Graveyard Dirt: Two Worlds and In-between

Hello, Old Lady

Currently the UK is being wiped out by snow. (I WOULD LOL, REALLY, BUT THIS WAS SO OBVIOUSLY EXPECTED THAT ALL I CAN REALLY DO IS ROLL MY EYES AND GRIN THAT ALL-KNOWING "OH, UNIVERSE, THAT'S SOOOOOO //YOU//" GRIN.)(<- IT WAS BRIDE'S DAY ON THE 2ND, AND THE ANCIENT PEOPLE IN THIS AREA USED THAT DAY AS A SPRING FORECAST. IF THE WEATHER WAS FAIR IT MEANT THE OLD WOMAN - THE CAILLEACH, THE YOUNG BRIDE THAT INEVITABLY TURNED CRONE AND REIGNED AS THE WINTER HAG FROM SAMHAIN UNTIL BELTANE - WOULD LEAVE HER HOUSE TO COLLECT MORE FIREWOOD, AND WITH MORE FIREWOOD SHE WAS SET FOR MORE WINTER. IF THE WEATHER WAS FOUL, THOUGH, SHE COULDN'T BE FUCKED TO LEAVE THE HOUSE (OH, OLD WOMAN, HOW YOUR BLOOD FLOWS THROUGH MY VEINS!) TO STOCK UP ON WOOD, SO SPRING, NATURALLY, CAME EARLY.)

Last year I learned about the Scottish GROUNDHOG'S DAY SANS GROUNDHOG and spent the last few weeks of January running in mental circles. ("BUT HOW DO YOU KNOW, EXACTLY? I MEAN, WHAT IF THE WEATHER IS MOSTLY SHITTY WITH A FEW BRIGHT SPELLS? WHAT IF THE WEATHER IS MOSTLY AWESOME BUT THEN CLOSES WITH A TYPHOON? WHAT IF...?") My mother-in-law, noticing my mental agitation (and constantly window checking of weather the eve of Candlemas/Imbolc), asked me what I was up to.

"TOMORROW IS BRIDE'S DAY!"

But that didn't ring any bells.

"TOMORROW IS BRIDE'S DAY! YOU KNOW, BRIDE'S DAY! WHEN EVERYONE WATCHED THE WEATHER SINCE IT FORE-CASTED THE ARRIVAL OF SPRING. IF THE WEATHER WAS BAD THE OLD WOMAN, THE CAILLEACH, STAYED INDOORS, BUT IF THE WEATHER WAS FINE SHE WOULD LEAVE HER HOUSE TO PICK UP STICKS AND KINDLING TO HAVE ENOUGH FIREWOOD FOR THE EXTENDED PERIOD OF WINTER."

She was still pretty much lost her after "Bride's Day", even with the expanded explanation.

"BRIDE'S DAY IS SORT'VE LIKE GROUNDHOG'S DAY IN THE STATES BUT WITH SAINT BRIGID."

"OOOOOOOOOOOOH! GROUNDHOG'S DAY AND SAINT BRIGID!"

And that, dear readers, is how common ground was found and met between an older Scottish woman and a younger American woman. (FUCKING GROUNDHOG'S DAY AND SAINT BRIGID. HOLY FUCK, DUDE, I'M THE //AMERICAN// LIVING IN SCOTLAND, AND I HAVE SCOTTISH PEOPLE LOOKING AT ME LIKE I'M //RETARDED// FOR KNOWING THIS SHIT BECAUSE THEY'VE NEVER HEARD IT BEFORE.)(DOES THAT SEEM INSANE TO ANYONE ELSE? TO LIVE IN AN EFFING COUNTRY CHOKING ON MYTHOLOGY AND FOLKLORE AND HAVE THIS STUFF BE VIRTUALLY UNKNOWN AMONGST THE NATIVE INHABITANTS?)

