Frank Talk about What Ifs

I wasn't intellectually honest in my post below about the concert The Spare and I attended. This is because I didn't want to link Spare's experience to the name of the band. Now I'm going to talk about the tricky wicket of getting flirtatious with famous people.

Starting with me.

When I was a young woman, I spent a lot of time at Memorial Stadium in Baltimore. It was summertime, and I loved the Orioles. The team had a very charitable policy for students: $1.85 for an upper box seat. I went to every home game in 1979 and quite a few in 1980.

I lived on the second floor in a Baltimore row house. On the third floor lived a Baseball Annie who was 85 years old. I thought she was senile when she told me that Brooks Robinson took her out to lunch. Then one day I saw Brooks drop her off in front of the house! That's when I knew that the Baltimore Orioles club was really treating this poor old lady like gold. I'll never forget it. Sure wouldn't happen in these times.

About mid-summer, 1980, my elderly baseball friend said she'd gotten seats for us to go to a game together. The seats were Row 1, Seats 1 and 2. We were further allowed to go and stand by the locker room door before the game, where dear old Esther bear-hugged every single player except Frank Robinson. I was nearly speechless to be up-close-and-personal with every single Baltimore Oriole.

You probably know that baseball players arrive at the ball park hours before the game starts. They have to get dressed and warm up. So Esther and I were way, way early for the actual game. When we arrived in Row 1, Seats 1 and 2, The Kansas City Royals were warming up on the field.

Some of you old-timers might recognize this pretty boy. His name is George Brett, and in 1980 he was just about the best baseball player in the world. Damn if he didn't know it, too. He was not modest.

Back to my tale: Dear old Esther and I settled into our box, and before I knew it, George Brett was looking at me about as much as he was looking at the baseball. Then he smiled at me. Then he came over to the fence. He was super sweet to Esther and then turned his attention to me. Where did I live? Baltimore. What did I do? Student. Where? Johns Hopkins, right up the street. Did I like baseball? Oh yeah. So, what was I doing after the game? Would I like to go to a party?

George Brett, top of the heap in baseball in 1980, had just asked me out on a date.


I respectfully declined, pointing out that I would have to see Great-Granny home safely. He persisted, but politely. He told me to think about it, he would be at the Belvedere Hotel, I could drop by and find him any time.

I had no boyfriend, but I was pragmatic. I wasn't keen on mixing it with a ball player. Some girls were. The bored gods know that half of my friends would have jumped at this opportunity.  Both then and now, I placed more emphasis on romantic love than on sexy stuff.

I've always wondered what my life would have been like if I partied with George Brett.

He was gorgeous. A physical specimen of unparalleled magnificence. Would that experience have altered the way I looked at a more ordinary (albeit 100 times brainier) Mr. J? Or, would I be sitting here now, teetering on crone-hood, fondly remembering a fun and angst-free night with a gorgeous athlete?

What if? I just do not know.

Back to the present.

Spare and I went to a concert together. This band is meant to be experienced on your feet. They usually play in venues with no seating. But this time they were in a theater with cushioned, stuck-to-the-floor seats. It just felt weird from the get-go.

Of course, the very energy of this band had everyone up on their feet from the second beat of the first song. Spare and I started grooving, back in Row H.

Then Spare pointed at Row 1, Seats 1 and 2, and said, "Come on, let's get closer."

No denying it, when you get down to the edge of the stage with this band, you feel like you're just another member of the outfit. There's 20 people on the stage, all playing and/or singing at maximum energy. So Spare and I just got the groove on, and before we knew it, the band's leader jumped off the stage and started high-fives ... and Spare got one.

But it wasn't the headliner who was staring at Spare. It was a musician, the closest one to us where we were standing. This musician was male, young, and playing a violin.

Spare turned around and said to me, "I think that guy is looking at me."

Understatement.

Moving on. The show ended with no encore, which is very strange for this group. Sometimes they play two. Maybe it was the venue. Anyway, Spare and I lingered, disappointed, until it was clear that no encore was forthcoming. Then, I saw a friend and went over to say hello to her. We talked about three minutes. THEN I saw a half-finished water bottle on the stage. I said to Spare, "Watch this!" And I went down to the stage and snatched it. By that time, the young violin player had returned to the stage.

He hopped down and shook my hand. He shook Spare's hand. Then we started talking, because I have about a million questions about this band, and he commenced to answering them. It was clear he was focusing his attention primarily on The Spare. And he sure looked young, probably not much older than her.

Was Spare facing her George Brett moment? Well, let me tell you: It was on the tip of my tongue to invite this young fellow out for a cheeseburger and a beer, but before I could alter her destiny, Spare said, "Oh, nice to meet you!" and started for the door.

When we hit the inhospitable pavement of Broad Street, I said, "Why did you do that?"

"Do what?"

"Leave! He clearly wanted to talk to you!"

She couldn't believe it. Just couldn't believe that some musician would find her attractive. Yes, it is Ripley's. The girl doesn't know her charms.

Well, you see, I was also conflicted. There's not much difference at all between a musician and a baseball player, except that one is built like a god and the other creates god-like music well enough to be paid. Why should I ever want Spare to do something I didn't want to do when I was her age? Actually, in fairness, the musician was far more sweet and human, and humble, and affable... but he still was in town for one night, moving on to DC in the morning.

I teased Spare the whole way back to her apartment, which was a short six blocks from the venue. We were laughing about it, mostly, with her still amazed that I would think any male would find her attractive. Oh well, I left her on her Locust Street stoop and hopped on the El.

Was I trying to re-live my own youth? Shouldn't I be looking out for Spare's welfare? Oh! I beat myself up on that El! What the heck? No such thing as angst-free flirtation, right? What kind of mother would I be if I started encouraging friendships with wandering minstrels?

You know, there's something to be said for this younger generation. By the time I got off the El and descended to the Snobville sidewalk, Spare reported that she had established an Instagram conversation with the stripling performer, which continued at a safe and prudent distance through the wee hours. All of a sudden the 21st century is looking a little more appealing.

Life is funny. We get these "what if" moments. Some of them are life-altering, and some of them just leave you wondering.

One thing I do know. It's Spare's life, and I had best mess out. She's bound to come to her own "what if" moment. Or a dozen of them. Regrets are the spice of life.

Fun with the Polyphonic Spree

Every summer, the Polyphonic Spree visits Philadelphia.

This is a Texas-based band with the usual assembly of rock instruments, plus horns and strings and a choir and a harpist.

It's hard to describe their music, except to say that it starts out low (or solo) and then explodes into an avalanche of sound. The front man, Tim Delaughter, sets the pace, which is ... well, spree-like.

I was never a fan of big arena concerts. If I had been, the Polyphonic Spree would have changed my mind. There's nothing like being able to sit or stand so close to the music that you feel like you're part of the band. And on this particular evening, Tim Delaughter told the crowd of Philadelphians that he is a Dallas Cowboys fan ... and then he came off the stage and walked among the audience. (I wish I knew what health plan he has, because it must be pretty thorough. Admitting to loving the Cowboys is never prudent in Philly.) He slapped a high five on The Spare, as well he should. She's a huge fan.

After the show, the violinist came out and talked to me and Spare. This is another wonderful, beautiful thing about smaller venue performers. They'll talk to you. Shake your hand. Really, really civilized.

If you're looking for some new tunes for your IPod or whatever, I can't recommend the Polyphonic Spree enough. There's nothing wrong with happy music. It's actually inspiring.

