Psychic Info for Law Enforcement

When I went on the TV show, Psychic Witness, in 2006, I did it to heighten my credence with police detectives. I wanted to eventually train officers to use their intuition and make better use of psychic support. I thought it would be both instructional and fun.

Last week I got my wish. I gave a 1½ hour speech to criminal justice majors at a career institute. I can tell you right away what I did wrong. I should have prepared more exercises to promote interaction and self-awareness. With an off-the-cuff brainstorm, I told them to close their eyes and go back to grade school, to a favorite teacher or class, to the sights, smells, and sounds of their past. At the end of the exercise, I think they understood. They had time travelled to the past. When I had them think about their next vacation, they time travelled to the future.

The best part of my speech happened when I relived and relayed my work on murder cases. I discussed how to deal with a psychic (don’t say much, just ask a few important questions) and tried to explain to lay people where I get my information. I even had one woman push me about my source. She wanted to know definitively if it was God. I didn’t have that answer.

What I hated was….well…most of it. When I work on a case, it’s sickening and heart-wrenching. With police detectives, I state what I know and think, and be done. At the institute, when I talked about a murder case from the past, I again felt sick.

I might speak to classes again, but not as a regular gig. It was the right thing to do, but it didn’t feel so good.

How to Raise a Son

When my son turned from a baby to a boy, I didn’t know how to help him become a man. So for ten years, I researched the mothers of great men. They gave me advice from the grave, as my grandmother used to say.

When Flora Disney had no money for paper, she praised Walt’s toilet paper drawings until she had to use them. Pauline Einstein sometimes didn’t understand Albert, who the neighbor kids called Father Bore, but she tutored him and forced him to join her on piano and violin duets for hours each day. Music later helped him make intuitive leaps with his theories. Abiah Franklin’s young son Ebenezer drowned in a tub of boiling fat for her husband’s soap making. Her grief and fear probably forced Benjamin to stay outside and find adventure on Boston’s wharf.

Rose Gershwin laughed when her son, George, pretended to be a cripple on the street so he could get money for the movies. She told him the rich and famous would do him good, and it served him well in the music industry. Allene Hughes loved Howard almost too fiercely, but his forced isolation developed his mechanical abilities. Another hovering mother, Nancy Rockwell, came from a family of male artists. She steered Norman in the same direction.

Mattie Slye taught Roy Rogers harmonies and guitar, and Mittie Roosevelt instilled a love of history in Teddy, as she encouraged his crippled sister, Bamie, to help raise him. Walt Whitman developed his love of words and stories from his mother, Louisa, and Anna Lloyd Wright steered and praised young Frank’s abilities in the building field. In an unusual move for that time frame, Ann Astaire managed Fred and his sister’s dance careers. Orphaned George Carver had a series of black and white substitute mothers who encouraged him to follow his educational path.

All the mothers I studied gave their time and their love, their brain power and their skill set. As I took pages from their life books, I raised my son, and he’s now a fine young man. A mother’s influence shapes a son.      

excerpts from my book: Carriers of Genius: Conversations with the Mothers of Twelve Famous Men

Hired Help for an Old Lady

People in their eighties don’t like to hear me call myself old. But I am old. Now, when health problems arise, I ask my doctors “why?”

“It’s age related,” they say. That’s the only proof I need.

Except when I look in the mirror at my face, I like old. The kindness of strangers, my patience, intellectual clarity, and confidence all work in my favor. Being old justifies a lot of fun things for me. I like that the boy next door mows my lawn, and my Monday piano student shows up every week to weed and help me clean. At my age, I have friends who are in their 30s and 40s, but a teenager rarely wants to hang out with me. When I pay them, all that changes.

My mower leaves for college tomorrow. He taught me to have a sense of calm, even when the snow became higher than my knees. My weed gal, now called a Turf Engineer, starts her senior year in high school at the end of the month. She taught me to stick by my principles and be myself. Even at my age, that can be difficult.

Hired helpers become real friends. They enter my home, accept my foibles, then wait patiently for their gas money. They don’t care that I’m a bit of a hermit. They don’t care if my hair is a mess and I wear stained clothes around the house. Their intuition takes them through life, and will steer them through the perils of college and freedom.

I embrace old. At some point, maybe in another thirty-seven years, I’ll make way for the babies, as my mother did five years ago. But for now, as Ann Margret (and I, in high school) sang in Bye Bye Birdie, I “Got a Lot of Livin’ to Do.”

Medium or Psychic?

The official name for my profession changes. Now it’s Medium. I looked up the word in my enormous Webster’s dictionary from 1983, and found the tenth definition: a person serving as an instrument through which another personality or a supernatural agency is alleged to manifest itself. How about that word, alleged? No wonder I kept my abilities a secret in 1983.

