For most Witches in the northern hemisphere, the season to honor the ancestors has come and gone. Year Fires have been lit, gates have been opened, offerings made, gates most likely closed again. Whether we celebrate on October 31st or closer to the astrological observance (this past November 7th), it is likely that we have concluded our annual rites and are now taking a breath before looking onward to the December Solstice and what that means to our traditions or locales. But I wanted to pause, for a moment, and reflect a bit on the ancestors, using this as an opportunity to speak to something that is both deeply personal, as well as potentially useful for others.
Please join me on a little journey into my own ancestors. Well, one of them in particular.
My maternal grandmother, Frances Wenona Thomas, was born on November 17, 1921, on a farm in Lincoln, Nebraska. Her childhood was hard, filled with hard work and an even harder mother, who by today’s standards would be recognized as being abusive. When Frances was old enough to strike out on her own, she made her way west, waiting tables along the way. She claimed to have once served Hollywood starlet Marilyn Monroe while working in Las Vegas, before finally arriving in California, and settling in the San Francisco Bay Area.
Frances Wenona. 1921-2001
As a young woman, she suffered from terrible migraines. They would begin with ocular distortions (she called them, “auras”) and would eventually manifest as excruciating pain that could last for days. She would later be in an automobile accident, suffering what is now called a traumatic brain injury (TBI). From that time forward, she would still experience the migraine as a period of ocular distortions, but they never again manifested as pain.
Her life was hard. She had divorced my grandfather when my own mother was still a child. This was not a time that was kind to single mothers, let alone (gasp! shudder!) divorcees. Especially a woman divorcee. She was human. She loved a good “honky-tonk.” She worked hard.
As a child, she lived with us for a time, helping to run the house. She babysat. She cooked and cleaned. She was an excellent cook. She baked her own bread and made her own pasta noodles. I remember fondly her soups and stews, and especially her take on chilaquiles for dinner, which I am certain would not pass the traditional Mexican food test but was one of my favorite things in life.
She even transformed our suburban backyard into a miniature farm where we grew our own lettuce, squash, corn, potatoes, tomatoes, green beans, peas, asparagus, rhubarb, Swiss chard, artichokes, and strawberries. I remember a citrus tree, too, but I don’t think that one ever panned out. Oh, well. You can’t win ‘em all.
Later, she moved out and, as we come from a long line of working-class folk, she qualified for a low rent housing complex in neighboring Pleasanton, California, and there she lived for many years.
I remember weekly dinners there. My parents divorced when I was 12 and my mother worked hard to support us beyond the pittance that my father paid in child support. Those meals were a gift to the family.
Later my grandmother would be diagnosed with breast cancer and undergo a double mastectomy. She had been a smoker since she was a child. She started so long ago that it was suggested at the time that smoking carried health benefits. Even though one would think quitting smoking would be the medical suggestion, it was advised by her doctor not to quit; that at her age it would cause more stress on her body to make that attempt. She smoked unfiltered Pall Mall cigarettes until the week she died in 2001 at the age of 79.
That final week, looking back, so much happened. On a Monday, she was out shopping. She experienced shortness of breath and suddenly collapsed. She was rushed to the hospital and soon the whole family was at her side. She was recovering nicely but mentioned seeing my grandfather whom she said had come into her room the night before. Though she had married another man after her divorcing my grandfather, that seemed to be a marriage of convenience and did not last. They lived apart though never formally dissolved the marriage. This, I believe, was of great help to her after he died as she received some meager amount of Social Security.
She continued to tell stories of seeing dead relatives coming to visit her and she told my mother how peaceful it made her feel, even confessing to my mother that my grandfather was the love of her life and she was looking forward to being with him. She was recovering each day and so we failed to see what was happening.
Frances and John
My grandmother had been raised Catholic but had abandoned it years prior. That said, she still carried with her that particular brand of Catholic guilt. Since this was still on her medical file, a nun visited her one day, asking if my grandmother needed anything in terms of spiritual guidance. “No thank you,” my grandmother replied. “That’s all between me and God.” This was a huge step for someone who had been programmed that the Church’s hierarchy was sacrosanct.
That Tuesday night, I decided to do healing magic for her recovery. I sat on my patio and drew a circle of salt. Sitting within it, I opened myself to magic and incorporated some energy work inspired by my Reiki practice. As I was sending the energy I got the distinct sense that I should not be trying to heal her physically but instead should send a sense of “peace.” So, I adapted my work, focusing on compassion and relaxation.
