Strange Occurences in My Friend's House

I have a friend I will keep anonymous who has now had four bizarre things happen to her over the past year.  These are things that many people would dismiss as absent-mindedness, but she is one of the most together, alert, and deliberate people I know.  I told her she needed to keep a record of these experiences, so I'm doing it for her:

First incident: Last year, she was leaving the house with her daughter.  She grabbed her very bulky keys and stuffed them into her coat pocket.  She remembers this specifically.  She got the car and they keys weren't there.  She went back to the house, opened the front door (I can't remember if she hadn't locked it or what) and the keys were hanging on the hook next to the front door.

Second incident: She woke up one morning to a bizarre noise.  She discovered it was coming from her deceased grandmother's electronic keyboard which had been turned to full volume.  The cover -- which takes some effort to get on -- was still on it.  My friend not only meticulously turns the keyboard off when she is done with it, but she always turns each volume adjuster all the way down.  Her little girl is too small to have messed with the keyboard and replaced the cover.  My friend shut the keyboard off, turned it back on, and could never get it to duplicate that odd noise again.

Third incident:  the evening before last, my friend was washing her dishes and came to the last thing -- a bread pan.  There was some cheese stuck in the bottom corner of the pan and she considered just soaking it all night.  Then she decided against it since she had a brillow pad or something and she scrubbed it, rinsed it, and put in the dish rack.  The next morning when she got up, the pan was soaking in the sink, cheese still stuck to the bottom, as if she had made a different decision.

Fourth incident: the same evening (evening before last) she specifically remembers putting her phone on the charger because her mother-in-law had tried to call right before she did so.  She ignored the call, joked with  her husband, then plugged the phone in.   The next morning the phone was in its case next to the charger station. Her husband witnessed  her put it on the charger and can't figure it out.  He also is pretty sure he saw her wash and put away the bread pan.

Inconsequential weirdness, but weird nonetheless.

444

I have never been one to take notice of a recurring time on the clock, such as the famed 11:11.  I have actually never paid much attention to the significance of numbers, but a couple weeks ago I started noticing that I kept seeing the clock right at 4:44.  There isn't any particular thing I'm doing at that time to explain why I would suddenly look at a clock.  In fact, I get off work around 4:30 and often go to the gym.  I don't even pay attention to the time.  But over weekends and days when I wasn't at the gym, I kept noticing 4:44.  I don't know why, or if there is a "why."  But it's interesting.  I did finally research 444 and found there is a web site devoted to it. 

Coincidence, Dimensional Cross-over, or Crazy Couple?

I teach high school English in Texas. Back in 2010, my husband and I went to the San Antonio Riverwalk for one last getaway before the school year started. We were eating at Joe's Crab Shack when I noticed that a boy in the family we sat next to looked like one of my students from two years prior.  I didn't want to stare long enough to be sure, though, that it was him.  However, a while into the meal, I heard the young girl (who I assumed to be the sister) call this boy "Keenan," which was the name of my student.  I turned quickly now to look at him, and they all looked at me curiously.

"Are you the Coles?"  I asked.  [I have changed their last name.]

"No," they replied.

"Oh, I'm sorry," I said, "I just heard her say Keenan and I taught a Keenan Cole two years ago --"

"Oh," the father cut in, "This is Keenan Cole!"  he said, pointing at the boy.  Keenan smiled quietly, as was characteristic of him.  "This is Keenan Cole," he said again, "But we aren't the Coles." 

So I assumed perhaps this was Keenan's mother and a stepfather, hence the different last names. 

"He's been saying you look like his teacher," the mother said.

"Well, guess what," I said smiling at Keenan, "I am teaching juniors this year, so I might get you again."  He was still just smiling and the sister now had him in a playful headlock. 

"I hope we don't get any bad notes home this year," the mother said. 

I told them that while I didn't remember Keenan being a problem himself, he had been in one of my rowdiest classes, and I had sent a few emails to parents that year. I reviewed some of the names of the more "energetic" boys in Keenan's class, and he nodded in agreement, laughing with me at the memories. 

So that was that and we said goodbye when they left. 

When school started, I did end up with Keenan on my roster.  On the first day of school, I mentioned seeing him on the Riverwalk.  He said nothing until I mentioned it again later, and this time, he said, "That wasn't me."  I questioned him, not just that day, but for several days because he stuck to his story -- he had never been to the Riverwalk this summer.  He even swore to God and he never swore to God, he said. "I was supposed to be at the Riverwalk that week," he did say during one conversation, "But I didn't go. You can ask my mom." Because this was a personal matter and not school-related, I chose to Facebook-message his mom instead of using school email. That is when I saw that she was not the same woman I had seen on the Riverwalk. She replied that they were never in San Antonio this summer. "I work nights, and he was home taking care of his sister." She went on to express some anger at the people who must have been trying to trick me. 

