Hope Greening

There's a lot going on outside Casa de Crazy - gardens being tended, new beds being tilled and cultivated. We've slowly begun to supplement our store-bought food with fresh things; spinach in our scrambled eggs, a handful of strawberries in the morning, a few green onions.

Last Sunday, while the Evil Genius was being loaded down with sugary-food-coloring treats at his father's, Someone, Sprout and I went over to a friend's house. Someone was going to do some yard work and I was there to give a Reiki treatment. Sprout was along for the ride, but once we got there she provided some amusement for the resident kitties (who, to my knowledge, have never met an infant before). We scored a bit of chicken wire while we were there (it was languishing under the porch) and Someone knew just what to do with it.

Pea fence!

So now the peas have something to climb and spread out along, and they're quite happy about it. Someone put up a bit right away, and on Wednesday evening we had house guests, one of whom helped Someone put up a bit more fencing. I'm looking forward to fresh peas, and will (if there are enough of 'em)(are there ever really enough fresh peas??) make some into baby food for Sprout - in a few months, she'll be able to start eating "solids" (because calling it "mush" isn't very appetizing, is it??), and as with the Evil Genius, I want to make as much of her baby food as I can.

We've had rough luck with the peppers this year, but I finally got one of the Thai Insanity Pepper seeds (aka Prik-e-gnu) that I won from Phelan to sprout. I am hoping it will flourish and provide us with eye-watering, tongue scorching, ear burning, peppery goodness.

Okra, beans, squash, cucumbers, potatoes and sunflowers are all showing promise. We'll get pumpkins in soon, with hopes to have some ripe by October. If we can get them to grow, what isn't carved (pumpkin seeds, woo-hoo!!!) will hopefully become puree for future cakes, bread, and muffins.

I am also hoping that anything we don't eat or sell (we're attempting a small CSA) I can either freeze, dry, or pickle. Last year, a lot was wasted. I wanted to learn to pickle, but did not. Hopefully I'll do better this year.

We may have a few blueberries from the bushes we planted last year...but I think I'll be raiding (with permission, of course) Mum's kind-hearted neighbor's lovely run again this year. We still have a wealth of berries in the freezer from last-year's forays!

Mum has a fig forest (it's one tree, but it looks like a forest). I do not care for figs...but I hate to let 'em go to waste...so whatever she and her friends do not eat, I will experiment with. If nothing else, I can always dry 'em...but I may get ambitious and try Cinner's recipe for fig newtons - which, despite my disdain for figs, I adore.

An upside to all this greening? Saving some green at the grocer's - good grief, have you seen how much fresh tomatoes cost? With fuel prices climbing, everything costs more...so anything we don't have to buy is a bonus.

There's another benefit to all this agriculture - we're outside more, which helps clear the cobwebs and get the blood circulatin', no bad thing in my book. Someone's working his butt off (not that he has a lot to work off, mind...)!

If you garden (even if it's just in your mind), what do you plant?

Analgesic

Tuesday, I dropped a can of evaporated milk on the second toe of my right foot.

It hurt.

It's turning interesting colors. I'd show you, but I can't get my camera to talk to my computer right now.

I'm walking funny because of it.

Walking funny while carrying a hold-me baby has made my foot hurt, and my ankle, and my knee, and even my hip and back.

So tonight, I took a pain pill. I don't often take them - even after the c-section, I kept the pills to a minimum. They make me feel dopey. Don't worry, it wasn't a heavy-weight one, just an Advil. I wouldn't have taken it, but I am tired in more than body and could use some sleep...not that I'm getting any, up all hours blogging...

Two hours later, my foot hurts a bit less.

Where's the pain pill for my heart, though? It's been rather hammered, lately, poor blighted thing, and could use a little relief itself...but I can't seem to find anything in the medicine chest to help with that ache.

Bothering

My camera is crapping out on me.

That's ok, though, because my computer's crapping out on me, too, so even if the camera was working properly, I couldn't off-load the photographs any way.

I can't crop or do anything else to my photos, and I can't afford to print them anyway, so I can't make cards for the co-op. I'm not sure that matters.

