A Ghostly Visit And A Promise Kept

Supposedly we all only use a tiny portion of our brain and I’ve always wondered about that part we don’t use. What’s the purpose of that unused part as it doesn’t seem to me the Good Lord issued any of us parts that have no purpose (well, I’ve been told the appendix doesn’t but again, that’s not something I know -- just been told and really don’t care). Back to the part of the brain we don’t use. I’ve decided some of us DO use at least some of that part and I don’t think there’s anyone on earth that can either prove nor disprove that statement.

My guess is the first thing that’ll happen when I make that statement is folks will come out of the woodwork to prove I’m a kook. You’re way too late, folks, that’s already a done deal in some circles. Where I’m going with this is there are those of us that “know” things and have all our lives. My grandmother was one of those persons and seemed very disappointed when she found out I had the same talent – or curse – whichever the case may be. Granny did not view “knowing” as a blessing but as a nerve wracking thing that never gave her peace.

She knew her husband (my grandfather Steve Hughes) had been hurt in a cotton ginning accident (before anyone came to tell her). She was nearly to the gin, walking at night, when she met the men carrying him home on a makeshift stretcher. He was so badly injured he had to be taken to Temple, Texas, early the next morning on the train as there was no medical help in her little town competent to treat such extensive injuries. She had four small children at the time and she sat them down and told them their father was not going to survive before she boarded the train to go with him. They had to ride in a boxcar as there was no other facility to accommodate them. He died three days later.

As a teenager, I was living with Granny when I was in a car accident and called to say I’d be late. When she answered the telephone the first thing she said was “How badly are you hurt?” I’d not yet said a word. How did she know it was me calling and what I had to say? The accident happened in a town 30 miles away from where we lived and there’s no way she could have known about it. These are just a couple of instances – they could go on forever ranging from the important to the mundane.

I think I’ve avoided “knowing” as much as possible because Granny detested having to live with it all her life. When my son died there was no way I could avoid it because too many strange things happened for which I have absolutely no explanation. Whether “knowing” or something else, I knew Rusty was dead before I was told because of a dream I was having when I answered the telephone giving me the heartbreaking news.

The weather was horrible that week and my car, I was trying to sell, was covered so entirely with snow all I could see was the shape of it out my front window. One couldn’t even see the For Sale sign taped inside the front windshield. I had talked at length with Rusty on the telephone two days before he died and in that conversation I’d told him “that damned car has to sell by midnight February 4^th because that’s when my insurance on it runs out and I’m not going to renew it.”

He laughed at me – as he was prone to do – and said “Mama, I’ll give you my damn Sam guarantee that car will sell before the insurance runs out – just wait and see.” I told him about the snow and yata-yata and he just kept reassuring me and said not to worry about the car. We went on to other topics and I didn’t think about our conversation that night until the “knowing” started.

Ice, slush, sleet, snow and strangers...

The car was an older Honda, fairly low mileage and in pretty good shape. I’d had numerous people stop and look at it but no buyers and I was getting somewhat discouraged as I’d already bought a truck and wanted the car gone yesterday. When the snow/ice storm blew in and then Rusty passed away the car was the last thing on my mind. My friend TD came to stay with me the night I got the call about Rusty and it was, naturally, one miserable night. She slept fitfully and I sat up all night. We were having coffee the morning of February 4^th, the snow was blowing and it was a real blizzard.

I went to the kitchen to get some more coffee around 10:00 o’clock and TD called from the living room “Are you expecting anybody this morning?” I said I wasn’t and returned to the living room to look out the front window with her. Walking up my sidewalk, in a snow-blowing blizzard were three people. A very tall white guy – probably not yet 20 years old with no coat on, a tiny, very old black lady in a long, black coat clutching a big purse in front of her with a scarf tied around her head and a teenage Hispanic girl in flip-flops, jeans and a light jacket. I didn’t want to see anybody – particularly strangers – but answered the door. The “knowing” feeling had taken over and it was like I was far off from reality.

When I opened the door before I could say a thing the boy said “We’ve come to buy your car.” I was totally stunned as I’d never seen any of those people before. “Well, the price is $1500 cash only,” I replied. With that the elderly black lady opened the big purse she was carrying and it was full of money “Got it right here in my purse,” she said. As these were strangers I knew they’d not test driven the car so inquired did they want to buy it without driving it or anything. The young Hispanic girl said, “Yes, we know we want the car. It’s for me.” I agreed to meet them at the bank at 2:00 p.m. to conduct the paper work, they left and I closed the front door.

Out of the mouths of friends...

The first words out of TD’s mouth were “There’s something strange about all this,” and I definitely agreed. I decided to be at the bank as agreed but really didn’t expect those folks to show up. I was still in “knowing” mode but didn’t know what. We like to have never gotten to the bank because of the ice and blowing snow but made it and when I walked in the old, black lady was sitting in a chair in front of my banker’s desk and the two kids were standing up behind her. She counted out the money in cash, I signed all the papers, gave them the keys and the deal was done.

A done deal maybe but still a real mystery to me. Before we left the bank, I asked the tall, young man where they’d found out about the car being for sale. He said, “I met a guy this morning downtown who told me about it.” Well, I didn’t expect that -- I just figured he’d found out about it from someone who’d looked at the car previously and why I asked the question I did I’ll never know “What was the guy’s name? I’d like to thank him.”

When the "knowing" begins...

“I don’t really remember his name but he was a big guy with a short beard, had on a leather jacket that had some kind of a tools insignia on it and a Caterpiller gimme cap – think his name was Dusty or somethin’ like that. Come to think of it I think he said he was related to you – maybe a cousin -- you know, kinfolk?” I thanked the young man, all of us left the bank and the wheels in my “knowing” head were whirling and everything was becoming clear.

Perhaps the strangest part of the whole thing was the first thing TD said when we got back in the car was “There’s something other-worldly about all this. I don’t know what it is but the hair is standing up on the back of my neck. Those were the strangest people I’ve ever seen – a white kid, an old black lady and a young Hispanic girl – what are the chances of three people that diverse hanging out together much less out buying a car in a snowstorm? Where in the world did they come from?”

I had no answers for her because I simply didn’t have the strength to tell her what had happened – but I knew. The kid had described someone I knew better than anyone else in the world – even down to the leather jacket with the crossed tool insignia on it. It was the jacket of a member of a master carpenters’ group and source of pride. The Caterpiller gimme cap was a favorite. The short-trimmed beard was nearly a signature feature.

The kid said he’d talked to this guy who told him about the car -- personally -- in the downtown area of my little town in central Texas, that morning of February 4^th, then immediately gathered up the two ladies and came straight to my house to buy it – no questions asked. The papers on the car sale were completed that same afternoon AND the car sold before the insurance ran out at midnight that day of the sale.

There’s not a doubt in “that other” part of my brain that the guy the kid talked to about my car that morning of February 4^th was my son, Rusty (not “Dusty”). The kid described him to a fair-the-well. That’s where the “knowing” comes in.

Rusty had died at 7:00 p.m. on February 3^rd -- in Florida.

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