Free Advice on the ALS Ice Bucket Challenge

ALS is a terrible, horrible illness, and that's the only reason why I would do something as stupid as pour ice water over my head. That is stupid. It must have been thought up by some Alabama frat brother.

I was nominated by my daughter The Spare. How's them apples? She must have found out that I have a life insurance policy.

Anyway, I rarely do something stupid before researching the specs on the matter. Free advice? The specs pretty much let you off the hook.

1. The site says don't do it in areas where there's a shortage of water. That's everywhere, my friends! Everywhere! Water should never be wasted. Potable water is a finite resource. You will be completely covered if (like me) you drop a single ice cube on your head and flick a few drops of water in your face.

2. You're not supposed to do it if it would impact your health. How would you know until you did it? Single ice cube, flick of water. That's not going to hurt anyone.

3. This is the part I don't like. You have to nominate three more people to do the challenge. This makes me uncomfortable. I think people should be free to donate to the charity of their choosing. But a close reading of the web site doesn't demand that you nominate living people! Thank the bored gods for that! There are any number of famous historical hot-heads for you to nominate, should this stupid challenge fall into your lap.

So there you have it -- helpful free advice which, the economy being what it is, I will pay you to take. Send me an invoice.

Thoughts on My 30th Wedding Anniversary

You would hardly know it to look at me, youthful and sprightly as I am, but I have been married for 30 years. August 23 is my wedding anniversary.

I have no free advice regarding how to make a marriage work. There are a gazillion married people on this planet, yet no two relationships are exactly the same.

Oh, wait. Here's some free advice for the young, single readers of The Gods Are Bored.

(Okay, freely admitting here that there probably aren't even a dozen young, single readers of The Gods Are Bored.)

Avoid this, even if you can afford it. That's not marriage, it's a Broadway show.

Marriage is what happens after you take off the gooey gown. It's tough sledding. Not gonna pull the wool over your eyes. On the other hand, the right partner can help you find yourself. Mr. J has done that for me.

So we're off to Paris, London, and the Riviera to the Chesapeake Bay for two days. Free advice on a long marriage? Don't live beyond your means.

See you Tuesday! Keep your deities warm.

Teardown Times Three

There's a tenet of Paganism called the Threefold Law: Any harm you do comes back upon you threefold.

Today I am sending the intention of the Threefold Law against the developer who built this hideous mess:

This mess of McMansions sits on land that was once a farm. The land is about five miles from Antietam Battlefield.

Sitting in the midst of this heinous assault upon the rural countryside was this:

A Regency Era home (just ditch the porch and you'll see it) with the original cellar, flooring, and kitchen cabinetry. In 2008 I toured this home, because the developer of the McMansions expelled the tenant and left the place unlocked, hoping it would be vandalized.

There are all sorts of rules and regulations about tearing down houses that are on the Historical Register. Houses that probably served as hospitals during the Civil War. Houses that retain their original architectural elements.

Rules don't mean squat.

Today on her Facebook page, my sister lamented the overnight destruction of this property. It has been completely razed.

I tried to alert the county Historical Society to the plight of this home. I also fruitlessly searched for an old friend who was once a preeminent historian in the county. Sis, who lived within 200 yards of the house, did nothing.

There are three abandoned McMansions in Sis's neighborhood. The grass has grown up around these houses, and it's not clear if they are even up for sale. The families just stole away in the night, probably after being unable to make the mortgage note.

This is rural disaster. This is the character of a region being sucked down the drain.

I feel guilty. I should have done more to try to save that house.

But worse, I feel furious. This is a historic area, prime valley farmland, full 70 miles from Baltimore and Washington.

Threefold cursed be they who ordered the teardown of this house. Threefold cursed be they who carried out the act. And may the owners of the McMansions on the tract, one and all, face the reality of modern home construction. What do you think my sister's house will look like when it is as old as the one that was just razed?

Public School Education Prior to 1975

Wow, this one sounds dull as dirt, doesn't it? But hold tight, because don't I always offer you some laughs?

I am in a unique position to evaluate this premise. My public school education began in 1964 and ended in 1977. Spoiler alert: I didn't learn diddly squat about guns.

I did learn stuff, though.

I learned how to turn chicken eggs in an incubator so that the chicks would develop properly. By doing this, I learned that birds turn their eggs. This stuck with me. That was kindergarten.

Grade 1 I learned to love snowfall. The teacher let me stay in the hallway and watch a snow storm, all by myself, while the other kids had recess in the classroom.

Second grade I learned that being left-handed sucks. Cursive writing was a horror.

Third grade I memorized all my times tables. I understand they do it differently now. Rote worked for me. We had flash cards and practiced at home.

Fourth grade I learned that there was an author named Laura Ingalls Wilder, and that she wrote fabulous books about growing up on the prairie in the 19th century. Literally, I think all I did in fourth grade was read "Little House" books and solve long division problems.  Oh yeah! The teacher was so furious that none of us knew the words to the National Anthem that she gave us one night to memorize it and then made all 31 of us sing it, solo, the next day.

In fifth grade I learned that if you can't play kickball very well, you can earn props from the more athletic kids by being a fair umpire.

In sixth grade *spoiler alert kinda gross* I learned in health class that I had been putting certain feminine items on backwards. My mother never showed me.

In seventh grade I didn't learn much of anything, because my mother had a major nervous breakdown, and that made me irritable, distracted, and prone to acting out in school. I would have been keenly interested in gun use classes at this moment in my life, but I didn't get them. There was no gun in my home, at any stage of my life, and that's why I'm sitting here writing this today. I might be dead otherwise.

Eighth grade I remember looking in the Reader's Guide to Periodical Literature about a movie star and then getting magazine articles from the school library to write a report. It's funny how things work. I wound up making a decent living doing exactly that task, from 1984 until 2005.

In ninth grade biology class, I learned that eating a balanced diet every day makes multivitamins unnecessary.

When I was in tenth grade I learned that it's possible to fall head-over-heels, deeply in love with someone that modern society would bar me from pursuing.

Again in 11th grade, life was chaos at home, so I didn't learn anything. As with seventh grade, I would have remembered vividly having gun lessons.

In my senior year of high school, I learned a little bit of Latin. I wish I had studied it from freshman year forward. It's really great, and not just because of the bored gods.


So there, not terribly abridged, is my public school education! It did not include gun safety or gun use.

You know what? I'm going to tag this post with a "moron" label. Think about that quote above. In order to teach gun safety, there would have to be a gun or guns in school. That gun would have to be a common enough model to have readily available ammunition. For the love of fruit flies! What an explosive situation!

So, now addressing the moron who said I had gun safety classes in school, I reply most forcibly: Oh HELL no, I did not! The closest I got to a safety lesson upon which my life depended was in geology class, where we learned protective measures for exploring wild caves. Bite me, Mr. Gun Owner. There was a war being fought almost throughout the entirety of my public schooling. Three major political figures were assassinated. People thought differently about firearms in those days. Trust me on that, reader.

Anti-Bucket List of "The Gods Are Bored"

Everyone has a bucket list, right? I'll bet you have one. I won't hazard a guess what's on it.

My bucket list is boring and trivial. If you don't believe me, try this: It's my dearest wish to travel across Eastern Europe looking for mineral water towns. *YAWN* And more of that ilk.

But you know what most people don't have? An anti-bucket list -- things they absolutely, positively don't want to do before they die. For my money, that's just as important as a real bucket list. You don't want to wander into a situation that you would absolutely deplore, just because you forgot to make an anti-bucket list.

