Who could it be now?

Something happened to me once, something strange and peculiar.  I’ve told a few people about it, but my older sister, you know, the pesky one, thinks I need to write about it here.  I carry this event, this experience, around me with everyday, buried in the depths of the digital world and accessed by dialing “1” on my cell phone and hearing those words, “You have one saved voice message,” spoken by an electronic voice.  When I press the key to listen to my saved message, I hear a woman’s weak, trembling voice say, 

“Hey baby. Can you come n' help me? I got to get on the pot, and I'm afraid to. (pause) I love you. (awkwardly long pause) Bye.”

I got this message one Saturday morning, April 30, 2011 at 8:50 a.m., to be exact. My phone rang, and in typical fashion I could not get to it in time to answer.  When I looked at the call log I knew it was a wrong number because I didn’t recognize it, and everyone who ever calls me is in my contact list, and this number was not.  I saw the wrong number left me a voicemail, so I listened, hoping it was a message from one of the many contests I enter telling me I’d won a major prize.  I got a prize alright.  When I heard the message for the first time I was stunned.  In fact, it was one of those literal jaw dropping moments.  What should I do?  Should I call her back?  What if she had made it to the pot?  I certainly didn’t want to interrupt her.  And, even if I could help her there was no way I could get to her in time to make it to the pot anyway.  And if I did call her I imagined she would be terribly embarrassed to know she left her pot emergency message on a stranger’s voicemail.  I did the only thing I could think of at the time, I listened to the message again.  Surely I heard it wrong.  But there it was, 

“Hey baby. Can you come n' help me? I got to get on the pot, and I'm afraid to. (pause) I love you. (awkwardly long pause) Bye.”

Again, I was stunned.  By now, I figured, if Baby hadn’t called her back, then surely she had called Baby back, and all was well.  All I could do was speculate.  I wondered just what was this woman afraid to do.  Was there a big hairy spider in the bathroom, and she was afraid to go in without Baby? That’s reason enough for ME to call Baby.  Maybe she had once seen a ghost in the bathroom, and didn’t want to go in there alone.  Did she hear a strange noise outside the window? Maybe she had just had some kind of medical procedure and was afraid of what might happen to her if she made it to the pot.  Whatever the reason, I prayed she found Baby and made it to her destination without incident.

I have kept that voicemail since it was left for me.  It’s like a little gift.  I’ve shared it with others to hear their take on the situation.  I always get the same literal jaw dropping reaction.  Then I have to play it again because surely they’ve heard it wrong as well.

I’ve thought about that woman from time to time, hoping she found Baby, hoping she is well.  And then, one day a couple of months ago, August 9, 2011 to be exact, I was on my way home from work when my cell phone rang.  This time I answered it, and I heard a familiar voice say, “Hey Baby! Hey Baby!”  This time the voice was happy and exuberant. I interrupted to say I thought she had the wrong number.  She apologized and hung up.  She sounded like she had good news for Baby.  RELIEF!!!  I was so happy to know the woman was alive and well.  I guess she made it to the pot afterall.

I continue to keep that voicemail.  I’ll listen to it from time to time, and then, as instructed by the electronic voice, I’ll press “9” to save it for 21 more days.  I’m glad my phone number is so close to Baby’s.  I hope she will call me by mistake again someday.  Her voice is like an old friend to me.

Things do go bump in the night

Halloween is right around the corner, as I am reminded every time I search the television guide for something decent to watch.  Instead I am bombarded with horror movies, movies rapt with blood and gore and/or demon possessions.  I admit I do enjoy watching some Ghosthunters and the like, much to the dismay of my husband, but I never, ever, never ever, watch anything do to with demon possessions.  I don’t play that.

I think it is about time I tell my own ghost stories.  If these things bother you for whatever reason, then stop reading now.  But if you want to know me, then you should know sometimes strange things happen to me.

