An Unauthorized Biography of Donald J. Trump. Chapter One.

Each head of hair has one strand that is magic. But if it is cut it is no longer magic.

Almost no one knows this, and so it gets cut when the child is very young and the magic is never discovered. That is why there is such a widespread feeling of loss, a feeling of betrayal, in the world today. People vaguely realize that something magic was given to them at birth, but then it was cut off. And no amount of grubbing or pleading brings back that lost magic.

But there once was a boy named Donald John Trump whose parents never had his hair cut. His mother had dreamt the night before his birth that if she allowed his hair to grow he would become like Samson -- unique and handsome and wildly haunted.

So it was never cut. And one day Donald Trump discovered he could do magic.

It was a day, like many another day when Donald Trump was young, when the lure of a summer romp was too much to resist. The clouds rowed about the blue sky, silently chuckling to themselves. The grass upon the mounds across the street mussed themselves up with the glee of thousands of small living things running through them or chewing on them. Outside smelled just right, so Robert asked his mother if he could go out to play.

“Not until pine trees grow apples!” she retorted irritably. She was not actually irritated at Robert for anything. She was mad at Donald's father for a small marble statue he had lost five years ago. The statue belonged to her great grandmother; it depicted an angel sneezing. Robert’s mother, who everyone called Babs, immediately felt guilty for taking her ire out on Donald, so she gave him a nutmeg cookie

“It’s too windy to go outside -- you might get run over by a kite” she told him in a much kinder voice.

Donald, at this point in his life, was not one to argue with his mother or any other authority figure, so he trooped into the living room to stare out the window, wishing with all his might that the pine tree in the front yard would sprout some apples.

And it did. They grew quickly into shiny red apples, and began falling off the pine tree with a ‘thud’ that attracted some nearby squirrels -- who have to investigate everything, no matter what. An astonished Donald ran to tell his mother.

“That old pine tree in the front yard is growing apples, mom! I made it happen!” he yelled excitedly.

“What?” she said. She ran with him back into the living room and stood silently amazed at the sight. 

“Well then” she said simply, “I guess you can go out and play.” Donald squeezed her like a lemon and literally jumped out the front door.

Babs went back into the kitchen and sat down. She peeled an orange, carefully piling the peelings onto a piece of wax paper so she could use them for marmalade later on. Or so she told herself, but since she had not made any jellies or jams in over ten years she suddenly grew irritable once again -- this time over her own self deceptive thoughts. She threw the orange peel away, then slowly ate the orange section by section. Thinking all the while about the strange thing that happened to the pine tree in the front yard. Something told her there would be more incidents like that with her son, but before she could bundle up that thought to take to the cogitation shop her husband came through the back door and kissed her on the small of the neck.

“What’s for breakfast, Babs?” he asked. 

Meanwhile, Donald was joyfully inhabiting the summer sunlight. He listened to the gnats gossiping about the mayflies and watched a turtle slowly blink. He realized he should have asked for several more cookies while his mother was in a good mood. He was learning that cookies could disappear from a boy’s life just as easily as they could suddenly appear -- so when the cookies were abundant and in the charge of a smiling adult, one should stock up on them for the inevitable rainy day or dentist appointment. 

But prudent thoughts were suddenly tossed to the four winds when Donald saw his Grandpa Snork waddling down the road. He came on with a rolling gait, and when he saw Donald he gave a long wide sweep of his hand that might have cleared the sky of birds.

“Hello dere!” he yelled at Donald, while still several yards away.

“Grandpa, you gotta come see the pine tree in our yard -- it’s full of apples!” Donald burst out as he ran to meet the old man.

“Well then” said his grandfather, “it’s a pineapple tree, ain’t it?”

“Guess so” said Donald, tugging on his hand to hurry him along to view the miracle.

“Hold your horses, boy! I’m feeling kinda fra-gilly today” Grandpa Snork protested as he was dragged along willy-nilly.

“C’mon, Grandpa” pleaded Donald, “it might stop laying apples! Or sprouting ‘em or whatever the heck it’s doing!” 

