My mom is a remarkably accomplished woman. Here she is pictured on her recent birthday, surrounded by kids and grandkids. She is beloved. She’s a knitter and a gardener and a cook and a baker and a donut maker. She plays the violin, and plants and weeds flower beds all over town. She’s an expert dart player. She loves water fights. All of this is commonly known.
But what is not so well known is the fact that she has supernatural abilities.
It’s true. Well, it’s kind of true. More or less true. True-ish.
Here’s the story that I’ve been promising my faithful blog readers:
One afternoon, the telephone rang in Mom’s kitchen, and she answered it. Recognizing what she believed to be my husband Bryan’s voice, she said happily “Well, hello, Bryan! How are you??”
We were living in Iowa at the time. The voice from the receiver paused, and then Bryan said “I’m . . . fine. . . and how are you?”
“I’m fine! The family doing okay?” She asked.
Bryan said Sure, yeah, they were all doing well . . .
“Hey, I’ve got dough all over my hands–do you want to talk to Dad?” Mom asked, being in the middle of making biscuits for supper.
“Here, honey,” she said, handing the receiver over to my dad, who was sitting at the table, waiting for supper. “It’s Bryan!”
As Dad positioned the receiver to his ear, he overheard a quick comment that the caller made to somebody with him. “My gosh, she knows my name!” Dad knew at that point, of course, that it wasn’t really my husband Bryan.
Dad didn’t miss a beat.
“Hi Bryan!” Dad said into the ‘phone. “What’s up?”
There was silence on the other end of the ‘phone. Finally, a faint voice said “Hi, um, this is Bryan . . . from National Geographic Magazine, and I’m calling tonight to ask you . . . Jim . . . if you’d like to renew your subscription.”
“Well, yes, Bryan,” said Dad, “I do want to renew that subscription. I got the notice earlier this week.”
“Oh. Okay. Thank you. But . . . I need to ask you . . . ” said the confused telemarketer, clearing his throat, “how did your wife know that my name was Bryan?”
“She’s psychic,” Dad said.
“That’s bizarre,” breathed Bryan, the magazine salesman.
“Tell me about it. You ought to try living with her,” Dad kept going. “I can’t get away with anything!”
“Gosh. . . ”
“In fact, she told me that you would be calling tonight.”
Bryan was silent.
“In fact,” Dad continued, “I already wrote a check, and I’ve got it in an envelope here to put into the mail in the morning.”
Still, silence on the other end.
Dad was grinning. He couldn’t think of anything more satisfying than playing with the mind of a telemarketer, especially one who would call during his supper hour, for Pete’s sake.
“Okay, well–” Bryan said, “I hope you have a good evening then, Jim. You and your wife, both.”
“Oh, don’t worry, we will . . . ” said Dad, one last card up his sleeve. “My wife already told me that we were going to.”
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