Oh, good Lord, the chill has arrived. As much as Fall in the mountains inspires us with its palette of gold and firelit scarlet and melancholy reverie, that chill is not a welcome visitor. No, not at all, not for us summer folk. That chill stays too long and gets more comfortable the longer it settles, and before you know it, the crisp air turns into full blown winter brown and bluster enough to cut you in two. But until then, the harvest has come. And let’s all hope we’ve sown something worth reaping.
And in the meantime, Granny has those persimmon seeds all spread out on the table, all of them cut through and opened like tiny pearls of wisdom. Spoons, she says, and shakes her head. Sure enough, there are spoons inside the persimmon seeds, and good Lord, soon enough we’ll be looking at heavy snow instead of a firelit mountain. And those woolly worms that make their way up to the porch to bask in what’s left of summer’s noonday shine, their beginnings and ends are black as tar. A dreadful winter is a coming. Spoons. Black worms. And the goldenrod is swaying and beaming in the field right next to the Indian corn shocks. Oh, it looks pretty now, but soon enough all that gold will be tarnished by heavy frost, and so will the memory of the barefoot dog days.
Some of the summer folk wander over to the house in the twilight of the evenings, their pockets lined with offerings for Granny. Oh, Granny is a rich woman, she says. She might not look it, but she ain’t ever and will never want for nery a thing. Those visitors trade good money to have her look into their cups and see their futures in the coffee grounds they leave behind. Whether by luck or by sage, she is rarely wrong about such things. And we summer folk will gladly pay for all that amber honey that Granny has charmed out of the honeybees; it’ll stave off the bronchitis that’ll likely be lurking in winter. They’ll buy up her dandelion salve to soothe their heartaches and shed light on dark times and the darker spirits of fear and anger. A bitter heart will kill ya long before you’re dead, Granny says. And that rich elderberry tea she brews can run the influenza off, and that’s the truth, and we summer folk know it.
And that ain’t all she’s got. Lord, no. The linden tea can unbreak your heart, and the hawthorn berry brew could lift even the deepest of spirits out of despair. And if you’re too far gone, she’s got plenty of ‘shine still stored up, too. We can sit on the porch all night long and sip and snicker until we don’t care whether they love us back or not. They weren’t that wonderful anyway, were they?
Oh, and the naysayers do their talking behind our backs, and they call Granny a witch and a conjurer and warn her that her tinctures and brews will bring the devil on her head.
But this ain’t witchcraft. This is wildcraft, and honey, that’s real magic. Us summer folk are wild, not wicked. And like Granny, we ain’t ever laid eyes on the devil, but we’ve seen those dark times and darker spirits that the dandelion salve can ward off, but those golden jewels only bloom in the springtime, and honey, you’re too late. The chill is upon us, indeed.
The problem with Granny’s salves and spells is, well, they work. They’ve always worked. And that scares the daylights out of the naysayers and the common folk. And fear is a powerful creature. You know it’s the truth. It is fear all by itself that has made you behave all these years, to hide your wild, wicked or not.
But the veils are parting, summer folk, and you know what that means. The darkest night approaches, and you best have your lights on and the sweet offerings on hand, lest you run the chance of attracting mischief makers from this life and the last. The Old New Year comes, ready or not. This is an ancient game of tag, oh yes, and as Scorpio sails backward across the sky, we hide and they seek. We paint and mask our faces, just as the old ones did, in hopes that we won’t be tagged it.
Granny thought it was all so grand that even the naysayers’ children came cloaked in costumes and Samhain regalia, in the name of fun and games, of course. Nothing more. She placed big red apples in a tub of water and told us to try to catch one with our teeth alone, and whoever should bite into an apple first will be the next to be married.
Now I recollect the old days at Granny’s, the Halloweens of our youth, those bright last days before winter came, when we were still untainted by the coming chill. The supper table was a sight to behold; all those candied apples and balls of sweet kettle corn that we’d harvested ourselves, and a roasted wild turkey and Kentucky runners and sweet bread, all laid out for our benefit. An empty chair was pulled out ever so invitingly at the head of the table, and Granny said that if we were quiet enough, we just might get a visit from the beyond, for the veil between our time and theirs was as thin as Autumn air.
