I recognized Jane Sanderson right away. Her perfect posture and forbidding attitude could not disguise that familiar spark. I liked her at once. I knew her immediately. She was like me, despite her attempts to avoid the restless voices of her soul.

 Jane’s intuition was unfocused and scattered like the red wind that blew outside the coffee shop on the day I read Velma Martin’s cards. Her natural ability had been worn down by life and buried in normalcy. Perhaps the “average” she had cultivated was like the clothes that she put on in the morning. From time to time Jane knew there was something more. Something magical just outside her vision that drifted close enough for her to feel but never touch. Despite that knowledge she insisted on wearing earth tones and buried her natural gifts deep in the emptiness of her life.

It was both frustrating and enjoyable to have a kindred spirit. Jane thought she was my enemy because she feared her own gift. She recognized me right away and never met my eyes again. I was the link to that powerful part of her that understood and saw the world in a different way….Barnes Bridge was a fortress that kept me out. And Jane’s will was an obstacle that kept her in.

By accident one day, I started to read the tarot for the bus driver’s wife, Velma Martin. She was a birdlike woman, with an unsettled nature. I sat at CJ’s drinking my weak coffee when she joined me, uninvited. She asked me to read for her. My bag was unopened on the table, when I agreed. My resistance was a thought, but my calling was a certainty. There is always a reason when they are so desperate, in their search for answers.

 Often the seeker can not even understand the answers the cards provide.

 Mrs. Martin was unusually friendly that day. I thought perhaps that she (“Call me Vel, hon.... everyone does.”) had a moment when she wanted to believe I could tell her story. She was by herself at CJ’s and maybe she was curious. I understood that she would never be friendly in front of her friends. She lived in fear of what they thought. Women like Mrs. Martin do not make the rules and they rarely break them.

I am a receiver. I hear the messages from other peoples souls…I let the senders gather where they may. My one true gift is to read the visions in the wind. I am a gypsy and have always lived outside the rules that are carved in time and convention in places like Barnes Bridge.

My cards came alive in my hands. And I saw a tragedy that was yet to come. Some would call it an accident of fate…an event terrible and perhaps not certain. But for me it became my own destination...this woman’s secret that I did not dare share with her.

 My little life, tucked safely into a Texas subdivision, would never be the same. Weeks later, I would share all the details. But the visions that started from the reading at CJ’s were a chill on my heart. Other people’s secrets have often invaded my life. Dreams of death and fears of life surround every soul and they sometimes break free.

My protection is only a filter that cannot stop some of the darkness from seeping through. Some Gypsy women have sleepless nights and the haunted look of other people’s nightmares. Barnes Bridge, where I was an outsider, made me think of home. Something about Jane reminded me of my Mother. These are strange ideas for a fatalist and a Rom with her feet tied and her roots far away. But it was these ideas that kept me from losing faith.

 Just as I had long been a seer of things unseen I became a watcher of a woman that did not appreciate being watched. The secret I held so close involved more than one life. I was moving towards intersecting lives like a soul magnet. The sacred threads were pulling me in a new direction. I would be present when the past and the future meet without explanation. And I would not face that time without my reluctant friend Jane Sanderson.

My neighborhood is like a small town. Neat and tidy yards surround familar neighbors. Barnes Bridge was a warm and caring place to live. We had raised our families as a community, and now we were growing old together. My son, Stanley Jr was grown, and had moved to Austin. The major events of my life had taken place in the right here. I still love everything about my "hometown". We had lived here for twenty eight years when the Browns arrived.

Brad Brown was a tall strapping man with blue eyes. His cowboy boots, and hat, did seem an affectation to me. Sometimes he had breakfast at the pharmacy. The consensus of the men was that he was a nice guy. Well, he was fairly nice, except when his entourage would appear.

He managed the Cowboy Bartlett band. Some of the neighbors were fans, and they welcomed the local celebrity with open arms. Mr Brown had promised that the Cowboy would stop by at the next block party to sign autographs and meet the neighbors.

Ever so often, on a weekend, the whole band would show up. I was always on pins and needles when the cars started arriving. Too many cars showed a lack of respect(sometimes parked right in front of my house). Then the music would start up. When it got really loud I gave them one warning, after that I used the speed dial to call the local constable. Terry Pike would amble over to the Browns, and I would have sworn, he was joining the party instead of breaking it up.

