The Accidental Tourist Ex Patriate

 What a mouthful of a title! You'll just have to follow along to see how it applies.

This is a "Gods Are Bored" entry on how I am keeping myself sane in these troubled times. And right now, more than sea glass, and Mummers, and especially the Baltimore Orioles, this is the anesthesia of absolute preference.

Nerds, rejoice! My anesthesia of choice is LARP.

So, for those of you with the wits in your head not to do LARP, the acronym stands for Live Action Role Play. It is an immersive game that you play in the woods or on a campground with other humans. In my case I play two different LARPs on a private property near the Pine Barrens. Although the setting is the same and many of the people overlap, my two LARPs are very different. I'll get into that, probably, in a later installment.

"Anne," you're asking. "How did you ever get involved in LARP? You don't mention a word about it in the entire Gods Are Bored archives until about 2024."

It's a funny story, actually.

Well, if you're an old-timer in this silly space, you know that I have gorged on fairy festivals since the turn of the century. It was through a fairy festival that I met Otter, and he was my catalyst to get into LARP. (Catalysts are a big deal in LARP.)

EXHIBIT A: ANNE AND OTTER, 2011

Just before the pandemic, say 2019, Otter started posting photos of himself and his buddies at some event that required fairy festival clothing. When I asked him where he was, and he named a municipality not far from my own, I decided to look into joining him in whatever he was doing down there. He told me the name of the game and the address, and that was all. He didn't encourage me to come, and that should have been a red flag, because we are pretty tight.

So I dressed in my fairy clothes and found the place, and the gate personnel eyeballed me up and down and said I looked the part, what did I know about the game?

Answer: nothing.

What did I know about LARP?

Answer: again, nothing.

It was game day, so no one had time to sit down and teach me. They just kind of shrugged, took my entrance fee, had me sign a waiver, and pointed me in the direction of "town."

"Town" turned out to be about two dozen makeshift buildings with tarp roofs. In and around these buildings were people dressed in armor, with horns and face paint and various other costuming, all very busy preparing for the next incursion of monsters and the next plot-driven quest.

I saw someone I knew from Otter's inner circle, and he greeted me warmly. I just couldn't understand why he couldn't sit down and have a nice long chat with me. Nor could anyone. They were busy speaking another language (rules jargon, plot twists) and going about their role play. I did not understand this at all. I tried pulling people off task to chat about anything but what was going on. And if you do LARP, you will know that this is the ABSOLUTE NO of the game.

Eventually I found someone who was pulled off task long enough for a talk, and she was very nice. Otherwise I was completely adrift, and Otter wasn't there to explain things to me. So I just kind of stood around in the way, and when the battle started, my first thought was, "Oh this ain't for me."

To this day I don't know why I went back a second time. But I did, and it was absolutely the same as the first time. People were nice, but distant. It was clear I had no idea what was going on, and the game was so doggone complicated that no one had time to take in a newbie, especially one who didn't even know what an NPC is.

On this second occasion, however, Otter was there, and when he wasn't swashbuckling, he was perfectly content to sit and gab "out of game." So I had a better time, and some of the players even began prompting me to take baby steps and learn how to do this thing. Still, I felt like I was an American tourist in a foreign country. Nothing made sense, and the monster attacks were seriously scary.

One winter morning in early 2020, just before the pandemic began, I found myself once again driving to the LARP, wondering what the fuck I was even doing it for. I still didn't understand the first thing about it, except that I couldn't just sit and gab. I felt like the people were barely tolerating me. It literally felt like I was about to enter that foreign country again, and the natives don't like tourists.

Then I passed a road sign that said ATLANTIC CITY  36.

Thirty-six miles from the hobby that I excelled at -- sea glassing! And it was a bright sunny day! Never mind that it was winter. I'm an idiot. I wade in the briny Atlantic in every season, if there's a shard of sea glass burbling in the surf. Ah, sea glassing. That was it. I should just breeze right by the turnoff for the LARP and make my way to AC.

That was actually a turning point in my life, right there. If I had gone on to Atlantic City, instead of taking the turnoff and braving the challenges of LARP, I would have sealed my fate as an old white lady content to lumber up and down a beach. But I made the turn. You see, LARP is populated by people young enough to be my children. There are a few others my age, but there are way more who are teen, twenty-somethings, and up from there. I just wasn't ready to walk away from the chance to be around younger people for a solitary and, frankly, monotonous hobby.

I stretched. I learned. They patiently corrected me when I said or did something the wrong way. I created a character and inhabited that character and forged friendships with other characters. And when I felt overwhelmed, I strolled off into the pines. (It's a 14 acre property, with a small Christmas tree farm and lots of woods.)

We just finished a campaign called "Caravan," in which I played a character named Feather. I thought it was an appropriate name for a LARP lightweight.

Our next campaign begins (for me) in June. It's called "Outpost" and is set at a new research facility in the fantasy world we inhabit. So this time, in a bold stroke of hubris, I created a character who is a serious scientist, a savant. Now is the time for me to understand this foreign country called LARP. My character is intensely interested in everything, including all the minute rules and regs.

The girl who runs this thing tells me that everyone loves me. They think I'm cute, and they appreciate how I keep trying even when I'm hopelessly flailing. And like a good expatriate American, I'm starting to fit into the culture and the language and the lore. I'm a regular LARP Emma Goldman.

EXHIBIT B: HAS ANNE FOUND HER PEOPLE?

This is a happy little photo from about a year ago. There I am, a slightly-past-prime monster, on the far right in the rear.

LARP aggressively removes itself from the here-and-now. I think all these people need a break from politics, and bills, and tough jobs, and emotional ups and downs. It sure helps me to disentangle myself from the CHAOS. And for that I am eternally grateful.

New Birds in the Yard

 If they gave out awards for trash picking, my daughter The Heir would garner the gold. But if you think about it, championship trash picking is intrinsically rewarding. You come home with better stuff than some stupid trophy.

Yesterday we had a little pre-Thanksgiving get-together here at Chateau Johnson, since the Heir is going to Harrisburg to have Thanksgiving with her significant other's family. When Heir and her s.o. arrived at our house yesterday, I head a little hubbub in the front yard. Then she came to the door and said, "Mom, there's someone here to see you!"

EXHIBIT A: Someone

It was a breezy afternoon. The birds were teeter-tottering back and forth, and their wings flap too. The unit still had its sale tag (although not the price).

