3rd in a Series: Also read: Life in the Country is Kind Of Lay-Back Fiddle When I Can, Work When I Should
Oh, there are many tales come out of country living and I am just the one to tell you. I may seem sceptical but Momma wouldn’t lie to us, would she, Gen?
Some things, they have no beginning, no end. They just go
on and on and on, passed generation to generation, like your Christmas turkey on a platter. Such was the much ado about Molly Misfit’s Journal and the Secret Society for Scryers.
Like, on one hand, they might be a bunch of crack pots who knew nothing about nothing or worse case scenario, they might just know the secrets that everyone hoped and prayed would be taken to their grave, without ever seeing the light of day.
The very scary reality was, since the knowledge of its existence, it was soon realized, there were no social-economic boundaries for admission. You could barely read or write or be an a seasoned academic, a welfare bum or an elitist who would barely nod to recognize the existence of others. You just needed ‘the gift’ to be invited to join. Ah, it was an insidious cancer that had to rooted out once and for all, chased out of the county like a good for nothing bootlegger….but, on the other hand, ya know, one of your own kin might be involved…and blood is thicker, I’m just saying…..
Now the locals knew you don’t let the police in their neck of the wood investigate what they thought was a victimless crime. It was rumored that even if they saw a criminal commit a crime, they would hedge their bets, say they couldn’t really say for sure….it looked like the bad guy robbed the bank but, you know, who could tell if that was money in the bag he carried as he fled the scene. Oh, the cops could give Mr.Slow-Poke tickets or throw a body in the drunk tank overnight, but no where in their Job Description did it indicate they were to beat the bushes for A Secret Society of Scryers (it was secret, duh???) and a mirror pool that conjured images of the past, present and future.
Maybe, just maybe the locals should hold a forum, get it all out on the table, piece by piece and make a gigantic jig saw puzzle, so that a picture formed visible to all. But where exactly could a meeting be held? The mayor declined the use of the town hall. At that time there were no arenas. What about one of the local churches? There were plenty to choose from – Born Again Brethren, Anything Goes United, New Fangled Pentecost and of course, even the Catholic Church had members who were reportedly scryers.
Well, the local priest was like a ‘see no evil, hear no evil, I wasn’t there it didn’t happen’ type. If a Catholic wanted to believe this heretical mumbo jumbo, it was on their souls. It wasn’t like the Protestants embraced the idea, but they were a curious bunch. That is why their own ancestors left the Holy Catholic Church so many years before. Then, being Protest-ants agreed to disagree and all set up their own doctrine. More things change, the more they stay the same! And that is where it got very tricky. Oh, those United would go to the Gospel Hall, the Pentecost Temple and / or extend a place to meet for all faiths and even the unfaithful. It seemed these left-wing thinkers did not understand that there were invisible lines in life you do not cross…and for a good reason.
Yes, the scryers had their secrets that Misfit Molly carefully penned down in her unknown journals until death-did-she part. No kidding, the locals had a pickle on their hands…maybe a whole bottle.
Although it seemed like a reasonable resolution to explore the Secret Society for Scryers, it just tore the locals asunder as they struggled with nailing jello to the wall. Could it be the non members were all jealous? Whatever! They solemnly swore that by golly, they would get to the bottom of it or die trying….all they needed was time, oh and a place to meet. What about our place Momma?
