"Ego Dico Cum Mortuus Populus" ["I Speak With Dead People"] -- "HANK'S HORSES"

Background:

Since the age of about nine when my deceased paternal grandmother appeared to me in “light body” form and spoke to me at length about her death, the hereafter and the direction my own future would take (I really should add right here that this “visitation” occurred on the evening prior to the phone call from my uncle which was the first “official word” that we got informing my mother and me of my grandmother’s demise), I have often “spoken with dead people”. . .

By pure definition, this particular gift makes me a psychic “medium” (not a “trance-medium”, however, because I remain fully and completely conscious throughout the process) -- since it is only “mediums” (such as John Edward and James Van Praague) who speak with the dead.

It’s a wonderful gift, really. . . One that has given me complete confidence in the knowledge that one’s life-force does not “die” when one passes from this life into the next and then simply dissipate into nothingness but that it continues to exist -- only in a somewhat changed form.

Of course, I have dealt with skeptics and naysayers for most of my life who argue that I, and others like me, are completely out of touch with reality -- poor, deluded creatures who are, in all probability, suffering from severe cases of “wishful thinking”. Their opinions don’t have the slightest effect upon me, however, because I am (and have always been) a certifiably sane, reasonably intelligent and completely practical person. I know what I know, I’ve seen and heard what I’ve seen and heard and there’s really no reason that I can think of which would make me take to heart the opinions of people who have never met me, don’t know me and don’t have the slightest notion of what my own, personal experiences have been.

I don’t claim to know why some people have paranormal experiences while others claim they have not but, if I had to offer a guess, I’d say it’s because those claiming never to have had paranormal-related experiences have been overly influenced (perhaps, since birth) by the negatively-held opinions of those around them regarding the extent as to what is “possible” and/or “probable” in our present plane of existence.

I would say that, in effect, these people have allowed those influences to cut off much of the inner dialogue, psychic sensitivity and powers of psychic observation that one must possess in order to experience this type of phenomena freely and with any regularity or frequency. They have been told that such things do not -- and cannot -- exist and this renders them incapable of recognizing signs and perceptions which, if pursued and considered, would eventually lead them to experiences of a paranormal nature.

It is much like the plight of the domesticated, formerly wild, elephant that believes that he cannot escape from his present, thin tether because the strong chains that constrained him early-on in his training (which he could not break no matter how much he struggled) have him convinced that it is now useless for him even to try. . .

It is often said that “perception is everything” and, in the case of paranormal phenomena, at least, it is my belief that this statement couldn’t be truer. . .

To communicate on a psychic level with those who have passed on requires, first and foremost, the ability to recognize the very subtle signs, feelings and perceptions that are the “overtures” that eventually lead one toward that communication.

Secondly, it requires the ability to free one’s psyche of restrictions, constraints and pre-conceived notions of the true nature of “reality” placed upon us by society, the scientific community in general and our own expectations in the specific. This factor, more than any other, is what I believe determines one’s “accessibility to the experience”.

My own experiences have taught me to pay attention to every nuance, passing feeling and detail -- dismissing nothing -- because it is often the tiniest “glimpse” or impression which leads me to the most accurate (and rewarding) communications with those who have passed from this life.

In the case of a fellow volunteer with whom I worked at a local charity for a number of years before his sudden, untimely death, I believe it was my ability to focus mentally and keep my mind open to what I was being shown and told by his spirit that led me to one of the most locally well-known communications that I have ever received from the other side:

Hank:

Hank had a great affection for horses… He owned a matched pair that often pulled the old wagons that he lovingly restored in his spare time. It was during the afternoon hours, in a pasture, while feeding his beloved horses, that Hank suffered his very sudden and fatal heart-attack.

Almost immediately thereafter, I began to perceive his presence around me. . . I believe that he came to me specifically because he knew of my interest and belief in life-after-death, ghosts, hauntings and spirits and I, therefore, represented the most likely conduit that he could think of through which to communicate with the living family members that he had left behind.

When I perceived Hank’s presence during the first few weeks after his death -- and I saw him almost everywhere, every 15 minutes or so -- I saw him as if in a state of extreme agitation, almost to the point of desperation. He told me that his wife of over 40 years, Lena, was very angry at him for his sudden and unexpected departure from this plane of existence. He kept insisting that I contact her to explain that “it was not [his] fault” and that he had no control over the timing of the event of his death.

Having only met his wife on a couple of occasions before that and having found her to be a somewhat “distant” person, I refused; however, I tried to reassure him that Lena was a very intelligent person who I was sure -- once the first stages of her grieving process had passed -- would have no trouble realizing that he had not “abandoned” her by his own choice. I also pointed out that, should I press Lena so soon after his death, it could plant seeds of suspicion in her mind which might very well cause her to cut off all future communications with me, thereby making it extremely unlikely that any messages he might wish me to convey to her at a later time would ever reach her ears.

Hank, however, was very insistent (and persistent) in his requests that I go speak with her personally to communicate his message. Gradually, as the days passed, Hank’s spirit became less and less persistent and, several months later, he finally admitted to me that I had been right about his wife’s state of mind.

Because of Hank’s spirit’s almost constant proximity and my concern over the desperate tone of his communications to me during those first few weeks after his death, I found that, as the months rolled by, I could call up his spirit almost at will. I found that I could go to a bench that had been erected in his memory in a nearby park, sit and -- within just a very few minutes’ time -- be in psychic communication with him.

After a few months, I sensed that Hank’s spirit was considerably calmer and more accepting than he had been at first and I was able to pass the time of day with him much as you would with anyone with whom you were acquainted for several years. He would comment on the state of the site where we both had been volunteers, things that the other volunteers had done there lately that he liked and that didn’t like and how his wife and children were faring -- normal topics of conversation for any two people acquainted on a social basis.

One day as I was “visiting” Hank he communicated to me that he was very happy with a recent development concerning his horses. . .

He “showed” me a mental picture of a large, burly, light-haired man in his late 30s or early 40s whom he indicated that his family had chosen to “take” (or “take care of” -- I wasn’t certain which) his beloved horses.

In my mind’s eye, I could “see” this man getting into a very large, light-colored pick-up truck of the type that has extra space in the cab behind the front seats for additional passengers. There were words painted on the doors of the truck which indicated to me that the man, whoever he was, somehow used that particular vehicle in the course of his work.