Here's mine:

1.  Disney World. Hard to believe, huh? I'm nuts about the old Disney movies, especially Peter Pan. But there's something about the expense, and the excess, and the lines, and the sun, and the canned fun that just makes Disney World a "must miss" for me.

2. Rolling Stones Concert. Gimme shelter from those guys! Their music is great, but they performed in Atlantic City last summer and charged $190 for a ticket. With parking and slots, that's almost three hundred bucks to see two geezers who were hideous when they were young. Cheerfully saving money on this endeavor.

3. Mega church Sunday service. No explanation needed on this one, and I'm sure I'm preaching to the choir.

4. Cottage cheese. Hate it. Always have, always will, not going to eat it anymore.

5. Tornado chasing. This is not for me. It's tempting fate. Those storms kill people. It's like inviting bad luck into your life.

6. Anything having to do with falling through the sky. Including, but not limited to, skydiving, hang gliding, cliff diving, zip lines, bungee jumping, and most of the more extreme amusement park rides.

7. Battle re-enactment. I know some of you like to do this. It's not for me. Not while people are running for their lives anywhere on the planet. I think it's bad form to play war.

8. Alabama. I don't even want to wander across the state line of Alabama by accident on a dark night. If you're reading this, and you live in Alabama, set me straight. If I get no impassioned defenses of that place, it stays firmly off the Anne chart.

9. Pony. I don't really want a pony. They eat a lot, they need a large plot of ground, they attract horse flies. No, I don't ever, ever want a pony. [sour grapes bucket list]

10. Get eaten by Megalodon. Every anti-bucket list should have something on it that is easy to accomplish ... or, in this case, not.

So there you have it! All the things I certainly don't want to do, eat, or see before I die. If you don't have an anti-bucket list, I highly recommend it. You'll feel more satisfied on your death bed if you just review what you never wanted to do and know that you didn't do it.

Interview with a Bored Goddess: Minerva

Welcome to "The Gods Are Bored," where we stray from our mission more than we serve it! (This makes us human.)

I've been thinking lately about how stupid I am when it comes to computers and their technology. I'm old enough to remember the first word processors that were sold for use -- first in universities, then in business. Back in the day, I was one of the first to use the computer that was installed at the company where I worked. Alas, my ground-breaking days are long gone. Computers have moved far more swiftly than my ability to understand them.

This is the moment when I have to get my arms around computers. "Woe is me," I thought. "There's no bored deity who understands web design and coding!"

BAMP! Wrong.

Please give a warm, wonderful "Gods Are Bored" welcome to Minerva, ancient Goddess of Wisdom, who has come here today for a hearty breakfast of scrambled eggs, muffins, and local blueberries!

Anne: Oh, you brought an owl!

Minerva: It wants to visit with Decibel the parrot.

Anne: Have at it, owl! Steer clear of Decibel's beak.

Minerva: Anne this is a wise owl. Can I have some blueberries?

Anne: Help yourself! Minerva, I have a problem. This whole computer technology has eluded me. I want my students to be able to use their smart phones in class, but I'm so stupid with my phone that I hesitate to try it. I read all the time in the newspaper that coding is the latest and greatest job-creator, and I would like to help my students learn it. But I myself know next to nothing about coding.

Minerva: Ha! Coding is a snap! Can I see your computer?

[Minerva taps a few keys on Anne's laptop. The machine leaves the table and starts to do the breakfast dishes.]

Anne: How did you do that?

Minerva: I'm a Goddess of wisdom. These days, wisdom includes computer technology. Do you know how much time I have on My hands in this desperately dark era? Enough to hang out at MIT -- and in the basements of geeks looking for vulnerabilities to exploit in software applications. By the way ... that weird Russian message in your email inbox? Change your password.

Anne: So, will you teach me coding?

Minerva: What, do you want Me to wave some magic wand and make you a geek?  Slacker! Teach yourself! How do you think your students got way ahead of you? They weren't praying to Me, that much I know. They were working. Experimenting. Sharing knowledge. Want to be humbled? Ask your students to teach coding to you.

Anne: Wise Goddess. I was looking to cut some corners, I'll admit. Coding is complicated.

Minerva: Start here. Get up off your duff and stop moaning about how much better the 20th century was! You know what century was great? 24 BCE! Now there was a century!

Anne: Yes. That puts it in perspective. You deities kind of have to move with the times, don't You?

Minerva: It's that, or be twice as bored as We already are. If the only language I knew was Etruscan, I wouldn't even be able to talk to you. Are you going to eat that last muffin?

Anne: It's all yours, Great Goddess. Oh, I wonder if you would grant me at least a small petition?

Minerva: It depends.

Anne: Can you keep the dishwashing program in my computer? Look at the job it's doing on that bacon grease!

Minerva: Done, darling.

[Conversation is interrupted by a loud bout of squawking in a nearby room.]

Minerva: Your parrot is a menace to society. You know that, don't you?

Anne: Yes, Goddess. This is one wisdom I have acquired through long observation. Some jam for Your muffin?

Minerva: Thanks ever so much.

May He Have Found the Summerlands

Robin Williams died Monday after a long illness.

Mr. Williams was one of America's most beloved entertainers. He was a hilarious stand-up, he starred in comedy television shows, and his list of films is longer than almost anyone else his age.

But even in his earliest years, Mr. Williams suffered from _________________, a chronic ailment that is treatable only by medication that has debilitating side effects.

During the early stages of his illness, Mr. Williams didn't know his diagnosis. He allayed his pain with over-the-counter medications, which some people who suffer from ____________________ find easier to use than the prescriptions available for the illness.

Eventually Mr. Williams received his diagnosis. He also understood that there was no hope for a cure, that he could only manage the sickness with a relentless and careful use of prescription medications. Unfortunately, for some people who have this illness, medication can interrupt or alter their abilities to do their jobs. Although I have no evidence, I would say that probably Mr. Williams was one of these people.

Many people who have ________________________ either deny it or are ashamed of it, or both. This is because ___________________ is an internal degenerative illness that has no clear physical symptoms. The kind of sympathy people lavish on patients with broken limbs or cancer is almost always unavailable to people with ______________. It's basically a sickness that has to be borne in silence.

Today we're hearing the usual outpouring of grief over Mr. Williams's death. Knowing his illness the way I do, I'm actually glad he lived as long as he did, and worked as hard as he did. An untreated case of _________________ can lead to much earlier mortality.

May Robin Williams have found the Summerlands. He fought the good fight with a dreadful illness, and he was remarkably productive despite his sickness. I admire him.

Snobville Annual Sidewalk Sale!

Howdy howdy! It's me, Anne Johnson, your favorite gal on the street, bringing you highlights of the Snobville, New Jersey sidewalk sale!

Every year during the first week of August, Snobville holds a sidewalk sale so that the merchants can get rid of their summer merchandise. There are great deals to be had, if you're rich and like to feel like you're saving money.

There are three kinds of stores in Snobville: Stores that sell stupid stuff, stores that sell designer stuff, and CVS Pharmacy.

Snobville abounds with chic little boutiques. They all participate in the sidewalk sale. What bargains there are to be had! The $315 pair of blue jeans are 50 percent off!

Seriously. How did I ever wind up in this town?

If what you want is a cat coffee mug, or some little sign about your dog, or yoga pants that started life at $175, or yet another little clutch purse, or Nike sneakers made in Vietnam, then Snobville is your go-to sidewalk sale. If, on the other hand, you buy clothing for comfort and durability, you can give this little affair the brush.

There's one exception to this Rule of Expensive Sidewalk Sales.

