Our operators are standing by to take a stampede of calls.
In a previous post, I re-claimed my beloved grandfather from the Christian afterlife. This was a monumental coup, given the fact that he worshipped devoutly his entire life. But, alas, he lived and died a Mason, the Masonic emblem is on his tombstone by his request. Who knew that the Christian "in" crowd, its most highly electable, consider Masons to be a bunch of nefarious necromancers?
Not Granddad, I assure you. But there you are. Occult to the core, he got marching papers to You-Know-Where from that god of his. At which point, I'm certain, a more reasonable pantheon snapped him up.
(This is why it's a good idea to be on speaking terms with every non-binding pantheon, which these days is every and any pantheon that's lost out to Yahweh.)
Being so excited about regaining Granddad, I totally forgot about his better half, my dearest, darling, most beloved, and most LUVVVVVVVED grandma!
If you aren't 103 years old (which Granny would be if she was alive), you might not have heard of Eastern Star. It's sort of the women's auxillary to the Masons. Granny was devoted to Eastern Star. It was her cup of tea. Took the sting out of not being eligible for D.A.R. and all that.
This "Chick tract" would have astonished Granny. She was the kind of person who would have crawled from her deathbed to make a casserole for a church supper. She wore out more Bibles than some people wear out shoes. She wrote a poem about how happy she was to be in heaven at the foot of the Lord, and asked us to read it at her funeral.
BAMMMMP! Sorry, Granny. Not enough. That Satan star is on your grave. You didn't make the cut.
Oh, readers. Next time I visit my grandparents' graves, next time I scale that steep old mountain with my bum hip crackin' and my fist full of Dollar Store flowers, I'm gonna get down on my hands and knees and kiss those "occult symbols" by my most beloved ones' names!
Yahweh, if you're not admitting nice little old Eastern Star ladies, I'd say you've got some mighty big holes in your fishing net.
THE MERLIN OF BERKELEY SPRINGS