Witch Gourd 2012

October 22, 2012

Every year I pick a big ol' ugly green gourd and convert it using paint and plastic to a witch head. This year's gourd is more gray than green but here you have it.

October 2012 Full Moon

Hallowe'en 2010

Around the Haunt...

and the Grounds 2010

Hallowe'en 2009

Halloween 2009

It's about this time I start decorating every year - here's a Hallowe'en reboot circa 2009...

Best of Hallowe'e 2009

Hallowe'en 2008

The Best of Hallowe'en 2008

Hallowe'en Rant 2006

HALLOWE'EN 2006

A Much Maligned Holiday
from a Mostly Pagan
and Respectfully Irreverent Perspective...

We wear the mask that grins and lies,
It hides our cheeks and shades our eyes, --
This debt we pay to human guile;
With torn and bleeding hearts we smile,
And mouth with myriad subtleties.

Why should the world be overwise,
In counting all our tears and sighs?
Nay, let them only see us, while
We wear the mask.
-- Paul Laurence Dunbar --

Probably the most recognizable of the iconic practices that pertain to Hallowe'en is the donning of the mask.

Hallowe'en is The Grand Masquerade. The concept suggests that this is the chance to be something or someone who is not our true self -- maybe someone we admire or even abhor. Contrary to that notion, it may also be construed as an opportunity to inflict our truly scary self upon the masses -- sort of try it on for size and see if the world finds the real person agreeable, see if the worlds likes us, the real you -- the real me. Arguably, depending on how comfortable one is with their true self this exercise in truth or consequences could be really scary. For you… for me… and for others. Ha!

Masks are not just for Hallowe'en. We wear a mask every day in the trappings of the persona we present to the world at large. Masks are how we shield our inner self, the vulnerable self from what can be harsh reality. It is a built in defense mechanism that can be pulled out of our threatened psyche as quick as the drop of a witch's hat.

It is not a single persona, alternate ego, or mask we carry with us either as we go about the business of life in the mundane realm. Most of us have a myriad of disguises. The mask we don at any given time is not a pose. It is not our intent to misrepresent ourselves to others. A persona is the SELF as self-construed, and is likely to change according to circumstance.

A mask is simply the way we deal with misconception and negativity in a world that is all too ready to criticize who we are and what we do based mainly on our appearance and demeanor.

The face or self we show to a stranger on the street is different from the self we reveal to a close friend and that self, differs from the one we present to family and that self, differs from the one we show the neighbors and that self, differs from the person we are at work and the self who chats with the preacher man on Sunday.

If you think about it, we are a people of many faces. No one is entirely without guile. We become the person it is most convenient for us to be at any given time. Or, we become that person who magically appears when mother's phantom voice in your head says: mind your manners.

When expressed in such simplistic terms, it begins to sound like a collective consciousness suffering from mass multiple personality disorder. But it is hardly a disease, this wearing of masks -- I prefer to think of personality as having facets. No person is one dimensional. Perhaps duplicitous behavior has to do with one's willingness and ability to conform to another person's preconceived notion of who we are. I mean, there are things about myself I would share with my closest friends but not necessarily with my 95 year old grandmother, things my husband knows about me that my parents and children do not, things about myself that I share with no one. That's the Scorpio in me talking. It is a fact that people make assumptions about other people based on outward trappings, our speech and our behavior in public -- aka appearance and demeanor. We should not judge (at least not without compunction) but -- Alas! Such is our nature!

So! We don our masks and muddle our way through.

It is always interesting to see which persona a person will adopt at Hallowe'en. I for one, wonder what prompts the choice. Are we a witch, a vampire, or the IRS man because we admire or loathe that stereotype or are we projecting an image that we think others will admire or loathe? Nine times out of ten - I would have to say loathe is the answer. Are we making a statement about ourselves or do we consciously consider the impact our disguise may have on others at all?

I have met people who go to great lengths and expense to construct the perfect Hallowe'en costume. This type of person is very conscious of their personal image, even if it be farce. What this person projects on the world is carefully contrived and controlled. It is not likely you will see this person as they really are -- ever.

But let the world dream otherwise,
We wear the mask!
-- Paul Laurence Dunbar --

I have observed young adults in a resale clothing shop methodically go through racks of odd clothing - garments, coats, hats, skirts and even pajamas that hang there all year long with apparently no other purpose than to become a one-of-a-kind Hallowe'en costume. What emerges from the racks of discards is often remarkable. The end product or ensemble is the result of pure spontaneity and creativity and perhaps a decided lack of inhibition. They become whatever the offerings dictate, they embrace the offerings and wholeheartedly go with it! How refreshing! When I was a child, indeed, when many people of my generation were of trick-or-treat age, a sheet, a wig or grandpa's old pants as costume held the same charm. It was not so much about how we were perceived as how we perceived ourselves.

I have observed children who are very certain about what they want to be for trick-or-treat and why. I am a super hero because he saves people. I am a fireman because they do good work and drive a big truck. I am a princess because they live happily ever after. I am a wizard because they can do magic. I am a vampire because I vant to bite you! Grrrrr! I have observed other children who have not a clue about why they need a costume except as a means to get free candy and still others who are intimidated or frightened of the process. Then, there are those few who choose or are chosen for according to their parent's desires. You grownups -- Stop It! Stop demand-dressing your new millennium children like ladybugs and angels and woe begotten clowns or worse Disney characters from past generations (and centuries) with whom they cannot possibly identify. Everyone knows who Mickey Mouse is -- but not all of us get him. And what is really annoying to me are parents who use their children's costume as a political platform. Ugh! So sad -- is the trampling of individualism, imagination, and creativity. Remember: children are our best hope for the survival of the arts and without their unrestrained creative input -- everything becomes repetitive and conformist. Same ol'. Same ol'. Yikes!

So what is the difference between a Hallowe'en mask and those we don every day?

