What are fissells you ask? Well in "Maddy language" it actually means FRECKLES. The other day, I noticed she has a little arch of freckles on her nose...it's very cute...so I pointed it out to her and she has since been calling them "Fissells".
I wanted to do this blog about how much I hated having "fissells" and when I searched Google to find out some interesting facts about freckles and some home remedies for removal...I came across this story and it ALMOST made me tear up as I read it and it's a Christmas story, so I am going to share with ya's (it's long so if you don't want to read it, I understand):
The little girl gazed with interest at the large furniture van which had drawn up outside the gate of the new white and green two-storied house.
Another little girl was standing shyly by the gate of the house watching with eager expectation as the large doors of the van were thrown open and three men commenced the long process of transferring the furniture from the van to the footpath and into the house.
“Hello,” said the first little girl.
“Hello,” the second little girl answered. The first little girl walked up to her. “What's your name?” she asked.
“Mine's Jane Wilson, but almost everyone calls me ‘Freckles.’ You can see why can't you?” she ended almost defiantly.
“Freckles is a lovely name,” said Rosemary.
“I don't think so,” said Freckles, “but yours is lovely. R-rose-mar-ry,” she repeated it slowly and let it roll off her tongue. “It suits you, you know. What lovely hair you've got.” She fingered Rosemary's golden wavy hair which hung down her back and touched the stiff blue bow which stood on top of her head.
“Please —” said Rosemary as she moved away.
“Oh, alright,” said Freckles, “I was only feeling it, that's all, If I had hair like that, I'd let anyone that wanted feel it.”
“But your hair is lovely,” said Rosemary, “so nice and shiny and straight—”
“As carrots,” put in Freckles. “Oh, I say!” she went on excitedly as she pointed to an object one of the men had lifted out of the van and was carrying up the path. “What a lovely doll's house. Is it yours?”
Rosemary nodded. “Daddy bought it for me last Christmas,” she answered.
“You must be awful rich, if your Daddy can afford a doll's house like that. I've got a doll's house—a small one—but I had to save for months and months and months to buy it, for you can't save much out of threepence a week, especially if you're very fond of ice-creams.”
“No,” agreed Rosemary, “you can't. I'll have to go now. Mummy might want me to help her unpack and I've got a lot to do, too, for I've got lots and lots of dolls to unpack from almost every part of the world. I've lived in lots of strange lands.”
“Have you? Where? Can I help you unpack?” asked Freckles eagerly in one breath.
“Well —” Rosemary hesitated, then as she noticed the eagerness die out of Freckles' face, she went on, “but you may come soon one day to see all my things. Where do you live?”
“That little house on the corner,” answered Freckles. “There's only Mummie and I, Daddy was killed —” she stopped as tears welled into her eyes. Then suddenly she said, “Good-bye—I'll see you again,” and she waved with a somewhat grubby hand as she ran along the street through the gateway and up the path of the little garden where she ran behind a willow tree (the only tree the little garden boasted) and burst into tears.
When the flood of tears had spent itself, she sat very still on the grass and thought of Rosemary. How beautiful she was! Her complexion was like peaches and cream, and her hair was a beautiful golden colour, and what a lovely blue dress she had on, and her shoes were shiny and her socks with blue tops were pulled up straight. Freckles took stock of herself as she had done many times before. She wriggled her big toe out of her left brown well-worn sandal, pulled up the grey socks Mummie had knitted, straightened her faded print frock, patched in the places where a barbed wire fence had torn it, and took out of her pocket a cracked hand-mirror and looked at her freckled face with its snub nose, mouth far too big, and brown eyes— eyes that weren't worth mentioning.— Oh, she wished she was dead—why hadn't she been born beautiful like Rosemary—why did she have to be ugly and have everyone calling her Freckles when her real name was Jane and why—oh, why—but there were too many whys for a small girl to answer. Freckles gave up taking stock of herself and went into the house. Her mother was baking in the kitchen. Freckles entered the kitchen, her face very gloomy.
“Hello, Mum,” she said.
“Hello, dear,” said her mother.
“Making scones?” asked Freckles.
“Yes,” answered her mother.
“Can I lick the bowl after?”
“Alright, but don't make yourself sick, tea will be ready in half an hour.”
Her mother poured the yellow substance into little square pans set in a large tin and popped the whole into a hot oven. Freckles busied herself with a spoon and scraped the bowl, licking the spoon appreciatively.
Between licks she said, “I saw the most beautiful little girl to-day, Mum. Rosemary her name is, and she's got lovely hair and eyes, and her complexion is all peaches and cream.”
“My goodness!” exclaimed her mother, “She sounds entrancing. Who Is she?”
“She must be a nice little girl,” said Mrs. Wilson, “but you're not going to make yourself a nuisance over at the house, her mother mightn't like it.”
“No, Mum,” said Freckles dutifully. She wandered out into the garden again and lay on the grass on her back and closed her eyes. Her thoughts took wings, and she imagined that Rosemary was a Princess and she was a Lady-in-Waiting who would wait on her all the time, and bring her beautiful gifts, and then a Prince would come along on a white horse and the Princess would get married and they would go away to a new Kingdom and set up house, and Freckles, or rather Lady Jane, would be left behind, and she would cry for days and nights without stopping, because she couldn't serve her beautiful Princess Rosemary any longer.
