I come from a long line of weather witches and empaths. My foremothers are czech farmers. Deep within, we know the ancient ways.
We are a peculiar breed. Our roots grow deeper than the cedars, and yet we don’t know precisely where or who it is that we grew from. We are a mystery as old as these hills themselves, and it doesn’t take much figuring to know that we are enigmas of intentional design and destiny.
God knows our names.
We are not Northerners — damn Yankees, the men folks’ Confederate influence called them — and this we know without a doubt. I myself was always preened into believing I was a Southern child, born out of notions of gallantry and romance, but the fact is, I ain’t a low country belle and I’ve never picked a shred of cotton or been to a debutante ball.
We are not peaches.
And these mountain women before us were not delicate flowers or distressed coquettes. In these old heirloom hills, the women are…
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May I ask what you mean by weather witch? I come from a line of women with “storm headaches”, so it’s an area of interest to me.
I first noticed when very young my mother would pray for good weather and get it. When I was a bit older, she taught me how she did it, willing the clouds to gather or disperse. She could feel the atmosphere, the wind and the water, and seemingly coax it to her will. Now, perhaps she was just good at sensing the weather, and gave the illusion of controlling it. but I paid attention. Years later as a witch and great fan of global radar maps, I have worked with continental weather, and my aunt, her sister, she did it too, the years she had to drive Florida to Ohio repeatedly, she would “blow the storms out” ahead of her. I made a hell of a blizzard once, too. with a spell. Will never get that heavy-handed again!