Costuming for Hallowe'en is to wrap one's self in a temporary facade. It is about self-expression. It is a masquerade. It is basically about pretense, imagination and frivolity. It can be a healthy approach to facing one's minor fears. A person who dresses as a monster may be irrationally afraid of monsters or the idea of monsters. Dressing as a monster is a way to own that fear, or at the very least understand it better.

But, how about the person who converses with the bank teller about the weather and really has not looked up to see if there are clouds in the sky? What about the person who discusses politics and religion in open company? Are we really prone to speak our minds or do we merely project what is expected of a good Democrat, Republican or Christian? Is the person on the job for eight hours the same person who comes home with us? Are any of the above the same person you saw reflected in the mirror this morning? Not likely.

Hmmmm... This daily masquerade, is it healthy? I think so. The art of self-preservation in my mind is healthy if it harms none. If one doesn't mistake what is temporary and perhaps superfluous as truth and if one can let go of that part of the ego which is served by illusion.

One need only fear a persona, if one cannot stop wearing the mask.

---

Ballad: The Pantomime Super to His Mask

Vast empty shell!
Impertinent, preposterous abortion!
With vacant stare,
And ragged hair,
And every feature out of all proportion!
Embodiment of echoing inanity!
Excellent type of simpering insanity!
Unwieldy, clumsy nightmare of humanity!
I ring thy knell!

To-night thou diest,
Beast that destroy'st my heaven-born identity!
Nine weeks of nights,
Before the lights,
Swamped in thine own preposterous nonentity,
I've been ill-treated, cursed, and thrashed diurnally,
Credited for the smile you wear externally -
I feel disposed to smash thy face, infernally,
As there thou liest!

I've been thy brain:
I've been the brain that lit thy dull concavity!
The human race
Invest MY face
With thine expression of unchecked depravity,
Invested with a ghastly reciprocity,
I'VE been responsible for thy monstrosity,
I, for thy wanton, blundering ferocity -
But not again!

'T is time to toll
Thy knell, and that of follies pantomimical:
A nine weeks' run,
And thou hast done
All thou canst do to make thyself inimical.
Adieu, embodiment of all inanity!
Excellent type of simpering insanity!
Unwieldy, clumsy nightmare of humanity!
Freed is thy soul!

(THE MASK RESPONDETH.)
Oh! master mine,
Look thou within thee, ere again ill-using me.
Art thou aware
Of nothing there
Which might abuse thee, as thou art abusing me?
A brain that mourns THINE unredeemed rascality?
A soul that weeps at THY threadbare morality?
Both grieving that THEIR individuality
Is merged in thine?
-- W.S. Gilbert --

--------------------------------------------------------------------------------
So? What or who are you gonna be for Hallowe'en? And, is that persona a reflection of your true self? And, can I answer those questions?

In years past I have been a princess (Mom's choice), a ghost (several times), a hobo, a gypsy, grandma in her squaw dress, little sexy red riding hood, a scarecrow, the bad persona in the good, the bad and the ugly and others but most often I choose to be a witch. A witch who dons a purple crushed velvet cape, red and black stockings and a pointy hat is a perfect fit for me. Yep -- that's right, the stereotype witch, albeit of the benevolent sort. I am a good witch who loves the night and the masquerade. I am a kindly witch who delights in the parade of children (young and old) marching up to the door as much in awe of the witch who treats them as the witch is in awe of the wondrous variety of characters they pretend to be. I am a witch who will watch until the last jack-o-lantern winks out at the Witching Hour and be sad (temporarily) that it is a whole long year until next Hallowe'en. That is who I will be this year, too. That Ol' Witch. I am comfortable with that persona. It suits me.

Is that person -- that raggedy ol' witch -- representative of my true self? Well, yes -- sort of. But I do not have to tell you how or why or in what way -- do I?

That is part of the fun of donning a mask... is it not? It is absolutely magickal!

With that said:
May you enjoy the masquerade, my friends.
May you embrace the persona you adopt this year.
May you dance in wild abandon down Jack-o’-Lantern Avenue.
May your spirit feel as free as a rook winging through the twilight sky.
Be who you are or who you want to be!
Own the Magick!
The Magick of Hallowe'en!

Respectfully yours in caliginous chaos
An it harm none – do as you will…
Octoberwych
© 2006 (text revised 2018) All rights reserved

Hallowe'en Rant 2005

HALLOWE'EN 2005

from a mostly Pagan
and respectfully irreverent perspective...

The holiest of all holidays are those
Kept by ourselves in silence and apart;
The secret anniversaries of the heart.
-- Henry Wadsworth Longfellow -

Hallowe'en, is not really a holiday, at least, it is not like other official holidays in the USA. We do not get off work for Hallowe'en unless we ask for the day off, there is not a Fall break from school and thankfully, some pencil neck bureaucrat has not suggested we celebrate it on some Monday or other so government workers can have an extended weekend off.

The thirty-first of October is Hallowe'en. And I, for one, am happy to let it be what it is -- something set aside from the rest, a day that does not morph into the hum-drum card and flowers occasion, namby-pamby date night, or ham n' turkey fest like what happens to most other official American holidays.

Nooooo. For those of us who cherish the macabre sense of it -- Hallowe'en is a happening; it is more a season than a night.

For me, Hallowe'en is a frame of mind. It is a journey into darkness - the darkness of heart and mind. It is a time of remembrance. It is a time of ruminative cleansing. I do not fear it. In fact, I think a fair amount of reflection on the darker aspects of my nature allows me to banish those traits that prove unfavorable forthwith.

Being a Scorpio - I apparently harbor the darkest thoughts of all, so astrologists say. But that does not mean I sit around in gloomy rooms with the doom of mankind on my mind. It means that whatever lurks in the dark of mind and spirit I call out, challenge and meet head on. It means I can embrace the dark side of my nature, engage it, and reign the beast in -- if need be.

