I don’t know that my lasso’s magic was ever evident to anyone else, but it was undeniable to me. (I made exceptions when role-playing in my imaginary world.) Sometimes I’d ask friends and family to hold the lasso and ask me questions that I answered honestly. Most importantly, perhaps, I made a pact with myself never to lie when I wrapped myself in it. I tried countless methods in my quest to endow the lasso with truth-inducement powers.Īs directed by a Llewellyn spellbook, I wrote incantations, buried the rope in the garden under the light of the full moon, and carved runes into the dirt around it. I don’t remember where or when I first learned about witchcraft and folk magic, but by the time I was eight, I had several books on spell-casting. (Sorry, Savannah!) I loved that simple rope, but my magic lasso seemed to lack something-magic. And occasionally, I left rope burns on my little sister. It became an extension of myself, its weight and length as familiar to me as those of my own arm.īy sixth grade, with a single-handed tug, I could tie knots in mid-air. Over the years and with incalculable hours of practice, I became reasonably skilled with that particular length of rope. I knotted them, spliced them, and finally melted them with a cigarette lighter, securely fusing the polypropylene fibers. I also tried different approaches to secure the ends of the rope to prevent them from unraveling. I experimented with several knots, preferring a variation on the traditional cowboy hondo that Marty showed me. After a few lessons, Marty had taught me how to fully articulate my wrist and hold my elbow still while throwing a lasso. We settled on one hundred feet, which was still impossible for my preschool-age body to wield, so I cut it into shorter pieces that would coil comfortably at my waist.Īs the Fates would have it, my friend’s dad was a rodeo cowboy named Marty Martins. My patiently amused grandmother believed encircling the building was also unnecessary. He seemed to think it was unlikely that I could throw it that far anyway. Much to my disappointment, the kindly man who assisted us said he didn’t have enough quarter-inch rope to reach to the moon. Then began the negotiation about the lasso’s length. It turned out that at Ace Hardware, for fifteen cents a yard, you could buy one, a bright yellow twisted cord that seemed to glow in daylight. Ultimately, it was my grandmother Billie who gave in and showed me where to find my very own magic lasso. It is possible to be kind and honest at the same time. Perhaps it had something to do with the discomfort I felt when the adults around me acted overly polite at the expense of honesty.Įven as an adult, though I pride myself on my skill at diplomacy, I still bristle at emotional dishonesty. I couldn’t tell you why this particular power fascinated me. We had this conversation a hundred times. “But if it were real, where could I get one?” My mom explained that the lasso was magical and compelled people to tell the truth. Its vivid imagery awakened something meaningful within me. At three years old, the scene permanently etched into my mind. “That’s Wonder Woman.” Her nonchalant answer made it clear she’d completely missed the fact that my world had just exploded. A beauty queen wrapped in an American flag tossed a rope around two criminals who seemingly had tried to kill her boyfriend. “What’s this?” I asked my mom, my eyes riveted to the TV screen.
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