Hank told me that his family “couldn’t have made a better choice” than this man in whom he had complete confidence to care for the horses just as well as he had when he was alive. He also indicated that his wife was doing very well at that point coping with his loss -- so well, in fact, that he doubted he would “be around” as much in the future as he had been up until that time.

A few weeks later, I described the man whom Hank had shown me taking over the care of his horses to a third party who was also associated with the same charitable organization that Hank and I had been involved with and, somehow, word of my ongoing communications with him got back to his wife, Lena. . .

I was attending a general meeting of that same organization a couple of weeks after that when I noticed Lena enter the room. She spotted me immediately and made a beeline straight for me.

With an intense and piercing look in her eyes, she cornered me and said, “I hear that you talk with Hank sometimes,” and I was forced to confess that I truly believed that I had been in communication with Hank on and off since his passing. I added that, during one recent communication, he had expressed his desire for me to convey to her how happy he was with the choice she had made of a caretaker for his horses and I went on to describe, in detail, the man and his vehicle that Hank had shown me.

Her eyes widened as she stared at me in shocked disbelief.

At that point, she called over another member of the organization -- a man who had been one of Hank’s best friends in life -- and asked me to repeat my description for his benefit.

“Oh,” Hank’s friend said, “She’s talking about R.”

Turning to me, he repeated, “That’s R. Do you know him?”

“No,” I replied.

“She’s never met R!” Lena piped up, “She says that Hank showed him to her and she talks to Hank all the time!”

Indeed, according to Lena, I had described someone that I had no way of knowing about in perfect physical detail -- right down to the vehicle that he drove.

After Hank’s friend walked away, Lena confided to me that she, too, sensed Hank’s presence: “I feel him around me all of the time,” she confessed.

“Liberal Press”? Haven't Seen It. Try the Dry Cleaners...

I get pretty tickled when I hear someone blast the covert, Anti-Bush agenda of the “liberal media” every time UPI picks up the latest Republican transgression…

Conservatives bristled with indignation when the news could no longer be kept under wraps that there weren’t any WMDs in Iraq and insisted that, if we were really “good Americans”, we’d rally ‘round Ole Glory “out of respect for the office” so as to present a “united face” to the rest of the world…

Where was this same “respect for the office” that these people nobly lay claim to when Ken Star was working Linda Tripp’s puppet strings with Monica Lewinsky in order to rake President Clinton over the coals? Can you say “double standard”, boys and girls? (I knew you could!)

Who are they tryin’ to kid?

First of all, news is news, kids. If you’re a news reporter (news producer, news cameraman, etc.) the reporting of newsworthy events is in your job description and, News Flash: If you stop reporting newsworthy events, your job gets taken away and given to someone who will…

Since there seems to be some confusion about this process on the part of Conservatives, let me walk you through it. It’s very simple, really. Here’s the deal:

• Step 1: Some event (in which someone in the world might be interested) happens somewhere.
• Step 2: The media find out about it somehow.
• Step 3: (Optional): The media investigates the story’s merits (or, not…).
• Step 4: The media prepare a bunch of reports on it.
• Step 5: Those reports are broadcast to the public via assorted means.

And I know this is going to come as a shock to all of the higher-echelon Conservatives (and all of you budding Fascists, as well) but, as a general rule, news reports aren’t supposed to be biased.

See, unless it’s controlled by a dictator of some type, the media doesn’t get to sort through all of the events that happen every day and then only report on the items they happen to like or the ones that put people they happen to agree with in a good light.

Oh and here’s another news flash that Conservatives might find of interest: News-item content isn’t supposed to be “shaded” to make one side of an issue look better or worse than the other side nor is the entirety of news items available for viewing by the public supposed to be selectively limited by manipulation in advance.

As it turns out, there is a name for this practice -- but, it isn’t “news reporting”... (Can you say “propaganda”?)

See, ideally, by the end of the day, all of the reporters in the world should have reported as many of the events happening that day as they were able to on a practical basis so that everything that happens pretty much gets reported by somebody, somewhere, at some time, to somebody who’s interested in hearing it.

But the part that really gives me a good belly-laugh is the part about the “liberal-media”…

I simply cannot wrap my mind around the fact that there are otherwise intelligent, sane, rational people in the world who seem to believe that there’s a pool of radical, leftist, multi-billionaires somewhere that’s bankrolling the Morley Safers of this world.

Because, when you lump all of the media into one camp like that, you have to factor in the total amount of people employed by the television, radio and newspaper industries (and all of their online equivalents) by the salaries most of them command. This adds up to quite a tidy sum and somebody’s got to be paying it.

(Believers in “liberal media” sure are out of touch with reality for people who claim never to have taken psychedelics in the Sixties…)

The same condition that suspended their logical thinking processes apparently also affected their eyesight because they don’t seem to be able to make out the credits that roll across their TV screens after “public broadcasting” network shows either. If they could, they’d see the signatures of massive conglomerates -- like Chevron and Gulf Oil, the Midland Group, IBM, Ford and various other foundations all spawned by the Fortune 500 -- scrawled across the bottoms of the so-called “liberal media’s” paychecks.

A wise friend once gave me some advice that’s been very useful to me over the years. She told me if I was ever in doubt as to the true agenda of any person, organization or faction to “follow the money trail back to its source”.

So, in point of fact, the “liberal media” does not exist but, the sheer extent of the pervasive and persistent delusion that it does qualifies it as one of the most successful manipulations of public perception ever undertaken by Corporate America, in my opinion.

It’s a great cover, though, when you think about it… If one of your or your little corporate buddy’s schemes is accidentally exposed and word leaks out, every time they play that annoying, incriminating, little sound-bite on the evening news, all you have to say is “it’s just another attempt by the liberal media to discredit me”.

Perfect! Problem solved!

And it works every time… Because we all know about the “liberal press” and its agenda of subversion and manipulation, don’t we?

"30"

Something New Every Day!

For 14 years, my husband and I lived in the same little house. It was a shack (I called it “our hovel”) but, the rent was cheap, it had a huge yard with huge, ancient willow tree and it sat in the middle of vast grasslands (that had once been wetlands called the “Laguna de Santa Rosa”) on the edge of the oak woodlands. From our front yard, we had such an unobstructed view of Mt. St. Helena -- some 20 miles away -- that on clear days, you had no trouble making out the observatory that perches upon its highest peak with the naked eye.