When they arrived at the enchanted pine tree it was still producing apples by the score. Grandpa Snork slowly bent over to pick one up and bite it.

“Phooey!” he spat it out. “Tastes like turpentine, by the Lord Harry!”

“What should we do with ‘em all, then?” asked Donald.

“Gather ‘em up in a basket for an offering to the bumpsies” he replied.

The ‘bumpsies’ were a made up name that Grandpa Snork used for the people buried in the mounds all around town long long ago. Some town folks thought their spirits still hung around, yearning for one last good meal. Donald couldn’t really tell if his grandfather believed in the bumpsies or not. The old man spoke of them in a high whining voice, the kind of voice he used when discussing politicians and his former wives -- so Donald didn’t think he took the bumpsies seriously; but Grandpa never went near any of the mounds after dark.

“You mean just pile ‘em on top of one of the mounds?” asked Donald.

“Yep” said his grandfather. “Provided we do it before it gets too late.” Before his grandson could rag on him for being afraid of the mounds after dark, he added “You know your mother always wants you home in time for dinner -- er, I mean breakfast!”

They ran into an immediate problem. No matter how many pine apples they picked up, the pine tree kept producing more.

“This some kind of magic stunt?” asked Grandpa Snork, getting his second wind.

“Uh, yeah; I guess I did it” admitted Donald, feeling both exhilarated and somehow ashamed.

“Dunno. How do you unmagic something, Grandpa?” asked Donald, relieved that his grandfather didn’t seem upset or even amazed at the pine tree’s strange fruit.

“Well . . . “ Grandpa Snork rubbed his short white beard a moment. “Maybe if you think about something dull and pointless the magic will go away. Maybe.”

So Donald gave some intense thought to his father’s collection of butter knives, and sure enough the old pine tree stopped growing apples.

“Now let’s gather a bunch to take up on top of that mound over there, my little bugaboo!” said Grandpa Snork, placing a hand on Donald's shoulder to give him a friendly squeeze. Donald was grateful to him for not making a big deal out of his magic, or whatever it was.

After they had carted several dozen apples up onto the mound they walked back home and sat down to breakfast just as the sun was setting. Donald did not notice that his grandfather had surreptitiously picked up a flat gray stone on top of the mound while they were arranging the apples in a circle and slipped it into his coat pocket. 

“Will you say grace, please, Grandpa?” asked Donald's father, Thomas.

“Most certainly” replied the old man, winking at Robert before he bowed his head to say just one single word. “Grace!” Then he stabbed his fork into the bowl of roast potatoes to snag the largest one.

“Oh Grandpa -- you’re such a character” said Babs mildly.

“That I am” the old man admitted proudly. He ate with relish, saying not a word until he had scrubbed his plate clean with a piece of bread, which he then popped into his mouth.

While he was wolfing down breakfast, Donald's parents made stabs at getting their son to tell them how he had done magic. But since Donald didn’t know himself how he had done it, he became truculent and kept repeating “I dunno, I just did it” until his parents gave up on the subject and talked instead about the wars raging overseas, thanking their lucky stars that their own land was still at peace.

“That’s because those pesky foreigners are afraid of the bumpsies” said Grandpa Snork, as he greedily reached for the last sweet roll. “Remember when that group tried to bomb us back before Donald was born? They flew over and began dropping those rocket things on us, but instead of falling down on our heads and burning us up, those bombs just reversed themselves and blew up the planes that dropped them! You can’t tell me it was our scientists who did that! It was the bumpsies -- they don’t like being disturbed from their long sleep in the mounds. Or their short sleep, as the case may be” he added mysteriously.

Donald pricked up his ears. He’d heard his grandfather mention before that some of the mounds were not that ancient, when you came right down to it.

“It’s too gruesome a subject for breakfast, Grandpa,” said Thomas hastily. “Whatever the real cause was, we can all be thankful to sleep through the night in peace and quiet.”

“Amen” said Babs as she got up to clear the dishes. Thomas got up to help her, leaving Donald and his grandfather alone at the table.

