It's in the genes.

I absolutely take for granted what people call psychic ability. I grew up with it all around me. It was just part of life in our house.

While the best readers I have ever been to were men, in my family the ability comes down through the female side. My mother has this particular ability augmented with learned ritual gypsy magic. My maternal great grandmother probably was gifted in this way as well, which leads me to a story about her.

I don’t know what my maternal great-grandmother’s name was. I never saw a picture of her; she died long before I was born; yet I know exactly what she looks like because for many years she was my constant companion.

I guess I was 11/12 years old when I became aware of her. These are crucial, turbulent years in a girl’s life and, coincidentally, when psychic ability will start to manifest itself. Perhaps puberty is the on-switch. No matter, but this is when my great grandmother made her appearance.

I was most aware of her at night – when it is easiest for the spirits to get through to us. I knew there was a woman who sat at the head of my bed every night – just being there, making me feel safe. I don’t remember ever questioning her presence – she was there, it was good.

As I got a bit older I began to see her during the day as well, not just feel her but see her. I knew she was there, sometimes right next to me, sometimes just a bit behind me, on my left side. I never spoke to her – just accepted her presence.

It was shortly after my great grandmother made her presence known that I bought an “oil” painting in Woolworth’s. It was fairly large with an ornate white plastic frame decorated in “gold”. The picture itself was of a sad-eyed young girl (ala the Keene pictures but not one) with long brown hair parted in the middle (much like my hair, and my eyes) wearing a plain white, long sleeved shift type dress. She was holding a long stemmed pink rose. You could only see about ¾ of her and the background was a pale watery green. I hung this picture at the head of my bed.

When my mother saw it she was quite angry “Where did you get that? It’s ugly. Take it down” But it was my room and it stayed – for years. I tell you this only because I associate this picture in some way with my great grand mother, and I think my mother did too even tho it would be a few more years before I found out who my protector was.

One day I was in the kitchen with my mother, we were doing the dishes. I was maybe 15/16 years old and for no reason at all I said, “There is this lady around me all the time” My mother merely said “Oh?” I then proceeded to describe the lady – her face, her hair, her clothes and my mother said, “That’s my grandmother. Grandma Giamusso’s mother”

And that was the end of the conversation. It was like we had been discussing the weather. We never spoke about it again and I regret not having asked her name. It makes me crazy that I don’t know her name.

She stopped being a presence when I reached my late teens. Looking back I can’t remember when I realized she was no longer there. I was older, I was on my own; I guess she decided I didn’t need her protection any longer.

In last 5 or 6 years I have tried to get in touch with her, unsuccessfully. I miss her; the woman who died before I was born; the woman who protected me for so many years, from what, I don’t even know; from her granddaughter, perhaps?

My mother was always afraid of being in touch with those who had crossed over.

And I have always felt very comfortable with them.

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