In the spring, vernal pools would form in the meadow across the driveway with tiny fish (that appeared to spring miraculously from the ground) already in them and around the pools’ edges were scores of different wildflowers like redmaids, popcorn flower and baby blue-eyes which, like the fish, came with the spring rains and lasted only until the hot, dry months of summer began.

Having once been part of a huge marsh, the property we lived on was still a “regular stop” for migrating birds like Canadian geese, mountain bluebirds, swallows and larks that passed through a couple of times a year on their ways to other places. We had permanent avian neighbors there, too, that were just as magnificent -- like red-shouldered hawks, hummingbirds, egrets and mockingbirds. . .

As I said, our house there was a hovel but, I think because the beauty of nature was so very close all around us (well. . . also because the rent was so very cheap), we got used to it and that’s why we stayed there for so long. So, when the owners sold the place and we were told we had to move, I was crushed.

My husband -- who apparently comes from much more “stoic” stock than I do -- said, “Don’t worry, honey, we’ll find a house that’s better than this one. This place is falling apart anyway.”

Wiping the tears from my eyes with back of my hand, I sniffed, “It’s not the house. The house is a dump -- but what about our nice, big yard, our willow tree and the birds? I’ll miss all the birds. . .”

My husband gripped my shoulders, looked me in the eye and said, “Listen honey, these aren’t the only birds in the whole world, you know. There’ll be other birds. The whole planet is covered with birds -- they’re everywhere.”

Of course he was right. (I do hate it when he’s right. It’s a good thing that it doesn’t happen very often. . .) The house we moved into next was a far nicer with a huge kitchen, a beautiful yard and a several-acre field along one side with a marvelous little stream behind it in a sunny canyon surrounded by steep hills covered with redwood trees.

There, I discovered birds I’d never seen before and learned the names of many of the songbirds like the fox and lark sparrows, the Swainsons thrush, orioles and warblers. One morning, an ibis flew right over my head!

But, that winter, the area flooded so badly the landlady was forced to move everyone out in order to rebuild all of the structures on the property, so, once again, we found ourselves looking for a place to live. That’s when we found the place we live in now.

I was wary, at first, of renting this small, dilapidated, single-wide trailer on a steep hillside that hadn’t been lived-in for over six years.

It needed a lot of work before I would allow even one stick of our furniture to be put in it but, I have to say that -- after doing a bit of remodeling, putting on new wallpaper and paint, doing the landscaping and expending lots and lots of elbow grease -- it’s now quite “livable”.

Since it’s located in dry, rolling hills of chaparral and totally unlike anyplace that we’ve ever lived before, I’ve been getting to know all kinds of new birds and wildflowers.

One evening several weeks ago, I heard the unmistakable hoots of a great horned owl in one of the nearby scrub oaks. When I heard a second owl (with a much higher voice) answering the first one, I rushed outside to look for them but it was too dark, my field glasses were useless and, disappointed, I came back inside. . .

Every evening, the two owls would start up their little “hootenanny” in the tree. I looked for them several times over the following couple of weeks but couldn’t locate exactly which tree they were in.

But, lately -- with the approach of spring -- the days have been getting longer. That means there’s been more daylight when the owls start-up each evening and, yesterday, I finally found them!

I was thrilled!

The female is huge and looks very regal -- calm and steely eyed -- as she surveys the far hillside (looking for some errant rodent to come scurrying across her field of vision, I imagine).

The male is smaller than the female by at least a third. He sits a few feet away from her in another branch of the same tree. The poor thing looks like he’s half put-together -- as though a bunch of his feathers fell out and somebody stuck them back in at all the wrong angles. He merrily goes about preening himself -- seemingly totally unaware and unconcerned about anything that’s happening around him.

To tell the truth, he looks kinda goofy. . .

The contrast between the two is immediately obvious. The female reminds me of that big, scary owl in the old “Merrie Melodies” cartoon where the little mouse tries to steal the owl egg for a scavenger hunt. The male reminds me more of Daffy Duck.

Well, they say “opposites attract”. . .

Since we’ve been here I’ve also seen northern flickers (my first), lots of acorn woodpeckers, with their brilliant scarlet topknots, and a pair of mated, red-tailed hawks that live over the next hill. We’ve also seen turkeys, deer and even a fox and -- when the weather warms up -- I imagine the coyotes that we heard last fall will return for another big singing engagement. . .

Today as I was backing out of the carport, I noticed little, purple flowers growing all over the far bank of the tiny stream that runs down the other side of our driveway. When I returned from my errand, I examined them more closely and they’re shooting stars! Shooting stars are the most darling “cyclamen looking” little, fuchsia-colored wildflowers and the small rise across the way is covered with them!

I can’t wait to see what turns up next!

TODAY'S LESSON: PROPER FORMS OF ADDRESS

Class! CLASS! Now, let's all settle down and pay attention, shall we?

Today we’re going to examine proper forms of address. There will be a test on this material later on, so I advise you all to take notes…

Now, we are all aware that "Granny" was a character on "The Beverly Hillbillies". It is also a type of knot, a low transmission gear and a variety of apple that makes a really swell pie; however, the one thing that it is not, in our humble opinion, is a flattering form of address for one's female grandparent.

So, unless you happen to be regaling all of your little friends with stories about the endearing antics of your "critters" down by the "CEE-ment pond", please do all of us grandmothers a huge favor and try to refrain from using the word in reference to our persons. (I, for one, would appreciate it immensely.)

The other word I find almost as unacceptable is "Grandma" (as pronounced with, or without, the quasi-silent "d").

For my part, the images that this gauche little word conjures up include:

1. Ma and Pa Kettle going to (or returning from) "The Fair", "The City", "The Army" or wherever it was that they were always going by means of a decrepit vehicle (the title of which, I'm fairly certain, they transferred to a Mr. Jethro Bodine upon their retirement) to meet up with "Frankenstein’s Cousin", "The Step-Son of the Wolfman", "The Third Cousin of the Mummy's Ghost Twice Removed" or whomsoever it was that they were always going off to meet in all of those dreary little films that they churned out by the case-lots in the Forties, or,
   
2. A drab, dusty, economically-depressed borough in some forgotten corner of the planet where all of the residents are "decorating-challenged" and there are no factory outlets for Chanel -- some kind of nightmarish hell where Christmas lights stay up long past Labor Day and everyone buys copious amounts of lotto tickets.

