How I Got My Grandpa Back
Welcome to "The Gods Are Bored," waiting, as always, for Rapture! Get it on, God! Think how much more open space we'll have when we raze the doggone ugly megachurches and their multi-acre parking lots!
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That gentle swish you just heard was me opening today's can of TaB cola. It's time for an uplifting sermon.
My grandfather was an extraordinarily superior Homo sapiens. He was born and died on the same Appalachian farm from which his great-grandfather marched to the Civil War. In between he got two years of college, learned how to use a microscope, and became a pioneering inventor in the crowded field of drilling microscopic holes. Innovations my grandfather made to micro-drilling improved gas masks used in World War II. He also put the poly in polyester. (He worked in the synthetic fabric industry.)
Granddad was a religious man. He helped to found a big Baptist church and then attended it and tithed to it with devotion. He loved Billy Graham, and Retired Men's Prayer Breakfasts, tent revivals, and covered dish suppers. You'd think all of this would qualify him as Yahweh heaven fodder, first class.
I'll admit that when I became Pagan, one of the things that vexed me was that I might never get to see Granddad on the other side. 'Cause damn, I loved that man!
Ha Ha! Granddad, we'll be together again anon! Turns out you're a rank sinner, which sets you free for easier pasturage!
I've been perusing a book called Deliver Us from Evil, by Cindy Jacobs. Mrs. Jacobs finds occult influences everywhere. Thank goodness.
You see, my grandfather was a Freemason. He had been in the Masons for years and years. He asked that the Masonic symbol be placed on his gravestone. The Masons performed a ceremony at his funeral.
Who'd a thought the Masons were a bunch of occult, demonic, Satanic, vicious hell-bent skunks? Not me. But according to Mrs. Jacobs, membership in the Masons quickly demotes you from membership in the Grace of Our Lord and Savior Jesus Christ. Lake of fire for you, Mason.
(If you're a Mason and reading this, yeah. I'm flabbergasted too.)
But of more interest to me is the other way my grandfather fell into fatal demonic sin. He hired a water witch when he wanted to drill a well.
Maybe some of you flatlanders have never heard of a water witch, or water dowser, or water diviner. These are people who use a wand or stick, and a combination of intuition and divination, to decide where it's best to drill or dig a well. A water witch will walk back and forth across a property with his or her wand, and when the wand points downward of its own accord, that's where the well should go.
It was 1972 when Granddad hired a water witch. Granddad had just retired and was finally putting running water into the little cabin on the family farm that he'd previously only used in the summertime months.
I was keen to see the water witch at work. While my uncle stood by and snorted stuff about the whole process being "backward" and "hillbilly nonsense," I just found it fascinating. And quite worth the fee, too. That old water witch spent the better part of a whole afternoon criss-crossing our steep property, wand always at the ready. In the end, he told Granddad that no place in particular was better or worse to drill, because there wasn't much water to be had under the cabin.
That witch was right. From that day to this we've had water level problems in our well.
But forget the spitting faucet. I got my granddad back! According to Mrs. Cindy Jacobs, the use of a water witch is demonic to the nth degree. (Or would it be 33rd degree? No, that's the Masons. I think.)
So, Granddad. I know you're out there waiting for me. I'm so glad! We'll tour Avalon together, two ancient-as-dirt British Islanders returning to the place of birth.
I'll bring your microscope. It will amuse the faeries.