If you are looking for a bridal gown or a prom dress, then Snobville's sidewalk sale is your bargain-hunting dream.

Snobville has four stores that sell gooey gowns. We all know the deal with bridal gowns: the samples get tried on by legions of cranky Bridezillas. Then the season ends and the new styles come out. So the stores sell the sample gowns at the very reasonable price of $150. Now, that's what I call a deal! (Are you reading this, Heir and Spare?)

Ditto, but to a lesser extent, prom gowns. Usually the bargain prom gowns at the sidewalk sale have some issue, missing sequins being the predominant gripe. But seriously. Who looks at prom gowns that closely? Put it another way: How hard is it to sew a sequin back where it belongs, when it's hanging there by a thread already?

If you paid more than $25 for your prom gown, you should have come to Snobville in August.

There's no moral to this sermon. I just spent the morning strolling around Snobville and the afternoon reading library books. It's how I rolled today. Other people go to Paris on their vacations, but I'm perfectly content to peruse bargain bridal gowns, cat coffee mugs, and jeans that will go onto someone else's butt.

180

Has this ever happened to you?

I had a colleague with whom I had to work closely, because we were the only sophomore teachers at our school. I loved her dearly, but wow, she was a challenge at times. First of all, she wore makeup like a movie star, perfect every day (which, folks, will take 20 years off your age). Then, she dressed impeccably every day, with matching jewelry and heels. Last but not least, she was one of the most anxious people I ever met. Last year was her final year of teaching. She sweated through her evaluations and worried herself sick about new test prep lessons. Sweet lady, but boy oh boy did she fret. She retired with no little fanfare on June 27.

I was afraid they might not replace my colleague at all, but they did. For the last two days I have been in a workshop with the replacement teacher.

He wears tie-dye shirts that he makes himself. Every day. He shaves if he feels like it. He would rather talk about bluegrass than teaching. He's a union rep. And he's my age. He and I will be the sophomore teachers this year.

Have you ever found someone in your life replaced by someone so completely and utterly opposite that you can't quite get over it? I've never been in this situation before. Every time the presenter at our teacher workshop says, "Pair up with the other teachers at your level," I find myself looking across the table at a person so completely opposite his predecessor that it boggles the mind.

Please tell me if this has ever happened to you. I'm not upset about it, I'm just adjusting to the new, completely different, reality.

Don't Be Jealous of My Druid Grove

Envy is a sin. I want you to keep that in mind as I describe my Druid Grove's Lughnasadh ritual. Of course we all strive for perfection. Can I help it that this Grove has been together so long that we have achieved it?

A good location is important for any worship. Here's ours. It's an easy 26-hour flight to Fiji. We don't mind the commute a bit. Worth it to praise the bored gods the way they ought to be praised!

Our leader, Archdruid Wallace, insists upon careful observation of all ritual activities. You'd better not forget your lines or your cues.

This is one of our seven altars. We used this one today because all the native flowers were coincidentally blooming at this one moment.

Our Chief Priestess is so misunderstood! Her colleagues at the Fed belittle her all the time about her "silly hobby." And props to her. She works in a building with $80 million in the basement, and she never contemplates revenge. Strong woman.

I know attendance can be an issue for some of you folks, but as you can see, Black Oak Grove has it going on. Not to brag or anything.

We held our Lughnasadh Ritual on August 3, and as always, it was perfect. Let's face it, perfection should be the goal of every worship service. The Gods and Goddesses will not accept a ho-hum performance.

OKAY, ALREADY, BACK TO REALITY

Black Oak Grove met in a local state park. The pavilion was not available; it had been leased.  We were eight in number, a high for us since about 2009. We didn't have an altar ... or mead ... it started raining ... our fire was small and listless ... and we loved every minute, and the Gods love us. Wherever and whenever someone raises a prayer to the bored deities, They are simply delighted.

Postscript:

A reader of this blog came to our ritual! His name is Cliff, and he's a great guy. I snapped this little photo of him while he wasn't looking:

Black Oak Grove: Bored God approved since 2005!

Two Thirds of the Year

Welcome to "The Gods Are Bored," Lughnasadh Edition 2014. It is a time of reflection.

Pagan practice centers upon the ancient cycle of planting and harvesting followed by our ancestors. But I have always felt that the Wheel is also a metaphor for our lives, both on a year-to-year basis and on a lifetime basis. This Lughnasadh I am thinking about the fact that my life is probably two-thirds over, and my First Harvest is bearing fruit.

My daughters are grown into level-headed young women. They are my most precious fruits.

My husband still loves me. Can you imagine tolerating my antics for 35 years? Hats off to the guy.

This blog is a nice fruit. It's been a good place to kick up my heels, laugh, and let off steam.

Blessed First Harvest to you, reader. Dip into the John Barleycorn for me.

Ten Things That Raise the Hackles of the Bored Gods

I know, I know ... you're saying to yourself, "How does Anne get an inside track to the bored gods?" Have you no faith? I compiled an exhaustive survey of over 300 downsized deities, and here are the things that they're hating on just now:

1. Fracking. Hades says that if one more drill bit comes through the roof of His bedroom, He is going to send us an 8-point earthquake. You heard it here first.

2. Drones. Even the War Gods categorically detest drones and even guided missiles. Please forgive them for that, reader. It shows how old-fashioned they are, with antiquated notions about being able to visibly identify your enemy before you start randomly killing.

3. Global climate change. Only the gods are supposed to change the climate, and They are really pissed that the human race has figured out how to do this. They say They will issue a few more gentle warnings, and then ... forget it. We reap the oven.

4. Lil Bub. This one came out of nowhere. Just jealousy, I suppose. Or overkill.

5. Genetically Modified Organisms. The bored gods say They gave us some latitude to breed plants and animals in an old-fashioned way, leading to dachshunds and sweet corn. But splicing genes? Evil! Only the bored gods can alter genetics. Again comes a warning from various pantheons with no specific threat attached.

6. The busy god. Other deities claim They have never seen such hatred as this busy god engenders, especially since so much of it is aimed at other followers of the same god. The Aztec pantheon attributes this hatred to overpopulation of the planet, while the Norse deities blame it on global warming.

7. Machines. The vast majority of bored deities see machines of all kinds (except simple ones like the wheel and the pulley) as a threat to the future of the human race. More than one Goddess said that going back to grinding with a mortar and pestle would be preferable to hours spent on Facebook.

8. Greed. Have you ever heard of a deity who liked greedy people? This one is no surprise.

9. Bottled water. A hatred of this is pervasive among the bored gods, with more than one saying it should only be handed out for free, and only where the existing water supply is dirty or depleted.

10. Inconclusive response. Many of the questionnaires came back listing "Amazon" as something the bored gods hate. Our researchers cannot determine whether the deities meant the company, the warriors, or the river. Further study is needed.

Micro Meadow Mangled

We didn't even choose the lowest bidder.

But never mind. The "professional" tree service Mr. J chose to trim our ancient pear tree consisted of a cast of goofs.

They arrived promptly at 7:30 Monday morning, powering up their chainsaws in a way that pays back all of our noisy neighbors for their damn leaf blowers and lawn services.

Mr. J went out to greet them. I heard him tell them to be careful with the garden.

About two minutes later, I heard one of the crew say to the other, "Didn't the guy tell you to be careful with the garden? Look where that branch landed!

It landed in my micro meadow, crushing just about everything.

There was only one flower blooming in the whole patch. They knocked it over.

Not seeing any other flowers, they just tramped through the patch, dragged branches over it ... even after I came out and told them not to. I said that the garden didn't look like much, but that it was just planted this year.

