In Memoriam and A Very Special Halloween

In Memoriam
Jeanne Buckhalter
August 23, 2001

The Grove, sacred space for so many of us here in Albany, had been desecrated. What once was a place of harmony, worship, and peace was now a shambles. The altar, which before had held only salt, candles, wine, a little cake and flowers was covered in human feces and urine. Glass was broken everywhere; the star-shaped candle-holders one had given with love were shattered against trees and bottles had been broken against the stones. The rough-hewn bench made by my nice, Baptist husband had been lifted and smashed, which had to be the work of several, for it had been 10 feet long and sturdy enough to have already withstood ten years use. Though not of the Craft, he had kept the paths clear of weeds, and had helped make the Grove, clearing out the poison ivy and making paths where they wanted to go, not forcing them, and was the one to find the desecration before I went out for morning meditation. It was a beautiful, peaceful place. “Don’t go to the grove,” he told me.

I am a woman, and was Priestess and High Priestess and was going into MY Grove, period, and no discussion. The first thing my eyes saw was that the lanterns which had taken me months to make and hang in the trees had been crushed into the forest loam, next that the wind chimes I so loved had been stolen, further down the path I saw the first of the broken candle-holders, then the stripped young pine trees, wantonly denuding them of their branches. The decorations lovingly handmade by the children in the coven and their parents had been ripped from the trees and crushed, broken, torn.

I stood there, just looking. It felt as if someone had kicked me in the stomach. It was hard to breathe and I was not really sure my old heart was going to continue beating. I picked up one of the decorations Dove’s children had made, a sun face. It lay in my hand half torn and crumpled, and I remembered the great pride with which the child, then four, had hung it on the tree at Winter’s Solstice. Great “Art” it was not, with its gold sequins and glitter, but it was made with all that little girl’s care and hung on the tree with great pride and love. Right then it symbolized to me the Grove of the Green Wood, which we had made with such love and pride.

My husband returned with the garbage can, shovel and rake and we started cleaning up what once had been a place of peace, where no words other than loving ones had ever been spoken, where the Creator of All had been worshiped, no matter what names had been used. I didn’t cry then. I was too numb. Thoughts swirled through my mind, memories upon memories of the Grove, and the folk within.

I remembered the night our fourth son had hand-fasted there; a night of joy and laughter, and cold, oh goodness, it was so very cold, almost as cold as I felt right then. My first grandson’s face swam before my eyes, and I recalled how my son had told me, with an embarrassed laugh, that he had been conceived there in the sacred grove. I remembered the tears which had watered the ground there; tears from a young woman abused by her husband and seeking answers and solace; tears from a teacher who could not get through to a student who was lost in depression and drugs; and my own tears as I buried a beloved cat near the entry to the grove. All I could do as I cleaned was remember.

My husband left the Grove, coming back with a wheelbarrow and we lifted the heavy stones that had made the circle. North, the largest of them all, we put in the wheelbarrow first, then East, South, West. Finally, my heart breaking, we lifted the altar stone in silence and put it on top of the rest. His quiet "I'm sorry, dear." didn't even help, as it normally would have. As we left the Grove, walking down the path I had walked thousands of times before, I was certain it would be the last time I would enter the Grove of the Green Wood.

Since curiosity about the so called “Satanists” which is what the desecrators thought us to be was what sparked this outrage, I set the circle up in the front yard under a huge, 300 year old oak tree, boldly daring any to come desecrate it again. I cleaned the stones and purified them, setting them up with my own hands and heart. On the altar I placed flowers from my yard and a small shell I had found. The wind chimes I so loved had been stolen, but I was able to buy another and hang it there in the oak tree. My husband was worried about this, being a good Baptist, but I was furious and adamant about it. I snarled, “If they are so damned curious, let the little bastards come back and look all they want.” Then, exhausted emotionally and physically, I went to the bathroom and wept in the shower.

Samhain, Halloween for the non-Pagan, is the celebration of the New Year for us, the night when the veil between the world of the living and the world of the passed is thinnest. It is also my favorite celebration of the year, and I decorate the yard extensively, with tableau's ranging from the traditional graveyard scene to the absurd pink troll with a fishing pole and skeleton dangling from the end.

Usually I do the decorations to delight the children and families, and coming to see our yard at Halloween is a family tradition now for many. But this year my heart was sore, and aching, and I was still grieving and angry, and wanted to make a statement about my loss.

Carefully I planned and crafted the tableau, making it all by my own skill, as was my preference. I kept the traditional tableaux (displays) and the family favorites of the purple people eater and ghoul school, certainly, but this I put separate from the rest. I began with a pole, a stake, driven into a hole my husband had dug for me. He is a wise man and only asked me once if I was sure I wanted to make the display I had planned.

Going inside, I came back out with my old white ceremonial robe, a box of foam rubber pieces used to make bodies, chain, the nine foot cord usually worn in circle, a hood made of a burlap bag, and two skeletal hands I had made years before. Soon there was the body of a woman, a witch in her ritual robe, her cord around her waist, bound by heavy chains to a rough stake, her head in a rough hood, her hands raised to the sky. I piled wood all around her and finished the tableau with another tombstone. On it the simple words and prayer, “Never Again The Burning.”

Every night of October, the entire time she was there bound to the stake, I kept a candle burning in a votive glass. Not a word was spoken about that display. People came and read the humorous epitaphs, laughed about the huge dinosaur going from one end of the drive and out the other, and the Troll booth, pitching pennies into the cauldron, but when they came to Her…the laughter stopped and they drove on, subdued. At first I felt vindicated, then as the month grew on, and I would go outside to make the customary adjustments to the displays, I began to imagine a presence there at Her display.

I felt such grief there, as is to be expected; after all, I was mourning the loss of the Grove and the men and women who had died for faith, died for all faiths, not just mine. Being somewhat pragmatic, even if a pragmatist with an imagination, I told myself I was imagining things, and no, I did not hear the sounds of soft weeping at nights in the yard. Halloween came, and I rejoiced in the New Year, giving out treats to the kids, taking them on the tour of the graveyard, laughing with their parents, telling them how adorable their aliens, ghosts and Barbie’s were. The morning after, when I went outside to begin dismantling the displays, at the feet of the woman on the stake, someone had placed a single…perfect…red…rose.

I have never again put Her out in the displays, but Her tale is not done, for last year a neighbor known for a complete lack of imagination, told me why he did not walk past our house that month so long ago. I looked at Fred, grinning, for this old Marine is …well…an old Marine says it all, and I thought he was joking. “Serious as a heart attack. Every time I walked by here I kept hearing a woman crying. Even knocked on your door, thinking it was you. Looked around the yard too. Nothing, nobody. Just a woman crying.”

Perhaps I will put her back out again this year. Either way, my prayer is the same, Never Again The Burning.