Andrea's Insights

“Here she comes, Ann Landers.” My mom would say every time I walked into the room. At the time I didn’t know who Ann Landers was and shrugged her comment off as, ”She’s crazy,” or “she’s mad again?” It didn’t stop there; I grew up with four sisters and a brother who were constantly beating me up; they called it the tickle torture, because they accused I was reading their diaries! I guess being a “know it all” didn’t sit to well in my family. Being bought up as a strict catholic only added to the confusion! Not only did I sense spirits I could see them: in the clouds, in the rain drops, at dusk at dawn, anywhere, anytime. The problem was I thought everyone else could see them too! Now try to explain that to a ten year old family member or friend. Not only was I viewed as a know it all but I was a crazy one too. I regret now not keeping my mouth shut especially to my mom; I can’t count how many times she would make the sign of the cross when I entered the room or held her breath because she wasn’t sure what was going to come out of my mouth. I thought they were opinions…I was wrong. Then there was my dad; relief, I would call him. With a sparkle in his eye he would laugh as he listened to punishments pouring out of my mother’s mouth. “Just for talking?” I would half say half plead with my eyes “come on dad, say something!” He never commented, although I know he wanted to. I can’t blame him, he wasn’t up for an argument either; no one crossed my mother; no one who wanted to live. So I turned to my grandmothers. My mom’s mom, whom I loved to death, was a little more understanding than my mom, although very strict in her faith too. ”Spirits were not seen, period;” she told me when I asked her. ”What about the ghosts?” I nagged, just in case she didn’t understand me the first time. ”Sit down and have some soup,” she answered. Her cure for everything was homemade soup and pasta followd by some variation of meat roasting in the oven. ”It is,” she said, ”all your imagination.” At least, I thought, she would listen. My dad’s mom was an entirely different woman. She had her own opinion on how life should be lived. According to her there were no rules or restrictions, you did what you had to do. If you dared to disagree with her a whole litany of words in Italian would spill out of her mouth. She was hysterically funny. On one day when she babysat for us, an afternoon nap was mandatory when she babysat, I couldn’t sleep. ”Come here,” she said to me, “sit.” I sat and she knit. The cigarette hanging out of her mouth had ashes dangling from it, but I didn’t say anything. Without warning a man walked through the back door . He was tall and very handsome dressed in a black trench coat and a stylish black hat. He wasn’t my grandfather. He moved through the kitchen with ease and then down the hall. Before leaving out the same door he came in he glanced at us. My grandmother looked up only once upon his entering. “Gram,” I asked, “why didn’t you say hello to that man?” That day I learned what a person looks like when they see a ghost. Her eyes bulged behind her thick bifocals and her ash dropped from her cigarette still hanging from her mouth. Her knitting needles stopped clicking and her nice rosy skin paled. She starred at me as if I were a ghost! “Oh [blank],” she said, “you really could see!” I didn’t know what she meant by “see” at the time but now I do; it was a spirit. She had “The Gift” as the Italians call it. She told me she tried to pass it to my dad but he didn’t want it. It wasn’t until many years later that we talked seriously about my “Gift”. She shared her experiences with me and I listened intently. She aslo gave me her first set of cards, I treasure them. “The journey to enlightenment is individualized; she would stress! You’ll find your way.” I miss her.