Tag: Mystery of the Reality

A few years back Momma told me we were going on a trip, to the land of her forefathers, deep in the country, where forests hide fields of dreams and sometimes even black bears.

I was not expecting to like it so much, being an urban suburban myself, but hey, I admit, I was smitten.  The grass was so long and green, the mountains high, the ocean waves so inviting.  I could sit on the top of an easy chair, taking it all in, staring out the bay window hour after hour, without blinking. It made me curious, tell me

more.

Momma’s great great grandfather’s family actually left the majestic Kintyre behind and traded it in for the beauty of another peninsula in the  New World, with very similar scenic views.

Their new home hugged the bay to the south, the majestic mountains to the west, the ocean to the east and the dense woods to the north.  Years earlier the settlement had been named  ‘Dark Capes’ supposedly because of the massive cliffs that jutted in to the Bay. Those on board the ships from the crew to weary passengers saw the massive, menacing cliffs on shore, wave carved and shiny black, from the tides rolling in.

However there was another story (isn’t there always) about how their settlement got named.  It would seem that a Captain that manned a ship from the ‘old country’ had a beautiful but wilful daughter that went to sea with him, after the death of her mother. Unfortunately kids were expected to do as they were told in that era. She refused to conform to her father’s authority.  Although forbidden to befriend the crew, she fell in love with a lowly deck hand.

The Captain pleaded with her to desist, to no avail.  With the fear that the rest of the crew would spot a weakness in him, the Captain felt he had no choice except to throw his beloved daughter and her lover overboard. Say What? If they reached the shore, they could live together happily ever after.  The story goes that they never made land. At least, in a community where everyone knew everyone and their business to boot,  no one in the new world ever claimed to meet the live version of the Captain’s daughter or her Lover.

However, it is said, even today, when the bay is calm, the ghost ship returns with the Captain, her Father, periscope in hand, searching the water and the beach beseechingly, for his daughter.

Although, Momma never saw it, she was told, when the wind whips up the white caps on the waves, the Captain’s daughter and her Lover have been spotted by the locals, walking back and forth on the sandy beach, their Dark Capes flowing behind them, as they wait for Father to have a change of mind and return.  But when you look again, it is already too late. Have they melted in to the shadows to become one with the Dark Capes or have they found shelter in the cave, as they wait patiently for their ‘ship to come in’?

Wow, that is hard-core, they practised tough love to the extreme in those days, Momma!  It is sadder than our Sophie Alert.  No Daddy can be that heartless…can they???  Don’t tell me stories like that again, okay, Momma because I can’t handle the truth….or even old wives tales…..

Some days are so long and I feel like I am not accomplishing my mission in life.  I flop on the couch and think, think, think.  The world should know by now that although I am a creative genius,  with a glittery collar attached to a lead, I am kept in captivity like a Seal at Marine land, catching, fetching, flapping, all to gain attention .  Like a criminal, I do not get out the door with out an escort.

I know, (I SHOULD know) I have done some questionable things in the past and safeguards are in place to save my body and soul.  But the Indoor / Outdoor Cats, they smirk at me, behind their two-faced paws.  I am sure they feel superior because they are trusted to take care of themselves, to come back on time, while on the other hand, I went out of my way (in my youth, I tell you) to take the whole family on wild goose chases, down streets, over fields, through traffic, causing mayhem and refusing to stop on command.  I am no longer that puppy.  But Momma can not bear to lose me, so we spend a lot of time together and I am spoon fed stories to feed my sense of adventure and keep me happy while I am anchored.

One day, when I was moping around, Momma tried to paint me a picture of her esoteric father, felled by a crippling stroke and yet still a strong life force, arranging, planning, executing with his last heart beats.

It was just another frantic weekend when Momma thought she would slip in to see her father in the Long Term Facility where he had been sent once medical intervention was no longer an option. The stroke had brought on abilities (to invent dramas….in his head) and real-time disabilities, (one of which was being paralyzed on his left side). Daddy and Wonder Boy also visited faithfully, but today they would get a break from the extra duty imposed by a sick family member, through no fault of his own.

Momma got off the elevator on his floor and weaved her way between elderly patients in wheelchairs, charging at her with a vengeance and reckless abandon, since they could not control their walkers or wheelchairs or should they still be walking, their drunk-like gait.

