Interview with a Bored Goddess: Holda

It's staying light a little longer. Have you noticed? This morning when I set off for work, the sky was pearly and a few birds were chirping lustfully. All is well with the world.

But make no mistake. Winter is still well under way. Ask anyone in Washington State. They'll tell you. What better time to tender an invitation to Holda, bored (and misunderstood) Goddess of the Germanic peoples? Spread a few flax seeds, brew up some good lager, and She'll be only too glad to stop by. Please give a warm and wonderful "Gods Are Bored" welcome to Holda, the Winter Goddess!

Anne: All hail, great Snowy Goddess, vilified and persecuted by the Christians ... portrayed as a hateful hag, when really you are beautiful, nurturing, and helpful to humankind!

Holda: Yes, yes. That's me. Marginalized and misunderstood, like so many of my Sisters. Your cat has some mats in his fur. Shall I groom him?

Anne: What a kind offer! Please do. Oh, would you look at that! He never holds that still for me! Holda, I invited you here because I'm quite braced. I think you have a new praise and worship team!

Holda: Who, me? Couldn't be.

Anne: Want to see?

Holda: Yes sirree!

Anne: Aren't they beautiful? A gathering of women who are determined to nurture this nation!

Holda: They certainly have good taste in attire.

Anne: I thought of You the moment I saw them. There, I said, are acolytes of Holda, channeling Her snowy gowns and Her generous spirit.

Holda: How did they come to assemble in that place?

Anne: They came to listen to a despot who they plan to oppose. They chose the snowy white garments in honor of women's rights (and also to honor You).

Holda: I'm so touched! It gets tedious, you know, when the only white you see is on a bride.

Anne: I couldn't agree more ... but You have to admit it's a hard color to keep clean. These ladies aren't Goddesses. They have to be mindful of pesky stains. And yet they chose Your luminous shade. You should be proud.

Holda: I am! This is quite encouraging! What can I do to assist them?

Anne: All glory, laud, and honor to You for wanting to be helpful! Go, Holda, and sit among them. Be by their sides as they seek to restore balance to our troubled land.

Holda: You mean it? An assignment with dignity? I'll hop right on it!

Anne: No one is asking me, but what I think this modern nation needs is way more attention paid to ancient Goddesses. Go therefore, Holda. You're no ugly old hag trying to eat children! Show them how a Goddess does it. You're perfect for the job!

Holda: I accept. And in gratitude for the job, I'll send you a nice, bracing snowstorm.

Anne: With no sleet mixed in.

Holda: Hold the sleet, hold the freezing rain.

Anne: And ditch the wintry mix. We get that here all the time.

Holda: Snow it is for you, dear Anne. Deep, white, pure, and powerful.

Imbolc 2019

It's 4:45 p.m. and still bright daylight, so we are making progress. However, my heart is heavy today. One of my students who I had three years ago died after a long and painful battle with cancer. His funeral service was today.

To me, there is nothing so heart-wrenching as burying a child. Life is no cakewalk, but we still prefer that everyone get a chance to muddle through it, at least past the age of 25. My student was 17.

I had him as a freshman, before his illness began. He was "that kind" of freshman boy, full of energy, lots of friends, and very little (actually none) interest in English class. So he wound up sitting right in the front, right by my desk, for most of the year. (I tend to do this with "those kind" of boys.)

This student told me he hated to read. He'd never found a book he liked. Then I handed him a few of my carefully curated young adult urban lit novels, and he started reading. I can still see him turning the pages, lost to the world, right in front, next to me.

Today his friends looked shell-shocked, and his family looked worse. No amount of faith in God and Jesus makes this easy to bear ... I'm sorry, that's just the way it is.

This young man had a beautiful smile and was full of antics. I'll miss seeing him cross the stage for his diploma this spring.

I petitioned the Orishas to find him and acquaint him with the Ancients of his line. For good measure, as I was in a Baptist church in downtown Camden, I asked Jesus to please allow this to happen.

May his ancestors greet him. May he find his way to the Ancestors in the Old World, before they were sent to these hostile shores.

Sensible Witchcraft: Besom, Stang & Sword

The thing I like best about quote-unquote New Age religions is that they aren't hide-bound. New frameworks can arise without the practitioners facing persecution as heretics. That's refreshing. It also opens the door for books like Besom, Stang & Sword.

This highly readable book is a very interesting mix of traditional folk witchcraft (known as hoo doo in some quarters) and innovative uses of pathways, moon cycles, and bonding with your land base. The authors feel it's less important to forge relationships with deities from various pantheons than to dig into doing things. It's a hands-on approach that's at once ancient as our heath-dwelling ancestors and modern as the concrete cityscape.

I've got to admit that I often have a hard time getting through books on Pagan lore and practice. I'm not exactly sure why, but my mind begins to drift while I'm reading them. This book is one of the few where that didn't happen. It covers a whole lot of ground, including topics I hadn't read much about before, but manages to be accessible and interesting throughout. Perhaps it resonated with me because I've been working on my backyard-based Work, but it seems to me that this is the book you want if you want to be a witch but don't see why that label must include an up-close-and-personal visit to Glastonbury or a shelf full of Gardnerian lore.

When I was 13, my grandparents finally got running water in their summer place on Polish Mountain. Before the well was drilled, my grandfather hired a water diviner to come and find the best location for it. My cynical uncle scoffed at the process, but I was absolutely fascinated by the old man who came with his wand and walked back and forth across that rocky hill for hours, concentrating all the while. I will forever mark that ancient fellow as the first working witch I ever saw.

This book is for you if you want to be a working witch -- if you want to do trance work, or use flying ointments, or practice necromancy, or influence the outcome of things. I really enjoyed reading it, and my takeaway is to love the land I'm with.

I would call this a "beginner's book," but the authors helpfully include lots of sources for every topic, so you can dig deeper and find those tomes that will have your mind wandering in no time. If you want to learn about folk witchcraft, or improve your practice thereof, I highly recommend this book.

With apologies to the bored Gods and Goddesses. But that goes without saying.

Opposition Candidates Who Are Sure To Beat Donald Trump

Can you believe it? The mid-terms are just now over, and already candidates are lining up to run against Donald Trump in the 2020 presidential! And no wonder. Donald Trump is the easiest sitting president to beat of all time! It'll be like taking candy from a baby.

