They Swim Upriver: Interview with the Salmon of Wisdom

Welcome to "The Gods Are Bored," today honoring the varieties of religious devotion in the great state of Washington! Never been there. Would like to go some day. Send money. (Just kidding.)

Among the most fantastic phenomena in the Pacific Northwest is the run of spawning salmon. Unlike Atlantic salmon, who spawn and move on, Pacific salmon swim upstream to the place where they were spawned. There they breed, and there they die. Considering the importance of this food source, its not surprising that the Native Americans of the Pacific Northwest have many Scriptures of revealed religion about the Salmon, from how It got into their nets to how It behaves with Its fellow Salmon in the great briny depths.

The ancient Celts also have a whopper of a Salmon story, and its star is here with me today. Please give a warm, wonderful, "Gods Are Bored" welcome to Fintan, the Salmon of Wisdom!

Anne: Fintan, the Native Americans of Washington State say that Salmon act like humans when no one is watching them. Could this be so? I mean, other than You, of course. I've always considered You a special exception, considering the fact that you had the good sense to eat the hazel nuts of Wisdom, rather than chow down on some schlub named Jonah.

Fintan: Speaking on behalf of My Fishes, we do not wish to reveal Our ways to humans, other than what you see on Animal Planet.

Anne: Why not?

Fintan: You would be envious of our superiority.

Anne: Yes, I sure would. I'm envious of ant colonies. But let's talk about normal humans for a moment. Would they, too, be envious of the superiority of Salmon?

Fintan: Yes indeed they would.

Anne: Why?

Fintan: For one thing, we all get along. Nary a harsh bubble passes between one salmon and another. You'll hear one big alpha male call out to another: "Hey, watch out for that grizzly on the bank! Right there, under the pine tree!"

Anne: Wow, I do wish people were like that!

Fintan: Suffice it to say, no underfed, undernourished Salmon have ever had to camp out in the pool demanding better treatment from the fat, comfortable Salmon.

Anne: Would that it were so among humans!

Fintan: We also understand completely the entire nature of the Universe. Humans aren't ready to know. When they are, they'll know to ask us.

Anne: The Native Americans of Washington State have a legend that their Ancient Ones could put the bones of a salmon into the water, and the bones would become fleshed-out and alive again.

Fintan: Fie on you, Anne Johnson! That's no legend. It's an archetype of the collective unconscious, having to do with the cyclical nature of sustainable food sources!

Anne (to herself): They don't call Him the Salmon of Wisdom for nothing! (To Fintan) You know, o Salmon, that I was once very disdainful of hunters and people who fished for sport. Now I love these people! They are some of the most demanding environmentalists around. In Washington State they have blocked dam projects. Around here, where I live now, a group called Trout Unlimited is lobbying for strict studies on hydraulic fracturing and its impact on water quality in rural streams and rivers.

Fintan: We Salmon love these people too. Some of them are even smart enough to throw the bones back into the water! And I certainly respect the Native American people of Washington State who have shown so much respect and reverence toward their indispensable food staple.

Anne: Fintan, we've talked here often. You know I call upon You for wisdom when I'm perplexed. This is part of my praise and worship. Do you think Native American children in Washington State should be taught to praise and worship the Deities who brought nutritious and dependable Salmon into their lives?

Fintan: Coyote the Trickster figures in some of those Scriptures.

Anne: Correct again, Wise One! So. Does Coyote, and do You, deserve a place at the American altar?

Fintan: Absolutely. Anyone who thinks otherwise has a hazel nut deficiency.

Congress shall make no law respecting an establishment of religion, or prohibiting the free exercise thereof. Wisdom to live by from the Bill of Rights of the Constitution of the United States of America.

Daddy Deities

Welcome to "The Gods Are Bored," o ye of great faith! So glad you could drop by! The New Jersey blueberry crop is in, so you've picked a great day for a luscious piece of pie.

Evn has been writing his own -- and linking to -- posts about the nature of deity. Deep, ponderous questions, such as How Does the Goddess Feel about Us Moderns, and Is There a Common Deity from which All Others Flow?

