Since it is the end of summer… alas, I thought I’d tell this story….

I’ve been on boats and love the water, but never experienced sailing. When offered to go for a sail on a friend’s sailboat, I jumped at the chance. However, our first mate wasn’t the best sailor around.

I quickly settled  onto his little sailboat, eager to learn how to sail. Once the motor took us down river, he turned it off and we waited as I watched him adjust the sails to catch the wind. We waited and waited while we watched other sailboats doing figure eights and sailing on  winds up and down the waterway.

Behind us, there loomed an old anchored huge steel barge. Were we drifting closer? I tried to trust my sailor and ignore the barge. Are you sure we’re not drifting closer? Trust me, he reminded. Hmmm. I am psychic.

It was growing dark and other boats were disappearing down river. Finally my trusted sailor announced that if we didn’t get back to the marina in the next half hour, it would close and we wouldn’t be able to get to our car to leave.

The dark? The sailor? The river? The looming barge? No other way home?

He tried to start the motor. It wouldn’t start. The shadow of the barge seemed to grow closer and larger . He tried the motor again. It sounded like a bad lawnmower rather than our ticket home. There was gas. It was smoking. We weren’t moving,  Only drifting closer to  that huge steel barge.

He was sweating.  His arm was hurting. He kept trying and trying. The engine was really smoking now, but not turning over. In desperation he finally turned to me and said,

“If you have any ‘Woo Woo’ power, you should use it now.”

‘Woo Woo’ power? Mojo? That’s how he was defining my talents?

Who cares? Images of crashing into the barge, stuck in the middle of the deep muddy river, wanting to asleep in my warm bed propelled me into action.

I placed my healing hands alongside the motor and focused on sending as much energy as I could muster  into it.

“Try it,” I ordered.

Who’s  your metaphysical sailor now?

He tried the motor again. Nothing happened.

I put my ‘trusted’ hands around it once more.

He tried the motor.

It sputtered, then started and within minutes propelled us away from that big barge and took us home just in time, ‘Woo Woo’ my…





So quite a few years ago I was driving down I 95 in my car on a steamy hot summer day – steamy like 100 degrees steamy – when my radiator started smoking. I never had that problem before so I freaked. Who wouldn’t freak when you’re driving at least 20 mph over the speed limit and your front hood suddenly starts smoking. I mean smokin’!

I pulled over to the side of the road, opened the front hood and then wondered what was the best thing to do? Should I just let it cool down? Try to unscrew the radiator cap? Leave the cap on? Will it explode? Call for help? I t stood by the side of the road trying to signal someone to stop and help me know what to do while air conditioned cars with windows rolled up zipped by me at record speed. Take of the cap off? Leave the cap on? I was stifling hot and so was my car. I had no idea. And no one was helping.

However my cool guides had better plans.

Within minutes a beat up old pick up truck with some ragtag workers, their gardening tools in the truck bed, pulled up ahead of me. Hey, any port in a steamy storm at least 30 miles from home. It turns out they were from my same town, even though we were driving in a different State. They started to look under my car hood when a State Trooper pulled up behind me. Suddenly my new hometown friends ran up the embankment away from my car, yelling down to me, “Tell him we’re getting water.”   Odd, but then this whole setup was odd. That was just the beginning.

Right behind the State Trooper, a huge commercial spring water truck pulled in. And as the Trooper walked up to me, the truck driver with a huge water bottle on his shoulder headed toward us. Seeing the situation was well in hand, the Trooper excused himself and the water truck guy started to fill my radiator with spring water.

Once the Trooper drove away, the ragtag garden guys joined us – seems they must have been drinking or something – and they quickly rigged some concoction to fix my fan with a paper clip. The water truck guy found out where I was going and offered to follow me back to my town since he was going in that direction. Chances of that? Slim to none.

So with the jerry-rigged paper clip fix, my radiator filled with water, the garden guys leading the way and the water truck guy behind me, my makeshift caravan drove back on the highway and over the bridge to safety. Of course I was instructed to turn my heat on, so, I found myself in my very own sauna rolling my way safely back home. And the excellent conclusion was that once I got my car to a mechanic, the new part cost $5.00. Well done, cool guides, well done.




