The Psychic Memories Of My Father

He was a young Chicago architect at the start of his career.

Arriving home from the office one evening, driving into the parking garage, the attendant, with whom he always shared a friendly banter, said, “There’s this psychic who’s performing in a club downtown. I’m gonna go. They say he’s amazing. You should come with me.”

Tired, the end of a long day, my dad declined. But before he parked his car he thought better of it, turned his car around and said to the attendant, “Let’s go.” And off they drove.

As they entered the club the ‘psychic’ was already on stage performing. This is important, because in those days such acts would often be a sham, using the ‘hat check girl’ to retrieve personal information from innocent ticket buyers, who would then provide this information to the performer before he went out on stage. However, this evening, any such conniving would have been too late. The ‘psychic’ was already on stage in the middle of his performance.

As my dad entered the theater and was just about to sit down, the psychic stopped what he was doing, turned to the audience, and asked, “Is there a… in the audience?” And he gave my dad’s full and proper name.

My dad was stunned, shocked. He stood back up and said, “That’s me.”

The psychic said, “Can you come backstage after the show? I have something I wish to share with you.”

My dad could hardly contain himself after that. He remained in his seat for the rest of the show, but was also quite anxious to learn what this man on stage had to tell him in private afterward.

The show ended, my dad made his way to the psychic’s dressing room. Where the psychic immediately asked him for a favor, “Can you run down the street to a liquor store and buy me a bottle of bourbon? When I go outside people recognize me.”

My dad, by this time truly wanting to know what this man had to say, did what was asked. When he returned with a nice new bottle of fine bourbon, which they shared, the psychic said to my dad, “You have real psychic ability. I could immediately sense it when you walked in the theater. I think you should develop it.”

This conversation surprised my dad. My dad, up until this time, had had no psychic events happen to him at all. He’d lived a rather adventurous if not dashing life, which is an understatement. But nothing that had ever touched the realm of the psychic.

My dad, as well, was not particularly religious. He was, working as an architect up in Chicago, a friend of Frank Lloyd Wright. They shared more than their mutual fondness for architecture and wearing a beret. They also mutually shared the same opinion with respect to where to feel God. My father, like Wright, believed that the best cathedral was nature itself. A setting of tall trees, fresh air and a bright blue sky for a ceiling.

“This is what I want you to do.” the psychic continued, “Every evening, at seven o’clock, I want you to find some place private, where you can sit and face east. There I want you to close your eyes and empty your thoughts, for five minutes. Do this for a year, and you should experience something.”

And my dad did. Every evening, no matter where he was. He would find someplace quiet and private. There he would sit for five minutes, close his eyes, and try to empty his thoughts. And nothing would happen.

Nearly a year went by and my dad was about to give up. When a postcard arrived by mail the next day, from this psychic, who was off performing in some other state. The postcard simply read, “Keep trying.”

So, my dad did not stop, and continued this practice for another couple of months, until nearly a year had passed. And still, nothing.

The very next day another postcard arrived by mail, which read, “Keep trying.”

My dad did continue, until more than a year had passed. One evening he was over at his uncle’s apartment when he said to his uncle, “I have to go do my evening practice.”

His uncle was familiar with his nephew’s strange behavior and recommended that he go use the kitchen. Where my dad shut the kitchen door and sat up on the kitchen table. Faced east, and closed his eyes.

The very next second my father’s inner sight was filled with powerful electricity. Lightening bolts. Energy surges that were so strong they literally physically knocked my dad off the back of the kitchen table and onto the floor. Laying on his back on the floor, opening his eyes, my dad could hear his uncle screaming for him, “Hurry! Get in here!”

My dad got up and ran into the room where his uncle was sitting. And there, inside his uncle’s apartment, objects were floating in the air.

My dad would later be sixty-six years old when I was born. But it wouldn’t be old age that would take him while I was still quite young. It was smoking. I fondly remember the smell of his cigars. But lung cancer took his presence away. I could have used a father, more than the memories of those cigars. Most of my memories of my dad are memories, such as these, that have been shared with me by others. But I’ve heard this story, and others, so many times, from so many people, I do believe them to be true.

This moment, back in Chicago, while my father was still quite young, would become just the start of a life that would not only continue with its dashing adventures, but also a few additional ‘psychic’ experiences, as well. And even though I’ve had more than a few such ‘experiences’ myself, there is at least ‘one’ that my dad had ~ even though I’ve had this particular event described to me at different times in my life by many different people who knew my dad very well ~ there is this ‘one’ amazing psychic event that is almost impossible for me to believe. Which I will save for another day…

dad smoking a cigar on the porch

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