the little witch, 1

This is a story about a little witch.

As I wrote about before in "little me", I don't know much about my ancestors. Recently seeing picture of relatives, and even of myself for the first time has sprung something wide open. I have been thinking about how this is probably why I love and covet things that are old. I gather other people's history, and make it mine by placing it in my home. I gather, I collect. Not on a broad scale, but I do love old objects. They make me feel connected to a history. Last year I started to collect old photos of priests and Nuns. You will see how that ties in further on. But now, I have some provenance, even if it is in a two notes, and some scanned photos.

As I wrote in "little me" connections with my Father's side of the family was pretty well wiped out after my parents divorce, (thank god they divorced, or more like myself and my four siblings were abandoned by my Father.) The passing of my Grandfather sealed it. His wife, my grandmother died when I was young. I have only distant glimpes to that side. I do know that my paternal Grandfather was a Minister. I remember being baptized by him. I remember looking down at a crisp white envelope I was holding in my hand and wondering what he gave me. I guess that might have been my baptism certificate, something I never saw again. My Grandfather was a Preacher man. My Grandmother was a Preacher's wife, she was also a Mother and an Artist.


On my Mother's side there has been an even more severe cut off to the past. It is rumored in my family, that my Maternal Grandmother was the child of a Catholic Priest and Nun. She was raised by her "Aunts" who were her Mother's sisters. They were Scottish, from the McGraths that came here to America. I don't have any history, as it was always vague. Were they my real Aunts? Everyone thinks so. Luckily, my Grandmother was a huge part of my life. She was the coolest Grandma ever. She drove her cherished Chevy Camaro even at age 80. She loved listening to police radios, square dancing, and she was certified in nautical navigation and in ham radio communications.  I remember her loving the Micheal Jackson tape I brought and played at her Summer house. She said it had a real good beat, and really got into it. She smoked ciggarettes, but said she didn't inhale (way before Clinton said that) Her name was Marie, no middle name. Just Marie. I remember when her Siamese cat had kittens in my bed. We we were sharing a room while she lived with us for awhile. I raced across the state in the middle of the night when I got a call that she had fell ill and was dying. I didn't make it in time to the hospital to say good -bye, but I did sit there with her lifeless body, smiling at her spirit. I loved her, and was very close to her. My Paternal Grandfather, died when I was very young. Not much was spoken about him. He was not a nice man. Perhaps someday, I will find out the heritage there. But his surviving daughters, my Mother and my Aunt, do not speak of him. I know why. My Mother remarried a man, my Stepfather, who is also a son of a Preacher. Interesting. The patterns.


So, I am the Granddaughter of two Preachers, and a Great Granddaughter of both a Priest and a Nun. This is sort of connected to my last blog entry "real live witches!" This begins my story of how I became to know who I was, under all of the fear, shame and pain. I hit bottom, and picked myself back up. I slowly began to realize my path, and it saved my life. When I say saved my life, I mean it. When a young girl is sexually, physically and emotionally abused by the very person who is supposed to be there to protect her, a part of her spirit gets broken forever. It also sets her up for more abuse. It is what she knows. It is the familiar.

This is the account about how I picked up all of the pieces, landing on my two feet, reaching my hands up to the sky, and breathing in all that was meant to be.Writing all of this out will be a challenge for me, but I am up to it.  I will have to do this in small parts, so this is the start. The story of how I found that I had something holy pulsing through my veins.I inherited a certain something, that can't be fully explained, but I will do my best to express my truth to you, if you want to listen. Events that happened before I even knew about these ancestors.

What made you, you?

the preacher's wife

the lost art

~crow

little me

Today my brother posted a photo on my facebook page, it was from another page that was created for descendants of our paternal grandparents. I have been cut off from this side of my heritage, because of a divorce, and the abuse that we all endured, at the hands of my Father. One of my siblings tried to reach out to this side, however it ended when the abuse was brought up. My Father's sister did not believe us. Why would she? She doesn't even know us. But we had no pictures, no connection, nothing. That side of the family continued living on without us.

I have severe memory issues. I am sure it was my mind protecting my soul, but what I do remember is enough. More than enough. I have shoved it back into the dark corner, brought it back out. I have been angry at it, sad about it, confused, and most importantly I have been enlightened by it. But I am always surprised to be reminded that we are forever healing from the wounds we carry.

I went through this facebook page reading and searching for the people who share my blood. Aunts and Uncles and cousins, grandparents... With each photo a dim light way off in the corner would flicker, and I would think, Oh yes, that is my Aunt... I remember applesauce making in her kitchen, and how she cut the apple open from side to side, to reveal the five pointed star...

I read to my 11 year old daughter, a a couple of writings that were posted by my Grandmother. It was about where her ancestors came from. I finally had a history suitable to share with an 11 year old. As I read out loud about my great grandfather, and how he came to America from Sweden, my daughter shouted out, We are SWEDISH?" Yes, we are, just a part. Then we talked about how her great, great Grandfather lived and worked near the place and around the same time as Laura Ingalls Wilder. She had done a book report about her, so it really gave her a sense of life back then and a connection for her. She immediately asked me if she could meet one of my Aunts particularly by name. I am not sure why she picked this one name, but she did. I took a deep breath, and thought about how this was the very Aunt who disbelieved us.

I also read another writing that my Grandmother wrote. She died when I was about 7. So reading her words were like her speaking to me. She was an artist, and extremely spiritual lady, and for awhile she kept chickens and pigs. She talked about one experience in her life, her tone changed into something recognizable to me. I could tell she had this beauty in her, no matter what her son grew up to be, I was gifted with these words...

"... I’ll never forget that first evening. We were very tired, so we went to bed early. All was very quiet when through the open French windows drifted the sweetest music from a distant hillside – the song of the whip-poor-will. I’ll cherish that memory always. Another time in midsummer, nightfall was just settling down on Altona. The children and I were sitting on the soft velvet carpet in the yard. The horizon was a beautiful deep night shade. In the sky was a soft violet evening star, and the moon was clear in the sky. The tall elm beside the entry of the yard was tall and dark against the sky. Then from a distant hillside drifted the same beautiful call of the whip-poor-will. An enchanting evening it was – just one of many others through eleven wonderful years."


After, I read this, I felt a head ache coming on (weird for me) so went outside for some air and to help Rusty chop up the day's cast off vegetables from the market.  Rusty stops chopping and says, what is that? I stop and listen thinking it is probably the coyotes. He says, "I thought it was maybe a baby goat sound, but it was just a whippoorwill."

Seriously.


I stood staring into the night. I barely heard it. My head was raging so I came in and drank some water and took a couple of Ibuprofen and a Naproxan. I will talk more and share more, once this headache goes away. I just had to get some of this out. Perhaps it will help my head.

Here is little me, a picture I have never seen before tonight. I am in the red, white and blue bathing suit with four of my brothers and sisters, doing peace signs. One of my Aunts in the pink is smiling at us.

peace

~crow