Wednesday and Thursday were a flurry of tests and more stories of deceased family visiting her, including her much-beloved younger sister, who had passed away in the 1980s.
On Friday, the doctors informed my mother that Frances could no longer live alone and would need to be put on oxygen, as the cancer had returned and spread to her lungs. My mother left to make arrangements to move her into her house and had an oxygen tank delivered.
In that moment, when everyone had finally cleared out from visiting for the day, my grandmother took that opportunity to die on her own terms.
There are other aspects to her passing that I felt were actually beautiful. Like her leaving some silver coins specifically for my sister to whom, in retrospect, Frances had been somewhat cruel over the years.
Instead of having a Catholic priest perform the service (much to the chagrin of our “morbidly Catholic” extended family members), my mother and I took the reins. She spoke of her mother’s life and hard ships, and I led a guided meditation to release her spirit, as we went outside and released a flock of doves. It was personal, and lovely. My sister had compiled a photo collage and my brother, who lived nearby at the time, opened his home for our version of an Irish wake, where much of the food eaten actually was made by my grandmother, stored in her freezer, alongside her carton of beloved cigarettes. (I took one of those packs and have it tucked away in my ancestor altar to this day.)
Now I need to switch gears for a moment and talk about my experience with some baneful magic.
Many years ago, long before I met my husband and partners, I had a fling with a friend of a friend. They visited the Bay Area from Southern California with my friend, and since it was Christmas time, I invited them both to a small holiday party. He and I connected and when it was time for him to go back home, he asked me to come with him. I was not prepared to uproot my life and go with him and so I politely declined. He was visibly bothered but said no more of it and I thought that was done. A few days later, I was at work, running the returns counter at our local Target store, when I started to feel strange. I realized that my brain was not working properly, being unable to recall certain words. I quickly became impaired, unable to form complete sentences. I started to see flashes of what appeared to be liquid light, eventually obscuring my vision so that only a small portion of my left eye rendered any visual information. I was forced to walk home in that state and by the time I reached my apartment the migraine headache had begun.
I had never had one before. If you have never had one, count your blessings. It was literally the most pain I had experienced in my life up until that point. I literally thought that perhaps I had a brain tumor and I was dying. As I laid down on my bed in a darkened room, I saw what appeared to be a man standing at the foot of my bed. He was handsome, and blond, dressed entirely in black. I remember thinking that this was actually the visiting fling, but that this image was far more attractive. I suddenly realized I could not move, right as the figure began slowly climbing on top of me. The experience felt vampiric and I started to feel drained as I passed out.
The next day, I received in the mail a “love poem” from this man, typed out on stationary that everyone except for me said “smelled like incense,” (I could smell nothing). When I say “love poem,” I do not mean one that conveys desire or adoration, but one that declared “If I can’t have you, no one can.” It was disturbing. I immediately thought that this man (who followed a self-described “left-hand” path) was throwing a curse my way, but I dismissed it as being “dramatic,” and tried to put it out of my mind.
When the migraine returned a day or so later (and being a working -class American without health insurance) I decided to go to my local metaphysical shop where I often attended a Tuesday night “Healing Night.” There I would have energy healers work on me and much to my surprise, without telling them anything at all, they were able to correctly determine that my pain was being intentionally sent to me, and even a fairly accurate description of the perpetrator along with other identifying insights. I was floored. The next day I decided to do a reversing spell to send his bad vibes back. I got out my cauldron and herbs. I got a mirror and a candle. And I brought the poem, to burn away and send that intention back to the sender. I did the rite. It felt good, and I felt better.
I would later learn from my friend that this person’s life fell apart shortly after, but before anyone shouts “foul play,” or “real Witches never curse!” let me just say that he deserved what he got, not for crossing me, but for the elder abuse that he committed which was suddenly discovered.
(Some time later, after I was with my husband, this man would reach out to me once last time. I decided to confront him, and he admitted to all of it. I’m pretty sure I neglected to inform him of my reversing spell. No sense in poking the nest, so to speak.)
Years later, I would get another series of migraines, at a time in which my extended magical community was undergoing their cyclic time of implosion and cultic attacks. An independent reading again confirmed that cursing was happening. But at this point on my life, my magical skills had definitely increased and so I knew what to do.
I asked my grandmother for help.
Since she was always supportive of me in life, it didn’t seem like such a stretch to call on her for protection. And since she had suffered from —and overcame— migraines in her life, I thought she might have some special insight.
