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by Georgia Warren

I was taught hand reading in the 1960s by a doctor from India who was getting certified to practice medicine in the US. It took me two years to learn the intricacies of the India-style of hand reading. When Dr. Singh said I was ready to go out on my own.I got a seat working steadily in a coffee house in Akron Ohio.

One night a couple of soldiers back from Vietnam stopped by. Their hands were in their coat pockets.. They said they wanted me to read their hands. They were laughing, and I was sure they’d probably had a “couple” of beers. I didn’t have the attitude that I gained years later to say, “I don’t do readings for people who have been drinking.” The two of them sat down, still smirking. They took their hands out of their pockets, they were prosthetiucs. Neither of them had any hands for me to read.

Two of my brothers had long recoveries in the Syracuse NY VA Hospital during the 1950s. I spent a lot of my youth around young men who had been damaged during their service. I learned how much normalcy and a little fun could mean.

When these two Vietnam vets saw I didn’t get flustered, it started to ruin their prank. I winked, gave them a big smile. I told them to take off their boots, give me their ten bucks and I’d give them a foot reading.

“Go ahead, do it!” one of them said and they both started laughing again.

They asked a buddy who was there to help them and I got to work reading their feet, just like they were hands. We all had fun during the reading. I flirted with them (just a little) and at least once tickled their feet. I didn’t know whether foot reading had any relationship to hand reading or not. I just read them as if they were hands.

They came back a few weeks later with another hand amputee so he could "tease the lady at the coffee house." But this time the prank was on the soldier, not me.

During the next few months Vets from the VA hospital would come in and the crowd of buddies grew. Some of the hippie folk got to know them and people became friends with people they thought were their enemies.


From time-to-time a new amputee would be with them and was the butt of their their running prank.

These soldiers had a camaraderie and humor that I am sure kept them sane. When they would come back with the latest butt of their joke, I always tried to make the readings entertaining and as honest as could be, given that I had no idea if the readings were accurate or not.

Most of soldiers wanted to talk, more than they wanted a reading. I learned from them that often the people who are sitting across from me at a hand reading want to tell their own story to a stranger, to someone who will listen without judgment and tell no one else. Little by little I learned what these soldiers had gone through. Each soldier had a different story. At least once that I remember, I needed to excuse myself on the pretext of going to the ladies’ room, because I was going to cry.

The manager of the coffee house was happy with the crowds. I enjoyed my time there. I found that doing readings was more than just something to do for extra money. It was then and still is a way to communiate with people who may just need a witness to their problems or a a secret to tell.

I found out during my time of foot readings that the local VA Hospital had some doctors who specialized in helping men who had lost limbs in the Vietnam war. There also was a VA rehab center in the area.

About forty years later (between 2006 and 2010 ) I taught basic hand reading in classes at BOCES in Liverpool, NY. The classes were held once a week for a couple of weeks, and were two hours long with a fifteen minute break in the middle. I often told students about reading soldier’s feet.

Sandy Argus, whose hands I had read previously was in one of these classes. One day when Sandy was there I told the foot reading story.

I came back from our fifteen minute break into a classroom where everyone had their bare feet up on their desk.

Sandy said that now I could read feet for people who have hands and would be able to see if the readings were the same.

Did the readings of feet and hands match? Did I give these vets forty years ago a reasonable reading? Maybe.

Thanks Sandy.




 


IN THIS ISSUE–––

• OREN PIERCE, GuestEditor
Welcome to the Weird Issue
• DAVEY WEATHERCOCK
My Heart KnewWhat the
Wild Geese Knew

• DAVID S. WARREN
Natural Bone Chapter 2
TheHeadUnderground
• FRANKLIN CRAWFORD
21 Things You May or May Not
Consider Weird
• RHIAN ELLIS
fever cat
• GABRIEL ORGREASE
Perry City Dinks
• ANNIE CAMPBELL
The Deserted House
•STEVE KATZ
DEW
• SUE-RYN BURNS
Black Beauty
•GEORGIA WARREN
Weird Happens
• GEORGIA WARREN
The Soldiers' Story

POETRY
• SUE-RYN BURNS Wild Turkeys
• MARY GILLILAND Kitchen Theater
• PETER FORTUNATO
Cocks of the Walk (Key West)
• COVER
Copernicus under cover
________________________

Welcome
to the Weird Issue

by Oren Pierce, Guest Editor
(short excerpt here, read it all
on the home page)

Weathercock (I feel) has presented us not with just an honest meditation on the uncanny nature of everyday life that an unsensational treatment of the theme requires, nor is it either fact or fiction, but just plain fake news.
Not wanting to be too negative, I won’t get any further into that. Read and judge for yourself.

