My mother does not suffer fools. It is one of her chief qualities and the one I respect her for the most. When wronged, she is formidable. When it came to raising her children, she loved us and has proved (and continues to) that she would do anything for us, but she was realistic about our abilities and shortcomings. When my oldest brother made the honor roll in spite of failing English, she single-handedly got the district to change its policy that only factored GPA when calculating its honor roll. The principal had never had a parent complain that their child made the honor roll and was curious why she was so pushy about it. "It's not an honor if you don't do your work," she replied. She won. Corey was demoted. He continued to skip his English homework but aced his tests and never made honor roll again.
This instinct of hers clued her in that something else was up. Later that day she asked me how I knew what was going to happen.
I cheerfully replied that I read the teacher's schedule on her desk.
My mother followed up with the teacher. "You do know Colette can read, right?"
Mrs. Compton did not. Allegedly, I took cues from the other children and did not disclose that I, in fact, read quite well. I moved to the first grade at Christmas time.
Despite this early brush with supernatural abilities, I have always felt a little prescient about events. Maybe I have good intuition, maybe I'm good at reading people and situations and reading patterns, but when something big happens, I can usually see it coming from a distance.
Our well-laid plans for my husband leaving his job have just shifted. All I can say about it is that I'm relieved. 2018 is off to a rocky start a month ahead of time, but the whole thing feels right and it's a long overdue change. Last week I made a list what we needed to do to get things ready and I didn't do any of them. I had this feeling that I was jumping the gun so I put it off, citing the holiday weekend.
What to do with such a gift? I fear becoming a Cassandra, spouting prophecy but never being believed. (A total aside: sexism is ancient. By spurning the advances of Apollo, Cassandra's own words are forever mistrusted. I wish I had time to run with that idea right now.) Likelier I don't often speak up because mistrust my own judgments or get frustrated that I have trouble putting my whys into words. Intuition is hard to explain but it's usually based in experience.
My intuition tells me that holidays mean sickness and car trouble. Just when I thought we were in the all clear, and that maybe, just maybe I was wrong, we heard a clanking in the wheel well. The car was sent to the shop, a Zipcar was ordered, and we waited for the diagnosis.
The good news: it was a walnut!
The bad news: our brake calipers and rotors are shot, along with a host of other things that are rattling on the underbody of our increasingly decrepit car.