If you write a blog post about such things, you're a Thinker. If you write a treatise about them on vellum, later published, you're a Saint.

Myself, I tend to consider deities in relation to the praise and worship teams they serve. Granted, we are all Homo sapiens. A Maori tribeswoman could mate with a Wall Street banker and produce a perfectly sound kid with ten fingers and ten toes. Are both of these people united by one deity that takes separate forms, or are they tapped into deity systems that are unique to them?

You would hardly think that someone who entitles her web log "The Gods Are Bored" would feel that all humanity can trace its religion back to a unifying deity. That's deity as DNA in my book. I like to think that any group of people who takes the time and effort to communicate with the divine gets a whole pantheon, perhaps somewhat related to others' pantheons, but actually unique to that culture. In other words, I think the universe is big enough for a grand number of deities, both here and on other planets where blobs of thinking carbon ponder such issues.

Having said that, you can understand why I'm reluctant to throw Daddy Deities out with the bathwater. Granted, some of those we know the best aren't great prizes. One need only point to the jealous, sexist, xenophobic, baby-killer in the Old Testament to find a perfect example of God Gone Bad.

Are all Daddy Deities like that, though?

When my grandfather died (I grieve for him to this day), the good ol' Southern Baptist preacher who would be giving Granddad's send-off called my father and my two uncles into a conference room to get some personal stuff to shove into the sermon. The first thing the preacher asked was, "How did your father contribute to your religious faith?"

There was a long, pregnant pause. My dad was agnostic, his younger brother was a physician who never attended church, and Uncle Foggy attended Old Order Mennonite meetings simply as an anthropological exercise.

Finally my dad said: "We all think of God in personal ways, and our feelings about God are based on our experience of our fathers. Whenever I think about God, He has all the traits of my dad."

So, for my father, God was a kindly, gentle, family-centered man who always did the right thing and set an example of love and charm that trickled down into his grandchildrens' generation.

I take this one step further.

My dad was even more loving and nurturing than his father. To the end of his life he lavished me with tenderness and care. Yes, I put a picture of To Kill a Mockingbird at the top of this post, because my dad was very much like Atticus Finch. The dog had to be rabid before he would shoot it. He had principles that meant more to him than public approbation. He taught Sunday School for 50 years, and every single one of his classes had the same theme: "How can we all live in harmony?" Like Thomas Jefferson, he snipped the Bible down to the good stuff and left the rest in shards on the floor.

Most of all, he had a lap to hide in. A tender pat for the shoulder when the going got rough. An open invitation to consult him about anything and everything. His spare time was devoted to taking me for hikes, helping me with my science, canoeing and biking with me, and attending every horrible, squeaky, orchestra concert I ever appeared in.

Dad taught high school chemistry and was beloved by all his students. Yes, all. When he took to his deathbed and I had to go help him out, I sought solace in the local bar. The bar owner told me, "Your dad flunked me, but I deserved it. If I'd done any work for him, he'd have passed me. I liked the guy. Drinks on the house as long as you're in town."

With such a shining example of male parental nurture, it's no wonder I looked around for a personal pantheon that included male deities. Just because the busiest male deity is a jealous, vengeful, woman-hating, child-killing loser doesn't mean that all male deities share those ugly traits.

There are a great many women all around the world who have been treated horribly by men who, if they even bother to justify their behavior, can lean upon some nasty male deity for excuses. I count myself the lucky one to have had a dad who was steadfast and godly. Even as I write this, he's playing games with Peter Pan and the other boy faeries, his eternal reward being perpetual, blithe youth.

So today, we at "The Gods Are Bored" salue Bile and the Dagda, Ogma and other numerous male Celtic deities who are far better Daddy Gods than some of the deities in wider usage. Praise be to the Good God Fathers. It's a damn shame more people don't know They're out there.

Our operators are standing by to take your call.