...the night that marks the transition from autumn to winter seems to have been of olden the time of year when the souls of the departed were supposed to revisit their old homes in order to warm themselves by the fire and to comfort themselves with good cheer from their affectionate kinfolk. -- Sir James Frazer, The Golden Bough, 1890

So Hallowe'en is the Dark Carnival. It is the holiday that speaks to our superstitions and fears about death, the dead, the realm of the dead - in other words - the uncharted mysteries still unknown to the vast majority of us.

This is the one time a year where one can confront that which frightens us without misgiving. It is OK to be scared and to scare others. We can poke harmless fun at our ghoulish anxieties. On this night, it is OK to be a bit creepy, burn a candle for loved ones who have crossed over to the other side, set an empty plate at the table in anticipation of a ghostly visitor and allow the jack-o-lantern to burn throughout the night.

Hallowe'en...
It is the departure from normal.
It is the danse macabre.
It is the mystique.
It is the masquerade.

Caliginous Chaos reigns supreme this night.

As you venture out into the velvet ink of the evening and the whisper of the wind as it rattles through bare branches sounds like a sigh from beyond the grave -- remember Hallowe'en is an ancient celebration although it was not always known by this name and the Old Ones linger in the shadows.

Does that give you a chill?

Give the night a little reverence. Say hello to the crescent that is the moon this year, hold a little part of the magick for yourself -- invoking it as you will on the secret anniversaries of the heart in years to come.

May your Jack-O-Lantern burn bright throughout the night my friends.

Brightest Blessings to You and Yours
this Hallowe'en 2005!

Respectfully yours in caliginous chaos
An it harm none – do as you will…
Octoberwych
© 2005 (text revised 2018) All rights reserved

Hallowe'en Rant 2004

HALLOWE'EN 2004

from a mostly Pagan
and respectfully irreverent perspective...

Most ancient among gods and mortals,
let my worship be within the heart
that has truly tasted life,
for behold all acts of magic and art are my pleasure
and my greatest ritual is love itself.
-- Jim Garrison, Charge of the Crone --

Picture this scene: It is a chill October day. Sodden leaves fall from the trees and stick where they land as if coated with glue. The air is thick and damp, ripe with the odor of decay, rotting vegetation and rancid clay. The clouds overhead are pregnant with the promise of rain. A rumble of thunder in the distance serves as warning of the deluge to come.

Focus on a century old clapboard house situated on a large, unkempt corner lot at a dusty crossroads in little town Texas, not too far from the railroad tracks. Now picture in your mind's eye the house as haunted. Got it?

Haunted. The roof is worn, the siding old and mismatched, some of the windows are boarded over, and the rest of the crusty windows have rusty screens in black frames that hang slightly askew. The doors which have seen too many coats of paint have panes of thick, discolored, wavy glass. The hardware is old and tarnished to a dull, verdigris patina. One should note the doors still lock with a skeleton key. The white paint on the trim is washed out, chalky and peeling. The black paint on the metal railings and corner posts is all but faded away revealing bare metal which has succumbed to the ravages of rust. Along one side of the front stoop, a decrepit and precariously leaning carport almost shelters a vintage Ford from the elements. Shrubs of indeterminate species, a trio of them, struggle to keep their greenery in front of the low stoop. Dry thatch grasses and weeds round out the forlorn landscape. Spindly saplings of chinaberry and native pecan trees are scattered about. One small patch of old-fashioned pink primroses defiantly bloom next to the rickety back steps.

Now, picture this: A pale moon of a face appears in one of the windows. It hovers there in spectral fashion, seemingly without a body. Beside the head in the window an aged and gnarly hand appears to wave or beckon. The door opens a crack with a resounding and creepy screech and then slowly, slowly the opening grows wider and wider. A Woman with wispy hair the color of the first frost emerges. She totters out on spindly legs, supported by a curved bent-wood cane. She is wearing all black - black sweater, black slacks, black shoes. She has alert, black button eyes behind spectacles that sit low on a long, slender nose. Bent with age, the crone's steps are halting and tentative as she ventures past the threshold.

From her thin lips issues the raspy whisper of your name. She raises the cane in recognition, a light gleams in her dark eyes and with a crooked smile, she bids you welcome to her haunted abode. You smile and grasp the elbow of this elderly Dame and though you say otherwise, the thought runs through your head…

Greetings Grand Mother Witch!
Blessings Grand Mother Crone!

If I were telling a Hallowe'en story, this is likely how the Witch figure would enter the picture. She might be wearing a ragged black dress and long cloak instead of a sweater and slacks. In her hands would be a broom handle instead of a cane. And a pointy black hat would sit on her head at a jaunty angle just above the rim of her spectacles. The sound of one's name on her lips would strike a shiver in the heart.

The Crone Figure as Witch:
Witch figures of various types, whatever their sex or function, share characteristics which mark them out as not only abnormal but also frightening. -- John Widdowson

I speak of the fictional stereotype Witch - the Old Woman, the one regarded as a fearful creature. I said, creature -- not human. She is the Hag - the Stick Rider - the Withered One.

She is Grand Mother Witch. She is Grand Mother Crone.

I say this because if one were to take the stereotype image of a Wicked Witch: Comb her hair and clothe her properly according to the current fashion of the day -- well, she would magically transform into someone's beloved Grandmother. And vice-versa. A prim and proper Grandmother dressed in rags and a pointy hat would likely resemble any number of fairy tale Witches.

The physical appearance of Witch-figures is typically frightening and is often almost a caricature of all the most unpleasant human characteristics. -- John Widdowson

We nonchalantly and sometimes unconsciously assign the cruel label: Witch, Crone, or Hag to Old Women as a means of proverbially crossing ourselves against everything her time-worn features represent.