I used to write music, but lately? I can't seem to find it in me. I don't even want to sing. I have a huge case of "Who the hell cares?".

I don't even want to write. It's all unhappiness, isn't it? And can you honestly say you aren't tired of it?

I find myself wishing I could be in a terrible accident so I could abdicate responsibility for my life for a little while. Don't worry, it's just wishful thinking. I'm tired, and it all seems rather futile...like I needn't bother.

I'm bothering, anyway.

Peace

There is no peace here at Casa de Crazy.

Things beep and boop, creak and groan, buzz and hum, whoosh and whir.

The phone rings, rings again.

Cats meow.

The Evil Genius is never still and does not value or even understand silence - he seems to need to fill it with his motion and noise. If I don't pay attention, stop what I'm doing and focus on him, he escalates, often until I snap at him, send him outside, feelings hurt.

The baby cries.

The neighbor's dog barks.

Some of the noise is alright-wind in the trees, frogs peeping, the coyote pack yipping and laughing on the next ridge over (we are not out in the wilds, here - the coyote have adapted to farms and cluster housing), the baby cooing, giggling, making her happy noises - but too often the good stuff is interrupted by distant highway noises, loud voices at the neighbors', aircraft overhead, cars cruising through, civilization refusing to give us even a moment without a reminder of its existence.

I have occasionally wished I could scream "Shut up!!!" at all of it. I have even wondered if I wouldn't be happier deaf. Selectively deaf, deaf on demand, able to push some magical mute button that would allow me to savor some silence.

Without silence, without calm, without peace, I find it very difficult to do anything more than simply make it from one day to the next. I would like to do, to be, more...

Weather

We've had some storms here at Casa de Crazy, inside and out.

It may be that one reflects the other, but riddle me this: which is cause and which is effect?

Trying times.

Things tend to go wrong in clusters, around the Casa. It's never just one bad day, one bad mood, one angry moment. It's days and days of out-gassing, of blowing up and falling apart, of walking on eggshells and inevitably crushing them beneath our feet, dusting the grit from our toes as we plod on waiting for the next bright spot.

Bright spots, by the way, do not come in clusters. Elusive, they are so easily lost in mediocrity. We must actively seek them out, and once found, we must try to catch the ephemeral things, grasp them in less than perfect hands, hands rough from every-day use, calloused with frustration and toil, unsuited to holding gossamer mists, fairy wings, and joy.

Joy.

It flutters in on moth's wings and crumbles to dust in the corners, something else to sweep up and bin.

The children and I went for a walk one day last week. Someone was initially going to come as well, but something set off his anger - the Universe, playing its favorite sport, toying with him once again, knocking him around, bruising his dreams, his hands, his heart - and so we left him home to find his calm.

It was a windy day. Sprout, like her Papa, doesn't like wind in her face. I like to turn my face into the wind, breathe deep, taste and scent the story of its journey. It was a short walk, to the end of our street and back, perhaps a quarter mile all told. The Evil Genius was on his scooter (the old-fashioned, foot propelled, balance on one foot sort, not the motorized kind so prevalent today in grocery stores and among the elderly population) rolling ahead and then waiting for me to catch up.

We came home, walked and rolled around the cul-de-sac, content to circle and soak in the thin sunshine, unwilling to return just yet to the troubled light of home.

The wind stopped me, drew my eye to the crowns of some trees behind a neighbor's house. Towering above his two-storey home, they swayed, bowed, and twisted with the blustery gusts. My mind's eye saw fairies in their tree-top kingdoms, clinging to leaf and twig as they were tossed this way and that.

Sometimes it feels that way down here, as if life's winds have us in their grasp and are tossing us about, human hackey-sacs.

The trees, they bend and creak, give way a little while their roots go deeper, seeking better purchase.

Sometimes we bend, sometimes we cling, and sometimes we lose our grips and are blown to the corners of our world. Lately I feel like a piece of litter thrown to the ground, taken up by the storm, torn and tumbled about. I cannot seem to catch my breath, catch myself, before the thunder rolls once more.