FROM ANNE

THE MERLIN OF BERKELEY SPRINGS

Hooray for Our Side

Welcome to "The Gods Are Bored," positive polytheism, practical parenting, and pestering parrots for peppy people! The world is a harsh place. None of us escape it alive. So do what you can to make your trip enjoyable for yourself and others. And don't sweat the big messes. You didn't cause them, so why beat yourself up?

Today I want to talk about one of my personal favorite Bible heroes, the prophet Daniel. Daniel is a big favorite with the Sunday school crowd because his story is so exciting. He gets dumped in a lion's den, but the lions don't eat him. His three pals spend the night in a fiery furnace and don't even get singed.

I think Daniel always appealed to my inner Celt. Because I was less interested in his lion-taming abilities than in his wizardry.

Yes. Wizardry. The prophet Daniel fits every qualification for a wizard. There's the lion's den bit that we all know and love, but it doesn't stop there. Daniel is gifted with divination. He interprets King Nebuchadnezzar's dream when the king can't even remember it himself! That's Merlinesque. Daniel also has visions of the future that would make Nostradamus proud. And confused. Prophets can be doggone confusing, can't they? Especially when their prophecies are stripped of historical context.

In the little book we've been reading, Deliver Us from Evil: Putting a Stop to the Occult Influences Invading Your Home and Community, author Cindy Jacobs calls all acts of divination the work of Satan. All, that is, except for our hero Daniel. After comparing herself to Daniel and noting that she has been called upon by our nation's government and business leaders for advice, she writes: "There will be prophets who will work with presidents and there will be kings with apostolic gifts to lead their nations."

Just so long as they're Christian prophets, let 'em trance, trance, trance. Know what we wind up with when they're through trancing? The war in Iraq.

We at "The Gods Are Bored" hereby propose a whole new way of looking at Tarot readers, psychics, wizards, astrologers, and prophets.

If your personal psychic is helping your life, she's a good psychic. If she's making matters worse, she's a bad psychic. Her religion has nothing to do with it.

Extra-sensory gifts are nearly universal through cultures, so it's just a little bit unfair to dump all non-Christian experiences of this sort into a file marked "BAD." For one thing, it would make for a very fat file. For another, you might have missed the wizard who predicted that the war in Iraq would be long, messy, and hazardous to human life -- just because that wizard was a traditional Apache shaman, and not a Christian.

As for Cindy Jacobs being called upon to prophesy to our government and business leaders, I just have one thing to say. Perhaps an overnight in the lion's den should be employed to test her worth.

"Gods Are Bored" Halloween Poll: You Decide

Welcome to "The Gods Are Bored," coming to you live and livid on Halloween!

Just carved four pumpkins in 90 minutes (no record, I'm sure). "Gnome Henge" (circle of lawn gnomes) firmly established in front yard, with the pumpkins facing the Four Quarters.

It's just barely warm enough to put Decibel the Parrot on the front porch to greet the Trick or Treaters. On his cage is a sign featuring Captain Jack Sparrow and saying, "Don't Touch Me Parrot, Mate."

Last year the sign said, "Fingers. The Other White Meat."

The year before that it said, "Got Fingers?"

Two decades ago I wouldn't have dreamed of having a tropical parrot on the porch at Halloween. It was too cold. But Decibel likes to laugh when he isn't screaming loud enough to be heard two blocks away, so he enjoys the Trick or Treaters.

Do not construe this as a defense of global warming.

Okay. I have to explain my "Gods Are Bored" poll. You the reader will decide what I should do!

This afternoon I arrived at the Middle School in my economy car to find my daughter The Spare and seven of her friends awaiting a ride across town to our home. You do the math. One of them asked to go in the trunk, for the love of fruit flies! Thankfully, the Fighting Wombat Mascot costume is in the trunk, and you know economy cars. There ain't room for much else if you've got a Wombat costume in the trunk.

I stuffed five kids in the car. The other two volunteered to walk, which was pretty doggone knightly of them.

So I'm driving with a tall 8th grade boy next to me in the front passenger seat. I've never met him, but he's nerdy enough. He gets a cell call from his mom. She reminds him that he has to be at All Souls' Mass at 7:00 p.m.

