Paganistan: Notes from the Secret Commonwealth
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.
Caution: Witch Crossing
“YEW GAHZ LUKE LAHK-A BUNCH-A WEETCH-izz!”
The guy leaning out of the truck's passenger-side window looks like the answer to a “Hello, Central Casting? Could you send us over a Good Ole Boy, please?” call, plaid shirt and all. He's got the accent down, too.
In fact, he's got a point. How often do you see five or six people crossing the street, each with a broom over his or her shoulder? Even in Paganistan, it can't be all that often.
The brooms actually are genuine Amana Colonies “Witch's Brooms”: so-called because they can stand upright unassisted. Skilled craftsmanship is virtually indistinguishable from magic.
Real brooms, real witches. We're carrying them because we are, in fact, the Besom Brigade, a local synchronized march-and-drill team, gathering for our Saturday morning rehearsal. 21st century Witch-hood requires a healthy capacity for self-satire.
Recognition deserves response. As the dirty red four-by-four speeds past, we turn simultaneously. We are, after all, a synchronized drill team.
Waving our brooms in the air, we cackle.
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