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An Accidental Psychic

The following words are from an internationally recognized professor, one of many who requested I put pen to paper and share my unusual life story.

“Yesterday I did nothing other than read, read your gripping, fascinating account of how you discovered your own psychic abilities and how you coped with those people who both rejected and (warmly) accepted you.

“In fact, I went to bed far too late because I could not stop until I had finished reading the very last page.

“If you ran away from school so much, how did you acquire this first-rate narrative ability?

“Your capacity for storytelling is quite extraordinary. Instance after instance is good, in a most compelling manner, even (or especially?) when it concerns animals, such as the story of your relationship with the dog, Tiger, and his sad death by bait poisoning.

“The ways in which you increasingly, throughout your life, have been able to open up to a spirit dimension is both comforting and enviable to someone such as me who at times tried but failed. I am pleased to learn that others, too, are hoping you will make the grippingly told story of your exceptional talent and physical/spiritual experiences available to a large readership.”

Perhaps my last conversation with my father might best explain my life and my qualification for writing this autobiography. Perhaps “gift” might be more appropriate.

“You have an amazing gift, my girl,” said he with kindness. After I spent the entire four days of Easter talking to long-since-dead family and friends who were outlined on a wall behind my shoulders, he talked and talked about his past and life. I could not have known anything of “make sure you use it wisely.” Mother interrupted here and, with scathing tongue, said, “Just make sure none of our friends know what you do. They might think we are peculiar too!”

My dad, nearly ninety-five and not having long to live, turned with sadness etched across his wise old face and said softly, “I should have left her in the gutter where I found her!”