Bones, Apples, and Pie: Folk Magic for Thanksgiving

Since it's a holiday this week I thought I'd turn away from the usual witches and ghosts to write about something more light-hearted. But fear not! I'll get back to the spooky stuff next week. 

While browsing through some old books I came upon this familiar piece of folklore:

The forked bone just in front of the breastbone of a chicken or other fowl is known as the wishbone. If this bone chances to fall to you, preserve it and put it on the shelf behind the stove to dry. When properly seasoned you take hold of one end, let a friend take hold of the other, each make a wish, and then both pull. The wish of the one that has the top with his piece when it breaks will come true. (Clifton Johnson, What They Say in New England, 1896) 

Many of you have probably broken the wishbone and the tradition has very old roots. The Latin term for the wishbone is furcula, which apparently means 'little fork', and different types of folklore about this particular bone date back to at least the Middle Ages. Jeffrey Webb's American Myths, Legends, and Tall Tales (2016) claims they date back even further, to the ancient Etruscans who lived more than 2,000 years ago. It's a very intriguing bone, apparently. 

Mel McCuddin, Wishbone (2011), at the Art Spirit Gallery.

The specific tradition of getting your wish if you get the bigger piece of the bone is not ancient but is still quite old. Edward Armstrong's book The Folklore of Birds (1970) claims the practice of wishing upon the bone originated in the 1700s. So if you pull on the wishbone this year during your socially distanced celebration recognize that you are carrying on a centuries-old tradition, albeit under unusual circumstances.

Not everyone eats turkey so sadly not everyone can participate in the wishbone tradition. I did once buy a Tofurky that included a fake wishbone in the box but those fake bones aren't part of the Tofurky anymore. There is folklore about making pie, however, so even vegans can join in the holiday fun:

When a girl trims piecrust, and the trimming falls over her hand, it is a sign she is going to marry young (Clifton Johnson, What They Say in New England, 1896)

Nineteenth century folklore collections are full of omens that predict marriage. In a pre-liberated era, marriage loomed even larger in people's minds than it does today, and it particularly did for young women, who usually had limited career and life choices. Even the humble act of making pie could provide an indicator of one's marital future.

If you are making apple pie you have even more options for fortune-telling. One well-known tradition instructs a woman to peel an apple in one strip and then throw the peel over her shoulder. The peel will form the shape of a letter on the ground, and that letter will be the first initial of the man she will marry. Some accounts say you need to swing the peel around your head three times before throwing it down, so don't omit that crucial step.

A weirder piece of apple folklore comes from Maine. A young woman curious about her marital prospects should eat an apple at midnight while standing in front of a mirror. In one hand she should carry a lamp or candle for light. As she eats the apple she should recite the following incantation:

Whoever my true love may be

Come and eat this apple with me

Something about eating an apple at midnight and evoking an unknown lover to appear sounds a little spooky to me. I guess I wasn't able to resist the urge to write about spooky things after all. Have a safe and happy Thanksgiving, even if you spend it alone this year.

*****

In addition to Clifton Johnson's book, I got material for this week's post from Fanny Bergen's book Current Superstitions (1896).

Something Grisly From Cape Cod: The Forgotten Bonnet

I was on Cape Cod recently and had dinner with friends who live in Wellfleet. I really recommend visiting Wellfleet if you can. It has beautiful old buildings from the 18th and 19th century, a bustling little harbor, and lots of green space. Wellfleet has everything you could want in a small New England coastal town, even a pretty white wooden church. But as readers of this blog know, quaint old towns often are the scene of gruesome stories, and sometimes bad things even happen in pretty churches. 

I've mentioned a few spooky Wellfleet stories on this blog before, like those about the witch Maria Hallett (who is still remembered in Wellfleet to this day) or accounts of the mysterious Tarzan of the 1930s (who seems to have been forgotten). But while we were in Wellfleet my friend David told me a story I had never heard before. And it's not just spooky, it's downright gruesome. Hearing a new story always makes me happy, and David swears this one is true. He works at the Wellfleet Historical Society and has written a book about town history so I believe him.

