Sixteen years ago this farmhouse was my home. The Grand Ole Opry still plays here. I’d hear it in the kitchen while I was cooking, cleaning, washing dishes. I’d hear it coming through the wall when I read in bed at night. Especially clear after I’d turn out the light.
I pictured the people who lived here when the radio was playing and all the old greats were entertaining people in houses all over the country. I pictured the woman in the kitchen, doing her chores. I pictured the family gathered around and listening to that radio while they sewed, sharpened knives, did homework. It was a friendly thing, hearing the music this house absorbed.
You can’t see the front porch well in this picture. I couldn’t get many pictures because someone lived here at the time I took it. On the end, there’s a swing. The night my Grandmother died, I was sitting in that swing. Her nickname was Cat. While I was slowly swinging, I heard a cat meow in the darkness. I knew it was my Grandmother saying goodbye. Later, I got the call from my family telling me she was gone.
What was it about this particular house? I don’t know myself. I’ve had a couple of other experiences in other places, but none as consistent as what occurred in this house and never any contact from my own family. It wasn’t a scary thing at all. I can still hear the music in my head. I hear Cat telling me goodbye with that meow. Somehow, she knew I would understand.