In case you're having trouble keeping up with them, here's a short list of opposition candidates who are shoo-ins against the Orange Horror.

1. GRITTY

Who better to beat the Orange Horror than another Orange Horror? Honestly, though, Gritty has some bona fides. I wrote about him a few posts back. You'll see he's a take-charge kinda mascot.


2. Lil Bub

Bub is as cute as Trump is ugly. She has overcome a lot of real health issues (as opposed to fake ones) just to be able to go about her day. She would never shut the government down, because someone has to inspect that cat meat! Can't let shoddy cat meat into a can. Nor would we need a space force, because rumor has it Bub has some extraterrestrial connections.


3. Mickey Mouse

No surprises there. He runs every time, and gets lots of votes, too. But this might be the first race ever that his promise of being better than the incumbent is actually verifiable.


4.  Obi-Wan Kenobi

He's our only hope.


5. Sarah Connor

There's nothing gun-toting men find sexier than gun-toting women. Am I right? Sarah will get the 2nd Amendment voters that Hillary didn't. Or else. Besides, Sarah's a badass. Wait until the debates, when Trump tries to stalk up behind her. He'll be out like a light, flailing on the floor like a gutted walrus.


6.  Elizabeth Bennett

My money is on this plucky woman.  She reads a lot, she can stand up to the moneyed interests, and she has a keen sense of social justice. Some family misbehavior might make a headline here and there, but no one needs to be paid off to keep silent.


7. Francis the Talking Mule

The electorate has already proven it will vote for a jackass. We should at least get one that can put together a coherent sentence.


8. The Dude

Can't really put together a coherent sentence, but he isn't a jackass.


9. Justin Trudeau




Please. Humor me.


10. Cthulu




Because sometimes you have to fight evil with REAL SERIOUS EVIL.


So, voter, which candidate do you support? Remember, those white pukes from the Kentucky private school aren't ready to run yet, so you really should choose off this list. The time is now. The need is great. Vote.

An Open Letter to Nick Sandmann, Future Supreme Court Justice of America

Hello and welcome to "The Gods Are Bored," your Pagan pathway to paradise! You know what's good about bored deities? If they're warlike, they're just warlike. They don't pose as coo doves and then smite. That's hypocritical and dishonest, don't you think?

EXHIBIT A: Today's Poster Boy for the Modern Era

Y'all probably know this story already. The young white creature is Nick Sandmann, a teenager from private Covington Catholic School in Kentucky. He and his classmates (pictured in rear) got into an altercation at the Lincoln Memorial some time after the annual Right to Life rally in Washington, DC.

There was a great rush to judgment based on this photo, so I took the time to read the grinning white boy's version of events. And I must say, he would fit right in here in Haterville. He casts himself as a victim with a total lack of irony.

The story he tells says so much about him. As if you'd need to know more once you saw the MAGA hat.

Apparently these fine Catholic youth were minding their own business at the Lincoln Memorial when some African American men began to taunt them. In Sandmann's account, these Black men called the good, white Catholic boys all sorts of names. So, in response, Sandmann asked his chaperone if he and his buddies could chant SCHOOL PEP RALLY CHANTS, and the chaperone said YES.

Picture this in your mind. Especially if you're a school teacher.

So you have taunting on one side, and chanting on another (from white teenagers wearing MAGA hats), and then you get a drumming Native American who tries to diffuse the situation.

Well, you can't blame the drummer. Some fucking chaperone was inciting his or her charges to riot, instead of quietly steering them out of trouble.

This is what white privilege looks like.

I have absolutely no time or energy for these Catholic schoolboys who go into Washington, DC (population about 60 percent Black), having no respect for the urban environment or what they might encounter there. At a moment where a thinking student or chaperone encountered taunting, that student would turn and quietly walk away. Let's not even talk about what Jesus would do, because ... oh, just see above, first paragraph.

Any woman who has ever walked the streets of a city and has gotten taunted would have known what to do in this situation. But white men? White men don't know shit about this. It's never happened to them. Or to their fathers or grandfathers. It must never have happened to the chaperone, either.

White Catholic boy, your MAGA hat speaks for you. Wear it the wrong place, and you've got to face the music. You won't like the tune. But hear it with humility. You go to private school and are bound for a life of wealth and contentment. The men who challenged you at the Lincoln Memorial? Not so much. Not. So. Much.

But that brings me to the silver lining of this fable.

Nick Sandmann, given the political tenor of your home state (which I would never be foolish enough to visit in my car with its New Jersey plates), you have a bright, bright future! Someone will have to pick up the torch from Mitch McConnell, and you're just the fresh-faced Republican to do it. But why stop there? Everything about you just screams Supreme Court Justice. Are you doing your requisite beer parties with all those fine, young, white pep rally chanters you hang out with? Are you getting drunk and preying upon the fresh-faced Catholic girls in your circle? Oh good. Just checking. In that case, all is well! You're on your way to the big time!

Readers, I double dog guarantee you this sad excuse for an American will face no disciplinary repercussions for this at home or at school. Nor will his chaperone, who was either on some super strong mushrooms or was just a clueless rube. White boys get away with this shit. Always have.

And once again, we see the Catholic church at its finest. What a rotten God! It's disgusting.

Divide and Conquer

When the Orange Menace was inaugurated, women of all stripes (except the Republican stripe) took to the streets and marched in solidarity. Like, in the millions.

Here we are three marches later, and everyone is quarreling like ... well, like human beings.

Muslim women may feel that homosexuality and abortion are sins. Some cis women don't consider transsexual women to actually be women. Women who voted for Bernie in the primaries feel like he would have beaten Donald Trump. Women who voted for Hillary feel like Bernie voters caused all this mess and kept a qualified, dignified candidate out of the White House.

Some African American women feel that white women can't see past privilege. Some white women can't get past their privilege enough to understand the minority experience. Some Millennial women resent how Baby Boomer women were able to get good jobs with benefits, and some Baby Boomer women don't understand why Millennial women don't stop whining and go out and get a good job with benefits.

Some women feel that the Democratic party should adopt a sensible, middle-of-the-road platform, and some women want to shake things up and fight for universal health care, free state college, and a basic minimum income. Some women love their guns, and some want to gather the damn things up and incinerate them.

Only a smattering of women are pro-organized labor ... and some of them voted for the Menace.

In Philadelphia on Saturday, there will be two women's marches in two different parts of the city.