The story is about the Gross family, a large and prominent clan in Wellfleet's past. Many of the Gross men were famous sailors, and one of them even married a Hawaiian princess in 1789. But the family members best remembered today are the ten Gross sisters who posed for this photo in 1850 or 1851:

Photo of the Gross sisters from Wellfleet Historical Society

The sisters were  famous on Cape Cod because there were ten of them and they all lived long healthy lives, which was quite rare at the time. Tbe oldest sister, Lurania, was born in 1767. The youngest, Maria, was born in 1794. Photography was relatively new when this photo was taken, and the sisters had to travel all the way to Boston to pose for it. Clearly they were an important family if they could afford to have their picture taken and travel to do it. 

In addition to being numerous the Grosses were also devout. They belonged to Wellfleet's Methodist church where all the sisters were members of the choir. The Methodist church still exists in town, although the current building is of a more recent date. 

Wellfleet Methodist Church

The sisters faithfully attended choir practices, which were held in the church in the evening. This is where the gruesome story begins. One evening one of the Gross sisters walked all the way home after choir practice when she suddenly realized she had forgotten her bonnet at the church. (I wasn't told which sister it was, so let's just call her Ms. Gross.) Ms. Gross remembered that she had left her bonnet in one of the pews. How embarrassing! No proper woman would dream of being seen without a bonnet. She turned and began the long trek back to church.

She lived quite a distance from the church, and in the time it took her to walk back the sun had set. Everyone else had already left the church, and its windows were dark. Unfortunately Ms. Gross had not brought a lantern, but she bravely opened the door to the church and stepped inside anyway. She spent a lot time inside the building and thought she was familiar with every inch of it. What could possibly go wrong?

The church was pitch black. Ms. Gross walked cautiously down the aisle, guiding herself by holding onto the backs of the pews. She remembered which pew she had left her bonnet in and when she reached it she began to feel along the seat. But much to her surprise she didn't find her bonnet. Instead she found the face of a man who was lying in the pew. His face was cold, and it was wet.

Ms. Gross screamed in surprise and horror. She backed out of the pew in a panic, but then tripped and fell into another pew across the aisle. As she fell she steadied herself with her hands - which came to rest on another man. She felt his wet, soggy clothes and his cold, inert body. She smelled the ocean.

Sobbing, Ms. Gross stumbled down the aisle, feeling her way along in the darkness. She tried to keep her hands on the backs of the pews, but occasionally she slipped, and each time she did she felt another corpse, touching here a cold face, there a wet foot or a clammy hand.

When she finally escaped the church she ran to the nearest house and pounded hysterically on the door. The family inside took her in and listened to her tale. When Ms. Gross had calmed down they explained to her what why the church was full of corpses. 

After choir practice had ended, a wagon had come up to the church from the harbor. It had been filled with dead bodies. Apparently a ship had sunk of the coast of Wellfleet and the crew's bodies had washed ashore in the harbor. The Methodist minister agreed to store them overnight in the church while the townspeople decided where to bury them. The minister certainly didn't think anyone would come stumbling in to find them. After all, everyone had left after choir practice. 

That's the end of the story, but I wonder how Ms. Gross felt. Was she relieved to know there was a logical explanation for all the corpses which suddenly appeared in the church? Or was she saddened and horrified to realize she really had been touching the dead bodies of men who drowned at sea? I also wonder how she felt about her bonnet. Did she vow to never forget her bonnet again, or did she instead vow to never wear one again? Significantly, in the photo of the ten sisters the youngest one, Maria, is not wearing a bonnet... 

This story reminds me of that old Halloween game for kids, the one where you are blindfolded and touch various things that are supposed to be body parts. You touch cold grapes and someone tells you they are eyeballs, you touch spaghetti and someone tells you it is intestines, etc. In Ms. Gross's case, though, she actually did touch dead bodies. If there's any lesson to be learned it might this: gruesome things can happen anytime of the year, and they even happen in small towns with pretty white churches.