Here is where I am going to admit to something many would disagree with.  I believe in ghosts.  I also believe in demon possessions which is why I do not pursue my belief in ghosts.  I do not own a FLIR, I do not make digital recordings to listen for disembodied voices, and I don’t take pictures in Graceland to look for orbs.  Well, actually I did do that, and from the results of my pictures, Elvis has left the building.  No, I’ve had enough unsolicited personal encounters of my own that I do not have to go looking for them. 

When I was growing up, ghost was a household word.  The idea of ghosts was no big deal.  My parents were believers, but it was more of a matter-of-fact thing.  My father and my grandmother often told us stories about hauntings in the old farmhouse in which he was raised.  Rattling doorknobs, strange lights, meat cleavers swinging on the wall…these were the things of bedtime stories.  Most of my brothers and sisters have had unexplained experiences at the “farm”, and my father never dismissed them.  I don’t remember him encouraging us, but he never refuted us either.  My mother was more afraid of things, but she would chime in with her own sighting she had of grandfather at the farm after he had passed.  Since that day she never went back into that house.

Personally I have never seen anything unusual at the farm, but there have been times when I would go out there and immediately have to leave.  A feeling would come over me I could not explain, and all I knew was I had to leave.  But I have witnessed other things at other places.  Shall I tell?

The first time I ever had an extraordinary experience was when I was about 10 or so.  In the bedroom I occasionally shared with two of my sisters there were two beds with the headboards against the wall with the windows. I was sleeping in the bed on the far left side of the room.  I woke up in the middle of the night and I saw the silhouette of a young boy in the window.  The odd thing was he was inside my room, not outside.  I could not see his features, but I could see his shape very clearly.  He was a solid form.  I remember feeling so scared.  All I could do was close my eyes tight and cover my head.  I know I wasn’t dreaming.  This image has stayed with me all of these years.  Was it real?  I don’t know, but it was real to me.

The first house my husband and I owned was an unusual place. It was built in the 1940s and we were the third owners.  The second owners only lived there a couple of years before we bought it.   I never felt any negative feelings there, but when my son was born things started to happen.  Sometimes our dog would bark and run around for no apparent reason.  There were times when we would all be in the living room and things would fall on the floor in the kitchen.  When my son was a baby he was always looking up, or over my shoulder behind me.  And he was captivated by the lights.  He was always looking at the lights.  

Speaking of lights, there were times, once I remember clearly on Christmas Eve, when there would be strange flashes of light out of nowhere.  These flashes are why, to this day, I hang reflective things outside my windows.  That way, if I see flashes of light at least I have an explanation.  But I think the eeriest thing was the footprints of a small child embedded in the finish of the floor in our bedroom.  Just an imprint of little feet in the far corner of the room.  I kept it covered with a table until we could carpet.  I was told by someone who knew the original owners that they did not have children, and the floor was original, so I do not know how the footprints came to be.  But the most startling thing that happened to me in that house was having my foot tugged on when I was in bed.  Just a gentle tug, but it was enough for me to keep my legs away from the edge of the bed from then on.

When I moved to my next house things were much calmer.  Calmer, but not altogether quiet.  There was the time I felt someone sit next to me on my son’s bed, complete with impression on the mattress, the time my husband saw a woman in a flowered dress walk down the hall, the hundreds of times my children would call out “yes” in answer to someone calling their name, thinking I was calling them, and the time I was surrounded by swirling golden sparkles, as if I was in a snow globe full of golden glitter.  In this house the strangest thing that happened to me was being awakened in the middle of the night by a little boy.  I had two little boys of my own, so I got out of bed and followed him in the dark out of my bedroom to put him back to bed.  When I got to the hallway he was gone.  I went to both of my sons’ bedrooms and they were both sound asleep in their beds. 

I am now in my fifth year in my third house, and so far so good.  The only strange things that have happened here are the tappings I feel on my legs sometimes when I am asleep.  But this didn’t start until after I got housecats, so I attribute it to a kitty jumping on my bed.  Right?