I think we can all agree that neither of these images is very flattering…

Being much too young and nubile, myself, to have any grandchildren related to me by blood (**blink-blink**), I have chosen to insist that my adorable, little step-grandchild address me by the infinitely more cosmopolitan and chic-sounding "Grand (with an articulately pronounced "d") mah-MAH".

I like it. . . I like it A LOT. . .


I like it primarily because it doesn't sound like anything Jed Clampett might say but, also, because it reminds me of a grandmother whose dramatic flair and razor-sharp wit are my inspirations.

Yes, I'm speaking of that "Queen of All Bi- [I mean] Witches", the one, the only Endora (mother of Samantha Stevens and mother-in-law to both of the Darrens Stevens) of the old TV sit-com "Bewitched".

Ah, yes. . . Endora. . . A grand-mah-MAH whose broom I can only aspire to be worthy enough to ride someday. . .

I know the question ruminating in all of your minds right now. Yes, it is a trifle difficult to pronounce properly; however, I truly believe that it’s well worth the trouble.

I have found that, with a rigorous training period of only about two years or so, the parents of one's grandchildren can be taught to pronounce the word at a nearly acceptable level. Oddly, they seem to develop the affectation of enunciating the word through clenched teeth, however.

Grandchildren, on the other hand, learn much, much faster, of course.

Just give it a try and I believe that you, too, will discover the same serene sense of satisfaction that I have from employing it. (I have also discovered that it has the added benefit of assuaging any stray feelings of repressed hostility that one might still bear toward one's own children in reference to their teenage-years.)

Alright, Class, for tonight's homework, I want all of you to practice deliberately mispronouncing the given names of your sons and/or daughters-in-law.

Class dismissed. . .

"PT 109"

One of the cool things about subscribing to “satellite TV” is that it gives you a veritable smorgasbord of audio/visual fare from which to choose. Every once in a while I also enjoy having the opportunity to revisit an old, classic movie that I haven’t seen in a long time.

It had been ages since I saw the movie “PT 109” -- based upon the best-selling book of the true story of John F. Kennedy’s heroic naval service as a PT boat commander during WWII -- starring Cliff Robertson as JFK.

It reminded me of things about Kennedy that I knew but had forgotten. . .

There are many young people who have never heard the story of how, one night while on patrol, the PT boat under Kennedy’s command as a young naval officer was cut in half by a Japanese destroyer and of how Kennedy led his men on a three mile swim to the shore of the nearest island while towing a wounded shipmate by a strap wrapped around his chin. That encounter with the Japanese destroyer was to leave Kennedy with a severe injury to his back that was to plague him for the remainder of his all-too short life.

I have even heard it might have been that same injury that ultimately cost him his life because the brace that he constantly wore held him upright after the first assassin’s bullet struck -- making the second shot a fatal one but, even if that isn’t so, the constant, daily pain he suffered because of it must have affected him and, in some ways, changed him and the way he related to the world forever after.

When the movie “PT 109” ended, I was struck by the thought of how much our world and the perceptions we have have changed since the last time I watched it.

One aspect, in particular, made me stop and think. . .

After the 109 is sunk, Kennedy and his PT-boat crew are stranded on a tiny island that is constantly patrolled by enemy boats. After a couple of unsuccessful attempts by both Kennedy and another officer to flag down a friendly vessel by floating around in the ocean all night long, Kennedy decides to lead his men (several wounded among them) on a long-distance swim to the next island to take their chances there. . .

There is no fresh water supply on either island and all the men can find to eat are a few coconuts, so, the situation is becoming desperate when two native tribesmen arrive and agree to take a coconut with a plea for help carved into it to the nearest “friendly” -- a solitary radio “spotter” on a neighboring island.

Unbelievably, not only do the native men deliver the message to the spotter (who then radios the Allied base camp that Kennedy and his men are alive), they return with a couple more men in a larger canoe, hide Kennedy beneath a blanket and deliver him safely to the spotter. Kennedy then returns with Allied rescue boat and rescues his men from hiding.

Several times, the natives with the concealed Kennedy aboard encounter Japanese planes and ships. When they do, they smile and wave, making the Japanese believe that they are simply native fisherman going about their business, and the Japanese completely overlook them.

The end result, of course, is that they are able to deliver Kennedy safely back into the bosom of the Allied Forces who rescue all of Kennedy’s men stranded on the island and Kennedy is eventually awarded a Congressional Medal of Honor for his heroism.

Every word of this story is true and did actually happen but -- as I sat there watching the movie -- I couldn’t help but wonder: If a similar situation arose today, would Kennedy or any of his men survive?

I wonder because, at that one critical juncture, all of their lives were completely dependent upon the good will of a canoe-load of natives who lived on a remote island in the middle of a vast sea that was under the control of an enemy (not unlike the Taliban) that would have liked nothing better than to see every, last U.S. soldier, sailor, marine and aircraft pilot lying dead -- an enemy that was known (also like the Taliban) to possess little mercy when crossed. . .

So, I ask myself: Why did the natives paddling that canoe help Kennedy and his men at such great risk to themselves? At any moment while transporting Kennedy to the spotter’s island their deception could have been discovered by the Japanese. They would have paid for it with their lives and they knew it.

Why were the rescues of Kennedy and his men so important to these isolated, primitive people who really had no stake in the outcome of the war that was being waged around them?

They could have simply viewed Americans as major contributors to the wholesale killing and destruction that had engulfed what had once been their peaceful and idyllic home. . . Their decision of whether to support the Japanese invaders or the American invaders could have amounted to a political coin-toss but, for them, it was obviously not a matter they decided by the toss of a coin.

Plainly, they looked with far greater favor upon the Allied Forces but, until I watched “PT 109” again, I really hadn’t given much thought as to why these people (and the people of other small, “non-involved” countries all over the globe during that era) supported (especially) the United States at such profound risks to themselves and their families. . .

These were people who would not have had the acumen to research complicated political ideologies in order to decide upon the one most simpatico to their world view. They would not have had access to daily newspapers or radio programs from New York or Tokyo debating the U.S. and Japan’s systems of government -- their virtues and pitfalls. . .