I didn’t do anything terribly special. In the dark of night, lit by a candle, I gathered her photo and my memories. I’m pretty sure I offered her a cup of coffee, with one rounded teaspoon of plain CoffeeMate powdered coffee creamer, just like she liked. And I even offered a Pall Mall cigarette, unlit at first, then lit from the candle during the rite as an incense offering.
I remember having a sort of hazy experience with her. I honestly didn’t know if it was all just an imaginative fantasy, but I went with it. I felt her presence and felt her protection. In my youth, she had administered so many medicines, bowls of homemade chicken soup, and cups of honied tea to me over the years and feeling her presence by candlelight reminded me of how I felt when she nursed me back to health. I was a sickly child, often suffering from strange afflictions, and she had old timey farmers healing wisdom (even if her favorite healing potion was Mercurochrome. Oh, well. They can’t all be winners, right?)
When the rite concluded I felt better and so I passively chalked it up as a success and then got on with my life, promptly forgetting all about it.
Fast forward what could have been a year or more. I am watching TV and gradually notice I am having trouble focusing on the screen. Before too long I realize that I am experiencing a visual distortion, which appears as if far off and small in my field of vision, but is gradually, ever so slowly, getting larger and “closer.” I recognize it as the antecedent of a migraine and so my thoughts turn to my grandmother. “OK, Gramma Fran, it’s happening!” I remember saying quietly to myself. I closed my eyes and took some deep breaths. Relaxing my body could only help, and so I turned off the tv and sat in silence, watching the strange, pulsing lights, creep toward me, eventually appears to move through, or pass over my body. And that was that. No headache ever came. I was amazed.
The same has happened a few times since, and not once to date has it manifested as a headache. I get the “auras” which tells me that something is up. Time to cleanse and re-do wards. But, like my grandmother, I no longer suffer the pain of them.
Before you say, “Gee, that’s nice Storm… for you,” let me just say that her healing influence isn’t just reserved for me or my family. That’s not how we were raised, thankyouverymuch. Our family helped people where we could. So, a couple years ago, when a student of mine mentioned that they too suffered from migraines, I thought what better experiment than to petition my grandmother to offer her very specific healing boon? I set a space to ask her if she would be willing to help my student and I got the definite sense that she would. So, I shared some info with my student, suggested she reach out in meditation, perhaps light a candle, and offer her a cup of coffee made to her liking and ask for themselves for help with her ailment. After they did this, they too had the experience of the migraine no longer manifesting as pain.
(Full disclosure: checking in with them just recently they have since had a painful migraine headache but commented that they hadn’t thought about working with my grandmother again since the initial rite, years ago. They are now intending to do a semi-regular offering to keep that energy in their life. I intend to update this story at some point in the future.)
There have been others who have also called upon my grandmother for help and received it. With this in mind, it would not be inaccurate to say that my grandmother is a saint, in that she is dead but still reportedly helping people. Catholicism doesn’t have a monopoly on saints, they’re just the most organized with them, though I doubt my gramma would want to be associated with anything even potentially Catholic. She was… OVER. IT.
In the Craft we sometimes speak of “the Mighty Dead.” These are spirits of dead Witches who are said to assist living Witches from the other side. My grandmother did not identify as a Witch. But she was certainly open to it. She was angry when I told her of the existence of matrifocal societies and the suppression of goddess figures. She even technically taught me my first spell (to bring rain), something that I have never done and will not repeat here, as it involves cruelty to animals, but interestingly enough was something I later academically confirmed in a study of regional folk magic in the USA.
So, in honor of her upcoming birthday, and in alignment with her wishes as communicated to me, I offer the magical world this introduction. If you are sick, my gramma is willing to help. If you can meet her halfway. Call to her and see what your experience is. (This, of course, is in addition to whatever medical advice you are receiving from your doctor. Witchcraft does not replace science, it compliments it.)
I knew her with her married name, “Porter,” and so that is how I call to her, “Frances Wenona Porter.” Born November 17, 1921, and died July 6, 2001. Offer her a cup of coffee, made how she likes it, and maybe even a Pall Mall cigarette (you can substitute plain tobacco, if you desire.) Or maybe offer her some Mexican food. (Really anything, but she especially loved Chile relleno.) Or maybe a shot of whiskey at Christmas time. Ask her to help you on your healing journey. And tell her that Storm sent you.
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