The Browns refused to keep their yard mowed and edged. As their yard became scruffier, the weeds drifted into mine. I talked to him and he just shrugged. I didn't want to bring it up to Mrs. Brown. She wanted me to call her Gia, and she was too friendly. It seemed like every time I turned around, she was waving, and smiling from next door. To top it off, he bought her an older model yellow Cadillac. It was just awful. I was sure that the car alone would plummet property values.

She drove very fast around the corner and down the street. She was heavy on the gas, and loved the sound of her own horn....Mrs Brown stood out in Barnes Bridge she seemed to be the sore thumb on a perfect hand. And speaking of hands, I thought she had entirely too much free time on hers.

Mrs. Brown was exotic and intense. Perhaps she was a gypsy. She dressed in foreign fabrics and flowing clothes. Her clothes did not really match, they just fit together. She reminded me of a TV actress, just a little too flashy, for my tastes. It was disturbing to watch the men in the neighborhood fawn all over her. Of course, my husband Stanley was not taken in. He never had a bad word to say about anyone. He just smiled and just said "Now Jane you need to: Live and Let Live".

Shameless, if you asked me. She was dark and busy and talked too much. I would never have chosen her for a next door neighbor. At first, I had my suspicians about her visitors. They came at all hours, even when her husband was out of town. One gentleman, in particular, arrived in a limo, once a month. He would scurry in the door and leave in an hour or so. I wasn't really one to gossip or speculate. Stanley warned me to leave it alone, but the words "drug dealer" and "hooker" came to mind.

Our neighborhood was under seige, and the zoning board was well aware of the problem with the Browns. Don't get me wrong, I was not the only one that complained. Over our weekly 42 game, my friends and I talked about the situation.

Bertha Monroe was a retired schoolteacher, Mona Payne was a homemaker, and Peggy Radswell still worked at the city after 25 years. We started our game when our sons had been in boyscouts together years before. Every week with few exceptions we continued to play dominos and visit. We were like a family. There was nothing wrong with that. We had survived disasters and tragedy, surely we could survive Mrs Brown.

It was Peggy, that broke the news that Gia Brown was some sort of medium or tarot reader. Her visitors were apparently paying for her services, all right. Since it wasn't the services I feared, I guess I should have been relieved. But, knowing that a conwoman lived next door was a little hard to take. She had a business license. The situation was unbelievable.

The surgery on my knees was scheduled for March. Time off from work, I was already regretting, I might add. I was only a year from retirement and I knew that those days would be empty without the familar routine I was so comfortable with. The other major setback was I couldn't drive for a month. So I determined, I would ride the bus once a week to the library. It was only a few miles. That nice Mr Martin, was the driver. Stanley and I went to church with him and Velma. So it was a mild adventure, but my adventure, nonetheless.

As my knees began to heal, I made my way outside for coffee and to feed the birds. That's when I started to worry. Mrs Brown would peek through the fence. When I went to the front porch, she would appear in her yard. What in the world was going on? I wondered if the little gypsy woman was stalking me.

On Tuesday morning, I hobbled to the bus stop on the corner. Two houses down seemed like miles. Thank God I had brought my little fold out stool. "Always be prepared." I remembered Stanley Jr.'s boyscout years. I smiled at how this motto had stuck with me.

A trip to the library, was going to make my day. At first, I thought I was dreaming when Mrs. Brown stepped off of her front porch. She was dressed conservatively by her standards, but still I was annoyed.

She approached me quickly. "You're taking the bus, Mrs Brown? Is your car in need of repair?" I was trying not to sound annoyed. She raised her eyebrows all the same.

"Mrs Sanderson, I just thought I would take a bus ride with you today." She flashed me a brilliant smile, meant to charm me. But despite her repeated attempts, Mrs. Brown had never seemed charming to me.

My spirits plummeted. Somehow, my little adventure had lost it's appeal. I decided to call it a day. Before I could traipse home in dejection, the bus stopped and Mrs Brown practically pushed me up the metal stairs. It was like she had decided to ruin my day and was trying to do it in a diplomatic way. As soon as I sat down, she slid in beside me. At least she was quiet today. She was not talking too fast in her European accent. Here eyes were darting around as if she was expecting company.

