Vintage Magic: A Story of Friendship That Doesn’t Flinch

Some friendships are vintage. Worn in all the best ways, soft with time, soaked in memories, stitched together with laughter, loss, and a little bit of magic you can’t explain but never question.The kind you don’t find often. The kind you hold with both hands.

Every summer, we return to the lake like a ritual. Drawn back by muscle memory, by something older than a promise, something holier than habit.

We met as young mothers, barefoot, sun-drunk, laughing too loud while our children chased each other through the sand, "Last one to the water’s a rotten egg!" as they took off like rockets, legs flying, hearts wide open. Their joy was the kind you could feel in your chest. We wore swimsuits like armor and made bonfires out of everything that tried to break us. No Pants Sundays was the gospel, and joy was our offering. When spring stirs, I start to ache for it, for *them.* For the gathering. The deep exhale. The spell.

We’ve held each other through it all.

The endings we didn’t see coming.

The healing that took its time.

The long silences that came when life got heavy, and the quiet grace of being welcomed back without question.

The parents we lost. The coming back. Always, the coming back.

One moves like water, tender, grounded, full of the kind of stillness that heals just by being near.

The other, a wildfire, bright, irreverent, loud in the best way, cracking open every room with laughter and life.

Susie and Sara. Magic in motion.

And somehow, we always find our way back.

To each other.

To the beach.

To the magic we made when we first said yes to this kind of love.

And it’s not just us.

That place, that magical place, draws the most beautiful weirdos. The kinds of people who feel like they wandered out of a novel and onto the sand.

Like the California dude who strolls by in nothing but swim trunks, flip-flops, and a guitar slung over his shoulder, always humming some half-forgotten folk tune before his fingers even touch the strings. He sings like he’s headlining a world tour, even though he’s not very good, and we love him all the more for it. “My GIT fiddle,” he calls it, like it’s the great love of his life. He always stays long enough to strum a song while we sing, terribly, joyfully, along. A real California *dude*, just blown in with the wind and a tune. Sometimes he gives us a wink, like he knows we’re the luckiest coven on the shore.

And then there’s the woman who lives next door, though most of the year she’s in France. Her house is the tiniest beach cabin you’ve ever seen, two rooms, no electricity, a massive stone fireplace that feels like something out of a fairytale. Inside, it smells faintly of woodsmoke and dampness, and when she opens the door, she always smiles like she’s been expecting us. Being in that space feels like stepping into a memory you didn’t know was yours. One room has black-and-white family photos clothes-pinned to twine over the kitchen sink. A linen curtain strung with more twine separates the bed from the rest. It’s all so effortlessly chic. So *Parisian.* You half expect her to hand you a croissant and a secret.

Her son’s name is Bernard, but every time Sara says it, she transforms into a full Frenchman: “*Behr-narrd!*” We lose it. Every single time.

And so we spend our days beachcombing for glass and treasures.

We swim.

We laugh.

We conjure.

We dream.

We burn our cheeks and our hearts glow warmer still.

We live like time is suspended. Because maybe, for a moment, it is. Maybe this is what it means to be known.To be loved not just for who you are now, but for every version of yourself you’ve been along the way.

This isn’t just friendship. It’s a sacred tether. It’s memory, and muscle, and wild, unshakable magic. It’s the kind of love that doesn’t flinch. The kind that waits. The kind that weaves itself into your bones.

And when someone asks what kind of friendships last,
I think of this.
Worn in all the best ways.
Soaked in memories.
Stitched with laughter, loss… and a little bit of magic.
The kind you don’t question.
The kind you hold with both hands.

Okay, but JUST ONE (Present… or Firefly, Coyote, or One Dirty, Rotten, Stinkin’ Raccoon)

I’ve always been the kind of person who says, “Let’s just open one present.” You know, just a tiny peek, just one little ribbon tugged loose on Christmas Eve. And okay, maybe one turns into two… and then suddenly the tree is looking suspiciously empty by morning. Oops.

It’s not really about the presents. It’s about the joy. I love joy. I love the part where someone’s eyes light up and say, “No way, really?” I want to pass that kind of feeling around like cookies at a party. I want to share it.

And lately? The joy has been showing up as stories.

Writing these books has flipped my “just one present” impulse into full-blown overdrive. First came Frances the Firefly, a soft, glowing story that still makes my heart flutter. Then Calvin and the Coyote, full of feathers, firelight, and memory. It feels like handing over little pieces of a shared past.

But now… there’s this dirty, stinkin’, rotten raccoon lurking in the corners of my imagination. And I can’t lie, I want to tell you everything. I want to show you the kid with the firefly t-shirt, the mayor with the oversized hairdo, and the raccoon who may or may not be misunderstood…

And his friend.

Because yes, he has one. A young crow who’s always stirring the pot: clever, quick, and never far when something funny (or slightly chaotic) happens.
And if you’re thinking, hmmm… a firefly? a crow?, then congratulations. You’re already spotting the easter eggs. I know, I’m no Taylor Swift, but she’s onto something. If I start naming chapters after my exes, you’ll know I’ve gone full Swift.

But I can’t share it all just yet.

If I go all-in on the raccoon right now, I risk overshadowing Frances and Calvin, who are still out there finding their readers. They deserve their moment in the sun.
If you haven’t read those yet, I hope you will. And if they land somewhere soft inside you, I’d be so grateful if you’d share them or leave a review. I know, I know… everyone asks. But here’s the truth: these stories matter to me, and they can’t travel far on their own. I’m one person with a full heart and a very small megaphone, trying to help them find their people. Maybe even yours.

That said… the raccoon is coming. And the countdown is officially on.

If you have kids (or grandkids) who love a little summer caper, or if you just need a 20-minute break when the “I’m bored” chorus begins this summer, head to Firefly & Fog and check the Books section. You’ll find a “Wanted” poster for one dirty, stinkin’, rotten raccoon. He’s been spotted. He’s up to something. And this spring, I’ll be sharing free printable activity pages to help track him down and build the excitement.

Think: raccoon sightings, silly name generators, coloring pages, reading trackers… all with a mischievous twist. It’s a sneaky little way to keep kids reading, drawing, imagining, and maybe even giggling while they wait for the full story.

More fun printables will follow the book’s release, but for now, let the springtime sleuthing (and silliness) begin.

Frances and Calvin still have their time to shine, and I’m so proud of them both.
But I’ll admit… I’m keeping one eye on the woods.
There’s rustling out there.
And maybe a feather, too.

P.S. If you know a kid, a parent, a grandparent, a teacher, or a curious grown-up who still believes in mischief and magic, I’d love for you to share this with them. Word of mouth means the world. And if you’d like first dibs on printables, peeks, and maybe a riddle or two, signing up is easy — and full of sparkle.
As always, I love you, I appreciate you, and I thank you.