On July 17, 2014, I went to the Oakland County Fair. It was a typical county fair complete with rides, heart-clogging carne food, and money-draining game booths. They even had a psychic tent!

Just for fun, I decided to give it a try. The tent was extravagant with rich purple curtains, a purple table cloth. and a crystal ball. All was accentuated with thick, plush golden cords.  

The only thing more flamboyant than the setup was the elderly medium herself. She wore an equally brilliant purple robe with matching headdress.

The hat bore a giant centered red ruby and a plume of magnificently colored feathers sprouting from the top. Her makeup was nothing short of bizarre.

Most notable was the overdone purple mascara, eye shadow, and eyeliner that ran to her pancaked and blushed cheeks. The theme was completed with bright purple lipstick. 

Once seated, the psychic started asking short biographical questions in a thick European accent that held a hint of falsehood to it. Then the woman closed her eyes and started humming while swaying her body back and forth. “I sense that one of your great grandfathers has passed.”

I stifled a chuckle because I sensed BS. I was 45 at the time. The odds of her revelation were highly in her favor. It went bad from there. 

“He was a male with greying hair although it wasn’t always grey.”

Now I laughed out loud. Seriously? Grey hair but it wasn’t always grey?  

The woman’s eyes flashed open with anger. “You do not heed the truth in my words?”

“Your words are fine, but the humming and cobra-like swaying are a bit over the top.” I smiled. 

“Mark my words, you shall die on this very day, ten years from now, disbeliever!” she hissed. 

I laughed, shaking my head.  

“Your great grandfather died from heart disease in 1976,” she shrieked, sending spittle across the table. 

Now I was really laughing, because I had dinner with my mother and great grandfather, Ollie, just a week ago.  

She pointed at me and said, “Get out!”

“But, I never got to see your crystal ball in action lady, besides don’t you want your money?” I quipped.  

She merely stared at me sternly and pointed at the exit flap. I obliged, heading off to find something a little more entertaining in the carnival.  

I didn’t give the incident much thought until a year ago, when I was talking to my mom about my recent high cholesterol report. She advised I keep a close eye on it because my paternal great grandfather had passed from congestive heart failure.  

I was estranged from my father and knew little about his family. After taking a nervous gulp, I asked, “What year was that, ma?”  

“Oh geez, that was back in the seventies . . . 76 . . . I think.”

So, the good news is that I never paid that psychic. The bad news is I die tomorrow.