Childhood Wonder

by Bill Tiepelman

The Girl, the Cat, and the Garden that Didn’t Exist Yesterday

Once upon a Thursday that was supposed to be like any other, Lydia—a small, curious girl with an affinity for rose-patterned dresses and grand adventures—wandered into her backyard to find something that had definitely not been there the day before: a sprawling, enchanted garden. There were plants she didn’t recognize, which was odd because Lydia considered herself something of a garden expert. Enormous blooms the size of dinner plates arched over winding wooden paths, their petals shimmering in impossible shades of indigo, coral, and bright peach. Vines coiled up ancient trees as if they were knitting a tapestry, and the air smelled like honey and cinnamon, though it was probably just the same backyard where the neighbors’ dog liked to dig up their lawn. Perched beside her was her fluffy, slightly sarcastic Maine Coon, Maximilian von Purrington. Max had been named by Lydia’s grandmother, who claimed that cats with long names developed character, and Lydia figured it was true since Max had a personality that could fill the house. His ginger fur glowed almost theatrically in the soft light filtering down through the foliage, and he sat with his tail wrapped around his paws, regarding the garden with a mixture of surprise and mild disapproval. He preferred the indoors—where snacks were abundant, and the risk of strange vegetation was minimal. “Did you do this?” Lydia whispered, already certain the garden was hiding secrets she had yet to uncover. Max glanced up at her, narrowing his green eyes with the world-weary expression of a cat who’s used to humoring humans. “I think we both know I’m not one for horticulture,” he replied, his voice dripping with the kind of dry British accent Lydia imagined for him. In truth, Max didn’t speak, but Lydia’s imagination filled in the gaps. “And don’t even think about eating anything here. If the mushrooms have eyes, we turn around.” But Lydia was already dashing down the first winding path, lace skirt swirling around her legs, her hair bouncing as she leaped over roots that seemed to pulse with life. Max, torn between his loyalty and his reluctance to enter the garden, followed with a resigned sigh. The Garden’s Secret The deeper they wandered, the more peculiar the garden became. There were flowers that seemed to rearrange themselves whenever Lydia wasn’t looking, and plants that shivered and withdrew as Max approached, as though intimidated by his casual haughtiness. Lydia laughed and twirled, delighting in every strange and marvelous sight, while Max muttered under his breath about “botanical nonsense” and “humans and their foolishness.” Then they reached a clearing where a massive, intricately carved wooden door stood alone, leading to nothing in particular. Painted on its surface in delicate script were the words: “For Those Who Are Lost or Simply Bored.” “Oh! We should go through it!” Lydia declared. “Or,” Max drawled, stretching his paws delicately, “we could turn back. I hear the sofa is nice and warm this time of day.” But before he could protest further, Lydia had pushed open the door, and they stepped through. A Dance with the Toads On the other side of the door, they found themselves in an even stranger garden. The path beneath them was not dirt or wood but soft, thick clouds that cushioned each step, and the plants here were even more absurd than before. Bright purple mushrooms sprouted on floating rocks, and enormous, puffy plants with pastel fur swayed in time to music that seemed to drift out of nowhere. “Are we floating?” Max asked, somewhat distressed. “I’m a cat, Lydia. I’m supposed to stay close to the ground. Gravity is part of my brand.” Lydia barely heard him. She was already darting toward a cluster of flowers with gleaming petals that looked like stained glass. Behind the flowers, a signpost read: “LEFT: A Friendly Ogre with Free Lemonade. RIGHT: Beware of Tap-Dancing Toads.” Lydia, being a logical child, decided that free lemonade was an opportunity not to be missed, so she veered left, with Max reluctantly padding along behind her. Sure enough, they soon encountered a friendly ogre sitting in a large, comfy armchair, looking surprisingly domestic. He wore glasses, had a nose ring, and held a jug of lemonade in one hand. As they approached, he grinned and offered them each a cup (Lydia gladly accepted, Max sniffed his cup suspiciously). “Lovely day in the garden, isn’t it?” said the ogre, whose name turned out to be Gerald. “Oh, I wouldn’t go past the river, though—wild blueberry bushes with quite an attitude over there.” “Oh, thank you, Gerald!” Lydia said, delighted at having found a friend. “Do you live here?” “Oh, I wouldn’t say I live here,” Gerald replied mysteriously, peering over his glasses. “It’s just where I go on Thursdays. Fridays I’m more of a mountain troll, if you catch my drift.” He winked. After a few more sips of lemonade, Lydia and Max thanked Gerald and set off once more, waving goodbye as he returned to his magazine, which appeared to be titled “Ogrely Affairs.” The Journey Home Hours—or maybe only minutes—later, Lydia and Max finally retraced their steps back to the lone door in the garden. They slipped through it and emerged once more into Lydia’s perfectly normal backyard. The enchanted garden was gone, replaced by the usual bushes, a patchy lawn, and that neighbor’s dog who was barking at a pigeon. As they stepped inside the house, Max immediately sprawled out on the nearest rug with a sigh, as if he had been on some terribly arduous journey. “What do you think it all meant?” Lydia asked, glancing back at the garden, as if hoping it might reappear. Max gave her an inscrutable look. “Some things, Lydia, are better left unexplained. Like that ogre’s lemonade recipe.” They never spoke of the garden again, but every Thursday, like clockwork, Lydia would check the backyard, just in case the door returned. And though he’d never admit it, Max always checked too.    Bring the Magic Home If you loved Lydia and Max's enchanting adventure through the mystical garden, you can keep a piece of that magic in your own space. Explore our Mystical Gardens and Childhood Dreams collection, featuring whimsical designs by Bill and Linda Tiepelman that capture the story’s dreamy spirit. From cozy throws to charming accessories, these items are perfect for adding a touch of wonder to your day-to-day life. Tapestry – Transform any room into a fairytale escape with this beautiful tapestry. Throw Pillow – Add a splash of magic to your sofa or reading nook with this cozy throw pillow. Tote Bag – Carry a piece of the enchanted garden with you wherever you go! Pouch – Keep your essentials close with this charming pouch, perfect for daily adventures. Each piece in this collection is designed to bring a smile and a touch of whimsy into your life. Take a bit of the garden’s magic with you, and let your imagination roam!