HELLLLOOOOOOO.....

Are we forgetting something here? The evil afoot is worse than any single female agenda! Who is the enemy? Trump is the enemy! He and his ilk can only benefit if women fracture their solidarity.

Anyone who thinks this past election has put us in the clear should look at the voting results. My boy Andy Kim won by about 700 votes. That's what I call hanging by a thread.

We can't afford to squabble among ourselves. For the love of fruit flies! This is exactly what they want.

Therefore, without a sign and without prejudice, I, Anne Johnson, intend to travel into Philadelphia and march with whatever march I come to first. So what if I'm an old, suburban white woman? I'm a voter. I'm a worker. United we stand, divided we fall.

I want that horror of a human being out of office. That's all that matters.

Happy Birthday, Barbie!

Can you believe it? Barbie turns 60 this year. I actually think she looks younger now than she did in 1959.

EXHIBIT A: BARBIE 1959

To be honest, as a little girl, I found Barbie disconcerting. I didn't like her big tits or the fact that her feet were constructed so she could only wear high heels.

EXHIBIT B: BARBIE 2019

What do you know? Her tits are smaller, but she's still wearing those heels! Come on, Barbie. Eat some cake! You're too thin!

Actually I have some very good news for Barbie. I, too, was born in 1959. In just a few weeks I'll be eating a whopper of a cake -- and Barbie can help me polish it off!

Gosh, I can hardly believe it. I'm almost 60. I feel blessed to have come this far. Sure, there are aches and pains, but I'm hardy and working every day. All the same, 60 can make you a bit existential. Unless you're Barbie.

Readers, I have arrived at the age of 60 hardly having done any traveling at all in my life. So this Spring Break I will embark on an epic quest for my Thunderbird soul-mate. I'll tell you about it very soon!

Destroyer of Worlds

Welcome to "The Gods Are Bored," brought to you from the Great Blue Northeast since 2005! We've got millionaire neighbors here now, but that only makes it more likely that we will flaunt our radical left-wing agenda. And possibly eat the rich.

I don't know if you've kept up with the alt-right and their symbol appropriation.  Long story short, this cute little frog has become the alt-right's mascot.

Poor little guy! My heart bleeds for him. (What else would you expect from a bleeding heart liberal?)

It seemed only a matter of time before the radical left responded in kind. An eye for an eye, and all that nonsense.

Last year, the Philadelphia Flyers unveiled a new hockey mascot who is so magnificently hideous that he practically melts steel. His name is Gritty.

As luck would have it, the very week the Flyers unveiled Gritty, Donald Trump visited Philadelphia for a fundraiser. Protesters gathered, and more than a few signs featured Gritty, telling Trump to get out of the city.

Don't ask me why the Flyers promotional team didn't match up the rhyme ... but they didn't.

Gritty caught on immediately as a foil to the alt-right's frog. From local origins he has branched out in all his tangerine glory. Even the New York Times made a snooty note of it. Now you can't go to a protest of any sort without seeing Gritty on signs or decals.

Don't mess with Philadelphia when it comes to being bad-ass.

The first time I laid eyes on Gritty, I thought he was what one might see if one watched Sesame Street while licking a cane toad or swallowing questionable mushrooms. But wow, did I warm to him quickly when he stepped into the political arena!

The title of this post, "Destroyer of Worlds," comes from the t-shirt my daughter The Fair gave me for Christmas.

All I have to say is, if Gritty can destroy the world our nation is descending into -- where we're held hostage by a lunatic narcissist and his venal flunkies -- then you go, Bearded Wild Thing! Have at them!

PS - He came to the Mummers Parade. Imagine that!

Yes, that's me hugging him. He was in my unit.

Interview with a Bored Goddess: Ma'at

Good day, and welcome to "The Gods Are Bored!" This is the site where we designate deities to duties that need to be done. Yes, reader, you too can become a Prayer Warrior -- just choose a God or Goddess who will heed your call, and then pray your heart out.

And boy, am I praying today! I've had the scouts out everywhere, looking for Ma'at, the sacred ancient Egyptian Goddess of Truth and Justice.

Used to be, I didn't have a bit of trouble getting such ancient and venerable deities to join me for a bracing beverage and a fireside chat. In these times, They are not as accommodating. My first message from Ma'at was: "Busy sorting wing feathers. Call me back when that lying sack of sated dung beetles is no longer your leader."

Can you blame her one bit? But I petitioned again, more urgently this time, and she has joined me for scones. Please give a warm, wonderful, "Gods Are Bored" welcome to Ma'at, Goddess of Justice!

Anne: Thank you so much for coming! You must be furious about the lack of justice in America right now.

Ma'at: Honestly, Anne? When was America ever a just nation? Just because Americans recite "and liberty and justice for all" every damn day doesn't make it happen.

Anne: You've got a point, o winged wonder. But Ma'at ... I've been searching high and low for you because America needs you, right now! It's a small but crucial assignment, and I sure hope you'll accept it.

Ma'at: Well, tell me what it is, and I'll check my Outlook calendar to see if I'm available.

Anne: Snap, I'm impressed, Goddess! I can't figure out Outlook calendar to save my life! Not surprised deities can do it, though.

Ma'at: So, what is it, and when do you need me?

Anne: It's this, and I'm about 10,000 times more serious than usual: Our great justice, Ruth Bader Ginsburg, is having health problems. She's 85 and still on the job -- trying to hold out for a sensible president to replace her, instead of the Orange Gibbon currently in charge.

Ma'at: 85, you say? That's advanced age, right there. Any kind of health problem or surgery can really take a toll on a person of that many years.

Anne: I know, I know! I'm worried sick! Ma'at, will you please, please, please drop whatever else you're doing and take up protective watch over Ruth Bader Ginsburg?

Ma'at: That's a pretty cheeky request, Anne! You think I don't have anything else to do? I'm busy all the time! I have a thriving praise and worship team, not to mention all the superior art work to supervise.

Anne: Dear Goddess, it is with the utmost humility that I approach you and petition you to protect Justice Ginsburg. I'll put it to you this way: Who cribbed your holy edicts and passed them off as original?

Ma'at: The Judeo-Christians, that's who!

Anne: Well, a good passel of them are praying that Ruth Bader Ginsburg dies.

Ma'at: Say no more. I'll put my other appointments on hold. Where can I find this Justice Ginsburg?