EXCUUUUUUUUSE ME???????

Maybe I've been under a rock too long. I didn't know that Roman Catholics actually have a SPECIAL MASS on Halloween.

I've got no truck with "Mr. Applegate," my infrequent guest-blogger (and whiner extraordinaire), but oh please! A Christian Mass on Halloween?

So I'm in the kitchen, carving pumpkins, and thinking about the Roman Catholic church. There's a pretty gray brick one standing one block from my house.

I picture all the most raccoon-ravaged Catholics converging on the sanctuary at 7:00 to participate in a ceremony that has NOTHING TO DO WITH THEIR FAITH AT ALL.

And it occurs to me to create a sign that says:

"Halloween is a Pagan holiday. We want it back!"

... and discreetly tape it to the church door during the service.

Yeah, I would wear black clothes and run like an arthritic, bursitic geezer rabbit, so don't paint me as a modern Martin Luther or anything.

Trouble is, I'm conflicted about this. Should I do it or not?

It's too late to make a decision this year. That's why I'm leaving it up to you, dear reader.

Should I do the semi-demi-mini Martin Luther thing, or not, next year at Halloween 2008?

Vote with the Comment button. Vote early and often and pro Green Party.

FROM ANNE

PAGAN NEIGHBOR TO CHRIST THE KING CHURCH OF SNOBVILLE, USA

PS - I was pretty tired when I came home from work today (yeah, working on a High Holy Day ... my deities understand I need the dough). But this little bit of info galvanized me, and the Johnson Personal Samhain Ritual is a GO.

We want our holy day back.

Another extra: I just answered the door to a Trick or Treater, about seven years of age, all alone, dressed in a tie-dyed shirt and round sunglasses. Taped to his shirt: "Long Live John Lennon."

I think I'm going to run out of candy. That kid just walked off with the motherlode.

Interview with a Salmon

Welcome to "The Gods Are Bored," deep into the bowels of Lent!

This is no time to be a fish. You have heard the fishies' Lenten Lullabye, haven't you?

Now I lay me

Down to sleep,

I hope I wake

Within the deep.

If I should fry

Before I wake

I'll know it's Lent,

for pity's sake.

We at "The Gods Are Bored" therefore salute the bravery of tonight's guest, who has come here in all his amino-acid-rich glory and on a Friday to boot! Please give a wild, warm, wonderful "Gods Are Bored" welcome to Fintan, the Salmon of Wisdom, sacred to the Celtic pantheon!

Anne: Welcome, blessed Fintan, holder of all the knowledge in the universe!

Fintan: I wish you had told me you live up the street from a fish market, Anne. A customer tried to grab me. I had to eat his BlackBerry and cough it out without the memory chip.

Anne: Oh, sorry! I was afraid you wouldn't come if I mentioned the local shoppes.

Fintan: No problem. But perhaps you should give some background on me, for your readers who think humans are the be-all and end-all in the brain game.

Anne: Okay, well, Fintan's story varies from location to location, as all good fish stories do, but here it is in a Hazelnut of Wisdom shell. The great Finn Mac Cool (awesome Celt) wanted to gain all the knowledge he could in order to rule wisely.

Fintan: Unlike today, when your leadership vies to be stupidest on the planet.

Anne: See, folks? I told you he was one smart fish. Anyway, Finn Mac Cool's travels took him to a sacred well. Into the well dropped nuts from the Tree of Knowledge ... say. Wait a minute, Fintan. I thought the Tree of Knowledge had apples on it!

Fintan: Wrong tree, wrong pantheon. Stay with the hazelnuts.

Anne: Okay. The hazelnuts dropped into the sacred pool, and you, Fintan, ate them. You thus became stuffed to the plimsol line with wisdom and smarts.

Fintan: Precisely.

Anne: So Finn Mac Cool found you at your Phi Beta Kappa banquet, but there was a sage named Finegas living by the pool who kept trying to catch and eat you because that sage had divined that someone named "Finn" would catch and eat you and thus become a geek of first stripe.

