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The “Roommate Wanted” notice was written in Theban.

In Theban: the “secret” alphabet of the witches.

On a bulletin board in a corner laundromat in a pagan neighborhood in a large American city near you.

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.

There was once a young witch who fell in love with a cowan, and they decided to marry.

Now, in those days people felt strongly that if you married out, you had to leave the Craft. But there you were, it was love and no price seemed too high. The date was set, the banns were read. On the chosen day, the church filled up with people and the witch and her intended stood before the altar.

But just as the priest is about to pronounce them man and wife, crash! the door flies open and a broom comes sailing in. First it knocks the old priest over the head, then it chases the boy out of the building, and next thing you know, there it is again, back for more. Everyone was terrified, and they all got out of there as fast as they could.

So they picked another date, and the banns were read for a second time. The church fills up with even more people, come to see the fun, and the service begins. But this time, just before they start, they lock the door.

A friend's daughter has a plan.

She's heard that Catholics used to collect money for pagan babies. She finds this very amusing.

So, she figures, she'll show up at church one day, surrounded by her brothers and sisters.

“Hi,” she'll say, “We're the pagan babies. We're here for the money.”

 I

Craig's mom was up from Texas to see the new house. She'd heard about the pagan guy that lived with her son, but you could tell that, being a good Episcopalian woman, she was working hard to reserve judgment.

One afternoon, while I was off at work, the doorbell rings. Naturally, she says: "I'll get it."

She opens the door. The man standing there is holding the dripping, severed head of a deer.

"Hi," he says, "Is Steve at home?"

“Who you callin' 'cowan'?”  (Marvin Kaye and Parke Godwin, Masters of Solitude) 

Every community has one: a name for Them. You know, those “Not Us” People. In this, pagans are just like everyone else. Who are they, those mysterious non-pagans?

Non-Pagans. A term for when you need to sound neutral (or polite). Most non-pagans that I know are pretty amused to learn that they're non-pagans. Long-time resident in the pagan ghetto that I am, I appreciate the educative value of “non-pagan.” (Let's hear it for paganonormativity.) Mostly, though, this is an “inside-looking-out” term; I don't generally use it when speaking with fellow normos.