What's with this Spiritualist Stuff?

When I was a little kid, we didn't go to church.  Dad worked such odd shifts, it seemed like he didn't ever have a set schedule.  Mom spent quite a few years buying and selling stuff at the Spring Valley Swap meet on weekends, so church was not in the weekend plan.  Sometimes, though, Mom would pack us kids up and drive us up to Park Boulevard on Sunday morning to dump us off at the Grace Lutheran Church Sunday School. I just hated it because we didn't know anyone, they didn't know us, and it felt like we were uninvited invaders.  Sometimes I would pitch a fit, and Mom would bribe me Jeff, and Tabatha into going with the promise of  Winchell's donuts from the shop on Washington and Dove Street. I found out later, by accident, that those Sunday church dumps were done so that Mom could dye Dad's hair without anyone watching.

Mom was always into spirits and psychic subjects.  Her favorite magazine was "Fate," which contained a bunch of short articles about ghost sightings, faith healings, etc.  Mom and Dad had a family friend named Cecil Cawthorne, who was a spiritualist member.  He didn't have his own church, and I am not sure if he was an ordained minister.  He was more like a traveling speaker who practiced natural foods healing and home seances. In May 1957, he regularly traveled to Tucson, Arizona to be a "guest worker" at the Creative Christian Fellowship church.

Cecil was born in 1904, the son of a London-born Episcopalian minister, and the nephew of old-time stage and motion picture comedian Joseph Cawthorn.

This is Actor Uncle Joseph Cawthorn's photo that I found on Wikipedia.  Cecil looked similar to his uncle Joe, with the same shaped balding head and same expression.

I mention his father and uncle because it appeared that Cecil inherited some traits from both of them.  He was a "man of God," and he was an actor, convincing gullible people that their dearly departed relatives were talking to them.

Cecil was at Dad's memorial service.

Cecil told us the story of how became a natural foods healer/psychic minister.  During his younger days, he was working in railroad industry, and there was a flash fire of some kind.  It burned his entire face, blinding him.  As he lay recovering in the hospital, in the depths of despair, he called out for help from Mother Mary.  "Mother of God, help me, I am blind and in so much pain," he cried out. Suddenly, a beautiful woman in long white robes appeared to him, put her hands on his face, and suddenly he could see just a little bit.  She told him to place honey in his eyes each day, and they would be healed.  He followed her instructions when he got out of the hospital, covering his entire face with honey and placing a drop in each eye. I guess it worked.  When I knew him, his vision was perfect.  (He showed us how he could read the phone book with no eyeglasses) His face was also perfectly smooth with no scars or wrinkles. And when I met him in 1971, he was almost 70 years of age, which back then was pretty old for a man.

Mom told me that Cecil healed me when I was an infant.  I had an infected umbilical cord that wouldn't heal despite the doctor's medications.  Lynda recalled that Cecil came over and advised Mom to dress the wound with honey and bandage it up. She thought he was just a kooky dude, and tried to hide the honey so they wouldn't experiment on me.  But Mom took his advice and I was healed up in a week or so.   So honey seemed to be Cecil's go-to medicine for burns and infections.

Lynda remembers an earlier time, in the 50s, when Cecil introduced Mom and Dad to the world of the paranormal and healing with food:

" He would come over to the house and give mom lessons in healthy eating.  Actually, it was healthy drinking.  One time he had Mom buy 50 pounds of carrots, and they juiced them.  His theory was that if you ate the right things, you would never need to use toilet paper, and I guess drinking huge amounts of carrot juice was his idea of getting the kids healthy and toilet paper-free."

After Patty and Susan were taken away and placed in foster homes, Lynda, along with Tim, Skippy, and little Darwin were dragged to a variety of local Spiritualist churches in San Diego. But the mother of all Spiritualist centers was Harmony Grove.

Harmony Grove has been around for over a hundred years.  Located west of Escondido, north of Rancho Santa Fe, and near San Marcos, this is a large rural property of rolling hills and California Live Oaks, and several buildings that are used for various Spiritualist activities. A number of spiritualist ministers conduct weekly message circles, light trance circles, deep trance circles, and seances.