When Momma reached my father’s room, he asked me, ‘Did you see Oliver Over-the-Hill on the elevator today?’ Now her father, with his confused brain, often told his family some fantastic tales.  It seemed John Major, the Prime Minister of England at that time, was using him as his political adviser.  He would explain the political decisions Mr. Major made, based on Momma’s father’s sound advice.  Also, Bob Barker from ‘The Price is Right’ was his cousin and my youngest sister was going to get a call from him, any day now, to replace Vanna as hostess on the game show.  Itty Bitty would smile, point out prizes, and clap when it was appropriate. She could handle that, one hand tied behind her back.

Oliver Over-the-Hill, Oliver Over-the-Hill, where had Momma heard that name, she thought frantically.  Then it came to her.  He was an old-timer from their neck of the woods, that died even before she was born. Even so, his legend lived on.  He had been a much respected, take charge business man who would step up and take control without invitation.

‘No Dad, I did not see him.  What ever is Oliver Over-the-Hill doing on the elevator?’, Momma asked, quite innocently. He leaned over to whisper in her ear so the other patients in the room would not hear and be frightened, ‘He is taking lost souls back to Heaven.’

‘Aaah,’ Momma said,  ‘I am just as glad I did not see him then or I might be  Heaven bound.’  Momma’s father’s expression read, mock you if you must, as he said, ‘Oh ye of little faith and less understanding.’

This says it all – the description and image of a Fairy Ring,where angels and fairies rest until the moon comes out again and they can leap and dance…..

I just wish I had met Momma’s father.  A man so connected, an advisor to John Major, a cousin to Bob Barker, a man who met up with Peter Cottontail, saw the fairies leap and dance around the Fairy Circle on a Moon Lit Night and actually saw Oliver Over-the-Hill’s ghost on the elevator.

They don’t make ’em like my Grandpapa any more.

At night we drift off to sleep without any control over the dreams or nightmares we may encounter.  When we awaken, next morning, it takes a minute or two to figure out the reality. Sometimes we open our eyes, feel peace surrounding us and out of the blue it hits us, like a ton of bricks.  We did something yesterday, that is going to ruin today….. Or we or someone in our family is leaving or sick or dying.  A sense of panic and inertia strikes us. We breathe deep and say like Scarlett O’Hara, ‘Tomorrow’s another day.’

But all dreams are not born equal. Buddy’s mother,  Momma’s Aunt, (although 100% Scottish born and bred) was a Spanish Marilyn Munroe look-alike, tall and curvaceous, with black hair, streaked with glowing hints of red and blue in the sun.

In Momma’s dream, a sister of Aunt Spanish Marilyn Munroe dropped by her home in Ontario to let Momma know she and Daddy just had to go to Ruis’ Funeral Home, back home in Quebec that very night because it was the twenty-five year anniversary of Aunt Spanish Marilyn Munroe’s death and her husband, Uncle WW2 Sergeant was planning an anniversary that would amaze everyone.

Well, it was a fair distance from Ontario, maybe astro travel would work, but we would try, because we all adored Aunt Spanish Marilyn Munroe (besides Momma’s Mother-God-Rest Her-Soul,  would be observing and recording non-attendance.  Momma would never be forgiven if she was a no-show).

When Momma and Daddy arrived at the Funeral Parlor (don’t ask how, Momma was vague about the devil in the details), there was a long line up outside consisting of family and friends that they had not seen in years. They caught up with all the gossip, laughing at the absurdities of life,  commiserating about Aunt Spanish Marilyn Munroe and Uncle WW2 Sergeant’s son, Cousin Buddy, being AWOL since the mother he had adored, had been taken from him. Then again, there was the promise he made his Father. Well, Uncle WW2 Sergeant didn’t listen to him and married that ‘other’ woman, but Buddy kept his promise. Not only that, Buddy was right. Right or wrong, no one had seen him since.   Over the years Buddy had few supporters (except his club members who thought of him often), but the old folks seemed to have mellowed in their opinions in this setting. Also, they just wished he could be with them, in honor of the strong bond he and his mother shared, since it was them against the world on many occasions.

Finally the line snaked in to the Funeral Parlor.  They were in the room with the coffin.  Momma saw Uncle  WW2 Sergeant, looking smart in his best Legion Bib and Tucker, ready to go fight WW3, if needs be, standing by his late wife’s casket.

As Momma approached, Uncle WW2 Sergeant excitedly told her that Aunt Spanish Marilyn Munroe had a special message for her.  At that, Aunt Spanish Marilyn Munroe dressed in a white sleeveless dress, to best show her shiny black hair and perfect tan, sat up silently, in her coffin.  With out saying a word, she opened her big, sparkly brown eyes, rolled them to the left, then to the right, closed them and lay back down.