I prefer Psychic. Here’s the first definition from that dictionary: of or pertaining to the human soul or mind; mental. What I don’t like about that definition is the word human. I guess I should get over it, since I gather it came from: in the hue of a man. All of us came from women, so I prefer huwoman. I doubt I’ll see the day that the word is changed. Dust to dust.

My favorite monikers would be Angel: a messenger (third definition) or Prophet: a person who foretells or predicts what is to come (sixth definition). Both have connotations that don’t sit well with a lot of people, but when I’m ninety, maybe I can switch to one of them.

I used to be called a teacher, now an educator. I used to be called a stewardess, now a flight attendant. I used to be called a singer, now a musician. In high school, the jocks called me Shoulders McGee. What does it matter? I’m still me.

Listen to the Voice Inside Your Head

I pulled into the parking lot of abc27 in Harrisburg, PA for my live broadcast on Author Spotlight. The voice in my head said, “You’ve been here many times.” I put on my silk blouse and dress shoes, and saw it as a good omen.

The associate producer of the TV show Good Day PA herded three women and me into a conference room with a television. With almost an hour until on-air, I knew we had to talk or become paralyzed by fear, so I coaxed stories out of them. A sweet gal worked for the Red Cross and was there to talk about how the blood supply had dropped. An author sat quietly next to a library director. In time, the women asked me questions, but I could see that only the Red Cross gal felt comfortable with my psychic profession.

“How did you know you heard the women from your book talking to you? Are you sure it wasn’t your own voice and thoughts?” said one of the two non-believers.

“It definitely wasn’t my voice, and it wasn’t one of three voices I normally hear. Most often, I hear an older man’s voice, sometimes a younger man’s voice, and once in a while, one woman,” I said.

The director leaned forward, obviously provoked. “It’s God talking to you, right?”

“Do you think it’s God?” I asked. She gave a slight nod, but acted even more unsettled as I continued. “How am I to know? I’m not in charge of that, but I doubt God has time to tell me all the things I hear. I think the three voices are messengers, and since angels are messengers, they might be angels,” I said, even though I never know what to say when people ask where my abilities originate. It’s not my call. I just don’t know.

Back home after the show, a dormant memory rushed forth, and I made sense of the voice that told me I had been at that station many times. In 1982 when I had bigger hair, I did an internship there for my master’s degree. Now renovated, only the parking lot remained the same.

Yoga Calms My Soul

Intuitive vibes come from yoga, which frees and opens my mind. In the 1950s my sister, brother, and I were taught to do yoga poses by my grandfather, Homer. After he explained the proper way to do them, he called out poses and commended our skill. It took me fifty years to realize that not everyone did yoga as a child back then.

In the late 1920s, Homer jumped trains to get a free ride. One day he missed, and the train ran over his legs. After his amputations below his knees, he wore heavy wooden prostheses

Fast forward to my new yoga instructor.

“How long have you done yoga?” she asked.

“My whole life,” I said.  

Her puzzled face made me wonder how my grandfather knew yoga. After some research, I found out that during WWI in Europe, wounded American men were taught yoga to improve strength and focus. Homer probably learned it at the local Veteran’s Hospital after he lost his legs.

Being psychic makes me anxious and yoga helps. I do yoga stretches before I get out of bed, and later, when perils appear, I calm myself with the lotus position.

Thanks Papa. Long dead, you will be remembered for the healing power of yoga.

As Dad used to say, “It’s good for what ails you.”

Psychic Secrets

When I stand in long lines, I usually vibe on the woman right in front of me. Maybe I’m bored, but I think it’s the physical proximity that does it for me. I don’t have to touch someone to be able to read them, but I like to either hear a voice or be less than a foot away. I’ve done email readings, but they are more difficult for me, like pulling gum off a shoe.

Back to the woman in front of me in line. In the old days, twenty years ago, I used to just blurt things out. Now I’m more polite. When they shift with impatience at the wait and look around, I say, “Do you want me to tell your fortune?”

Some laugh and turn their back to me. I wait, since the ones who laugh usually turn back around and ask, “Can you DO that?” Some get a stony look, or a frightened one, and say no, and then I feel badly for the intrusion. Others get excited and stand way too close for comfort. When they do say yes, I’m spun into another pickle. How do I tell their intimate secrets with all the people in line nearby? So I tone it down and speak like a person does when they don’t want a child to hear sexual facts or swears.

“Your (whisper: sister) is having a lot of trouble dealing with the loss of her boyfriend. Are you aware he keeps coming around? Try to talk to her about it. And your (whisper: husband) hates his job so maybe you can help him find another one. Or tell him to wait until the (whisper: long-faced red-headed guy) leaves. It shouldn’t be longer than a year.” And so we go until we get to the front of the line, or until I’m exhausted.

You don’t need to be a psychic to experience something similar. Just be friendly and start a conversation with a stranger. Your warmth, empathy, and advice could bring pleasure to an otherwise dull day.