Some Thoughts on the Snow Moon

Well, the weather forecast says Boston may get another 12 to 24 inches of snow in the next couple days. I do like snow but I suppose you can have too much of a good thing.

I shouldn't be surprised that we're getting heavy snow. The moon in February is traditionally called the Snow Moon and there's a reason: February is the snowiest month in New England. In December we're all dreaming of a white Christmas but really we should all be anticipating a white Groundhog Day, Valentine's Day and Presidents Day. Note that I said anticipating, not dreading.

I don't know when the tradition of naming the different month's moons started. It's generally attributed to Native Americans but I think there have been additions and changes over time. There are multiple moon naming systems out there, but I like the one used by the The Old Farmer's Almanac:

January - Wolf Moon
February - Snow Moon
March - Worm Moon
April - Pink Moon
May - Flower Moon
June - Strawberry Moon
July - Buck Moon, also called Thunder Moon
August - Sturgeon Moon
September - Harvest Moon
October - Hunter's Moon
November - Beaver Moon
December - Cold Moon

Each name describes what is happening in the world during that particular lunar cycle. Flowers are blooming, the sturgeon are running in the rives, hunters are stalking game, etc. Or it's snowing like heck. Usually you see the name applied to the full moon (i.e. Full Snow Moon) but each moon rules over a full 28 day cycle. So according to this system we should expect snow at least through February 18.

Some moons sound charming, like the Pink, Flower and Strawberry Moons. Some sound ominous, like the Hunter's, Cold and Wolf moons. The Snow Moon is sometimes ominously called the Hunger Moon, which relates directly to the seasonal subsistence pattern of the Algonquians who first lived in New England. With heavy snow on the ground it was often difficult for hunters to find game in the forest, even when traveling by snowshoe, and the food from the fall harvest might start to run low as February wore on.

Folklore from the Northern New England tribes reflect this fear of starvation. Stories from Maine, Vermont and New Hampshire tell of sorcerers who are transformed into perpetually hungry giants with an appetite for human flesh. The giants are known by several names, including chenoo, kiwakwa, or giwakwa, and are similar to the more widely known Abenaki wendigo. The cannibal giants are so hungry that they chew off their own lips, quite happily devour their own family, and have hearts made of ice. The stories about the chenoo, etc. reflect fears of starvation and cabin fever.

Other folk stories tell of hunters lost in the winter woods who are eaten by animated corpses in an abandoned hut, or of a monstrous giant hare who rules a wintry Netherworld where the dead go when they die. Clearly the Algonquians weren't walking in a winter wonderland. The Snow Moon was a scary time.

When the English settled arrive here they were at first overwhelmed by the intensity of the winters, which were much harsher than those in England. Cold, snow and starvation killed large numbers of the first settlers, and even once the colonies were well-established people would often die when they were trapped away from home during a blizzard.

But as time went on the cold and snow became less daunting, and oddly snow became something that many people looked forward to. The reason? Sleigh rides. During the winter people were able to travel quickly and smoothly between farmsteads and into towns. Winter sleigh rides were actually preferable to summer wagon trips, because snow provided a smoother traveling surface than the pitted and often muddy dirt roads that crossed New England.

I'm sure you've seen those Currier and Ives prints of people riding and even racing sleighs in charming winter landscapes. There is some truth in those images. People did race sleighs for sport, something they couldn't do with wagons in the summer. Snow could be fun.

Ironically, transportation is the reason some modern New Englanders hate snow. We have cars rather than sleighs and driving through snow can be treacherous. This year even the subway system in Boston is breaking down because there's been so much snow, ice and cold. Maybe the MBTA should buy some sleighs.

The moon in March is the Worm Moon. I look forward to the activities of the worms in the thawing soil but fervently hope we don't get as many worms as we've had snow.