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.

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Little Lucks

Call it luck.

One spring I planted the garden with old seeds. Many of them never germinated. No kohlrabi, no beets, no acorn squash.

Oh well, I thought. That's luck.

One morning that fall I happened to remark to Craig, Some acorn squash would taste good right about now.

Sure enough. That afternoon, interlaced among the tangle of the tomato plants, I found the vine, sprung up all unbeknownst.

With one perfect, perfectly ripe, acorn squash.

My first response was laughter.


My second response was anguish.


Augh! I Charlie Browned. I could have had a million dollars! I could have had world peace! But noooo. I had to go and waste it on an acorn squash!

Call it luck.

But, of course, my logic was flawed.

Not that it hurts to ask for a lot, mind you. Sometimes you actually do get it. Most of the time, though, you ask and then take what you can get. 

But there are lucks and lucks in the world, big lucks and little lucks. Some lucks just aren't big enough for a million dollars or world peace. Some lucks are just big enough for one perfect squash.


My life has mostly been one of little lucks, and I'm fine with that. Give me the little lucks any day of the moon. In the long run, they all add up.

The squash, of course, was delicious.

Call it luck.


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Poet, scholar and storyteller Steven Posch was raised in the hardwood forests of western Pennsylvania by white-tailed deer. (That's the story, anyway.) He emigrated to Paganistan in 1979 and by sheer dint of personality has become one of Lake Country's foremost men-in-black. He is current keeper of the Minnesota Ooser.


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