All the plants were doing well, too. The prickly pear had grown ... and there was that one lone purple spiky flower. Now in a vase in the kitchen.

Our neighbor across the way came out in a purple rage because branches (and pears) were falling in his yard.

The proprietor of the service told Mr. J that his crew would arrive with "a million dollars worth of equipment." I don't know where they stored it. They used our step ladder and stood (perilously) on the roof of the garage.

They did not wear hard hats. No brains to protect anyway.

 One would think that wild flowers can bounce back from a bashing. Time will tell. Tree-trimming is an affront to the Green Man. Guess I'll pay the price.

Oh ... I was smart enough to cover the Shrine of the Mists with a good, strong tarp. If they had trampled that, I would have had to join a well regulated militia pretty quick.

Artist of the Bored Goddesses

It's that time of the summer when everything gets a little dried out and brown. Time for some color!

I've never met Thalia Took, but I sure would like to. She has accomplished the amazing feat of getting dozens of bored Goddesses from multiple pantheons to sit for portraits! I'm lucky these days if I can collar them for a spot of tea.

So today you might want to biff over to Thalia's Great Goddess portrait gallery and find your religion. Many of them!

Image: Thalia Took

Briefly the Empty Nest

This day comes for all. For me it's been coming in fits and starts. My daughters are trying to navigate a difficult labor market. Trust me, it's like sewing together a crazy quilt -- part time job here, part time job there, minimum wage because you're doing what you love ... and for poor Heir, one last year before she has to get Obamacare and pay off college loans.

All the same, she has found a room in a house in West Philly. The Heir is going to launch.

The Spare has a less-than-posh apartment in Center City Philadelphia, where she will live while she finishes her final two years of college. She has received heaps of financial aid but will still have five-figure loans to pay off herself.  But that's down the road.

For one month, before Extra Chair returns from China, Mr. J and I will be empty nesters. That will be weird. It's not like my daughters have needed to be coddled over the last few years, but they've been around.

May the Goddess protect them. May they walk in the Old Ways. May they become themselves, "like the tadpole, its time come, tumbling towards the slime."

Where the Lilies Bloom

It's a big, tough world out there, and I honestly don't know how I got so lucky as to live comfortably, have enough to eat, health care, and the age of fifty-plus. There are so many dangers without and within. Ah, but rest assured my time will come. I don't know anyone who has escaped the Reaper.

In the meantime, here's a little bit of mundane happiness. My lilies have bloomed.

The plant lady who came over to help me make a meadow says that these are the only native American lily. All the others are imported. I got the seeds for these lilies from my dad, out in Appalachia. They have grown in my back yard, under pretty plant-unfriendly conditions, for 27 years.

I have more of these than usual this year because I took an axe to my butterfly bush. There's more light in lily-land. And that's the way it's going to be.

The broad leaf in front is not lily, but milkweed. It is having a good year too. As long as I stay here in Snobville, the native fauna will prevail on my little patch of heaven.

Pagan Ministry for Kids

Ahem. Ladies and Gentlemen, may I have your attention please. This sermon will be about ...

ZZZZzzzzzzZZZZZZzzzzzz! Hey, I'm no scholar! This is me, Anne, the Mistress of Mayhem! Time to have some fun!

In today's mail I received a lovely note from my dear friend the Monkey Man. How time flies! I haven't seen the Monkey Man since we went to a Snobville Fighting Wombats football game last fall. However, next week I'll get to see him at his monthly poetry get-together in sunny downtown Camden. I'll get someone to snap a shot of us together. Here he is, in all his Monkey Man glory, with my nephew.

The Monkey Man is a member of the Society of Friends. He also attends Mass sometimes because he helps with the Catholic ministries in Camden. He is not a Pagan and is not interested in being a Pagan.

And yet he has informed my Pagan path more than anyone else.

The Monkey Man is famous and celebrated throughout the Delaware Valley because everywhere he goes, he takes his monkey, Bongo. (You can see Bongo in the picture. My nephew is holding him.) Bongo talks with a high-pitched monkey voice. He makes kids smile.

When I first got to know the Monkey Man, I saw him one night at the local pizza joint. He asked me to hold his monkey while he went to the water closet. I felt honored. I peppered the monkey with questions, but the loyal chimp was mum until his owner returned. Nowadays, Bongo and I are tight.

Bongo the monkey inspired a magical creature who came into my life in 2008. That creature is Big Red.

Unlike Bongo, Big Red doesn't talk out loud. He whispers to me, and I translate for him. Other than that, he's pretty much Bongo.

Big Red has gone with me to the Spoutwood Fairie Festival for six years. There he helped me to recruit for the Mountain Tribe. Mostly, though, he greeted little kids and accepted hugs. Lots of hugs. Lots and lots of hugs. The number of hugs every single stuffed animal everywhere dreams about all the time.

This past year, I was somewhat distracted at the Fairie Festival. On Friday and Sunday I didn't take Big  Red. So, in order to make it up to him, I took him with me to Four Quarters Farm. He was a huge hit at Four Quarters. I wouldn't say he got hugged there. He got mauled. Tossed. Peppered with questions. Passed from hand to hand. He got flown across a glen and landed nose-down in mud. He also got to march in the Fourth of July parade there. And he danced with me -- and with lots of happy little girls -- around the fire.

My goodness. I'm the Monkey Woman. Except I don't have a monkey, I have a dragon. This is appropriate. Pagan kids love dragons.

So if you see me at a Pagan event where there are children, chances are I'll be holding this dragon. It has been my privilege to study puppet politics at the knee of the great and renowned Monkey Man, and I am now ready to take my place amusing kids and adults with the help of my friend, Big Red.

Love me, love my dragon.


Final photo from Facebook page "365 Days of Fairies"

Open Invitation

I will be sojourning in sunny Baltimore for two days in order to visit my mother-in-law. This is a good time to issue an

OPEN INVITATION

To a Lughnasadh ritual hosted by Grove of the Black Oak

Area 14, Ridley Creek State Park, Media PA

Sunday, August 3

1:00 p.m.

Bring some eats and beverages for yourself.

Free of charge


This is a beautiful wooded setting. Our group is easy-going, egalitarian, and funny. The ritual is not aligned with any particular Pagan path ... all are welcome.

I would love to meet you.

Oh yeah ... we do this rain or shine. Once it hailed on us. Hoping for a sunny day, but we take what we get.

No Surprises with Hobby Lobby Family Agenda

What, you were expecting them to stop at Plan B?

I stumbled across a print version of Time magazine in a doctor's office earlier this week. Wow! Are those getting thin! Striplings, when I was your age, Time magazine arrived in the mailbox, chock-a-block with advertising of all sorts and running more than 100 pages. Now they have a website. On which I could not find a copy of the print article about the Green family, owners of Hobby Lobby.

The article is called "The Contraception Countdown." It appeared in the July 7-14 print issue.

In the absence of the link (sorry), let us here at "The Gods Are Bored" give you a rundown. Same thing, right? That's what blogs are for!

The article profiled the Green family, evangelical Christians. Here's a family portrait:

The Greens believe that America has lost its way and needs to return to good Christian values. Nobody would care much, except -- as you see from the portrait -- they're well-heeled and powerful. They have the clout to bring this country back to God as they see Him.

There's little argument that our nation has drifted from fundamental Christian principles that are clearly delineated in the Bible.

As the Greens see it, one way to rectify this falling-away from faith is to teach the Bible in public schools. Mind you, the course would be an elective, but they have sunk tons of money into developing a technologically advanced, kicky curriculum for their elective on the Bible as a historical and philosophical textbook. Needless to say, this has been a goal of many Christian Americans for a long time, and damn that pesky Constitution!