Just about everything else in this issue is fine with me and I recommend the writings to you without further doo doo. ______________________


by Rhian Ellis

The letters came, and the letters came, and then they stopped. The last came in the autumn, with the falling leaves and the clotting sky, but through the long grayness of winter there was nothing.
Ruth continued to write even though it felt as though she was dropping her pages into a bottomless well. She asked questions that were never answered and told stories that seemed unheard. She wrote faster and more frantically as the snow blew into the city and hid the dirt and the trash and the broken things. She imagined her sister in her little house, out there in the wilderness, burning logs and nursing babies and what else? What did she do? Life was so different out there, so hard to imagine...

And then a letter came, on the same rough paper, written with the same too-sharp pen that scratched. But the hand was unfamiliar. And inside, the letter was hard to read and cramped and was almost like the writing of a child. Perhaps it was the writing of a child.

Sister Ruth-- I hayte that I am the barer of the world’s moust dreaded newes but the truth is that our dearr Jane is dead and so are the chyldren tifuss came to our small house and we coud not stop it. First the older chyld then Jane then the baby went to the arms of Jesuss. Wheeler is the only chyld left and I am left too tho to what purpose I

(go to story)
______________________

Natural Bone Chapter 2 with recap
by David Warren

Noah had stared at the falling water for he didn’t know how long, when his eyes began to wander around the yellowish chamber floor and he saw a helmet lying there: a battered metal helmet with stubby horns. And then, only a few yards from the helmet, he saw a bodiless head in a nest of its own hair among the rocks. It’s eyes were wide open, and the grisly thing spoke to him, although in an understandably weak and sighing sort of voice.

“Don’t be afraid!” said the Head “I’m just a head.” click here for the recap of chapter 1 and all of Chapter 2
______________________



The DesertedHouse

by Annie Campbell

One time, the kids and I stopped to explore a large deserted house on Townline road near Trumansburg. It still had its roof and didn’t look too bad, so we squeezed through a door coming off its hinges. Plaster and lath which had fallen from the ceilings in the three spacious rooms we could see - littered the floor. Carefully, the three of us made our way to a big room that still had a few glass panes in the windows. A wide staircase beckoned, and I made the kids wait while I went up. It seemed safe enough so I waited for them to catch up to me.

(go to story)
_____________________


Weldon packs a yellow umbrell athough he doesn’t expect to use it. “If I carry a yellow parapluie jaune,” he tells Mathilde, “it might fake out the rain sprights. Energize them. Maybe drought will start to end. Vive la pluie.” He finds his French words exhilarating, as he does his French girl friend.
(go to story)
___________________________

Perry City Dinks
by Gabreal Orgrease

“Fire so hot and quick that when they opened the trailer door they found my father sitting smack in front of the tube with his reading glasses melted around his nose still holding an instant coffee on his lap only the skin of his fingers was stuck to the melted thermal mug.” (go to story)

Weird Happens

1 I was at a crosswalk and the oncoming motorist stopped to let me pass.

2 Rocks along the train tracks are of consistent size and shape, composed mostly of basalt. They are excellent throwing rocks, as if quarried and broken for that purpose. I hit a RR sign with one on a quiet creosote-rich afternoon and it made a startling racket. Some deer broke out of the sedge. I felt lonely all of a sudden.

3 Toenail fungus is a form of life that is hard to evict from the body. It has generated a whole line of quackadoodle remedies. The only surefire way to get rid of it is to have all infected toes removed.

4 When I checked my pants pockets this morning, I found 77 cents in quarters, nickels, dimes and two pennies. I don’t normally keep pennies. Pennies are not worthless, but we don’t use them for cadavers any more so why save them? There is nothing significant about 77, except it was in the title of an old TV show called "77 Sunset Strip."
For numbers 5 to 21 click here


by Georgia Warren

I was taught hand reading in the 1960s by a doctor from India who was getting certified to practice medicine in the US. It took me two years to learn the intricacies of the India-style of hand reading. When Dr. Singh said I was ready to go out on my own.I got a seat working steadily in a coffee house in Akron Ohio.

One night a couple of soldiers back from Vietnam stopped by. Their hands were in their coat pockets.. They said they wanted me to read their hands. They were laughing, and I was sure they’d probably had a “couple” of beers. I didn’t have the attitude that I gained years later to say, “I don’t do readings for people who have been drinking.” The two of them sat down, still smirking. They took their hands out of their pockets, they were prosthetiucs. Neither of them had any hands for me to read. (go to story)

___________________

POETRY

MARY GILLILAND
Kitchen Theatre (go to)

SUE-RYN BURNS
Wild Turkeys (go to)

PETER FORTUNATO
Cocks of the Walk
(Key West) (go to)

___________________


 

© 2019 The Metaphysical Times Publishing Company - PO Box 44 Aurora, NY 13026 • All rights reserved. For any article re-publication, contact authors directly.

 

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