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GURU’S PATH



a memoir by


BONNIE TURNER



Copyright, 2017 by Bonnie Turner

All rights reserved


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TABLE OF CONTENTS


ESP & Me: The Beginning

You Don’t Say

Do Not Pray for Me

Ponder This

My Favorite Novel

Book-Signing Wins & Fails

Do Angels Have Feathers?

Celebrating My Art

In a Nutshell

Screaming Past the Graveyard

Thoughts From the Past

Spook—The Little Stray Ghost

About The Author

Other Books by Bonnie Turner



I went to the woods because I wished to live deliberately, to front only the essential facts of life, and see if I could not learn what it had to teach, and not, when I came to die, discover that I had not lived.”

Henry David Thoreau

ESP & ME: The Beginning


March 11, 2017



In the late 1960s, I read Harold Sherman’s book How to Make ESP Work for You. The subject fascinated me, because my German grandmother had read palms, wished warts away, and had strange premonitions.

One evening, she claimed to have seen Jesus standing in her kitchen saying that her baby grandson (my oldest sibling) would pass away the next day. The brother I never knew had been sick with pneumonia, and when his condition worsened, he passed on just as Grandma had been told.

Another time, Grandma removed a huge, painful wart from the palm of my left hand. I lived at her house at the time and was getting ready to wash the dishes. I told her I couldn’t find the dishrag, and she said, “Just get a clean one.”

When I finished the task and dried my hands, I saw the wart was gone—the skin on my palm was fresh and smooth, with no trace of any growth.

I ran to show Grandma, and she laughed. “That’s because I hid the dishrag, Bonnie!” And she showed me where she had hidden it underneath the kitchen sink. Beyond that, I don’t know how she worked her mental hocus-pocus. But it had worked; I saw proof, and she acted like wishing warts away was as common as washing dishes. If she were alive today, I would ask her how it was done. But when you’re ten years old, you accept what you see as fact.

My paternal grandparents and their children were also psychic, whether they knew it at the time or not. If they did realize it, they would never have admitted it, being God-fearing religious folks who believed dabbling in the occult was a sin. I was three years old when my father passed away, but have some hazy memories of that day. I still see the old house we lived in and the bedroom where he died.

That day, Daddy came home from work about noon and told Mom he was going to lie down for a little while. He had a headache, and would she call him when lunch was ready? He specifically asked her to make some “pap”—a hot chocolate pudding we often had for breakfast if there were enough eggs and milk. Oddly, at some point before he lay down, Dad had changed from his carpenter overalls into his best and only suit, reserved for special occasions. My father was a simple man of Welsh ancestry who was more comfortable in overalls and flat caps; he never dressed up unless he absolutely had to.


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