A Willingness to be Haunted by Old Friends, Pets of Once, and Folks Met by Happenstance

     I have had, thus far in life, over six decades of good, honest fun, a most incredible, entirely fascinating and profoundly inspiring relationship with what typically is known as the "paranormal". Suffice to say I've been haunted from childhood, although I don't think of it as having "seen dead people," or communed with the deceased in any particular organized forum or seance. I've been at best, a willing conduit and contact for those who have crossed over, and yet I'm by no means a psychic. But I'm also not a resistor to contact, and take interactions with the so-called "other side" in the spirit, you might say, of sincere goodwill.

     There have been several dozen paranormal encounters in a half dozen residences over the years, and I've been as susceptible to contact outdoors simply minding my own business on a countryside hike. Some of the encounters have usually been quite gentle and benign when it comes to the fear factor, and many have been explainable. Most I have known from the past and seem contented at one or two forays to re-introduce themselves, I suppose, but never to seek anything more than a friendship renewal.

     The paranormal experiences in my former residences, and including our house here at Birch Hollow, have been generally casual affairs, without infusing much in the way of fear and trembling on my part. There have been a few that seemed more aggressive than others, but these wayward and earthbound spirits were not those having belonged to friends and neighbors I once knew. They came with the apartment or house, and I guess they felt it was necessary to give me a little more shock so that I would take them seriously. I have always validated their presence, and even if there was only thin air to absorb my responses, it never seemed to much bother to cover all the bases anyway. I'd hate to think I missed any opportunity to connect with a potential ghost with a bit of useful information on what it's really like on the other side. If there is an "other" side, wouldn't you really like to know what it's like. I mean, what's the harm in that after all. If you don't ask questions? Well, that's what my mother used to tell me when I left each morning for public school. "You're never going to find the answers otherwise." Pretty standard advice but I did carry that onward in life, especially in the years I worked as a news and feature editor for the community press.

     My relationship with ghosts and paranormal "this and thats," has to be part of this biography because it has been a forever "thing" with me in most of my creative pursuits especially. As a writer connecting with the other side for inspiration has been a lifelong commonality, to the point I just ask for help and accept what comes down the spiritual pike. It's sort of like the reason the wouldn't tell a parent to get help for a child who thinks he or she is a chicken; simply because the parent is the benefactor of the fresh eggs. I'm not going to shut down a resource that just happens to work for me, and I have to tell you, it is a worthy obstacle remover when it comes to removing writer's block.  And in the antique business, of which has also occupied most of my adult life, I am constantly being juiced by serendipitous influences, possibly from former owners of special pieces, letting me know a little more about what I am intending to acquire out on the hustings. Sometimes there is a very clear message to put the subject piece down, or back on a shelf, and move on to other potentials. Yes, in some cases, those who have passed, still haven't entirely abandoned ownership of their lifetime's dearest possessions. I'm not the only antique dealer who has had strange interactions of the paranormal kind when it comes to settling estates, particularly from places the dearly departed haven't quite vacated as vaporous as that might be guarding their former digs. I will be writing about this aspect of living with ghosts and the spirit-kind in general, as it is a major intrusion on both my career choices, but by all means, welcome interventions most of the time.

     As I conclude this day's short entry, to what I hope in the long-run becomes an entertaining, albeit strange biography, when all the stories are harvested from a life embedded in two wildly interesting professions, and presented for your consideration......, I must regretfully retire to our parlor, with our family, where Angus the cat, beneath a warming blanket, has just now passed-on, in a gentle, peaceful decline from the grace of good living it seemed to enjoy here at Birch Hollow. One of our four adopted cats, we have had them as part of our household for the past fifteen years. As I mentioned in the first post, they were born, two females and one male, beneath a slightly upturned derelict lawnmower in our garden shed, by a wretchedly thin mother we named Beasley. The stray cat selected our shed to have her litter, but she had little milk to feed the offspring. We worked to free them from the shed and got them and mother in a laundry basket, where with warmth, and security, plus ample food for Beasley, the sisters and brother made it past the first critical days. Suzanne even fed them from her finger tips when they could handle more intake, and it wasn't long before the mother had put on some weight herself, and began providing more for the wee ones. It was a pretty neat experience because we'd only ever adopted older strays and really enjoyed the steps of saving four strays at once.

     But you know what happens with this kind of commitment over months and months. We could not bring ourselves to separate the family. And this has ended this hour, fifteen years after their unceremonious arrival on our doorstep so to speak. It of course makes us dreadfully sad because we wanted them to live forever. It was our status quo thing, where we prefer if things just stay the same.

     I am very much expecting that one day, one late evening possibly, Suzanne or I will suddenly feel the brush of wee Angus against our legs, as we trundle through this less occupied old house, and we will for a moment care not, about doubting the existence of ghosts, even of pets, and enjoy the moment as we did when we were all together at Birch Hollow. Angus, as with our many other pets who have left this earthly existence, have full rights and privileges to haunt this place, and those of us left to mourn their passing.

     Angus was a dear friend to all of us and we will miss his welcome intrusions, especially in the morning after our alarm has sounded, when he'd get his paw under the bedroom door, and rattle it violently, to make sure we didn't sleep through feeding time at our most endearing zoo. The wee critter, as with all our pets, past and present, have made this house a home, and yet, in a wonderfully haunting way, we will never doubt its lingering presence when at once, we feel as if we are being watched, ever so lovingly of course, by the large black and white cat that loomed large here at Birch Hollow; and how quiet and lonely it seems this moment, even amongst the surviving cats, including Beasley, the mother, who has been close to her baby for the past hour.

     I could not compose a biography without these references and inclusions, because they have all been the qualities and quantities of all that I consider essential to home recognition and comfort satisfaction.

     God bless you Angus Currie, for giving us the best of your life and times, for our betterment as pet stewards. You will be buried only a few feet from where you were born, in a sunny spot with wildflowers soon to bloom at your back and sides, in a place where we shall remain familiar, and think lovely thoughts as we pass and so gently reminisce about the good old days. Of course they were!