I don’t know about you, but I’m not a big fan of bats. Something about them is probably intriguing, but not to me , not in my house- you get my drift?

Anyway, I’m not sure how it got inside, but while I was sitting on the couch one night, I finally noticed something that looked like a frog on my rug. What was a frog doing in my place and on my living room rug? Of course my ferocious felines in the room didn’t even notice it… until…it spread its wings and took flight. It was a bat! A black winged bat, and it was flying around all the rooms like a low flying drone. Terrified!

I managed to get the cats in a bedroom and closed the door, not knowing if the bat was rabid. Then I realized I was alone with a bat that could be rabid. Not a smart move. It continued to frantically fly around. I didn’t know what to do. The cats were crying and so was I. If I left that wouldn’t solve my problem. It was late at night so I couldn’t call anyone. I wasn’t about to sit at my computer and Google ‘how to get rid of a bat in your house’. I kept watching where it was so I wouldn’t be close to there.

Finally I did what any terrified resourceful psychic would do. I tried to telepathically communicate with it. I know you’re thinking, bats in my ‘brain’, but here’s how the rest of the evening went: I opened the back door onto the porch and waited until it flew into the living room where I was standing. My heart, of course was in my throat and my backup plan was to run out the door if was going to attack me.

So I started sending it a message- ‘Go to the door.’ I kept repeating the words as if my life depended on it. Actually in that moment I thought it did. I envisioned bat teeth piercing my skin and then rabies shots or whatever. I kept sending the message.

Within minutes the bat flew to the corner living room window right next to the open door and settled there. Great. How was I supposed to know that bats are literal? I took a breath, glad to still be breathing and telepathically sent a new message – ‘Go OUT the door’. I kept repeating the message in my mind, hoping the bat would get it. It did get the first one? Nothing. We were at a standoff. At least it wasn’t flying toward me. Small victories.

I waited. Then the bat opened its wings, left the window and flew once around the living room. I of course ducked into the kitchen, but not before I saw it fly out the open door. I ran to the door and locked it. Like the bat was going to open an unlocked door. I didn’t want to know if it was flying around the porch in the dark. I  let the cats out of the bedroom- they obviously didn’t understand bat language and had no clue why they were in lockdown, but I was too tired to even try to communicate, so I kept all the lights on and went to sleep, knowing there was psychic bat out there that was just as happy to be free.




Here’s how I bought one of my cars.

My old car was…. well, old, very old. I wanted to buy a new car this time and not someone else’s discarded motor headache. I knew exactly which car I wanted, so after getting grilled by friends on how to talk down car salesmen, I decided to bite the bullet and go for it.

I pulled up to the dealership, got out of my old car, and instantly forgot everything my friends told me by the time I opened the showroom door. I walked past a few salesmen gathered together and headed toward ‘my car’ in the showroom. One of the salesmen smiled and said, “You look like an artist.” Not knowing if that was an inside slight or a ploy to score money, I kept walking. Any salesman in his right bargaining mind should know that artists never have money. Artists know that. So I did what any artist would do, I ignored him and examined the model I came to see. After asking another salesman to test drive it with me, I told him I’d think about it and started for the door.

As I crossed the showroom refrains from my friends repeated like bad mantras in my head – “If they suggest a price. Talk them down.” “Stand firm on your offer.” I couldn’t remember the rest as I passed the same gathering of salesmen near the front door. Don’t these guys ever work?

“Aren’t you going to buy your car today?” the same salesman asked.

Offended by his aggressiveness, and not wanting to go through the ritual my friends ingrained in my head, I kept moving. He kept talking.

“What kind of art do you create?” he asked. Did I say I was an artist? My head was buzzed. This guy wasn’t giving up.

“I’m a writer,” I politely answered as I put my hand on the door.

“What do you write?” Was this guy hungry for a sale or just bored and persistent? There was a pregnant pause between us.

Trying not to sound too rude, lest I come back to buy my car, “Psychic books.” I said in a low voice and braced myself for laughter or a rude comment.

More silence.

“Are you a professional Psychic?” he loudly asked. I could see the other men looking to be anywhere but there.

