Clippings
by Gary D. Crawford I know, I know. Who wants to read about fingernail clippings? I mean, after all, what’s there to say about those darned things? They are annoying little beasties, all too often slipping onto the f loor where they cannot be located except by the bare foot. At best, they are merely trimmed off, gathered up and tossed into the wastebasket. And that’s that, right? Well, actually, as it turns out, that is not the case everywhere. A long while back, I lived in the islands of Micronesia for five years or so. There I discovered that locals, especially the women, always gathered up their nail clippings very carefully and then slipped off into the nearby bush to dispose of them somewhere. When I asked what they did with them, I got an odd look. “We bury them, of course,” was the reply. When I asked why they would go to such a bother, the islander paused and then smiled indulgently, having forgotten (once again) that I was from a land Far Far Away and, consequently, was hopelessly ignorant of the simplest and most fundamental elements of life, things every two-year-old knew. Like, “always cough loudly when you approach someone’s house after
dark.” Or, “don’t say ‘this is my garden’ but refer to it as our garden.” Or, “when you borrow something consumable such as sugar, return the favor but with something else ~ never the thing borrowed.” (Tit for tat looks like you’re trying to wipe out the debt so you can never be asked for anything.) Well, those things I did know about, having stumbled over them and been corrected often enough. But nail clippings? What in the world? So, I did what I still do here on the Eastern Shore when something doesn’t seem to make sense ~ I asked. “OK, so you bury them. But why?” The answer took me aback. “To prevent an enemy from finding them and using them to make a spell against me.” Oh, my. Once again, I was reminded of Dorothy’s statement of realization: “Toto, I’ve a feeling we’re not in Kansas anymore.” So, yes, there is something interesting, more or less, that can be said about clippings. But this little article isn’t about that at all. This is about newspaper clippings. When it’s cold and breezy, I tend to crank up the (fake) log stove and start reading in old records. A
137