My name is Gia. My people are wanderers. We were originally from India, the land of divination and enchantment. Throughout hundreds of years, we have been chased, persecuted, and sold into slavery. It is no surprise, that in the end we became nomadic. My tribe came to America from Europe. The laws of every nation were against us.

I am a Rom Gypsy and my grandparents hid in the forest to survive Hitler's mobile killing machines and the Reich's final solution. My parents were part of a tribe that was arrested in 1976, entering Washington County from neighboring Pennsylvania. Since one of them was suspected of stealing "a few hundred dollars" from a Pennsylvania gas station, the entire band's property was confiscated and sold, even though the charge was never proved. I was conceived in Washington County during the time our assets were being taken.

It is not so different here. We are outsiders, scattered to survive. But our roots run deep and true to each other. We do not assimilate; we may live among you, as I have chosen to do. We may hide in plain sight as a means of self preservation. But a drop of Romany blood will always separate us from our neighbors. I will never be a "Gorgio", a non-Gypsy. And my children, when they come, even mixed with the sturdy Brown stock of my husband will always be true to their roots.

When I met Bradley Brown I knew that my path would be difficult. He was a "Gorgio" and could not understand my Gypsy traditions and calling. His world held little interest for me. But I could not escape my love which claimed me like a hot brand on my soul. All grand passions come at a price, and mine was no exception. We met and married in Las Vegas and made Texas our home. By instinct and inclination I will always be an outsider. My soul may seek the truths of others with or without my permission. But the beginning of my journey home started when my love took me to live in the Barnes Bridge subdivision. This is where I started to learn great truths about myself.

Although he was involved in the Austin music industry, my Brad was just a "good old boy" at heart. It is an irony and a strange twist of fate that he lived a "gypsy" life on the road and I stayed in the Village of Barnes Bridge. The old men of my people, used to joke that "Rom" meant we were born to roam. It is well known that the surest way to kill a gypsy is to "tie his feet to the land" or "cut his roots".

My people have learned that certain death comes painfully slow to those whose feet are tied. There are countries in Europe, where the descendants of Gypsy kings live in poverty and pain, where they are forbidden by law to roam and "resettled" by governments. It is much harder to cut our roots. A band of gypsies can disband and drift apart for years and emerge whole within weeks at the call.

Gypsies are fatalists. Our life force flows through the places we have been, and touches the natives. Through time, we have joined our old convictions, with these places. I knew at once that my presence in Barnes Bridge would impact my neighbors. My will was for balance, but my life force, with the strength of my heritage, could not be denied.

I lived in limbo, ever mindful that I must maintain and blend in. I will never sacrifice my self respect to survive. My blood calls from deep down my line and reminds me that I am descended from the stars. Given time at the end of my lifeline, I shall return to the stars. No one can translate the gypsy magic, music, and memory. It lives in the Rom in a safe place. It remains with me in this comfortable little corner of the city, and pulls gently at my heart.

Bradley loved Barnes Bridge, because it reminded him of his Texas upbringing. I think his roots were well nurtured here. Well kept homes, were tucked into the winding neighborhood. It was once a place for growing children, and it had somehow transformed into a retirement community. The homes were filled with respectable people. Everything in its place, and no place for Gia.

I was restless in Barnes Bridge. My home was beautifully decorated, but empty without children, or my traveling husband. Brad, who never knows why, but always knows what I need, got me a car. Not just any automobile, but a big, bright Cadillac, with a loud horn. Driving fast through the countryside became my pastime and my passion. I traveled for miles, without a map, and always found my way home. It was on one of my trips that I found the truck stop on Interstate 76. It was at CJ's on a warm winter afternoon that the tarot came back to me like a distant uncle for an extended visit.

The tarot is a blessing on my gypsy soul. When I was a child my Mother would smooth my forehead and explain that having a third eye allows us to see other people. It was a calling of the women in our tribe. A calling and an avocation, like the shadow music and pure joy of our Rom dance, my gift of divination could not be contained.

