Bottle Trees

Seem to originate in west Africa, and blossom on the American south as part of African-American heritage. They mark location, capture ill-intentioned spirits, and deflect them from the house.

These were actually for sale at Brookgreen Gardens in SC. I’ve only seen homemade ones previously.

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About Miriam Sagan

I'm blogging about poetry, land art, haiku, women artists, road trips, and Baba Yaga at Miriam's Well (https://miriamswell.wordpress.com). The well is ALWAYS looking to publish poetry on our themes, sudden fiction, and guest bloggers and musers.

3 thoughts on “Bottle Trees

  1. Ha, yes. In a small town in Côte d’Ivoire, our long-ago car mechanic had a huge tree in the middle of his yard that was filled with hundreds of bottles and plenty of other items, small and large, to protect his car engines and mechanics alike. (Most were young boys as apprentices.) In the short term, the extra protect seems to have worked for us, as his repairs on our hardly little “Deux Chevaux” Renault were always effective. In the long term, alas, even that magical tree couldn’t protect our poor, tiny, abused car (trying mightily to survive the washboard-surface dirt roads of the area) from three cracked windshields, a cracked chassis, flaming sparkplugs, and uncounted tire blowouts.

    • Hmm, strange auto-corrects I didn’t catch . . . this is how it should have read:

      Ha, yes. In a small town in Côte d’Ivoire, our long-ago car mechanic had a huge tree in the middle of his yard that was filled with hundreds of bottles and plenty of other items, small and large, to protect his car engines and mechanics alike. (Most were young boys as apprentices.) In the short term, the extra protection seems to have worked for us, as the repairs on our hardy little “Deux Chevaux” Renault were always effective. In the long term, alas, even that magical tree couldn’t protect our poor, tiny, abused car (trying mightily to survive the washboard-surface dirt roads of the area) from three cracked windshields, a cracked chassis, flaming sparkplugs, and uncounted tire blowouts. Alma Gottlieb

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