The truth is I have never seen an actual ghost in my waking hours.  Yes, I have had some strange experiences, but I’m sure they all have reasonable explanations if you think about them hard enough.  No, my ghosts come to me in my dreams.  My dreams are where I converse with and touch my loved ones who have passed.  These encounters are as real to me as if these people were standing next to me when I’m wide awake.  These are the dreams I call visits.  I haven’t had very many of these dreams, but I treasure each of them.  My sister has visited me, my good friend, my father, my grandfather, and my niece.  My aunts and grandmother sometimes make cameo appearances in the background, waving and smiling at me.  I have yet to be visited by my mother, my nephew, and my brother-in-law.  Sure, I have dreamed about them, but these dreams have not been visits.  There is a definite difference between a dream and a visit, and I can’t really explain it, I just know.  If it happens to you, you will understand.

So, keep a watchful eye out there for strange flashes of light, footprints in the varnish, and golden sparkles.  And if you do see these things, who you gonna call?  Not me.

There is light

I am Catholic.  Catholicism is something that is as much a part of me as the air I breathe.  I did not choose this faith, I was born into it, but I have the freedom to choose to leave it at any time.  And I have considered it.  Throughout my life I have had sort of a love/not so much love relationship with the Church.  There have been times in my life when I have ignored the Church and pushed it aside.  Don’t get me wrong, I’ve never ignored my faith, just the institution of the Church.  In fact, I have been going through one of those periods for the last couple of years.  

I was raised in a Catholic school as was my entire family including my mother and her entire family.  My years at that school are some of the best memories I have.  I credit those years for giving me the strong foundation of faith that has carried me through many difficult times.  That is why I insisted my children attend the same school.  Even though it was a financial burden on our family, I wanted them to have the same experiences and as solid of an education as I did.  I guess the phrase “you can never go home again” rings some truth because my children had some very negative experiences.  And as a result of their rebuffs, I, as a parent, spent too many years under undue stress that I unintentionally passed on to my children.  I finally had all I could take and pulled them from the school in an attempt to salvage what little there was left of their self-esteem and get them back on track academically.  Public school did not prove to be a cure-all for one of my children, and when I turned back to the Catholic school for help I was refused it.  That hurt.  It did not matter that my mother and her 8 brothers and sisters were alums, and most of their children, and their children’s children.  The fact remained I was refused, and the experience left a bitterness in me that turned me away from the whole establishment, even the Church.

Holding onto bitterness is not a way to live one’s life.  It will seep into every pore of your existence and corrupt your life from the inside out.  Ever since the time these feelings took over, my life has been in a slow downward spiral, so slow it is almost indiscernible, but yet I can still feel it turning.  

I know I have to make a change in my attitude before things can turn in full swing towards the positive.  I have forgiven the school, even though I still cringe when I think of all of those lost years I could have had with my children as a happy mother instead of a stressed out wreck.  

In an effort to make some positive changes I went to mass yesterday for the first time in a very, very long time (not including funerals).  I was reminded God will sometimes reach out to you in the most peculiar ways.  For example, on my way to communion I was listening to the song and looking down at my feet and the feet in front of me and in the line to my right.  I looked at the shoes around me.  There were running shoes, sandals, boots, and sneakers.  Shoes carrying people of all ages, sizes, and different walks of life to the front of the church to take Jesus into our hands, into our bodies and into our souls.   We asked forgiveness and stepped out into the aisle and walked together to the altar, and I noticed we were all stepping in time to the music coming from the acoustic guitar and the music director singing: “There is a light that can overcome the darkness. There is no darkness that can overcome the light.”

That moment in time reminded me of another communion many years ago in my sister’s hospital room when I felt the presence of Jesus so close to me I could almost feel Him breathing on me.