So Tell Me...

I'm falling behind with blogging. I'm all tangled up with life, sticky, thorny vines wrapped around me so tight it sometimes feels like even breathing is a struggle.

Yesterday, I read this post over at BHJ's blog, and it led me down a line of thought that terminated with these questions: Are you seen? Are you heard? Is there anyone who cares enough to listen to and support your dreams? Tell me...

A Bit Late

Happy birthday, Mum!!!!!!!

Rats.

Or should I say, "Mice."? Well...mouse, anyway. There's a mouse at Casa de Crazy. It's not a pet. It's not in the Casa, but rather has opted for mobile home living in Rosy the (Astro Van) Mule. It has chewed papers, and crumbs, and the snacks that used to live in there because I have blood sugar issues and an Evil Genius who doubles as a bottomless pit (the way he eats now, I look toward his teen years with dread for my wallet, comforted in the knowledge that at least we'll get the economy back on track)(you're welcome), and it gnawed the scarf Mum knit for the boy. It pooped on the floor mats, it pooped on the back seat, it pooped in the console, and it pooped on the blankets that live in the back. It has made itself quite comfortable in there, and while I've been hoping one of the (not at all) wild cats would deal with it, I wasn't pressed about getting rid of it with any kind of violence. I was honestly hoping that once I cleaned the van out, the furry feller would find new digs. Instead, he found crumbs in the seat, crumbs under the seat, and a bag of sunflower seeds I didn't even know was there. I decided I had to get a trap. Today, when I went to the store to resupply the cupboards, I decided to get one. A trap, that is. I reached into the console for my cash - the last of my cash, in fact. Guess what else the furry little fucker chewed while he was at it? My forty bucks. Nothing left of it but a pile of greenish fluff. That's irony. I swear I can hear him laughing...

Wait, What Day Is It?

I keep losing track of days.

Whole days are disappearing.

Somebody call Mulder and Scully...somethin' fishy's goin' on around here. No it's not sleep deprivation. Who needs a full night's rest, anyway? Sprout doesn't. Neither does Rook. Why, just this morning they took turns helping me wake up.

Four-O'clock, and still a-bed? Sluggard!

Go back to sleep? Lazy bones...here, we'll help.

Rook alternated meyowling and licking my nose (talk about weird sensations) and Sprout joined in with a rousing chorus of "I May Sound Happy But If You Don't Feed Me Soon I'm Going To Make Tornado Sirens Sound Like A Muted Mime*."

Deceptive, these two girls - one's asleep on my arm, the other's curled up on the couch beside me. Ever diligent, though, they'll make sure I don't succumb to any nasty old naps. Meanwhile, there's work to do...somebody's got to locate those missing days...

"What're you lookin' at...?"

*The hit single by Captain Pooper and the Waaah-Waaahs, soon available for digital download.

Hard Lessons

When I was a kid, I left my favorite book outside our apartment, on a picnic table in the yard. Horton Hatches the Egg. I loved that book. It was my best friend. I took it everywhere with me. That night, it rained. Mum wouldn't let me go outside to get it, because it was quite a storm...so I knelt on the back of the couch and watched my beloved book get rained on, and I cried and cried. It was ruined, and I was devastated...but I learned a lesson. Bird's father let him have his old iPhone. Bird loved it, and played with the apps constantly. He'd fall asleep with it. Little Dude still wets the bed. The iPhone got wet and died, and T bought the boy an iTouch. Bird has played with it non-stop since he got it, downloading apps and watching videos. It has seen him through long waits in doctors' offices, long car trips, and is part of his bedtime ritual - play in his room until lights out, then play with the iThing (as I call it) until it's time to wrap it up and go to sleep. Then the iThing gets plugged in to charge and Little Dude goes to sleep. Can you see where this is going? Thursday evening, Bird told me his iThing wouldn't work. I told him to bring it to me - sometimes the battery is really, really dead and it just needs charging...but this time I could see something wrong. There was moisture inside the screen. I asked him if it had gotten wet...and he had to admit that he'd fallen asleep with it and wet the bed. I put the iThing in a bag of rice - sometimes it helps. Tonight, I tried to plug it in, but it wouldn't take a charge, wouldn't turn on. I'm going to try again tomorrow night, but don't hold out much hope. The iThing is dead...and Little Dude?? He's devastated. He's been crying in his room all evening. He was warned - if anything happened to the iThing, he would not get another. It is an expensive toy for a child to have. He was warned that he must look after it, was responsible for keeping track of it, and that he could not sleep with it, because if it got wet, it could be ruined. I hurt for him. We all have to learn this lesson...and it's not easy to watch him suffer his loss. In a perfect world, I could let him be sad for a while, let him learn his lesson, and then replace it eventually...but I can't. I don't have the money to buy such an extravagant thing, and T made it clear when he bought it that he would not replace it...so Bird's most cherished possession, his prize, the best thing his Daddy gave him (and part of his attachment to it is that it came from his father, so it's precious) is lost to him. It's a hard lesson, and it sucks.

