Arthur

It would have been funny, if it weren’t so sad. It was 6 o’clock on a brisk October morning. I was digging a grave at the top of the bank in the backyard of our house. But this was a special grave for Arthur waiting down below in the house, unaware of his fate. I scooped up a few more shovelfuls of sand, deemed the hole deep enough, then stuck the shovel in the ground. As I began my slow descent down the bank to fetch Arthur, I reflected back on his life, which for the most part was tranquil, but also contained drama.

The day of Arthur’s birth was easy to remember. It was our son, Brant’s, eleventh birthday, March 19. The night before, we had ten of his friends over for a slumber party and that day we had heated up the pool so the boys could swim. Arthur was born on a pile of towels, under our bathroom sink. While the boys were swimming in the pool we kept them updated on the births through the bathroom window that looked out over the pool. “ We’re up to three!” we’d shout.

Arthur was the biggest of the litter. Four of the kittens looked like their mother, Midnight, black as her name, including the kink in their tails. Arthur and his sister were the only tabbys and took after their father. We knew who the father was because we were there at the conception. We did not actually see it, but heard the yeowl outside our bedroom window one night. Midnight was a feral cat that Ricki, our daughter, had found earlier that year. Midnight did not adjust to complete domesticity as she did not like to cuddle or be held, but would still rub against your legs and would welcome being petted. We could not keep her inside, and she roamed the neighborhood at will. Midnight had just finished her period of heat, or so we thought, when we let her out that night. Later Tigger, the neighbor’s big tabby, must have picked up her scent and made his play.

We didn’t tell our neighbors of Midnight’s pregnancy, because I had a plan. They were friends and their younger son, Mark, often played with our son though he was a few years older. Tigger, in fact, was more Mark’s cat than anyone’s. Soon after the kittens’ birth I asked my husband, an attorney, to bring home a petition to establish paternity. I filled it out with Tigger listed as the father and Midnight the petitioning mother who claimed he owed child support for fathering the six kittens. I signed it Thomas Feline, attorney, and then gave it to Ricki to deliver to the neighbors. She rang the doorbell and left it on the step. Sure enough, it wasn’t five minutes before Mark came over beaming like a proud papa himself.

Naturally, Ricki wanted to keep all the kittens, but that was not to be. We decided to give Mark first choice if he wanted one. He and his girlfriend came over one day, and of course they picked out the pretty grey tabby. As the weeks passed, Brant and Ricki became more and more attached to the kittens, especially the two tabbys. We finally said, “All right, you may keep one kitten.” Midnight was Ricki’s cat so Brant said he should pick. Since the grey male kitten had already been chosen, he picked the female tabby. At that time Brant was very much interested in knights, castles, and dragons so it was he who dubbed the two favorite kittens King Arthur and Queen Guinevere. As it turned out, Mark and his girlfriend did not take a kitten and both Arthur and Guinevere became ours.

Unfortunately, Midnight disappeared a few months after the kittens were born, and Guienivere six months after that. We searched the neighborhood for months and left notices to ask if anyone saw them, and finally surmised that they had been taken by coyotes, or more likely raccoons, who had been known to be in the area.

So all we had left was Arthur, who unlike his mother, was becoming very domesticated. Ricki carried Arthur everywhere, gave him rides in her wagon, and dressed him in baby clothes. As they both grew older he did learn to assert his independence and decide when and where he would become part of her agenda, but by then, the relationship was cemented. Arthur was Ricki’s cat; he slept at the foot of her bed, endured many big hugs and was the first to be greeted when she came home from school.

When Arthur was three months old we had him neutered to curb his roaming tendencies. We let him out in the daytime, but kept him in at night. He grew into a big lazy cat who lounged around the house, but he would occasionally bring us a dead bird as present from his daytime wanderings. We also had a dog at the time and they got along well after Arthur let Taffy know who was “Boss.”

We moved to a new house when Arthur was four. The house backed up to the open desert and we often found wild animals such as snakes, rabbits and quail in our yard. At night the coyote howls were quite close. We, therefore, made the decision to curb Arthur’s access to the outside and he became an indoor cat. He was not happy about the decision and took it out on our couch and chairs. We bought him a scratching post and covered it with catnip, to lure him to give up his scratching habit. It didn’t work. The side of our couch was in shreds, so we had him declawed.