Those rhythmic steps down the aisle, the memory of that long ago communion, the words of light overcoming darkness, the feeling of Jesus in my hand, all these things made me remember that my Father’s house is my home, and no matter what kind of family spats we may have He will always have a place for me and welcome me with open arms.  Just as my earthly father never refused me entrance to his house on Rawls Avenue, my heavenly Father will always welcome me into his house as well.

Will I be back in mass on Sunday?  I don’t know.  I like to think I will.  Either way my bitterness has ebbed and is fading.  As the hymn says, “There is a light that can overcome the darkness. There is no darkness
that can overcome the light.”

Do you hear what I hear?

Have you ever played the iPod shuffle game, the one where you set your iPod on shuffle and then list the first ten songs that pop up?  I haven’t, but I’ve always intended to try it.  I’m going to do it now as a sort of personality experiment, to see if I can reveal a little of my personality in my musical preferences.  I have 772 songs on my iPod,so it will be interesting to see what comes up first.  Here goes:

“Ruff Rider” by Webb Wilder – Ah, Webb Wilder. This song, mostly instrumental, is off their It Came from Nashville album.  I discovered this band in the ‘80s.  They started as a local band, and I saw them live a few times. Their music is a rockabilly style, and I always enjoyed listening to them because no one else I knew in my age group did.  This selection reminds me that I’ve always gone against the grain just a bit and leaned towards the off-beat.  Oh, and the lead singer, Webb, went to high school with my sister.  He also reminds me of Jimmy Daniels, one of the most influential people in my early life.

“Sweet Dreams Are Made of This” by the Eurythmics – What can I say?  The Eurythmics was a very important band to me throughout my high school and college years, and this song was the first one of theirs I ever heard.  I remember seeing the video for the first time and being mesmerized.   Videos were still a novelty then, and there was nothing like it at the time.  I was sold.  Forget Madonna, it was Annie Lennox I most wanted to be like.  Once, when I was in London, my oldest friend and travelling partner and I spent an entire day tracking down their recording studio.  I’ll save that story for another day.

“Not That Different” by Collin Raye – This is actually a new purchase.  In the ‘90s I was a new mom, and I was not impressed with the rock music coming out so I turned to country.  Collin Raye was one of the first artists I listened to, and I had a couple of his albums. One of his songs (not this one) reminds me of my Daddy, and I wanted it on my iPod so I downloaded an album. 

“Have You Written Anything Lately” from The Wedding Singer soundtrack – Yes, I like The Wedding Singer, and I wanted a different song on the album so I downloaded the whole thing.  This song is when Julia is asking Robby to sing for her one of the songs he wrote.  Sometimes I swear Adam Sandler was spying on me when I was a teenager because the songs he uses in his movies were my songs.

“What’s the Matter Here” by 10,000 Maniacs – Sometime in college I discovered 10,000 Maniacs.  It was a new sound for me and I felt the lyrics had meaning.  Also, I used to bear a strong resemblance to Natalie Merchant.  Just saying.

“Love is a Stranger” by the Eurythmics – Well?

“A String of Pearls” by the Glen Miller Orchestra – I grew up on ‘40s swing because that is what my mother listened to.  I need it around me always.

“Bohemian Rhapsody” by Queen – This song reminds me of sneaking into my brother’s bedroom when he wasn’t home and listening to his stereo.  It’s a fun song, that’s all there is to it.  Who doesn’t secretly love this song?

“Up On the Roof” – James Taylor. All I can say is “sigh”. James Taylor has brought me through many good and bad times.  Before there was crying time in my car there was lying-on-my-bed-alone-in-my-room-in-the-dark listening to James Taylor. Again, music I must have around me always.

“Tied Together With a Smile” by Taylor Swift – Yes, I bought Taylor Swift’s first album.  Mock me if you must, but I like it.  I really don’t know this particular song very well, because I usually skip over it for some of the others.  For the record, “Tears on My Guitar” is my favorite.