Since they more or less roll in ducats, the Green family has amassed a formidable collection of ancient Bibles, scrolls, and relics. Well, this is not the kind of stuff you heave into a temperature- and humidity-controlled vault, just for creaky old scholars to peruse. No! The Greens are funding a Bible Museum that will open in 2017 ... five blocks from the Capitol of the United States of America.

Come on, now. This whole "separation of church and state" thing is really bad. Historically, Christians have been shown to be open-minded and compassionate, modeling themselves after Jesus. Christians have a long and exalted track record of kindness to their own as well as to those of other religions.

This nation needs discipline, the kind that only Christianity can provide.

I'm sure the Green family would be waving their hands and shouting, "Oh, no no no no! This is not what we mean by bringing faith back into the classroom! This is not our vision of a unity of Church and State!"

*When you tell someone what they can and can't do with their own body, that's slavery.

*When you teach a religion in a public school, that's indoctrination.

*When the government favors one faith over others, that's discrimination.

*When a moral code from a religious text is applied piecemeal, rather than in its entirety, that's dishonesty.

Ooooops! I turned a perfectly lovely Time profile of a morally upright family into a screed. Shame on me! But you see, like the founders of this nation, I've read my history books. I know about the Crusades, about the persecution of Protestants during the Reformation, about slavery, about the Holocaust, about the creation of the Church of England, about popes who murdered entire families in vendettas. I know that our country is filled to the plimsol line with atheists, with Jews, with Pagans, with people who are just indifferent to religion, and with numerous Christian sects (large and small) who all have their own slightly different take on the faith. Putting Jesus into our government would only work if you could actually get Him, the actual Jesus, to run the government. And then ... oh golly! Within a heartbeat we'd lose our military industrial complex and find ourselves facing the death penalty for divorce.

I'll bet you're wondering what that new Bible museum in Washington, DC is going to look like. Here's an artist's rendering:

Theocracy is a marvelous thing. Ask any Pharaoh.

Friends of the Cherry Hill Library

Oops! I did it again. I volunteered. I broke that most sacred of vows, to never ever volunteer to do anything for anyone. And as usual, I got my bitch slap. Happens every time.

It's hot as Hell here, and muggy as a sauna, so when Mr. J  suggested I help him set up for the semi-annual Friends of the Cherry Hill Library book sale, I said yes. Mr. J has been lugging boxes of books for these Friends for about twelve years. He is a collector, and he does quickly peruse the boxes as he stacks them on the carts ... but he's there to work.

So was I. On a hot day it's good to have a workout with meaning.

We got to the library at about 10:00. I am not exaggerating one bit when I say that there were 40 pallets, each with ten to twelve boxes full of books. Think of a banquet hall filled end-to-end with books, VHS (why?), CDs, and DVDs. The task was to move all of these books out of the storage area into the selling area, which was two long hallways away.

When Mr. J and I arrived, there were five people loading boxes onto carts: a woman about my age who was having back trouble, another lady I recognized from many book sales, an elderly man, and a guy of about 60-65. We all set to work.

I'm very spry for my age, but I know my limits. I lifted whatever I could safely lift. Whenever I had a chance, I opted for the paperbacks. I was moving fast, but I was on the lookout for young adult books that my inner city readers would like. Of which there were nearly naught  -- Cherry Hill is a snowy white suburb of keen snobbery.

About midway through the morning, a woman came up to me and said, "I don't know you." Well, that was true. This is the first time I ever helped Mr. J at a sale. So I said, "I'm Mrs. J," and nodded toward Mr. J, who was laboring like Hercules.

Readers, my hands are numb and my arms are tired. I worked my butt off in there. When I'm tasked with something, I do it to the best of my ability. I took one bathroom break. I found one precious Paul Volponi title. (Ever tried getting a 16-year-old boy who hates to read to actually do it? The author Paul Volponi is one of my go-to guys for this difficult demographic.)

Time passes quickly when you're moving stuff around. It was just before noon when the same lady who said "I don't know you" came back to where we were still stacking books. In 90 minutes we had reduced the number of pallets from 40 to 6. There was little left to do.

Nevertheless, the lady said to us, "You need to stop looking through the boxes and hurry up. I have corporate volunteers out there who are leaving at 12:30."

Mr. J, who never suffers a fool easily, pointed out the obvious. "We're volunteers," he said.

To which she replied: "I know you're volunteers. Hurry up. Stop looking at the books."

Giving Mr. J the props here. He said, "What the fuck?" He put down the box of books in his hands and walked out the door.

I tarried. You see, the Paul Volponi book I found (a library discard) was about inner city boys in a basketball tournament. I had never seen this book before. Darling Amazon does not list it as a "people who like this also liked" under Paul Volponi. And as for looking through the boxes, they've already been sorted. It's easy to find the young adult lit. And of course I fully intended to pay for the book. THE book. The ONLY book I had set aside.

Luckily, the other lady helping load the carts was a good ol' regular. She said I could give her the money for the book, and she would pay for it. So I handed her the ducats and hoofed it with Mr. J, the precious Paul Volponi library discard in my trembling hands.

When I think of being poorly treated as a volunteer, I have to go way back to my days as a United Methodist Church Lady before I find the kind of rudeness I got in spades today.

Free advice to people who are coordinating volunteers: Treat them kindly. After a thorough upper body workout lasting 90 minutes, I just didn't want to hear, "Hurry up." As for the "I don't know you," I've thought of about 25 witty responses that I should have used on her -- and would have, if only I had known she wasn't through cracking the whip.

With friends like Friends of the Cherry Hill Library, who needs enemies? Sermon over, sweet Pagans.

Lessons from the British Isles: The Salmon of Wisdom

For many years I had a maid service. It started with one enterprising Ukrainian (got her citizenship) and moved to a force of young ladies who could whoosh in and clean Chateau Johnson in 90 minutes.

Today I cleaned Chateau Johnson. It took me more than six hours. And I forgot to vacuum the carpet in the living room.

There's something about unhurried housework that makes you think. And I got to thinking about all the cool deities and characters who inhabit the history of the British Isles. And the places! Then I got to thinking about the totemic meaning of the various deities and heroes and heroines. I ought to clean house more often!

Here are a few, and I think this will be a nice "Gods Are Bored" series!

My favorite Celtic spirit is the Salmon of Wisdom.

The Salmon of Wisdom lived in a pool into which fell the hazelnuts that were full of wisdom. As the Salmon consumed the nuts, he became the wisest being in the world.

I suppose I love the Salmon of Wisdom because I myself can never seem to learn enough. Are you that way? There's always another book to read, there's always another celestial event in the sky, there's always a new person you want to know all about. Wisdom is a treasure. And what I love the most about the Salmon of Wisdom is that he had no agenda for his smarts. He wasn't going to take over the world, or win a contest, or any of that. He was content to sit in his pool, growing ever wiser.

We can learn a lot from this fish without eating him (which was his sad fate). Knowledge comes to us as a tasty hazelnut. We digest it and ponder it and use it to craft our conclusions about the world. There's nothing quite so pathetic as a person with lots of opinions and little knowledge to support them.

So, take a message from the Salmon of Wisdom and learn what you can about anything and everything. Wisdom engenders good decision-making. And if you learn just for the joy of it, without a particular egotistical agenda, you're going to be a wonderful companion to anyone you're with.

I think I'll do a few more of these posts. They're fun!