No, the differences between the Allies and the Axis had to have been easily identifiable on very, real, practical and concrete levels. It is likely that “little things” would have counted with these people: A GI tossing a candy bar to a child in a war-ravaged village, the assistance of a military doctor for a difficult birth, a soldier’s reluctance to inflict harm on women or children, a small gesture of respect toward a local culture, religion or custom. . .

These are the things by which primitive loyalty is won -- not complicated rhetoric, not the pluses or minuses of grandious political doctrines. . .

Since they are in no position to remove “invaders” by force, what matters to primitive peoples in remote, reluctant -- and, yet, inextricably engaged -- countries is the nature of the treatment that they have reason to expect at the hands of their invaders.

And I wonder: In some far-off pocket of humanity in some isolated corner of the world we live in today, can we have any reasonable expectation that the morals, ethics and actions of the United States are still of such a superior quality as to be obvious to any given canoe-load of natives?

Sadly -- very sadly -- I doubt it. . .

“30”

Speaking With “Dead People”

I’m used to people giving me “the look”. I’ve been getting “the look” all of my life...

You get “the look” when you mention that you’ve just seen Luther Burbank (who died in 1926) walking around his Gold Ridge Farm, watched a group of Union soldiers attack a farmhouse or mention to someone that you’ve spoken with their deceased grandfather that afternoon because there was something that he wanted you to tell them…

The first time I remember seeing “the look” was at the tender age of nine or so on the face of my mother when I told her that I’d just been visited by my paternal grandmother (who was in ill health at the time and lived about 100 miles away).

The next morning my uncle called to tell my mother that my grandmother had passed away in the night.

“Seeing dead people” is not at all how the Mel Gibson movie that is famous for that line portrayed it.

First of all, the images are not as concrete as those; they are more like impressions. They are more like little snatches of video tape that play in your head for a second or two. The images are fleeting but they usually leave what I would call the “psychic residue” of a complete thought or idea in their wake. Sometimes, you have no conscious awareness of an image at all and the words describing it seem to just pop out of your mouth of their own volition.

When one experiences one of these insights, it is as if far more information is being conveyed within that split-second of imagery than can be accounted for by its visual properties alone. Sometimes, knowledge of the entire story of what has gone on before the fleeting image or the events that happened after it comes with it and is conveyed within that split second of time.

Most people think of “ghosts” as autonomous; they imagine the manifestations of these spirits just come and go of their own accord and that the person who observes them is merely that, an observer, with no active part in the manifestation. In this regard, it may be that I relate to these spirits just a bit differently. For me, most images come to mind much clearer if I focus my thoughts upon the person whose spirit I wish to contact.

I am then rewarded (if I’m lucky) with an image or two at a time but, usually, no more than that. However, as I said, most of the time, so much information is conveyed to me in that second or two, that there is little need for more.

Most of the time, especially in cases of missing persons, the bulk of the information concerning the case comes to me disjointedly and out of chronological sequence as it did in the case of the murder of Elvin Bishop’s daughter.

I received many impressions about this case almost immediately upon hearing about the murder of Miss Bishop’s mother and her boyfriend whose bodies had just been discovered in Miss Bishop’s residence. (At that time, Miss Bishop was officially considered to be “missing” and no other details were given.)

The many details that I “saw” in those first few moments -- regarding a related murder of an elderly couple in the East San Francisco Bay Area, another female of approximately the same age as Miss Bishop who was involved and the two brothers who perpetrated all of the murders -- disjointed facts which, at the time, appeared to be unrelated, were later (much later, in some cases) proved to be completely accurate as the details about this case were revealed over a period of months and even years…

I don’t know why it is that certain cases trigger these impressions when I first hear about them on the news or read about them, why I seem to sense more details with some cases than I do with others, or why, in some cases, I sense nothing at all. I don’t seem to be able to pick or choose which case will be one that I receive impressions about.

However I can and do summon many spirits of those whom I have known who have passed on and, most of the time, speak with them at will.

Since a very young age, I have spoken (and still speak) in just such a manner with my paternal grandmother. I have also spoken regularly with my husband’s mother and grandmother – and even with his grandfather whom I actually never met in life. I also speak with, among others, a former associate of mine, a former boss of mine, the father of a former boss of mine and even the child of a schoolmate who was killed in an accident many years ago.

Another aspect of communication with those who have passed over which I seem to have no control are the times when I find myself in an area that is (what I call) “saturated” with either the spirits of the passing of many people or a location that is associated with someone who experienced a particularly violent or unjust death. In these cases, the events and the shades of the people who were involved in these events are just “there” – like a never ending movie on a 380-degree screen. I seem to simply “walk into the scene” at any point in the action and that action continues whether I stay or go.

Murfreesboro, Tennessee was, for me, just such a place. As we traveled through the town, and for a few miles on either side of it, the images I “saw” in my mind’s eye were so varied and many that, in some places, I was forced to swivel my head from side to side almost constantly in order to take it all in.

I have never been anywhere else where five or six different scenes on an astral level were taking place around me at once. At one point, I saw two children hiding behind a buckboard wagon while soldiers searched the bushes for them, a man being hung by a military guard, a company of Union soldiers on foot being led in a charge by an officer on a horse and two or three other groups of soldiers and/or civilians shooting at each other or sniping at each other from positions up in the trees or from behind the walls of long-gone buildings, all going on at once.

If I have known the deceased subject personally, I can usually go to a location that I associate with him or her, quietly concentrate and, most times, I am rewarded within a few minutes with a sense of their presence. At that time, images -- often accompanied by impressions of ideas and situations surrounding those images -- will be imparted to me by the person who has passed.

Sometimes, these reflect a message that the person wishes me to convey to someone who is still living; however, I find it all but impossible most of time to pass these messages on in a frank and honest manner due to most people’s lack of belief in the possibility of after-death communication.

I’m not certain why I have been given this gift (or “curse”, perhaps)... At times I find it very comforting -- but, at other times, it can be just plain "disturbing". . .


“30”

Gestalt and the Texas Trooper

The year was 1969. Almost like something tangible, the aura of fear and uncertainty which had begun with the assassination of President Kennedy in 1964 still hung suicidally heavy in the air and then -- after the escalation of the War in Viet Nam and the assassinations of Bobby Kennedy and Dr. Martin Luther King -- it laid 1968 to waste in a frenzy of uncertainty, unpredictability and violence.

