Recognising the hillbilly & her bag of sticks

I’ ve had another one of those you-whoo-you-in-there moments.Right in the middle of a lovely meditation and up pops a vision of a hillbilly woman carrying a quilted bag of sticks on her back.

It was like ‘heartbeat meet thyself!

I knew she was me because I’ve always considered myself a pastel-kinda’ hillbilly. You know the kind—wearing fine make-up and racy black underwear underneath food-stained, and often, wrong-side out clothes (I dress in the dark most mornings).

I get the message: it’s time for me to admit it out loud. Let my inner ‘bag it and tag it’ beauty shine.

And so, here I am with my magical bag of sticks. A folk-art version of the wands used by the ilk of the Harry Potter clan. Now—each stick has its own purpose and I can, and often do, whip out one of these babies in the blink of a myopic eyeball.

The one with the donkey head carved on the top is probably the meanest of the bunch. It’s used most often when I’m smothered by the yap-yap-yap of someone who has a horses’ ass for a brain. A simple tweak from the twig and their obnoxious braying becomes so obvious even they have to notice it. Leaving them to either shut up or scurry off. Love this stick to pieces. It’s one of the reasons I don’t go out much – I’m afraid I’ll wear it out.

Another of my precious cargo has a cellophane sheen over it. It’s my stick with the invisibility knot. Because I’m a loner by nature, I am often overwhelmed by the energy in gatherings. Giving myself a wee rap upside the head with the knotty bark and suddenly I’m invisible (well, except for those who have their own stick stash).

Another luscious twig of slivers is my lullaby log. One whack with this baby and it’s ‘goodnight darling’ for all but the most hyper. I especially enjoy tapping my loving husband with this sweet sliver of snores. And before you think I’m being nasty, think about it—I whip, I whack and before we have time to scratch anything, he’s drifting off to la-la land in his recliner.

And with him snoozing in his recliner, I’m free to do as I chose. Less time to fight and less for his sweet noggin to sweat over.

Personally, I think living with a hillbilly and her bag of sticks is good for him.

And with that—I’m outta’ here—time to go for a walk. You never know what kinda’ sticks you’ll find in the woods.

Ciao

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