jewelry. I even had one “costume” corner that was expanding rapidly, full of things like boas, tuxedoes, uniforms, and cowboy accoutrements. In a city like San Francisco, the costume pieces were particularly appreciated.
My store was located on the corner of Haight and Ashbury, right in the heart of the neighborhood made famous during the Summer of Love, 1968. The original flower children now sported thin gray ponytails, carried AARP cards in their wallets, and gulped down glucosamine for joint health. Still, their legacy lived on through plentiful head shops, an overabundance of street kids looking for the meaning of life, and most important, a kind of generalized bohemian style still prevalent among the neighborhood merchants and residents alike.
In fact, there were so many bizarre iconoclasts and odd misfits roaming these crowded streets that, most of the time, a witch with a stubborn Texas accent could feel downright normal. I loved the openness of this community, the live-and-let-live attitude that was slowly but surely helping me to admit who—and what —I was. After growing up amid censure and loathing in my hometown, and then searching the globe for a safe place to land, it still amazed me that I now had acquaintances who actually seemed pleased to have a witch for a friend.
The shop had closed just a half an hour before, so it still carried a happy leftover hum from customers and my friends who ran the place when I was gone.
Still, I was surprised to find Aunt Cora’s Closet empty. Bronwyn and I had made plans to have dinner and then to tackle a high pile of laundry. Now that Aunt Cora’s Closet was open on Mondays due to high customer demand, it was harder than ever to deal with the bane of the vintage clothing dealer: Silks and satins, much less crinolines and wools, can’t simply be popped into our jumbo-sized washer and dryer.
Once my initial relief at being home waned, I felt a tingle. . . . Something was off.
For all her flighty ways, Bronwyn always kept her word. And she was never late.
I glanced over at the answering machine. The little red light was flashing, indicating new voice mail.
“I’m so sorry, Lily, but I won’t be in today, and perhaps tomorrow,” Bronwyn said on the recording. Her voice sounded stuffy, as though she’d been crying . “Maya agreed to cover for me. I . . . I’ll explain it all to you in person when I can. For now . . . peace, and Blessed Be.”
I dialed her home number; no answer.
I watched the black cat meander around the shop floor while I pondered. Outside of my grandmother Graciela, Bronwyn was my first true friend. As such, I was unclear on the myriad unwritten rules of such a relationship.
It sounded like she wanted to be left alone. Should I honor that?
Oscar was already snoring on the monogrammed purple silk pillow Bronwyn had bought him. It was situated right beside her little herbal stand, which was decorated with floral garlands and cheerful Wiccan-inspired sayings. Bronwyn was one of the most giving, loyal, dependable people I had ever had the privilege to know. I was lucky to have her in my life.
The cat skulked over to Oscar and stealthily curled up beside his sleeping form.
Rules, schmulz. It seemed to me that when one’s pal was in trouble, it was time to get pushy.
Bronwyn lived just a few blocks away, in an old brightly painted wooden Victorian typical of the Haight-Ashbury neighborhood. I let myself in the main door to the broad foyer, which today was aromatic of fresh cinnamon rolls. The two men who lived downstairs were always baking something decadent and delicious, filling the air with mouthwatering scents, yet they both remained excruciatingly slim. One of life’s many mysteries.
Worn wooden treads squeaked in protest as I climbed the steep stairs, but I loved this building. It gave off a vibrant, distinct hum. Bronwyn told me it had once been inhabited by Janice Joplin and other musicians during the sixties heyday of the
My store was located on the corner of Haight and Ashbury, right in the heart of the neighborhood made famous during the Summer of Love, 1968. The original flower children now sported thin gray ponytails, carried AARP cards in their wallets, and gulped down glucosamine for joint health. Still, their legacy lived on through plentiful head shops, an overabundance of street kids looking for the meaning of life, and most important, a kind of generalized bohemian style still prevalent among the neighborhood merchants and residents alike.
In fact, there were so many bizarre iconoclasts and odd misfits roaming these crowded streets that, most of the time, a witch with a stubborn Texas accent could feel downright normal. I loved the openness of this community, the live-and-let-live attitude that was slowly but surely helping me to admit who—and what —I was. After growing up amid censure and loathing in my hometown, and then searching the globe for a safe place to land, it still amazed me that I now had acquaintances who actually seemed pleased to have a witch for a friend.
The shop had closed just a half an hour before, so it still carried a happy leftover hum from customers and my friends who ran the place when I was gone.
Still, I was surprised to find Aunt Cora’s Closet empty. Bronwyn and I had made plans to have dinner and then to tackle a high pile of laundry. Now that Aunt Cora’s Closet was open on Mondays due to high customer demand, it was harder than ever to deal with the bane of the vintage clothing dealer: Silks and satins, much less crinolines and wools, can’t simply be popped into our jumbo-sized washer and dryer.
Once my initial relief at being home waned, I felt a tingle. . . . Something was off.
For all her flighty ways, Bronwyn always kept her word. And she was never late.
I glanced over at the answering machine. The little red light was flashing, indicating new voice mail.
“I’m so sorry, Lily, but I won’t be in today, and perhaps tomorrow,” Bronwyn said on the recording. Her voice sounded stuffy, as though she’d been crying . “Maya agreed to cover for me. I . . . I’ll explain it all to you in person when I can. For now . . . peace, and Blessed Be.”
I dialed her home number; no answer.
I watched the black cat meander around the shop floor while I pondered. Outside of my grandmother Graciela, Bronwyn was my first true friend. As such, I was unclear on the myriad unwritten rules of such a relationship.
It sounded like she wanted to be left alone. Should I honor that?
Oscar was already snoring on the monogrammed purple silk pillow Bronwyn had bought him. It was situated right beside her little herbal stand, which was decorated with floral garlands and cheerful Wiccan-inspired sayings. Bronwyn was one of the most giving, loyal, dependable people I had ever had the privilege to know. I was lucky to have her in my life.
The cat skulked over to Oscar and stealthily curled up beside his sleeping form.
Rules, schmulz. It seemed to me that when one’s pal was in trouble, it was time to get pushy.
Bronwyn lived just a few blocks away, in an old brightly painted wooden Victorian typical of the Haight-Ashbury neighborhood. I let myself in the main door to the broad foyer, which today was aromatic of fresh cinnamon rolls. The two men who lived downstairs were always baking something decadent and delicious, filling the air with mouthwatering scents, yet they both remained excruciatingly slim. One of life’s many mysteries.
Worn wooden treads squeaked in protest as I climbed the steep stairs, but I loved this building. It gave off a vibrant, distinct hum. Bronwyn told me it had once been inhabited by Janice Joplin and other musicians during the sixties heyday of the
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