Heir trash picked this from in front of a house in Germantown. It was in a plastic garbage bag at the curb. She lugged it all the way to West Philadelphia before she unwrapped it to see if it was damaged. That's a bus and a regional rail line and another bus.

It works perfectly.

EXHIBIT B: L'Oiseau en Up de Close

If I had stacks and stacks of cash, my whole yard would be covered with such wonderful things. But this is far sweeter than buying a dozen silly metal lawn ornaments. This one was free!

EXHIBIT C: L'autre Oiseau

This is the happy outcome of teaching your youngsters to sift through other people's discards. Both of my daughters learned trash picking at my knee, but living in the city they can elevate their achievements to new heights.

Never mind that they both have jobs they like, jobs that make a positive difference in their communities. Never mind that they both have amiable gentlemen as partners. My kids can trash pick. Say what you want, that's a skill.

In Which I LARP

Welcome back to "The Gods Are Bored," if you've kept the faith all this time. My name is Anne Johnson, and I talk to book case brackets and bored deities. Not necessarily in that order.

It's no secret that I've been struggling at work since September. Mightily. But this here girl knows her some struggle. That which does not kill me only makes me more stubborn.

One gambit that has always worked for me when I'm struggling is to veer off into a fantasy world. And knowing this about myself, I have to wonder: Where has LARP been all these years that it took me so long to find it?

Since I myself didn't know what LARP was until about 2019, I'm going to attempt to define it for you. LARP stands for Live Action Role Play. Basically you join a group, create a character for yourself that fits the parameters of whatever game that group is playing, and you go off into the woods to be that character for a weekend with lots of other people doing the same thing.

Like, dang. This was my entire childhood in the 1960s. 

There is, of course, a big difference between pretending a fallen log is a dragon and riding it while your buddies slash the underbrush with sticks (1965) and attending a modern LARP (2023). LARPs are, so far as my limited understanding goes, based on rules that have descended from Dungeons & Dragons. In other words, the whole thing is complicated. It's almost akin to going to an exotic foreign port as a tourist who knows a few basic phrases of the language and nothing else.

Not only that, these LARPers really know their stuff. They have fabulous gear and deep understanding of the process. They camp overnight at the LARP property from Friday until Sunday! Again, dang. Hats off. This is serious fun.

Several times before the pandemic I attended this LARP and gave it up as a botch. I just couldn't get it at all. It didn't help that I was clearly at least a decade older than the other "older" players, and basically old enough to be almost everyone's mom.

But last spring, this group of LARPers started a whole new campaign. I went down a few times to help spruce up the property, and I got to know them. They, in turn, took me under their wings and helped me fit in. Since everything was new in a fresh campaign, I was a little less lost (only a little).

This fall, LARP has saved me.

My character is Feather. She has an arcane shield and direct knockback, level five wing it, arcane restore, and umami blood type. She has joined a monster-fighting vanguard as a healer. If that makes no sense to you, I totally get it. Still wrapping my own noggin around it.

The LARP is held on a private property near the Pinelands. It's part piney woods and part Christmas tree farm, all tucked away from the world of public education and highway upgrades. The people are smart, funny, cheerful and youthful. There are golems, and basilisks, and hydras, and zombies, and booby traps, and lava pits, and then dinner is served.

I have attended three events since school started. The game is held once a month.

When I set off for LARP last weekend on an early Saturday morning, I was so beaten down and dispirited that I mulled just driving to the beach instead to spend the day pacing some lonely stretch of boardwalk. Instead I went to the game, and it totally breathed life into this withered brain of mine.

You want to get LARP in a nutshell? I was with a group of players, and a vulture happened to fly overhead. I launched into my whole Sacred Thunderbird prayer, which invariably draws strange looks, and instead of those s. l., the whole group that I was with dropped their gear and started praising the Sacred Thunderbird without really knowing what they were praising. When they discerned that it was a carrion bird, they praised it with all the enthusiasm of true Vulture believers!

I think I have found a new tribe.

Readers, I'm still wading through the Gods Are Bored archives, excising spam comments. It's a herculean task, but heartwarming to see all the great comments left on this site by so many of you, over and over again. May the bored Gods bless you, early and often!

How I Met My Anneland Neighbor: A Horror Story

 Trigger warning again from "The Gods Are Bored": The story you are about to read is pretty horrifying, especially since it's true. If you don't like to be scared, stop here.

The estimable Oscar Wilde once said, "When the Gods wish to punish us, they answer our prayers." Not gonna argue that one, Oscar. And I've met lots of Gods and Goddesses.

I bought a 4 acres of undeveloped, off-the-grid property in 2021. It's about a half mile from where my great-grandparents are buried, and it's all wooded. It was a longtime prayer I offered to the Gods, to let me have a little piece of ground in the land of my ancestors.

When I bought the property, my family (and some of you too) were worried about bears. There are bears around in those mountains, but I have only ever seen one in all my 64 years. I wasn't particularly worried about bears.

But I was worried about people.

My family in New Jersey found this baffling, especially when I said that the biggest problem I would have in the area was my New Jersey license plates. This observation met with wide ridicule in the bosom of the fam. Who looks at license plates? Ridiculous!

Hmmm. Not like I grew up in the mountains, and they didn't.

Anyway, just lately I went to Anneland for a long weekend. The weather turned out absolutely splendid. Instead of being hot and humid, it was breezy and cool, more like September than August. This allowed me to do some serious trailblazing to make it easier for me to get up and down the hills.

On Saturday evening, I parked my car where I could see it and decided to stay to star-gaze. The Perseids are sort of over, but the star-gazing is just fabulous on any given clear night in the mountains.

First I watched the sun set. Then I listened to the katydids as they geared up. The twilight was lovely, and the insect symphony was gorgeous.

Just as the sky was turning from deep blue to black, a big white pickup truck passed my car on the road. The truck drove really slow. It took me about five minutes to decide that I'd better scrap the star-gazing and mosey along. (I overnight in a nearby campground with cabins.)

I had just reached the car and had my hand on the door handle when a very tall man with a very large German shepherd emerged from my property, raging about "motherfuckin' New Jersey tags." I literally didn't even have time to hop in the car before he was in my face.

It was dark. He was drunk. The dog didn't bark.

I said, "Hey, hey, hey. I own this property, I bought it from Charla. Are you B*** P*****?"

