In Spirit

On April 1, 2006

I was preparing dinner for my family on a Saturday night when the phone rang. It was my friend, Mary[1], a woman whom I’ve known for over thirty years. She used to have a store down in the village full of American Indian crafts, (her father was Blackfoot) art, and other gift items. She always helped people who were down on their luck, and she had done that for me. Most recently, she was the first to read my new book, in its primitive stages, and she gave me the biggest shot of motivation I could have received. She loved the story.  She is a very spiritual lady. Anyway, on this night she said, “Now, don’t think I’m crazy, and this hasn’t happened to me in years, but…….I was dusting and I picked up the framed picture of you, and I heard, “Tell Kasey I am going to visit the house, tell her not to be afraid, I’m just a benevolent spirit.” Do you know anyone who has just died? Or maybe they haven’t even died yet. It was so strong I had to tell you”.

I stood in the kitchen thinking, wow. I told her I couldn’t talk at that time, but would call her the next day. The next morning, after taking my husband to the airport, I called her back. We scratched our heads because we couldn’t think of anyone ill or anyone who had died. She told me to burn a light-colored candle, among other instructions.

Nothing happened. We spoke one or two more times on the phone.

On April 5, 2006

Mary called upset. She had just found out from her son, Jim that our dear friend, Paul[2] had died. She asked me to find out when and what happened. Paul was about my age. He was a potter in the village, always charming, gorgeous, and had many girlfriends and a few marriages! Always a surfer and into a healthy lifestyle. It turned out that he was working on his sailboat and suffered a major heart attack dying suddenly. 58. One week ago.

My husband and I had bought our house from his parents. It was built by his mother’s grandfather in the late 1880’s. He had told me how he and his cousins used to fight over the old sleeping porch, which I’ve converted to my art room; they all wanted to sleep out there. The remains of his first kiln are out in the woods behind our garage; a tin frame roof with fireproof bricks beneath it, which I rescued and piled in the garage. He told me tales of living in the apartment over the stables during WWII when his dad went overseas. He, along with his mother, his two brothers, and two sisters stayed there for months in that small two-room apartment with the long sunroom porch covered in vines. He said he didn’t know how they did that back then.

When we bought the big house, he was staying in the cottage next door with his son, Justin. But he left soon after, buying a house on the island. I saw him last month and told him the book about the little girl in the old house was done. I told him I was going to give him a copy[3]. He grinned and said he wanted his Mom to read it too. She would love that!

So, I lit a candle for Paul, knowing how much he loves this place, waiting.

A few days later it happened. Paul made his appearance known. One afternoon when I was alone, several items fell off tables, and I felt his presence in the rooms and it made me smile. It was unmistakable.