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.

  • Home
    Home This is where you can find all the blog posts throughout the site.
  • Tags
    Tags Displays a list of tags that have been used in the blog.
  • Bloggers
    Bloggers Search for your favorite blogger from this site.
  • Login
    Login Login form

One for the Big Guy



The yard-work can't wait, but the weather-oracles say rain, and when I go out, the sky doesn't look promising.

So I face West and pray.

“Thunder, hold off long enough for me to get this done, and I promise you a pouring tonight.”

(A gift for a gift, the ancestors always said.)

Tradition holds that the Big Guy likes his libations, especially the strong stuff.


Now, do I actually believe that Thunder is a big, cute bearded guy up in the sky who hears what I say? Do I honestly think that the forces that drive this planet's weather give a flying f*ck about what I want? Do I truly believe that the Universe makes deals?

No, no, and no. Nonetheless, I make my prayer and, eventually, my offering, as promised.


  1. Because I'm human, and humans are social animals that have always treated with the non-human world as if it were human, too.

  2. Because it keeps me connected with the Great Out There, which, in these days of screen-induced h. sapiens narcissism, is a state devoutly to be wished.

  3. Because, in my experience, it actually works. I'll leave you to draw your own conclusions about operative mechanism here.

Soon after, I feel the first drops. Then it begins to rain hard. Oh well, I think, it never hurts to ask.

A friend of mine who grew up Baptist always tells me: Prayer is always answered. It's just that sometimes, the answer is “No.”


I get in the car and head to the store. By the time that I come out again, the Sun is shining. Really, one couldn't ask for better yard-work weather.

I drive home, roll up my sleeves, and, in time, get done everything that needed to be done.

So: was my prayer answered, or not? I leave you to make your own call on that one.

Am I planning to pour out my libation tonight as promised? You bet your sweet ass I am, speaking of things that Thunder is said to like.

When you make a deal with a god, you'd be a fool not to keep up your end of the bargain.


As I'm bagging up the last of last year's leaves, a pedestrian comes past.

“Picked a good day for that,” he says. “That little rain this morning really did a nice job of settling the dust, didn't it?”

What he says is true. Usually at this point in the task, I'd be sneezing like crazy, with itching eyes, and snot running down my face.

Thunder, you f*cker. No wonder I love you so much.


Well, thanks, Stud, I owe you one.

Tonight the drink's on me.


Last modified on
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.


Additional information