(The said B.P. is the nearest neighbor, living off the grid and unseen across the road.)

He said, "What are these goddamn Jersey plates?"

I said, "I live in New Jersey, but I grew up around here." I then began to go down a list of all my relatives, living and dead, in the township. I dropped the names of my three second cousins that I was sure he knew.

He said, "What do you know about the fire ring up on the state land?"

I said, "Nothing, because it's not on my land, but I don't like it there. It's too small and surrounded by dry leaves - a forest fire waiting to happen."

Then I went back to the "Who's Who," and he began to confirm that he knew these people. The guy was blotto, but some of what I was saying began to filter through. And then, as drunken men in the backwoods will do, he began to tell me how the government was buying up all the land around there, and -- yes, this sounds like a conspiracy -- they had plans. That's why he was concerned about the New Jersey plates. "I took a picture of them when you was up on the state land," he said.

Wowsa.

So in my most soothing voice, throwing in a little accent for good measure, I explained that my grandfather's farm got sold, and I just wanted a little piece of ground, and I was lucky to get this tract from Charla at a good price, and I had no plans to build anything on it, and he could hunt it to his heart's content.

At this point he introduced me to his dog, who sniffed me politely and let me pet her massive head.

But that's when it got really terrifying.

So convincing was I with the genealogy, the name-dropping, and the "pity poor me that I even have to live in New Jersey," that he got flirty. He wanted to know if I was married, and where my husband was. He wanted to know why I used my maiden name, which he reassuringly pronounced "Jawnson." As I answered these questions he began to address me as "milady" and started apologizing. He wanted to know how old I was, and when I told him he said I didn't sound that old (this whole conversation took place in pitch dark). I said he would know my age if he could actually see me, but I didn't open the car door or turn on my flashlight.

The nearest house to my property is about 150 yards away. And it's around a bend. Only about three cars use the road during an entire 24-hour period, so there was about a ten percent chance another driver would come by.

The convo continued, self keeping it light as possible, and it did run on, because the dude was in his cups in that effusive way that would put your hair on end if you were sitting in a crowded pub. Finally after about 20 minutes the tension was mostly diffused. Then I politely bade him good night, saying I had to phone up the husband at a certain time. With a few more "milady" and a "blessed be," he stepped aside. I got in my car and waved to him and his oddly benign dog as I pulled away.

I have never been more terrified in my life.

Safely ensconced in my tourist cabin, I mulled what to do as my heart rate very, very slowly came down from mortal peril to red alert. Then I decided. I couldn't let this man scare me off my land that I had waited so long to obtain. I had planned to go back to Anneland in the morning. I determined to enact that plan. To hold my ground, so to speak.

After a sleepless night I put on my big girl pants and went back to my land. I plopped in my folding chair and read my book. Sadly, instead of being soothed by the fabulous forest, I was on hyper alert, fully realizing that the Gods were punishing me by answering my prayers. But it was quiet, and I did a little more trail blazing, and then at about 2:45 I started back for my car, which was parked at a pull-off just beside my property that is on state forest land.

As soon as I got to my car I saw the white pickup truck coming. He must have been waiting for me, but he made it look like a coincidental encounter.

He stopped, rolled the window down, and said, "I'm sorry about the ruckus last night."

We shook hands and chatted a little bit about how he had Jawnsons in his family tree, and we were most definitely related somehow. I repeated pretty much the spiel I'd given him the night before, figuring he probably didn't remember much of it. The dog was in the passenger seat.

We chatted about 15 minutes, and I wish I could tell you that, in the sober light of a Sunday afternoon, he was a changed man.  Well, he wasn't combative, and he wasn't flirty, but he had way too much to say about government takeovers, and how the state police had violated his rights on more than one occasion. He inquired about my profession, and I told him about teaching at the Vo-Tech.

Chillingly, he asked, "Anyone in your family in the military?"

I replied emphatically in the negative.

After some parting pleasantries, he drove off and so did I, in opposite directions.

Did you ever notice that, when buying a house or a property, people will ask dozens of questions but never inquire about the neighbors -- what kind of people they are, and if there's ever been any problems with them? I sure didn't think of it when querying the property seller about the surroundings. She said merely that her brother lived off the grid, down over the hill, and that she didn't really talk to him. This family's surname is quite known and respected in the vicinity.

Call it a lapse, or wishful thinking. I just didn't account for a paranoid hermit just a few years younger than me. The mountains have always hosted people like this, but just as with everything else, the Internet has stoked a whole new level of anxiety.

The "ruckus" happened four days ago, and I still haven't recovered. I'll never be comfortable staying on my property after dark. And the bear spray Yellowdog Granny sent me will be in my pocket at all times.

It'll be like forest bathing with a snapping turtle in the tub.

Annie's Helpful Guide to Hiking Steep Mountains When You're Past Your Prime

 Welcome to "The Gods Are Bored!" Hard to admit, yes it is, but I am past my prime. And for those of you striplings who say, "Age is a mindset, not a number," well. You must still be young. Age isn't a number, but it's a reality.

I may be past my prime, but I'm nowhere near dotage. This means that the urge to dance, hike, and otherwise carry on is still an itch that can be scratched.

Hiking is one of those pastimes that come with an unfortunate drawback. The drawback is, if the hike is worth taking, it's going to be steep, rocky, or both. Take my word on this. I live close to the New Jersey Pine Barrens, and the hikes there are soft, level, and devoid of rocks. They are also boring as a Methodist tithing sermon. Pine trees, pine trees, and more pine trees. With an oak or ten thousand thrown in for variety.

I'm just back from beautiful Anneland, and the hiking there is middling interesting.

EXHIBIT A: VIEW FROM ANNELAND

As you can see from the helpful exhibit, the mountains in the region of Anneland are not terribly tall. But any mountain is steep when you start climbing it.

I have been frustrated with my inability to climb mountains for the past three years. But this year I figured out a hack. It will drive the striplings nuts, but for me it works!

Here are the steps:

1. When the hiking gets steep and/or rocky, proceed thirty paces, looking only at the few paces right in front of you, then rest. 

2. Do not look ahead at the trail in front of you while resting, except to confirm the next blaze. Look back at what you have accomplished.

3. If, after 30 paces you feel like you can go farther, go ahead. Stop when you run out of breath or see a cute mushroom or find a stand of wild raspberries.