Anne: Washington, DC, I think. She works there, and if she's resting at home, I assume her home is there. Not sure, though. But you're a Goddess, Ma'at! You can find this person, can't you?

Ma'at: Consider it done! However, I require something from you (and whoever else reads this) in return. Please petition Me to do this important job. I want to be recognized for my contributions to *ahem* American "justice."

Anne: Trust me, Ma'at. I'm going to be praying to You daily. This is some serious shit here. I have children to think of -- daughters and students -- who need Justice Ginsburg alive and on the bench. To my three readers, I say (and I have never said this before) ... Please petition the Goddess Ma'at to preserve and protect Justice Ruth Bader Ginsburg! We need her. Oh, please, Ma'at .....

Why the Mummers Parade Survives

I think this is the 118th year that Philadelphia has hosted a Mummers Parade on January 1.

Like many events in big cities, this parade began as a civic effort to curb public drunkenness on New Year's Day. But in this era of warm and cozy bars and restaurants, open museums, and a less tolerant attitude toward public drunkenness, why does this parade survive?

Mind you, as many as 10,000 people take part in the parade. And there's a simple formula to its continued existence (even though Philly's civic leaders would rather it just fizzle out).

Have you ever gone to a family reunion? My dad's people used to have them every year on the Fourth of July, in a little creek-side park near Chaneysville, PA. Upwards of a hundred people would come, and the event consisted of eating, talking, playing horseshoes, a few kid's games, and ... not much else. And it lasted all day.

Now imagine if your family reunion had a goal in mind: marching in a parade as a family, with matching costumes and a theme. Yes, you would need to get together a little more often to practice and make costumes and props. But it's your family. You wouldn't really mind (mostly), would you?

Mumming persists in Philadelphia because many Mummer groups are basically big, extended families whose members have been in parades since they were tots. My club, the Two Street Stompers, was formed by a family whose parents, aunts, and uncles had marched with other clubs. Some members of the Stompers who are well into mid-life have been marching on Broad Street since they were too young to walk. (They were carried.) Now they are carrying their kids.

Every year at our Two Street Stompers practice, there are young parents bringing their babies and toddlers for the first time. And there are also esteemed elders -- some in their 90s -- who come to watch, and then stand up to strut a little at the end. It's a touching sight.

The number of participants in the Mummers Parade has dwindled over the past 20 years or so. Still, if you go to a Mummers practice -- any club of any size -- you'll see multiple generations of the same family, carrying on a family tradition. That's what keeps this thing going.

As far as curbing public drunkenness goes, well, emmm ... People are going to imbibe on a holiday, no matter what else they are doing. Judge not, lest ye be judged.

A "Weird New Jersey" Hike To Remember

Nothing fills me with gratitude and joie de vivre quite like hiking.

You see, I gave up hiking for years -- actually decades -- and then re-discovered it because the government of Atlantic City put up a sea wall that blocked all the sea glass from coming ashore.

Before the sea wall, I was content to spend a sunny day in winter looking for sea glass in Atlantic City. Who can blame me? Look at this view.

EXHIBIT A: THIS BEACH IS GONE

EXHIBIT B: THIS VIEW IS GONE TOO

I could have met the loss of the beaches with a sad, old lady sigh. Instead I shook my fist at the fickle finger of Fate and decided to collect waterfalls. This requires hiking.

EXHIBIT C: A VALUED PIECE IN MY NEW COLLECTION

In the process of hiking to waterfalls, I made a discovery that made me shake my fist at myself. Within a 2-3 hour drive of my home in Haterfield are miles and miles and miles of amazing hiking trails! Me, with my "I'm from Appalachia, I don't have time for the Poconos" attitude ... I almost blew it. I could have gone to my grave without ever bonding with my own back yard.

A few days ago, my daughter The Heir and I went on a hike to a rock formation that was once featured in Weird New Jersey magazine. Even though we got lost on the way to the park, we still got there in two hours. In other words, we could do a hike as a day trip ... a hike in the mountains.

EXHIBIT D: TRIPOD ROCK

Heir and I hiked to this rock. It's called Tripod Rock because it's a glacial anomaly. As in, you can't believe the sight of this freakin rock.

EXHIBIT E: OTHER SIDE OF TRIPOD ROCK

Yes, you're seeing that right. One big rock, balancing on three little rocks. This actually could be the work of some bored deity. Hard to imagine a glacier being that precise.

The hike to and from Tripod Rock was not even strenuous, and I only fell two times. Heir and I had a swell afternoon together, and we got to the rock before the steady stream of hikers who came in our wake. You see, Tripod Rock is only 30 miles outside New York City.

How did I get to be a woman of a certain age without knowing about all the hiking trails in the New Jersey Highlands? Why did I sneer like a snob at the Poconos? Alas, some time has been wasted.

On the other hand, I'm still fairly hale and hearty, and there's nothing like a bracing hike to make you feel hale and hearty. There is still time. I have found new mountains to climb.

EXHIBIT F: LOVE THE ONE YOU'RE WITH

The bored gods uprooted me from the mountains of my birth and dropped me in a state that is the punch line in a million jokes. It has been up to me to make the best of this fact. It's getting easier all the time. All the time.

Where's My Gold Spray Paint? Another Year with the Two Street Stompers!

This tumultuous year is drawing to a close, and that means it's time for another Mummers Parade!

Philadelphia hosts an annual Mummers Parade on New Year's Day. For decades I would get out of bed on January 1 and turn on the t.v. and sit in a chair, watching the parade. "That looks like fun," I would say to myself.

And then something shifted. Instead of saying, "That looks like fun," I started thinking, "I wonder how I could do that?" So I asked Doctor Google, I got some phone numbers, and in December of 2011 I found myself in Brooklawn, New Jersey at the clubhouse of the Two Street Stompers.

EXHIBIT A: THE AUTHOR STRUTS AS A TWO STREET STOMPER

The Philadelphia Mummers Parade is a tradition that extends back 100 years or so and has its roots in South Philly neighborhoods. The Two Street Stompers have been marching as a club since 1978. They were one of the first clubs to have women members.

When I joined the D.A.R., I had to fill out a huge, long form and get two members to endorse me. I had to meet the membership and prove I was of high moral fiber. I became a Stomper after a phone call. They didn't even need to eyeball me first. The fact that I wanted to strut was enough for them.

