for every occasion. All of them.

Oh dear, that might’ve been a bunny trail. Here’s what I’m trying to say. Most folks want to know what brought the Federal Bureau of Investigation to Old Bern, West Virginia. The suits from Clarksburg temporarily took the attention away from our favorite tribe of misplaced stowaways. Speaking of which, all kinds of different has happened since Dewbabies arrived unexpectedly in America, but like I pointed out, this is about the FBI coming to town.

Everyone (and I do mean everyone) wanted to know what the FBI knew. Old Bern is a small town with nothing much to talk about. Without sounding too prideful, I have to say it was because of my granddaughter Darcy and her friend Jenius that the FBI showed up at all. For the record, Jennifer Johnson renamed herself after figuring out there were too many Jennifers in the world. Jenius (pronounced like the amusing genius she is) is Darcy’s best friend and I simply love that girl. We get along famously even though she’s twelve and practically a yard taller than me. Twelve-year-olds are the most interesting people on the planet. Period. Why? Because twelve-year-olds are formulating who they are and what they need to do to get what they want out of life. They aren’t afraid to try new things, and that right there deserves applause.

As far as investigations go, I do not agree with people who put the blame entirely on Estelle, although she was an easy target and the entire reason there had to be an investigation. Good judgment is a gift. Some have it. Some don’t. It’s always good to recognize a bad idea before it ruins your life.

My only daughter Estelle Dunnagan is a fairly intelligent, well-educated, fifty-year-old professional. However, she cannot see trouble coming her way even if it’s the size of a freight train. This particular deficit has caused traffic jams in a string of lives. On top of her missing the obvious perils of becoming best friends with a professional scam artist, she’s not very nice to the people who have been given the awkward task of embracing her mistakes. That would be us, her ever-loving and all-forgiving family, me in particular.

Estelle is a guidance counselor at Martin Hampton Middle School, where Darcy and all her friends go. The thing about her profession is that it demands the ability to see the big picture. Estelle has been creating more problems than she’s been solving lately. Ronald says it’s her inability to recognize the big picture that will be the reason she self-destructs, which he says will happen no matter what we do. He readily admits that being a brother to his character-challenged sister has always been somewhat of an uphill battle.

I’ve developed definite opinions on certain issues as well as the ability to recognize people in need of attention. I have Estelle to thank for that. Children, even grown-up children, never stop wanting our attention, so I say we’d better give it to them while they’re available to us. My most praiseworthy points are best delivered via storytelling. Speaking of which, my storytelling profession has never been healthier, perhaps due to the foibles of my huckleberry daughter. See that? When properly managed, even the bad stuff has something good in it.

3

What’s a Dawg to Do

Darcy

Dewbabies had not yet settled into a safe environment here in Old Bern, West Virginia when they discovered Diggity Dawg Diggins, our sheepdog. They weren’t familiar with their new surroundings, or me, for that matter. If you think about it, this special tribe of small people could have gone extinct like dinosaurs.

Grandma Earlene says I am duty-bound to tell how it was when some untapped resourcefulness kicked in that ended up saving the Dewbabies from extinction. I was somehow able to sort through the weirdness of it all and became the designated Protector of Dewbabies. Was it because they showed up at my house when I was the only one home? Could be.

Unlike most dogs with spare time, Diggity Dawg prefers sitting upright at attention rather than lying down, which I’m guessing is his Old English way of guarding us. The only time Dawg is flat to the ground like a gray and white pancake is after he’s eaten a meal, or it’s dark out and there’s nothing new to chase or sniff.

Dawg came from a puppy mill. We got him at some awful farm out in the country where they breed dogs just for money. Not an ounce of love where our Dawg came from. I’ve always thought Dawg was extremely grateful to be removed from his situation. Fortunately, he has a pleasant personality even though his first home had been so awful. Whenever he growls, I notice.

Dawg, what’s wrong? I asked, waiting as if he would answer me. What’s bothering you, boy? The unusual sound made me a bit nervous. Come here, buddy. What is it?

Apparently, my dog can go into statue mode pretty easily. He stopped growling and froze. He gave me the tilted head look as if to ask, what’s happening? Then, after, oh, thirty seconds, or whatever, he shook as if he were a wet, long-haired dog coming out of the swimming hole. But instead of seeing a spray of water, I saw sparkles of brightly colored specks popping off my pet like kernels of tinted popcorn.

My friends and family tell me that my imagination is quite sizable. They are correct. But the point is when I finally realized I was looking at miniature people and not popcorn, I nearly fainted. Not really. I’m not a cliché. Dawg was shedding Dewbabies. I rubbed my eyes, which we all know is the customary gesture for being discombobulated. To write I was simply stunned would be a factual error, and that’s no way to start a story in which you want people to believe that little people are living in your closet.

Then this happened.

Excuse me, Miss? Beggin’ your pardon, young miss. Could I ask you, could you give us directions to the Rainforest? Which way…?

And that’s when Dawg felt duty bound to start chasing the mini people, one of which was asking me, the only young miss in the house, for directions.

Dawg! NO! Dawg, come here!

Tiny villagers scattered in all directions looking for refuge. As they scurried off to find safety, I couldn’t help but notice they were wearing costumes. At first glance (and second and third), they appeared to be a lost herd of circus performers. It was something I couldn’t have imagined, really. Luckily, no one got hurt. They were clever and athletic enough to find hiding places throughout our den.

The frenzy had all but stopped. Then, just when I thought my wild dream had ended, the voice spoke again. Sorry to bother you, Miss. I’m terribly sorry, but I don’t know your name.

A guy, no bigger than half my pinky finger, peeked out from behind the drapes. He seemed friendly but also frightened. Over here, he said quietly. Do you think you could tell the furry big one to, ah, leave?

Ah, okay, I said.

It was up to me to unravel the situation until it made sense. I looked around to see if I was still the only one seeing and hearing a mini person. I grabbed Dawg by his collar and led him to the garage for time-out. He went but not willingly. When I returned, a few dozen visitors had come out from hiding. They weren’t afraid of me. I guess because I was just like them only larger.

Say, who’s talking to me? I asked.

That would be me, Winston, a confident male voice responded. My name is Winston. This is Zelda, he said pointing to the elegant lady standing next to him. We’re Dewbabies. And you would be…?

Oh, I would be Darcy. Darcy Diggins. And you met my dog, Dawg.

Dogdog. That’s a funny name, Zelda giggled.

My brain was filled to the brim with what felt like booby traps. This bizarre chain of events boggled my mind. If I wasn’t dreaming, then I was seriously headed to the funny farm.

It’s not Dogdog. It’s Diggity Da-augh. D-A-W-G, I explained not knowing whether spelling his name would help. Dawg is a dog. A very nice one, too. Usually.

I see, Winston said looking around.