In the days before the great migration to the nursing homes, the memories of seasoned pioneer descendants, who lived their progeny on the land that their ancestors had chosen, were still keen. It was a good time to glean the minds of these ancient people. Old men rocked in chairs on porches and tiny, bent great-grandmothers in long dresses and head scarves stole quietly around darkened, musty interiors. Their years of childbearing and working the family farms were accomplished. Yet, their minds were fertile when prodded to remember the old times, their parents and grandparents, and what the road out front was like before it was paved. These armchair historians would start by saying they didn't remember much, but what they did remember was often the odd things people did - all gold to the writer's ear. Their recollections brought to life the vital records at the courthouse and the names on tombstones in the old-time cemeteries. Their stories were the shreds, which, in time, began to weave themselves together into a common story that will go on forever because, just in time, they were written down.
In our story, the Faire pull a thread through time to connect the generations one to another and to show how fate forges life's burdens and joys. Who's to say that in an unseen dimension fairies are not our fatemeisters?