They are usually old, wrinkled, bent, crippled and reclusive. They often dress in dark, dirty, ragged clothes. They mutter to themselves or display other signs of abnormal or antisocial behavior. – John Widdowson

The Old Woman is the embodiment of our fears. Most people fear old age, ill health, infirmity, the deterioration of one's faculties and death. Most people fear the loss of their looks. Most people fear being alone. In other words, when we see an Old Woman, we irrationally fear and often deny the realization: that will be me one day.

The denigration of Old Women began centuries ago, and despite our pretense of morally correct consciousness in regard to the care of our elder population, continues even today.

Signs of old Womanhood are not supposed to be seen. Women are socially and professionally handicapped by wrinkles and gray hair in a way that men are not. -- Barbara Walker, The Crone

Definitions from: Dictionary.com
crone n. An ugly, withered old woman; a hag.
hag n. An old woman considered ugly or frightful
witch n. An ugly evil-looking old woman

I have an elderly Woman friend in her seventies. She is lively and independent, well-read, educated, charming and intelligent, well into her Crone years and experience. She shared with me this profound and dismaying assessment of her status in our society: Once a Woman reaches a certain stage in her life, she becomes invisible. She goes on to say that people, especially men, in particular young men, young Women as well, talk around her or through her or over her head without bothering to address her in a direct manner, seriously consider her opinion or her status as a person with vast experience in most matters.

By reducing an Old Woman to the status of the Witch Crone as the term is loosely understood (or misunderstood) by the vast majority of allegedly educated masses in present times we give ourselves free license to shun, deride, ignore, neglect and discount the Woman's validity and her sensibilities. In short, we make her sub-human.

This is a subject that has been much on my mind of late, for reasons that will become I fear, glaringly apparent as this rant continues.

I am always more reflective at this time of year and have given myself over to this contemplation. In addition, it has not escaped my attention that my October birthday this year brings me to the number 49. In Old Woman terms -- this numerical juncture is the grade before the summit of sorts - I am not quite there yet but close enough for a good, sharp look over the edge - eh?

The Crone Figure as Wise Woman:
A Woman who calls herself Crone is willing to acknowledge her age, wisdom, and power. Through conscious self-definition, she helps to reverse hundreds of years of oppression, degradation, and abuse aimed at old Women. -- Bayla Bower

I consider myself fortunate to have known my Grand Mothers and Great Grand Mothers on both the maternal and paternal side of my family. I mean, these Women were physical and emotional participants in my rearing. As a youngster I was fascinated with the elderly. I enjoyed their stories and gentle companionship. I never tired of listening to them, talking to them, and working alongside them. It never occurred to me to be bored with them. No, even as a teenager I cannot recall experiencing difficulty relating to them. I spent a good measure of time with my Grand Mothers and I am grateful for each and every moment I have had with these wonderful, Wise Women.

MY PATERNAL GREAT GRANDMOTHER was a demure, genteel lady with finely creased feathery soft skin. She smelled like dried rose petals. She seemed so delicate that one didn't hug her too hard for fear she would break, but the grip in her hands was strong. I marveled that these aged hands had produced such remarkably fine needlework. I remember she wore flowered dresses, kid gloves trimmed with pearl buttons on her hands when she went out and most times she wore a hat with fine netting to cover a head of snowy white hair. She talked so low one had to lean in close to hear what she was saying and her laugh was all but inaudible. She had an endearing smile and a sweet charm all her own. She had the kindest eyes I have ever seen. She lived alone in a tiny apartment, her only companion -- a parakeet with which she would converse. She did not seem lonely, rather she appeared content. I knew this Grand Mother the least of all. I lost her when I was still a teenager. As I consider the matter now, she seemed to gently fade away. I cherish the gentle memory of her. That's what I learned from her - the value of quiet and the mark of true gentility.

MY PATERNAL GRANDMOTHER was, without a doubt, the single, wisest, most influential person in my life. I adored her. I aspired to be her, still do. Sadly, while I am told otherwise from time-to-time, I know I am not anything like her, but the experience of HER keeps me trying.

She was a tall Woman of angular build. She was wrinkled, yes, but I never saw the lines on her face as disfiguring. She had a wide smile and thick, wavy hair the color of burnished pewter. She smelled most often of dish soap and lanolin. She simply was and is a presence. She was good and kind, patient and purposeful. She had a fluid economy of movement that made her seem to glide about her daily tasks. She was a Woman of calm industry. Everything she set her hand to was accomplished to the best of her ability, without haste, without frustration and seemingly without stress. She too, was a fine needle Woman and an excellent cook.

She was generous to a fault with worldly goods and her charitable nature was nothing short of magnanimous. I never heard her belittle or degrade another person, I never heard her complain about anything: her life, her chores, her children, her aches and pains, or her age. I never saw her get angry or show ill temper. And, without raising her voice or showing so much as a crinkle on her brow, she gently showed me the path to honest and more importantly, honorable living.

What I remember most is: she never told me I was wrong. Rather, she would point out a particular behavior or episode in question and in a few well-chosen words simply present an alternate, more forthright method of dealing with the situation in the future. Without fail, her suggestions always made the most remarkable sense to me. I was mystified by her intuitive knowledge although I did not yet know it as that.

The Woman had faith. Yes, she was a Christian. One of two real Christians I have known in my life and the one by which I judge all others who make that claim. Her faith was not something she did or studied or practiced to get right -- it is who she was. She did not preach it. She lived it. I lost this Grand Mother when I was still a very young Woman (in my twenties), but not before I learned much at her side about how to be true to myself without forsaking the welfare of others.

