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by Debra Fulton

Overview

"I know that you may read this and think that a forty-something-year-old woman had more important things to do. But I am telling you, when you connect with someone not from this material world that has told you information only you could know, you would also be compelled to learn more. The fact that she revealed the 1,2,3,4, simply cemented my belief. No one had known this. It was a trifling thing that I had just been noticing for a while. She was giving me the password-the one thing that would cinch it for me. Now, I had many questions to ask."

Debra led her life as most of us do. She worked, raised her children, and had a social circle of friends with her husband. She didn't do a lot of questioning about the meaning of her life until simultaneous events triggered her to think about love and loss, her purpose, and the afterlife. She takes us on her journey of discovery with experiences from her past, unreal experiences in the present, and the advent of her daughter's psychic talent.

Could expanding our beliefs of spirituality and possibility lead us to experience true love from the "other" side? Is there more than one realm of existence living cohesively?

She found many answers, along with many more questions. She now believes we are never alone.

This non-fictional account involves the paranormal, the growth of her daughter as a medium, and the encompassing love of those around us we know-and some we don't know. Take heart and join her journey; there is much more to this life than what we see with our eyes.

Product Details

ISBN-13:	9781452558134
Publisher:	Balboa Press
Publication date:	09/11/2012
Pages:	172
Product dimensions:	5.50(w) x 8.50(h) x 0.40(d)

Read an Excerpt

:34

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By Debra Fulton

BALBOA PRESS

Copyright © 2012 Debra Fulton
All right reserved.
ISBN: 978-1-4525-5813-4

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Chapter One

Being the youngest, the "oops" baby born to parents in early middle age in the mid 60's was an interesting childhood, to say the least. Back then, it was considered weird to give birth at that late an age. Most of my memories are of things I did alone. I did (and still do) have a best friend that I met in third grade. Before this, though, most experiences were products of imagination, invention, and pure boredom. Thinking I could jump off the couch and just for a second - a split second- float effortlessly in mid-air was something not unusual for me. I really did believe I was flying, in ever so short a segment of time. But, I could feel it, really feel it, before I slammed down onto the orange shag carpeting in our ranch style home.

Both my siblings were older, my brother by 13 years, and my sister by 8. They tried to incorporate me into their lives but it was rarely convenient. He was in college when I was five, and she had a constant stream of social events and musical groups that she was involved in throughout junior high and high school.

Don't feel sorry for me. I had a great childhood. I couldn't imagine doing anything more exciting than I could create in my own little mind. My parents lived through World War II. My dad, Allen, served in Northern Africa and Italy for a full three years before they married. His father was from Germany, and this side of the family consisted of the typical stout, opinionated eaters that you can imagine from the Midwest with that German heritage and depression experiences. No drinkers on board, though. Mom's family was a mix of English, German, and some Irish people whose English forefathers hailed from mother England in the big wave of the mid-1630's and 40's. They made it as far west as Illinois and decided not to cross the Mississippi. This was a typical Midwest family in the late twentieth century, and I was a typical product of it.

It was a carefree, happy time. Time was spent walking around the hot suburban sidewalks barefoot in the summer. Getting together with a neighbor girl and jumping through the sprinkler. I remember running around the back yard at dusk with the sound of locusts and crickets, hearing them undulate through the air, and catching lightening bugs with our hands to stick into mason jars with little holes punched in the top. Those poor, unfortunate bugs gave us a show for a couple of hours and then succumbed to an early death from suffocation before we remembered to let them out. We walked about a mile and a half to and from the neighborhood school every day. Our parents never worried about child abductors, drug dealers, or even imagined us not actually attending. School was where the social experiment was; where we learned how we fit in (if we did), with what group, and how to interact with our peers. We all learned and I can safely say, we all had fun with the occasional bad day.

Watching

I am four. I am sitting on the wooden floor in my bedroom in front of the closet door playing with some toys from my laundry basket toy box. As I inspect the green plastic dairy truck with a slot in the top for coins, I feel her looking at me. She is to my right, somewhere near the foot of my bed, just looking at me. I can't see her but I know who she is - my grandmother. She was my mom's mom who died back in 1948 from ovarian cancer. Even at this age, I wonder if this is imagination, then I decide it's not. This would be only the beginning of a connection to a person I had never met, but felt I had thoroughly known somehow. An overwhelming comfort comes through me and I know that she is watching over me. I love her.

Chapter Two

It was 1973 and I was assigned to third grade in a class taught by Mrs. Struber. She was not the usual kind of teacher with gray hair done up once a week at the neighborhood beauty parlor. She was young. She had short brown hair in a modern straight style and wasn't scary like those elderly ladies with fatty arms and puffy ankles who wore long skirts and button-up blouses. She was different for us, all right. In this class I would succeed as I did for my entire school career, with straight A's and almost perfect attendance. There was no other option because my parents and my siblings stressed the importance of education. Back then there were no team sports until well into junior high. I took piano lessons, and man, I hated it.