The very next day which was Saturday, Freckles walked over to the big house, but Rosemary was not to be seen, and Freckles gazed through the bars of the gate at the well-trimmed lawns and the neat flower-beds, but there was no sign of life about. P'raps they were all asleep in bed, or p'raps Rosemary was counting all her dolls and hadn't reached the right number and had to start counting all over again, or p'raps she was spring-cleaning her doll's house, though it wasn't the season of the year—and Freckles wandered home again, and in the afternoon forgot Rosemary somewhat when three little girls came over to her place and they played happy games all the afternoon.
A week or more passed and Freckles had not seen Rosemary again. Then one day, the postman blew an extra long phe-e-p on his whistle when Freckles was at school trying very earnestly at the time to learn how to spell, and a letter addressed to Miss Jane Wilson popped through the slit in the door and fell on to the thread-bare hall carpet. It was with trembling fingers that Freckles opened it when she came home to lunch, and she gazed in awe at the gaily printed invitation card with a jolly Father Christmas in one corner and a Christmas Tree in another, and lots of bells and mistletoe, and in neat handwriting Miss Rosemary Lane invited Miss Jane Wilson to attend a Christmas Party on Saturday, 16th December, at 4 p.m., in “The Links,” Fairview Crescent.
For the intervening five days, Freckles walked on air. They hadn't addressed the invitation to Miss “Freckles” Wilson, but to Jane, and she felt it would be a grand party.
Mrs. Wilson got together a few shillings and made Freckles a new white spotted muslin frock with a blue sash. Freckles dressed that Saturday with extra care. Pulled up perfectly straight her new white socks, and brushed her hair until it shone, and polished her best black shoes until she could see her face in them, and when her mother was not looking, Freckles tip-toed into her mother's bedroom and took out a box of powder from the dressing-table and with a puff tried the effects of powder on her freckles, but without some other beauty aid, the powder would not stay on, so Freckles dashed to the bathroom and washed all the powder off and rubbed her face vigorously with a towel. Her mother noticed her extra shining face with its flushed cheeks, but attributed the cause to the excitement of the party.
Freckles left home with her mother's last words ringing in her ears to behave herself, not to eat too much and not to be rough in the games. When she strode up the path of the garden of the big white house with the invitation card clutched tightly in her hand, other little boys and girls were also arriving, many getting out of cars at the gate. They were all dressed in their best; the little boys had shiny faces and well-brushed hair. One little boy wore an Eton collar and Freckles turned up her snub nose at him with scorn.
Freckles gave her card to a maid who opened the door. Mr. and
“This is the little girl I told you about, Mother. Freckles, I mean—Jane Wilson.”
“How do you do, Jane?” said
“Hello,” said Freckles.
Then suddenly Rosemary was surrounded by children who all seemed to be talking at once, and Freckles was left alone—dreadfully alone. She felt like running home. It wasn't going to be much of a party after all.
Then a funny clown rolled through the doorway and Freckles laughed as loud as any of the children at his antics, and then there came a Punch and Judy show, games, a guessing competition, a treasure hunt and the tea—and what a Christmas tea! Freckles did not over-eat, but when she had finished she just felt comfortably full of cake, ice-cream, trifle, strawberries, jelly and soft drinks.
The grand climax came when a huge Christmas Tree was wheeled into the room with a jolly Father Christmas following on a sleigh laden with presents. Then it was Rosemary's duty to light all the candles on the tree and she was fulfilling her task admirably, when suddenly it happened— Rosemary in her eagerness had swung round quickly and her long hair touched the flame of a candle.
Immediately there was a scream, Rosemary's beautiful hair was on fire! Freckles ran as she had never ran before from a far corner of the room. She pushed children out of the way, swung Rosemary round and in the twinkling of an eye, she gripped the blazing hair with her hands and rubbed and rubbed until the flames were out and all that was left were blackened strands of hair. Rosemary fainted away, but Freckles stood stiffly smiling, her little burnt hands hanging limply by her side. Then the room began spinning around and for her too came blackness, and when she awoke she found herself on a bed and her hands were being smothered with some soothing sweet smelling ointment and being bandaged by a kindly grey-haired man, and Rosemary her face streaked with tears and her lovely fair golden hair lying in blackened uneven strands about her face was leaning over her bed. Freckles had a glorious feeling at that moment. She had saved her beautiful Princess. She was a true Lady-in-Waiting.
“Dear brave little girl,” and
And after they had helped her home, and her mother had been told the story and was tucking her up in bed, her little bandaged hands plucked at the counterpane.
“Rosemary will still be beautiful, won't she, Mummie? And her hair will grow?” she asked.
“Just as good as ever,” smiled her mother.
“Why does God make some people beautiful and some ugly?” asked Freckles.
“What a question to ask,” replied her mother. “Sometimes ugly people have the kindest hearts and do the bravest deeds—beautiful faces do not make beautiful people—”
“Oh, but Rosemary is beautiful all through. I'll be like her when I grow up. P'raps I might grow beautiful. Maybe my hair will curl and my freckles will fade away. Do you think so?”
“I wouldn't want my little girl to lose her brave heart for all the beauty in the world. Freckles and all, I love you as you are,” and with a fond kiss and “good-night,” her mother left her and before Freckles fell asleep in a contented frame of mind she thought, “P'raps it wasn't so bad to have freckles after all.”
And on the day before Christmas Day, Rosemary sent to Freckles her doll's house and the note tied to it said:
“To dear little Jane of the golden heart wishing you a Merry Christmas, from Rosemary, your loving friend for always.”
In my "Freckle" search, I also stumbled about this kid's book written by Julianne Moore - Freckleface Strawberry.