4. In the summertime, go hiking early. It's too hot in the middle and end of the day.

Now you, too, can be a successful (if slow as hell) hiker!

One final piece of free advice: It's never a good idea to hike alone. However, if you do, be sure to let two different people know what trails you'll be on and when you plan to be back. When you get back, call both people to check in. This is what I did on my last visit to Anneland, and by this means I was able to conquer the nearest steep trail.

All the blessings of the bored Gods to you! Let me know about your hiking. It's a great way to spend a morning.

A Chirpin' and A Cheepin' Y'all

 Welcome to "The Gods Are Bored!" I'm just off the surreal adventure of driving back to New Jersey from Anneland. The first 40 miles are country roads with epic vistas and no cars in either direction. The last 40 miles are frenetic, bumper-to-bumper freeways leading into the center of Philadelphia. Whoosh! Like entering another dimension.

When I visit Anneland (I will have photos in a future installment), I frequent the local eateries. One of the things I like to do, sitting alone over a steamy plate of sausage gravy and biscuits, is evesdrop on the conversations around me. I don't do this out of nosiness, but rather because the peoples' country accents are such music to my ears. I lost my rural accent long ago, but I love hearing it coming from other folks.

But here's something I bet you didn't know. Wild birds have regional accents too! Can you believe it? It's true. After hearing it with my own ears, I asked Dr. Google. Yep, so true.

The spoiled and pampered blue jays in my New Jersey wildlife refuge -- the ones that get fresh peanuts in the shell every morning -- make a soft peep peep. The blue jays out on Anneland, scrawny and peanut-deprived, have a hoarser pip pip and a throatier caw. The cardinals in NJ say TWEET pow pow pow. The same call near Anneland is GECK o.

One bird that has the good sense to boycott suburban New Jersey is the eastern towhee. For my money, this is a great bird. It really brings back my happiest youthful days to hear the towhees calling one another as evening falls. They say Drink your TEA. 

I guess if they lived in New Jersey they would say Wanna BEER?

I had lots of fun adventures. More soon!

Tough Night in the Wildlife Refuge

 Welcome to The World of Anne, better known as "The Gods Are Bored!" It's been a tough 22 hours in the wildlife management area, let me tell you.

I know what you're thinking. You're thinking I'm going to write about my beautiful little piece of property in the Appalachian Mountains. But actually I am referring to my 1/8 acre in sunny (today) Haterfield, New Jersey. There's far more avian and mammalian wildlife in my little suburban back yard than there is on the four acres of woods I own in Bedford County, PA.

We're not talking about insects and mushrooms. Just animals and birds.

But it was a super tough night for the mice, voles, rabbits, raccoons, opossums, squirrels, chipmunks, groundhogs, and feral cats. Also put upon were the blue jays, cardinals, tufted titmice, chickadees, nuthatches, wrens, sparrows, finches, robins, woodpeckers, catbirds, and mourning doves. The refuge took a beating.

Yesterday, just as I was pulling my Fourth of July hotdogs off the grill, it began to rain. The sky was roiling. I took myself inside, and Mr. J and I ate dinner as the rain got heavier and heavier.

Then all Hell broke loose. We had hurricane conditions for approximately 15 minutes. The wind blew the outdoor furniture over, and projectiles began hitting the house. It was a white-out of rain. Mr. J and I just looked at each other as if to say, "Should we hoof it to the basement?" Then the power flickered, and the storm ratcheted into even a higher pitch.

Gradually conditions improved. Mr. J stepped outside and righted the furniture, declaring that the damage "wasn't bad at all." But he was only looking at the 1/8 acre Johnson Memorial Wildlife Management Area. He didn't stroll down the street.

I was the one who strolled down the street, about an hour later. And the whole landscape was upside down. There was a downed wire sparking in the next block, and at least a dozen trees uprooted and blown over. Neighbors were already pulling huge limbs out of their back yards. And I couldn't see, but it felt like a whole tree had fallen across the street, on one of the Millionaire McMansions. My own yard is littered with branches from the park that is a block away.

I'm just back from a longer stroll, which I took because all the streets are closed and I needed to get downtown for a lunch engagement. There are trees down everywhere. A local constable that I spoke to said that, in addition to the wind damage, many cars were swept into flash flooding, as high as four feet in some places.

This was a pretty localized weather event, so all the tree companies in the county -- and every electric company truck as well -- descended on Haterfield. The din around here first thing in the morning was deafening. They're still sawing and shredding in the block behind mine. It was completely impassible.

My question is, where do all the critters go? There aren't as many birds or mammals in the Wildlife Management Area today. Well, the squirrels are here in force, but otherwise it's critter quiet.

Why have I never thought of this before? What happens to a one-ounce finch in a wind storm that knocks over 200-year-old trees?

Oh! I hear them! The finches (some of them) are back on the bird feeder! I wish I could put my question straight to them. I think I'll ask around for a bored deity that can converse with wildlife, because I really am curious.

Where I live -- and especially in these climate-challenged times -- a true hurricane is not out of the question. Judging by what I have seen today, wowsa. Hope it never happens.

So far as I know, distant rural Anneland is fine. Four acres, one chipmunk who looked desperate to relocate.

If you know what happens to birds during hurricanes, please tell me. I could ask Chat GPT, but it isn't trustworthy, and you are.

Felicitous Announcement

 It is with great pleasure that Lord Mark and Lady Anne Johnson announce the engagement of  their youngest daughter, Fair Johnson, to an amiable gentleman of high moral repute and moderate, diligent habits. The two young persons reached their understanding during a tour of the Italian provinces, concluding today. A date has not been set for the nuptials.

Lady Anne received this news with utmost enjoyment, having no other goal in life than the happy unions of her daughters with worthy gentlemen.

Snippets

 Nearly a month without "The Gods Are Bored!" Tells you how exciting my life is.

But in the interest of navel gazing I'll record some events.

*Thumbing my nose at the Supreme Court, but mindful of Loki's advice to lay low (see below), I took all of my students outside on a sunny day and showed them the Four Directions. Literally had them turn East, South, West, and North. And surprise! I'm having a much better year so far with this batch of kids.

*Went to a Renaissance Festival with my sister. When we sat at an ampitheatre to watch a show called "Puke and Snot," we were told by Snot that Puke had Covid. Snot asked if there was anyone in the audience who would like to read Puke's part of the script. And I guess my three readers know how that turned out! (Years of Fairy Festivals prepares one for such contingencies.)

