Just down the road from us is a Psychic. I know this because there is a big sign in the yard that says so. There are always cars parked out front, so I guess people trust that a psychic does live there. I wonder what credentials are required to hang a sign in front of your house. If all that is needed is a proven track record, I guess I could put a sign in my yard that says “Listener”.
There are those who claim to possess the ability to communicate with the dead. The explanation is that spirits are drawn to those who are sensitive and bombard them with information – like an antenna picking up radio waves from the other side. Well, I seem to be gifted a similar attraction with the living. No matter where I go I will almost always make a connection with a stranger and come away with a bounty of personal information about them.
Most of the time, the encounters are short lived and interesting. Last Monday, while Maggie and I were winding our way through one of the many local antique shops, a very tall elderly man approached us. I inquired about a scale I spied on a shelf and he explained to tell us it came from a local factory where his mother worked just after the war. She worked there for over twenty years and died in her nineties of a heart attached. Sadly his wife died two years ago after a lengthy battle with alzheimer’s. His son owns the store. OK, that’s not that much information but it’s probably more than most people would get out of him. After he stopped talking, he had a funny look on his face as if he was wondering what triggered the information dump and walked away. I never found out how much he wanted for the scale.
Occasionally, my encounters are longer, trapping me in a place when I really would rather move along. After Mass on Sunday, we went up to the Hall for coffee to chat with a couple we knew from Hampton Roads. By the time I got to the pot, it was empty. I decided to have a cup of tea. In the time it took to open my Constant Comment packette and pour water over the bag, a short, plump older woman with a cup of coffee in each hand crossed my path. “Oh dear, I got my husband a cup of coffee and he already has one.” she said. “He’s Italian, from Italy. He didn’t even speak American when I met him” She said. That was her jumping off point. She cheerfully told me about her grandmother, who escaped from Germany to Hungary during the war, married a man thirty years her junior and then came to the US. She already had children and they lived happily until her death at age 86. Her husband was so despondant, he only lived two years longer and was dead at 58. I also learned that her husband and her brothers always carried decks of cards with them, ready for a game whenever the opportunity presented itself. All the while she talked, I waited for the chance to excuse myself to go chat with my friends. Finally it came and I was able to break away from her voice.
I really don’t mind these information dumps. Mostly I feel honored that total strangers see something in me that invokes immediate rapport and trust. Their stories are sacred as is the sharing. Although these examples are benign, there are times when the information is so very personal that perhaps the only way it can be shared is with a stranger. These stories I do not share. They are wrapped tightly and tucked away in a safe place.
A couple of years ago at my Grandma Gray’s memorial service, my cousin Monica’s husband eulogized that my Grandma had a talent for making you feel as if you were the most important person in the world. Her brow would furrow over her twinkling blue eyes as she listened intently. I was given her name. I can only hope I will live to earn the reputation she had to be such a good listener.