Hello

Houseguests coming today. With any luck, they'll see some of this:

Thoughtfetti

We survived the weekend, collectively. I got home in time to pack the Evil Genius off with his dad (thanks to Mum, who packed his suitcase before I got home). A few Porsches got bent, and one or two were rather broken, but no one was hurt (except in their wallet) so the weekend was a success in my books. I had a blast, and I think they may ask me back again. Sprout had a good time at home with Someone - she loves her Papa!
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I just learned that all the water in the world's reservoirs is causing a slight change in the Earth's rotation. Holy wow!
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Popcorn + butter + salt + garlic powder = I need more of that!!
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I never tire of watching Anthony Bourdain eat a warthog's asshole. It's wrong, I know...but ohmuhgoodness, it's sooooo funny! Having eaten my share of "eww" items, I can empathize...but I only have so much "polite" left in me, and I'm afraid it doesn't extend to dining on anus of any variety. He can have my share.
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I suddenly have a craving for Jack Daniels Lynchburg Lemonade. Why? I haven't had one of those in decades. No kidding, decades.
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I love listening to Someone talk to Sprout. It's even funnier when she talks back. She makes the funniest noises, now, and smiles. Hoo-ee, when she lays that thousand-watt smile on us, we melt. How has it already been two months??
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How was your weekend?

Early Morning

Someone has been doing Papa duty solo this weekend as I'm working communications over at the track. Yesterday was stormy off and on all day, which made racing...interesting.

Last night, we went to sleep watching lightning strobe the night, listening to thunder rolling along the hills.

It seems the storm's gotten snagged in the trees, tearing itself open to scud along with the wind, dumping rain as it goes - this morning, it's a deluge outside Casa de Crazy, and the flashing outside is causing flickering inside. Racing today - two endurance races - will also be...interesting.

Sprout decided to wake me up a bit early this morning. I planned on being up at 5:40, but she thought 5:00 was better. It was nice, though, to hold her, feed her, and rock her back to sleep. I've missed doing it the last few days. This has been my first long stretch away from my family since before the baby was born. I miss them during the day.

Today, Someone gets a little reprieve - Mum is picking up the Evil Genius and bringing him to a friend's house-warming party. Then tonight, if all goes according to plan, T will pick the Evil Genius up and have him until Tuesday.

I wonder if I can get the boy's room clean in two days? Hmm...maybe if I had a steam shovel...

I have to go, now...time to paddle over to the track and see if our communications net is still alive or if we're relegated to using handheld radios for the day. I'm not holding my breath.

Guess What...

This man:

I love him. It's his birthday today. I have no gift for him. Truth be told, I think he's the gift. I baked him a yellow cake, and am going to frost it with home made chocolate frosting. For his birthday, I'm letting him cook dinner. Nice, ain't I?

Happy birthday, Sir. I'm glad you were born

That's Right, I Said "Bring It!"

What If...?

What if I hadn't been molested by a neighbor when I was 10? Would I have seen myself differently? Would I have grown into a different woman? Would I have seen the world differently? Would I have trusted more, or less?