The whole Salmon story is here.

Blogging Is Weird

This Tiki...

Appeared in my neighborhood in 2008, stayed about three months, and moved on. One of my friends says it's a free-range Tiki.

It didn't look like a particularly friendly Tiki, so I gave it an offering of a fifth of hard liquor. You can't be too careful with a fierce Tiki.

About a week ago, the numbers on my blog skyrocketed. People are looking at this Tiki in droves. I don't know whether It has made Its way into a meme, or what. However, I am glad that I took the photo myself. Anyone who wants to use it can use it.

The Internet is a very peculiar entity. Sometimes I forget that everything I write goes out there and stays out there as long as there is an Internet.

I have written over 2100 posts for "The Gods Are Bored." If it was a newspaper column, they would have wrapped up fish and gone to the landfill. Here they are immortal, unless I delete them -- and even then I wouldn't be sure ...

And so the free-range Tiki begins a new life roaming around the Internet. I hope the people using the image have some hard liquor on hand that they can pour onto their keyboard or pad. Just saying, I found this Tiki to be bad ass.

I Am Petty, Hard-Hearted, and Haunted by My Past

Yes, yes, that's right. No sugar-coating on old Annie. Her current resentments and old baggage combine to create a pungent potion of pettiness!

I've had three readers for almost a decade, but I recently added another ... so here's an old story:

My sister arranged my dad's funeral and told me that her pastor would deliver a homily. At the time, Sis was attending a Pentecostal church. Long story short, Dad's funeral turned into an old-time revival meeting, with that abominable pastor preaching from the pulpit that Heaven was like Hershey Park (a local amusement park). You had to have money for a ticket to get through the turnstile. If you get to the turnstile with no money, you're going to be sent away.

I was a Pagan at the time of that sermon, and my sister knew it. There I sat, seething, while a man I didn't know used my dear agnostic father's funeral to warn me that I was headed for Hell.

Over the years, Sis has just kept bringing up that sermon. Over and over. Sort of seeking forgiveness from me, I suppose. But hold on! I'm petty and hard-hearted! I'm not going to forgive that.

Well ... sure I would have, except that Sis brought it up again at the Spoutwood Fairie Festival, the last place on Earth I would ever want to talk about that. On this occasion, she said, "Pastor John was very proud of that sermon. He told me, 'Oh, wait until you hear it!'"

During the course of the Fairie Festival (Sis stayed in my hotel room, gratis, and let it be known that we needed to keep to her schedule), I said a few things about Drum and Splash, and Four Quarters Farm in general. Yes! I am petty and hard-hearted! I let her know, in a roundabout way, that there was a Pagan campground within an easy drive of her McMansion.

No surprises from my sister. About six weeks before Drum and Splash, she sent me a message: "Have you ever been to a Moon Ceremony at Four Quarters Farm?" She could only have found out about their Rituals by checking out the site.

So I unsheathed the rapier and let her have it.

Petty Anne #1:
I told her that I didn't mind having her in my hotel room for the Fairie Festival gratis until I saw her outfit herself in about $600 worth of costuming over three days.

Petty Anne #2:
I told her that I work overtime, long hard hours in November, to pay for Drum and Splash, and I did not want to be her cruise director there or see her arrive with a $400 djembe.

Petty Anne #3:
I asked her why she would want to go to a Pagan gathering, given her religious background. What would her husband and son think? What was she looking for that her community of Christians might not be providing? Was she ready for the consequences? Which led to.....

Petty Anne Maximum Ride:
What would Pastor John say? Would she be squandering her Hershey Park ticket money on a different amusement park? And while on the subject of Pastor John, Annie never wants to hear about him again, EVER. He's a despicable man who knowingly stabbed at me at a time when I was grieving. Maybe he had the best intentions, but even so, in all my life, I had never heard a message like that at a funeral. And I have been to Mennonite funerals. (They mostly sing.)

Petty Anne's Baggage:
When Sis and I were kids, my mother was mentally ill. From about age 8, I was expected to parent Sis, entertain her, and give her whatever she wanted from my possessions. Until some children her age moved into the area, I was completely hamstrung by caring for her. Therefore, when she dogged my every step at the festival I save for all year, I felt that same childhood frustration. And when she asked me about Four Quarters Farm, I saw the writing on the wall. She wanted more entertainment from me. She saw another opportunity to re-enact a childhood that was pretty happy for her, and absolutely miserable for me.

Long story short, Sis is not speaking to me. I blame myself, petty, hard-hearted Anne.

On the other hand, it feels good to let her know that childhood is over, and that she can't cry poverty in May and visit the Grand Canyon for the third time with her family in June.

I honestly don't mind at all if she starts going to Moon Services and becomes a Pagan. But I'm not going to hold her hand and show her how.  Sis can't help how our childhoods mapped out, but she's a grownup now. Time to find her own way and pay for it too.

It's just about the same thing I expect of my daughters. So maybe I'm not as petty as all that.

Lessons Learned at Four Quarters Farm

Hello, there, chappies! It's me, Annie of the Appalachians, slinging more words your way! Catch 'em, share 'em, collect the whole set!

My three long-time readers will know that the biggest hurdle in my personal life has been the loss of my ties to the Appalachian farm that was in my family for ... oh ... thirteen or so generations. Really. I have an ancestor who died in 1778 whose grandfather lived in those parts.

At just about the same time that the last generation of Johnsons were dying out or moving away from Polish Mountain, a campground called Four Quarters Farm opened at the other end of the Zip code. It was quite a joke at the time, because Four Quarters started out as a completely clothing-optional place. (Options have been scaled back but not abandoned at present.)

It's no coincidence that I started camping at Four Quarters the same year that my family sold the homestead. What is a coincidence is that Four Quarters Farm is for Pagans ... and I had become Pagan.

When I go to Four Quarters Farm, I meditate on the loss of my farm, the lack of Appalachian identity in my children, the loss of family and friends and anchor. This is the Great Work that I still have to do to find peace in my life: I've got to stay connected to the land even with the loss of ownership.

This year at 4QF, my friend Maebius came and was pretty much game for any silly endeavor I proposed. So I persuaded him to go hiking with me off site to a state forest trail that I recalled from my youth. (There are some very gorgeous hollows in those mountains, but they're hard to get into and out of.) We set out in search of a drop-dead gorgeous hollow that used to be easy to find on a well-marked trail. But that was 20 years ago. The trail isn't even marked any more. We discovered this only after hiking into a wicked thicket of new growth woods and stinging nettles.

We weren't lost, but we couldn't find a consistent path back out of the hollow. It was slow going. Thankfully we did have a nice pure stream at our side.

As we made our way down along the stream, back toward where I parked, we began noticing interesting topography. There were ornamental shrubberies grown wild. Rock walls abandoned. Masonry foundations in the middle of the woods. The area had once been populated. Now it's woods.

Maebius said, "Nature has really reclaimed this place."

This comforted me immensely.

The long-gone residents of those long-gone homes were no doubt kin of mine. They're probably buried up in Chaneysville. But their homes, yards, barns, bridges ... lost, all lost.

So, too, will this be with my great-grandfather's land. Once the kinship tie is broken, and the property owners are absentee or foreign, Nature moves in. There's a stubborn grove of locust trees where my great-aunt Belle had her magnificent garden. Carpenter bees have eaten the barn; it was torn down this year. The pastures are growing in because only deer are grazing them.

