I grew up in a haunted house with my grandmother, a strong Southern woman who read tea leaves and could locate the neighbors' lost dogs and husbands by gazing into her crystal. Everyone thought she was a witch, with her herbal remedies always cooking on the stove and her black cat sunning itself on the windowsill. Aunts and uncles, cousins and friends and once a boarder, who left in the middle of the night, had all rented a room at the house at one time or another, but they never stayed for long. One friend of my brother's actually jumped out the second-story window in the middle of the night, after swearing something cold had licked his ear. I think it was the cat, but he still swears it was a misty woman in a flowing gown.
But I am not a witch. I have had to clarify this statement all my life. Perhaps it stems from the fact that if there is something or someone that causes me to have a few sleepless nights or an irritating bout with my ulcer, that person or thing just disappears. They leave, never to cross my path again.
Yevetta Dillinger was the bully in my third-grade class, taller than the teacher by a full head. Yevetta liked to wait for me after class and strip me of jewelry, money or candy. The third time it happened, I ran home crying. Mother said she would spank me if I let Yevetta take another thing from me. I became the fastest 8-year-old in America. As soon as the bell rang, I was out of my seat and three blocks away before Yevetta could gather her books.
Then one day she was gone. Her father had been transferred to Nova Scotia, suddenly.
Even my husband eyes me peripherally when he tells me about the mishap of some co-worker I may have felt wronged him in the past.
"You remember George, that guy at the shop?" His eyes narrow slightly as if he's sizing me up. "It was really strange the way he decided to retire, just out of the blue like that, and move to another state. Even his wife was shocked."
Heck, I'm as surprised as he is, but does he believe me?
My sister called to ask if I could please make her mean supervisor move to Alaska. "I'd sure take it as a personal favor, Queen, if you could. The department is transferring three people, and we all hope she's one of them," she said.
I tried to explain that I do not have the power to do such a thing.
"I'm counting on you, Queen," she sighs. "The entire department is counting on you."
It happens all the time; rude neighbors move away in the middle of the night. Boom boxes that blast heavy metal and keep me awake mysteriously blow up. The mechanic who grossly overcharged me for a simple repair was out of business in 30 days.
Okay, it's true that my grandmother had the gift, but I could never read the crystal or forecast the future in a deck of cards. I can't read the tea leaves or call forth the spirits of dead relatives to ask where Uncle Harry hid the family fortune. I confess, I do burn a few candles. And I like to collect rocks, mostly crystals, and I have some dream catchers in my window . . . and the eye of Horus. But I am not a witch.
I never even had a black cat until two years ago. My daughter Jen had worked with Friends of the Animals, and she brought me a half-starved cat she found wandering the streets of Tampa. She was a tiny Bombay, a miniature panther with gold trusting eyes and a sleek black coat. I named her Maya; she never leaves my side and sleeps at my feet every night.
Six months later, Jen discovered a litter of kittens with the mother nearly dead and begged me to take one. I said absolutely not.
"Every good witch should have a familiar. Now you can have two," she proclaimed.
"But honey, I'm not . . . " I started to protest, but she interrupted.
"Come on, Mom, they don't burn you at the stake anymore. Besides it's me you're talking to, and I remember what happened to Andy Klinker, that wild kid I used to date with the motorcycle."
"What did happen to him?" I'd always wanted to know.
"He ran off with his brother's wife."
"So?"
"She was 51 years old, Mom."
I named the cat Shiva. She is black as night, with green eyes and a bushy tail that fills our tiny house. She sleeps behind my pillow.
- Jo Harris Shaw is a freelance writer who lives in Palm Harbor.
