[Note: If you haven't read Terry Pratchett's THUD!, stop right now, click the link and order it. If you have, you will understand the enmity of the dwarves and trolls, both adepts of earth magic and endarkenment. ]

My friend Grizelda the Troll will have the information I need to help me understand the wishes of the seven dwarves who have built Tulip’s crystal casket while she is incapacitated by her loss of soul. I know that I will have to retrieve said soul, but I want to know as much about that as I can get before I go. Now if I can once more convince her not to have me for lunch, and soothe the ruts in our friendship, maybe she will tell me about them.  She might even let me make it up to her that I didn’t bring her the moose she asked for…not even a squirrel.

Grizelda is teaching me (the hard way) about friendship. She is my only friend here in Faery, other than Tulip, who is out o commission right now. I hope we don’t have to find her erstwhile “prince” to kiss her and bring her back, but that might be the easiest way.  Somehow things never go the easy way. But now my main issue is Grizelda, apologizing and making amends for bringing Queen Katrina, ex-fairy godmother into her home and breaking her teacup.

I suddenly find that I have granted wishes to seven dwarves, not only of the male persuasion, but inside the Twilight Lounge, a formerly wish-free zone for the recreation of adepts who need to take a few moments away from the desires of their clients.

An odd set of wishes it was too. Some desires not so unusual–pleasurable company, new gourmet experiences, gaming with dragons, a visit to the legendary City of Gold, but what the heck is the Canvas of the Revolving Rock, and why would a dwarf want to eat his lunch in the sunshine? I know, my job is to grant what they ask, not  to reason why they want such silly things.  But it gets me to wondering, and that usually spells trouble for me.

What I am wondering now is what the dwarves do in their secluded woodland cottages, especially after their housemaids are rescued by princes? Do they draw out engineering specs for Devices that support their handcraft skills? Are they earthy engineers? Do their designs have moving parts or do they stick to swords, knives, and jewelry? artifacts that are not in any sense mechanical.

Most of the Dwarven lore I can find has to do with gaming, and is a quality to be desired for dwarf players, but for what good is not discussed. That such Dwarves do not like vehicles or even horses is an interesting idea as well as their apparent distrust of machinery of any type. I would have thought that blacksmiths–or maybe tin-, silver- or goldsmiths would have been the first machinists, if not coopers.  Now that I think of it, household tools–spinning wheels, looms, butterchurns and others were made of wood with limited use of metal–wood being much easier to work if one has metal tools, saw, drill, chisel, plane, etc.  LAthes and such were used for wood long before metal. Newfangled technology indeed.

In fairy tales, Dwarves are often the benfactors of good hearted and thrifty peasants (aka, pixies, brownies, fairies, pucks, etc) but these are not the LOTR Dwarves such as Gimli son of Gloin nor as Pratchett’s  Glod of the Band with Rocks In.  They are more like Rowling’s house elves, stopping all magical work and disappearing when given clothing. Rowling’s characters do wear a rag; these house pucks didn’t.

Thus, I suppose I am on my own with these louts, and I shall leave them to their own outcomes. I am certainly interested in sharing the knowledge of those wiser than myself. If you are onesuch, leave me a comment.

What is it with old women in fairy tales?  

• Old Wives Tales nonsense, not scientific
• Evil Fairies, Hags, Witches, Step-Mothers and Mothers-in-law seeking to kill the young and beautiful princess
• Grandmothers, feeble and lonely

Makes you want just to go off in the woods and cackle.

Why did the fairy tale tellers, themselves mostly elder women, entertain the young’uns with such tales of woe about the aging until our own culture is terrified of age, of wrinkles, gray hair or any sort of implication of wisdom? How ironic, since we are likely to be the oldest generation in the history of the world if we don’t blow ourselves up or die in our own shit.

We, the Baby Boomers, didn’t grow up. Maybe it was the name–Baby Boomers. Maybe it was the sense we had of being special, of being the ones who could change the world, making our own playground. Mabye it was the effect of the youth-culture that alienated itself against the Evil Elders, and in effect, against the crones along with the cronies.

It’s literally true that we would not be here without Grandmothers–after all, our mothers and fathers had to be born. But more importantly, the Grandmother Hypothesis suggests that we may be human because we have grandmothers, women who are no longer bearing children, and can therefore help raise the children, both by looking after them and by feeding them while the mother is nursing her babies.  Another feature of elders, both grandmothers and grandfathers, is that elders remember the last time  something happened when it happened again. 

This question comes about because women are the only animal that experiences menopause, the period of life after fertility. Most primates live only long enough to see the adulthood of their last children (statisticallly speaking).  But since it takes us around 20 years to become adult, I guess the same patterns follows.  But large primates do not stay healthy at the end of their reproductive cycle; all their systems degrade at the same time, unlike women’s.

 So why then are elder women presented as powerful and evil or weak and doddering?

Hunter-Gatherer societies tend to be matrilocal, that is wives stay with their mothers family group, and husbands move in. While men hunt for meat and fish, most of the food is gathered by the women. In these societies, grandmothers are caring for their own daughters’ children, and the daughters care for each others’ children, keeping all the mitochondric genes in the same pools so to speak.

 When patrilocal systems began to take over, women moved into the household of the husband’s family, becoming the outsider.  In any family, there is a pecking order, and the youngest member or the newest new kid on the block, tends to get pecked the most until he or she establishes a place.  In cultures that allow polygamy, the youngest wife is generally in the lowest position in the household. 

If she were not favored by the elder wife, or the mother-in-law, her life might be miserable indeed.  From her point of view, the elder woman would be evil. Likewise, often the step-mother favors her own children over those of the widower she marries, and therefore puts them ahead of the step-daughter in hopes of their successful marriages.  It is only logical to prefer one’s own offspring, and some folk are not inclined to be charitable if resources seem few.

As for the eldest women, except through the men with whom they were associated in their patriarchal societies, these women had little power or legal rights, and must scheme and manipulate to maintain what power they could achieve through their husband’s (or father’s)  wealth, influence or social standing.  The more powerful a woman might become, through accident of birth, good fortune, or sheer machiavellian effort, the more frightening she might become: consider Elizabeth I.  It is difficult to move in a man’s world, constantly proving oneself. It is difficult for men, who routinely die years before women born in the same era in the same culture.

So the elder, powerful woman becomes a villianess: a witch. Her cruelty has become habitual, as she has traded her womanly virtues for power.  Our culture does not trust the powerful: power corrupts and absolute power corrupts absolutely.  The primary use for this ill gotten power is to maintain the illusion of youth and beauty, the original womanly power. One might suspect jealousy, such as that of the Evil Queen toward Snow White, or of the Witch for the love found by Rapunzel.   But it might be simple fear of dying, something most of us share.

If benign,  she is a fairy godmother, sweet but a bit dowdy and absent minded–a magical grandmother.  Sometimes a fairy godmother will lay a trap for an unsuspecting traveler, asking for a bite of bread or a sip of water.  If the traveler shares, she gives a blessing, and if not, the traveler gets caught in the first trial along the way.  Baba Yaga is such a witch; if her questions are answered and her tasks fulfilled, she will give what is asked. If not, the quester is lunch.  Mother Holda rewards the industrious girl and punishes the lazy one.

So here’s my thought: we are terrified of old women because they know things we don’t, and we don’t know that those things are. We don’t like to be reminded that we will age and die, so we prefer that elder women find bridge parties and retirement homes out of site and out of mind.  I think we need to start listening to these grandmothers, and put a few more of them in positions of power. 

Kick out the cronies and  put in the crones. Let’s have some grandmotherly sense around here for a change.