and months passed and nothing. No news of a missing person. That was the good news. The bad news was, one begins to feel foolish and out of whack with reality when something so strong and strange ends up going nowhere. You start thinking that everyone around you thinks you may just be over the edge a bit, if you know what I mean. However, life moves on in its own peculiar way and there’s nothing we can do about that.
The following April, I heard a helicopter hovering over my home, not once, but many times. It had a pattern of making numerous return trips, concentrating on my area in particular. I told myself this was not the usual military training pattern that often transpires. (You see, the town of Meaford, where I reside, is home to the Meaford training and tank range.) Nor did it look like the typical helicopters that generally whiz by.
I turned on my radio; I haven’t been a follower of television in years. I was able to catch a portion of the news that explained that a man somewhere up in his late seventies had been missing for a day or so. Apparently, they had brought out the dogs a day or an evening earlier, but this part of the search had ended unsuccessfully. The next active step was for the community to come together and organize a manhunt.
The military and regular police were already obviously involved. This new search was to be made up of volunteers, and they wanted everyone to meet at the community centre in town. They were inviting all interested parties to please come out and join in the efforts.
My mind immediately flashed back to the previous April. I was already in the process of getting ready to go in and work my shift. I just decided to speed things up a bit and head in a little earlier. I was eager to get to the intersection of the Old Capitol Theatre and Highway 26. When I got there, I craned my neck from side to side to read the street name. It was Collingwood Street. “I knew it,” I said out loud. This was the confirmation that I had been unfortunately waiting for.
You see, two blocks to my right, on Collingwood Street, is where the town’s people were rallying to set up volunteer search party teams. Of all the streets in Meaford, this was the one where the town’s folks were gathering. Of all the years that I have lived in Meaford, this was the first time I ever remember hearing about such an extensive search for any missing person.
This experience for me was bittersweet. It was nice to know that I wasn’t crazy for thinking and feeling what I had the April before. The part that really floored me though, once it finally sank in, was — how could I have possibly known this an entire year before it had transpired?
By the time I got to work, my Assistant Manager was just getting out of her car a few feet ahead of me. I threw open the door of my car and called out her name. Her head immediately spun around to meet my eyes. She knew something was up.
Seeing her somehow allowed me to let go of the freakish turmoil that was spinning inside of me. I openly admit, I lost it! I began to empty myself through my tears. I remember shaking my hands, as if this would somehow shake off this confirmation. I knew I couldn’t walk inside to deal with the guests until I had pulled myself together.
Thank goodness for the calmness and candor of this person that was now talking to me. I wish I could explain better the process that I went through, but I simply don’t have the words to describe it.
Later that morning, I was still pretty upset. About half an hour after I was officially on the clock, the switchboard rang. Surprisingly, this call was for me and not for one of our guests. It was a female from our community. She was asking about the search. She asked me, if I were there with them, where would I look? After stammering about I had no answers, I finally told her that I would definitely start at the community centre and work my way “toward the water” in a straight line. (This was just the same way and direction that the energy had surged through me a year earlier.)
It was thirty-three minutes after this conversation when she called back to say that the body had been found. She added that although the search party had not found it, all the same the body had been found along the shoreline. When she told me the location, it probably was within a mile or so from where Collingwood Street meets the waterfront.
I never claimed to be nor ever want to be a psychic like Sylvia Browne! I never claimed to say who the missing person was, or who would find the missing person. I never claimed to have known or predicted anything, except that someone had gone missing. That, my friends, was apparently more than enough for my rookie system to handle.
After all of these events had unfolded, I contacted a friend of mine who channels. I’m not exactly sure how one does this, but I do know she has passed out some pretty accurate information to me personally in the past. I turned to her for some kind of comfort for what I had just experienced. Her words brought me reassurance, comfort, and a sort of peace of mind. What she said was this: “You will never be given more than you can handle. You will have to learn to deal with the pain and the emotion that comes with it. You will be fine!”
You will never be given more than you can handle. Boy, I must have repeated her words five or six times out loud and in my head. They seem to bring me immediate comfort, just by saying them! My intuition, as I call it, has travelled from Thornbury to Tobermory in the past. However, this was my first time to ever unknowingly know of something that would or could transpire one year ahead of time!
Mr. Colombo, I would like to thank you once again publicly for allowing me this unique opportunity to vent the unordinary occurrences that I have experienced. It is paramount for me to let you know this! It is also just as important that you receive your due rewards for putting together these self told, original, and compiled experiences. In purest appreciation for these opportunities to share with other liked minds!
Hallway Funeral
Have you ever attended the funeral of a complete stranger ... especially when it was totally and completely by accident?
Well, I have! Leave it to me! I am an original! No carbon copy, that’s for sure!
Like many folks, I come from a large family. Truthfully, I am closer to some of them than to others. I have four brothers and two sisters. I am for whatever reasons closer to my two sisters. Lynda is my older sister and Donelda, who prefers to be called Donel, is my younger sister. Although I am smack dab in the middle of them, the two of them are closest to each other. (I have always been the lone wolf of the family.) I used to call myself the black sheep of the family. Now, I refer to myself as the Red sheep!
Anyway, Lynda had just recently moved into her new apartment location on Cedar Avenue in Richmond Hill. My mother had wanted to make the trip down to see her. Mom always likes to be able to visit someone in a new place at least once, so she can later picture it in her mind.
Well, after several failed attempts to co-ordinate schedules, Mom and I were finally able to visit. Donela unfortunately was not able to make the trip. Actually, at the time of writing this story, I don’t think she has made it down there yet. It was my first time in Richmond Hill. I had no idea just how memorable it was going to be.
Mom and I got settled in okay, and shortly after Lynda’s girlfriend Ruth ended up dropping by to visit as well. We had met Ruth before, so it was also good to hook up with her again. Somewhere during the course of catching up on all our news, Lynda suggested we haul some of her many books downstairs and put them into storage. With all our extra arms to help, why not? She then further suggested that she would like us all to meet her new superintendent. Well, our sole purpose was to come down for a visit so, once again, why not?
We were all up for the little jaunt down to the basement. Books in hand, away we headed. First out the door was my sister, then Mom, then me, and last thoughtful Ruth.
We made our way
