Sometimes, Val Has Followers

Heh, heh. Funny, the things you learn when traveling the Blogosphere. Take the 11:11 phenomenon, for instance. I had never heard of the 11:11 phenomenon until today. Blog buddy Joe H shared it with us, though true credit, I believe, goes to Mrs. Cranky, his famed-grocery-store-list-writing spouse.

I've noticed that sometimes 11:11 shows up when I glance at a digital timepiece. I probably notice because it's a nice symmetrical number. I've also noticed that the time is often 4:20 when I check the clock. No explanation for that one...

Here's the thing. Funny I should read that 11:11 post this morning before I left home to go work on cleaning out my mom's house. Because yesterday, while cleaning out her house, I picked up my cell phone to check the time, and it was 11:11! I didn't think anything of it then, except to tell my sister the ex-mayor's wife, who was leaning against the kitchen counter, "Oh, look! It's 11:11."

We had just spent two hours going through the top of Mom's bedroom closet. Sis found Mom's wedding album, and read out loud the page describing the honeymoon. Don't worry. It was G-rated. We're talking about my mom, here!

It was cute, how my 22-year-old mom gushed over my 20-year-old dad, saying how lucky she was that he made her the happiest woman in the world. How they drove south after the wedding, and stopped to have hamburgers and fries at a drive-in restaurant. "Of course, for all we knew, we could have been eating chicken sandwiches and chips. We were both so wrapped up in the excitement of being married."

Mom went on to tell of their eventual destination in Tennessee, where they stayed with high school friends Shirley and Elmo, who were already married. "The next night we went to the state fair. We had such a good time! In the parking lot, [my dad] and Elmo caught a man breaking into cars. They called the police and had him arrested!" Yeah. That's it. Not another word about the fair. That's my mom, all right.

Anyhoo...Sis and I had gone from the uppstairs bedroom down to the kitchen. The Pony was gathering boxes. I bent over to my purse, which was sitting on a kitchen chair from a set that had belonged to my Mom's mom. I pulled out the phone, and there it was, 11:11. We went down the next level of that split-level house into the family room, and continued our cleanout in the bathroom closet.

"Look at this Val! Why would Mom do things like this?" Sis held up a twisty lightbulb in a box, with a handwritten note: 'This may be burned out.' "Why wouldn't she just throw away a used lightbulb? And look at this. There's three knee braces! Mom never had anything wrong with her knees. And THIS!" Sis pulled out a musical relic from the 80s, a suitcase-size jam box, suitable for carrying on one's shoulder, or setting on the pavement when ready to breakdance. "When did Mom ever listen to this?"

We cleared out the bathroom. The Pony carried the trash and the treasures up to the main floor. He loaded a couple of boxes in T-Hoe and helped Sis carry a few things. Then he sat down in the living room to text his new paramour. I stood at the front door annoying him. We had propped open the glass door, and I had my hand on the wooden door, waiting to open it when Sis came back from her car. The entryway is a wood hallway. I had one hand on that door, and one hand on the wall of the living room entrance. There I stood, like a big bird with its wings spread.

Behind me, I heard a pop. Nothing was behind me. Just a mirror on the wall, a ceramic urn thingy holding three umbrellas, and a walker that Hick had bought for Mom. I was touching none of that, and standing perfectly still.

"Did you hear that?" I said it quietly, to The Pony.

"Yes! It sounded like somebody taking a step on that wood floor. Like how the wood creaks."

Let the record show that later last night, in our own house, I heard walking in The Pony's room. He swore he never got up. And two hours after that, I heard a heavy footstep in Genius's old bedroom, and the creak of the mattress as somebody lay down on his bed.

Mrs. Cranky doesn't have to make a believer out of Val.