Here is Lynda' memory of their Harmony Grove experience:

"I remember going to Harmony Grove for weekend visits.  It seemed like it took a long time to get there.  It was in the woods, or it was like a dirty park.  The church building was up on stilts with enough room for children to crawl underneath.  It was dirty and dusty, there were bugs, and there were no playground toys to keep kids occupied.  It was just a place where a bunch of old people were trying to talk to dead people. One time when Darwin and Skippy feel asleep, Tim and I went to the church building and crawled underneath.  The floor wasn't solid--we could see through some slats in the floor.  People were sitting on card table chairs and a guy was in front of them standing on a big board which made him look taller.  He had this big funnel-shaped thing in his hand and he was speaking into it.  He would call out someone's name, and say, "Are you there?" "Talk to me"  then he would try another name and ask again, "Are you there?"

Tim and I had to cover our mouths to hide our laughter.  The people seemed very intrigued and were waiting for something to happen.  The man with the funnel kept saying, "I feel you," and then Tim decided to give them something to get excited about.

He knocked on the floor, then Funnel Man said, "Knock three times if you are with us," and Tim knocked three times. And very quietly Tim said, "I am here, do you see me?" Then we got out of there as fast as we could go, laughing after we got safely out of earshot.   On the drive home, Mom and Dad couldn't stop talking about the presence of the spirit at their church service.

So of course, the next weekend, they wanted to return for more spirit visits, and Tim and I couldn't resist the temptation to give the old people what they came for.  This time it was my turn.  As soon as Funnel Man starting calling out a female name, I was happy to say, "I am here!" It was fun pretending to be a "spirit visitor." At least we were keeping ourselves, and the naive people above our heads, entertained.

Our big mistake this time, however, was not waiting until the little kids fell asleep, and sure enough, Skip tracked us down, and in a loud voice said, "Hey, what are you guys doing here?"  Well, next thing we knew, there were some grown ups looking at us under the church, and our little game was over.  The guy said, "Well, there are your spirits!"

Of course, Mom and Dad were really mad and embarrassed.  We got a good beating for what we did!  We never went back to Harmony Grove again!
I remember going to other spiritualist churches in San Diego to hear the spirits, and each time there was some person with the speaking funnels.  Seeing the funnel would always  remind me of the fun we had with those people in Harmony Grove."

Thanks Lynda for a funny memory!  Maybe you and Tim were able to show some of those people that they shouldn't be so gullible.

Harmony Grove was nearly destroyed on May 14, 2014 in the Cocos fire, which was set by a 14 year old girl.  Their bookstore burned to the ground, but their library was spared.  Half of their cabins burned down and their church too, but their cinder block seance room wasn't touched.  The group is  in the process of rebuilding their grove.

And here is Tammy's story about her Spiritualist experiences:

After Dad died, Mom's interest in Psychic stuff was rekindled.  Cecil started coming over again, not to give us carrot juice, but to conduct various types of spirit communication.  Mom was trying really hard to contact Dad, and Cecil did his thing.  He came late at night, when the kids were in bed.  They set up a card table in the living room, the room where Dad's heart stopped beating.  I had to sit there in the dark, with a candle burning and Cecil had some kind of odd flashlight.  Cecil had a tape recorder and he told Mom he had a tape of some spirit who had been talking to him regularly.  He popped the tape in and played it. It was lady talking about blue and green auras.  I remember sitting there in the dark, holding Mom's hand thinking, "What is this crap and why do I have to waste my time here?" There was also lots of talk about energy, and time spent looking up into the darkness trying to see the spirit Cecil said he saw there.

