Did you decide to read this post because you thought I’d be talking about tornadoes and earthquakes?
That’s incorrect, but this isn’t a trick, so please don’t get mad at me. I do intend to write about natural disasters, but of a different kind.
Candles have been a part of my life since I was a kid. I have a now-fading memory of being barefooted and circling with other children around a huge pot of melted wax, taking turns dipping wicks to make dipped candles– we must have been cute little witchlettes around that huge cauldron of wax! That was when I was about eight years old, at an overnight camp in Vermont. Do I even need to mention that my parents were really hippies, disguised as professionals?
Years later, grunge-ness and dressing like an artist were cool. I did my part by making custom pillar candles up in my bedroom. I’d melt wax on an electric hot plate, add dye to it, and pour layers of blue, red, yellows, etc., into handmade molds. The safety issues were overlooked in favor of self-expression, and this activity was a-okay, again, because of the hippie parents.