When I was a child, my mother sat me down and told me the ways of Chet. Chet called no place his home, although he preferred small quiet places like our old chicken coop. He came around when the creek began to thaw and the first yellow crocus began to bloom. He was like a bird, migrating to warmer climates after the first frost. Or perhaps he dug a hole beneath a tree deep in the woods and hibernated for the winter. It was hard to say. Legend had it that he was like the Mothman, Bigfoot, or the Creature of the Night. That when he got angry, that his eyes glowed red. That he talked in some foreign language, like from a small European country no one had ever heard of. That his clothes were from hundreds of years ago. That he wore shoes made of straw. But that was only speculation and that was not our Chet. Our Chet was benevolent, existing in soft shadow and conjecture, leaving secret talismans for us to discover. No one in our family had ever seen him, including my mother, but he left his mark: a set of stones placed in a curious pattern, tomatoes or other vegetables picked from the garden and placed in a neat pile. He left behind the scent of red licorice or a tiny frog rescued to a leaf for you to discover. Sometimes when he wandered deep into the woods behind our house, he played the flute. My mother always said that if we were still and quiet, we might hear his melody. But that was long ago, when I was a child and believed in mystery and folly. I got old, moved away from the farm, married someone I thought would love me forever, and started my own family. I listened to a voice that was not always my own, sometimes stubbornly, and I forgot the rhythm of life my mother had instilled in me. My husband asked for a divorce and I moved with my three children back home to this farm, to be with my mother, who loved me unconditionally. On one of our first mornings, she gathered the children into the kitchen and sat them at the table, and told them the lore of Chet, much like the way she first told me decades ago. My daughter wanted to know just how old Chet might be. My son asked if Chet could become invisible? Could he fly? No one knew, my mother said. One could only guess. My children learned the ways of Chet and how to wander the green fields of the countryside. We, my mother and I, and then my children, began to include Chet and his antics into our daily life. A box of cereal left empty in the cupboard was Chet’s doing. A carton of milk left with only two swallows was left by Chet. When we lost something, a book, a shiny gadget, once a toaster, we said that Chet had taken it. Chet might leave the garden gate open or sometimes forget to put a bicycle away in the garage after a late evening ride. Anything out of order was always attributed to Chet. During our third winter on the farm, my mother slipped on the ice and fell hard, creating a tender knot on the back of her head. It was not a concussion, and the doctor said not to worry too much, but two months later an aneurysm suddenly took her down for good. We had a small funeral, and as my mother wished, her ashes were spread across the farm. And so, I inherited my mother’s house, the house I grew up in, the house where I now raised my children. Like my mother, I swept the chicken coop each spring and put out a blanket and old pillow for Chet. My children made sure there was a bucket of fresh water set out for him each day. We grew vegetables in our garden for him to freely eat. We sat on our porch on summer afternoons and listened for the melody of Chet’s flute. And sometimes we heard it. Four summers passed and my job transferred me to a location far from this farm. I sold my mother’s house and prepared to say goodbye to the familiar. My children and I huddled around the kitchen table and composed a message for the new owners: The Care and Feeding of Chet 1. Do not be afraid. Chet can be naughty, but means no harm. 2. Do not attempt to capture or photograph Chet. He is elusive. 3. Chet does not like loud noises. Do not blast the stereo or engage in arguments, especially with anger or profanity. 4. Leave small gifts for Chet: a pretty stone, a drawing of a flower. 5. Remember to water and care for the yard so that Chet has a relaxing and beautiful place to rest. 6. Feed the birds so that Chet can watch them and hear them sing. 7. If you see Chet, do not startle him. Look at his shadow and not his eyes. 8. Chet has a sweet tooth. Leave him a cookie, a piece of gum, or a hard candy. Set it out in the open, where he can find it. We read the note together and then, satisfied, my children scattered off for a last look at the farm. I sat alone in the kitchen, tempted to fold the note into a neat square and slide it into my pocket. But then, I thought of my mother, and how she said that Chet was like Buddha, needing nothing but the kindness of strangers. I left the note on the table and prepared for the next journey, carrying everything I needed in my memory of this place, this time.‍ ‍The story originally appeared in Sharon’s short story chapbook, This Blue Earth, published by the Michigan Writers Cooperative Press in 2023. Sharon Bippus’ short stories and flash have been published in many journals, including The Dunes Review, The Pinch, The Bear River Review, The Jellyfish Review, and elsewhere. She is a co-organizer of the Kalamazoo Writers Disorganization and a recipient of a grant from the Michigan Arts Council. Sharon lives in Three Rivers, Michigan, and enjoys working in her yard, taking her dogs to the dog park, and in between that, working on her novel. She has a semiregular old-school blog at her website: sharonbippus.com