Fintan: Poor Finegas. He was an old dude when Finn Mac Cool came along. Finn just snapped his fingers, and up I flopped onto the land. You'd think that would be a tip-off to Finegas that he was a fin short of a ten-spot. But no. Finegas asked Finn to cook me but not eat me.

Anne: And Finn did just that, except that he burned his thumb during cooking and had to suck on it to cool the burn. I know this has nothing to do with the story, but have you ever seen a man trying to barbecue anything? They don't fool me with their macho outdoor spatulas and lighter fluid.

Fintan: Finn was no exception. He rather botched the cookout, but he came away sadder and wiser for it. Sad because his thumb hurt. Wise because his thumb hurt. And whenever he wanted to use his far-ranging knowledge to solve some conundrum, he would just bite his thumb.

Anne: If old Finn Mac Cool hadn't flown off to Sidhe with the rest of the bored Celtic gods and goddesses, he'd be gnawing his thumb to the bone today. Does Finn really have a solution to tough stuff like global warming, wars of empire, and misguided use of taxpayer largesse?

Fintan: Of course! But he knows these One God people won't listen, so he's biding his time, along with all the Gentry of Sidhe.

Anne: Speaking of the One God people, they are just one of many praise and worship teams who feel that knowledge is the source of all evil. One thinks also of Prometheus and Pandora. I'm getting from you that the Celts thought their heroes ought to have knowledge. In fact, it seems like a significant prize.

Fintan: So significant, indeed, that Druids still include me by name in their rituals.

Anne: Yes, that's how I found you. By looking in the Druid Yellow Pages under "wisdom." Psyche! I knew about you already. I'm big into bored gods that ought to get better-paying gigs and more respect.

Fintan: And this does not surprise me. Is that not a Phi Beta Kappa certificate with your name on it, hanging on the wall?

Anne: I've always been a Druid. I just didn't know it until a few years ago.

Fintan: I knew it all along. Now, if you'll excuse me, it's nearing the supper hour, and I noted that big Roman Catholic family across the street...

Anne: Oh yes! We've got to take you to the river. Drop you in the water.

Fintan: You geezer. We're waiting for you in Sidhe.

Anne: I'm glad to hear it. Could I take just one picture of you? No one is going to believe how big you are!

Fintan: They all want a snapshot.

FROM ANNE

THE MERLIN OF BERKELEY SPRINGS, WV

Summer residence of Fintan, the Salmon of Wisdom

No Green Please, We're Celtic

Welcome to "The Gods Are Bored," where we talk to God. Hundreds of them! You could say we dabble in downsized deities who deserve devotion.

Today, in (dis)honor of St. Patrick's Day, we welcome a proud member of the Irish-Scottish-Welsh Celtic pantheon. Please give a wild, warm, "Gods Are Bored" welcome to Manannan Mac Lir, awesome High God of Ye Olde Ancient Celts!

Anne: Righteous Manannan, I'm sorry I can't type that cool accent grave over the last "a" in your name. I'm not very computer literate.

Manannan Mac Lir: That's perfectly all right. Can I have another slice of your soda bread?

Anne: Take the whole loaf, oh forgotten one.

Mannanan Mac Lir: Not entirely forgotten, thank goodness. I've got my island...

Anne: Oh, yes, the Isle of Man. I'm sure it's fair as a maiden's smile.

Mannanan Mac Lir: How fine it is to talk to a daughter of bards with the bardic gift herself!

Anne (blushing): Pshaw. Ain't nuthin. But we're not here to talk about me. We're here to talk about you. How you got booted from your job even after you were willing to do it for free.

Mannanan Mac Lir: It's still hard for me to talk about. And just like Bill O'Reilly won't say Keith Olbermann's name, I refuse to speak the names of those two ignorant Christians who robbed me of my praise and worship team.

Anne: Those would be St. Patrick and St. Columba.

Mannanan Mac Lir: Egg-sucking dogs.

Anne: Tell us, o God of the waves and the high heavens. What happened?