My three regular readers know that I like to sport fancy costumes. In this respect, being a Stomper is intensely rewarding. Every year I get a beautiful, brand-new satin suit that I get to keep ... and I don't have to make it myself! What a relief that is!

This is our club in one of our first-place finishes. I helped to make the puffy parasols.

I think it's fair to say this isn't the D.A.R.

I've had so much fun as a Two Street Stomper. Originally I thought I would do it a year or two, just to say I participated. BAMP! Now I can't even imagine sitting in the chair and watching!

This is my favorite parade picture. That's me and my daughter The Fair. She marched with us twice. Look at City Hall in the background! Mind you, this is the first day of the year. The first. What an excellent way to launch another 365-day cycle!

If you want to see last year's first-place-finishing routine, click here.

We made the front page of the Philadelphia Daily News. It was 6 degrees with a stiff breeze. But hey. It's only once a year.

I'm in the back, wearing a red ski cap.

You can judge a girl by the company she keeps. The D.A.R. taught me that.

Gratitude Project

Two weeks before Thanksgiving, I asked all of my students to look around the room and write something nice about everyone they liked in the room. I gave them the sentence stems "I like you because ..." and "I'm grateful for you because..."

I put the names of students in my other classes up on the projector screen, so that every student I have could say something nice about every other student I have.

I compiled a personal list for each of my 65 students, with everything everyone said about them. It took a long time ... thank goodness 65 kids didn't say something about each and every kid in the room/on the list. But every kid had at least two kids who said something nice about them.

This is Zaire. He got the most comments. Everyone loves him.

Today was the last day before winter break. I handed an envelope to every student, warning them that this was not scientific, and people they expressed gratitude for might not have reciprocated -- but to dwell not upon "who said it to whom" but rather "what was said."

They loved it. It was worth the time and effort.

Blessed Solstice to you and yours ... out of the darkness we come!

Yuletide Navel Gaze

Some of you might know that I'm a school teacher. I've been full time for eight years now. For the first time this year, the senior class invited Santa Claus to come and pose for portraits with students. It was a fundraiser. For two bucks, you got your photo.

So here, frozen in time, are snapshots of my students from this era. You don't have to look at them. I just want them for my own navel gazing in times to come.

But first, me and my bestie Stef. She teaches English too.

Names of others will be slightly misspelled so as to be un-Google-able.

Ana

Kris, whose life is very hard, smiling.

Xtian, as nice as they come.

Kai, always smiling!

My favorite people in the whole school! The lunch ladies! Especially Miss Carol and Miss Niki, who I stand with in the cafeteria every morning for 30 minutes.

There are many more, but Blogger seems to feel I've added enough this time around. Oh well, maybe more later in the holiday! I must say it boosted morale to have the jolly old elf in for a visit.

Don't You Wish?

Don't you wish that criminals were sentenced according to the existential threat they posed? That way, an African American teenager selling weed on the corner would get tutoring, and Michael Cohen (who effectively shaped the course of history) would get 1,000,000 years, or the Apocalypse, whichever comes first.

Don't you wish cats lived longer? Like, 25 years instead of 15? My parrot Decibel lived to be 29, and that seemed like a nice run of time. I hate burying a wonderful cat after a decade and a half, or less.

Don't you wish you could get your loved ones what they really deserved for the holidays? The Heir is about to turn 30. She spends her Sunday mornings picking up used syringes in a drug neighborhood, and handing out food and clean needles. The least I could do would be send her on a nice vacation, maybe a nice cross-country jaunt to all the big national parks she's never seen.

Don't you wish that the "urge to merge" was a little ... emmmm ... less in young people? Asking for a friend.

Don't you wish Jesus would come? It would ease the crowding, at least.

Don't you wish blue collar workers got the respect they deserve? I don't call a college professor when my pipes burst.

Don't you wish politicians (and even Supreme Court judges) weren't sold in commercials like breakfast cereal? Seriously! Brett Kavanaugh in one segment, Fruity Pebbles in another. Which brings me to ...

Don't you wish the pharmaceutical industry had never been allowed to make commercials? Or to bribe doctors to prescribe stuff? Medicine isn't the same as Fruity Pebbles or a wristwatch.

Don't you wish more people would suddenly care about what happens to the planet after they die? Like, especially people making bank on fossil fuels?

Don't you wish for campaign finance reform?

Don't you wish the Eagles would repeat as Super Bowl champions? Asking for a daughter.

In Which I Hex Mark Ryan, Homebuilder, and His Partner P.J. Ward

Dear Readers, all six of you (bless your sweet, smart hearts), I am finally able to post "before and after" photos of the view from my front door. Of course, photos don't entirely capture the dramatic alteration in the vista -- nor do they account for the economic circumstances of the new neighbors -- but snapshots will have to do.

EXHIBIT A: 311 Windsor Avenue, Haterville, New Jersey, 2014

Missing is the 100-year-old tree that was cut down. It would have been to the left, just out of the frame.

EXHIBIT B: 311 and 313 Windsor Avenue, Haterville, New Jersey 2018

First World Problems, right? I know, I know. It's not like a hurricane roared through. But honestly. Cheap, shoddy construction. And that two-car garage perfectly aligns with my front yard. And the developer has charmed my husband by assuring him this improves the price of our home. Except that we don't plan to sell while I'm working, so why would that matter?

Well, as luck would have it ... if you can call it lucky to be home sick ... the builder is showing the property on the left today.

I am under strict orders from Mr. J: "Don't embarrass me!" Excuse me? You embarrassed yourself by swallowing the snake oil and calling it a cure.

So I have positioned my Truth in Advertising messages at the end of the driveway:

EXHIBIT C: RESIST, PERSIST, AND RISE

The fact that the car is old and ratty only adds a poignant touch.

I know that three of my six readers are Hillary supporters, and I hope you'll forgive me for being a far-left Democratic Socialist. But even you must admit that this pairing is more effective than a Hillary bumper sticker would be. (and yes, I most certainly voted for Hillary.)

Readers, my dudgeon is high not only because this project uprooted beautiful trees and decimated green space. It's also high because the buyers of these homes, in search of everything new and shiny, are basically purchasing high-end housing that was built with low-end products and labor. It's all show and no substance, which apparently is good enough for some millionaire who wants to purchase something in "move-in condition." With a mud room.

Ah, and now for the 662nd day in a row (not excepting weekends), workers are running something loud and motorized over there.

