The pagans down the street have invited us to a barbeque. Actually, they have invited the whole building. I guess they think they need to conduct a bit of a charm offensive, since the last time they were setting something on fire in their backyard one of the neighbors promptly called the fire department who promptly doused their doings.

The pagans amuse me more than baffle or upset me, but I accept their invitation because I am really curious about pagan hospitality and what pagans eat at a barbeque. Also, I would like to know how they are going to finish the art project they have started on their white micro-bus. It has begun as a bas-relief of the Green Man several months ago, but it doesn’t seem to have progressed very far, and it doesn’t seem very aerodynamic, or able to successfully endure the long distances having a hippie bus suggests they want to travel.

The event is perfectly nice. The pagans show us around their apartment, take us to the back, show us the circle of stones they have planted. They are grilling hot dogs. Their bathroom is a bit, um, mossy for my taste, but I would imagine the pagans might find it downright welcoming.

Afterwards we continue our friendly head-bobs in acknowledgment when we pass on the street. I don’t think too much about them, until spring solstice. Since they have the backyard with the rune stones and the hot dog grill, the big festivities take place there. I am not even aware of the date, until I hear singing coming from the back of the house, random, warming-up kind of singing, single voices, an occasional duets floats up for a minute. Then they get serious, ready to begin the proceedings, and it makes me bark with laughter. They sing “I Got Rhythm.”