“Are some of those mounds brand new-like, grandpa?” Donald whispered.

“Well, some of ‘em ain’t as ancient as folks like to think -- I can tell you that! There’s one over by my hotel that wasn’t there twenty years ago -- twenty years ago it was a yogurt factory. So unless those old bumpsies like moving their mounds around like chess pieces, there’s only one explanation that I can think of . . . “ here the old man stopped himself when Thomas and Babs came back to the table.

“Young man” said his father, “it’s bedtime for you. Grandpa, do you want to stay the night with us? Your room is ready, if you want to.”

Grandpa Snork got up to peer out the dining room window. 

“Well, I don’t see none of the mounds glowing tonight -- so I think I’ll just walk on back to my hotel and play a little snooker with the boys. Thanks all the same, Thomas. I’ll just wish the boy goodnight and be on my way.”

Hiding his disappointment as best he could, Donald gave his grandfather a kiss on the cheek and trooped off to bed. When his grandfather stayed overnight the rules about staying up late and having snacks were pretty much forgotten. 

After the boy was gone the three adults sat in the living room in silence. It was a balmy evening, so the windows were open. A mudbird called, and was answered by another.

“Listen” said Snork at last. “I know you two don’t know what to do about this magic pine tree thing today. My advice is to let it alone, and let Donald alone. He don’t know anymore about what happened, really, than you do -- or I do. I seen some magic in my time, and sometimes it’s a good thing, but mostly it’s a painful thing for a man to mess with.”

He reached into his jacket pocket and pulled out the flat rock he had gotten on top of the mound earlier that day.

“Here’s a claptrap, I think it’s called. Anyway, they dampen all sorts of energy. Watch.” 

He held it up to the lamp on the table. The light immediately grew dim. When he pulled the stone away, the bulb glowed brightly again inside the lamp shade. He handed the stone to Babs.

“Make some kind of necklace out of it and have the boy wear it until you two and he can figure out what to do about this magic stuff. The stone should keep him from magicking himself into trouble or harm.”

Snork waved away their effusive thanks, thanking them enthusiastically in turn for the lavish dinner -- uh, lavish breakfast. He stumped out the front door, glanced warily at the nearest mound, which remained dark and non-threatening, and walked back to the Hotel Marmalade, where he rented a large room in the back, very quiet and discreet -- good for napping or rioting, as circumstances dictated.

After watching the old man disappear into the darkness, Babs and Thomas sat down on the porch swing. Thomas had much he wanted to say to his wife, but he knew that she would be spending the next several hours thinking quietly to herself about what had happened that day. She was a slow thinker, and clear, but not profound. When she spoke her mind it was usually both obvious and practical. Except in the area of heirlooms, like the marble statue of the sneezing angel. Then she tended to get vociferous and ghastly. 

All Thomas could think for sure was that sometimes things happened with no obvious explanation -- you just had to roll with the punches and keep on plugging. He hadn’t seen the pine tree making apples himself, but he accepted Babs’ word for it. So was Robert some kind of wizard, or did something else cause that strangeness? He shrugged his shoulders; in the long run it probably didn’t matter a hill of turnips.

“I’m going to polish the knives” he said to Babs, giving her a quick peck on the cheek before going back inside. His butter knife collection gave him a great deal of comfort and reassurance in this crazy old world. You always knew where you stood with a butter knife. They took a good shine when rubbed down with a chamois cloth and kept out of the damp. There was nothing treacherous about them -- not like, say, letter openers, which were seemingly innocuous enough, but which could be used to commit murderous stabbing sprees given the right conditions. A good butter knife held a generous amount of butter or jam, and its broad sturdy blade would spread it on a piece of toast in an even and steady manner. A good butter knife, thought Thomas, was worth its weight in pewter.

Butter knives were not the only things that Thomas squirreled away in his basement study. He also collected leaf galls, maps, bars of soap, and stuffed skinks.

