Paganistan: Notes from the Secret Commonwealth
In Which One Midwest Man-in-Black Confers, Converses & Otherwise Hob-Nobs with his Fellow Hob-Men (& -Women) Concerning the Sundry Ways of the Famed but Ill-Starred Tribe of Witches.
Night on Witches' Hill
The cop car careens up into the park, right over the grass. It slams to a stop; two doors fly open simultaneously and a cop leaps out of each one, hands on holsters, poised and ready to go.
Welcome to our Midsummer's Eve.
There we were, up on the highest hill in the metropagan area: us and folks from our sister coven. We'd decked ourselves and the picnic tables with oak leaves. We'd sung the songs, danced the dances, and shared the feast of new foods.
Now it's sunset, and everyone's gone up to the top of the hill to bid farewell to the Sun at its latest setting of the year.
Except for me. Here's old Uncle Steve, right in character, down in the park running around with the kids. There's even one sitting on my shoulders.
I don't know what the cops were expecting. Something nefarious, I suppose. Something occult. Black hooded robes and a virgin in a white gown.
Instead they find a bunch of middle-aged, middle class white people. Families, no less. With kids, and a gay uncle. It doesn't get more innocuous.
"Hey officer," I say. "Shortest night of the year."
I don't think I've ever seen an on-duty cop look embarrassed before. Shamefacedly he and his buddy climb back into their car and slowly back out of the park.
Cowans. So cute.
And so dumb.
OK folks, they're gone: time to robe up. Willow, that white really becomes you.
Come on, it's almost sunset, let's get a move on here.
Now, where did I leave that dagger?
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