Manannan Mac Lir: Well, as you know ... grrrrr ....

Anne: St. Patrick...

Mannanan Mac Lir: He's the one. Brought Christianity to Ireland. Before that, fair Erin was the domain of self and extended family. Some of my fellow deities took pay cuts and worked for the Christians. Queen Brigid the Bright was one. She settled for sainthood so she could continue to care for her peeps. Me, I steered clear of the Catholics and kept on doing my thing with the rank and file folk. Me and my faeries, of course.

Anne: Of course.

Manannan Mac Lir: Then along comes the other one ... grrrrr.....

Anne: St. Columba.

Manannan Mac Lir: Shiftless skunk.

Anne: What happened?

Manannan Mac Lir: Skunk broke his golden chalice and asked one of my people to take it to the smith. I met my follower on the path to the blacksmith shop. One little puff from my mouth was all it took to fix that chalice, plus some. You learn all this stuff in God School.

Anne: I have a reader who has been there. Go on.

Manannan Mac Lir: So, I sent the good fellow back with the repaired cup and a message: "what say you to the power of someone who does this? Does your pantheon doom me, or accord me a measure of respect?" Darned if that poor servant didn't slink back and tell me that .... grrrrrrrr

Anne: St. Columba.

Manannan Mac Lir: The very one. He told the servant that only a demon could do such work, and I'd better get to hell where I belonged. Worse than that, the Shiftless Skunk scared the poor servant so bad that the servant went to all his friends and told them not to take my help anymore, no matter how well-intentioned it seemed. Just imagine. My faeries and I were providing great weather for farmers, fair skies for sailors. We were helping people find stuff they'd lost and filling children's heads with beautiful old tales. All of a sudden I'm persona non grata.

Anne: A common fate for bored gods and goddesses. What did you do?

Manannan Mac Lir: I booted it for the islands off Scotland and England, where folks are just stubborn enough to believe in me through thick and thin. It's a living. Barely. But the climate is nice if you like moody seascapes, which I happen to enjoy.

Anne: We here at "The Gods Are Bored" pay you all glory, laud, and honor, Manannan Mac Lir! And don't you worry. People are starting to appreciate the fact that Ancient Ones such as yourself deserve more than you're getting.

Manannan Mac Lir: My faeries and I worked for free. Gratis. Still no dice from those ... grrrrrrrrrrrrrr!

Anne: So what color do you suggest we wear on March 17, we who recognize the wrong done to you and your pantheon?

Manannan Mac Lir: The tartan of your Clan. Barring that, Anne, I think the burgundy shirts you wear to your school are quite becoming on you.

Anne: That's the school uniform! If I wear that on a Saturday, my husband will pitch a fit! He's sick to death of burgundy! How about this powder pink Land's End sweatshirt? It bids fair to be a coldish day.

Manannan Mac Lir: A glorious hue. Is there anything my faeries and I can do for you?

Anne: Not a thing, honored one. Our motto here at "The Gods Are Bored" is simple: "Ask not what a god can do for you. Ask what you can do for a god." How about this: In your honor, I will not submit a reimbusement request to the East Coast Vulture Festival for the expensive buzzard costume I rented. The Nature Society of Wenonah will therefore have another hundred bucks to spend on their six miles of walking trails.

Manannan Mac Lir: You do me justice, daughter of ancient Scotland. I'll be hovering, should you need me.

Anne: So, friends, there you are. Another bored god, done in by a demanding "It's All About Me" deity and his followers. As for me and my house, we will not wear green.

FROM ANNE
CLAN HANNA

And the Winner Is ...

Welcome to "The Gods Are Bored," stain-free furniture since 2005!

Is there anything more boring than the Academy Awards? I polled the most bored gods and goddesses I could find today, and none of them are going to watch it. And that's even with a pagan-themed movie up for best foreign film (Pan's Labyrinth).

I believe it was The Dagda who told me he'll be sorting his socks while the Oscars are playing. He says if I think my faerie infestation is bad, wait until I get to Sidhe. His socks disappear at an alarming rate.