Other people have suggested it was a prank, but believe me when I say that they didn't have time to plot like that. This was all instantaneous conversation. Also, we live over two hours from San Antonio, so it's not like Keenan could have snuck to the Riverwalk and back home while his mom was working. 

My husband is my only witness - he saw the family and heard the conversation. To this day, I cannot explain what happened. 

Another psychic moment involving Jamie

Today during a faculty meeting, my friend Jamie (from the flux capacitor and garage door "pointless psychic stories") was sitting on my right beside me.  I was doodling, as always, and since parallel universes is always a hot topic of conversation with me and Jamie, I began drawing them.  I began with a point -- a small dark circle -- and drew two parallel lines coming out from the top of it.  I began adding smaller lines coming out from each parallel line so that it started looking sort of like tree branches. Jamie had been listening to the speaker intently.  A little bit later, I noticed Jamie had started doodling and I glanced down to see.  In the middle of her page, she had drawn a dark circle with two parallel lines coming out the top of it. The picture took up a good part of her page. I laughed and elbowed her.  "Is that parallel universes?"  She nodded, and I said, "So you saw mine?"  and pointed to my doodles.  She glanced down at my doodles, which were very small and in my left margin.  Then she started cracking up. "No," she said, "I didn't see yours!"  Then she started laughing even harder because she noticed I had started with a dark circle as well.

I was more astonished than amused.  I know that to anyone who doesn't know Jamie, this story doesn't seem that significant -- as you could assume she was lying or that we had drawn parallel universe diagrams before.  But she wasn't and we hadn't.  Something that our principal had said had given her the idea for her parallel universe drawing.  I had started mine long before for a whole different reason.

Dobsonfly (originally what I thought was an Early Brown Stonefly)

This was in my garage. Freeky looking! I put the spoon by it for scale.

My recent flight from KY to AZ and its general unpleasantries

 About 10 minutes after Peter dropped me off the airport last week, I had to call him to turn around because I’d left my laptop in his car. He obliged uncomplainingly – love ya, Peter!


The lady at the luggage check-in was inexplicably hostile with me. First she tried to get me to use the machine, and I told her I didn’t know how. Then she glanced at my ticket and ID and caustically said something to the effect of I had what I needed, I didn’t need else anything from her, what did I want? Well, I still needed to check my luggage. She appeared to now be ignoring me, so I hoisted my suitcase onto the scale unsolicited. I was about to tell her off when I remembered it’s best these days not to get belligerent in an airport.

Lest you think I imagined her rudeness, about 30 minutes later at the gate, some man said to me out of the blue, “That lady at the counter sure was giving you a hard time.” He then told me that another man had gotten so angry with her that she had to tell him not to get in her face. I replied that if she keeps acting that way a lot more people will be getting in her face.

Two men in front of me in the security line smelled so strongly of … well, I’m hoping that one of them had merely stepped in the source of the smell. I kept backing away from them so that the lady behind me couldn’t get close enough to smell them and think I was the culprit. I prayed they weren’t on my flight to Dallas.

The flight was a bit rough and I panicked a couple of times, such as during take-off, the duration of the flight, and the landing. The man next to me was maddeningly oblivious to my anxiety. As if that wasn’t irritating enough, two young women a few seats up (that had already annoyed me by laughing too loudly), kept throwing up their hands during turbulence, as if they were in a roller coaster. You might think this would have lightened the mood for me, but it only resulted in my wanting to smack their joyous hands back down where they belonged. It just looked so stupid and I was so scared and nobody cared. “Everyone is a jerk!” I vented to myself, and somehow that made me feel better.

The coffee on the plane was terrible, and it took me most of the flight to figure out that it tasted exactly like mildew smells.

The next flight got interesting even before take-off. As with the previous flight, there was not an empty seat and people kept holding things up by forcing oversized carry-ons into the overhead compartments. I watched in disbelief while one lady attempted to push in a carry-on that was sticking a good four inches over the top of the storage lid. I guess other people were staring as well because two of us jumped in with suggestions and one motivated young man grabbed it himself and shoved it in.

