Spinning, Knitting, Crocheting, Organic Gardening, Living off-grid, and chasing sheep - because- I'm, like, NOT SANE!

Friday, June 30, 2006

Please Insult Me, cuz it's my birthday (and a little story about how Farm-Witch got the name)

A few months back, I promised to tell the story of how I got the name Farm-Witch. As it seemed not real effing important slightly uninteresting, I kinda dropped the ball on it. But, last night I was cruising around ebay, checking on my stuff and other people's stuff because i knew I'd want to take today off to be with the hubster and kiddles for my birthday. I know you're dying to know - I'm a whopping 35. So, naturally, I was deeply entrenched in the 'crafts' section when - a message on one of my batts pops up. Only, it's not about my batts at all. It is yet another of the handful of messages a year that I receive (usually from Fundamentalists) despising me for my name and cursing me for using the term 'witch' with anything other than deep shame. But, this time the message was from someone who PRESUMES she knows my spiritual affiliations and lashes me for - well here's the quote "I do not shove it in their face either, as it is of no importance for them to know' and going on about how I have lost a large customer base in Christians who will not buy from me because I am so evil. UGh. The last time this happened was when I bought a math program for my daughter and the woman claimed she 'lost' it, only to reveal later that her husband would not let her associate with me - the equator of evil. I have only this to say: When you are spawned, reared, and broken in the Southern Bible Belt born to a Catholic 15 yr. old navy wife and a Penocostal vet who was discharged for 'mental health' issues, you don't really let the sweetness of freedom roll on your tongue too often. When, after a long trip to Six Flags, you and your sister are so tired and giddy that you can't go to sleep because you are laughing hysterically and that prompts said mental person to call in backup to have you placed on the LR floor and 'exorcised' until 2 in the morning, you appreciate the freedom to choose who you WANT to be with a depth that rivals the flippant nature that many so called peoples of faith(s) of all kinds profess to have. My thoughts are my own and my spirit flies free and that is all you need to know. Please stop sending me your hate mail, your Bible passages on recipe cards, and your ebay preachin'.

Now that I got that off my chest. A quick little Story. Years ago, when I had a milk cow and a little farm in N. Maine, a local farmer 'h' used to stop by periodically to ask the man of the house a question or two. Finally, he figured out that the man of the house worked a full-time job away from home and that if he had questions about things such as farm equipment, etc., he'd be better to ask the farm boss (that's me, See, I told you, I once held a position of high power). After a particularly interesting scenario in which I tied my cow out to mow the front yard for me, only to have her fall down the hill and tangle on the rope, I spend the better part of an hour unwinding the rope and trying to calm a hysterical mama that weighed over 1000 lbs. The old timers really laughed up that one! Anyway, H came by and mentioned said incident, laughing so hard that tears came to his eyes. To get a proper mental picture of H, I have to tell you that he was 77 and looked like James Dean. His ripped chest and arm muscles made some athletes look like wusses. He was missing three fingers on one hand on account of getting them caught up in the tractor. He was born on the farm and made it into a life. Sometimes he'd stop for coffee and tell me and the kiddos all manner of funny and suspense-filled farm stories. We loved H. So, I was not offended when he wiped his tears away and said, "you know what you are? You're a farm-wench". He went on to explain that back in the days of the war, the women had to run the farms. After the war, most of them took their husbands back in and resumed their pre-war lifestyles. But, some of them decided they ran the farms better and refused to give up their jobs. I never asked H which war he was talking about because, being the child of a war vet, I knew that glossy, distant look when the word spills out that sort of suggests it is better to just not ask. But, I felt I had been handed a talking stick in a sacred circle of souls. I picked farm-wench up and molded her into my own. Within a few months, word was out that that old farm up the road was run by 'one of THEM'. Funny, a man spreads his wings and flies and he's an eagle, a leader. A woman (or feminine spirit) spreads hers and she's an owl - full of magic that crushes people with fear.

I am farm-witch, and I still love all the stories that 'h' told me. Now, I'm off to snuggle with the kiddles (because it's my birthday and the rest of the year they are convinced they are too cool and too old to snuggle ole mom) and have a dinner on the grill and imported beer with that handsome hunk of a hubster of mine. I'm 35 now, so I'm supposed to be quirky, wierd, and wildly sensual. Hmmm, I'm gonna need some work!