See what I mean? He can't even put two together. Has to wear sandals.

FROM ANNE
THE MERLIN OF BERKELEY SPRINGS

Anne's 25 Million Dollar Idea

Welcome to "The Gods Are Bored," looking to get rich and instead barely scratching an itch! If you're rolling in money, yo. Share, already. My email is in my profile.

I read on Hecate's site that someone is offering a $25 million reward for anyone who can come up with an idea that will put a stop to global warming.

That's a big challenge. I put my thinking cap on, but I came up empty. So of course it became obvious I'd have to consult a bored god. And here he is. Please give a warm "Gods Are Bored" welcome to The Green Man!

Anne: Green Man, you lived through the temperature anomaly back in 1000 AD that allowed the Vikings to settle Greenland. Is this different?

Green Man: Yes it's different. For the love of buttercups, there were only a couple million people on the planet in 1000. Now humans are packed so tight that a rise in sea level's gonna be one big f***** deal.

Anne: (I don't dare tell a god to watch his language.) Emmm ... Green Man, Your Majesty. I did have a modest little idea for decreasing the CO2. Let me run it by you.

Green Man: Please do. By the way, did you know you have hyacinths coming up in your garden?

Anne: Yeah. Only two months too early. Anyway, here's my idea. My daughter The Heir and I were out in the neighboring suburb. We noticed that some of the largest mansions have a thick, unruly grove of trees in front of them. Now, in the wintertime (such as it is), you can barely see the mansions through the scrub. But in the summertime, you wouldn't know there's a house there at all.

Green Man: I'm getting your drift.

Anne: So why don't people let those stupid, over-watered, over-fertilized, over-pampered green grassy lawns go to seed? Don't mow the doggone lawns! The first year you'd have meadow. By the third year you'd have tree seedlings. By the tenth year you'd have a thick scrub. In twenty years, all the shade you could ever want, and no outdoor maintenance except picking up kindling you can use for ritual bonfires!

Green Man: Or marshmallow roasts.

Anne: Or both.

Green Man: It's just that easy, too. If all subdivision suburbanites just said "toodle-oo" to their fields of green, parts of America would re-forest in a hell of a hurry. You know all about that, don't you?

Anne: Yep. When I was a teenager on my grandparents' farm in Appalachia, there were three big meadows. They're gone. They're now three indistinguishable pine forests, soaking up CO2 and spitting out oxygen. So, Green Man. What do you think? Could I qualify for the 25 big old bucks?

Green Man: If you could combine that with stopping the people in the tropics from mowing down rain forest for cow pastures, you might be onto something. Say. While I'm here, I want to know what the hell is going on with this mountaintop removal on my favorite mountain range?

Anne: Don't put me in a sucky mood. It's Friday and I want a beer. I can only solve one big problem a day. We can tackle that one another time, I hope.

Green Man: I hope so too, because I am big time pissed at Big Coal, knocking down venerable old mountains created by Danu and Bile.

Anne: Get outta here. The Appalachian Mountains were made by Celtic deities?
Green Man: The Scottish Highlands are the same mountain range as Appalachia. It's all this complicated plate tectonics and stuff. I leave all of that to the Goddess. I just supply the flowers.

Anne: Getting back to my re-foresting the suburbs idea. The one downside I can see to it is tree roots getting into plumbing lines and basements.

Green Man: Oh yes, that's a problem all right. Until you factor in the possibility that your species might suck down all the oxygen before you have to worry about a backed-up sewer line.

Anne: Sold! I'm on the plane to Geneva. Or wherever it is that they're having the big global warming contest. Thanks for the feedback, Green Man. Will we see you at the 2007 faerie festival at Spoutwood Farm?

Green Man: Goddess willing and the creek don't rise.

Anne: Please give my regards to the awesome Celtic deities. They're swell.

Green Man: They like you too. I'll see you in a few weeks ... if not sooner.

I thought it was a good idea. But it never hurts to check with an expert.

FROM ANNE

THE MERLIN OF BERKELEY SPRINGS