Appalachia is still under attack by mountaintop removal mining and fracking, but at least in the little patch where I came up, Gaia has moved in and is reclaiming. Now that no Johnsons live along Johnson Road anymore, I beseech Her to expand Her reach.  Let there be trees. Let there be woods. Let the roads grow in and the timbers crumble. Let the mountain forget us all. It was born in the days of the dinosaurs -- what do we matter to it, after all?

Gaia, take back what was yours, and thank you for letting us borrow the mountain for awhile. We didn't leave very much behind. Bright blessings to You.

Drum and Splash 2014

Welcome to "The Gods Are Bored Go Camping!"

From Wednesday through Sunday past, I was at an event at a campground called Four Quarters Farm. The event is called Drum and Splash.

Four Quarters Farm has an embarrassment of riches when it comes to swimming holes. The property has three.

It's tough to do justice to a swimming hole in a photograph. And, since this particular swimming hole is under-utilized, you can't get a good perspective on its size. But take it from me, as a born-and-bred Appalachian, this is a quality swimming hole. Five stars outta five.

The swimming holes account for the "splash" portion of Drum and Splash. The "drum" portion consists of classes and seminars built around drumming. Almost everyone brings fancy djembe drums, but this year I was also happy to find dumbek classes for clueless beginners. I mean, I know so little about my drum that the teacher had to show me how to hold it. And when he said that a whole major beat is created with one finger, I contemplated aborting the mission. Instead I'll practice, because drumming is a wonderful thing.

After dark at Four Quarters Farm, the staff builds a bonfire, and there's an open drum circle. People dance around the fire. This goes on until the last person stops for the night, which means sometimes the drumming goes right on to dawn. The fire spinners also come out and practice their moves in the meadow. Elsewhere there's a big tent for guitars and storytelling and singalongs.

The Grand Finale of this event is a celebration that begins with a parade of dragons, bellydancers, drummers, straw men, and stilt-walkers. After they march across the meadow, the fire-spinners come out. After them, big ol' fireworks shoot up into the clear mountain air. Then everyone pours into the drum circle for Masters performances and much more drumming and dancing.

I don't have a single photo of any of it.

Some people can live and take photos of the living as it's happening. I can't seem to do that. Maybe it's because I grew up in the 20th century, and photos were staged ("everyone say cheese").

You know, I would be feeling really geezerish if I could come home and Google this event and find 1,000 vivid photos, but the pictures just aren't there. Drum and Splash is a be-in. People are doing stuff. No one is looking through the lens of an IPhone. Even the teenagers sit and talk to each other. And the place isn't off the grid. My phone worked to make calls. I was just too busy to point and shoot.

I know I have said this before. If you are looking for a Pagan-friendly place to bring your children, or just to chill out yourself, you cannot do better than Four Quarters Farm. Put it another way. Do you have a closet full of tie-dye you can't wear? Shove it in a satchel and go to Artemas, PA.

Holiday

We at "The Gods Are Bored" will be making merry for the next six days. Please re-join the madness next week!

Ten Fun Hobbies You Can Pursue without Going to Hobby Lobby

Welcome to "The Gods Are Bored," chock a block with free advice in times of need! Look to the bored gods first and forever. They love a challenge!

Today's free advice is aimed at getting you out of that evil super-Christian corporation called Hobby Lobby. I know you shop there for all your hobby supplies. But maybe you don't want to now. If you've been hiding under a rock (a nice hobby for which you need nothing from Hobby Lobby), you might have missed the Supreme Court decision allowing Hobby Lobby to choose what medications it will allow its female employees to have through their health plans. Never mind what those conservative Christian activists impartial SCOTUS judges say about this decision being very narrow.  The Grand Canyon was narrow once, too.

You may be a regular customer of Hobby Lobby. Don't be. Don't darken the doorstep of that place again. Ever.

"But Anne," you say. "Where else can I get latch-hook kits?"

Ditch those dumb hobbies! Here are ten great pastimes that will keep you the hell out of that Christian emporium!

1. Whittle. You need a piece of wood and a knife. It's not even considered real whittling if you get your supplies from a store. Go out in the woods and find a big ol' log. Grab a knife from the kitchen. Remember, the goal of whittling is not necessarily to make something beautiful or useful. It's just meant to modify a big ol' log into something smaller. This was a very popular hobby long before Hobby Lobby came into being. It ought to be revived.

2. Beachcomb. Maybe this is easy for me because I live near a beach. But wowsa, you sure don't need Hobby Lobby! One day I could have brought home a whole dead baby shark. (It smelled kind of bad, so I didn't.) If your beach is pretty much sand and surf, use your imagination! Grab that shiny razor blade sticking out of the sand, or that quaint syringe floating in the rip current. Or wrench that plastic spoon out of the sea gull's beak! Beachcombing is fun. You don't have to collect sea glass. In fact, I would advise against it. There's too much competition.

3. Read a book. I'll bet you can't find a single book worth reading at the Hobby Lobby, but the library has lots of them.

4. Cosplay. The whole idea behind cosplay is to make your own stuff without the use of kits, instructional manuals, or cheap stuff from Hobby Lobby. Must admit I don't know my way around the tools and machines used to make pith helmets with weird goggles on them, or Princess Leia armor, but maybe you do. Or maybe you suddenly want to, just to rid yourself of the Hobby Lobby jones. First stop: YouTube. With this hobby, the devil's in the details.

5. Drum. Yeah, baby! There's not enough drumming in this world! I can't imagine that Hobby Lobby sells djembe drums, but you can get one from the Internet or from anywhere that sells rock music instruments. I'm living proof that you don't need too many lessons to be able to drum. Just count to four and hit the top with your hand. Keep at it and you'll never miss those model trains.

6. Memorize poetry. This is the best free advice I've ever given.

7. Fix up your house. Yes, I know that cross stitch is more fun than caulking cracks in the plaster and ripping up the old basement tiles. But what good is that cross stitch going to do you in the long run? Trust me, no matter how good it is, your grandchildren will toss it. They'll be far more interested in getting a great price on the old chateau. So fix it up. Be family-minded! As for the stuff you'll need to do the repairs, well, I have lots of that stuff sitting around just gathering dust. Message me.

8. Pole dance. Now here's something I double-dog guarantee you that you won't find the supplies for in a Hobby Lobby.

9. Press plants. I've never been in a Hobby Lobby, but I'll bet they've got those fancy leaf-pressers in there -- you know, the ones with the tightening screws, all those bells and whistles. News flash. Get some leaves. Get an old dictionary. Put the leaves in the dictionary according to words you like. Write down the words on a piece of paper. Stack a bunch of other books onto the dictionary. You don't need Hobby Lobby to press plants! Just use your dictionary. When was the last time you looked up a word in a dictionary, instead of going online? Case closed.

10. Act weird. This is a fun and rewarding hobby. I've been doing it for years, and I just love it! I've never needed a Hobby Lobby to pursue this pastime ... but I may start practicing it in front of a Hobby Lobby. What can they do, arrest me for acting weird? I have a Constitutional right to free speech! Please excuse me now, I have to go practice making fart noises by shoving my hand in my armpit and flapping like a chicken. I call it my "Hobby Lobby Routine."

Bonus free advice for the highly motivated Hobby Lobby hater: You need to actually go into the Hobby Lobby to do this one. Find the most expensive item. Ask a salesperson to explain in detail how it works. Examine it slowly and carefully. Be sure to take it out of the box and ask to see how it is assembled and cared for. Then, when it's lying in bits and pieces halfway up and down the aisle, just shrug your shoulders, thank the kind salesperson, and say, "I'm going to get this on Amazon." Don't forget to smile and wave as you leave the store.