Our dog Taffy died of cancer, we got another dog that also died, but Arthur endured. One summer my husband, BJ, and I went away for the weekend leaving Ricki, who was home for the summer and preparing for college in the fall. On Saturday night we received a phone call. It was Ricki. “Arthur bit me. I was trying to get the hairballs out of his fur. I’m on my way to the emergency room.”

A few minutes later she called back. “The emergency room at Eisenhower is closed. I have to drive to Desert Hospital in Palm Springs.”

“But that’s half an hour away and it’s ten o’clock at night!” I said.

“Oh, Mom, I’ll be OK. Don’t worry.”

Ricki ended up just fine. The bite barely punctured her skin, but she got an antibiotic shot just in case. Little did we know this was just the beginning of the Arthur saga.

Later that summer my husband attended a judges’ conference at the Hyatt hotel in Dana Point. Since he had a room to himself I went along too. While he was attending classes, I could shop and relax on the beach. We had been there two days when we got a phone call. It was ten o’clock at night and we were in bed. I answered the phone. It was Ricki.

“ I can’t find Arthur.”

“What do you mean, you can’t find him? How did he get out? He couldn’t have gone far.” I said.

“We think he jumped out of the car.”

“Car? What was he doing in the car? Who is ‘we?’

“ Darcy, some other friends and I. We were on our way home from the veterinary hospital in Thousand Palms. We put him in the backseat and stopped to talk to some friends on the way home and he must’ve gotten out.”

“Hospital? Why were you at the hospital?”

When I finally heard the whole story it seems Ricki invited some friends over. One of the boys had a dog. The boy and the dog came in the house, the dog saw Arthur, Arthur ran into our room to get under the bed. Ricki chased after them. When she got into the bedroom she noticed something fuzzy and gray lying on the floor and picked it up. It was Arthur’s tail. Ricki became hysterical. The boy took the tail, ran to the kitchen, and put it in the freezer. The group then proceeded to the vet hospital minus the dog. Unfortunately, the tail could not be attached. Arthur was given antibiotics and pain medication, and what remained of the tail was wrapped in gauze. A legarthic Arthur was placed in the back seat of the car.

“Where do you think Arthur is?” I said.

“I don’t know!” Ricki wailed. “It could be at the hospital. Or near the house where we stopped. We tried to look, but now it’s dark.” She began to cry.

“OK,” I said. “Why don’t I come home tomorrow? We can write up some flyers and I can help you look.”

The next morning I got up and drove back home to Palm Desert to help look for a de-clawed, de-balled, and de-tailed cat who was lost in the desert without water in 112º heat. The first thing I did after I arrived home was print up flyers.

MISSING

LARGE GRAY CAT

VERY SHORT TAIL

NEEDS MEDICAL ATTENTION

PLEASE CALL: 760 346-8888

Ricki and I first went to the neighborhood where her friends lived and posted the flyers then drove to Thousand Palms. The emergency veterinary clinic is located on a side street just down from a busy intersection. If that’s where Arthur was, I hoped he hadn’t gone far. We asked at the clinic and were told no one had reported a missing cat. We then made a wide sweep of the area around the clinic. After looking behind trash cans and the parking lot of the business next door, we focused on the wash on the other side. If he was anywhere, I thought, it would be here. There were tamarisk trees along the wash which made it a cool place to hide. Other beings thought so too. The wash was strewn with discards from the homeless. It gave me a chill to realize we were tramping through what had been a refuge for people who had nowhere to live. We even came upon one camp that looked like it might have still been occupied, but we found no cat.

I was beginning to think it was a hopeless situation. We once had a cat, when I was younger, that we brought to our new home only to discover that it found its way back to where we had left. There are stories of dogs and cats that travel hundreds miles to find their masters. But would Arthur be able to cross busy streets and maybe even the freeway to find us in this heat? I thought.

I stayed that night, and the next morning Ricki convinced me that there was nothing further I could do to help. She and Darci would keep looking and maybe someone would call. So I headed back to the beach. Late that afternoon I got a call. They had found Arthur! They went back to look in the neighborhood where their friends lived. While they were looking around they saw a little boy, and when they told him about a missing cat, he pointed to a bush. Yes, curled up under the bush meowing plaintively was Arthur.