Donald didn’t fall asleep in his bedroom. He heard his parents saying goodnight to Grandpa Snork and heard them rocking back and forth on the porch swing. When his father came inside, Robert knew he would become engrossed with his butter knives while his mother stayed outside and thought real hard about things. Neither one of them would be checking up on him anytime soon, and he felt a great curiosity about the apples he and his grandfather had piled on the mound across the street. Were they still there? Had the squirrels come and chewed them up? He decided to sneak over and find out. 

He crawled silent out his bedroom window in his pajamas with corduroy slippers on his feet. Scampering silently to the top of the mound, he found the apples just as he and his grandpa had left them. Somewhat disappointed, he started down the mound but stopped when he thought he heard a whisper.

“Thank you, young Donald for the apples” the whisper seemed to say. “Thank the old gentleman too, when you see him.”

Donald did not feel afraid, just curious.

“Who are you? Are you the ghosts in the mound?” he asked out loud.

There was a soft collective titter.

“Oh no, we are not ghosts. We are not anything you would know or recognize” the whisper in his head said. “We are a sort of dust, a powdering of bones that are very old, or very new, or very mischievous. We visit these mounds often, and the smell of your apples is very surprising and pleasant to us.”

“My grandpa says they taste like turpentine,” Donald said to the stars. He felt as if mosquitoes were hovering all around him, but without whining and with no intention of biting him.

“Your grandfather is a wise old man, Donald. We think you should listen to him, especially when he is making jokes. He tells some deep truths when he’s joking” the whisper said, beginning to fade away.

“Can I come see where you live?” Donald asked.

“We are just forgotten dust . . . our places would make you sad . . . . just listen to the stars . . . “ And the whisper was gone.

“Hello! Hello! Are you still there?” Donald asked loudly. But there was no answer. 

Donald shrugged his shoulders, the way he had seen his grandpa do, then walked down the mound and back to his house, and climbed back into his bedroom window. He was asleep before he could even wonder how bone dust could smell apples. 

Meanwhile Babs stayed out on the porch, slowly thinking through the events of the day, reviewing them and trying to make sense of them. She didn’t actually believe in any kind of magic -- that was ridiculous. But she knew that her son Donald was bound for a strange destiny, and sometimes this delighted her, and sometimes it scared her. She would never let his hair be cut, because of the dreams she had. But if he had some kind of magic in him, should she let him explore it and find out about it, or should she suppress it until he was old enough to work it out himself?

Her mother had had a reputation as a witch, as a sooth-sayer of sorts. She knew all about the herbs that grew in the waste places outside of town, near the spindly woods. She brewed chickweed tea for pregnant women, to help settle their stomachs. She mashed lambs quarters into a paste for bee stings and sunburn. And she collected twigs from certain trees during the full moon to make a small fire on an iron disk, then used the ashes to predict the weather. So they had called her a witch behind her back. They were glad enough to take her potions, since she never charged anything -- but they didn’t much like her in their houses, and Babs was not allowed to play with their daughters. Her mother had laughed it off, saying that human nature would make an owl smile and a stone weep. But Babs wanted friends, lots of them -- and she never had any until Thomas showed up one day on a motorcycle, selling wooden buckets he made himself. Babs was only fourteen, but when Thomas smiled at her she simply jumped on behind him and said “Take me away from here, and I’ll be your wife.” That was nine years ago. And she had never regretted it. 

She fingered the claptrap. It was smooth and cold, like a stainless steel ball bearing. She couldn’t decide what would be best for her son. But she knew what would be best for her -- quiet and uneventful days, one following the next like a queue of hikers on a narrow mountain trail. Because if she had a long string of placid days, of placid years, to look forward to, she was certain she could nurture her son to become someone who wouldn’t ever need magic to get along.  She took the claptrap into her husband, who, besides collecting things like a pack rat, was also very handy with tools, to have him make the stone into a necklace for their son Donald.. 

This was a tragedy and a crime, done in love. Suppression is not the same as nurturing, but parents, especially mothers, always learn this too late. It is one reason, one of the main reasons, that sadness veils histories like this one.