I think this random sample gives a fairly accurate representation of my personality.  I go against the grain (a little off-beat), I am soft-hearted and sentimental, I like to have fun, I’m a wee corny, and I’m always open to new things.  As far as music goes this experiment also proves my musical tastes are all over the charts. I like what I like and I make no apologies.  Now then, where did I put my Patsy Cline collection?

The club

September 26, 2011

I once wrote a Facebook status about a girl I saw in traffic, crying her eyes out alone in her car. In my status update I mentioned her, and I welcomed her to the club.  This statement left my husband a bit miffed because he thought it reflected badly on him.  He didn’t want people to think he was the source of my angst.  Just to be clear, 99.99% of the times I might find myself crying in my car have absolutely nothing to do with him.  It’s just that I don’t like to cry in front of people so I tend to bottle it up and wait for opportune moments of alone time to reflect on the sad things and get them out of the way. And since my only real alone time is my daily commute, at least an hour everyday, that is when I allow any sorrows to creep into my thoughts. 

The day I saw the girl in the white SUV, sobbing into her hands at a stoplight, I felt a kinship with her.  I thought, you go sister, let it all out, right there with you.  You see, this day was not quite a year after my nephew left for his great heavenly adventure, which was a year after my father left on his, and six months before my brother-in-law of 34 years took his journey as well.  So there was a solid span of three years when I had reason to shed many tears, and most all of them ended up in my car.

It’s not that I buckle my seatbelt, adjust my mirrors, crank the car and then let sadness overtake me.  It’s not like that at all.  But sometimes a song might come on the radio, or I might see a sign or even a vehicle that reminds me of something, and before I know it my face is wet.  It usually doesn’t last long, but I’ve learned to go with it.  It’s my personal therapy, and by the time I get to my destination I feel much better.

Now don’t think all I do is cry in my car. I’m not that bad off.  You’re just as likely to find me laughing or singing badly as well.  I enjoy listening to storyteller podcasts and I keep them light.  Stories about the little town at the edge of the prairie where all the children are above average are my personal favorites, but I throw in some Moth podcasts as well.  Never listened?  I highly recommend.

I guess my point is, if you ever see me or anyone else crying in their car, or laughing hysterically or even singing badly, don’t judge, or pity.  You never know what we are going through, or listing to for that matter.  Just think of us as members of a special club you once heard about.  It’s a club with no membership dues, and all are welcome to join.  The only rule is sometimes the tears must be because of laughter.  There must always be laughter.

Falling

September 24, 2011

Fall is my favorite time of the year, and it is officially here according to yesterday’s equinox.  Yet, I’m not feeling it.  Instead I’ve been feeling melancholy, maybe even a little bitter.  My husband says I have an unpleasant “tone”. This tone apparently strikes fear and trepidation in him and my children.  Do I really?  That actually makes me feel worse knowing I am making others unhappy.  I certainly do not get out of bed every morning and wonder what I can do that day to make others unhappy.  But the truth is, in a season that usually lifts my spirits and gives me an emotional boost, I am just dragging.  I don’t understand it.  I guess the personal stresses of late, a child aging into adulthood, and recent losses have zapped me of my seasonal joys.  

Regardless, I am trying to find the feeling.  I dug out some fall décor and cleaned the house a bit in preparation of my son’s birthday lunch tomorrow.  The golden glow coming from my orange mosaic glass lamps always make me happy.  It will also be a lift to have family in and around.  We haven’t all been in the same room together since Mama’s funeral, so having even a small gathering will be nice.  I do know there will be an emptiness felt at the round table in my kitchen, the place she would park her wheelchair whenever she was here.  But the emptiness will be filled with her memories, I am sure.  My family has a way of turning sadness into laughter; strange, maybe but you deal with things however you can.

On the bright side, this is just September.  My favorite of favorite times of the year is October, so there is still time to come out of this funk and get into the season.  There are things happening in October; Live at Five returns, a trip to New Orleans with our international students (ghost tour, yay), USM Homecoming parade with our international students (yay for students, boo for me), a conference in Mobile, and of course, a wedding anniversary.  Maybe my “tone” will be softer then and my husband will remember why he married me on that day.