“Yes,” I whispered. Did this man have no shame? He was a salesman I reminded myself. As this was quite a few years ago when the mere mention of the word ‘psychic’ called for expected harassment and humor from people, I pushed the door open hoping to be rid of this.

“Come with me,” he said holding the door closed. Was he going to hold me up for ridicule to all the salesmen in the wide showroom? While my brain was thinking of a smart reply, I followed him.

He hurried me to his desk away from the others and told me he was the dealership manager. He needed psychic help. He had to make an important personal decision in the coming weeks. Where was this going? Did he want a free Reading? Here and Now? Before I could open my mouth he told me that If I could give him a Reading in the next few days, he would get me the car I wanted at cost. He wasn’t kidding.

I read for him in my office. Two weeks later he switched to another dealership and called me. Not only did I get my car at cost, I bought it at a financially advantageous time according to his inside information. As I drove away from the dealership in my new car with sunroof, mud flaps, and an excellent speaker system, I realized just being an artistic Psychic had its perks.




So, I talk to dead people and other non-physical beings. I also offer information to help solve physical and emotional problems for every day physical living. I can sense when relationships will or won’t work. I rely on inner wisdom and celebrate Valentine’s Day as my favorite holiday. I’m not a magician. I’m not a witch. I’m just, as some old man just told me… a seer.

A few Sundays ago I went indoor swimming in a large pool with a hot tub, sauna and steam room- just the antidote to a cold winter evening. Forgetting to take off my three rings – a treasured Hopi band, a Mexican band, and my mother’s slender gold wedding band before leaving the locker room, I placed them in my flip flops before entering the pool and forgot about them. The pool area was busy with others who had the same idea. Until late that evening. After the pool was closed. I found my fingers were naked.

Deep inside me, I knew my rings would be found, but like any healthy human, my brain began to script many scenarios: Of course someone took them. They were swept unknowingly into the weekend trash. They fell into the pool or hot tub never to be found again. My gut wasn’t having it, but my body wasn’t happy.

I woke with a start at 6 AM. The pool opened at 5. My brain wanted to sleep. My gut wasn’t having it. So I pacified it by calling the place. Of course the lifeguard on duty could not locate any one of my rings. They were there. All three of them. ‘They’re gone,’ my brain whispered. The psychic in me had to find out for herself.

I promptly arrived at the pool fifteen minutes later and searched. One ring was easily found near the hot tub. Nothing else. My inner Geiger counter started ticking. That thin gold band could be so invisible on white tile floors and worse, could hardly be seen in deep chlorinated water. My gut wasn’t giving up. Slowly I stepped over cold tiles. Once and again. And again. Luckily no one was in the pool. I would find my rings. My brain was hungrily trying to convince me I was fooling myself. Let go. Earthly possessions. I was tired. I wanted to go back to sleep. And did I mention I had an important meeting later that day?

I continued along the tiles and there before me where I stepped before was the thin, worn gold band, the aged symbol of a nineteen year old that eloped against her parents’ wishes with my father. I placed the band alongside the Hopi ring on my finger. Keep going. One more ring left.

It was nowhere. I knew where I was when I took off those rings. Nowhere. How could that be? It was the largest and most colorful, but it was also, save for the silver, the color of the pool. I wasn’t giving up. The bored lifeguard had no clues. My brain was really sleepy now, but something told me as I walked the length of the pool for the last time to stop. And look down. There, balanced in the side drain where no one would look, where a burst of water from a passing swimmer, or a hose spray cleaning the tile floor above it was my ring, poised to dip into the deep water. I leaned over and retrieved it, happy to go home with my rings on my finger and rest a little before my meeting.

But, the story doesn’t end here. That would be too simple. A day later I heard from a San Franscisco friend vacationing in Hawaii that she just bought a pinkie ring that she immediately lost. And found near her bathtub. A special person let me know a day later that he just lost a favored ring that could not be replaced as it was bought in NorthWest Canada. Found! They say things come in three’s, although I never found out who ‘they’ are… hopefully ‘they’ are right.