There was one more chapter to this saga, however. On the Friday before we were to leave Dana Point, Ricki called. Arthur had started meowling like he was in pain. Ricki took him to the vet. He had stones in his bladder that needed to be removed. By the time he was through, Arthur’s adventure had cost us over $2,000!

Ricki left that Fall for Chico State and Arthur became our cat. He settled right in, sleeping above my pillow at night which made me have to scrunch down to sleep comfortably. He weighed about 25 pounds now and needed to be on a diet. His favorite place to sit was in front of our bedroom window, which was really a sliding door. From there he had a view of the front yard and the street where he could watch the birds and rabbits. Once in a while a neighbor’s cat came up to the window and they would hiss back and forth at each other.

The second year Ricki was at college Arthur’s health began to fail. He became legarthic, and worst of all, we began to find spots on the rug where he had peed. The vet said he had kidney problems. He hydrated him, but said that he would continue to decline. We could continue to bring him in for treatment every week, but it was only postponing the inevitable. When we called and told Ricki what the vet had said, she wanted to wait and see how he would do. So we waited, and our carpet continued to get soiled. We bought a variety of cleaning products and urine masking solutions, but finally concluded we’d just have to buy new carpet when the time came. Arthur seemed to be better for a while, but then he began to have a wobbly walk, and when he jumped down from a chair he would fall.

I worried about Arthur and every day wondered if, when I came home, I would find him dead. One day driving home when my thoughts were on him, I didn’t realize a signal light had changed and I ran into the back of a car. Both cars were hardly damaged, but we exchanged numbers and insurance information. We had our bumper fixed for $200, but I was surprised to learn that the other driver had submitted a bill for $2,000!

I began to let Arthur outside, where he would crawl under a bush. I had read that when cats were going to die they wanted to seek someplace private, and I figured that is what he needed to do. That week I spoke with Ricki again, and she tearfully agreed the time had come. She had worked in a veterinarian’s office for a few years and still had friends there, so she arranged for me to come in early the next day with Arthur.

Now was that time. I came in from the back yard and got the plastic laundry basket from the service porch and found a beach towel to cover the bottom, then fetched Arthur. He was quiet on the drive down; there was little traffic so we got there early. This was my first time to put an animal down and I was nervous as well as sad. Since I was the only one in the office it went rather quickly. Her friend Jeanie showed me into one of the patient rooms where I sat down, holding and petting Arthur. Afterward, I laid him on the towel and placed the basket in the back seat for the drive home.

At the last minute I decided to bury Arthur wrapped in the beach towel. I placed him in the hole, covered him up, told him what a good cat he was and that we loved him, and headed down the bank into the house. I called Ricki and we both cried a bit before I grabbed my keys and went back to the car for my drive to work.

A Promise

Ever since I can remember I had this vision in the back of my mind:

I was playing with a little black puppy.

It was jumping up and down and I was so happy.

But why did it make me sad whenever I thought about it? I didn’t understand. Did this really happen or was it a dream?

I love dogs. I was always drawn to them. As a child, unlike my sister who was afraid of them, I would approach any dog I saw and want to pet it. In return, they seemed to sense I meant no harm for no dog ever bit me or even growled.

I’ve owned five dogs in my lifetime; the first was a white and tan-spotted Cocker Spaniel my parents brought home when I was about eight. Penny was the family dog, but everyone knew she was really Kathy’s dog. Penny had a litter of puppies two years later which I adored. Four years later my dad accidentally ran over her backing out of the driveway, which broke my heart.

My parents never got another dog until they acquired my grandmother’s chihuahua when she could no longer care for it. We did have cats. My mother was a ‘cat’ person; I can never remember a time when my parents, and later my mother, did not own a cat.

I finally did ask my mother about the puppy when I was an adult,. Her answer was Yes, we had a puppy, but we couldn’t keep it. When I asked why, she said because it jumped up on people. That is the only answer she gave and she refused to talk about it further. I didn’t get the details I wanted. I was still left with my hazy vision.

Naturally, when my husband and I married, one of the first things we did was visit the local pound where we found Toby, our Peke-Cocker mix. Toby was a well-behaved little dog and adapted to apartment living. He enjoyed taking long walks with us on weekends. Toby moved with us to three houses before he was tragically hit by a car. By then we had two children, and we all cried as we buried him under a tree in our front yard.

