My students get notes every morning from the fairies that live here. These are physical dolls made by my partner Silke, and we visit them on occasion. To the kids and I, they're very embodied.

Often the notes are just a greeting, but sometimes I use them to share a sympathetic word, a provocative question, or a good joke. Most of all, I use them to teach the youngest to read. It's often more motivating to try and read a fairy note than a teacher's lesson.

Outwardly, I'm a little gruff or stoic. I'm not the fairytale type, so the secret has been well kept. It's four years running now, and I have a large cardboard box filled to the brim with some of the best notes - both to my students and from them. Part of my clean up everyday after school is finding little pieces of paper all over the ground - notes to and from the fairies, maybe a drawing. Since I teach outside, this is the very garden upon which I tread. Every day. It's so abundant that I can even afford to get grumpy about it all. What a mess! It's that good.

Early on I had just a few students, so sometimes the notes were as long as letters. More recently, I write little notes like this because I can't always keep up with it all. I had to teach myself to do this. I had to learn from others, not least of whom was my partner Silke. I say this, because if you're a parent or teacher and sort of bewildered by the idea of how to accomplish this, give yourself some slack. Take it slow. It's worth it. In fact, it will change you. Believe me, if you encountered me 5 or 10 years ago, you would never have expected me to do something like this. I sure didn't.

Zippy lives in a hollowed out rock out front. She's sort of the queen, the first and wisest. Then came Bingo, who mostly speaks in jokes. He lives in the Bingo game on the shelf. Akimba is from Africa. He only has one leg, but he's scrappy and the protector of our chickens. (True story, we took him and a few of the others on a trip one day and when we came back some animal had killed and taken one of our chickens. We always leave Akimba at home now.)

Starlight came from a star one day, and she had a beautiful home in the garden outside till one day our dog chewed her beyond recognition. Poor Starlight. Fortunately, Silke and I found her before the kids did. I wrote a note to the kids from her saying that she had to return to her star, but that she would always be up there if they ever needed her. Last came Annuschka, a bubushka-wearing woman from Eastern Europe who never seems to be able to spell her name the same way twice. She came looking for a husband and some children to tend, because she can't have kids of her own. She and Akimba got married. The kids helped. It was pretty nice. Now they live near the chicken coop.

All of the fairies write notes, including some that have yet to be seen. By using their different personalities, I'm able to express slightly different meanings.

And of course the kids write back. Not as much as they used to, but they still do. Even the 10-year-olds. Oh sure, some of them probably suspect or know it's me, but it doesn't really matter. It's fun. It's this secret way we have of communicating with one another, and none of us are in a rush to ruin it. I'm able to say things to them that I might never outwardly say, or that might feel like too much of a compliment, a poke, or all-knowing.

They've been a tremendous gift to me.

The cardboard box of old notes remains high on my shelf. It's my dream that one day, twenty years from now, I'll pull them down, snap a few photos and send a message to my former students. It makes me teary to write that even now. Heck, maybe there'll still be a post office, and I'll be able to slip a note, stained by the fingerprint of time, to them in the mail. And then, of course, there's my handwriting. Each one of these benevolent creatures could write a new note at any moment, addressing any special joy or ill that may have come into one of their lives. Because they're me.

It's a gift that just gives itself over and over.

Here's one last one - fairies are real. Oh sure, they're stuffed with cotton and sewn shut with our hands. But the strange gift is that these characters live in a very real and palpable way with us - just like one's favorite characters from the movies. They have a presence. They coerce my hand. Somedays, when I'm pooped and just want to go home, I see Zippy peeking from behind her stone door. I try to ignore her, but I can't. She makes me think of a certain interaction with one of the kids. How would she have handled it? How might she have responded with gentleness, instead of irritation?

That's as real as can be.