by Bill Tiepelman

The Butterfly Collector - Fragments of Forgotten Childhood

The Butterfly Collector Darla had always been a little... strange. The kind of strange that made her neighbors double-check their locks at night and whisper rumors about her creepy collection of antique dolls. But Darla didn’t mind. In fact, she relished in it. She had always been an odd duck, a proud owner of a taxidermied crow named Reginald and a wall of old doll heads with hollowed-out eyes that seemed to follow visitors around her house. One evening, as the light outside faded into a purplish dusk, Darla stood before her mirror, admiring her latest acquisition—a doll she’d found at a flea market, weathered by time and more than a little unsettling. Its eyes were mismatched—one blue and the other black as night. "You'll fit in just fine," Darla muttered, placing the doll on the shelf, giving it a prime spot among the others. That night, she went to bed, thinking about nothing in particular. Maybe what brand of peanut butter was superior, or why her neighbor still hadn’t returned her lawnmower. Just mundane things. But as she slipped into sleep, a faint scratching noise stirred her from the edge of a dream. “Probably Reginald falling off the mantel again,” she grumbled, pulling her blanket tighter. But the scratching continued. Louder this time. Darla sat up in bed, glancing at her door. It was slightly ajar, though she was certain she had closed it before sleeping. Then came the whisper. Faint, like a child's voice caught in the wind: "Remember me?" Darla froze. She blinked, rubbed her eyes, thinking she was still half-dreaming. But when she looked at the mirror across the room, she saw the doll—the one with the mismatched eyes—was no longer on its shelf. It was sitting on her dresser, one cracked wing slowly unfurling, revealing pale faces peeking through the tattered fabric. “Now… that’s new,” she muttered to herself, trying to stifle her panic. The doll—now somehow a moth—fluttered its damaged wings, each beat kicking up the dust of forgotten years. Faces pushed out from the wings’ surface—children's faces. Their tiny porcelain mouths opened as if gasping for air. “You’ve got to be kidding me,” Darla said, rubbing her temples. “Moths. Of course. Why not? Let’s just add moth dolls to my list of issues tonight.” The thing fluttered toward her, the crackling sound of its brittle wings filling the room. It perched at the end of her bed, staring with its mismatched eyes—one wide and innocent, the other dark and sunken, like a tiny, doll-sized abyss. Darla sighed, rolling her eyes. “So, what, you’re here to haunt me? You’re a moth and a doll—kinda lame, don’t you think?” she quipped, reaching for the glass of water beside her bed. “Look, I’m not afraid of some freaky doll that looks like it moonlights in a bad horror movie. Just spit it out already. What do you want?” The doll’s wings twitched, and its little bow-tied body shifted as if preparing to speak. Its tiny lips moved, but no sound came out. Just the same whisper: "Remember me?" Darla squinted, leaning in. “Seriously, I don’t. Did I skip you at the flea market or something?” The moth-doll let out an exasperated little sigh—a sigh!—as if Darla wasn’t taking this haunting nearly as seriously as it wanted. One of the faces in its wing—a particularly creepy one with wide, staring eyes—whispered again, more clearly this time: "You forgot us... but we didn’t forget you." Darla blinked. “Oh, you’ve got to be kidding me. This isn’t about that doll tea party incident from 1989, is it?” The moth fluttered its wings menacingly—or at least, it tried. Really, it just looked like it was having a mild seizure. Darla stifled a snicker. “You’re telling me this whole spooky act is because I abandoned a tea party? You guys need therapy. I was, what, six? My bad for moving on with my life. You should’ve seen it coming when I discovered Pokémon.” But the moth-doll wasn’t amused. It launched itself at her, tiny porcelain hands gripping her blanket as it flapped its decayed wings in frustration. One of the wings tore slightly, and a button fell off with a tiny plink. “Oh no, not the button. How ever will I survive?” Darla deadpanned, lifting the moth-doll by its scrappy little body. She set it gently on her dresser. “Listen, I’ll get you some super glue in the morning. Maybe a few stitches. But you’ve gotta stop with the ‘vengeful ghost of my childhood’ routine. It’s a bit much, even for me.” The moth-doll sat there, wings sagging, as if contemplating its entire existence. Perhaps it realized it had severely miscalculated its haunting strategy. Perhaps it understood that Darla—of all people—was not the best choice for a victim. “Good talk,” Darla said, fluffing her pillow and settling back into bed. “Now go sulk somewhere else. I have work in the morning.” The moth-doll gave one last pitiful flap of its wings before retreating back to its shelf, where it sat quietly among the other forgotten dolls. As Darla drifted back to sleep, she could’ve sworn she heard Reginald the taxidermied crow let out a cackle. Maybe he was just as amused by the situation as she was.