I just wasn't musically talented like the rest of my family. Mom was a soprano in the church choir. Dad had music in his family. His brothers were in a musical group after the war, and my brother had a beautiful voice which stayed inside the house on special occasions when he walked around in a good mood and sang for fun. We always had that upright piano in the living room. My sister took lessons for years, excelled at music, continued to study right through college, and eventually became a music teacher. There was no choice; off to piano lessons I go. I was also expected to practice after school for a half hour each day. Rarely did I do this, almost never, in fact. I just did not fit into this musical environment. Time was better spent outdoors running, riding my bike, climbing trees, and generally being the small Daniel Boone explorer I was at heart. To this day my voice could deter the most vicious burglar. All I would have to do is start singing and he would run screaming with his fingers in his ears. But I digress. The third grade was important for one thing and one thing only. Beth. She quickly became my best friend. You know these people instantly when you meet them. It was a familiar feeling, a comfortable presence. She has been with me all these years and is the only person who knows all about me. I mean the only one. It's good to have one of these around and I feel really lucky.

Once, we decided to exchange winter coats for the day. I wore hers home, and she wore mine. An unconscious attempt to experience life as the person we liked most. I loved being at her house and she liked being at mine. She was from a large, lower-middle class, Catholic family. There was so much excitement at her house. Her brother and four sisters were in constant conflict. Expletives came to my virgin ears. Her mother escaped the clamor by going into the woods camping by herself. A quiet person, she always had a book in the kitchen as she baked chocolate cookies and other exquisite goodies I never saw at my house. This woman considered me to be another one of her children. At the moment she heard of my father's death, she dropped a plate she was drying on the floor and it shattered into pieces.

The most fascinating thing about hanging out with Beth was an introduction to the Catholic Church. This place was farthest on the spectrum from the American Baptist church in which I was raised. It was mystery, people speaking phrases in unison, kneeling on teeny tiny pads that dropped from the back of the pew in front of them. What a novel idea! Getting up and standing in line for communion instead of passing the bread and grape juice in little plastic cups down the row of people in the Baptist tradition. There were boys in white robes assisting the priest who walks around swinging smelly incense and speaking in Latin. Wow, what had I been missing anyway? Beth says it's boring, made up of catechism classes and mandatory meetings to learn what being Catholic was all about. She even got a new middle name, Marie, when she did her catechism. It didn't sound too bad to me. I would have liked a new middle name. As life went on, I tended to hang out with a lot of Catholics because they were fun, they drank with each other, they partied harder, and the whole group was very superstitious. I even married one (much to the chagrin of his mother), who, through the years, has proven herself to be a very open minded yet highly disciplined Catholic. I am sure his mother secretly wished I was Catholic myself, but in the end, loved me just as well in my Protestant state. Looking back at the differences in our religious upbringing, I see how it loomed so large then, and seems so small now. I have been told that the root of most religions is love for one another. I believe this to be true.

Shy

I am 4. I slowly enter the kitchen of our home, where mom and dad are doing the evening dishes. She liked to wash and he liked to dry. They turn toward me and mom says, "What is it, Debbie? What's the matter?" I ask in the most tortured, restrained voice, "Can I go to the bathroom?" "Well, of course you can, honey - this is your home, you can use the bathroom whenever you want," she says. I just wanted to check, I felt like a visitor there.

One day, the meter reader rings the back doorbell and mom lets him in the house. They go into the basement to read the electric meter. He is big and scary. Even though I see him once a month, I cling to my mother's leg and hide behind her. I hide behind her every time I see anyone. It didn't matter who; the neighbor, the insurance guy, or the people in the grocery store. I only trust her, no one else. I am afraid of people.

Chapter Three

In the Baptist church, tradition states that when the spirit of the Lord moves you, you "go forward" at the end of the Sunday service. If you intended to accept Jesus Christ as your Lord and Savior, the pastor would invite anyone in the congregation to come to the front of the church and state this intention at the end of the service. From the time I sat in that pew at the age of 6 or so, until the age of 11, I saw many people move down this long center isle and speak to the people about their very secretive, spiritual self. As you can imagine, as a shy girl, the thought of doing this was akin to running through Grand Central Station naked screaming, "I'm a crazed killer!!" There was no way I was going to do this without some kind of encouragement. But the time came when I was too old not to make some kind of statement. This was not the spirit moving me; but the timeline of the church and my family moving me.

First, I was sent to disciple class. This was a series of about 12 classes meeting on Saturday afternoon with other kids my age. We sat quietly and tried to stay awake enough to listen to the monotone voice of Pastor Dean explain just what it was to be a good Christian. How we go through the motions of baptism, service to the church and community, and of course, the act of tithing, which is giving the church 10 percent of everything you earn. These were biblical teachings, not the teachings of the Baptist church per se. After the prescribed 12 weeks of structured dogma it was time for me to state my intention at the front of the church. Don't get me wrong, I fully believed in the Bible, Jesus, the fact I needed to do this in order to be "saved". The problem was, I didn't want anyone else involved in my personal decision. Why couldn't I just show up and be immersed in the baptismal font on the Sunday they were doing this? But I had to suck it up. On that Sunday before baptism Sunday, I took that long, slow walk up to the pastor. He asked me why I came up. I said I wanted to be baptized. Yikes. This was a very scary experience, and now all I had to do was get soaking wet the next Sunday, and I could remain secretive about the things I felt towards religion for the rest of my life.

