#27 Wits End

Centreville - aptly named for it's location, equidistant between the two end points of Long Island and with a population of 6 families and 8 working stills - was not sufficiently known to earn a place on any map.  Its one claim to fame was the woman who lived in the only house at the end of Wits End Lane.  For reasons no one ever asked about and she never explained, she had painted a street sign and nailed it to a tree at the nearly hidden intersection of Route 217 and a large number "27" made from small tree limbs was attached above her door.  It was the only true cottage on the whole island - not a cabin or a shack or a farmhouse, but a true fairy tale cottage with a thatched roof, stone chimney, window boxes of herbs, a spectacular ocean view and several dozen cats.  It sat at the very end of the dirt road, closely framed with large trees, their overhanging leaves nearly blotting out the sky.  It was a place of shadows and magic and we would never have been completely surprised to have met an elf or even a troll as we made our way down the dirt road.  


There were, of course, colorful rumors of second sight, communing with the dead, curses and spells and all manner of sorcery - Miss Glenda didn't encourage this kind of talk but on the other hand, she did nothing at all to contradict it.  Her visitors, mostly children who were more fascinated than afraid, willingly carried tales of strange brews and hypnotic black cats, of disembodied voices and spectral lights, of cackling witchery.  We loved the fanciful tiny cottage with its sounds and smells of chanting and spices.  Miss Glenda told us frightful ghost stories and read us Edgar Allen Poe and Washington Irving - she kept a shelf of glass jars filled with powders and oils and dried leaves and if we were very, very good, might even tell us our fortunes with a deck of tarot cards.  My agitated mother, angered and appalled at these goings on, set her foot down.


 Superstitious claptrap!  she snapped, You're not allowed there anymore!


She's harmless, Jan, my grandmother said mildly, Eccentric and lonely is all.


Never being a child to know when silence was the best course, I crossed my arms and stamped my feet defiantly.  She'll turn you to stone if I ask her! I yelled back, Just you wait and see!  It earned me a trip to the woodshed and no supper but Nana brought me biscuits with jam later - she put a finger to her lips and shushed me as she slipped through the door.


Nobody's turning anybody to stone, child, she said quietly and you'd do well to learn to hold your tongue.


A toad then, I said stubbornly, with warts.


Stop this nonsense and go to sleep this minute!  my grandmother warned, I never heard such notions in all my born days!


Moonlight shone through the window by my bed and if I listened very hard I thought I could hear the tide washing up on the rocks, the night breeze rustling through the tall grass, the muffled sound of what might've been my grandmother laughing softly.  I dreamed of toads and stone statues, whirlpools and witches and woke to a perfect day.