Chapter Five. Part IV

Chapter Five. Part IV

One of the ongoing challenges at this time was the weekly, often twice-weekly visit I would make to Ernestine’s house, something I wrote about earlier in this chapter (part II, session 8th April 1994, ((post: May 1st 2013)). 

It may be hard to imagine just how much a lady in her late eighties, wanting to develop her classical guitar playing, could be so exasperating, yet with a degree of predictable regularity exasperating she was, so much so that when the ‘so called’ lesson would end, I’d usually leave her house feeling exhausted. Officially, the lessons were forty five minutes in duration, but for a needy woman such as Ernestine, not only were my visits seen as more a social occasion, but the intended time frame was considered irrelevant. 

A requirement unspoken and vague, yet expertly imposed - for her the lessons needed to last two or three times the official length. Of course, this kind of manipulation, successful as it was, always requires willing compliance, and mine came in the form of an inability to find a tactful and gracious way of bringing things to a close - a way that would leave her without a scowl on her face, and me without guilt. 

She first contacted me after I’d placed an ad for guitar tuition in the local newspaper; her story, so she told me some time later, was that she’d cut out the advertisement, carried it around in her pocket for weeks not knowing whether or not I could be trusted, and then it wasn’t until she saw her late Father’s face superimposed on the cutting one day that she felt she knew it was safe to call me. As a result of this I was, in her mind, the incarnation of her father. 

Well, if all that isn’t enough to get the warning lights flashing I’m not sure what is.

To be fair, in retrospect I’d have to say she was most likely in the early stages of dementia, so as time progressed so did her condition. But also to be fair to myself, how could it be anything other than frustrating when every single hand movement, finger placement, fret position and string number had to be instructed at a deafening volume level - and it was easier to make myself heard than it was to be understood.  

She was a demanding lady. I would feel stressed before I even arrived. Yet despite all of this I did have a soft spot for her, and was unable to walk away, feeling in some way that I had a role to play in contributing something to her life. I can certainly say that she made a significant contribution to mine.

Bit by bit it became apparent that Ernestine was moving a notch or two further into a more advanced stage of her condition as she told of plans to get a caravan and horse, and asked me to travel the country with her. 

Then came dramatic talk of floods that had been taking place with regularity in the street just outside her house, then finally, to top it all she tried to convince me that the woman masquerading as my partner was in fact not Carol but was indeed the moors murderer, Myra Hindley. 

Ernestine inevitably ended up in a rest home, and what were once guitar lessons–albeit a questionable version–became straightforward visits, visits where she would tell of the meetings and conversations she’d been having with long deceased family members as they came to her room at night. 

I always listened intently and took her seriously when she spoke about these things, not that I necessarily bought her stories one hundred percent, but I was, and still am quite open to these possibilities. When people move closer to death these are often the kind of words they speak, more just like passing conversation and in a tone that doesn’t even attempt to convince.

She finally joined those relatives at the age of ninety six. 

I sang in the church at her funeral.

In her will she bequeathed me her record collection of 78s and LPs, and I also inherited her guitar which hangs on my studio wall to this day.

Chapter Five. Part III.

The Glass Chronicles

Chapter Five continued ...

The Pages 2

The Glass Chronicles

It wasn’t long before the questions started to develop ever so slightly. Here (chapter one - part 2) I ask whether or not there’s such a thing as sexual gender on ‘the other side’. I’d always imagined that this would be something only relevant to the mortal plane, so if indeed there was such a thing as a non-physical plane, then how on earth could there be any need for reproduction. However, when asked, Stan says, “Male and female here”. 

Another curious feature was why no one we contacted would ever reveal their surname, or anyone else’s, come to that. Stan tells us, “Don’t have ‘em here - one community”.

Above: You can see that I decided to make a note of some of the questions asked; this was something I soon gave up on. It was fine when the glass moved slowly, or if we repeatedly stopped allowing me to catch up with things, but eventually I figured it was not only too much work, but it also interfered with the general flow of events. 

John tells us that murderers don’t end up in hell in the way we might imagine, but that they ‘suffer’ as ‘tormented souls’. I ask if there’s such a thing as God, and the Devil? - his reply: “You don’t want much do you!”. 

Again, I couldn’t equate the idea of those in the spirit realm having a position in a ‘physical’ sense, yet John says, “Above you”, when asked about it. 

Below: One of the more amusing interactions (chapter two - part 3). Could it be that Abdul and Brian are the same person? It certainly looks as though someone’s having fun with us.