Taffy, a tan terrier mix, and later Ginger, a brown cocker, were part of our family until they left us way too soon due to health problems. Our daughter acquired two german shepherd-wolf puppies when she was a teen, but took them with her when she left for college so we remained dog-less for several years.Then I found Kira. Actually, Kira found me. She was left wandering in the parking lot outside the building where I attended Jazzercise. She was shaking with fright, but put up no resistance when I put her in the car and brought her home. I had intended to find the owner until I realized she had been abused and she became ours. Kira lived with us 14 years before she became blind and had trouble walking and we helped her to the other side.

A few days ago I decided to go through a box of old war letters. This box, which contained three-years-worth of letters my parents had sent to each other during World War II, had been sitting in my closet since my mother died. The box held close to 1000 letters, by my estimation, and I had told myself I would ‘get to them’ when I had time. Of course the right time never came, so I this day I thought I’ll just begin reading a few at a time. Of course a few became many, and many hundreds. The first letters I read were much the same; my mother telling my dad about what she had been doing and bragging about what my sister and I had accomplished. I had just been born when my dad left for boot camp in November 1942, and my sister was born a year later in December of 1943. I would have been a one and two-year-old during that time, and my sister a baby. There were a lot of I love yous and I miss yous, but I was more interested in reading about me. How many people get a chance to hear what they were like as a toddler?

I laughed at the cute things I said and the antics my mother wrote about me. I also learned a lot about what life was like for families left to wait for their men. I did not learn much about the war from my father’s letters because soldiers were not allowed to tell what they were engaged in.

It was while reading the letters that I began to find a subject that took me by surprise, one which concerned me directly. And very deeply, I soon realized.

November 9, 1943 Daddy The Presidio, San Francisco

Our little valentine is one year old today. Next year I think it is about time we got her her dog.

September 30, 1944 Mom

The other day when she started talking about “Daddy bring *Diane doggie,” I said,” When Daddy brings you your doggie what are you going to call it?”

She said,”Come here.” I guessed she thought I meant how would she call him, so I said,”Is his name going to be “Come here?” She said, “Uh-huh too.” I think I already told you that she never says “Yes,” it’s always “No” or “Uh-huh too” whenever you ask her a question.

*I was called Diane, my middle name, the first five years of my life

October 18, 1944 Mom

On the way over to *Berdoo the other night Diane wouldn’t sit still on my lap, so my mother brought up her favorite subject -the dog Daddy is going to buy her- to see if she would sit still and listen-My mother said, “What are you going to name your doggie?” I added, “ Are you still going to name him ‘Come Here’? “No,” she answered. We named Mitzy, Fritzy, Fido, Blackie, Spot, Rover, every dog name we could think of and the answer was always ‘No’. When we asked her to just tell us, she began thinking it over. This was when we first started out and she didn’t say one word until we got to Colton when she said, “Me call him **Macaroni !”

San Bernardino
* My toddler mind, I’m sure, led me to the song “Yankee Doodle” and the part “stuck a feather in his hat and called it Macaroni!”

October 24, 1944 Mom

This morning when Diane first woke up, she must have been dreaming about you because she stood up in her crib and pointed to your picture and said, “Dats my daddy write dere.” Then when I put her in my bed for a few minutes, she said, “Daddy bring Diane doggie bout too big,” and held her hands to show me the size of a puppy.

November 5, 1944 Mom

The picture I’m enclosing is one Diane picked out in a magazine. When I asked if that was a picture of the kind of doggie she wants, she said,”Too, me call him Macaroni too!” So she hasn’t forgotten the name she picked out a while ago. I told her I would send the picture to Daddy and tell him this is the kind of doggie you and Barbie want.I think a little cocker spaniel like this would be nice, don’t you?

November 11, 1944 Daddy Holland

Tell Diane that her daddy enjoyed her nice letter and that some day he will be able to collect kisses in person and that he will bring her a little doggie when he gets home.

