Apportation: My Own Experience Of The Inter-Realm

Okay, so I'm not at all psychic. In fact, the apocalyptic last stand of Satan could erupt right over my head and I wouldn't lose a minute of sleep over noticing the breeze coming off of it. I spent three hours in the cellar of Bobby Mackey's infamous haunted roadhouse (I even tossed a make-a-wish penny into the "portal to hell") and never saw or felt a damn thing. I'm probably blocking or whatever it is that the mediums call it when someone is doggedly resistant to experiencing the paranormal, but for whatever reason, the voices in my head have always sounded exactly like my own internal dialogue, and the only creeped out feelings I get are due to some creepy someone or other who's all too alive and all too much a part of this realm that we all have to wake up to and deal with on a daily basis.

That said, it's not as if I haven't been the recipient of some impressive After-Death Communication (ADC), because I have. It's just that I've put those who've taken the effort to reach back to me through their paces when they've done so. That being the case, and in my ongoing effort to try and explain just how real and mundane the "supernatural" actually is, I thought that I might take a break from the technical stuff this blog generally deals with and share one of my own ADC experiences.

I think that it's safe to say that everyone knows somebody who's got  a personal ghost story. I, myself, probably saw a ghost of a teenage girl walking toward me as I was riding my bike back out of the Mines Falls trails in Nashua NH one afternoon, but like most people with a ghost story, I only have my memory of what I saw and how it vanished on me, leaving nothing behind as proof that I ever saw anything at all. And since this blog is focused on direct communication efforts between our two human-populated realms, random manifestations aren’t of any real interest. No, what I want to tell you about is how my mom reached back recently with some very tangible evidence and helped me gain a little badly needed perspective during a really tough moment.

Anyone who knew me as a kid knows that I really sucked at being a kid. I guess I've been much better suited to being an adult, but we all have to go through being a kid before we get to be an adult. As a skinny little kid with broken teeth, a spectacular stutter, shock-white blonde hair and black glasses, I might've caused those blue-haired hearts to go all a-flutter as I played "Love Is Blue" with my little cello in their parlors for donations to the school music program (true story, by the way), but as far as the project kids I grew up with were concerned, I couldn't have been more "exotic" if I'd been crated in from another galaxy and dumped on them without an instruction manual. The only thing that kept me alive was my insane levels of rage response, and the fact that – as a result of that over-wrought emotionalism – I was more fun to them alive than dead. Let's just say that it's been a lot more fun to be an adult, and by factors that render the term "exponential" anemic, to say the very least.

About a year ago, I found myself getting really angry over the fact that there hadn't been anyone "there" to protect me from all that crap. I mean, seriously. Look at how the mother hens hover about their own little angels now days, and how their sweet little gifted boys are never beaten on their way to school, or are having to show up to class with their flour and sugar topographical map homework projects smashed to bits, or even forced to gargle their way through Johnny f*cking Tremain while the rest of the class pisses their little pantsies over the entire spectacle until he's tossed out into the hall to think over why it is that he's willfully caused that complete meltdown of discipline and ruined the afternoon for the rest of the children.

 

[cough]

But, I digress.

So, anyway, I did find myself venting a bit to a close friend about how the hell it was that my own mom could've tossed me out into that meat grinder to let me sink or swim (it did end being completely up to me after all) with all the potential in the world for my becoming the very first-ever middle-schooler to come to class with wholesale murder tucked in under his little black trench coat. In fact, I kinda got really angry over how most of it could've been avoided, since most of it was the kind of stuff that teachers are now grabbed up by the scruff of their little necks over. Well, these days, middle-schoolers actually do come to school with wholesale murder tucked in under their little black trench coats if the stress of being a little too different finally gets to be a bit too much on them, so there's that . . .

But, again, I digress.

It was during this period of "self reflection" that my mom decided to reach out from the eternal realm and let me in on what it was like for her as a mother of four boys whose husband skipped out really early on. And she did it in a way that made it impossible for me to ignore and that also made it possible for me to share with you today. My mom sent me an apport.

Now, an apport is a tangible, material item that appears where it could not have been placed under normal conditions. An example would be if your car keys went missing and showed up at the bottom of your grandmother's old steamer trunk in the attic, inside of a locked box that holds the diary she kept when she was a little girl. The transportation of your car keys to that impossibly obscure location – by other than normal means – would be a case of apportation, and your reappearing car keys would qualify as an apport, since they were apported from one location to another.

Moving keys around is one thing, and I've experience many such instances; I'll admit to some being a lot more impossible than others. What's really impressive is when something seems to literally appear from nowhere at all, and especially when it seems to come fresh from a very different period of time. The apport that I received from my mom is – by every indication I've been able to verify – one of these extremely rare apports, and I want to show it to you.

As you can see (below) what it is, is a two page typed letter that she sent to her sisters (and perhaps her own mother as well, since she apologized to all for sending them copies).

 

 

So, a little background is in order here. During this period in her life, my mom had just been dumped by my father, and having been left with nothing, she'd been forced to go out into the big world and get a job. For a young woman with four little boys at home, 1962 wasn't the most welcoming world (big, small, or whatever size it was) and yet, if you read this letter, she was one tough little cookie. That first ever job was at Little Falls WLFH radio, answering phones and typing up the stuff that the on-air DJs and announcers were going to say in-between and after the music at the top and bottom of each hour. 