In the language of Romany, (my parents native tongue) the word tarot comes from "tar" which means cards. The legend goes that in an attempt to save their tradition of mysteries and magic from extinction, the Hierophants, (priests of the Eleusinian) passed them down, to the eternally wandering gypsies. Other occult groups followed the Eleusinian lead. The Gnostics, the Monetarists, Manichaean’s, Albigenses -- varied groups of the Cathari -- and Jewish mystics all utilized the nomadic gypsy culture to transmit information to escape the Inquisition. The Rom, the dancing gypsies, were in reality, the most trusted messengers.

The gypsy could not read or write. We communicated person to person through our oral tradition. In order, to share the magic secrets, we created the Tarot, with the truths in images. Beautiful images we carefully hand painted on round pieces of mother-of-pearl or leather.

Eventually, the Rom themselves became the mystics. And the gift of soul telling was given to us by the stars. We became the foretellers and the "fascinators" when the secrets we carried got too large for a deck of cards. The sacred trust we were granted, in ancient times, became the burden of our blood. I may not know my secrets, but I know the secrets of strangers that pay my $20 to hear their life.

We are an ancient people. A people who has no need to prove anything. We are the sacred messenger for many. We were trusted by the most high mystics of ancient times. Our friendship has always been extended but not returned by the world. A people who flows in and out of the mold. We cannot escape our gift and I no longer try. 

My cards feel warm in my hands, when I pull them from the silk bag. Generations of practice, made me stronger, and wiser, on the days when the red wind blows. Sometimes when the visions start, the gift and this curse become one and the same. 

I have often wondered, if the "Gorgio" fear our freedom or our magic the most. If perhaps, we were just nomads, with no gift of magic, would Hitler have left us alone? If we wandered the world, without the tarot, would we still be dancing and playing the lovely harps? If people knew Elvis and Michael Caine were in my Roma family tree would I be more acceptable?

 

So I’m driving along in a very expensive car with a very dear man and his long time  friend and interpreter …..So Mr Garcia and Mr Sois and I are once again hammering at the deal that was long ago done ….I speak hackneyed Spanish with a strong Southern dialect …and only half understand Spanish.

 

 Mr Garcia is the latest in a long line of interpreters between the earnest Mexican business man and the inflexible Indian owner with me in the middle……a long time ago  I noticed in this deal that none of the parties took my advice or even listened to me…..Actually they may have been listening but not understanding or maybe none of them are interested in my advice….. which is probably the truth.

 

This  impromptu business meeting may not benefit Mr Solis in the way that he hopes. I will try to help …I told him exactly what I would do and I think he understood me …..I tried to help once before and my advice would have saved him $2000 if he would have taken it…..It really doesn’t matter if I was right or wrong about somebody else’s business…I like to be right but it’s not so important as it was when I was younger….And I can be wrong or subject to change….

 

Mr Sois has tight jeans and not a hair out of place…At another time in my life I wouldn’t have missed the opportunity to flirt with him…I feel the pain when he walks… his health problems are a part of the conversation on another level just beyond the words….

 

I know his significant other Syl….Syl is a wild impulsive woman who exudes sex…She wears low cut blouses and dangling jewelry….He is a rather worried business man…she is a dramatic and affectionate woman….Syl hugs a lot….I have met her 4 times and have met her breasts in tight embrace four times as well.

 

I was glad she wasn’t present today…Mr Sois stares a lot at my breasts, but I don’t take it personal….everyone stares at Syl’s breasts and this may have become his habit through being constantly exposed to them

 

.I am a toucher and a hugger myself but Mr Sois is looking good despite his bad back and I felt like handshakes all around would suffice.

 

When we are driving home I was wondering if Mr S and Syl had gypsy blood passed down from their Mexican roots…with both of them I get the kenetic almost electric buzz that is coming from their bodies and their auras Mr Garcia doesn’t have it.

 

…..My mind was wandering off as we passed a Mexican church….Mr Garcia spoke in English…

 

.”So many churches and only one God”

 

 I answered him with one of my favorite life quotes handed down from a friend gone many years ….I still hear her voice though….and from West Texas via India to Mexico and perhaps filtered down in the Salsa dance so similar to the lost gypsy music …came my comment…

 

..”We all see God through different eyes”