I'm forever reading...Bubbles!

This is a photo of me and Grandma Anna, 1955.
My introduction into reading by way of color and energy happened quite innocently. I was three years old, and we were living across the street from my very psychic grandmother. I remember the day very clearly. My mother had taken me across the street for my grandmother to watch me while my mom went to work in her job as a telephone operator (back when we had live people answering the calls!)

Mom held my hand tightly as we crossed the street. We ran up the steps of Grandma Anna’s small house and through the open screen door, which Mom closed behind us.

“I’ll see you soon,” she said, kneeling to address me. “Be a good girl for Grandma.”

I walked down the foyer to her parlor and sat down on the sofa, the plastic seat cover sticking to my legs as my dress rode up behind me. I sat like this for about five minutes before Grandma came out from behind the curtained off room that was her bedroom. We did not often communicate verbally because she could not speak much English, but I always got her message somehow.

However, today something was different. As she sat next to me talking in her native Italian, tiny purple and blue bubbles came streaming from her mouth. I wanted to ask her to share the bubble blower, but I did not see one.

As she continued to speak, the colors changed again to white, green and yellow. I became very aware of Grandma’s mood just from the shifting colors.

Distracted and mesmerized by these bubbles, I watched them form opaque circles before disappearing into the air. They were coming from Grandma Anna’s mouth in slow and steady clusters. I began to feel emotional. The red made me angry and the green had me wanting to tell Grandma to take better care, while the purple suggested that she was wise beyond my limited three-year-old understanding.

“Eh! Snap over it!” she yelled in her fractured English, her fingers clipping in the air to get my attention.

I moved my eyes up to hers. “Huh?”

She looked confused. “Snap out of it,” she corrected.

I did as I was told, but was still seeing the colorful bubbles.

“Grandma, can I have the bubble maker, too?”

Her eyes widened, and she smiled.

It was at that unfortunate moment, that her next “friend” came to visit. All the people who came to her for advice were never referred to as clients or customers, but as friends.

“Come stai, Mr. Marx,” she greeted in Italian, patting my hand and standing so she could lead the way back behind the curtain. She turned and smiled, her hand on the folds of the curtain, ready to close them. “Is good.”