*Got to know my students quickly, discovered that one of them is a backup quarterback for one of the powerhouse football teams in the county. When that student complained of a headache two days in a row -- and admitted he'd taken some tough hits in practice -- I alerted the nurse. Student was taken to the hospital and put on concussion protocol. Kind of put me off football for about ten minutes, but I couldn't stay away because

*The Philadelphia Eagles are undefeated! A big 6-0! Still I have to ask myself how I can support a game that scrambles the brains of sweet freshman students in my classroom.

*Speaking of Philadelphia, the aggressively mediocre Phillies are in the National League Championship Series. It's been a banquet in Philly lately.

*My school broke ground on a big new addition. It's being built over my assigned parking space, so I got a new space. The new space is closest to the Auto Tech shop, so I walk through there every day. It didn't take me long to notice the gleaming new Subaru Outback in one of the bays. Who knew? Subaru donated a brand new car to the school so students could learn about modern technology in cars! I like the Subaru I own, but I wasn't wedded to it. Until now. Anne will be Team Subaru forever.

*Today I got a Covid booster. My fifth Covid shot. Didn't make any plans for the weekend.

Well, last year was really challenging in the workplace. I'm knocking on wood, but so far this 2022/23 batch of freshmen is the best since way before the pandemic. They're still wiggly puppies, but they aren't writing expletives on each other's papers or punching the little kid when no one is looking. And they love the books sent to them by your generosity!

With no lint remaining in my navel, I big you farewell.

When the Queen Was Scheduled but Didn't Arrive

 Welcome to "The Gods Are Bored!" Are you tired of reading about Queen Elizabeth yet? I won't keep you long. Promise.

My mother was born the same year as Queen Elizabeth II and was a huge fan throughout her life. The largest part of our home library was devoted to picture books about the royal family. My name, Anne, comes from Queen Elizabeth's daughter, and my sister Margaret is named after QE's sister. Any time that anything pertaining to the royal family made the news, we were all over it in my household. 

When I was a kid, life could be chaotic in my house. I never knew quite what to expect when I arrived home from school in the afternoon.

On one memorable occasion, I came through the door with my school books and found the kitchen table set scrupulously with all the fine china and crystal my mother owned. She had also pulled out the sterling silver flatware and the linen napkins.

Mom herself was dressed in her best dress and high heels. The first thing she did when she saw me was to tell me to take a shower and dress in the clothes set out.

In my room she had laid out my poofiest Sunday dress and my Mary Janes.

When I asked her what was going on, she said that Queen Elizabeth was coming for dinner. Now get in that shower!

The last thing I wanted to do after a long day of school (and probably a night without much sleep) was to indulge my mother's newest delusion. I was old enough to know that she had mental illness and that the Queen of England was, in fact, at home in England.

But there was no arguing with Mom when she was certain of something.

I don't know how I did it, but I dodged the shower and the Sunday dress. Maybe I just shut the door on the whole mess, and that was that.

At any rate, the hours passed, my dad came home from work, my sister was somewhere (perhaps staying with a relative), and the queen didn't come to dinner. This was probably for the best, because my mother didn't cook anything, she just decorated.

After waiting for Her Majesty until nearly 10:00 pm, my mother wouldn't hear of putting away the fancy tableware. There must have been a mistake. The queen would arrive tomorrow.

I don't remember how many nights we prepared for a visit from the queen. Probably not many. By the time my mother got that far along in a manic episode, the chaos would become more widespread. But I have never forgotten the evening my mother spent, done up to the nines, waiting for her heroine to arrive to our little brick ranch house in Appalachia.

Queen Elizabeth outlived my mother by 20 years. I lit a candle on my Shrine for both of them the other night. If there is indeed eternal life waiting to torment us, Mom will get an infinite number of dinners with the queen, and an infinite number of dinners with all the queen's ancestors. Sheesh. I would rather be with the faeries.

The Devil Went Down to Anneland

 Greetings from "The Gods Are Bored!" Wow, what an eventful long weekend I have had! Time to flip up the tank top and gaze deep into that navel!

But before I do, thank you again to everyone who contributed to this year's Personal Choice Reading Book Drive! My students will thank you. I do tell them where the books come from.

I'm just back today from a stay at my lovely, shady, untouched and untrammeled property in Bedford County, PA. I have named the tract Anneland. It's a colony of the Independent Republic of Johnsonia, and there could be no better place for such a colony. Why, only a half mile from its border there's a cemetery chock a block with Johnsons, including my direct ancestors.

Anneland is in fine shape. Meaning that it's just a forest, doing what forests do when they aren't pestered by people.

My daughter The Heir went with me on this trip. For her, Anneland was a source of constant wonder. There were mushrooms everywhere, and fossils, and she set about clearing a pathway and a little campsite where we could sit and feel cool.

We didn't spend the night on Anneland. It would be very, very dark in those woods. As luck would have it, there are some cozy and clean tourist cabins not far from the property. Nice to have a shower and a fridge and a microwave at your disposal while visiting the primitive colonies!

There is also a swimming hole near Anneland. One morning, Heir and I stopped by to check out the water level. I started to walk upstream a ways, and suddenly Heir shouted for me. "Mom, come quick!"

I obeyed my first born's directive and rejoined her by the side of the creek. She pointed, and I gaped.

EXHIBIT A: WHAT THE DEVIL IS THAT THING?

This is a case where a photo does not do a creature justice. This thing would have stretched from the tip of my middle finger to my wrist. It was like a big, green, horned, spiky cigar. It fell out of a tree, five feet from where Heir was standing.

Boldly going where no one had gone before, Heir guided the oversized insect to shore, because it fell in the water. Then, after we gaped at it for some time, she used a camp shovel to carefully lift it from the side of the creek to the safety of the woods.

Later that morning, when I found myself at a place that gets Internet signal, I asked Dr. Google what this thing actually is. Turns out it's a hickory horned devil caterpillar. They burrow into the ground to build a chrysalis, which explains why it fell out of a tree. You would think that such a monstrosity would be poisonous, but it's not. Poison would be redundant for something so huge and scary-looking. Oh, and by your leave, it's the largest caterpillar in North America.

