What In God's Name ... ?

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Hello. Welcome to The Weekend Gene Pool, the Faustian forum in which we deliver entertainment to you and, in return, you deliver anecdotes to us. We use your anecdotes to build content. The content snakes through next week’s Gene Pool. It is an endless, exhausting cycle of give and take, push and pull, grunt and wheeze, perfectly mirroring the human condition.

Today, uncharacteristically, we begin with a Gene Pool Gene Poll.

Good. Thank you for voting.

Did you vote yet? No? Please do.

Good.

Okay, that was a trap. Much like a suicide bomber is gulled into into completing his dreadful mission by being encouraged to make a mission-statement video, which would identify him to his peers as a coward if he backs out. Well, some of you have already voted “yes,”or “kinda.” You’re on the record, at least in your own heart. You must now do the right thing. You must back it up, through elaboration.

In the last couple of weeks, The Gene Pool has been sticking a toe into the occult via the issue of reincarnation; today, we dive in headfirst, probably our last foray into woo-woo. We were inspired by this reader’s Observation which came in last week and which we have held for this moment:

Q: Answering an old question about children remembering past lives and psychic connectedness: When I was 23 I (male) woke up bolt upright from a dead sleep at about 2:00 a.m., convinced that my best friend (female) was in trouble.  I was upset to the point that I almost called her, but talked myself out of it.  When I called the next day, she said nothing was wrong.  Months later she confided the truth: About that time, on that day, she had been having sex and called out my name.  Her boyfriend punched her.  

A: Uh, be glad you didn’t call her at that moment, if you see what I mean. Might have resulted in another punch from the creep.

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Some things defy an explanation, or at least a satisfying explanation. As most of you know, I don’t have much faith in claims of the paranormal, but the truth is that if I took the poll above, and I were being honest, I could not have voted “No.” I had exactly one such experience.

It was in 1998. I was in Worcester, Mass., to do reporting for what would be a cover story for The Washington Post about a young teenage girl — brain-dead from a near-drowning years before in her family’s backyard swimming pool, kept alive by a ventilator — who was said to have caused religious statuary around her to weep. Week after week, religious pilgrims from all over the world were descending by the busload on her parents’ modest home.

Her name was Audrey Santo. Here is the story that resulted from my reporting. The key summational moment came a few dozen paragraphs into the story:

“Spend time in the house at 64 S. Flagg St. and you are likely to be either appalled or inspired. One of two things is going on here: a monstrous fraud that exploits a grievously injured child, or a startling declaration by God Almighty that He exists – is here, right now, in this very place, working miracles.

“One or the other. No in between.

“Right?”

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When I first arrived at the house, I didn’t know the answer to that, of course. But by the time I was done three days later, I felt I did know. It should be obvious, I believed, to any objective observer. The evidence aligned in one direction: Someone in that house — I felt I knew who — was making these events occur in an understandable but deeply dishonest effort to salvage something uplifting and hopeful out of an unspeakable tragedy, tinged with personal guilt; there was a movement afoot in the Roman Catholic church to canonize Audrey Santo.

I did not put my conclusion in the story directly. That would have been cruel. I did it indirectly, with the observable facts marshaled strategically, so a reasonable reader would understand.

On the second night I was there, I returned to my hotel room, but stopped off at the hotel bar and had a double shot of bourbon, and then a second. The story was depressing, and I was feeling it. I went up to my room, emptied my pockets of keys and loose change, threw them on the dresser, and fell onto the bed, still in my clothes.

When I awoke in the morning, I noticed the dresser. The coins that had been in my pocket were arranged into a nearly perfect cross.

Had I unconsciously done this? Possibly. Maybe. Probably. Did someone aligned with the Church sneak into my room to try to influence my thinking? Preposterous, but your mind goes everywhere. Even to the vague possibility of something in which you do not believe.

I didn’t put this odd moment in the story, because it would have been ridiculously prejudicial, and because it would have dragged me into a story that was not about me.

I am not haunted by this incident, or whatever it was. I have very little doubt that there is a non woo-woo explanation. But in that tiny, withered human part of my brain, there is this little seed. It is human nature.

So that is your challenge for today. Have you ever experienced something that seemed paranormal? What was it? How did it happen? Have you ever come to a rational explanation for it? Send it here, to the Mystical Orange Button:

(Please do NOT send it to Comments. Thank you.)

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And finally, on the subject of mystery:

Several days ago, in this space, I told you there was a mysterious person out there who wished to anonymously gift a 1-year paid subscription to the Gene Pool to someone we chose. It is a value of $50.

I gave this person the nickname “Andrew Carnegie,” after the great steel baron and philanthropist and benefactor, who, not coincidentally, did not believe in reincarnation or the occult. I set up a contest for readers to beg for the gift, either for themselves or for another person, saying why they deserve it. They had to do it in 35 words or fewer, and begin with the word “Because.” The winner was Rick Haynes. His entry in its entirety:

“Because in 1945 Sylvia was on Queen For A Day and didn't win the Norge refrigerator simply because her opponent had polio.  Sylvia mentioned this horrific memory at her 100th birthday party.”

Imprecise and elliptical, but intriguing! Clearly this required elaboration. To quote Edward Albee, “Who is Sylvia?” And what the hell is this about?

I contacted Rick Haynes. He explained.

“The 100 year old woman (who passed away last year at 103 and had never spent one night in a hospital in her entire life) was my mother.  I am already a paid subscriber, so I propose to give the free subscription to Ellen Jacobson, who is my neighbor in Florida.  Ellen has the distinction of completing every New York Times crossword puzzle for the last 47 years.  She also happens to have been in your graduating class at Bronx Science.   I think she has the potential for being another Russell Beland once she gets started contributing entries to the weekly Invitational now that she can.”

Russell Beland, at times my bete noir, was one of the greatest Style Invitationalists ever. Plus, you know, high-school ties. This is not judged entirely without personal bias.

So, sold.

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Again, send in your woo-woo stories either to the MOB button above, or the Woo Woo Button, below. They go to the same place.

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If you want to employ me, with the ability to fire me at will, with prejudice, please upgrade your free subscription to “paid.”