Do your loved ones visit you after they’ve died?

None of you will question that as we live our lives – go to work, parties, travel, have relationships, etc., –  experiences combine and create how we view the world and ourselves. And grieving the death of loved ones is an experience we all share.

First, let me say that I do not call myself a “religious” sort. I consider myself more as spiritual and intuitive and I never considered the possibility that a deceased love one would contact me. Until it happened.

In the 1980’s, when I thought going through infertility would drive me over a cliff, I had an early morning phone call from my grandfather who had died in the 60’s. “Grandpa,” I said. “Why are you calling? You’re dead.”

“I’m calling to check on you.”

“I’m fine,” I lied.

My husband woke me to get up for work. I was furious and sad that my call had been abruptly ended. The “dream,” was not like a real dream made of scene or stories.  I only saw Grandpa’s face, and I felt him as real as the pillow my head rested upon.

Not long after, my deceased grandmother “called.” I said the same thing. “Grandma, you’re dead. Why are you calling?”

“I’m calling to check on you. How are you.”

“I’m fine.”

Then she asked, “Is there anything I can do for you?”

“Yes. Will you ask God to give me a baby?”

There was a long pause as if she were thinking. Then, she said, “I have to go now.”

(Today, I have two grown children, two grandchildren and another due in May.Who knows, right?)

Mom’s first contact with me was different. I had just left the cemetery when a song I’d never heard before came on NPR radio. To this day, I cannot find that song but its words were something like, “don’t worry, we’ll see each other in heaven.” The song made me smile.

Later, in a dream-vision, Mom had simply smiled at me, looked youthful and happy, and pain-free.

As my father lay dying, I asked, “will you check on me after you’re gone like Mom, Grandma and Grandpa did?”

He said, “I’ll always check on my babies.”

Wherever Dad is, he must be very busy since he has yet to “contact” me.  That’s okay, too. He’s probably teaching Mohammad Ali how to play checkers or dominoes.

Some people call these signs “Pennies from Heaven.”

Knowing my experiences, I recently ran across this article. Take a look. Perhaps it will apply to you as well. And please, let me know if it does.

Signs from Heaven … 9 Signs from Deceased Loved Ones

 

 

Nervous Sweat

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Frank’s nervous, too. The way he strangles the steering wheel reminds me of the time Daddy taught Mama to drive. Mama had Jiggled nervous sweat. Daddy stayed calm and quiet like he was reading the death notices in the Galveston Post. I sat in the back giggling my socks off.

Mama kept turning to see if I was still alive. “You okay, baby? You okay?”

“Bernice, sugar. You have to keep your eyes on the road.”

Daddy and me didn’t have much to worry about. She never went more than five miles an hour.

Daddy had tilted toward me and winked, “Hope you’re not too hungry, Little Tulip. This might take a while.”

When we got home, Mama had to change out of her sweaty clothes. Daddy gave her a big hug and said, “Bernice, you make me proud.”

But that was then.

Excerpt from The Moonshine Thicket

 

From Arid to a full belly

1940: Fresh Air and Dusted Britches — Last weekend Mr. Green asked Delma and me if we wanted to spend a night with him and his wife. I think maybe he’d heard a few things about what was going on at my house, about how Dad was treating me. Either way, it sure was good to get away for a night.

Mrs. Green made us corn on the cob with fried chicken and I ate every bit of mine. Then we played checkers, and even taught Delma how to play. It was like a vacation from the desert with no water into a place with fresh air and cold iced tea. It was a full belly.

The next morning before we were about to leave, Mrs. Green hugged Delma, turned to me and said, “Now Cono, you keep sittin’ on the shiny side’a that star.”

It sounded like a real nice thing to say, but I’m still trying to figure out what in tarnation she was talking about.

Excerpt from No Hill for a Stepper

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Arid

The three-legged way of looking at life

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The Great Gatsby stands and walks toward me. I back up and wonder where his slingshot is. “We won’t bother with a real handshake,” he says. “Just give me the damn hooch, and we’ll call it a deal.”

I hand over the Mason jar. He unscrews the lid and takes a big gulp.

“Damn, this is the Real McCoy.” He takes another swig. “Why’s your dog got three legs?”

I tell him. Three years ago, Daddy took Choppers into town. Choppers wasn’t full grown yet, so he didn’t think twice about biting the tire of a delivery truck filled with sacks of grain. When he got run over, Doc Dennis took off one of his back legs. A month later, when he acted normal again, I’d asked Daddy why Choppers had the guts to forget losing something so important as a leg. “Because, Jellybean, he got used to the change.” Daddy had pointed to his temple. “He adapted. Choppers knew that, even with three legs, he still had plenty of life to live and enjoy.”