In that climate, young people who lived elsewhere ran away to California; however, those of us who had lived in California all our lives ran in quite a more easterly direction. . .

The boy I had chosen to run away with was from Oklahoma. He was a bright, affable young man with a broad, dimply smile which came from real, heartfelt humor rather than being donned as a cover for uneasiness.

We wound up in Texas where his cousins lived. The day after we arrived, he got a job with his cousin’s husband working out in the fields of the Panhandle constructing irrigation systems long enough for us to save enough money to afford to buy a car. It wasn’t a great car -- a 1961 model Buick “Special” station wagon -- but it was clean and the body was straight.

By that time, we were tired of endlessly flat, freezing-cold prairie life. We decided we would go see his father who was a cook in a large casino in downtown Las Vegas and try it there for awhile. But, only part way into the trip, we realized that we needed more money and, we stopped in the little town of Dumas, Texas, where he got a job at the nearest fast-food place for a couple of weeks while we lived in a motel.

I was 15 and had never had a driver’s license but, so that I wouldn’t have to sit around all day with nothing to do while he was at work, he would drive us both to his job in the morning and then I would take the car and come back for him at the end of his work shift.

The threat of being pulled over by the police, however -- who might find out that I was wanted as a runaway back in California -- weighed heavily upon my thoughts during those days… heavily indeed…

One morning, after dropping my boyfriend off at work and heading back to the motel, I came upon the aftermath of a traffic accident where several Texas State Trooper cars were parked on both sides of the road. A couple of Troopers were out in the middle of the street, directing traffic around the scene.

I suppose that I must have whizzed by pretty quickly because, in those days (when we were all much younger), we sped around everywhere that we went. When I looked in the rearview mirror, I saw one of the Troopers dash to his patrol car, jump in, turn on the lights and siren and rapidly close the distance between us. There wasn’t much more I could do at that point except pull over and stop.

I watched as a tall, thin Trooper unfolded like a roadmap from his police car. He put on his “Smokey the Bear” hat -- snugging the strap beneath his chin -- as he approached me from behind.

Bending down and resting an elbow on the frame of my open car window, he slid his sunglasses down the bridge of his nose and slowly drawled, “Mornin’ Ma’am, may I see your driver’s license and vehicle registration?”

As I retrieved the registration papers from the glove compartment, I stammered nervously, “Why did you pull me over? Did I do something wrong, Officer?”

“Why, yes, Ma’am,” he said after a moment’s hesitation, “I was tryin’ to gesture to you to keep down your speed as you went around the scene of that accident back there but you were goin’ a pretty good clip…”

“I’m sorry, I did brake when I saw you,” I said as I handed him the papers.

“Yes, Ma’am,” he answered as he looked over the registration, “You sure did but, the roads out here are pretty slick. It’s been snowin’ and it’s pretty cold even now… We get a lotta spinouts this time of year and I wouldn’t like callin’ the next ambulance for you -- if you get my drift…”

Scrutinizing the registration, he looked up with a puzzled expression on his face, “Uh… Can I see your license, please, Ma’am?”

I summoned some courage, looked him in the eye and said matter-of-factly, “I don’t have one.”

His eyes widened and he took a half-step backwards. “You mean you don’t have a license to operate this vehicle?” he said -- looking rather incredulous.

“That’s right,” I retorted, “I sure don’t.”

“Why, Ma’am, you can’t operate a vehicle without a driver’s license!” he interjected, sounding agitated.

“Well,” I countered, “Obviously I can -- as you can plainly see, I’m doing it…”

My tone belied the panic that was rapidly rising from the pit of my stomach and catching in my throat. The tension became unbearable and I felt like I was going to lose it right there -- as though I was going to start screaming and not be able to stop.

Just then, I remembered one of the tension-easing techniques that the counselors taught us back home at “The House” -- a refuge for troubled teens that I’d frequented for quite a few months before running away with my boyfriend. They called it “Gestalt Therapy” and it included screaming loudly, sharply and without reservation. The technique was supposed to act as a “pressure valve” to act as a siphon to relieve anxiety.

I smiled at the State Trooper and said, “Excuse me a moment.”

I then let out a long, screeching, blood-curdling scream.

When I did so, the Trooper crouched down and put his hand over the leather band that snapped over his side arm -- readying his pistol in its holster. He glanced around furtively as though he was trying to identify the source of the reaction he had just witnessed.

“What? What is it?” he stammered -- warily scanning for the source of my scream.

“It’s okay,” I reassured him, “It’s just a relaxation technique that I learned in Gestalt Therapy class. I was feeling a little nervous. . .”

The Trooper stood there and stared at me for about 30 seconds.

“Well… I tell you what, here’s your registration,” he said, sighing deeply, as he handed the paper back to me, “Now, I’m gonna get back in my cruiser and drive away and I’m not going to stop you again. I can’t guarantee that some other Trooper won’t stop you later on but, it won’t be me -- I promise you that.”

Tipping his hat slightly, he turned to walk away and stopped in mid-pace, “You just wait until after I pull away and then go on about your business, okay?”

“Sure,” I said -- not believing that he was just going to let me go.

True to his word, the Trooper got back into his patrol car and pulled away. I waited for a moment or two and then drove off as well.

“30”

His Mother's Son

I got into the tiny elevator, pushed the button for the third floor, smoothed my skirt and hair and cleared my throat. The year was 1968, I was 15 and school had just let out for the summer the week before. For the last month and a half my mother had been insisting that I find a summer job to keep me occupied since it was the first summer in five years that I wouldn’t attending summer school.

“Summer” and “school” were two words that struck terror in the hearts of most kids when put together in the same sentence but, to an only-child, it was the social life-line that filled my empty, summer days. It had the further benefit of adding credits to fulfill my graduation requirement -- a fact that was to become very important to me at a later time. . .

I found the office door of the Mills Temporary Employment Agency, took a deep breath and went inside.

Upon completion of the mountainous application form, my name was called by a blonde, middle-aged woman dressed smartly in “business attire” and I was amazed to learn that the agency actually had a job referral for me. I was to report to a small motel in town called “The Townhouse” to interview for a part-time job, three days per week, as a “motel maids’ helper” -- a job that would last through the summer until school started in the fall.