What if I hadn't been molested by a family member between the ages of 13 and 15? Would I have done more, been more? Or would I have done, been, less?

What if I hadn't bee sexually assaulted when I was 18? Would I have felt more, or less, sure of myself?

What if I had stuck with the music degree, fought through the ennui, ignored the barbs of my fellow students, faked the confidence needed to make it through what is (believe it or not) second only to nursing as a killer major? What if I hadn't been content to be in the chorus, but had gone out for the lead every time? Would I be singing in a metropolitan opera house? Or would I be teaching voice lessons to the next aspiring generation?

What if I had paid better attention in English classes? Would I be a published author or still struggling with politely worded rejections? Or would I have seen the folly of trying to break into the vaunted halls of publication?

What if I had swallowed my anger, resentment, and pride and gone back to school, accepted my degree (I had enough credits when I left, how stupid was I to turn my back on that??)? Would I be a better person, more valuable and valued? Or would it make not a whit of difference?

What if I had done whatever it was I needed to do to hold my head up, look the world in the eye, and tell it to go fuck itself when it's being ugly?

What if, what if, what if...

I often say I wouldn't trade a single moment of my past for something different, because it brought me to this present. I've had my share of awful. Who hasn't? But without it, I wouldn't have the Evil Genius, or Sprout, or Someone, or the friends who love and tolerate me and my crazy.

Still...sometimes I will wonder...what if...

The Annual Ostara Shirk...er...Post

So it's Ostara again, and once again I have not written a post about what Ostara is besides the Equinox.

I know you're terribly disappointed. How 'bout I make it up to you with some chocolate? It's on the table in the kitchen, help yourself.

Meanwhile, we're at Mum's, coloring eggs and celebrating Spring. What're y'all up to today?

You Know, You Probably Shouldn't Encourage This Sort of Behavior

Hey, guess what??

I won something! No, not the lottery...if I won the lottery I wouldn't be blogging about it, I'd be collecting it.

Nope, no lottery...but I did win a blogging award. See?

SciFiChick gave it to me. Considering my content of late, I think she was being generous, but I was raised never to look a gift award horse in the mouth.

As is usually the case with these things, there are some rules. The question is, will I follow them?? Hmm...what to do, what to do...

I guess I'll play nice. For now.

First I'm supposed to tell you seven things that you may not know about me. Wow...umm...I don't know if I have seven things I haven't already blogged about. You already know I drive the crazy train, have two kids, a Someone, and a gracious plenty of cats. You know I'm a singer, a writer, a quilter, a photographer, and a lazy so-and-so. You know I'm Pagan. Huh...what have I got left? This is like writing a bio...and I really don't like writing bios. They give me hives. Ok, ok, enough with the stalling...here goes:

1. Some folks think I don't like dogs. That's not true. I grew up with dogs, and I love 'em. I don't like ill behaved dogs. I also don't want to be the only one cleaning up after or training a dog...so until recently I have refused to entertain the notion that Casa de Crazy could go to the dogs. Now I'm entertaining the notion, but have not begin to implement it yet - Someone loves dogs and I believe he would be a dab hand at dealing with them, but a new baby sort of put a crimp in caninery for a bit.

2. I have a dictionary that weighs more than my daughter. It is one of my favorite books. Someone likes it, too. We are constantly looking things up in it. We are, collectively, deeply weird and wordy.

3. I have been known, on rare occasions (although not in the last few years), to smoke something that is distinctly not tobacco. Shh, don't tell my Mum. Oh, wait...she reads my blog. Dang. I'm an advocate for legalizing said smokey comestible and will happily engage in a reasoned, educated conversation about it but am not interested in propaganda or hyperbole.

4. I am allegedly part New England Indigenous Tribal Person (read: Native American, but don't get me started on that semantic battle), which may explain why I don't like to borrow blankets from strangers.

5. I am an ordained minister. For reals! I can perform marriages and everything!

6. Whenever I'm in a new house, I mentally redecorate it with my stuff.

7. I have always wanted to be a phone, computer, or cartoon character voice. Really. I would love to be a voice-over artist or narrator (Hello, Discovery and Nat Geo channels, are you there??) as well. A gal can dream...

