Sun-Witch

Old Stuff

It’s been a busy week, so, once again this week will be a slight cheat. But even a slight cheat is new – sort of. I can’t help but make some changes. The following ‘story’ first appeared in “Feel Good Alberta’ in December or November 1995. I probably still have a copy of that magazine around here somewhere.

But first, the first tune on tonight’s playlist is “You Don’t Know Me” by Ray Charles and Diana Krall. Silk and velvet, I don’t know which is which.

Sun Witch

Ah, snuggled in bed under Aunt Anna’s Christmas quilt, with a cup of warm cocoa within arm’s reach and a flask snooker of rum strategically tucked between the pillows. The winter rage outside may have ice-olated me in my home, but that’s OK. I wasn’t expecting to see the neighbors again before the spring anyway. Winter rations are safely assembled under the quilts; ten to fifteen novels, 35 pounds of chocolates, a roasted duck or two, other assorted snacks, TV remote control, and of course peanuts – preferably shelled, lest my wife complain.

So what had I forgotten? The telephone. It was still in the room where I could hear it ring. And then it happened. It rang. I could have ignored it, theoretically at least. But, no. I can’t ignore a ring tone.

I reluctantly emerged from my winter cocoon and darted across the room (remember this was 1995), to answer the blasted device. Heaven forbid that I should allow the answering machine to perform its duty.

“Hello,” I said.

“Hello? Is that you?”

“Of course it’s me.” I said. “Are you, you?”

“Can’t you tell?”

“No, I can’t tell. My telepathy has been on the fritz lately. But my bare legs are absolutely all goose-bumpy with anticipation.”

“Listen,” she said.

Damn it, I could hear it. It was the sound of palm trees swaying in the gentle breeze. It was followed by the crash of hot sun on white sand. I could almost hear the sound of bikinis dancing.

“It’s me,” she said. “Your sister.”

I could picture her hands on her hips as she said this.

 “Calling all the way from Florida? You found a quarter?”

“How’s the weather up there? I’m wearing shorts.”

So what, I thought. What do you suppose I’m wearing? What did it matter what I was wearing? There was ice developing between my toes.

Sun-witches. They come in all shapes, sizes, and denominations. They can be sisters, brothers, cousins or friends from the cold country. Always the Sun-Witch’s first question reveals the real reason for their call. It’s always the weather. They know we’re freezing and that the first reasonable temperature is months away.  So why do they call? Because sun-beast live to remind us of our winter misery. They all do it. It doesn’t matter where they’ve moved; Arizona, Florida or Mexico. Their motives can only be assumed to be sadomasochistic. Not even a raisin could enjoy as much sun as they claim to.

“It’s not so bad,” I said. What else could I say? Did she think I’d admit that my toes are blue and I hadn’t had any feeling below my knees for weeks?

“Really? I’d thought it’d be getting cold up there by now.”

Oh, I could feel the venom dripping from her tongue. I knew her next utterance. She’ll tell me she’s outside and even though she’s wearing shorts and in a tank top, she’s sweating.  Oh, I could say, do you really feel safe in your insect-proof wire mesh enclosure. Have fire-ants consumed any small children lately? But I fight back the vitriol.

“No colder than normal,” I respond diplomatically.

Perhaps I should remind her of poor Aunt Bertha in Arizona. She turned to dust in Arizona; poor women. “It’s a dry heat,” she’d say, “you don’t even notice it.”

Aunt Bertha sure didn’t notice it. The body is 98% water. The “dry heat” sucked her dry. One dry, hot morning Uncle Frank bent over to kiss her. She collapsed into a mere handful of dust. The paramedics told Uncle Frank that this sort of thing happens all the time him. It’s the dry heat.” Poor Uncle Frank hasn’t stopped drinking – water – since. It’s doubtful his kidneys will survive much longer.

“It’s around 70 degrees down here. It’s been that way for a week.”

70 degrees! That’d be Fahrenheit I guessed.  20 C. doesn’t sound warm enough for people who like to gloat.

“That’s nice, maybe we’ll have to come down there one day; get ourselves out of this cold for a while.”

Wrong, wrong, wrong. I’d stepped right into her web.

“You think you can handle all this nice weather?”

How smarmy! She’d handed me the “can you handle too much of a good thing” line. I was sunk. Remarks about my pasty-white skin and the spores growing on my back were just around the corner. I had to fight back. I needed to score – big!

“Alligators eaten any of your cats lately?” I said jokingly. Ha, that’d get her.

“Why would you say that! We’d had Fluff for almost 12 years. He just couldn’t run as fast as he used to. The kids are still upset.”

“What? I was joking. Nobody told me.”

“Look, if you prefer tundra to paradise that’s fine. I didn't call asking for insults. I just called to wish you a Merry Christmas.”

“I’m sorry,” I said. “Merry Christmas, and Happy New Year.”

So How Did That Piece of Drivel Ever Get Published?

            If you really think it is crap, you should see the original. Or maybe I should find the original. The copy I was working off of had so many typos and errors that I find it hard to believe that it is the actual finished work that was published, up in chilly Alberta, Canada way back in 1995.

            How it got published is easy enough. “Feel Good, Alberta” was a new start-up venture for Alberta. Although the title may have suggested swingers or any number of sexual escapades it was actually all about living healthy. My column was the healthy dose of humor. I was just like Dave Barry or Erma Bombeck if either of them ever happened to be unfunny.

The column was dropped after a couple of months as the magazine found a new source of revenue. Doctors, mostly chiropractors actually, paid to have their articles published. Fortunately these articles always included helpful information such as phone numbers and business hours. In any event whether I sucked or was secretly brilliant the days of paying people to write for the magazine had passed. As an actually brilliant writer once said, “So, it goes.”

The Final Tune for the Evening.

            The evening ends with “Money Talks” by Danny Hull & Chris Cain. It’s not exactly a peace & love song; well it’s not a peace & love type song at all. It’s a money talks and BS walks song, and there you have it!