MY MATERNAL GREAT GRANDMOTHER was a lively, spirited creature. She was a plump, robust Woman with a mane of white hair and smooth, rosy cheeks. Her ear lobes were abnormally long from years of wearing large, dangly rhinestone earrings. She loved a shirtwaist (belted) dress, bright with flowers. She had a fresh, starchy scent about her, the smell of the garden and outdoors. She lived to the age of 101 and to the very last she was her sweet self. I am often asked if I know the secret to her longevity. I think I do. She met each day with a smile. She worked when she had to and rested when she could. She was not a creature of excess or one of leisure. She lived simply and attacked each day with vigor and a willingness to accept whatever the day brought with it. She had a sort of a go-with-the-flow philosophy that suited her well.

She walked nearly everywhere. She raised a fine garden and was known for her lovely flowers and tasty blackberries and cream. She was an excellent cook and kept her house neat, clean and starched to perfection. She loved toe-tappin' music and was what we consider a natural musician. She could play the piano, organ, banjo, guitar and a harmonica, all without benefit of instruction. She sang folk songs while tapping her toes and clapping her hands. She laughed easily and often. She told wonderful pioneer stories of knowing Indians, surviving harsh winters and walking beside covered wagons. There was no regular bedtime at this Grand Mother's house, no rules about how early one must rise, no distance that was too far to walk for an ice-cream cone on a hot summer afternoon, no set menu at her table -- one could have what one was hungry for. She was loved by everyone because she loved everyone. She was happy to have her family and friends about her and happy to go visitin' at the drop of a hat. I was in my thirties when I lost this Grand Mother. She taught me much about the joy of living and how to cherish the simple gifts of each day.

One could take these first three Grand Mothers as I have described them and transform them by way of clothing and accessory to represent a pale shadow of the Witch figure of this discussion, but none of them would come off as wicked no matter how well they might look the part. Why? Each of them aged well and gracefully into the stage of the Crone.

Each of them embraced their age and happily imparted their wisdom to a receptive audience. Me. They in essence, became the spirit of the Wise Woman of old with seemingly little effort.

It was the medieval metamorphosis of the Wise Woman into the Witch that changed the word Crone from a compliment to an insult and established the stereotype of malevolent Old Womanhood that continues to haunt elder Women today. -- Barbara Walker, The Crone

MY MATERNAL GRANDMOTHER is still living mostly on her own at age 94. I began this rant with a fictional rendering of her old home as a haunted house and it is her face that appears as the specter in the window. The description, while exaggerated, is fairly accurate. This Grand Mother is perhaps, the perfect example of the Witch/Hag/Crone figure I have described. If we removed her to the sixteenth century I have no doubt in my mind that her antics would result in her persecution as a Witch. Before I go further I must get this out - I absolutely adore her!

She is everything the other Grand Mothers were not and so much more, too. If I had to describe this Grand Mother in a single word - the word would be: SHREW. She is very vocal, extremely opinionated and most times abrasive in her bearing.

If I be waspish, best beware my sting!
-- Shakespeare, Taming of the Shrew --

She is a diminutive Woman, short, bent, and thin although she was not always so. I remember her as a full-figured, vigorous Woman, with coal black hair and snapping black eyes. She was always front and center at every family gathering. She never got the concept of keeping a low profile. She would never have been a wallflower. She has a lovely, smooth complexion and smells of rosebud salve. I associate her with dark colors, mostly black and red. And blood red roses. Sometimes I think with some bemusement her roses have thorns. At other times, I associate her with the wild, pink primroses that bloom beside that old back porch without a bit of tending.

She is a fine seamstress and an excellent cook. She is musical and loves music. She is considered thrifty but penny pincher is a better term. One of her favorite sayings is: it is too late to tighten your belt if you've already lost your pants. She has always been a pro-active sort... with an in-your-face attitude. She did not, does not share the wisdom of her years in a passive manner. She is aggressive, demanding and controlling. She can be abusive. She loves a good squabble. She says what she thinks with little regard for good manners or even a modicum of discretion.

This Grand Mother did not teach by example, she taught by hard rule, intimidation and the threat of a pecan switch. Sit up straight, chew with your mouth closed, ladies do not cross their legs to put on socks, don't say anything if you can't say anything nice, get your nose out of that book, stay away from the tracks and the folk who live down there, do as I say and do it now, and do not under any circumstances smart off and talk back. No mumbling was allowed. If you had something to say, and you had the guts to say it -- she would hear it said loudly and plainly.

On the other hand, no grandchild ever had a bigger champion. She was/is an excellent co-conspirator who delights in flaunting rules set down by parents. This Grand Mother saw a veritable genius, musician, doctor, lawyer -- a shining star in all of us. She demanded that each of us strive to reach our full potential.

She has a keen sense of humor, was/is a fun-loving spirit and often her take on things (especially politics) is downright hilarious. No child in need was ever turned from her door. If she had what you needed or could get it -- she did. She may have ruled the roost with a loud cackle and disagreeable demeanor but there was never any doubt in my mind that she loved me, cared deeply about me and would do anything for me. Even now.

My Mother is Grand Mother's oldest child, I am the oldest grandchild, my daughter is the great baby or the oldest great grandchild and her son is the oldest great, great grandchild. We are five generations. When the Great Grand Mother was living and before the great, great grandson was born -- we were five generations of Women. Being the First of the First and the Mother and Grand Mother of the First of the First allows me a certain peculiarly elevated status in her mind.

I have always been very close and shared a special bond with this Grand Mother. I spent many long summers and Christmas vacations in her company. Even after I became an adult, with the responsibility of my own family -- we stayed close, spent time on the weekends and I made certain I was present for birthdays and other occasions, even non-occasions so dear to an old lady's heart. We still talk by telephone on a regular basis.

Despite what could be misunderstood as disparaging opening comments about this Woman, believe me when I say, I love and care deeply for her. She was and is a positive influence in my life, especially during my formative years. She taught me to speak up for myself and take matters into my own hands. She taught me I am in sole control of my destiny and to never consider myself a victim of circumstances.

