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In Which One Midwest Man-in-Black Confers, Converses & Otherwise Hob-Nobs with his Fellow Hob-Men (& -Women) Concerning the Sundry Ways of the Famed but Ill-Starred Tribe of Witches.

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Something Like That

The supermarket, a few days before equinox.

Ringing up my six dozen, the cashier says, “Sure is a lot of eggs.”

“Getting ready for the holiday,” I say.

“Easter's not for weeks yet,” she says.

“Ours is next week,” I say, not really wanting to get into it.

She looks at me curiously.

“You must be Russian,” she says.

“Something like that,” I say.






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Poet, scholar and storyteller Steven Posch was raised in the hardwood forests of western Pennsylvania by white-tailed deer. (That's the story, anyway.) He emigrated to Paganistan in 1979 and by sheer dint of personality has become one of Lake Country's foremost men-in-black. He is current keeper of the Minnesota Ooser.


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