The greed is naked. The disdain is obvious. There's only one way I can respond that will give me any sort of quiet satisfaction ... and that's the way my ancient ancestors responded when the lord of the manor did them wrong.

Hexes all around. Mark Ryan, snake-oil salesman and greedy capitalist -- HEX! P.J. Ward, original hatcher of this travesty -- HEX!

And to my neighbors who happily sold their land to these greed-hounds from Hell -- HEX.

FROM ANNE JOHNSON
Across the Street

PS to Kimber: I heard about that earthquake, and I hope you and yours are all right. My own problems pale in comparison. Sedna says she's upholding you.

Truth in Advertising

If you didn't know it before we got Donald Trump as president, you know it now. Real estate developers are the biggest fucking liars on the planet. They ooze charm, all the while looking at clients and staff as chumps of the first stripe. Some developers are just evil, knowing that they're peddling garbage and calling it gold. Others (like Bozo Trump) believe in their own hype and think they're actually doing the world a favor.

On Monday, December 3, the brand new home across the street from my 90-year-old house goes up for sale. I assume there will be some sort of open house. This "luxury home" by Mark Ryan -- constructed chiefly by Spanish-speaking laborers who seemed to melt away at the first sign of a police car -- is retailing for $975,000.

Soon I will have millionaires as neighbors.

Previously I wrote about how this stooge Mark Ryan got a free pass on an illegal act (shredding a 100-year-old tree on a Sunday morning) because the judiciary in Snobville admire the man so much.

What's a girl to do about this open house? Gosh, I won't even be here! I have to be on the job at precisely 7:04 every morning.

I'll tell you what I'm going to do: I'm going to serve up a little truth.

We own two cars in this household. One is a sensible Subaru sedan. The other belonged to my late mother-in-law. It's a 2001 Saturn, not particularly well cared for over the decades. I use the Saturn to get to and from work. (It's four miles one way, four miles the other.) And -- whew! -- the lil' bucket of bolts passed inspection! Eight miles a day for another two years!

The Saturn is my most recent car to sport bumper stickers. As the rear of my cars go, the Saturn is modest. There are only two regular-sized bumper stickers. One says BERNIE SANDERS and the other says JOIN THE RESISTANCE.

Monday morning I'm going to drive the sensible Subaru to work, leaving the evocative Saturn at the edge of the driveway. I know, I know, it's a stupid and petty act. But just like everyone all over the world, I have my prejudices. I hate developers. Hate 'em.

Whoever comes to gawk at the $975,000 "luxury home" will understand clearly the political philosophy of their closest neighbors.

Can't speak for anyone else, but if I was house-hunting and saw a MAGA sign on a neighboring abode, I would search elsewhere.

Petty, Anne. Very petty. But what are bumper stickers for? Truth in advertising.

Safe and Sound

I'm back from the pushback protest. I think we numbered in the several hundreds, with lots of signs and Bronx cheers and middle finger salutes, and chants. The Proud Boys (or whoever they were) numbered at most 30. And there were dozens and dozens of cops.

We sent those Nazis packing like egg-sucking dogs. We didn't let up until their permit expired, and we were at our loudest when they took their Trump flags and crept back to the worm holes from which they came.

Antifa served as our protection unit. They were mostly on the perimeter, watching our backs.

It got a little dicey here and there, some running and shouting ... but Heir and I kept our distance from that.

A lovely thought: We were on Independence Mall, which is federal property. I don't want a record with the U.S. government, so I'm glad all went well.

Nazi scum, off our streets.

Just In Case

I'm one of those planners who likes to have all my ducks in order. Everyone who knows me knows I'm an alarmist who always expects the worst and never gets it. But one day I might get it. Therefore:

If I should meet an untimely fate, here are my wishes.

May Day ceremony at Spoutwood farm, run by Michael and Debbie Bull. Call the quarters from the Black Oak Grove ritual and say the prayer that unites all Druids. Sing "And When I Rise" and "LaTooshie."

If Otter and his merry band are available, some mayhem would be nice.

These days everyone gets cremated, although I would rather be left out for the vultures (of course).

Re-construct my shrine in the Mount Hope cemetery at the foot of Polish Mountain. Do not put the brachiopod fossil on it, but put lots of sea glass on it, please. You may want to replenish the sea glass from time to time, because it will be coveted by the locals up there.

Off to Philadelphia now.

Scared but Got To Go

I've got two wonderful daughters. One calls me every day. The other one, if she's busy, doesn't call me for a week and forgets to return my calls. It's okay, I'm not insecure. I know she loves me.

But when she doesn't call for awhile, and I can't roust her up, I get a little bit nervous and start trolling.

That's how I found out that my daughter The Heir and her significant other had signed on to a rally that is not going to be warm and fuzzy in Philadelphia.

Some fascist Trump supporters have decided to hold a get-together at Independence Hall. This has not passed the attention of Antifa and another group called Pushback. Daughter and s.o. had announced intentions to join the action with Pushback.

If you have been a regular grazer on this pasture for awhile, you know I've been rattling my saber all along from the safety and security of my Barca-lounger. But the moment arises when it feels pretty hypocritical to sit and suggest what we ought to do.

Readers, I will stand with Antifa on Saturday. In Philadelphia, where (one member of the gendarmes told me) precisely 50 percent of the cops love Trump, and 50 percent hate him.

I'll be making noise to drown out "Proud Boys" who claim they aren't racist and they don't want racists at their rally. Frankly I don't care what they are claiming. They need to know that in the city of Philadelphia, their hate won't fly.

When I started this blue blog back in 2005, it was all making fun of Dubya and the Christian "chippies" and their Armageddon agenda. Now this shit is serious. I'm not strolling into Center City on Saturday expecting to be surrounded by gentle grandmothers in pussy hats. This will be the hardcore opposition. And I will be part of it.

 I'm 59 years old with bad knees and a pathological fear of confrontation. But if my beloved Heir has the guts to go, then I've got to be there too.

Plenty of good Germans sat back and clucked their tongues while the Nazis gained strength. That's not going to happen here on my watch.

At dawn we ride.

The Superstitious Voter

I'm going to vote.

I'm going to vote a straight Democratic ticket. I have done this since 1980.

This year, after I vote, I'm going to come home and avoid the television like the plague.