November 12, 1944 Daddy Holland

So Diane wants to call her little doggie she’s going to get “Macaroni.” We’ll have to take them to a kennel and let them pick it out or a better idea would be some day to take a drive and pick it out ourselves because they may pick out one that isn’t the best just because they’ve taken a fancy to it. We could surprise them in the morning. We can plan our little scheme when I get home because they will be plenty old enough for having one then. Diane will be about three and Babs as old as Diane is now so they will be just the right age for a little puppy to play with

January 12, 1945 Daddy Holland

I like the name Macaroni for the kids’ doggie name and call it ‘Mac’ for short. As you say, we will probably be more excited about getting a dog as the kids will. The kids can help me build the dog house. I’m sure I’ll get plenty of assistance from Diane, but don’t know if Barbie is going to be an outdoor girl or not.

Finally, I understood the reason for my sadness about my vision of the little black dog and it hit me hard. How could they build up my hopes and play with my emotions like that for three years? I seems I did get my puppy, but then they took it away. It must have been traumatic for me as a three-year-old; even now it brings tears to my eyes.

I can no longer confront my parents, gone these many years. No wonder they refused to talk about the puppy. They probably felt guilty, but I forgive them. My well-intentioned parents, probably caught up in the joy of parenthood and the anticipation of coming together as a family at the end of the war, promised their little daughter a puppy, then real life intervened.

Discovering what happened also helps me understand why, after all these years, I have kept a well-loved, stuffed, floppy-eared dog most likely given in expectation of their promise. I also now know how he got his name: Macaroni.

Emboldened Grandmothers

Yesterday on The International Day of Women I had the good fortune to join a web interview with Isabel Allende, author of over 30 books translated into 42 different languages, who is known for her mystical writing as well as her strong support for women’s rights. The event, sponsored by Pen America and attended by 388 women from the United States and South America, focused on “Feminism of the Past and Hopes to Inspire the Next Generation.”

Isabel’s latest released book, The Soul of a Woman, is both a memoir and a reflection upon the influence of the women in her life. In the interview she stated that she felt the early women’s movement of the 60s and early 70s was mischaracterized and sometimes seen as men-hating group, which wasn’t the case. She also spoke about the trend to place people in groups or assign labels which she sees as divisive. She believes all rights groups have the same purpose and should work together for all people to be treated fairly and with respect and dignity. The pandemic, she says, has made us realize we are all one human race and have the same concerns and desires. Though in well developed countries women have come a long way toward reaching equality, there are women in some countries who are still being oppressed and not given the freedom to live as they might wish. She would encourage younger women to recognize this disparity and work towards the day where these women can enjoy their freedom also.

She believes strongly that you should hold onto your passions and lead an active life no matter your age. Since people are living longer now they can still make a difference well into their senior years. She spoke of someone who remarked on the number of older women the United States who stayed involved with their communities; he called them “emboldened grandmothers.” This statement resonated with me, as I see the many women in the organizations I belong to, as well as others in the community, that stay active well into their 80s. Isabel, I discovered, was born in the same year I was. I understand and agree with what she is saying. We were both young women at the time women began to demand their rights in the 60s. We lived it. We knew what it was like before, and were at the vanguard of change. Still imbued with this passion for change, I can count myself as an “emboldened grandmother.” I, too, hope the pandemic has a positive outcome that brings the humanity of the world’s peoples closer together. It is also my fervent hope that the younger generation continues to be inspired and ignite their passion to fight for a better world for all.

Isabel’s

Making Connections

When Covid-19 first arrived in California and I began to shelter, little did I realize we would still be restricted going into our seventh month. Like others, I miss socializing, going out places, seeing friends and family. These connections are important to our life and our well being, but most of us have learned to adjust.

We cannot physically be with people, but we are fortunate to continue contact through email, facebook, Zoom and similar apps. What I came to understand, though, is that in some ways I was able to expand my contacts. Now that my life wasn’t filled with responsibilities and planned events, I had more time to wonder about people I hadn’t seen for some time. I had time to read Facebook and send messages to friends and family who lived far from me.