There are more wild critters in my little New Jersey back yard than there are on four acres of Anneland. I've got a dozen species of birds, squirrels, chipmunks, bunnies, groundhogs, possums, moles, and raccoons. But I have nothing like the insect representation you get when you go to the mountains. "Hickory Horned Devil" is a great name for that caterpillar, but I'm tempted to call it the Lord God Bug. Because you best believe I said "Lord God" when I saw that thing.

We also did a little waterfall collecting, at Blackwater Falls State Park in West Virginia.

EXHIBIT B: A NICE ADDITION TO THE COLLECTION

And guess what else, readers? There are windmills upon windmills on the mountains in the Mountain State! Whole lines of them atop the high ridges! A feast for the eyes.

I also moved some roadkill off the road for the Sacred Thunderbirds, and later I saw them feasting on it safely. That was the religious portion of the trip.

Heir and I also feasted like kings at the local eateries, the Road Kill Cafe (not kidding) and the Chat & Chew Diner outside Keyser, WV.

But mostly we just hung out on Anneland. This is the hottest part of the summer, and those woods were cool.

May Day Faerie Festival at Marshy Point

 What do you know? All this Supreme Court s*** hits the fan, and I get so bummed out that I don't post about the first Faerie Festival I attended since the lockdown! It was already last weekend.

I thought I would cry, and I did.

Day to day I don't have any close friends around me. I have acquaintances like the Monkey Man and colleagues at work, but most of my spare time goes to the spouse and the daughters. There are only so many hours in the day.

I'll bet the same can be said for the other people who go regularly to faerie festivals, because wow, when we got together it was like a fresh breeze blowing away all the stale air! So very good to see everyone again, so good that we came through the pandemic and into each others' arms!

The festival outgrew its original stomping grounds before the pandemic and has since moved to Marshy Point Nature Center near Baltimore. This is a quite pretty setting. Along some of the walking trails there are vernal ponds full of tadpoles, and of course there's that classic Chesapeake Bay-style view of a swath of water with reeds and stuff. Another bonus was a black vulture named Dumplin on exhibit. (Turns out black vultures don't particularly care for bagpipes and shouting. Who knew?)

All the elements of May Day returned. The Maypole, calling the Quarters, Tribal rivalries. Which of course yours truly aced like a boss.

EXHIBIT A: MOUNTAIN TRIBE OF MARSHY POINT

Okay, okay. At least I had a tribe. With a hobgoblin. Something to be said for that. If you look close you can see Kwiplick the hobgoblin on the shoulder of Professor Greenman. That's me behind the banner.

The event was very well attended, and the vibe was merry, festive, and respectful to our great Mother Earth. It was incredibly great to see all my friends!

Beltane is one of the major holy days on the Pagan calendar. It's a day dedicated to youthful joy and the lust that's rising in the land at this time of year. Perfect moment for a bunch of people who have been holed up behind masks and locked up in their homes to come dancing out for a good ol' time!

The festival lasted two days. I went to Marshy Point a day early to help set up. And I actually set things up! Not my strong suit. 

All hail the return of festivals! All hail Beltane, the day of dancing! As for me and my house, we will serve the Green Man.

I Have Returned from Anneland

 Anneland. That's what I'm going to call my mountain property. It's the most beautiful little scrub forest in the world! I'm just back from my first visit, and now I am going to bore you to death with the details!

I know, I know. I should be sticking to interviews. Who wants to look at photos of a scrub forest in the middle of nowhere?

Then I will be brief.

I did not know the boundaries of the land I bought, so when I arrived to find 5 inches of snow on the ground, I was also pleased to find that the surveyor had wrapped neon pink ribbons around trees on the property line. These same trees are also blazed white. No question where my place begins. And thank goodness for that, because here's my neighbor:

I made a list of things I was hoping to find on my property. One thing was a really mature tree. And, bingo.

I wasn't kidding about the snow. It's usually cold in those mountains in April, but it doesn't often snow this much. But hey, I love the white stuff!

Saving the best for last. When I got the survey at closing, I thought there *might* be a view. On that account I was surprised to the point of weeping.

I don't have any plans to build on this property. The land is not even on the grid. But if my ship were to come in, this would be what I saw while sipping the morning tea and doing my devotions to Venus Cloacina.

And oh yeah, that ridge is Polish Mountain, where my grandfather's farm was. It's not the farm pictured, but that's a good thing.

The only other item I have to report in this boring ass blog post is that I have vowed never to take the Pennsylvania Turnpike to access my property. For one thing, its pace is worse than frenetic. For another thing, the tolls would set me back $100 per trip. So I took little ol' Route 30, the Lincoln Highway. Through Lancaster (Amish buggies), York (Walmarts), Gettysburg (battlefield), Chambersburg (city square), Caledonia State Forest, McConnelsburg (unfortunate name), and down to Route 522. Skipped that turnpike completely, and it only took me about an hour more! (It takes a solid hour to go the first 20 miles out of Philadelphia).

Something funny did happen on this trip. Saving it for the next installment of this Endless Navel Gaze called "The Gods Are Bored."

The Deed Is Done

 All three of my readers are saying, "For the love of fruit flies, Anne! Enough about buying land in the mountains! When are you going to start interviewing bored gods again and ranting about Republicans?"

Okay, okay, okay. I hear you. It's dull as dirt, reading about someone else's dreams coming true.

So today I'll just record the fact that the deed to 322 Mountain Road came in the mail. (The land is on Mountain Road, but I just made up the address. No house, no number. Sheesh! Go figure!)

Isn't it weird how these pieces of paper confer stuff to us? I have a title to my Subaru. A piece of paper that says I own the car. Gives the paper a lot of power, don't you think?

I don't have a deed to my house in Haterville, and I never will. It's mortgaged to the gills. Some bank has the paper for this house. I wonder where that paper is? In some file cabinet, I suppose. 

Sheafs of paper. Dang! Who thought this up? Shouldn't I just be able to go out there into the mountains and say, "THIS IS THE LAND OF MY PEOPLE, YOU JUST HAVE TO BELIEVE ME?"

My confidence in this pronouncement was so profound that I went the traditional route and sought out the proper papers.

I'm sure you've noticed this whole paper dodge. You go to the eye doctor, you get a little slip of paper with some weird markings on it, you take it to a store where they sell glasses, and by Gods, you can see again! How does this work?