Whew, I'm glad that's over with.

And now I am supposed to pass the award along to fifteen other bloggers. This part's no easier - there are so many good reads out there...if I left you out, it's not 'cause I don't love ya!

In no particular order:

Hermit Jim. He's my kinda guy - warm, personable, intelligent, capable of spell-checking before he posts a blog...and he's practically family since I stole his nephew and brought him to Casa de Crazy to shack up with me!

Mizz Suzy. She's funny. Good grief, is she funny. She makes me laugh. A lot.

Mum. Hey, there was nothing in the rules about nepotism, and I happen to think my Mum is one classy and uber-stylish woman. Also, since usually all I give her is a headache...I figure she's due an award. Too bad there's not a cash prize along with it...sorry, Mum...

Vodkamom. I adore her. You, too, can adore her. Go on, try it...it's easy, and you'll live longer...

Mizz Rachel. Sister of my soul. Poet, mama, compassionate, intelligent, and one of the people I would very much like to meet in person some day.

Mizz Treesong. The woman is the epitome of perseverance. If introducing an art program to her community doesn't define style, I dunno what does.

Someone. What, you thought I wouldn't? Whoof...he's got some crazy style, and he's all sorts of sexy (not that I'm biased) and funny and sweet. Go look, you know you wanna.

Mizz Rene. Classy lady in the classic sense.

Kit. I adore her whole family.

Is that fifteen, yet? No? Huh...ok, then...

Friar. Ohmuhgoodness, his cartoons are hysterical (in the best way).

Mizz Marcy. She's so glamorous!

Pearl. She makes taking the bus sound like a good reason to stay home so cool.

Busted Knuckles. He uses grown-up words...lots and lots of grown-up words. I adore him.

Aunt Becky. She calls her kids "crotch parasites". What's not to love?