Eventually, the flight crew began pleading with people to quit holding things up. They asked two or three times for people to get out of the aisles and take their seats. Astonishingly enough, people responded by continuing to take their time and even started switching seats with other people. “Would you and your wife like to sit together?” “Honey, do you want this seat or this seat?” At one point, a man who appeared to be the only sane one besides myself said to his wife “Just sit down!” in exasperation. I couldn’t believe the number of seat-switching I was witnessing, as if the flight crew had pleaded with them to please take more time.

And then, as if that weren’t enough, my seatmate finally appeared, a tall, young , red-headed girl with several facial piercings. And guess what. She asked me to switch her seats so that I had the window and she had the aisle. That was fine with me since it didn’t require holding anyone up. However, rather than sitting down, she got into the seat on her knees and peered overhead to her friend who was several rows back. I knew what was coming next, and sure enough, she asked me to switch seats with her friend. Now I was going to be one of those annoying aisle walkers.

I dashed to my new seat to find a man in probably his 40s who had a strong Texas accent and a cavalier attitude. He continued a conversation on his cell phone even after the instructions had been given to turn cell phones off, and he would simply say “hang on” and place it in his lap whenever the flight attendant passed by.

When we began lift-off, I informed the man I am afraid of flying. After my last flight, I was determined that, whether he cared or not, he would be aware. He asked if there was anything he could do and I told him no, but thank you. During ascent, the pilot began a turn which caused the wing dipping that I hate most of all. “This is the part I hate the most,” I said to the man, determined not to be ignored. He obligingly said, “OK.”

I tried after that to avoid bothering the man, and the rest of the flight was relatively uneventful, except for a small moment of discomfort when the flight attendant mistook us for a married couple. (She asked if we were going to share the peanuts he had purchased. I should have said "Yes, that would be very nice.")

Moral of this otherwise pointless story: if your job requires you to work with the public, don't be an ass. If you are going out of town or even just out of your house, make sure you have no fecal matter on you of any kind. If you find yourself sitting next to nervous people, tell them that you know for a fact they will not die today. (Just say it.) If you are boarding a plane, remember that yours is not the only plane in the air that day and the pilot is on a time schedule. And don't assume people of the opposite sex who happen to be seated together have also been united in matrimony.

Dig Allen, Space Explorer

Once in awhile I am drawn to vintage teen literature. I guess my Trixie Belden reading past (which smoked Nancy Drew) causes me to wax sentimental when I stumble across any G-rated novel for yesterday’s youth.


This week I was browsing in a used bookstore and I came across a book that looked, at a glance, much like the old yellow-spined Nancy Drew or Hardy Boys books. This one, however, had a cover illustration of three boys and a grown man in spacesuits kneeling down and examining what appeared to be an elaborate city under ice. The title read “Lost City of Uranus,” and at the very top it said “A Dig Allen Space Explorer Adventure.” The copyright was 1962. I was immediately drawn to the nostalgia of 1960s sci-fi, a time of innocent wonder at space exploration before sophisticated cynicism, in my opinion, perverted much of sci-fi into the borderline horror of today.

The penciled-in price read 12.00, and even though that seemed a bit steep for Half-Priced Books, I took it to the counter along with two other books. I was startled when the lady said my total would be 7.00 +. I hesitated, wondering if I should count my blessings and run. But curiosity got the better of me and, pointing to the Dig Allen book, I asked, “How much was that?”

“1.00,” the lady said, opening the inside cover to have another look. “Oh no! “ she exclaimed. ”This is 12.00!” Of course, I expected her to reward my honesty, but instead she thanked me for it and charged me the correct amount.

Now feeling incredibly stupid, I paid for and took my purchase. As I explained the situation to my mom, mom suggested I ask the owner of the bookstore, who was currently behind the customer service counter, why this particular book was so much. The man explained that the Dig Allen series , of which there were six total, had been intended to be the new Hardy Boys. However, they had not sold well, and as a result there were only so few printed. That’s why my book cost so much.

Upon hearing this, Mom said to me, “Well, you just paid extra for a flop.” The man hastened to contradict her, but his explanation had already done the damage.

Feeling even more ridiculous, I left with mom. She encouraged me to return the book if I had reservations (and I really should have between the clerk not sticking to the price she originally named and the man explaining to me what a disaster the series had been), but I didn’t.

So last night I started the book, which I thought would be a quick and semi-delightful read, but so far it hasn’t captured me. However, the cover -- the boys in spacesuits exclaiming over a brilliant, extra-terrestrial city under ice – makes me very happy to look at. So I’m keeping it. And I WILL read it, since I paid for it. But from now on I will ASK why a book is so expensive, just in case it is, ironically, because nobody wanted it to begin with.