At least that was the successful business plan of a neighbor in central Illinois who for decades claimed she received the “gift” of clairvoyance after surviving a lightning strike. Our town, one stoplight and no railroad, has become a hub for people who need to know.
Two consequences of this human flow were immediately apparent. First, there was no end. Wave after wave of people demanded answers until my neighbor died. Second, people often mistook our house for hers, the same house number only one street away.
In fact, the crash was so loud that this is where the copier and fax come into play. Clients who asked for her appointment were instructed to copy her palms and fax them to her office, where she would later call her sender to “read” these printouts. I told him so. $20, cash or credit, reportedly.
People are also reading…
Was her prediction correct?
My guess is that accuracy wasn’t the reason people consulted her. , in cash or credit, she gave one.
I know what you’re thinking: a scam, right?
I’ve been thinking the same thing for years. Especially after answering the 2am doorbell. But i was wrong. It was comfort that her neighbors actually sold to all these people over the years, she was neither a trained counselor nor a licensed social her worker, but that people I knew what I was really looking for in my search for her.
The key to that comfort was something that cost nothing: kindness. My neighborhood clairvoyant, either in person or over the phone, listened to people’s worries and concerns before kindly offering her views and perhaps visions. Moreover, I never heard any complaints about her competence, advice or fees.
In fact, another neighbor, the town’s longtime police chief, believed “she has something” after she correctly advised him on a missing persons case she didn’t ask. “Hey,” he said to me in a solemn tone.
But in all our years as neighbors, I’ve only had two very brief deals with her. , her long blue Cadillac Deville skidded to a halt and the passenger window (she never drove) lowered with a steady whine of electricity.
“This house speaks to me,” she said, barely pausing before the windows slammed shut and she was kicked out.
I’d like to know what my house had to say, unfortunately either she didn’t have time or I didn’t fork Jackson fast enough and she slipped.
The second time, I didn’t know, but maybe she did. The last time we spoke, I was raking leaves again. I hadn’t seen him walking, so I was silent for a moment.
Even stranger was her trademark beehive hairstyle wrapped in what appeared to be an acre of gauze. All of her said ‘Swami’.
“I want to thank Jam for stopping by your lovely wife,” said Swami in a calm voice. “It was delicious.”
When I told her, I stared at the gauze and stuttered. All right? I asked.
“Oh,” she said. This week she had brain surgery. ‘ Then she circled and slowly walked back the way she came.
Did you say brain surgery?
Later, when I tracked down my lovely spouse and reported a rare and bizarre conversation, Katherine’s only response was, “That’s strange. I took her some jelly last Christmas.” It was 10 months ago.
Is it strange to say “thank you” late?
But really, even on this very late date, it’s never too late for kindness.