Unfortunately, this tactic never works if you are involved in a church. Groups form for all kinds of projects, and you are going to get involved - whether you like it or not. As quiet as I tried to remain, occasional my feelings would escape. Once, I ended up bawling during a church service on Father's Day. Dad had just died the month before, and I couldn't keep the stiff upper lip required to hide my feelings. Many times I had to explain to small children what Jesus was all about. I ended up teaching Sunday school, singing in the choir (God help us all), and being on the board of Christian education. The only way I got out of this extended call of duty was to finally move 200 miles away. The lesson was learned. I didn't volunteer for another church for the rest of my life. I had already experienced more than my fair share of duties. I wanted to sit back and relax in church; if that was even a possibility.

Projection

I am 4 or 5 and awaken in the middle of the night. The house is quiet enough to hear a pin drop. The light from the window is very faint. All I see are shades of grey and black. I am on my back. The problem is, I don't feel the bed. This is a frightening experience. I am aware, highly aware, of my breathing and my body. I am not at the level of the bed, but about 3 feet above it. There is no way to get back into the body space I should be occupying. I decide to use a magic motion. My hands come in front of my face and I use the magic motion of waving them back and forth in front of my face. It worked! I'm back on the bed! This strange event occurs about another 3 or 4 times in my memory, each of them being the same. I don't tell anyone, they won't believe me.

Chapter Four

As you may have gathered by now, I had quite an imagination as a child. My parents had a collection of World Book Encyclopedias stacked in the dark brown slanted book shelf in our living room. Along with the encyclopedias were a collection of books encapsulating the years starting somewhere in the early 60's and progressing until present time (which was about 1974 or so). During long boring days when the weather was bad and in the evenings after dinner time when nothing good was on T.V., I would randomly peruse these volumes. There was so much to learn. Of particular interest was the section about Abraham Lincoln. Such an apparently ugly guy, but he sure accomplished a lot before someone shot him.

My favorite place to lurk was the section under the volume of D-E which contained articles on both Queen Elizabeth I and Queen Elizabeth II. Something about the nobility and privilege of the royal house of England enthralled me. Thinking about being in those big castles, wearing those jewels and long robes, and entertaining other royals was so exciting to me. Many nights I threw a gold piece of fabric remnant- mom was a seamstress-and a red fake flower to connect the piece in front, along with some kind of circular band on top of my head, and slowly paced down the hallway from the bedrooms to the area joining the kitchen and living room. I wasn't able to reproduce the medieval adornment required to become Q-E II, but I WAS the queen of England at this time just because I believed myself to be. This was very entertaining to my mother, who told several people at work about my evening royal processions. They started to contribute fake flowers and old New Year's Day crowns in order to perpetuate my eccentric imaginary life. One thing I have to say is that no one ever tried to convince me I couldn't be the people in my mind. They encouraged me at every level.

My brother, sister, and dad got the biggest kick out of a little magic game with me. I was about 4 and, of course, believed I could perform magic, like the guys on T.V. with the black 3-piece suits and white gloves. They would sit in the living room and I would place my teddy bear on the couch. Then, I would leave the room and go into the kitchen murmuring "abracadabra". Upon re-entering the living room, I proved beyond a shadow of a doubt that the teddy had magically disappeared! Repeating the above steps with the same mantra I would re-enter the living room and the bear had returned! My God! I really was a magician. I think I was about 8 before I figured out they were the ones to remove and replace the magic bear. What a push-over. After re-examining my memories, the one thing to give it all away was the raucous laughter emanating from their mouths. Like I said, I always had an enthusiastic audience. Who could resist taking advantage of a stupid four year old?

Along with the supernatural magic theme, I was consciously aware of the fact that ghosts existed. There was no doubt in my mind to counteract this belief. This was never a subject that was outwardly discussed by other members of the household. Mom and Dad were pretty concrete thinkers. If you don't see it, it simply does not exist. However, from the time I can remember, I was aware of small things like a breeze past my neck, sounds that came up out of the blue, and the weird awareness of a spirit that stood at the corner in the basement.

My brother's bedroom was down in the basement with the standard cement brick walls and musty smells. He was something of a recluse and a voracious reader, the kind of guy who gives a 12 year old Madame Bovary to read while harping on the dangers of watching too much television. A person should be reading instead.

(Continues...)

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Excerpted from :34 by Debra Fulton Copyright © 2012 by Debra Fulton. Excerpted by permission of BALBOA PRESS. All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.
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