The job was on the other end of town but I could ride my bicycle to get there since my shift didn’t begin until 9:00 a.m. and it paid more than the $1.50 per hour minimum wage at that time for students -- a whole fifteen cents more. . .

Located directly across the street from the largest hotel in town, the El Rancho Tropicana, the Townhouse was owned by a Mr. and Mrs. Cross -- a couple in their late fifties. As I followed Mrs. Cross around the next day, she began by showing me how to run the dishwasher that was located in the small apartment on the motel grounds that she shared with her husband.

I was to be responsible for seeing to it that the three maids who worked there were supplied with clean, sterilized drinking glasses wrapped in waxed paper sleeves emblazoned with the motel’s logo. I would also see to it that the sheets, pillowcases, towels and washcloths were washed and dried using the Townhouse’s three large washing machines and driers located in a small utility room at the rear of the motel.

The same utility room housed the supply of guest soaps and tiny packages of instant coffee, creamer and sugar for the small, courtesy coffee makers in each room but, best of all, the Townhouse Motel boasted a small swimming pool that Mrs. Cross invited me to use at the end of each day’s work shift if I desired.

Things appeared to be looking up for me after the horrors I had experienced during the winter of 1966 and 1967, I thought as I pedaled home on my bicycle after the interview with Mrs. Cross. The year of 1966 had been a whirlwind of starting my first year of high school in the fall, meeting the love of my life, Wally, a boy with a bad reputation who was a year ahead of me in school and the boy to whom I gave my virginity.

My mother hated him but she learned to hate him even more when she found out that I was pregnant by him at 15. Fortunately (or unfortunately), I’d miscarried four months into the pregnancy and almost hemorrhaged soon after. . .

My mother swore out a restraining order against Wally that forbade the two of us to come within 150 feet of each other but, of course, I still saw him “on the sly” by means of complicated arrangements made possible by my friends -- always with the fear that we would be discovered and that my mother would make good on her threat to send me off to permanent residence in a group home.

But, on that particular day, I was feeling good. The sun was shining and I was riding my bicycle home to tell my mother the good news: I got the job!

Over the next couple of weeks, I came to know and like two of my co-workers at the Townhouse. . .

Phyllis was a “born again” Holy Roller. A former prostitute, she lived in an apartment on the shabby end of town with a cat named “Spooky” that she'd once given a tab of acid to (hence the name). Phyllis drove a two-toned, blue and white, 1958 Chevrolet sedan one of her “customers” had given to her long ago and believed that it started only because, every time she turned the key, she prayed to Jesus as she did. Phyllis had a black boyfriend named “Spider” -- another “convert” -- who had recently also accepted Jesus Christ as his personal savior.

Carol was a full-blooded Pomo Indian in her late 20s -- about the same size in height as width -- a Taurus, she was married to a sweet, evenly tempered, black man (a fact that was not well-received by Carol’s family even though the two had been married, by that time, for more than ten years) named John.

John was an auto-mechanic whose ’58 Impala was (to use the “carboys’” vernacular of the time) “tricked-out”. But, the greatest thing about Carol and John was that the love they shared was like some tangible thing. You could almost see it pass between them when they were together -- despite Carol’s sharp tongue. . .

Carol was one of those people with a gift for dry, sarcastic humor. She could toss an off-handed, bored-sounding, quick-witted comeback into the conversation under her breath with an acuity that took most people several minutes to appreciate. Carol never failed to make me laugh. . .

In the small town of Santa Rosa, California, in the 1960s, the entire population of black people numbered in all of only two or three families, so, it was not remarkable that Spider and John had known each other all of their lives nor was it remarkable that Erica -- a tiny, red-haired girl who lived next door to Carol and John -- would be carrying John’s cousin’s, Roger’s, child.

That summer, Carol and John -- on a purely emotional level -- made it their mission to “adopt” me. The two of them found it easy to relate to Wally’s and my tragic situation, I suppose. After all, no one could have understood more about what it was like for two people in love whose families disapproved of their relationship more than Carol and John did.

After two weeks on the job, the head maid walked away and never returned. The following week, Mrs. Cross asked me if I thought that I knew enough about the job to take over cleaning the head maid’s assigned rooms five days per week. I told her that I did and, with that, I was promoted to full-time at an entry-level maid’s full salary.

Being promoted to full-time maid at the Townhouse made my daily bicycle ride to work that much more dangerous since it meant that I would need to start out in the mornings before daylight, so, my newly “adopted” friends, Carol and John, agreed to pick me up each morning and give me a ride to work in exchange for a couple of dollars each payday for gas.

Most workdays, Carol, Phyllis and I would pile into Phyllis’ Chevy and head over the overpass to Zip’s Drive-In -- a greasy spoon on Sebastopol Road in Santa Rosa’s Roseland District for lunch.

Zip’s had been somewhat of an institution since the Forties and was still owned by the same family who'd owned it then. From our vantage point at one of the four or five decrepit picnic tables in front of Zip’s, we would wave at people we knew as they drove down Sebastopol Road -- a testament to fact that, even with a population at that time of almost 30,000, Santa Rosa was still a very small town in those days.

Because the three of us went to work so early in the morning, we normally finished cleaning all of the Townhouse’s rooms by two o’clock or so in the afternoon. This left us plenty of time on those long, summer days to engage in various recreational pursuits.

Carol usually wound up arranging some type of group outing after we got off of work or on our days off such as a picnic in the park or a day swimming and barbequing on the beach along the nearby Russian River.

On one particular day-trip, Carol and John stopped by Wally’s house to pick him up in order to give us some time together. Not being informed of these plans, of course, the fact that my mother had given us such a cordial send-off caused us to laugh and giggle almost the entire way to the river.

As we descended in several vehicles upon a choice swimming hole, we must have seemed like an odd crowd to the comparatively insulated populace of Sonoma County during 60s -- a veritable United Nations with representatives from the black, Native American and various Caucasian races. Certainly we received a great deal of attention from the locals wherever we went. . .

When we all piled out of the caravan of cars at the Russian River beach at Mirabel, near Forestville, California, with barbeque grills, ice chests and bags of food, the local fishermen stopped what they were doing and stood -- staring at us -- for what seemed like hours. . .

