My name is Rosalie Morley, and I had a boyfriend who thought I was a witch. I guess that’s not the way most people would introduce themselves, but I’ve never been like most people.
I’ve always been different, seen things differently than other people, and had different thoughts and dreams. I don’t know if that makes me a witch, but it means I’m not like everybody else.
I think I’m somewhere on the Autism spectrum, but who knows where? Who knows what little spot I occupy, all to myself? Because I’m not like someone with Autism, either. You can’t put me in that box. I went through some testing once, when I was younger, but the doctors couldn’t give my parents a clear-cut diagnosis. I’m high functioning, not one of those people who can’t speak or look you in the eye. Well, actually, I don’t really enjoy looking at people’s faces, although I can do it if I have to. But, anyway, I can function in society, and get along pretty well. I am very good at some things, like word games and music and computers, plus putting colors and patterns together. And identifying birds, I’m real good at that. I’m not good at other things, like understanding poetry, or emotions, or people, for that matter. People make me scratch my head sometimes, and there have been long stretches in my life where I’ve just tried to avoid them.
I live in an apartment in New Hope, Pennsylvania, close to the Delaware River. It’s a quaint little town with lots of history, and a lot of artists and musicians and writers live here. I grew up here during my high school years, and my parents, Pete and Betty, still live nearby.
I should tell you about them. Pete, my dad, is part of a crazy Irish American family, and his mother, Rosie, was one of the craziest. She had a great singing voice and lived in London during the Swinging Sixties, then moved back to Philadelphia, and eventually she opened a bar and restaurant in New Hope, which is how we all ended up here. My mother Betty is African American, and she is a lot calmer, more sedate, even classier than Pete. She grew up in Philadelphia and her family were all God-fearing people, the kind who got dressed up to go to church on Sunday and stayed dressed up the rest of the day. My brother Martin got more of the genes from that side of the family. He’s got more class, more sophistication, than I’ll ever have.
I’m like my father Pete. I’m stubborn like him, that’s one thing. If he makes his mind up to do something you just get out of his way, because you’ll never sway him. I’m like that. Stubborn, to the point of stupidity sometimes.
In one big way I’m not like Pete at all. I see visions and hear voices, which never happens to Pete. Or, at least he doesn’t admit it if it does happen to him.
Visions and voices, that’s the kind of stuff that happened to my grandmother Rosie. She told me all about the music and voices she’d hear at odd times. When I was a little girl and I told her it happened to me, she said, “It’s something the women in our family have. We’re descended from Irish witches, at least that’s what I think. It’s a blessing and a curse.”
So, you see, maybe I am a witch. I mean, it’s in my family, right? I never took it seriously, because just because you don’t understand something doesn’t mean you have to get all spooky about it. I always thought my visions and voices were probably something going on in my brain -- maybe like epilepsy or something like that -- and there was no supernatural reason for them. That’s what I thought for most of my life.
Now, I’m not so sure. There are times when the visions and the voices can seem so real, almost more real than anything else.
This is the beginning of Book Six of "Rose Of Skibbereen". To read more, you can purchase the book on Amazon or Smashwords.
I’ve always been different, seen things differently than other people, and had different thoughts and dreams. I don’t know if that makes me a witch, but it means I’m not like everybody else.
I think I’m somewhere on the Autism spectrum, but who knows where? Who knows what little spot I occupy, all to myself? Because I’m not like someone with Autism, either. You can’t put me in that box. I went through some testing once, when I was younger, but the doctors couldn’t give my parents a clear-cut diagnosis. I’m high functioning, not one of those people who can’t speak or look you in the eye. Well, actually, I don’t really enjoy looking at people’s faces, although I can do it if I have to. But, anyway, I can function in society, and get along pretty well. I am very good at some things, like word games and music and computers, plus putting colors and patterns together. And identifying birds, I’m real good at that. I’m not good at other things, like understanding poetry, or emotions, or people, for that matter. People make me scratch my head sometimes, and there have been long stretches in my life where I’ve just tried to avoid them.
I live in an apartment in New Hope, Pennsylvania, close to the Delaware River. It’s a quaint little town with lots of history, and a lot of artists and musicians and writers live here. I grew up here during my high school years, and my parents, Pete and Betty, still live nearby.
I should tell you about them. Pete, my dad, is part of a crazy Irish American family, and his mother, Rosie, was one of the craziest. She had a great singing voice and lived in London during the Swinging Sixties, then moved back to Philadelphia, and eventually she opened a bar and restaurant in New Hope, which is how we all ended up here. My mother Betty is African American, and she is a lot calmer, more sedate, even classier than Pete. She grew up in Philadelphia and her family were all God-fearing people, the kind who got dressed up to go to church on Sunday and stayed dressed up the rest of the day. My brother Martin got more of the genes from that side of the family. He’s got more class, more sophistication, than I’ll ever have.
I’m like my father Pete. I’m stubborn like him, that’s one thing. If he makes his mind up to do something you just get out of his way, because you’ll never sway him. I’m like that. Stubborn, to the point of stupidity sometimes.
In one big way I’m not like Pete at all. I see visions and hear voices, which never happens to Pete. Or, at least he doesn’t admit it if it does happen to him.
Visions and voices, that’s the kind of stuff that happened to my grandmother Rosie. She told me all about the music and voices she’d hear at odd times. When I was a little girl and I told her it happened to me, she said, “It’s something the women in our family have. We’re descended from Irish witches, at least that’s what I think. It’s a blessing and a curse.”
So, you see, maybe I am a witch. I mean, it’s in my family, right? I never took it seriously, because just because you don’t understand something doesn’t mean you have to get all spooky about it. I always thought my visions and voices were probably something going on in my brain -- maybe like epilepsy or something like that -- and there was no supernatural reason for them. That’s what I thought for most of my life.
Now, I’m not so sure. There are times when the visions and the voices can seem so real, almost more real than anything else.
This is the beginning of Book Six of "Rose Of Skibbereen". To read more, you can purchase the book on Amazon or Smashwords.
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