And do you do any shopping at CVS? You go in for a pot of lip balm, give them some plastic card, and a strip of paper long enough to wrap up a mummy comes spitting out at you from the checkout. Why? Why do I need a piece of paper to get three bucks off the shampoo? Why don't you just price the shampoo three dollars less to begin with?

I guess I can blame my ancestors for this. They made their way up Town Creek until they didn't see any signs of life, then they started notching their initials or some kind of marking on the trees. Well, after all, trees are just raw, unprocessed paper. They raw-papered a complete landscape.

If you ask me, there's nowhere that this paper obsession seems more absurd than in paintings. Have you seen the ridiculous amounts some people are paying for paintings? Like, excuse me, it's a piece of paper with some color applied? You might look at it a few times, and then what? There it sits.

This is not really a sermon or a rant, it's just kind of me wondering how the whole paper thing got started. It's not what I would call a brilliant idea. You know what would work so much better? If you saw something you liked, and the person who had it just said, "Okay, here. You take it." And out of gratitude you might give that person something in exchange -- like a hearty handshake or a pizza or something.

So much better. But anyway, I got my papers. If my file cabinet catches fire, will I still own the land?

Another Year, Another Yawn

 All hail Venus Cloacina! Today's my birthday. Gonna have a party tonight!

Here's the guest list:

1. Mr. J (doing the cooking)

2. Heir and significant other

3. Fair and significant other

4. Gamma

The menu is Chicken francaise served on a bed of linguine with a lemon white wine butter sauce, and a salad with strawberries and feta cheese.

And of course let us not forget dessert, a fabulous Smith Island cake!

Best thing about the cake is, there will be plenty for any bored deity who drops in, even Gods with appetites like Zeus! 

At the age I have come to be, one appreciates a pain-free existence and the company of family. And the weekend. Always the weekend.

Blessed be,

Pisces Anne

My Plans

 All hail Venus Cloacina, and welcome to "The Gods Are Bored!" Wow, what mayhem. First we had Donald Trump, then we had a deadly pandemic, and now we have World War III. It's like the 1960s all over again. What can I do except go along with the flow and hope for the best?

For those of you just hopping aboard, I am an Appalachian American, living ex patrium for most of my life. Up until 2011 I had a hold on the old sod as part owner of my grandfather's farm, but then it was sold, and I was truly bereft.

Now I have land again, praise Cloacina, and only about a mile and a half from my grandfather's farm. At four acres it's small by mountain standards, but oh boy it has some qualities.

Probably the best thing about it is how flat it is. This is the mountains, after all. And it's shady! Lots and lots and lots of trees. You can feel them talking to each other underground. On top there's leaf litter and moss and fallen branches. The ground is springy, soft on your feet, from all the years of undisturbed leaf fall.

The ink is dry on the transaction. The seller has been paid. And everyone is asking: Anne, what are you going to do with it? The land, they mean. Tiny house? Big house? Vacation house? Gonna move there?

Nope.

When those trees talk to one another, I don't want them saying, "OH SHIT, CHAUNCY, SHE'S CUTTING ME DOWN!" Nor do I want to plow in a driveway, or sink a septic system, or try to persuade the state of Pennsylvania to run an electrical line up through the woods.

I don't want to start a trash heap (though it's a time-honored Appalachian tradition). I don't want to build a fire ring in all that leaf litter. I don't want to hang fairy garlands from the tree limbs or build some monument (though there is already a nice cairn there probably made by some farmer 100 years ago).

I've had ten long years to think through what I would do if I got a little bit of land in the mountains. And what I decided some years ago was that I didn't want a parcel with a house on it. Why do I need something more to worry about? Or a place I'll feel obliged to go just to "keep it up?" Phooey on that!

I want this land to look just like it does now. Worst I'll do is snip down a few pine seedlings to make myself a place where I can view the sunset and the meteor showers.

Some people think it's ridiculous to purchase a property while having no plans to alter it in any way. Those people aren't Druids.

See, the way I look at it, I bought a church. I'm going there to worship, and when I leave there will be no trace that I visited at all. This I consider to be bliss.

I'll close today's sermon by thanking my dear Yellowdog Granny for the bear spray. When your new next door neighbor is the state game lands, it's better safe than sorry. Hope I never, ever need it!

Of Goddesses and Birthday Angels

 Did you ever have something happen to you that absolutely defied all odds and just seemed basically incredible? I have experienced this a few times, and it's always startling. Makes the most logical person scratch their head, because it is just magic.

Two weeks ago, after a long day at work, I popped into the thrift store. They always have a shelf of trinkets right inside the door -- they have Christmas stuff on it all year around, as well as other little do-dads and statuettes and such.

The moment I looked at the shelf I saw her:

EXHIBIT A: THE ODDS ARE PHENOMENAL

This is a Lefton birthday angel ca. 1966. I have never seen anything ceramic of this vintage in the thrift store before. And of course, March is my birthday month.

It gets better.

You see, I actually had a birthday angel like this, had her for decades in fact.

I gave her away as part of a fundraiser to save Terrapin Run.

Only my oldest of old-timers will remember how a rural community in Western Maryland had to pay a land-use lawyer to fight a developer who wanted to build housing for 11,000 people alongside a little Tier I stream called Terrapin Run. While the lawyer supported our cause, he needed to eat. So the little consortium to save the stream had all kinds of auctions and such to pay the lawyer bills. I sent them jewelry, and I sent them my little March angel I had owned since I was a kid. Had tears in my eyes when I turned her over.

In addition to giving what I could to the fundraising, I worked magic along the bank of Terrapin Run. For years. The Goddess I petitioned was Venus Cloacina, the Roman Goddess of the sewers. I figured if any deity would object to a crystal clear stream being turned into a wastewater dumping ground, it would be Cloacina.

Developers almost always win these battles. But this developer didn't. He lost like an egg-sucking dog and limped his saggy, broke-ass butt back to Washington, DC.

Ever since then I have thanked Cloacina whenever I visit that area, because I truly believe She answered my prayers.

Back to the present: What are the vast odds of finding a 50-year-old ceramic angel, exactly like the one I donated, just sitting on the shelf at the thrift store I visit twice a month? (By the way, she cost me $3.50.)

It gets better.

I had been waiting six weeks to hear from the attorney in Bedford who was handling my purchase of a property in the land of my ancestors. Not two days after bringing home the March angel, the documents and paperwork arrived in my email.