It was a miracle, Uncle WW2 Sergeant proclaimed, Momma had been the only person sent a message, but no one knew what it all meant exactly.

Momma’s Aunt had  died within six months of being diagnosed with cancer. And so it was, exactly six months after the dream, Momma was diagnosed with cancer. She successfully lived through Surgery, Chemotherapy and Radiation.  Is it not fitting, through a dream, Aunt Spanish Marilyn Munroe was warning Momma to “look at and listen to” her body?

What do you think  Gen, Tigger and my Incredibly Wise Wide Eyed Stuffed Monkey Ruby?  Anything like that ever happen to you? I hate those dreams where some hungry mutt is chasing me because I look like a yummy snack.  I whimper, Momma sits up, pats me and says, ‘It’s okay, Jakita.  It is just a dream. Go back to sleep.’ I am still waiting for a dream with a message.  I am just saying, I am open to it, okay?

Thank you,  Aunt Spanish Marilyn Munroe.  You were always so strong and brave.  Thirty-nine years old was too young to die.

Momma says she learned a lot from you, both here on earth and of course, when you materialized mysteriously in a dream.  You saw first hand what your death did to your young family and wanted to make sure  history did not repeat itself.

They don’t make them like our Auntie anymore!!!!

It is a ritual.  Every night after  supper, it is outside time for me.  Once I come back in,  Momma cleans and cleans my paws and tail and belly and back and head, with baby wipes, then rubs me down with a fluffy towel, while I lick her fingers.  Gen waits patiently for this routine to finish because, once Momma is done with me, it is play time for Gen and I.

I chase Gen around, she hides under the bed, I follow, then as I tire of the wait, she jumps out at me. I shrug her off, chase her round and round the kitchen, down the hall, to the living room, all the while barking and complaining. Gen comes to a complete halt, I somersault over her and pounce on her back, chewing on her ears. Girlie style, Gen emits mournful cries that brings Momma running, ready to protect the victim, and  eject the antagonized. I jump on the couch out of harm’s way.

Every night, same routine, Momma admonishes me, and comforts Gen, who jumps up beside me on the couch, lays down, her head resting on her milky white paws, purring and sidling closer to  me to show she has no hard feelings.

Now you know Momma is open to possibilities and holds dear the thought that she will one day be united with her loved ones and her hot dogs and cool cats, in heaven.

You will not believe me but I swear I see RIP Daddy in the living room on occasion, putting his hand on Momma’s shoulder.  He has even patted my head on occasion.  I can see him but it is quite apparent Momma doesn’t.  Matter of fact, she says she has never seen a ghost but she heard one, she says, she does.

Apparently, it was a well-established fact that my Grandmama grew up in a haunted house.  They were told that the owner of the home, Paddy was on the roof with his hired help, when a fight broke out.  Somehow Paddy either slipped or was pushed off the roof to his death.  From that day forward he haunted the home, bought at a (killer…LOL) good price, since no one else would go near it. Paddy would turn on and off lights, kill flies with an invisible fly swatter and continually, relentlessly hammer shingles on the roof, trying to complete his task before the first snow of winter flew.

Momma said she well-remembered, when she stayed overnight at my grandparent’s home, sneaking in bed with Aunt-Second-Sister, knowing she was the only person in the home with her, yet hearing the persistent hammering on the roof. Bewildered by what her eyes could not see, but her ears could not deny, somewhere near dawn, Momma drifted off into a restless, troubled sleep.

Momma is told, even today, Paddy is still keeping her cousin’s family awake, as he works to finish the roof before the first snow of winter. The roof has been re-shingled many times since your death, Paddy. Everyone will long remember your existence and pass your story on, for generations to come.

How about it, Gen,  should you and I urge Paddy to ‘go in to the light’.  He has surely earned passage to his eternal rest.  Meanwhile when I am staring in to the distance, my tail wagging, it probably means I can see RIP Daddy, big smile, bending down to scratch my ears.  I just wish Momma could see what I see.

So, what do you think Gen?  Oh, you ‘want more’ as Wonder Boy said, at fourteen mouths old – ‘more – want more’.  No worries, I got lots to tell .  You wonder if we should share this with the other cats.  No, Brainiac Andy,  would scoff at us  and Charlie would hide away in the basement for weeks, not wanting to embrace the ‘unknown’ since  the ‘known’, is even more than she can handle.  

But we could tell Ruby, the Wide Eyed Monkey.  She is so wise and all-seeing.  

Trust me, I have heard plenty,  so listen up, okay?