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What with this summer's forthcoming Midwest Grand Sabbat, I've already got my hands full, but if I didn't, and were I inclined to throw a public festival, I know just what it would be.

“Thunderfest: A Meeting of Traditions.”

People know the Thunderer by many Names, but just about everyone honors Him, and rightfully so. Was it not likely the jolt of His lightnings that sparked the primal womb of Mother Earth and so gave rise to life? Is it not He Who gives us the rains that nourish our crops and feed us?

Such a festival would bring together those of different traditions who don't usually mingle, but probably should: heathens, Reconstructionists of various flavors, Afro-Diasporic folk. No matter who our people, we've all got Thunder in common—whatever you call Him—and swapping lore will only make us stronger.

Thunder, Þórr, Donar, Taranis, Perkunas, Perún, Zeus, Iuppiter, Xangó, Enlil, Ba'al Hadad, Indra....Thus, by His many Names, we'll invoke Him with a flashing libation of liquor on opening night, when we call to Him to ask for His blessing on our gathering, and—of course—for fair weather for the duration.

Throughout thee days of the festival, we'll sing for Him, dance for Him, and tell (and maybe enact) tales of His mighty deeds. Then, at the festival's crowning rite, we'll offer Him a goat, just like in the old days.

And that will be a feast to remember.

On the first evening of this summer's Grand Convocation of the Midwest Tribe of Witches, we turned our faces to the West and chanted a prayer to Thunder (see below) asking for good weather during our get-together.

Among the gods, Thunder in particular is well-known to have a taste for hard liquor. At prayer's end, we poured out an entire bottle of Jameson whiskey in libation.

That, believe me, was a sacrifice felt by everyone.

Throughout the three following days of our gathering, the weather was absolutely beautiful.

During the feast on Sunday evening, we heard a roll of thunder from the north. A rainbow appeared in the eastern sky. This was followed by a second roll of thunder from the southern sky.

No rain, however, fell.

Monday afternoon, I had a phone message from a friend who had remained on-site, calling to report that (everyone having packed up and left), it had finally begun to rain.

Gently, as it happens.

If you ask me, the money laid out for that bottle of Jamie was money well spent.

Every single penny.

The week, of course, is a collective fiction, and personally I say: Be damned to it.

But if, say, in proper Keeping-Up-With-the-Cowans mode, we wanted to pick a day of the week to be special to pagans, which would it be?

Oddly enough, Received Tradition does seem to speak with a uniform voice on the matter.

That day would be Thursday.

This makes sense. Thunder, great power that he is, was accounted chief of gods in most of the old pantheons, as well he might be: He of the Mighty Voice and Arm, “giver of both life and death.”

Some, indeed, offer to him each Thursday to this day. But more than this, the Lore across Europe counts Thursday a fortunate day: Lucky Thursday.

Take, for example—good old Carmina Gadelica—this charming rhyme from the Hebrides. I've tweaked it only slightly.

During a power outage, you can always tell where the pagans live.

Just look for the candlelight.

A big Thunderstorm blew through one night. Lights were out all over south Minneapolis.

My boyfriend at the time lived just down the street. I walked over. We undressed and stood holding each other.

He looked into my face.

In my religion, snow is sacred.

Try to remember that.

It's late winter. It's been a cold winter, and winter in Minnesota is always too long. The Sun climbs higher in the sky every day, the buds are starting to swell, and the redbirds are singing their spring song (“Pretty bird! Pretty bird!”), but spring is still only a hope on the rose-red dawn horizon. We're coming up on the snowiest time of year.

So it's good to be reminded that snow is a gift.

We call Him Thunder for His Voice, but you could call Him Storm. In summer, He gives His good gift of rain; in winter, snow.

Ah, beautiful snow. Look closely and you'll see that it's actually every color but white. Snow is a wonder, so varied, so full of character: light, heavy, wet, dry, granular, fluffy. “The higher the snow, the higher they grow,” they say, meaning, of course, the crops. It's a true saying, too.

Against winter cold, snow makes the best insulation. That's the paradox of snow: it's cold, but keeps us warm.

They say there was once a three-headed giant named Motho.

Well, that's what they say.

You know giants: they're greedy. Motho just couldn't be content until everyone, everywhere, was his slave.

He went through the whole world, chaining the people. Wherever he went, balance was broken. Wherever he went, hatred and discord sprang up.

In time, it seemed as if he might enslave all the world. Then from their chains, the people called to mighty Thunder: men, women, and children, they called.

Mighty Thunder arose. His anger burned hot. He took up his lightning hammer and smote, smote, smote. He broke the baleful heads of Motho; he broke the chains that bound the people.

In this way, Motho was killed, and the world was freed from his tyranny.

As pagan bumperstickers go, it was really pretty subtle.

A Thor's Hammer with antlers.

What it meant to whoever owned the van, I don't know. I could imagine several possibilities.

But I know what it meant to me. Hey, I've heard the stories.

They say that Old Hornie—but he would have been Young Hornie then—used to live up in the sky, in the House of Thunder, to the West.

Well, they say he didn't just live there.