                      HO, HO, HO THE JELLYBEAN JAR   

On the way home from my office the week before Christmas, I stopped at the corner drugstore to buy some tissues. While there I said hello to the owner and a few customers I knew. I started to pay at the counter where there was a big jar of jellybeans with a sign “Guess the Number of Jellybeans Win a Prize”. Knowing I was a professional Psychic, the owner and customers laughingly said I already probably knew the number of jellybeans in the jar. Right. And, added if I could help find the ‘Son of Sam’ I could surely know the number jellybeans in a drugstore jar. How does that equate?

I politely demurred, but they weren’t having it. Used to being the brunt of a hardly original joke or publically tested – Psychics are as good as their last Reading – I laughingly wrote a random number for the druggist to add to the many folded paper guesses just to get them off my back. I only stopped in there for tissues, after all. Facing them on the street after knowing my wrong jellybean guess was worth the risk of getting out of there.

Several days later, the druggist called. I was prepared to face my community shaming, hoping he still might tell me I forgot to take my change or apologize for putting me on the spot, and commiserate over my wrong guess. Instead he congratulated me. I won the Jellybean in the Jar Contest. No way! Sweet redemption.

Not so fast. He then told me people were upset. They felt the contest was rigged BECAUSE I was a Psychic. Really? Can’t I get any props here? Isn’t there a universal rule demanding that people need to get a life? Teasing, chiding and downright rudeness followed me down the street. I honestly just came to buy for tissues.

The druggist demanded I pick up my prize. I told him to donate the jellybeans to a local center for children. Yes, fine. But not so fast. The real prize was waiting for me in the drugstore. What? I don’t use prescription drugs? A basket of toiletries? Don’t need that. I told him to donate it. He said in good faith he could not do that. Oh boy, good faith was for everyone to just leave me alone.

So I trudged to the drugstore. It was now the afternoon before Christmas and he was closing early. As I stood at the counter, happy to see the jellybean jar gone, he went into the storeroom and returned with a giant stuffed life-size Santa Claus. He was all mine from his red hat to his black boots. The druggist beamed as he handed Santa to me, finally glad get him out of his storage space.

Now to add to my frustration to be done with all this unwanted attention, I had to walk down the street holding this huge stuffed smiling Santa, hoping no one would notice?

Did I tell you it was now Christmas Eve? That I was super busy? That I actually did have a personal life? And was being seen carrying Santa like a ‘good non-denominational much maligned Psychic for rigging a child’s game’? Bah Humbug.

I managed to stuff Santa into the back seat of my car wondering what to do with the old guy. Put him on my back porch and hand him my wish list? Kick him to the curb and let some family steal him in the dead of night? I know what you’re thinking. Donate him to a Center for kids. Sure. But by now, it was getting late and all the places that helped children were closed for the next few days. Would the magic of Santa endure when they re-opened before the New Year?

Guessing jellybeans in a jar didn’t seem like a magical gift the whole time… but after filling my tank with gas and driving to Manhattan to spontaneously deliver Big Santa to a Ronald McDonald House for Kids with Cancer that night was definitely magic.

Happy Hanukah, Kwanza, Diwali, Solstice, and Christmas from The Big Guy and me.



This holiday season, I’m sure everyone can relate.

It  was a difficult time in my life and I was feeling sad about not having money – times were tight and my income was even tighter.

I was walking in a grocery store, more like window shopping and buying a limited amount of necessities. As I strolled down an aisle, something jammed my shopping cart wheel. I pulled the cart back and picked up a wadded bill. A five- dollar bill would really help if someone didn’t claim it – ‘any port in the life storm.’ I opened the bill to find it was a $50. bill! Now what? Do I pocket it and silently thank whoever placed it in front of me? Turn it in to a manager that may never find the person that dropped it?

I walked toward the cashier lines and stood there to watch  if someone physically realized he or she was missing money. No one even looked stressed. I wandered the aisles. Nobody. So I claimed the money and felt grateful.  Good story, right? Well, it doesn’t stop there.

Years later,  I was walking down a street and noticed a friend sitting in a window at a bar. I went inside to talk to him. During the course of our conversation I retold my grocery miracle story to him. We had a good laugh over my moral dilemma. The instant the story ended, for some reason I looked down and saw something on the floor near the base of his stool that looked vaguely familiar. I picked up a folded $50 bill.  He begged me to reinvent the story to  include a $100 bill and tell it to him again, but I say ‘you can’t always get what you want, but you get what you need.’