After supper we’d sit on the back porch steps and listen as Granny told her ghost stories—and they were scary only because we knew they were true—about her and her own granny sittin’ up with the dead back in the winsome Kentucky of her youth and of poor Naomi Proffitt drinking her fateful poison, and how what’s left of Naomi still roams the house, despite her being good and dead for going on a hundred years. Off in the dark of the mountain where we could not see, the wail of a black panther would sound, telling us that they were real, too.
Spoons, indeed. Soon the firelit mountain will be laden white and sleeping in a seemingly silent grave. But beneath the resting cedars, deep below the earth of these hills, the elderberries and dandelions are waiting to rise up once more. And we’re more kin to them than we think we are, you know. Our elusive summertime will come home again. It always has. In the meantime, we won’t curse the coming snow. A bitter heart will kill ya long before you’re dead, as Granny said. And perhaps, on some distant Scorpio eve, after our last summer has come and gone, we will be invited to sit in that silent chair at the head of the table ourselves, and partake in the feast.
There are no brooms to ride here. No cauldrons. No book of spells or conjured enchantments. No warts, neither, other than the ones that Granny can charm clean away with nothing but her belief and a breath. This is wildcraft. Not witchcraft. This is the real magic. We are wild, not wicked.
And the scariest story was yet to be told, and to this very day, I’ve not forgotten it. Some folks aint what they seem, Granny told us. Don’t fear the painted faces and witches that come knocking on Halloween. Beware of the monsters that disguise themselves as people. There’s more of ’em out there than you can shake a stick at.
While we wait for summer to come home, we might as well pull out a chair. The harvest has come. And if you’ve not sown anything worth reaping, there’s always next year. Granny’s got plenty for us all. The barefoot days will come again before you know it.
But for now, the Old New Year comes, ready or not. And we will sit on the porch all night long and sip and snicker until we don’t care whether they love us back or not. They weren’t that wonderful anyway, were they?
And Granny twirls on the porch, not caring who sees her or what they think, and she sings the words of Burns…
We two have run about the slopes,
and picked the daisies fine:
But we’ve wandered many a weary foot,
Since Auld Lang Syne!
Reblogged this on Laurie Stewart: and commented:
This blog by a fellow wild woman, a fellow hedge witche, says it all. The belief in spirits and the real wisdom of herbalism and behaviour.
Had a Granny who could tell stories including ghost stories while we sat in the dark to save electricity. So sorry we never thought to record them [not easily done in those days]. Then had a ‘step’ grandmother, Mom, who had a front porch in her dog-trot cabin where we sat & could hear the call of the ‘painter’ across the big, pine tree gulches in the red clay hills of NE MS.
Oh how I’m missing your writings, Anna. I hope this year brings you much love, happiness and success, plus a whole lot more sharin’ of your Appalachian ink.
I have missed your great writings. As a young boy, I still remember the ways of “mountain folk” that’s how my dad, and kin would call themselves selfs.
Thank you
Lewis
I knew without knowing that there is some reason that my Granny keeps popping up in my mind. Now I know why.
Reblogged this on Shamanic Wise Woman and commented:
Wonderful post about Wild crafting and the old wise woman… that we are. Thank you for posting Anna and allowing us the privilege to reblog!
Reblogged this on MAD Goddess and commented:
Wildcraft or Witchcraft? This is the most eloquent answer I’ve ever read.
Makes me miss my Mamaw and Papaw and the way they smelled of sweat and Erth. I miss running barefoot and eating tommy toes warm from the sun off the vine straight from the garden down in the holler
Your story brought tears to my eyes. It brought my granny back to life. As a “wise woman” of these Appalachia mountains, I now make the salves, the tinctures, the elderberry. I honor the earth and her gifts. When living in California ( I have roamed this earth…) I was called the “green witch”. ….Not a witch here..just a history in my soul.
Words happily let you have your way with them. I love your stories, the haughty Northerner that I am, and look forward to more.
Reblogged this on Journal Edge and commented:
Article and Image Source: appalachianink.net
Wow…. I’m under your spell…. “hear the wind?”–granny said, “it is nothing but words creating wings.” That’s what you do with your writings. A gift.
Cielo
At the little white cottage in the woods
Wow…. I’m under your spell…. “hear the wind?”–granny said, “it is nothing but words creating wings.” That’s what you do with your writings. A gift.