Their interest was not lost on Roger who grabbed a huge watermelon from one of the grocery sacks and -- lifting it aloft with a flourish -- balanced it in one hand while proclaiming in a voice loud enough to benefit our “observers”, “Laudy, laudy, ah sho’ luvs them watahmelons! Yessah, massah, sah, I sho’ly duz!” before plunging it into the water at the river’s edge to cool for the evening’s consumption.

As darkness descended and we all gathered to feast on hamburgers, hot dogs, potato salad and, of course, slices of watermelon, I glanced towards the perimeter of the firelight and could barely make out the figures of the same local fisherman who had found us so fascinating all day, standing in a line -- graduated according to height -- and still staring. . .

Their scowls were especially directed toward the red-haired, fair Erica (who was in her pregnancy’s eighth month) and the obvious love of her life, Roger.

I ambled my way over to Carol. “What is their problem?” I asked her, gesturing toward the group of fishermen with my head.

“Who?” she said as she absently poured some ketchup on top of her hamburger, “Oh, you mean those guys?” she asked -- straining to make out their shapes in the gloom.

“They’re ignorant rednecks. . . Just ignore them. They don’t cotton to the idea of lily-white Erica here and Roger being together, that’s all. . . They better get used to it, though, because that’s the way the world is headed -- whether they like it or not. . .”

“I read somewhere that, eventually, all the races on Earth will be blended into one,” I said with a slight smile, “I think that would make them all really beautiful people. . . They’d have exotic almond-shaped eyes from the Asians, permanently sun-tanned skin from the black people with a slight coppery tint from the Indians and, maybe even blue, green or hazel eyes from the white race. I think they’d be just about the most beautiful human beings there has ever been, don’t you?”

“I guess they would be,” Carol said haltingly, studying me.

“You’re a strange kid. Do you know that? But, you’re okay. . . You’re a good kid even if you are pretty strange. . .” she said, turning her attention back to her plate, “Go on and finish your burger. We should get going pretty soon. We promised your mom we’d have you back before 10:00.”

After the summer ended, I saw Carol and John around town sometimes and, sometimes, I went by their house to visit for a while and chat.

I knew that Carol desperately wanted to have children but had been told by the doctor that it might not be possible for her.

As things turned out, though, I read in the local newspaper several years later that she’d finally been able to deliver a child -- a boy -- who was born during the same summer that I gave birth to my daughter. I didn’t have a chance to congratulate her until a couple of years later, though, when I ran into her by accident in line at the local bank.

She was still the same old Carol with her dry, biting wit. Carol “bubbled” for nobody, least of all for me, “the strange kid”. . .

About five years ago, I came across another statistic in the local paper. . . This time, though, it carried the sad news that Carol, only in her early 50s, passed away of cancer. . .

I went to her funeral. It was held in the largest room at the largest mortuary in town -- and it still couldn’t hold all of her mourners. People were crowded out of all the exit doors and lined up outside around the entire building.

But the saddest thing about it was the sight of her beloved John . . . Once a tall, proud, black man with a quiet grace that seemed to exude a kind of strength from within that was unassailable and eternal, now bent almost double with grief -- the perennially serene face that I remembered now tortured and drawn. . .

He was a man lost. . . Lost without she who was his love and his life -- his Carol. . . It was a truly, truly heartbreaking sight. . .

But there beside him, holding him up, was their “miracle child” -- the young man who had been born the same year as my daughter.

As I gazed at him, I thought that I could just barely discern something familiar in the set of his jaw. It was that same determined, indomitable look I’d seen so often on his mother’s face. . .

I knew that he would see his father through this horrible time -- become his rock -- because he was, after all, his mother’s son and he showed it. . .

“30”

PROFOUND MIDNIGHT CALIFORNIA MILESTONES RESTORE LAW & ORDER

I was reading Northern California newspaper the "Santa Rosa Press Democrat" online this New Year's Day morning when I came across an article summarizing some of the new laws that went into effect at midnight last night which will, for better or worse, profoundly influence the lives of people all over our great state.

Of course, the one that's getting the most press is a bundle of new "Greenhouse Gas Emmissions" laws that our governor signed yesterday aimed at reducing the amount of power that utilities can purchase from energy companies that use coal to generate it -- unless, of course, it's "clean". . .

:^s

Just how, exactly, does one go about burning coal "cleanly", I wonder?

This makes me suspicious that it's just another one of Awhnode's famous, grandeous, bandstanding gestures which always seem to turn out to be about as empty as his muscle-bound head.

I get the feeling that the whole package was somehow engineered with the ultimate goal in mind of lining the pockets of all of his little Republican, high-stakes playin' buddies. . .

We'll see. . . We'll watch and we'll see. . .

On a sadder note, I guess I'm going to have to find another way to sneak into drive-in movies from now on because of a new law that went into effect last night on the highways and byways of the Golden State that makes it illegal to transport anyone in the trunk of a car.

=8^u (Yikes!)

Gee, isn't it comforting to know that our erstwhile California legislators are out there -- sinking their teeth into the "real issues" -- while the rest of the world just fritters its time away playing around with trivial junk like war, disease and famine?

>:^\

In fact, the only new law out of the bunch that has any prospect whatsoever of affecting me on a personal level is the one that now allows the phone companies to offer cable TV services over the telephone lines. . .

Since there's no cable TV access out here in the wild hinterlands of rural Cloverdale, this means that the day when I can obtain a high-speed internet connection may not be too far off!

(**Standing-up, she cheers while doing the "end-zone dance"**)

In the meantime, though, I have to keep a bottle of "No-Doze" in my desk drawer for those long downloads -- you know the kind -- like when you're accessing your email in-box?

:^s

Prepare yourselves, because I've saved the most wide-sweeping, profound and influential legislation for last. (See there? And you thought it was the "trunk law". . .)

It is the flaming Crepes Suzette, as it were -- the jurisprudential dessert -- that our esteemed and revered law-makers have, in all their legendary wisdom, prepared for us and laid out upon The Table of Life by which we may feed our profound human needs for justice, equality and civility. . .

At precisely 12:01 a.m. this morning, it became a legal transgression against the state to remove more than 25 "free" newspapers from their dispenser or rack with an intent other than to read them all.

(Thanks, Sacramento, there goes my entire toilet paper supply. . .)



"30"