Two years ago I was off work on election day. I spent the day painting trim in my foyer, and as I painted I kept hearing the prognostications. Then the evening came, I was still painting near the t.v., and I heard all of the awful events unfold in real time.

My daughter The Fair was still living at home, and she turned six shades of pale and asked for a glass of wine ... which she couldn't drink. Mr. J just stared at the t.v. in a state of apoplexy.

By midnight, Fair and I were weeping.

This time, maybe if I don't watch any returns, some degree of normal will return to the landscape.

It's magical thinking. But what if I'm right?

Interview with an Ancestress: Susan Bennett Imes

It's Samhain coming, and the veil is thin. This is the month when our ancestors draw near, to see us and how we are faring. A few weeks ago, I found this obituary on a Facebook page dedicated to the history of my homeland.

Maybe it was reading the obit. Maybe it just is the Veil. But whatever the case, today on a windy, rainy New Jersey afternoon, I find my great-grandmother's mother sitting here with me in my living room, sharing a glass of apple cider! Please give a warm, wonderful, Gods Are Bored welcome to Susan Bennett Imes!

Anne: Greetings, beloved ancestress! Here, have another macaroon.

Susan: Thank you! These are delicious!

Anne: I have to ask. If you had 65 great-grandchildren (one of which was my dad), how many living descendants do you have now?

Susan: 2,487, maybe another one tomorrow.

Anne: Wow. Just ... wow. How do you keep up with all of them?

Susan: I don't. I'm only interested in the ones who are interested in me.

Anne (preening): People like me, you mean.

Susan: I am actually blessed with many descendants who know my name, and where I'm buried, and other facts from the above obit. If you had ever bothered to ask your dad about me, he would have told you about me. But you didn't.

Anne: Damn. My  bad! He was 14 when you passed! He must have known you.

Susan: Indeed he did. But never mind! I forgive you. Danny Junior isn't a fellow who has a lot to say about family.

Anne: But I heard about him returning a punt 90 yards for a touchdown about 15 times growing up.

Susan: Men. What can I say?

Anne: But let's talk about you! Married at fifteen, eleven children, living in the mountains ... you must have been one hardy individual.

Susan: Hardy and lucky, in equal parts. I almost stepped on a poisonous snake when I was ten.

Anne: Me too!

Susan: Medicine is much improved in your time.

Anne: Oh my, don't I know it. You know, ancestress, I really miss living in the mountains. You were so lucky to be able to spend your whole life in Bedford County.

Susan: Great-great-great granddaughter, you are an idiot.

Anne: I beg your pardon?

Susan: This is part of the reason I'm here. Your homesickness for the ancestral lands is well noted among your people. We think it's sweet. But it's also misguided.

Anne: I must be respectful to you, so I'll listen to your rationale.

Susan: Look how you live. Look at this house! I raised eleven children in four rooms! Look at your fireplace! Look at the upholstery on this sofa!

Anne: Well, yes, I am rather fond of this upholstery. White is hard to keep up, you know.

Susan: In a poor-soil agrarian community with a large family, it would be completely impossible to keep up. Or even to purchase. Anne, I'll be blunt: You live like a queen.

Anne: Me? GGG Grandma, you are mistaken! I'm struggling middle class... You have descendants that I personally know who are far better off than me!

Susan: They haven't invited me by for cider and cookies. And I don't care how much better they have it. I'm only looking at you. And you have such an easy life.

Anne: Easy? Easy? I teach school! I'm being observed Monday afternoon by a brand new administrator!

Susan: I quit school at age 12. Education is a blessing.

Anne: But look at this flat land! A whopping four feet above sea level, and the only hills are built by bulldozers. I miss the mountains so much!

Susan: The soil in your back yard is richer than the best dirt my garden ever had. And you don't even have to have a garden. You don't have to grow anything, and watch it dry in a drought, or get eaten by weevils, or grow rust in wet weather. In your whole life you have never lost a single crop. Now let's look again at this house. It's cold and wet outside, but in here the temperature is perfect! Two automobiles in the driveway outside ...

Anne: Well, one-and-a-half. I would hardly call The Bucket ...

Susan: Two.

Anne: Yes ma'am.

Susan: That stove of yours is a marvel. And two flush toilets inside. You say you miss the mountains?

Anne: The air. The views. The solitude.

Susan: Visit whenever you like, Anne. The flatland is better. Please take it from me. I would know.

Anne: Such wisdom I've gained from you, in such a short time! But there is one thing. We are living in very dark times, respected ancestress. Our president is a horror, and there's hate afoot in the land.

Susan: Child. I lived through the Civil War, the Spanish American War, the First World War, and part of the Second World War. Plus the 1919 influenza and the Great Depression. Again, I am not impressed by your current political situation. If you're not standing in line for soup or rationing sugar and practicing for air raids, you are doing okay.

Anne: But, can you see into the future?

Susan: No. Thank goodness.

Anne: You've certainly given me something to think about GGG Granny. Will you stick around for Samhain? I'll show you some pictures of some of your other descendants on my computer.

Susan:  No thank you. As I said, if they aren't interested in me, I'm not interested in them.

Anne: It's their loss. You're a wise woman, strong, and awesome.

Susan: Oh my lordy ... are you putting sour cream in mashed potatoes? Throw that out!

Anne: Hang on, sweet lady. You're in for a treat.

The High Cost of Halloween

No one would ask a public school teacher to work on Christmas. It's a holiday.

Except if you're a Pagan, the holiday is December 21, and we're always still in school on that day.

For me, it gets worse.

As a Pagan, I need to take off work on Samhain.

Now, if I was a Pagan student, I would get the day off with no penalties. Teachers don't get that opportunity. If I want to celebrate the most important holy day on my yearly calendar, I have to lose either a sick day or a personal day.

So, what's the big deal about calling out sick on Halloween? Well, I did a little bit of math. For my first eight years of teaching, I am in a pool where I will be compensated $70 per day for unused sick or personal days. I have taken off Samhain (either one or two days, or one-and-a-half days) every year since I started teaching. Eight years, $70 per year ... That's $560. Throw in Imbolc, which I also take off every year, and the pot jumps to $1120.

Where's that war on Christianity that the moron Sessions is crowing about?

This looks to me like discrimination. Trust me, I'm watching our political events very closely, because I am ready to sue for that entire $1120 if the Christians push too hard on, say, something ridiculous like prayer in school.

Just for the record, I would be very willing and able to come to school on Christmas and teach a full day.