Cielo
At the little white cottage in the woods
I love this….
It is “wildcraft”…
This is for sure…
For “Mother” gives us the natural cure. 😉
Reblogged this on Off The Beaten Path and commented:
This piece of writing has enchanted me. The writer is deeply rooted in these magic mountians that I now call home.
Wow. I am so enchanted by your writings. My ancestors lived in these Appalachian Mountains. I came back a little over 4 years ago and am in love with the area and old magic. Thank you for writing and keeping us connected. I’m reblogging this today.
This is wonder-full! As a wild child raised in the hollers and hills of Appalachia, I know this ain’t witchcraft of which you speak: It IS something far more magical. I had a wildcrafting granny, too. We called her Maw. Thank you, thank you for telling the grannies’ stories.
Lovely story. It reminds me so much of my long gone Brazilian granny.
I wanted to tell you how happy I am that I found your site. I love your writing and look forward to your stories. They remind me so much of my Grandma’s memories.
Merry Samhain and Blessed Be
Beware the Monsters that show up as people . . . ain’t that the Truth!
The worst kind of people.
Love reading your posts. Sooooo reminds me of my little hometown in SW Virginia.
Anna, your writings touch something deep within my soul. Your words are like memories, thank you for sharing them.
A wonderful post–a granny is truly something special.
I always wait anxiously for you next story ! ❤️️
I adopted the mountains forty some years ago, Old home places, dirt roads and gin clear water with speckled trout. Reading your writing always lifts a veil and makes me feel like the mountains have adopted me as well. Thank you.
Much obliged.
great post!! I love your writing =)
As always, fantastic! Your imagery is delicious.
I read your words and find myself on Mammy Powell’s porch once again. Bangers and mash for dinner and ghost stories by the fire under the quilts…her eyes shining bright…my heart is quiet in the memories…thank you so much
for sharing! Blessed Samhain to you…
I can’t find the words to express how much I loved this. Your writing speaks to me, thank you for sharing it. Hug your Granny for me, I lost mine this past year. She always had the best ghost stories too, maybe it’s a born and raised in Kentucky thing? Have a magical Samhain.
I came across your musings a while back. I love the memories you share, and the words you share em with.
May your Samhain be blessed. The old ways are still among us.
This is beautiful. Wild craft not witchcraft. Indeed.
Love everything you write, but THIS has been my favorite thus far!
Thank you for yet another story to read again and again, and to ponder. Blessed Samhaim to you!
Thank you for the wonderful read )O(
On Thu, Oct 27, 2016 at 2:46 PM, Appalachian Ink ~ Home of Anna Wess (and Granny) wrote:
> Anna Wess posted: “Oh, good Lord, the chill has arrived. As much as Fall > in the mountains inspires us with its palette of gold and firelit scarlet > and melancholy reverie, that chill is not a welcome visitor. No, not at > all, not for us summer folk. That chill stays too long ” >
Once again your writing is Enchanting. Do you have books that can be purchased?
In the works! Much obliged.
Wonderful to hear. I love your stories. My mother knew pomes about Little Orphan Annie — and a goblin goin’a get cha’ if you don’t watch out. Do you know any of them?
Thank you
Hope there are books soon.
Happy to hear this. Thank you for capturing the essence for Appalachian Royalty and others not so blessed
I loved this story. Remembered my dad talking about the panthers on the mountain where he grew up and how frightening they could be. I know that my grandmother made and used old natural remedies. Thank you for this beautiful and rich story. Nancy
Love your words. I get goosebumps reading every time.
all your writings are good, but this one resonated to my very soul! Thanks for writing it.
Been looking for you too,Anna.Your vivid writing warms my heart.So lucky-all of us who had grans to love us.Bless you and stay warm,darlin.
You, too. 🙂
Wonderful! Now I want to forage for Linden flowers and Hawthorn berries!
I was just thinking of you this very morning and wondering when next you would write. What a surprise! Thank you for the recollections. Blessed Samhain to you.
I’m still around here somewhere. Blessed Samhain to you!
I enjoy your writings so much brings many memories of my childhood i Kentucky with my grandma.
Thanks so much!
I can only say that I love your writing.
Your writings always take me back home to my Ozark Mountains. I had to leave there years ago..it is bittersweet going back down memory lane.