This became clear to me one day in April when I received an unexpected message from a woman via Ancestry.com who was searching for her biological father. I had my DNA tested three years ago. It came out as I much as I expected. I am 23% English, 35% Scandinavian and 40% Germanic. My maternal grandfather came over from Norway when he was 7 years old, my paternal grandmother’s parents were German, and my paternal grandfather gave me my maiden name of Drake. Of course I must be related to the English pirate, Sir Francis. In addition to receiving results of my heritage, I am also enrolled in the genome, which links my DNA to others who have also been tested. Every week I get notices of someone who shares part of my DNA; usually these are small amounts, and I am told the person is my 3^rd-5^th cousin. Most of them are Norwegian.

This woman and I, who I will call Linda to protect her identity, had about a 35% DNA match which was way more than I had ever seen. Her father had the same last name as my Norwegian grandfather, Formoe. She wanted to know if I could help her. I knew I could. I had been researching my ancestry for some time both on Ancestry.com and Heritage.com, but I also had information my grandfather had left me. Grandpa had 12 brothers and sisters; his father had kept a written list of all their births in the family Bible. I had the list Grandpa had copied from it. He also had written a short biography of his time on the homestead in North Dakota and told where each of his brothers and sisters had gone, as he was one of the youngest. I typed up the list, scanned the biography, and sent it to her. I told her she was probably related to one of my grandfather’s brothers. I got an excited message back.

Ole Hansen Formoe- my great grandfather Born March 30, 1818 in Waage, Norway Died August 8, 1898 in North Dakota, USA

Linda had also given me her bio. father’s first name, and the more I thought about it, a memory came back to me from the past. When I was still living at home, some relatives of my grandparents came to visit, and later my family went to see them in Los Angeles where they lived at the time. Ralph had had cancer and used a battery-run voice box to talk. I was impressed because he traveled to schools to tell students the dangers of smoking. Naomi had red hair and was very outgoing. Naomi was my grandmother’s cousin and Ralph was related to my grandfather. My grandparents were the ones who had introduced them years ago. I thought it was said that they had two sons. I went on Ancestry and checked. I found out that Ralph was the son of grandpa’s brother Engebret Formoe and he and Naomi did have sons. One of the names was a match.

I emailed Linda with my discovery. When she answered me back she said she had recently located two half brothers. It turns out, my new information wasn’t a revelation as much as a confirmation. In her next message she said my description was the same as her brothers remembered of their grandparents.

So now I had another connection. A great-grandfather I shared with a woman in Texas. For Linda, however, a more significant one was made. She had found two brothers who were able to tell her about her father, information she had craved for so many years. I was happy for her and happy to have played a small part in her search.

If there is one positive understanding that can come from this pandemic, I think it is the awareness of what is important in life. When you take away materialistic needs, it becomes clear food, our health, safety and education of children are paramount. And the connection to people. Not only ones we know, but people all over the world who are undergoing the hardships caused by the pandemic. Stripped of cultural and national demarcations that divide us, it makes me think of the line from a popular song,

“We are only human after all.”

Pieces of Me

Last weekend I was in the process of rearranging the guest room which required moving an old footlocker from the foot of the bed. I had consigned old papers and memorabilia in there years ago, but I’d forgotten exactly what it contained. Curious, I settled down on the floor next to it and began to comb through its contents.

My Ginny doll was there along with four Nancy Drew books that I had read in sixth grade. I unearthed all The Poly Spotlight issues from high school that included the newspaper column I wrote, and a picture of the first class I taught in San Diego. With some quick calculations I realized my little second grade students were now well into their 60s!

But it was after sifting through some papers that I discovered something I was unaware I had kept all these years. A play. A play I had written when I was ten years old called The Wedding. I had written it in cursive on unlined paper so the writing was slanted; it was also written in two columns so the words, sometimes squeezed together, were at times hard to read.

When I finally deciphered it, I saw it featured four characters: a mother and father, Betty and Bob, a young girl, Mary, and her boyfriend Tom. The plot was simple: girl meets boy, parents are concerned, boy proves his worth, young couple become engaged. It felt strange to be reading something that came from my ten-year-old mind, but I was also struck by how much it revealed about the time period. The dialogue could have come from a 1950s movie or a television sitcom like Father Knows Best. The mother used the terms, Yes, dear, and sweetheart . When Mary first sees Tom in the school hallway and is smitten she says to her friends, Isn’t he just a dream?