Mizz Suzan, who isn't blogging any more, dang it...but I'm giving it to her anyway.
~~~~~

Whew...done. I'm worn slap out...time for a nap. What're y'all reading, these days?

St. Whatsis Day

This is a (slightly edited) re-repost. You'll survive.
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I'll be cooking corned beef and cabbage for dinner tonight, much to my family's delight. Mum may come down because she, like me, loves the stuff. Bird likes the bread and meat fine, but not the cabbage, and he doesn't want the potatoes, which leads me to wonder if any of the one-quarter Irish in my veins made it to him. I get not liking cabbage, but potatoes? Something's not right with the child. Someone will happily scarf the lot, because he's a good Irish lad.

Seeing as I'm Pagan, you wouldn't think I'd celebrate St. Patrick's Day. Better than most, I know what St. Patrick did to get famous and earn his sainthood. However, I'm also part Irish, and I happen to love corned beef and cabbage. Also, I consider it a reclaiming of the day for Pagans, or some junk.

A bit of rather bent history (that has, I'll grant you, been mangled in my head over the years and is rather truncated because I'm not writing a book, here)(I'm writing a book somewhere else). When I was a child, we were told that St. Patrick's day was to celebrate his chasing all the snakes out of Ireland. It is an historically serpent-free bit of earth, and the church attributed this to St. Pat and his efforts...kind of overlooking that there weren't any of the slithery things on the island to begin with, if you ask me. Which they didn't, because I was a kid and most grown-ups weren't prepared for my staggering logic and keen grasp of history but rather appalling lack of respect for theology .

Many years later, people were saying St. Patrick's Day was a celebration of all things Irish, like green beer (wait, isn't beer German??) and green clothes, and green hair, and green mashed potatoes (which I won't eat on a dare because, really...green potatoes???), and rivers dyed green (I'm sure the fish are all so very thankful to be included...like Fridays and Lent weren't enough for them!)(that might only be funny if you're Catholic)(or not) and exclusionary parades, and funny little men waving their shillelaghs about (look it up you pervs!!) and that sort of thing.

In none of the many different explanations for this seemingly random holiday did anyone mention pagans. A most curious oversight of you know what St. Patrick, who was just Patrick at the time (not really, I have no idea what his real name was. For all I know, it was Fred), was actually doing on the Emerald Isle.

He was born and lived sometime between 490 and 461 AD, give or take. Around age sixteen, he was either sent or stolen and taken to Ireland where he spent some time hanging out with sheep and being lonely. He talked to God a lot. You may notice that lots of shepherds do that. You would too if all you had for company all day was a bunch of mutton-heads. Christianity was rolling along like a snowball in those days, spreading out all over the dang place. Good grief, it was getting so that a simple Pagan/Heathen (there's a difference between the two, not that the church cared much) couldn't get any peace any more. Everywhere they turned, there was a church being built where a sacred grove used to be, from the trees that used to be the sacred grove, or a church going up on a sacred hill, or someone bathing their dirty feet in a sacred stream. To be fare, there was a lot of real estate lumped under that "sacred" heading in the pagan world. We're like that - we just love our planet so. Plus, you know, all those gods needed housing, and they don't do the roommate thing very well. So the pagans were running out of places to have sex on the ground, in the woods, up a tree - they were big on the sex, those little devils - and to read entrails in their spare time.

I digressed. Sorry.

So there was this lonely kid, Patrick Whatsisname, hanging out with sheep and pondering life, the universe, and everything. He got the idea, somewhere along the way, that maybe other folks should share his God. He got out of his contract (OK, probably slavery) and went around telling folks how terrific his God was, and how he reckoned they should convert.

It seems that polite conversation wasn't doing it for the pagans, who tended to stare at him, or point and laugh. Rude beggars, huh? Now young Patrick (or middle aged Patrick, or old Patrick, I have no idea) decided he needed to be a bit more...persuasive. He had noticed something common among the pagan big-wigs. The guys at the top of the food-chain, magic/spirituality wise speaking tended to have a symbol on them somewhere...usually around their wrist. On the wrist that indicated their "hand of power", or the hand which they believed their "magic" flowed from. If it wasn't a tattoo, it was a torque. Guess what the tattoo/torque was? A critter called the oroborus. For them as what doesn't ken what that critter is, it's a snake eating its tail, and often represents eternity.

Pat realized that if he took away this "power", he took away their mystique and leadership ability. So he removed the snakes - often with something edged and unpleasant. Yes, he whacked off their hands. Or branded their skin. Or took their trinkets. Converting Heathens is such messy work!! It was for their own good, of course.

Some pagans today go on "snake crawls", a sort of pub crawl where they wear snakes and proclaim their paganism. I'm not quite that...er...proactive. I also don't necessarily think old Pat went around mauling everyone he met in an effort to build church membership and win a nifty prize. But it's the bloody aspect of what he did that earned his name in Christendom and for which his holiday is celebrated.

So again, why would I celebrate the day? Well, I'm all for a day when families get together and discuss history, theology, spirituality, and the like. Traditions are important - they give us a foundation on which to build our lives. People should discuss their history so they don't repeat it - whatever side of the issue they're on. Also, as I mentioned, I am part Irish. I can celebrate that heritage even as I acknowledge its imperfection. And I am Pagan - and I am celebrating the fact that I can be pagan today without (much) fear of having my (largely not visible when I'm clothed) tattoos painfully removed and other unpleasantness (except for the odd zealot who thinks I'm fair game, but I'm used to that. I live in the Bible belt, after all). Precisely because we didn't get wiped out, I celebrate. And have you ever had a really nice corned beef and cabbage dinner? I mean, yum!

Oh, but I won't be wearing green. I wear blue. Don't even think about pinching me.

I Was Going to Write a Real Blog Post, But...

...I made reference to Break Dancing and the Evil Genius wanted to know what that was. Ouch. Generation gap, anyone?? So we had to surf YouTube and find some samples. Hey, home schooling takes many guises...we used this as an opportunity to discuss trends, fashion, athleticism, the need to focus and practice things, and busking, among other things.

Since I didn't write an actual post, I'm going to show you what the Evil Genius had for educational videos tonight:







Suddenly I feel all old and creaky...how're you doin'?