They’d often speak about each other, sometimes in very complimentary ways, but not always, though never damning. Also, it was explained that it was difficult (or impossible) to make contact with some of those on their side, as they resided on a lower or on a higher plane.

Above: Brenda manages to briefly sneak in, possibly with the blessing of Frank. She speaks of “encroaching on Frank’s time”.      

Below: One of the most striking of contacts to have come through was Tanina. I recall an earlier conversation that prompted me to specifically ask for her return, and return she did. 

Here was a new feature - now ‘I’ was being asked questions, “Do you believe a little more now?” she asked. 

Explaining my dilemma of belief, and how, regardless of what takes place in front of me I still constantly try to explain away our Ouija experience in ‘logical’ terms, she responds ‘[I] appreciate your position’. 

She then reveals something that takes me completely by surprise, saying, “We need to believe also to enable us to speak to you”.    

I express bemusement, “Surely, that can’t be the case - aren’t you in the privileged position of being able to see us, yet we can’t see you?". 

She replies, “Take nothing for granted”, and that it is ‘only those open to the concept totally’ that we can speak with, “otherwise you would be inundated”.   

She bids us goodbye, the glass comes to a standstill, and Carol and I sit back discussing in detail what’s just taken place. I’m not sure how much time elapsed, but when we did eventually return our fingers, without a moments hesitation the glass spelled out, “Enjoyed the debate, enjoy your life. By again, Tanina”. 

From one extreme to the other. I’m finishing with a session that has ‘spoof’ written all over it. 

Very much in the same vain as the Abdul and Brian contacts, we now have Tommy, a magician who hated his hat, and who died on stage - all quite intriguing. 

It’s easy to think you’re talking to Tommy Cooper here until you examine the details he gives. The date of his death: September 1986? it was in fact April 15th 1984. Where he lived: Woking, Surrey? The real TM actually lived in Chiswick, Middlesex. 

As is explained in a later session - some spirits, although they cannot harm, are mischievous. 

Nevertheless, his core message is worth noting: “Keep your values - [it’s a] sad life without them”.

The Pages 1

The Pages 1

As promised in chapter one, here are some of the pages documenting our sessions in their original form. These pages do leave something to be desired from an aesthetic point-of-view, but nevertheless give an idea of how most of our attention was focused on everything other than the handwriting. 

I’ve previously described how at times the speed of the glass’ movement would not afford whoever was recording the events onto paper (usually me) the pause or the space to allow a quick understanding of when one word ended, and the next began, something that’s evident even on the very early sessions. Conversely, there are moments when the end of a word is mistakenly anticipated leaving a pre-empted space; an example of this is seen below, where “CALL ED” is written, when actually the one word, “CALLED” appears to be intended. 

The nature of these early sessions is quite basic with the simplest, although perhaps understandable of questions being asked - such as, “When did you die?” and “where did you live?”. 

I’m beginning at 4th January 1994; and to see how I subsequently edited, included the questions that were asked, and commented on these notes, you can refer back to the earlier chapters that they correspond to.

Above: Dennis tells us to hurry, as his time is short (Ch.1), then Jane appears to indicate that meningitis caused her death.
Below: (Ch.1) Certainly one of the more memorable sessions. When I asked Zak if he’d materialise for us in the kitchen where we were sat, he exclaimed it was a “loaded question” and that it would “scare u shitless”. Still, I was insistent. So he asked us to “name your place” (I suggested he appear by the sink) and to “hold the glass”. We waited and waited, eventually getting bored, and placing our fingers back onto the glass; with a jolt it suddenly spelt out the words, “made u look, made u stare”. 

One thing I did learn on that evening was not to write with a marker pen on both sides of A4.

When I asked Sam (below) to appear before us, he said it was "not on" and inferred that he needed to trust us more. He continued, "I ain't livin' in this kitchen", and told us to "find a good book or something".  

Thinking that the conversation with Sam had probably finished, we took a short break and left the room. The cat must have wandered in whilst we were out. We returned (with new writing implement), placed our fingers back onto the glass, and I clearly remember the following leaving us  crying with laughter ...  

Sam became a regular visitor.

Below: I ask Theresa if she's familiar with Sam. She describes him as "full of shit" and as "black as the ace of spades". 
When I posed the question of whether it was necessary to believe in an afterlife in order to experience one (as in biblical terms), her response was, "If that's the state, then there would be no one here". Then she tells us she's run out of time and is getting pushed.    

The scribbling and aimless doodling seen here would take place as we chatted, waiting for any movement from the glass.