There is a contrived part that could only come from the mind of a young writer when Tom tells Mary he can’t be there for Christmas and he hides in a large gift-wrapped box and surprises her. But all ends well when Tom asks Mary to be his wife. “Oh it’s beautiful,” she remarks when she sees the ring, as he responds, “Not as beautiful as you.”

This play was written in 1952 and reflects the values of that era. It was a peaceful, optimistic time shortly after the end of a war. People were respectful to one another and everyone knew their place. Boys, and then men, were expected to work to support women and their families and women stayed home. A young girl’s goal was to marry. She hoped to find her Prince Charming and settle down with a family. She could have aspirations to attend college, but it was presumed she would leave her career when children arrived.

Would a young girl today write such a play? Would it focus on a wedding? Or other dreams? We know how society and life has changed for women since then. They now have options and opportunities that were denied to them before.

Right before I closed the trunk, I gathered up some Indio Fair 4H Club blue ribbons tucked in a corner and read what I had done to earn them. I had made and was rewarded for: muffins, an apron and a blouse. What did you expect? I’m a girl from the 50s.

Let’s Talk of Witches

*Mabel is wise and has an even disposition. She serves as a mentor to young witches.*

I have a soft spot for witches. Not the ghoulishly scary ones with green eyes and cackling voices, but witches in fairy tales who live in the woods, old ladies who live in creepy houses who are labeled witches by children with wild imaginations, women of long ago who were accused of witchcraft by frenzied neighbors caught up in religious fervor.

I like to believe these women, denied beauty of face and marriage or single by choice, became self-reliant and of strong will, yet were misunderstood by a society of men who thought women incapable of making decisions and handling their own affairs.

Many studied the beneficial uses of plants and were herbalists sought out by others. Again, when their only intent was to ease pain or cure a sickness, they were condemned by the church for doing the devil’s work.

There may have been some at the time who appeared deranged, but I reason they may have ingested plants that created delusion such as the Native Americans practiced. An equal comparison can be made to our own culture and misuse of manufactured drugs.

Also, in the past not much was known about mental illness or causes of dementia. You can easily see why some may have been thought to be possessed.

***Clementine, Matilda, and Maxine are loyal members of the Desert coven. Matilda thinks she knows it all and tries to keep Clemmie in line. Maxine is a bit eccentric and prides herself on her spells.***

Spells? Hexes? Potions? A form of what could be called witchcraft has been present in most cultures, and endures today. In years past, the belief in witches was due to ignorance or projection of one person’s fears onto another. Now that we have greater scientific knowledge you would think people would not be susceptible to “witchcraft.” The truth is, though we can understand something intellectually, we are still emotional beings. Innocent animals are slaughtered for their body parts to make a potion because someone in Asia thinks it will make him more virile. A witchdoctor in Africa puts a hex on a person to become ill or die and it comes to pass. I’m sure you have heard of someone say, “I knew that was going to happen,” in what we declare a ‘self-fulfilling prophecy.’

Why do humans still believe in these powers and why do they appear to work? The answer is simple: If a person feels strongly through positive anticipation, or fear, that the potion or hex will take affect there is a greater chance that it will. Even scientific controlled studies have shown this can happen, for example, when a person feels better after taking a placebo rather than the medication being tested.

Witches, or people who call themselves witches, exist today. You may even have someone who practices witchcraft living near you. Before you get all excited and judgmental, let me tell you it has changed and evolved. It is not the witchcraft of old.

**Tillie, Toni, and Tanya believe strongly in the sisterhood. They like to party and are known for their creative potions.**

The philosophy and practice is more akin to ‘new age’ and its mysticism and spirituality. Those who call themselves witches believe in only positive energy and doing good. There are many books devoted to the craft. One I recently read, The Door to Witchcraft by Tonya Brown, is filled with instructions for spells and potions. I was not tempted to try them; besides, some of the ingredients were rare and you had to hunt them down. However, while reading I was reminded of the incense I burned in the 60s and the scented candles I buy today to create an atmosphere or good feeling in the air. Then I understood: the potions and spells are used to appeal to the senses and help create the positive energy to cause the desired affect.

Does my affinity for witches make me want to practice witchcraft? I do grow herbs, but I only use them for cooking. No. It looks like too much work, and it doesn’t suit my logical, cynical mind. One witch practice, though, I do agree with: sending out positive energy. Without the frills.