The station had one of those new-fangled Zerox copiers, so that they could keep and file copies of every word that went out over the air – as required by the FCC – and it appears that she took advantage of that copier so that she wouldn't have to type out a bunch of letters to be sent home to Albany from her home in Little Falls. This neatly folded and perfectly preserved letter appeared in a small make-up case that I had used for many years (since the mid-70s) to toss all my hand-scrawled poems and songs into. This small pea-green case had been sitting deep within the storage clutter of the "attic" of our garage here in Ohio since early 2003, when I moved here, and it was only when I dug that case out to unearth my brother's poems and lyrics (which he sent to me from Italy and Turkey, when we were both in the USAF) so I could finally mail them to him, that I opened it up again after a decade of it being untouched.

What caused me to immediately alert was the smell of cigarette smoke; not fresh cigarette smoke, but that ashtray film smell that comes off stuff that's been smoked over for quite a while. It struck me as odd, since I'm not a smoker, and I've never lived with a smoker. I've dated one or two, but no one that I would've opened that case up for, that's for sure. And yet, it reeked of someone having smoked "into it". My mom was a heavy smoker and died from it, but at that moment, that specific connection didn't come to mind at all. I just thought it odd that it stunk in that manner.

The next thing I noticed was a clean, blank envelope lying on top of the pile of note pad pages and scraps of this and that with wildly drawn lyric stanzas and even some cartoons here and there, with yellowed edges from decades of age. That envelope practically glowed in its whiteness when contrasted by the dingy mound it was lying on top of. At first, I thought it might be the rental agreement from that last apartment I had in Nashua before coming out this way, but I decided to open it anyway. Of course, I was floored. But, not as floored as I would be after weeks of trying to figure out how on earth I ended up with something – anything – that my mom actually wrote.

Several years ago, when I was just getting into writing as more than a quick form of expression, I tried to get some scanned copies of a journal that one of my brothers had, that had once belonged to my mom. I wanted to see how she expressed herself in print, since I was discovering just how personal and revealing the written expression can be. I never got pdf copies of them, and eventually I dropped it (let's just say that other more pressing issues developed). So, it was extremely noteworthy that I would be in possession of this letter, regardless of the otherwise normal provenance of the letter itself. It was to get even stranger as I worked to establish that provenance.

What we were able to establish early on, was that the paper itself – while absolutely free of any yellowing or signs of normal aging – was a weight and type that was common to the late 50s and early 60s, with the relatively primitive, uneven texture being the most obvious indication when compared to even the cheapest copier paper of recent decades. When held in a way to view the paper's compositional make-up, it's immediately clear that this is not modern paper. And yet, it's extremely free of the ravages of time, and this had to be seen as important when trying to determine provenance, since great care would have been required by whomever it was that had been in possession of this letter (we eventually dated it to Feb 5, 1962, as a result of the Feb 5 date typed and the specific circumstances described as happening in that letter) for it to be in such pristine condition (being the early 60s version of cheap typing paper that it is).

As to who it was that had been so meticulous in the preservation of this letter, no none has any clue. When my mom died of (most likely) Pulmonary Fibrosis in November 1973, she left very little behind, and four teenage boys with even less. There wasn't anyone there to collect and preserve her things, and certainly no one with the thought to archive anything. It was as if she'd vaporized and when that happened, the rest of us were picked up by a cold wind that's scattered us about ever since. Some families might survive such a loss, but ours sure as hell didn't.

I scanned it and emailed copies of it around, but my brothers had never seen that letter before, or had ever heard of its existence. I'm certainly not close, or even in touch, with any extended family, and definitely not to the degree that anyone from that grouping of people would have ever had access to my small, hard plastic personal vault of terrible song lyrics and maudlin poetry. Hell, most of my wives and girlfriends haven't ever waded through that embarrassing pile of crap, and that's because it's an embarrassing pile of crap. I have instructions to burn it all in the event of my death, and I mean it. 

That this perfectly preserved letter showed up there is the icing on what's turned out to be an already impossible cake. And that's what makes an apport the bizarre sort of thing that it is.

As to why my mom might've turned such an amazing trick for me? I would imagine that she was trying to say "Look asshole, I did the best I could and under extremely trying conditions. Stop crybabying and get over it. No one's life is good. No one is spared the assholes of this world. Get over yourself. You survived and what's done is done. I have no apologies for you if that's what you're after here." And as soon as I read her letter, I had to smile and say "Okay mom, I get it. And you're right. We all have it tough, even if one version of tough is different than another. I'm okay. We're okay."

And that's what an apport is and why they can suddenly appear in your life. They're impossible, and yet, there they are. My apport is priceless, since not only is it from my mom, but it's a reminder of just how tough she was as a 29 yr old slip of a girl with four little boys and no one that gave two shits about her survival. She remained a small, frail woman who never weighed more than 115 lbs, but she was relentless, and I'm grateful for just how relentless she was on behalf of herself and her four boys. My apport was exactly what I needed at that moment in my own life, and since it arrived, I haven't spent a second wallowing in self-pity or resentful anger over how any of my life has played out. The "dead" have a lot that they can teach us, and The Inter-Realm is where they connect with us. But only if we allow for the existence of that shared realm and work to better understand it beyond the folklore and superstition that's defined it for too many of us.