I was on Threads the other day (the new competitor to the dreadful Twitter/X) and ran across a post by someone who had just lost his sister. He spoke about hearing her voice the next day, about a ‘visitation.’ It was very moving and as I scrolled through the comments, I read more and more stories from people about hearing/seeing someone from the other side. Sometimes, a voice. Sometimes, a ‘sense.’

I find these stories enormously comforting.

I’ve had a few myself.

When my grandfather died, I was twenty. A few months after he died, I was scheduled to sing a solo at a Sunday morning church service. As I sat in the pew, I thought of my grandfather and the enormity of my grief hit me. Gentle tears ran down my face (no one in the congregation would have noticed them.) Suddenly, I felt a hand touch the top of my head, and it stayed there for about a minute. I knew it was him. I was deeply comforted by his presence. And then I smiled and could not stop smiling. I’ll never forget that.

My brother died in 1991. I was teaching at Boston University and living in Cambridge. Some time after I returned to Boston from the funeral in Michigan, I was reclining on my sofa. I felt a wave of grief wash over me and I started crying. Suddenly, a beam of light hit a photo of my brother and I that was on a table on the other side of the room. It was like a golden spotlight that only hit the photo and nothing that was around it. I knew it was him.

I also had – years later – a vivid dream in which my brother and I were dancing a waltz. It was so joyous, so wonderful, and so powerful that I knew he had visited me. I can still remember that feeling today. And I rarely remember my dreams. I think my sister had a similar dream.

And you know that my mother visited me when she was in the nursing home. I shared that with you. On evenings when Don was playing a gig, I would suddenly smell Oil of Olay, the cream that my mother used  every night. To her children, this was her scent. The first time it happened, I checked to see if the smell was coming from the bathroom soap, but no, it wasn’t. The smell would linger for about a minute or two. I would say hello to Mom and tell her how much I loved her. And then, it would disappear. These visits occurred many times over a couple of years – years when my mom was half in and half out of this world. I finally confided to Mere (and Don, of course) that these visits were occurring, Mere immediately knew and said that Mom was visiting me.

I received the news that my mom had died when my dad called me in the middle of the night. Later that day, I was sitting in the kitchen. Don was in the living room. Suddenly, he said, “What’s that scent??? It smells like flowers…” I couldn’t smell it, so I got up and went to the living room, and sure enough, it was Oil of Olay. He knew. I knew. Mom was visiting us and telling us she was okay. We told her how much we loved her, how much she meant to us. I cried. Don cried. It was extremely powerful and very, very comforting.

There’s also an incident with my estranged sister’s son. When he was very little, not all that long after our brother died, her son was ill and in the middle of the night, he took a turn for the worse. My sister heard him talking in his bedroom, saying “But I want to come, I want  to come!” She and her husband jumped out of bed, grabbed him, and rushed him to the hospital. He recovered. Several months later, my sister casually asked him, “Do you remember when you were so sick and we had to take you to the hospital? Who were you talking to that night?” He answered quite matter of factly, “Uncle Dave. I wanted to go with him, but he wouldn’t let me. He said it wasn’t time.” And he also divulged that he had had several “conversations” with him. To him, it was no big deal.

Ever since reading that post, I’ve been thinking about these things. I’ve never heard anything from my dad, or my grandmother. But I do have these visits to hold close.

Has this happened to you? If you feel comfortable sharing, I’d love to hear your stories.

Stay safe.

Happy Friday.

On my drive to the library yesterday to return a book.

I always take the back way because it’s quite lovely by the river.

Well. It’s been raining for three days, and I am over it. Just when our basement dries out, it starts again. Yesterday was incredibly foggy – dangerously so. I really would rather have snow, though that can also be a pain in the tush. But it’s pretty. Pretty much all of the snow is gone now.

I have to go downstairs in a minute to empty the bucket in the dehumidifier. A daily chore.

I finished a book of short stories by Kate Atkinson (that was the book I was returning to the library) and now I’m reading this week’s chunk of Wolf Hall.

I’ve been thinking of my mom’s Shirley Temple doll – the Canadian version, rather than the version by Ideal. My mom never really liked her and in typical Grandma fashion, even after Mom requested the American doll, Grandma bought the doll in Canada. She’s got to be 90 years old now and she’s made of composition, as dolls in that era were. Part of the composition by the inside corner of one eye is missing. There’s a little hole there. And despite my efforts several years ago, her hair is a mess. Yesterday, I said ‘”Enough!” and I started to research how to curl her mohair wig. There are some good videos out there. I started to gently pick apart the mats in her hair, ordered some narrow sponge rollers and papers and, hopefully, I’ll set her hair this weekend. I have to cover her with a towel when I do that because you don’t want to get composition wet.

She’s lying on one of the suitcases that hold Blythe clothes right next to me here in the den. I have to do a bit more work on the hair mats today. Frankly, she looks better already because her hair is fluffed out. That’s not the look for Shirley Temple, of course, so – fingers crossed – she’ll have some nice banana curls soon. If not?  Oh, well.

I’d like to patch that hole in the composition, too. I’m researching it. I don’t care if it looks perfect.

I had 1950s versions of a Shirley Temple doll, but they were much smaller. I’d actually love to have a vintage Ideal Shirley Temple. I’ve always loved them. Shirley was the same age as my mom, who was also a Shirley. I grew up watching her movies with my mom and I’ve always adored her.

I suppose I’m too old at this point, At least, that’s how I feel today.

Mere just recovered from another case of Covid. I swear, I don’t understand people. Her work involves going to the house of whatever patient she is treating. In this case, the mother didn’t tell Mere that she’d just been exposed to Covid. She didn’t think she had it. But she did.

Okay. Have to finish cleaning out our kitchen junk drawer, something I have ignored for several years.

Stay safe.

Happy Friday,