By Julie Black 1999 All Rights Reserved. I'm not what you would consider one of those mystical psychic types, well versed in the mumbo jumbo of the supernatural. But I'm not a skeptic, either. All I can do is simply accept what happens to me, that which I experience, and write some things off as unexplainable. Long pine needles rustle in the cool mountain breeze.
Horses roam here and there.
This is definitely high country. Approaching Coalcom n the long limbs of bougainvilla reach out over fence tops with delicate blood-red tissue paper flowers. My husband, Rafael, had business there, so off we went on that fine January day in 1997. We dutifully checked into the hotel that had been provided for us in spite of the fact that the family house was just a few blocks away. After spending the morning taking care of business matters, we grabbed a quick lunch and decided to pay a call to Aunt Berta, the aging mistress of the house.