Dimes

I once went to the Perryville library to hear the local antique dealer/ghost expert speak.  He was fascinating, and I believed every word he said.  He ended his presentation with a personal story about his father.  The number ten was an important one for his dad.  As a result, the family had a jar of dimes at home. Those dimes, symbolizing the number ten, had been collected throughout the years since his father's death.  He confidently explained the family's  belief that they were being left by his father to let them know he was still a presence in their lives.

Dimes.  I couldn't believe it.  I had to leave the room before I burst into tears.  You see, my family members leave dimes for us, too. 

My father and his sister, Aunt Jean, fanatically saved dimes.  I remember his peanut cans full of dimes. He never did tell me why they saved them, but save dimes they did.  I happened to catch a morning talk show when the guest explained that the dead communicate with the living by placing objects with meaning in front of them. Right after that I found a dime on the kitchen floor and I jokingly said, "Hi Aunt Jean!"  Afterwards I paid attention when dimes appeared.

My sister and I were preparing to leave for China to adopt her first daughter, a girl who'd be named for our two deceased and beloved aunts, Reba and Jean.  I was "mind chatting" with them and asking them to watch over us on that journey.  In the middle of my unmade bed was a dime. I have no idea how it got there.  I had not put my purse or suitcase on the bed.  There were no pockets on my nightgown.  And it had not been there when I went to bed. I felt comforted knowing that Aunt Jean would be with us on the journey. Though I felt a little silly when I told my sister, she agreed.

There's more.

One night I went to bed and didn't remember that I'd left a candle burning in the kitchen.  I could smell smoke, but since the bedroom window was open, I assumed it was a neighbor outside grabbing a cigarette.  The next morning I woke to see that the candle had burned through the plastic base, the glass table, and landed on a wool rug where it had mysteriously snuffed itself out. My legs gave out on me as I realized how close I'd come to burning down my house.  During hall duty, I told the miraculous story to my corner teacher buddies. One was glad that my guardian angel had been watching over me.  But Sandi, who'd heard my dime stories told me to look down.  There at my foot was a dime.  "Well, we know who put the fire out," Sandi said.

There's more.

My father was in the hospital (again) and it did not look good.  I was so upset and sick with worry.  As I  walked downstairs to do laundry, I was talking (in my head) to his sister, my Aunt Jean  and asking her to watch over us and be there if the worst happened to Dad. When I came up the stairs, there was a dime in the middle of the middle step. It was not there  when I went downstairs.  There was nobody else in the house. 

And more.

Years later when Mom was in the hospital, we thought it would be her last night on Earth.  I wanted to stay in her ICU room that night, but the nursing staff was forcing me to leave.  I told them to call the police to remove me as I was not going to leave my mother to die alone. They were annoyed, but allowed me to stay in the lounge down the hall. I was up and down most of the night looking in on her.  I was exhausted and wallowing in self-pity when I called my sister around midnight.  At the end of our conversation, I got up from the chair to return the phone to the end table.  I looked down at the chair, and there was a dime. It hadn't been there before, and I'd been up and down a lot.

Since then, there have been many dime sightings.  My nieces know the stories.  Reba often finds dimes.  Once on a beach in Disney World when she dug up a dime in the sand, she was excited that Bubbe and PopPop were watching over our vacation.  The first Christmas after Mom's death yielded a dime on the living room coffee table.  Helen and I had played Santa the night before, and I had personally cleaned off and emptied that coffee table. Nothing.  There was nothing on it when we went to bed.  I dreaded cleaning out my desk after I quit my part-time job.  I was strengthened by the dime I found on the steps that day.

I wish I'd done what the ghost expert did, save the dimes and record the stories. There are so many dime episodes, and I'm beginning to forget some of them, which is a shame. But, I remember enough and I know there will be more.  Life goes on.