“Do you think you can get rid of these?”

I look dubiously at the bag of books that my friend has just handed to me. It's filled with what, 40 years ago, we used to refer to as “witchcr*p”: the dregs, books that didn't adhere to the Wiccan party line.

My friend and I are both Second Generation Craft in the US: not the founders, but those who learned from the founders. In those information-starved days, when you saw “witch” in the title, you bought it regardless, good, bad, or indifferent.

“Well, we'll see,” I tell her, reluctantly taking the bag. “I kind of doubt it.”

Boy, was I ever wrong.

I took the books down to our next Warlock's Weekend at Sweetwood Sanctuary in SW Wisconsin. Most of the other guys there are Third and Fourth Generation Craft; they fell on the witchcr*p with glee.

“Omigods!” said one, “I can't believe it! This was my first book about witchcraft ever. It's the worst book in the world! I've been looking for a copy of this for years!”

Goddess bless 'em, I didn't take home a single book.

Who would have believed—who could have believed—that someone—anyone—would actually be thrilled to own his own copy of (to take just one example) June John's trashy King of the Witches: The World of Alex Sanders?

Note to elders: come time to downsize, please do bear in mind that what may look like witchcr*p to you, to other eyes might well look like humor, or nostalgia, or even (gods help us) history.

And 'round the Wheel doth turn.