Sadly, because Grand Mother is so cantankerous, her later years have been dull and lonely. All the people she knew and loved and related to on a daily basis preceded her in death years ago. The family stopped coming to visit. The family stopped calling. Few members of the family are hale and hearty enough to withstand her waspish ways. It is hard not to take the things she says personally, because often, her attacks are hurtful. With few exceptions (I might be one of them); nothing or no one pleases her for long.

What most do not understand is we, her family, are as much a part of the problem as she is. How agreeable would you be, if you were a 94 year old lady, who has given your life to the care of your family - if you found yourself sitting alone all day, every day? Shunned. Neglected. Forgotten. Is there any other way to see it? So many live so close and do so little. It is deplorable. Few understand that what Grand Mother needs is interaction. Her mind is still active and requires real, engaging conversation. She is the type of person who thrives on debate. And, she needs someone to listen.

The friend in her seventies that I spoke of earlier told me recently that she encountered a similar issue with her own Mother. She felt her Mother was sharing all sorts of nonsensical and trivial information with her about obscure relatives and past events and finally asked her why she felt compelled to do so. Her Mother simply replied that she had no one else to tell it to. The friend realized that when an old person speaks of the past, often repeating a certain episode over and over, they are really trying to make sense of their life. They are trying to validate their existence, and perhaps resolve their reason for being. The friend resolved to become better at listening. Ditto.

Grand Mother, without this interaction, without someone to exchange ideas and information, without someone to do the listening has withdrawn to a world of shadows and memories. She has grown bitter, distant and reclusive.

My aunt, who rarely visits or calls her own Mother, and often is resentful when she does visit, said to me once that she didn't like to stay too long with Grand Mother because and I quote, "All she talks about is dead people."

My exasperated response to that asinine comment was as follows: Dead people! Well, I am thinking if she had more live people in her life on a daily basis she'd have more than dead people to talk about! And just for the record, which dead people do you not want to hear about? Your Father? Your Grand Mother? The Aunts? The Uncles? Your recently departed Sister?

I recently reminded the family to no avail of one simple thing:

I am only one, but I am still one. I cannot do everything, but still I can do something. And because I cannot do everything I will not refuse to do the something that I can do. -- Helen Keller

The something that I can do is as simple as expressing love and interest. Apparently, that is asking too much.

Over the past few years, I have lived far from my roots. Upon each successive visit home I have been able to mark Grand Mother's unwholesome decline. I have born witness to a Woman on the edge of nowhere. She simply does not exist except in the ghost lands of her memories.

Yes, this Woman is haunted. Her house is haunted. The sound of laughter and the living have departed her space. What must it be like to sit and court the shadows of darkness, contemplate the inevitable and wait and wait and wait…?

I have witnessed my Grand Mother's transformation into the ill-favored stereotype Crone; I have witnessed her persecution as a Witch, so to speak. She is no longer a viable individual. Like so many centuries of Old Women -- she is ultimately and horribly -- dispensable.

Her Womanly Wisdom, the sum total of her person, is but kindling on a funeral pyre of regret and disillusionment.

I have been told that such is just the way of things, but it is in my nature to challenge the status quo. And, by so doing, I will have learned much from this Grand Mother after all.

Perhaps I may avoid some of the pitfalls of aging, perhaps not rely on the questionable devotion of family, perhaps value the friendships I have and strive to maintain them, perhaps make myself useful in ways I have never thought of before, and perhaps be more creative, more spontaneous, and more adventurous.

[I] ...will not become invisible, trivialized, or shamed by a society obsessed with youth and terrified of aging. -- Bower

I will own my age and strive to make these the best years of my life. I will accept my physical limitations to some extent but I vow to test them often. I will explore new realms with mind and heart. I will trust in the power of intuition. I will remember that life is miracle and magic. I will acknowledge and accept that I cannot be another person's conscience but continue to believe that what we send out in the world comes back to us in full measure.

... and my greatest ritual is love itself. -- Garrison

Finally, I will remember to love and allow myself to be loved.

As I light the candle of remembrance this year -- I will call the spirits of my Beloved Grand Mothers and ask that they bring what comfort they can to the Grand Mother who is still in the land of the living. Perhaps they can also provide patience to those who care for her.

If we are to be well, we must care for ourselves. We must not cast the Old Woman out, but become her more abundantly. -- Germaine Greer

Brightest Blessings to You and Yours
this Hallowe'en 2004
and Cheerful Greetings to Grand Mother Crones Everywhere!

Respectfully yours in caliginous chaos
An it harm none – do as you will…
Octoberwych
© 2004 (text revised 2018) All rights reserved

Hallowe'en Rant 2003

HALLOWE'EN 2003

from a mostly Pagan and
respectfully irreverent perspective...

How is your metaphorical garden growing?
Have you tended your plot?
What will be your final harvest?
-- Barbara Ardinger --

Are we prepared? In this month that marks the beginning of the Dark Season we are concerned with both the end of things and the beginning I think. We are concerned with celebrating the bounty of the harvest but also the care of the fields for the future.

So it goes with Life - human life. If we tend our garden well in this life -- we are prepared, when the time comes, for passage to our next plane of existence.

I have thought much upon this theme lately, having recently lost a beloved Aunt who succumbed finally, after a long and hard fought battle with a terminal illness. Many people asked my Mother and Grandmother and her Daughters -- "You are prepared, aren't you?" Anyone with a modicum of compassion should know -- even if the answer to such a thoughtless query is the precursory Yes -- the reality is No.

Oddly enough, never once did I hear someone comment on whether my Aunt was prepared...

So, I am here to answer that question for my own peace of mind. I am firmly convinced that She was prepared. I say that not because her departure and subsequent events were planned -- because they were not. No physical preparations were made in advance by herself or her family. The Aunt's wishes were known, the Aunt simply trusted her daughters to see it done. And that was enough. No one wasted precious time on the grim inevitability of the matter. No one seemed to fret over mindless trivialities of things that were not done. The focus remained on living, the here and now and every golden moment was tended as if it would last forever. I believe that is as it should be.