Mom had Cecil do his seances in 1972 and 1973.  Then I think she gave up on that method and started making me do the Ouija board with her. During this time, Mom started taking us kids to the Swedenborgian Church. It was a little white church in University Heights, near Hillcrest, and was there from 1927 until its closure in 2016. This church was within a few blocks of where Cecil lived at that time on Park Boulevard. There were maybe 20 people in the church, including us, and the minister called on spirits during the service. The organist was a creepy looking, ancient man with useless white eyes.  He was tiny and skeletal, with wispy white hair that matched the color of his eyes.  His organ music wasn't like normal Catholic or Lutheran  songs.  It was like scary ghost movie music, and it made the hair on my arms stand up.  Watching this old man, I marveled at his ability to play the organ while blind, and also pondered the question of why those faith healers failed to help him. I guess maybe Cecil never clued him in on the secret of using honey to make his eyes see again.

Mom also liked to read fortunes with her special fortune cards. She had two different sets of cards:  Zolar:

  Gypsy Witch:

I laid out the cards in the method used for fortune telling to take these photos.  The Zolar fortune was sort of okay, but the Gypsy Witch fortune is not too good.
I think its time to put these cards back in Mom's desk drawer for another 30 years or so!

 Mom also had a daily dice roll game, consisting of 3 tiny dice.  You had to shake them in their little metal container, using your left hand only.  Then roll them, add it up, and look at the yellowing cracked paper that tells you your daily fortune.

I rolled 12:  A Letter or other interesting news.  That one was always one of my favorite fortunes, because I loved getting mail when I was a kid.

Cecil died in San Diego in 1987,  nine months after Mom died.

Mom always told me that when she died, she would come visit me often and let me know she was still around.  She has been dead since 1986, and I have never received a sign of her presence. Maybe it is because I don't have Cecil, a seance, and a Funnel to call her with.

The Memorial Service and Beyond

From San Diego Union 

It was a hectic and crazy week that began when Mom came home from the hospital without Dad.  I remember lots of phone calls.  Dad was to be cremated and the ashes scattered at sea.  He was not a church-going type of guy, and neither was Mom.  She found some little Spiritualist Church in National City that would handle the Memorial service.

I don't remember everyone who came to call during the next 4 days.  I do remember brother Tim and his girlfriend Delores coming over.  Visits from them in the past were sometimes a bit edgy, because Mom despised Delores.  I remember her saying that she was just a bar maid who was old enough to be Tim's mother. Then there was the tension between brothers Tim and Darwin, which may go back further than I can remember, but I witnessed vicious hatred a year or so earlier when they had a big fight out on our front lawn in front of the whole neighborhood.

I think brother Darwin had a crush on Delores' daughter Barbara, who was about the same age as Darwin. I saw her only once, and I remember her being quiet, brunette, skinny, and dressed like a tomboy with leather boots. No one in the family was ok with that budding romance, especially Tim.   It came to a head on the front lawn. I remember hearing screams of anger and pain, and I remember crying and being shielded from the scene.  I think Tim may have even fractured Darwin's arm that day, but can't quite pin down the memory.  Anyhow, since that day, visits from Tim had a undercurrent of stress.  I was too young to know any details.  I just knew that things were not quite right.

Lynda, already exhausted and busy with a two-year-old and a two-month old, came over to try to help out.  She took me in her car up to El Cajon Blvd, to Dave's Flower Box to get Dad some flowers for the service.  She let me pick out what I thought would be pretty, and I selected some bright blue daisies.  When we got to the Spiritualist Church, my daisies joined the other big funeral sprays-- roses and lillies and babies breath.  I always loved flowers and having them there gave me something beautiful to focus on. I stared at the flowers and zoned out the entire service.

From Chula Vista Star-News

After the service, we went home, and soon, all the funeral flowers started arriving at 4071 Eagle Street.  Tim and Delores came back to the house too.  I was just kind of hanging around the living room, keeping Jeff and Tabatha busy. Mom went to the kitchen.  And then Tim and Delores separated and went in different directions.  Tim went out to the garage.  Delores went to Mom and Dad's bedroom.  Suddenly I heard Mom screaming at Delores to get out of the closet.  I ran down the hall to the bedroom to see what was happening and there was Delores tossing all Dad's clothes out of the closet and onto the bed. There was a growing pile of Dad's workclothes-color coordinated shirts, slacks, and socks that Mom would fasten together on the hanger so Dad wouldn't accidently wear clashing colors. Mom was crying and screaming at her not to touch Dad's things.  It got more than heated, and I saw Mom lunge at Delores as she screamed at her.  I backed up and retreated quickly into the living room and just sat there numbly as the yelling continued. Then Delores ran out of the house, and Mom followed.  They were both looking for Tim.

