In Which I Offer You A Pewter Unicorn, Maybe

Well, now! Wasn't that uplifting. Godot, existentialism, old age. Please tell me that if you read yesterday's post you immediately went outside and looked for shapes in the clouds. Because that's what I did. Threw some Dennis Wilson "Rainbows" on the iPod and stood at the bus stop, staring at the sky. Shopped for coffee beans, thanked the woman in the Italian shop where I stopped to buy some amaretti for asking me how my day was going. Read myself to sleep with a Shirley Jackson story about a girl who uses legal jargon to trick the devil into selling his soul to her for a dollar and four cigarettes.

This is what I love about blogging. It's a format that tolerates the constant change of mind, the constant change in emotions. I can start a paragraph with weeping intentions, and by the end feel compelled to crack a joke. And somewhere in the middle I might ask you to help me remember the name of a book.

Which brings me to.

There was a series of books I read at my local library in the mid-80s. There was a blond boy on the cover, and I know he had some animal sidekicks. Possibly a unicorn. Or an owl. It may have involved an enchanted forest, or at least a picture of one on the cover. The books were extremely goofy; not at all serious. When I try to think of the series title, it seems very long and kitchen sink-y, like it could be "Wizards, Witches, Warlocks, Unicorns, Dragons, Magic, Potions, and Cauldrons." But that's not it.

That's all I got. If you remember this series, or know someone who might, please, put me out of my misery. As a reward, I would consider buying you a miniature pewter unicorn figurine to place next to your wizard holding a crystal ball aloft.

Or, you know, not.

© Zan McQuade. All rights reserved.