“I don’t think he remembers it’s missing,” I tell Frank.

“Wish humans could do the same,” he says. “Speaking of, why’d your Mama leave?”

I look away and stare into the thicket. I’d rather talk about Choppers.

“Aunt Sissy left me too. By dying. ’Yes sir, that’s my baby, No sir, don’t mean maybe yes, sir, that’s my Baby now,’” he sings.

Excerpt from The Moonshine Thicket (1928)

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photo credit

 

 

 

Searchin’ for the “Funny”

Dad never owned a car long enough for him to learn how to drive, or for that matter, long enough for me to learn to drive. Until we moved to Temple, that is. Dad was the odd man out, never having an interest in cowboying or even getting on top of a horse like the rest of the Dennis’.

Dad tried to ride a bull once. Maybe it was a low point for him. For for me it was anything but. We were living at the Dennis ranch when Dad came home drunk and decided it was time to act like a real rodeo star. I was standing outside the corral, where we kept one of our two-year-old bulls. Dad saunters over to me and slurs, “Cono, grab that bull o’r yonder. Hold’em still ‘til I get on. I’m gonna ride that son’a bitch”

“Sure I will, Dad.”

It was better than watching a picture show. While I was putting the rope around the bull’s neck, Dad went over and fixed Ike’s spurs to his shoes! Not to his boots because he didn’t even own a pair of boots, but to his shoes! Then he slapped on Ike’s chaps. I helped him get on top of the bull and stood there holding his rope.

“Whenever you’re ready,” I said.

“I’z ready,” he Slurred.

I let go.

Dad put one hand up in the air and said, “High, ho, silv……”

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That bull didn’t even buck. He just turned around real slow like he was trying to see what kind of idiot would sit on his back. Well, that slow turn was all it took. My Dad fell right off that lazy bull and straight into the dirt, Ike’s spurs dangling from Dad’s shoes.

I turned around and looked in the other direction. I didn’t want Dad to see my shoulders quivering from laughter.

Dad got up and staggered back to the house mumbling something about killing steak for dinner.

Some things sure were funny back then, but other times? You couldn’t find “funny” anywhere you looked.

Excerpt from No Hill for a Stepper

Not always “home” on the range

Right before it’s time to go home, Mrs. Alexander starts to teach us a new song called Home on the Range. Oh give me a home, where the antelope roam and the deer and the antelope play. Where seldom is heard, a discouraging word and the skies are not cloudy all day. How often at night, where the heavens are bright with the light of the Glittering stars, have I stood there amazed and asked as I gazed if their glory exceeds that of ours. Home, home on the range….”

I like those words. They make me feel almost as good as when I’m riding on ol’ Polo, free and easy like deer and antelope playing together without any bickering. I like that she tells us what the words mean, words like “discouraging.” She says that “discouraging” means that you don’t like something much, like something makes you feel uncomfortable, something that spoils your spirit. So now I can say, that “Home on the Range” is my new favorite song. I can also say that recess today sure was discouraging.

Excerpt from No Hill for a Stepper

photo credit

 

The Good Seats Aren’t Reserved for Me

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Cono Dennis

My ears focus on the Sound of the train’s idling, but eager-to-go engines. Where the hell would I be today if I didn’t have those railroad memories chugging along with me, some good and some anything but?

Just as I’m feeling comfortable that I won’t be crowded, I feel something settling into that worn seat next to me, making itself comfortable but making me anything but. It nudges me. I ignore it and then tell it to go away. It doesn’t listen. The memories want me to pay them a little attention. I know this train is about to pull out. I know this train is taking me to Temple. But my mind and my uninvited seat companion start to take me somewhere else, somewhere I’ve already been before, somewhere I don’t care to go back to. It starts speeding me down the track a lot faster than this train is accustomed and a whole lot faster than I can put a stop to.

The first memory is safe. It makes me wish, “If only it could have all been this easy.”     But past wishes were reserved for the other folks with good seats.

Not for me.

Excerpt from No Hill for a Stepper

Valen-TiMe’s Day

If you saw one of my previous posts “What am I getting myself into,” you’ll know that I think of projects at the last minute and push myself into a deadline. Well, the deadline is today and last night, I finished my V-Day presents for my grandkids.  Hand-stitched since I don’t own or know how to use a sewing machine. This one’s for my grandson:

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This is my granddaughter’s:

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Definitely a bunch of mistakes but, I did it! And, blurry-eyed, on time! Whew!

HAPPY VALENTINES DAY, EVERYONE!!!