Mom tracked Delores outside to the driveway and I followed too.  The garage door was open, and Tim was in there destroying Dad's organized workbench.  Dad had been a meticulous craftsman.  He had every screw, bolt, nail and washer organized by size and type in baby food jars, and all were labeled in Dad's perfect printing.  Tim was opening each jar and tossing everything together in a box.  He had already boxed up some hand tools and power tools that he wanted to take possession of.  Mom went totally ballistic when she saw how he ruined Dad's workbench.  She screamed at both of them to get the hell out and don't come back. I was really afraid she was going to die too, she was so upset.

Here is just a bit of trivia.  On the day Dad died, Our President was Richard M Nixon, and the California Governor was Ronald Reagan.  Its interesting to see that Henry Boney (from Boney's, Henry's and now Sprouts markets) was a county supervisor.  I never knew that until I was looking at the newspaper with Dad's obituary in it.

When I was looking at the obituaries, I noticed that Susan was not included in the list of survivors.  I don't know if that was an accidental omission or deliberate.  As a ten-year-old, I knew that my family was flawed and fractured.  I just didn't know many details. I don't remember much about dad's memorial service.  I don't remember seeing Patty, Susan, Darwin, or Skippy there.

The night of the service, after everyone had left the house, it was just Mom, me, Jeff and Tabatha.  Mom told me it was time to do my hour of piano practice.  I just couldn't fathom it.  My sadness and fear of the unknown was taking over, and playing the piano was not on my list of things to do on the day of Dad's memorial service. I told Mom that I didn't think I could do it.  She told me to just go back to the den and play some of Dad's favorite songs, and then she retreated to her bedroom with Tabatha, closed the door, and started crying again.

There were a few very old songs that Dad loved to hear me play and sing. So, late that Sunday night, probably about 10 PM, I went to the den, where little Jeff  was laying on the blue and green patio glider that served as his temporary bed, and sat down to play the song Dad always requested to hear:

"Listen to the Mockingbird," a Civil war era song about a guy pining for his dead lover:

"Last night I dreamed of my Halley
Of my Halley, my sweet Halley
Last night I dreamed of my Halley
For the thought of her is one that never dies

She's sleeping now in the valley
In the valley, my sweet Halley
She's sleeping now in the valley
And the Mockingbird is singing where she lies

Listen to the Mockingbird, listen to the Mockingbird
Oh, the Mockingbird is singing Oe'er her grave
Listen to the mockingbird, listen to the mockingbird
Still singing where the weeping willows wave"

I couldn't continue to the next verse.  The lyrics had never really resonated with me before, but I suddenly realized that this song was a sad song about a dead loved one.  It hit home that Dad was dead and never coming back.  I stopped playing and just sat there. And then:

Coming from deep within my new piano: Three loud knocks:

Knock.  Knock.  Knock.

Jeff sat up and asked who was knocking on the piano.  I knew right away this was a message for me.

"That was Daddy," I answered.  "He is here in spirit, telling me he liked hearing the song."

It was a few days later that mom packed us up and drove to Lindbergh Field, the San Diego Airport. In the shadow of Ryan Aeronautical, where Dad began his San Diego working career, we parked near the runway (way before security concerns made this illegal), where both big and little airplanes were taking off and landing.  Dad used to take us to watch the planes sometimes.  He called the passenger Jets "Doozies" and the little private planes "Putt-Putts."

Mom looked at her watch and told us the next Putt-Putt plane that we saw would have Dad's ashes in it.  We saw the little plane go down the runway and take off.  It tipped its wings a little bit as it took off towards the ocean.

"That's Daddy saying goodbye to us,"  Mom said.