(JESUS, I'M AMERICAN. //I'M// THE ONE COMING FROM A LAND OF FOLKLORE THAT CELEBRATES SOME FUCKING MOUNTAIN MAN WHO WALKED AROUND WITH A POT ON HIS HEAD THAT PLANTED APPLE SEEDS AND //YOU// HAVE AN ANCIENT DEATH/LIFE CREATOR GODDESS WHO PERSONIFIED WINTER STORMS AND SOVEREIGNTY, AND WAS SO INTRINSICALLY LINKED TO THE LAND THAT THE VERY EARTH DEMANDED HER BLESSING AND ATTENTION TO ENSURE PROSPERITY AND FERTILITY.)

(LET'S NOT EVEN TRY AND DECONSTRUCT "JOHN HENRY", OKAY? WHAT'S SO TALL TALE ABOUT AN "ATHLETIC" BLACK MAN?)(LOL, "ATHLETIC". <- IF YOU WATCH ANY UFC EVENT YOU'LL QUICKLY NOTICE HOW ANY AND ALL BLACK FIGHTERS ARE DESCRIBED AS BEING NATURALLY "ATHLETIC".)

So, ANYWAY, I spent the weeks leading up to Bride's Day searching the sky for some sort of hint or clue because READING THE WIND AND CLOUDS AND MOVEMENT OF BIRDS was still a little new to me. (LOL, BECAUSE I'M LIKE AN //EXPERT// NOW AT IT, OR SOMETHING.)(ALTHOUGH, HONESTLY, IT'S NOT AS HARD AS YOU'D THINK. YOU ONLY NEED THREE THINGS - KEEN OBSERVATION, A DECENT MEMORY AND CONFIDENCE IN YOUR GUT FEELING. SOMETIMES I WONDER HOW MUCH PREDICTION AND DIVINATION IS FUNDAMENTALLY ABOUT //JUST PAYING ATTENTION TO SHIT//.)

I remember that it was cold, and I remember it was gray, and I remember it was windy, but it didn't snow, and it didn't rain. ("BUT WHAT DOES IT MEAN?!") By the time the sun set and twilight fell on northeast Scotland the seasonal breeze picked up to gale force winds and ripped through the bare trees and shrubs, shaking everything including the mostly concrete/stone house we live in.

We went out for something, both Italics and I, and I watched the countryside through a pane of glass as we bumped along the road, looking for any sort of sign, any sort of point in the right direction. There was nothing except for blackness and wind, and the cold blue-white twinkle of stars partially hidden beneath a thin layer of streaming gray cloud.

Usually we pull straight into the drive when we come home but this time, for some reason, Italics's mother (father? I think, maybe, father) dropped us off in front of the house to turn the car around in the street. Crossing from asphalt onto brick I saw something lying on the driveway, exactly where the car would've otherwise pulled into.

There, laying on lichen encrusted brick, was a small bundle of sticks. (We don't have any shrubs or bushes in the front yard, so the wind must've snapped off the branch from a neighbor's yard and carried it to our driveway. Carried it to my feet, to my /house/.) If we HAD parked it would've crushed the kindling that was left for me, and I would've been none the wiser.

I wanted my sign, and I got it. (AND I STILL HAVE IT, IN FACT, PERFECTLY CONTAINED IN A PLASTIC BAGGIE, MARKED WITH ALL RELEVANT INFORMATION INCLUDING DATE AND TIME AND ALL OF THAT SCIENTIFIC JAZZ. <- THERE'S NO REASON TO BE A MESSY, DISORGANIZED WITCH, OKAY? LABELING EVERYTHING WITH V. IMPORTANT INFORMATION IN JARS AND BAGGIES DOESN'T MAKE IT ANY LESS //MAGIC//, JUST EASIER TO FIND THE SHIT YOU'RE AFTER.)(E.G., TRYING TO FIND MY GRATED/DEHYDRATED PUMPKIN SHAVINGS TO ADD INTO OUR SOLAR SABBAT CAKES. BUT EVEN THEN I HAD TO PULL THE FUCKING LONG BOX FROM UNDERNEATH THE BED //TWICE//...)