SB LACROIX

Little towns are notorious for gossip, most people know (or know of) most other people. The rumor mill makes for excitement in a small country town, I suppose.  For the most part, I’m the type of person to mind my own business, however; my husband and I have indulged in a bit of town gossip over coffee.  (Far be it from me to lead you to believe I never partake in that sort of thing.)  But that aside, my thinking is this: What people say, they say. Talk is cheap. I don’t pay much attention to it.

I’ve lived in the same small town for the majority of my life.  I’m used to the chatter and people thinking they know who my family is or who I am—not that I’m anyone important, mind you, but when generations of your family have lived in a small town, there’s history.   

“Isn’t that so-and-so? You know—what’s-his-name’s daughter? Isn’t she married to that guy? You know that guy…everybody knows him!  Well anyway, I heard…” (enter town gossip here).

People talk and make all sorts of assumptions, most of which are incorrect. But every now and then we hear a rumor that bears a seed of truth. It usually makes us giggle.

My oldest daughter moved back home for a while. While staying with us, she told me about a conversation she had at work (outside our small town) with two co-workers (not from our small town) that made me realize the word was officially out.  

As my daughter recounted, she was working with two women that day.  She’d worked with one before, but the other was new to the job and thought my daughter looked familiar, so she asked my daughter where she lived.  Before my daughter could answer, the second woman began describing the area where we live and our house to the woman who was inquiring. 

According to my daughter, the second woman said, “Everybody knows that house—it’s where the witches live.”  

I think my mouth fell open at that point. 

“You’re kidding me, right?”  I asked.  “You’re making it up.”  

“I’m not kidding you, Mom, and I’m not making it up. I swear that’s what she said. I almost fell over.”

That made two of us. 

“Who is she, the woman who said that?”  I asked. 

“Just someone I’ve worked with a few times.”

“Did you tell her you’re a witch? Or say things that would give her a hint?”

“No, I don’t know her that well.”   

“Were you wearing your pentacle pendant or triple moon necklace? What about your pentacle ring?”

“I wasn’t wearing any jewelry, Mom.”

Well, that blew that theory.

“Then why would she say that?” I asked, looking at my daughter as if she must know.

“I don’t know, but she said it matter-of-fact.”

It happens to be a matter-of-fact, but we didn’t go round broadcasting what we are to the point someone who did not know us would say what this woman had said.

After the shock had worn off, I was amused and pondered how my house had come to be known as “where the witches live”.  We don’t have a sign out front that reads:  This is where the witches live! Or do we?  Not a literal sign that reads such, but there are signs.

Could it be the pentacle sun catcher in the window?

Or perhaps the huge pentacle I drew with chalk in the driveway on a new moon? Or is it the cauldron and broom on the front porch? Or the cauldron in the front yard hanging from a tripod?

After all, the outside sacred space my husband built could be used for anything.

It’s a cobblestone square with the corners pointing East, South, West and North, surrounded by a ground-flush stone circle that has quartz crystal points buried underneath. The area is covered by a roof made of cedar, resting on four cedar wood posts in the ground, the bark still on the wood giving it a very rustic look.  Why, it appears to be an outdoor sitting area.  My husband tells people it’s where I meditate, and that’s a true statement. When people ask what he used for tools to construct the roof, he tells them he created the entire wood structure with a chainsaw.  They stand in disbelief—a chainsaw?  But it’s true. No magic involved, just a heavy dose of talent and no fear.

But that’s just the outside of our home. Was it possible someone who had been on the inside of my house had seen things they couldn’t help but gossip about?  I thought back…

I do recall a furniture delivery man who got a look at a pentacle on the wall and the broom over the door way (also hand-crafted by my husband) and turned white as a ghost, turned around and walked right out the door. He left the other delivery guy shaking his head when asking my husband to sign for the delivery.  

And then there was an appraiser who came to appraise the house when we were refinancing. He asked if he could take some photos. My husband said he could, but I gave the man a look which the kind fellow seemed to understand. My husband did say the man’s face went blank when he saw the spare bedroom full of all things magical. Perhaps he’d never seen such a collection of candles and crystals. The man was kind enough to respect my unspoken wish. Nothing “witchy” showed up in those photographs.

Then of course, there’s our paranoid neighbors. Our backyard abuts theirs and our fence isn’t high enough to keep out prying eyes.  We can’t go outside to clean up the dog poop without them peeking. 

Time changes little when it comes to being a witch, I assure you. The neighbors have a bit of bad luck or fall on hard times and who do they blame? The witch, of course!  We have other neighbors, naturally, and I’m sure they see things too, but they’ve never outright accused me of “doing things” to them.  Of course, the other neighbors never went looking for trouble with my family either, so I can see where they’d have reason for concern. Who deliberately pisses off a house full of witches?   (We complained to them about loud music coming from a boom box in their backyard, daily, for hours on end.  The response of our neighbor was, and I quote, “There’s nothing you can do about it.” Nothing we can do about it?  What a foolish thing to think, let alone to say. But I digress.)

We’re not sure what it was the got the word out to the point that our house got that title, although I suspect it was our nosey and very gossipy neighbors. Although, chances are it was a combination of things, but once your house is known as “where the witches live”, the cat is not only out of the bag; it’s out of the broom closet as well.

Blessed be!

An Epilogue:  If you’re curious about what became of our neighbors and their loud music, it turns out there was something we could do, aside from complaining to the police. My husband entertained the idea of putting outdoor stereo speakers in our trees that are fairly close to the neighbor’s house. The trees are quite a distance from our house and my husband was advised one couldn’t run speaker wire that far and have the music not be distorted. Maybe most people couldn’t, but my husband is talented and quite clever.  The idea of speakers in the trees was accomplished by my husband’s ingenuity and manual labor.

This was a deterrent to the problem, most certainly, but there were days where it was just a war of music—ours being far more enjoyable as it was not radio with annoying commercials.  Have you ever noticed how loud those commercials are? Talk about disturbing the peace. 

While things had improved from our point of view (we could at least drown out their music with ours) the problem wasn’t completely solved.  The neighbor’s boom box I mentioned was kept on a picnic table and left outdoors at all times. When not in use, it was covered with a rubber-maid type large container to protect it from the elements, I assume. 

The elements, ah yes. Air and water are two that come to mind, as it was air in the form of strong winds that blew the boom box (container and all) off the picnic table and water in the form of rain that put an end to any future boom from that box. Imagine that. The boom box was never replaced and as to why it was not, I can only speculate. 

Our speakers remain in the trees as well as on our back deck and in the garden (we added more speakers during the music war period).  We often say how we should thank our neighbors for giving us a reason to put those speakers outside in the first place. As it turns out, we really enjoy listening to our music outdoors.

During Halloween we play spooky music and during the Christmas season we play holiday music. Listening to beautiful music reverberate over snow covered ground and through the leafless trees is other-worldly and most magical indeed. As it should be. After all, it’s where the witches live!

While the above story is true, where the witches live, inspired a work of fiction that bears the same name. It’s a story I have been working on for many moons. Hopefully someday it will see the light of day via publication.