No, I am talking about the preparations the Aunt made by the graceful example of her life. I am talking about how She focused on living her life well and with joy, teaching her daughters and grandchildren and great grandchildren how to live purposeful, caring, responsible lives. I am talking about her selfless capacity to share herself with family and friends... I am talking about how She kept her mother close in kind regard. And how She clutched each sister to her heart and knew each one for herself - loving all without reservation. She was a faithful wife, a true friend and cherished because of it.

I am talking about her metaphorical garden.

A garden nurtured with careful thought and prudent planning.
How it thrives! How it blooms!
What a magnificent yield!
Her Legacy will live on in the fruit of her labor.
Her Tradition will survive by the will of her prodigious offspring.
What lay within my Aunt's heart was the genuine soul of her being.

What lies behind us and what lies before us
are tiny matters compared to what lies within us.
-- Ralph Waldo Emerson --

One aspect of this day called Hallowe'en is a time of joy for me. Samhain, the other aspect of the day is a time of spiritual reflection. I also consider it a time of healing. The Aunt has joined the ranks of many beloved to me who now walk beyond the veil of this reality - my reality. She is in good company. I will welcome her along with the others this Samhain with a special candle whose light I expect will burn soft and pure. I will remember her smile, the twinkle in her eye, the sound of her laughter and the scent of her presence. She will be yet another familiar and comforting light in the gathering gloom of evening.

Merry and Well We Will Meet Again Dear Aunt!

Dark as my thoughts seem of late, they cannot stay that way long at this time of year. As I said, this season brings me joy. I love the crisp feel of the air, the tumble of leaves with the slightest breeze and the sound of them skittering down the street. I love the riot of colors and myriad shapes of them in the landscape and littering the lawn. I love the pumpkins glowing in messy pyramid stacks at the farmer's market and illuminating doorsteps up and down the streets.

I love haunted houses and haunted yards. I love making scarecrows and witches and spooks. My yard looks like some kind of a Gothic Flea Market and I love it -- love it -- love it. My neighbors may be a bit frightened by the scope of it I think which makes me smile. This year it is decorated with large silhouette pieces of yard art produced by my folks and carried over a thousand miles a few weeks ago. Thanks Mom and Dad! This display is very important to me because of its origins... and so it goes with much of the paraphernalia scattered about the house and grounds. Each piece carries a memory of where or from whom it came and each memory is given its due as I bustle about the place -- spooking it up.

I love the site of colorful costuming in all shapes and sizes lining the discount store racks. I get a kick out of kids (of all ages) planning who they will be for the grand masquerade. And what would Hallowe'en be without the wondrous variety of imported nonsense in the form of toys and games and cheesy holiday decor? I love getting pictures of the grandkids visiting pumpkin patches. I love it that my daughter gets that I love it and humors me with dozens of digital photos. I love spooky stories and classic horror movies and those corny Hallowe'en tunes like The Monster Mash and The Flying Purple People Eater.

Believe it or not, colossal Hallowe'en nut that I am -- I write this diatribe with a Jack-o-Lantern glowing at my side, a spiral of Patchouli incense wafting overhead... Hallowe'en is not just a day on the calendar for me - it is a state of mind - maybe a bit lunartic (translates to the ravings of a full moon loving lunatic).

So, there you have it, my musing for the year - such as it is.

I will greet the thirty first of October with respectful reverence and finish it with unabashed revelry.

With Hallowe'en/Samhain forever blended in colorful chaos in my head...
I bid you Bright and Joyful Blessings...
May you tend your garden well my friends...

Respectfully yours in caliginous chaos
An it harm none – do as you will…
Octoberwych
© 2003 (text revised 2018) All rights reserved

Hallowe'en Rant 2002

HALLOWE'EN 2002

from a mostly Pagan
and respectfully irreverent perspective...

Witchery -- to some the word conjures images of mystery and power;
others simply embrace it in the beautiful yet ordinary trappings of daily life.
More simply, witchery implies recognition of magical power in our lives.
Magic is everywhere.
It arises in the passage of a book that evokes emotion,
in the aroma that revives long-forgotten memories,
in certain qualities of light and color.
All these bring magic to our lives by altering our perception.
-- Kerry Cudmore 10/2002, The Witches' Quarterly --

Ev'ry W'man has a lil' Witch in 'er...

Thus spoke my Maternal Great Grandmother...

It was many years ago, in my Grandmother's kitchen one sultry, late summer afternoon when the air was thick with the odor of thyme and sage wafting over a pot of chicken and dumplings simmering on the stove, where steam hovered like a specter on still air, where flies buzzed monotonously around the back screen door, where iridescent beads of condensation ran down the white granite pitcher and dime store ice tea glasses in little rivers pooling silently on the table, where I sat quietly sipping heavily sugared ice tea and listening to the prattle of the Old Women gathered there.

Old Women with short, permed haircuts in cotton print dresses.
Old Women with a fine sheen of perspiration under their noses.
Old Women with time-lined, care-worn, bright-eyed faces.
Old Women with gnarled hands, stiff joints and swollen ankles.
Old Women housed in stout bodies plump with life.

It was one of my favorite things to do when I spent the last few days of summer with my Grandmothers. I would sit quietly and listen... virtually invisible... which is why I was tolerated in their circle, I think. I listened intently while my Great Grandmother, my Grandmother, my Great Aunt and assorted other Old Women relatives and Old Women friends talked freely and seemingly non-stop of Women's concerns - of children and other relatives and assorted town folk and menfolk whose hi-jinx made them worthy of kitchen table discussion in Little Town Texas.

They talked about Life.
They cried about Life.
They laughed about Life.

They spoke about Life with respectful reverence.

Life's Woes...
Life's Joys...
Life's Little Moments of Wonder...