Hot and Hotter

When I was cavorting along the Appalachian Trail as a blithe teenager, I never thought I would someday be a woman of a certain age. But there you are. Blink your eyes, and you're a geezer.

One thing about being a geezer, though: It's possible to remember past decades. In my case, I can vividly remember an entire half century.

This is why I can state with absolute certainty that the climate has warmed.

Where are the motherfuckers who deny this? Oh, snap! I forgot! They're in the White House. It's basically the Orange Menace, his Big Oil baron buddies, and the natural gas and pipeline lobbies. They say global warming is a hoax. I cry bullshit.

The Menace is even older than I am. Can it possibly be that he has forgotten frosty Octobers, when the leaves peaked in color the second week of the month? I've lived in various parts of the Mid-Atlantic most of my life, and I clearly recall that Halloweens in the 20th century were cold affairs, possibly with snow and definitely with skeletal trees that had lost every leaf.

Last fall my sister was photographing autumn colors well into November -- a full four weeks later than it used to be.

I wore a sundress to work today. I had to, because it's in the 80s and my room has no air conditioning, only a scant two plastic fans. My students were miserable. And so was I.

It wasn't only the ungodly heat that made me miserable. It was the thought that my students and my daughters are becoming adults and will live with this ever-hotter world, no matter what we do.

I'm rather baffled that anyone over the age of 50 can be a climate change denier. What about your own four senses? Your own memory?

Then I thought, "Well, maybe the changes aren't as noticeable in other parts of the country." Until I heard from my friend in Detroit, complaining about yet another day in the 80s, last week!

I lived in Michigan for four years in the 1980s. It was crisp and cold by mid-September. The trees were bare by early October. It snowed until May.

Storms! Look at these storms! Do you remember a time when we had year after year of killer hurricanes and superstorms? I. Do. Not.

This November, and every November, you should vote Green. I don't mean Green Party, I mean your vote should be for Planet Earth. For poor dear Gaia, Demeter, sweaty Danu!

One more thing before I conclude my rant and go suck some raw eggs.

I am totally convinced that scientists have developed green energy systems that could be put in place within a decade. But their ideas, their technology, is being squashed by the billionaire oil interests. Let the whole world fry, while they rake in the ducats for themselves and their families.

Just answer me this, Mr. Oil Billionaire: What exactly will your great-grandchildren inherit? Pardon my cheek if I suggest they deserve ebola Zaire.

I don't need to have manners anymore. I'm old. And mad. Where's my bludgeon?

Dark Moon Petition to the Goddess Columbia

I salute the hawk of dawn, whose path marks the bounty of the fruitful Earth. I call upon the powers of the East. May there be peace in the East.

I salute the great stag in the heat of the chase, and the crucible of the Sun. I call upon the powers of the South. May there be peace in the South.

I salute the salmon of wisdom who dwells in the pool from which all rivers run. I call upon the powers of the West. May there be peace in the West.

I salute the great bear who shines in the northern sky and marks our paths in the dark of night. I call upon the powers of the North. May there be peace in the North.

May there be peace throughout the land.


Who do I honor on this Dark Moon?

I honor the Goddess Columbia and her angel, Lady Liberty.

Why do I honor the Goddess Columbia and her angel, Lady Liberty?

They stand for all that is good and great in the United States of America: prosperity for the laborer, justice for the oppressed, a home for all the huddled masses yearning to be free.

In these times it is good and right to honor great Columbia. She can move Her citizens to seek the truth and to protect the rights of the vulnerable. She can preside over the health and well-being of Her people. She can right the course of the Ship of State.

And so I petition you, Goddess Columbia, to preside in Your District that bears Your name. Protect the health of Justices Ginsburg, Breyer, Sotomayor, and Kagan. Move the minds of men to true justice for the people. Your people. Draw more women into your sacred halls of power. And keep them there. Stand strong against the powers of darkness and the tyranny of the minority.

My country, 'tis of thee
Sweet land of liberty
Of thee I sing.
Land where my fathers died
Land of the pilgrims' pride
On every mountainside
Let freedom ring!

Justice to the oppressed. Peace and serenity in our homes. Health and well-being for all. The freedom of body and soul. So might it be.

Let us join in the prayer that unites all Druids:

Grant, O Gods and Goddesses, thy protection, and in protection, strength,

                        And in strength, understanding,

                        And in understanding, knowledge,

                        And in knowledge, the knowledge of justice,

                        And in the knowledge of justice, the love of it,

                        And in the love of it, the love of all existences,

                        And in the love of all existences,

                        The love of the divine and all goodness.

Awen. Awen. Awen.

I salute the hawk of dawn, whose path marks the bounty of the fruitful Earth. I call upon the powers of the East. May there be peace in the East.

I salute the great stag in the heat of the chase, and the crucible of the Sun. I call upon the powers of the South. May there be peace in the South.

I salute the salmon of wisdom who dwells in the pool from which all rivers run. I call upon the powers of the West. May there be peace in the West.

I salute the great bear who shines in the northern sky and marks our paths in the dark of night. I call upon the powers of the North. May there be peace in the North.

May there be peace throughout the land.

This rite is complete. May its petition remain with us in the apparent world.

Blessed be.

Determined To Outlive Them

I've been following the Supreme Court and its decisions closely for years. This year, back in June, the court decided (5-4) to end a 40-year-old precedent of "fair share" dues to public sector unions.

It was a decision that undermines the power of labor unions, who traditionally vote Democratic. And for those of you who think that Roe v. Wade is "settled law?" So was the decision the court overturned on unions!

The Orange Menace, a failed real estate salesman, libertine, and egomaniac, has now seated two men onto the Supreme Court. When I contemplated the Menace's victory, this was not even a worst-case scenario that I imagined. It is, in short, worse than my most bitter imaginings.

Every news outlet agrees that this loathsome appointment will influence the direction of America for 30 years or more.

And so, I, Anne Johnson say ... I'm determined to live 30 more years and vote in every goddamned election between now and then. My daughters know my politics, so if I go demented, I will instruct them how to cast my ballot.

When I went to the Women's March on Washington in 2017, I got caught in a huge crowd. Standing next to me was the most elderly female I have ever seen who wasn't in a wheelchair. She was dressed to the nines, and to get to that place she had to have walked blocks and blocks.

That is going to be me. If need be. Until then, I ride.