Yesterday, due to the miracles of modern social media, I called up an old friend from high school. She said, “Oh, my God, Hecate, you still have a southern accent.” And, of course, she was right. I still live within a 50-mile radius of the place where I grew up, went to first and second grade, learned what it means to belong to this landbase of red clay, oak trees, and wetlands. She’s moved to the Pacific Coast, but we can both still remember being in high school and living, without knowing it, mostly Pagan.
We picked up where we left off decades ago and the years fell away.
There are toad and voodoo lilies growing in my garden. I have poisonous hellebores in the front bed and angelica in the herb garden. The maple tree is shedding blossoms everywhere and the old camellia bush is full of buds.
There was a small core of us, back in the early 1970s, who were almost bound to grow up Witches. We did not belong at that high school. We could not stay together through community college. But we are all old Witches together.
Picture found here.