They talked about their children and grandchildren - their successes, their failures, their marriages, their divorces. They talked about births and deaths. They talked about gardens and flowers, the planting of things, the harvest, the cost of bread or a length of cloth. They talked about cooking this or that delectable dish in simple southern kitchens where home-grown, home canned and made-from-scratch meant something - something good and wholesome. They talked about sickness and how to cure it. They talked about health in a manner that indicated their own well-being was secondary to the health of those in their charge. They meant it. Health was something one was grateful to have in one's old age. They entered into good-natured debate over the best cures for this or that ailment, sharing and disseminating information gathered from who knows what source or experience - you know, the proverbial Old Wives Tale cures. They swore by the time-worn remedies that did not come over-the-counter from a drug store for a baby's colic, fevers, headaches, rheumatism, shingles, and grouchy stomachs. They discussed how, interestingly enough, to tell the sex of a child by the way a woman carried it. As far as I know. My Great Grandmother never missed naming the sex of a child.

I was, very simply - eavesdropping in on Life.

Life's Magic.
Life's Mysteries.
Life's Music.

Yes, it was Life's music - a music which thrummed about the table and filled the kitchen in a crescendo of layer upon layer harmony plucked from the instruments of Old Women's soft tears, quiet sighs and cackling laughter.

In ancient times or olden days as my Great Grandmother would say, knowledge and tradition was passed on from generation to generation by literally speaking the words over and over - by communicating the Craft of Life - the pragmatic rules of simple survival - to the next generation. It is known as Oral Tradition.

Modern day, self-proclaimed Witches say this is how they learned their Craft. Traditional Witchcraft they call it, and perhaps it is, but if it is, then it was spun around a kitchen table much like the one which sits to this very day in my Grandmother's warm century old home.

This fundamental piece of furniture, the kitchen table was adorned not with the accouterments of magic one would expect but with the rudimentary accouterments of life - salt and pepper, honey and sorghum and sugar, wildflowers poking helter-skelter out of a brown glass pill bottle picked by grubby, childish hands.

Ev'ry W'man has a lil' Witch in 'er...

I do not remember what prompted it, but I do remember that statement fell impertinently on my little ears. I remember the moment of stunned silence as the congregation of Old Women mulled this over in their minds. Witches were they? Then I remember their sudden, united chuckle that erupted into wild, uninhibited laughter - every one smiling and nodding soulfully at the other as that conspiratorial Old Woman's look passed between them, glances which welcomed and embraced the idea of Witchery in their midst.

Witches we are then - they seem to agree - So Be It!

Little did I know as I sat with elbows akimbo on the table and legs swinging to and fro, sticking uncomfortably to the vinyl of the chair that summer afternoon - listening, that they, the Old Women were passing on their own tradition, their own Craft, their own brand of homespun knowledge and experience - to me. I, in turn was absorbing their Old Woman mysteries like a sponge. I was being indoctrinated into their Craft.

This was my induction into The Craft of Womanhood whose business is the Craft of Life and sometimes Death, but always it is the business of Renewal. I say it again Women's business is The Craft of Tradition and Witchery, Mystery and Magic.

Ev'ry W'man has a lil' Witch in 'er...
Every Woman is a Witch.
I believed it then. I believe it now.

I believe every Woman has the capacity to tune in to the great mystery. Life. I believe every Woman is a part of that great mystery in and of herself. I believe every Woman has the power of intuition. I believe every woman is a psychic of some degree depending upon her willingness to focus on and accept matters that may lie just outside what is considered the realm of possibility. I believe every Woman has the courage to direct her life in a positive manner and affect the lives of those in her charge in like manner. I believe Women survive despite the demons that lie in wait along the path set before them and despite those disparate creatures that sneak up from behind. I believe Women are the original vanquishers of evil.

I believe Women possess the tools to break beyond the boundaries of the mundane and the ability to embrace with a whole heart that which is cast off or deemed unworthy by others. I believe Women are a storehouse of knowledge - not book knowledge but life knowledge. I believe Women reinvent themselves with each new generation and that Womanhood is a never-ending cycle of evolution toward something more pure, more beautiful and more enlightened, that we are all contributors to something great and vast and powerful which will reveal itself as the best of ourselves - in a better time - a future place.

...I have to digress and interject here that I don't necessarily think that Witchery is gender specific. Men are quite capable of great intuitive powers and extraordinary feats of wisdom and magic but Women own a part in the great scheme of things that is exclusively their own territory and it is with Women that this discourse is concerned.

As I walk my own path I find that a look over my shoulder every now and then does the soul good. It is easy to stay grounded in this life if you remember from whence you came. So, that is what I do come every Samhain (Hallowe'en). By remembering the ones (both living and departed) who have come before me - my Womenfolk, Grandmothers, Aunts, Mothers, Sisters, and Women friends I find the courage to carry on. Thus grounded, I can focus upon those who have and will come after me - Daughters and Granddaughters. We are all Maiden - Mother - Crone in our own season and in accordance with our own will and purpose. We will be remembered by those with whom we have shared our lives and who have partaken of our traditions -- our Craft.

Yes, I remember well and most fondly those Old Women gathered around the kitchen table, the ones for whom Witchery was merely a stamp on the validity of their fruitful and purposeful lives. It was a brief glimmer of the true purpose behind their never-ending toil in the mundane world - a world that often treats Old Women as if they are truly Witches.

I am grateful for those Old Women - their ever guiding presence in my life, for their gifts of magic and mystery, tradition and witchery, for their sense of mischief and good humor. And I am thankful for the memory of their Women's Witchy laughter ringing in my head like it was yesterday...a recollection that has me smiling, even now...

So, here I respectfully offer:
Bright Blessings
To Old Women
Witches One and All
Blessed Be!

Respectfully yours in caliginous chaos
An it harm none – do as you will…
Octoberwych
© 2002 (text revised 2018) All rights reserved