I am as scientific as the next guy, but that angel was nothing but an omen. Sent by Cloacina.

Don't pish tosh me now, reader. Terrapin Run is less than 10 miles from the property.

Which is now my property. It has closed.

I have land. And a Goddess. Bless them both.

You're Really Dissing the Thrift Store, Country Magazine?

 It's President's Day weekend, and what does that mean? Everything's half off at the thrift store! And whoa, doggies. The place was packed.

Have you seen the average thrift store shopper these days? No you haven't, because all kinds of people shop at the thrift store now. Lots of artsy Gen Z, lots of handsome metrosexual men, and lots of school teachers. Tons of school teachers.

I have a favorite thrift store that I visit at least once a week for retail therapy. Over the years I have almost completely outfitted myself and my house from that store. I've gotten towels, bath rugs, sheets, bedspreads, throw pillows, small pieces of furniture, books, shoes, decorations, and small kitchen appliances there. Clothing? Almost all my clothing comes from the thrift store. The only clothing I buy retail is fairy attire!

Fact: Last week I went to Target to buy a Valentine's Day gift for Mr. J. I picked up the one thing I'm loath to buy at the thrift store (underwear) and saw a cute set of pajamas that I liked. With Mr. J's gift I spent ... get ready ... $70. My jaw dropped. That's three or four hefty hauls from the thrift store!

So you can imagine my surprise when Country Magazine, that chic bastion of finding cute stuff at the antique mall, came out with an article entitled "40 Things You Should Never Buy at the Thrift Store."

40, mind you. Should have titled it "Don't Shop at the Thrift Store, Buy Something Expensive Instead."

Needless to say, I was intrigued to see what Country Magazine deemed unworthy of purchase from a thrift store.

*Old furniture. Might have lead paint. As opposed to stuff at the antique mall, which is presumably pristine.

*Anything upholstered. Well, they don't sell such things at my thrift store, thank you very much.

*Bedding. Might have bedbugs. Except you can see the industrial-sized washing machines in the back room at the thrift store.

*Stuff for kids, as in, car seats, strollers, and toys. Excuse you, Country Magazine. While my local thrift store is chock-a-block with cutie pie young skinny guys, it's also always full of poor people. You know, the people the thrift store is supposed to serve. And those people might not be able to go out and buy a brand new car seat. Shit's expensive.

*Throw pillows. Again, bedbugs. The magazine's advice? Buy a throw pillow from Target, where it's $10 - $20. News flash: $20 will buy 10 pillows at the thrift store. It's a bedbug gamble, but so is staying at the Hilton.

*Clothes. Say that again? Yes, you heard me. Clothes! They might be torn or stained, and you can't return them! For the love of fruit flies. As if anyone goes into the thrift store, plucks something from the rack, flips it on the counter, and doesn't so much as glance at it to see if it's stained! I'll admit, I did buy a shirt two weeks ago that is missing the bottom button. But stains and tears? Everyone checks for stains and tears.

*Anything that smells bad. Duh. That's advice for trash-pickers, not Goodwill shoppers.

*Kitchen appliances. They might not work. Well, let's see. I got my crock pot there, and it works. I got my hand mixer there, and it works. Case closed.

In this slideshow article, the list goes on and on, and most of the stuff on it isn't stuff I see in the thrift store where I shop. Who buys old windowpanes at the thrift store?

I can't imagine that many readers of Country Magazine actually shop in thrift stores, but I guess maybe the sport is getting so trendy that even rich faux-chic snobs are going there now. I'm stretching it with this one, but do you think perhaps Target paid the magazine to run such a spurious slide show? Hmmm. 

One last powerful point to this sermon, and it's the kind of whopper of a point that would bring any new congregant to the altar call. Have you read that little tag on the brand new pair of blue jeans you bought at Target? WASH BEFORE WEARING. WASH SEPARATELY. You see this on everything new. Everything. So how is that different from bringing home thrift store garments and flinging them in the washing machine? Well, maybe all the poisonous dyes have been leeched from the thrift store attire already!

I'll bet you're wondering what I bought today at the thrift store. Oh, readers. I got an NFL brand zippered hoodie with the Eagles logo, in my size, for $2.50. Have you priced out official NFL merchandise in the retail sector? Don't. Go to the thrift store, especially after the team has had a bad year.

There will be more in this space about the thrift store in coming installments. But this sermon has run long, and I know you want to get on with your day.

 

An Auspicious Full Moon

 Thank you for visiting "The Gods Are Bored!" I'm Anne Johnson. How can I help you? Please hold.

Had to add that last part, for those of you who actually remember how phones used to work.

Just now I got home from work and opened my home email. (Can't do it at work without spying.) Nestled among the come-ons for Hello Fresh and the latest God Pod and my Patreon payments and my electronic pay stub, there was another email.

An email with a deed.

And another email with information on how to close on a property from afar.

Full moon tomorrow, perfect time to sign documents and cut a check and get everything under way.

This is the part where I add that the property is coming to me from a private sale. On the multiple listings land of this sort goes for twice to three times the amount I am paying per acre. I've been looking at the online listings for years and years and years and years.

Four acres and change, all of it forested, off the grid with nothing built on it. No house for me to fret about. One contiguous human neighbor whose house cannot be seen and who was a chum of my uncle's. The other boundary belonging to the State of Pennsylvania, game lands.

Feature this. For the price of a middling cruise to Alaska, I will have a forest. A forest all of my own. Just for me and whichever bored deities like to go camping. I know Cloacina is wild about the area. She'll be my first invite.

Hold me in the light for this last haul, but it does look like all systems go.

Got It!

 You might have read that the Least Coast got a snowstorm on Friday night.

Here in Haterfield, we got about 7 inches of snow. Most of it fell in the overnight hours. By morning my yard was chock a block with wild birds, all fussing around the feeder.

The snow tapered off by noon, and I went out to shovel. My next door neighbor helped with the hardest part, so I was done in about 30 minutes. 

Then I went inside to bake cookies for my neighbor. But they didn't turn out quite right. I think I put too much sugar in them. So I ate them myself.

The Fair and her boyfriend stopped by in the evening to borrow the sleds. Fair made a snow angel in the front yard.

I built a fire in the fireplace as soon as it got dark.

Best part? I bought a new pair of Altra hiking shoes, and I wore them all day, and they didn't hurt my feet at all.

Best year of my life so far.