Why I Don’t Need to Watch the News

As you already know, my grandparents raised me.  When I was small and my birth mother came around, she used to say that I was reincarnated from a Hispanic person because I spoke Spanish before I spoke English (which was odd because we didn’t know any Hispanic people).  I asked for agua instead of water, and my favorite color was rojo.  I don’t necessarily believe in reincarnation, but if I did, I’d probably be more inclined to think that I died in either a submarine or a sinking ship or perhaps a car overturned in a full ditch, because for as long as I can remember, I’ve had a gripping fear of dying in something enclosed under water, and as the enclosure fills up, I drown.  (Now, that’s not to say that perhaps I wasn’t a Hispanic person who died in such a way.  LOL!  Or perhaps it’s actually a premonition of how I will die.)  The weird thing is I have no fear of water itself.  You could drop me from an airplane into the middle of the Atlantic and I’d be fine.  And I also don’t fear boats.  But I don’t like being in the enclosed cabin of a boat, and flying over water with the doors closed (as if there’s any other way) makes me tense.  Even driving over a bridge, I like to roll down my windows.

So that said, it has absolutely nothing to do with my post today, except that I eventually married a Hispanic man, Mr. Carrera.  When his family visited, they spoke Spanish and more often than not, I just had a “feeling” what they were talking about, and when that happened and I told my mother-in-law, I was generally spot-on.

The rest of my story is again one I’ve shared before when I only first started blogging, so if you remember it, please pardon the rerun.

Well, my ex-husband and I had a horrible union and we were apart more than together.  When we finally separated, we went our separate ways, and that was that.  For the purpose of the rest of this post, my ex-husband’s name is “Bob.”  (That’s not really his name, but I don’t want to infringe on his privacy by revealing his true identity.)

After we were separated, I moved back home with my Grandma.  Shortly thereafter, I had a dream that Bob was in a phone booth outside a McDonald’s with two other people, and he was shot by a stranger who drove by with a gun.  The dream was exceptionally vivid, and I knew the exact intersection where that McDonald’s was located in my town.  It wasn’t an area that I went to very often, but even so, I still saw things clearly.

I was home from work that day because my doctor kept me out for the week with a bad sinus infection, so I slept later than I usually did.  When I woke, I was frazzled and shaky from my dream, to say the least.  It was so real, I was certain that Bob was dead.

I sat up and tried to shake the dream from my head, but it wouldn’t go.  So, I picked up the phone by my bed and called Bob before my feet even hit the floor.

He answered, and I felt an immediate sense of relief.  I told him my dream, then he got angry that I was pulling a stupid joke on him while he was at work.  I told him I didn’t know what he was talking about.  My hands were still shaking from how real my dream was, and I was quite upset.

Bob didn’t hide his disdain and irritation, and he told me to turn on the news.  We yelled at each other, and I hung up on him and didn’t think much more about it.  I got dressed and went to the kitchen where Grandma was reading the newspaper and drinking her coffee.

She asked me what the yelling was about, and I told her.  She then handed me the newspaper.  Apparently, the night before, there were three African-American men, one who was named Bob, inside a phone booth outside of the exact McDonald’s in my dream, and there was a drive-by shooting, and the African-American Bob was shot and killed!

Let’s talk: Have you ever had a feeling so strong you just knew you had to listen to it?  Have you ever ignored your gut feeling and regretted it later?

Anne Reincarnated

Since today is Throwback Thursday as well as Anne Frank’s birthday, I want to share a story to tie them both together.  As I’ve said before, my grandparents raised me.  My grandfather was stationed in Japan during World War II, then he and the family lived in different areas of the Far East during the reconstruction years following the war.  So growing up, my house was filled with Oriental and Asian furniture, paintings, knickknacks, and other keepsakes.  I heard a lot of firsthand stories about Japan during wartime.

My grandma had a large family, and all but one of her many brothers were stationed in either Asia or Europe.  She had one brother who was a German prisoner of war for more than two years.  But my grandma was an odd woman.  She was very tight-lipped and secretive about just about everything.  So, getting any stories of Germany out of her was like getting military secrets out of Hitler himself.  In fact, the only thing she did ever share about it was that every week she’d go to the store and buy a carton of cigarettes to send her brother because he could trade them for something or other while he was in the prison camp.  (After I got older, I found it particularly odd that the foreign prisoners of war were treated better than the Jewish citizens of Germany!)

Now, while all this talk was going on during my childhood, I attended a private Christian school.  And at school, we didn’t focus on such things as World History or American History.  We focused on Biblical History.  So, yes, learning about ancient Babylon and King Nebuchadnezzar’s dreams of a bajillion years ago took precedent over the more recent Word War.  (No offense intended either to God or the dream-plagued king.) 

As such, I really had no idea about German or Italian involvement in the war (so I was obviously not a fan of Hogan’s Heroes)… until the fourth grade, when my teacher, Mrs. O’Brian, assigned us to read Anne Frank’s The Diary of a Young Girl.  I was hooked!  I thought Anne was just about the bravest girl to ever have lived!

And now comes the odd part…  I’ve told you before that because of my Asperger’s Syndrome, I don’t have very good facial recognition.  Well, keep that in mind…

My grandparents had a child who was just over a year older than my birth mom.  Her name was Dawn, and she died from a hole in her heart early in 1962, shortly after her 14th birthday.  There were photos of her all over my house when I was growing up.  And after I read Anne Frank’s Diary, I was convinced that Anne (who died in 1945) had somehow reincarnated (even though at Christian school such thoughts were a HUGE no-no!) herself into my aunt who I’d never met and who was born four years after Anne’s death.

And BELOW (hopefully), you’ll see why.  The top two pictures are Anne Frank.  The bottom photo is of Dawn.  Am I wrong to have thought (actually I still think) they look amazingly alike?

Anne Frank

Anne Frank

Aunt Dawn