Surely when the weather changes things will turn around.  I’ll get to change out my closet and start wearing comforting clothing (fleece, flannel, thermal).  And, I’ll enjoy being outdoors again.  So let the countdown begin, only seven days to go.  Come on October!

Going out on a limb

September 15, 2011

I have a confession to make.  I’ve only shared this with a few people so far, but I’m ready to tell everyone now.  I need to clear the air.  See, recently I did something completely out of character for me.  I went out on a limb.  A shaky limb in a brittle tree.  Why, you ask?  Well, I’ll tell you.  My sister, the older one, called me awhile back and told me the local newspaper was looking for community columnists to contribute to the paper.  This person would need to write a column with a local feel to be published about once a month or so.  I’ve read these before.  I know a couple of the people who already contribute and I like to read what they have to say.  I thought about it for a while and then filed it in the dark recesses of my mind.  That is until my sister, the older one, sent me an email and practically threatened me if I did not apply.  Boy, is she persistent.  I knew the only way to get her off my back was to go ahead and answer the ad.  I figured I would write up my personal information, attach my sample writing in 400 words or less and hit the send button and be done with it.  Once I hit the send button I opened up my Facebook page, sent that older sister a one word message of “Done” and hit the Reply button.  That was that.  Over.  Done.

Today I found out I’ve been accepted.  Aaacckk!!!!   What do I know about writing a column for the newspaper?  I mean, just because I have a degree in journalism (I’ve never used), doesn’t mean I know anything about writing or newspapers.  Geez, what I have done?   Now I have to come up with ideas, write them out in a way people will want to read, and then publish my words in a public newspaper.  You know what this does?  This opens me up to criticism from people I don’t even know.  No one enjoys being criticized (insert frowny face here). 

Coming up with idea will be the hardest part for me. Once I have an idea I can usually pound something out, but it’s coming up with that initial concept that kills me.  I was the one in school who would turn in a blank paper just out of protest because I couldn’t think of a single idea. (Please don’t tell my son I said that *I don’t know where he gets it*).

In preparation for the possibility of being accepted, I have been bouncing some story ideas around in my head.  I have an idea about being orphaned as an adult and the experience of cleaning out my parents’ house.  Then, I have another idea about the eccentric people in my life and how my parents taught me tolerance for them through non-verbal communication.  Action is louder than words, etc. etc.  Speaking of words, I’m also compiling a list of words and phrases I want evicted from the English language.  Words like yu… well, I can’t waste that here.  I might need it for later.

But what will happen to my blog?  I can’t waste my ideas on my blog if I have to use them to meet a deadline.  I might go dry.  Oh, there’s another idea…why I had writer’s block for over a decade.  That’s not a very happy story, one I’m really ashamed of actually, so I might not go into that.  

I also have to tone down my emotions for the paper.  People in the general public don’t want to read about the spiritual revelations I receive in my life.  They don’t want to cry.  They don’t want their salty tears to fall into their coffee or seep through the paper and make the ink run.  It will be all my fault they can’t read the crime report on the other side of the page.

So what do I want to accomplish with the newspaper thing?  I don’t really know, but I think I just want the experience.  The more I write the better I will get, and then one day maybe I can write that novel all writers want to write.  HA! A novel.  I can’t even make up imaginary names for people in a story I’ve been playing with as sort of a tribute to someone, much less come up with a riveting plot and dialogue.  Ultimately, I hope my column doesn’t become my own version of Seinfeld, a column about nothing. 

Oooh, here’s another idea.  I’ll write a whole column about a pesky older sister who likes to intimidate her younger sister into stepping out onto a shaky limb in a brittle tree and taking a risk that might just make her a happier, better person.  It will be like first grade all over again.  Now, THAT’s another story…