Uncle Roosevelt's dream book
Uncle Roosevelt kept an old dream book on the kitchen table, the kind folks used to buy at the drugstore, cover held on with tape. Back in the day plenty of people used those to play the numbers. Uncle never did. He said the Lord and Aunt Ruby both frowned on it, and he wasn't sure which one scared him more. He just liked reading what the old folks thought dreams meant.
Last week I dreamed about fish. A whole washtub of catfish sitting on my porch. Now, any Southern grandmother will tell you what dreaming of fish means.
Sunday after church my niece pulled me aside on the steps. Baby due in May. Didn't even need the book.
Dime in the shoe, psalm on the porch
Our niece Tanya drove up to Atlanta for nursing school this week, her first time living away from home. Before she left I sent her off the way my uncle sent me: an old silver Mercury dime in her left shoe, the 91st Psalm read over her on the front porch, and a little red flannel bag in the glovebox with salt, a bay leaf and a picture of her grandmama.
She asked if the dime actually does anything. I told her it reminds her she's got people praying behind her. That's what it does.
She texted me last night: "Made it. Shoe's uncomfortable." Good. Means she's still wearing it.
Psalm 121 at Harold's bedside
Went up to the hospital this week to sit with Harold, who sang bass beside me in the choir for thirty years. He's had a hard fall and a harder week. He can't sing right now, so I told him I'd do the praying for both of us.
Psalm 121, the one his mother used to say: 'I will lift up mine eyes unto the hills, from whence cometh my help.' He mouthed along the whole way. When I got to 'the Lord shall preserve thy going out and thy coming in,' he squeezed my hand so hard I thought I'd need a doctor myself.
Folks ask how a deacon can also be a rootworker. Same answer every time: it's all the Psalms, it's all the Lord, and it's all love for the people in front of you.
The red bird on my old route
Thirty-one years I carried mail, the same route for the last nineteen. My Loretta packed my lunch every one of those days, and there was always a little note in the bag. Mostly scripture. Sometimes just 'Don't forget the Hendersons' dog bites.'
She passed in March. I retired in June because I couldn't stand opening that lunch bag.
Now, folks around here say when a cardinal comes close, it's somebody you love paying a visit. I always nodded at that the way you nod at your aunties. Polite.
Last week I drove the old route, just to see it. Stopped by the Hendersons' place (the dog is gone too, God rest him). Got out to stretch my legs, and a male cardinal landed on the mailbox. Not the fence, not the dogwood. The mailbox. Looked right at me and tilted his head the way Loretta did when she was about to tell me I needed a haircut.
I stood there so long Mrs. Henderson came out to see if I was alright. I told her yes ma'am, I was just getting my mail.
I'd put a dime in my shoe that morning like my uncle taught me, and said Psalm 23 like I do every day. But I'll tell you, I said it a little louder on the drive home. I don't know all the whys of this world. I know who packed my lunch for thirty-one years. And I know she never could stand me being sad for long.
Reading the cards like my uncle did
Folks ask why I don't use tarot. Simple: my uncle Roosevelt read a plain deck of playing cards at his kitchen table, so I do too. Hearts for love and family, diamonds for money, clubs for work and worry, spades for the hard things.
He'd shuffle, have you cut three times toward yourself, then lay nine cards in a square and talk to you the way a good mechanic talks about your car. Gentle, but no nonsense.
Read for a young lady from church this week (she asked; I don't go offering). Nine of hearts dead center, the wish card. Ace of spades down in the corner. I told her what my uncle would have: the wish is real, the hard thing is real, and you're going to have to walk through the one to get the other.
She said it was the first reading that didn't just tell her what she wanted to hear. Uncle Roosevelt would have been pleased.