by Bill Tiepelman

Giggles and Whimsy in Wonderland

Once upon a time, in a lush, secluded glen, Ellie and Charlie found themselves the keepers of joy in an enchanted realm where reality intertwined with the whimsical. The garden, resplendent with blooming zinnias, towering foxgloves, and the gentle buzz of silver-winged bees, was their sanctuary. Here, the innocence of a child's heart and the sage spirit of a chimpanzee brought life to a secret wonderland. Their afternoons were filled with endless merriment; they pranced on soft mossy carpets and whispered to the shy creatures that peeked from behind the greenery. The giggles of Ellie and the playful grunts of Charlie were the music of this hidden paradise. Each chuckle seemed to make the flowers bloom brighter, and every shared secret between girl and ape made the leaves rustle with contentment. One particular afternoon, as the sky donned its twilight hues, a mysterious breeze carried in it a tingle of change. Ellie, with her rose-tipped fingers, reached out to Charlie as they discovered a part of the garden they had never seen before. Here, the flowers were made of light, their petals a radiant dance of colors. "It's a reflection of us," Charlie mused, his voice a soft murmur, "of the joy we share." It was then that they noticed the smallest of blooms, a flower not yet unfurled, pulsing with the same light that illuminated their hearts. They leaned in together, and with a shared breath, the flower bloomed, revealing a sparkling gem at its center. The gem was the Heart of the Garden, the source of all magic in their wondrous world. As the stars began to dot the heavens, Ellie and Charlie made a pact to protect the Heart, to nurture it with their laughter and joy. The garden was their canvas, and their friendship was the brush that painted every moment with the hues of happiness. And so, with every visit, their bond grew, and the garden flourished. Stories of their escapades traveled on the whispering winds, inspiring those who heard to seek the joy in their everyday lives, to listen for the laughter that could unlock the magic of their own wonderlands. The Heart of the Garden, pulsing with the pure essence of joy, now thrummed in a rhythm that Ellie and Charlie felt within their very beings. With each beat, the magic of the glen spread, whispering of the carefree laughter and boundless wonder that the two friends nurtured. The creatures of the garden, from the smallest beetle to the oldest oak, thrived in this ambiance, their lives a testament to the sanctuary's flourishing enchantment. As seasons changed and the moon danced its eternal waltz, the legend of Ellie and Charlie’s wonderland grew, inviting curiosity and longing from the world beyond the garden's hidden paths. It was during one such luminescent evening that they encountered a wandering artist, captivated by tales of a place where whimsy reigned supreme. With delicate strokes and a palette infused with the vibrancy of the garden, the artist captured the essence of their joy. The resulting masterpiece, a dazzling poster, became a portal for others to glimpse into their enchanted realm. But the garden was more than a haven of laughter and merriment; it was a home, a sanctuary that wrapped around its inhabitants like a warm embrace. Ellie, with her twinkling eyes, would often rest her head upon a throw pillow, its fabric woven from the dreams of dandelions and the softness of cloud fluff. Charlie, ever the protector, would drape a tapestry across the branches of his favorite tree, creating a tapestry of protection, its threads spun from the golden rays of the sun and the silver threads of the moon. Their bond, now legendary, was not just a testament to friendship but to the belief that joy can be a fortress, a protective charm against the shadows. Yet, unbeknownst to them, a whisper of darkness crept towards the glen, a shadow that sought to quench the light of their pure hearts. It was in the unity of their laughter and the alliance with the mystical creatures that Ellie and Charlie would find the strength to face the encroaching darkness. Together, they stood ready to protect the Heart of the Garden, their resolve as steadfast as the ancient stones that watched over the glen. And so, the story of Ellie and Charlie continues, a beacon of hope and wonder, a reminder that in the heart of each of us lies a garden waiting to be awakened by the simple, joyous giggle of the soul.