At the beginning of my freshman year at the University of Oregon, I decided to take advantage of a sunny Saturday afternoon in Eugene. I ventured out of my dormitory and into the lively downtown area, eager to explore. As I neared what appeared to be the heart of the city, I couldn’t help but hear the distant sound of drums beating in rhythm. Intrigued by this musical call, I followed it until I stumbled upon a farmers market, a peaceful haven hidden within Eugene's eclectic and bohemian utopia.
The scent of freshly harvested vegetables mingled with the sweet fragrance of blooming flowers, creating a heady and alluring perfume. Each tent and booth held a unique vendor, whether it was a carefree hippie selling zodiac necklaces or an elderly man offering bamboo wind chimes. I heard the mellow sounds of a flute being played by a half-naked gypsy woman while weed-smoking hippies swayed to the melody.
I perched on a rocky ledge to take in the vibrant energy of the market. Suddenly, I felt a pull towards the other side. My feet sunk into the lush grass as I descended from the ledge, and I made my way through the crowd of hippies, enveloped in a cloud of marijuana smoke. There, in a tent adorned with an elegant sign bearing her name, sat a woman who seemed both ethereal and familiar, like a character from a distant dream. Adorned in an indigo cape, I met none other than high priestess Connie Bender herself.
Connie appeared to be in between my mother and grandmother's age. Her black hair was accented with elegant streaks of grey. Her eyes, a deep violet shade, held a remarkable intensity that seemed to see beyond the present.
The sound of a gentle clacking caught my attention. Looking up, I saw a bamboo wind chime, just like the ones sold by the old man across the market. The walls inside her tent were adorned with tapestries, each one depicting a different image or symbol: phases of the moon to the tree of life. Connie sat at a table covered in a deep blue cloth, lit by candles and surrounded by crystals. A deck of tarot cards lay before her.
A soft yet gravelly voice greeted me with "Hello, cousin from the Earthly realm!"
"I'm Vince," I told her.
"I know," she said.
It dawned on me that this was probably her go-to tactic for luring people into her psychic grasp: pretending to know their name. She gestured for me to take a seat and offered a limited complimentary tarot reading, which I suspected was just a ploy to entice me into purchasing a more extensive one.
"Do you see that man over there playing guitar?" Connie asked, pointing to a shirtless hippie with a joint hanging from his lips.
I nodded in response.
"I can work the cards like an experienced musician plays an instrument," she boasted.
Connie shuffled the deck of tarot cards and instructed me to choose five, placing them face-down on the table. She proceeded to flip over each card one by one and provide interpretations for me. As she turned over the fifth card, the Ace of Cups appeared, and a smile formed on her face.
"I had a feeling this one would make an appearance," she said.
"What does it signify?" I inquired.
"It represents familial bonds," she responded.
Connie went on to describe details about my family that only I knew, secrets I had discovered through my own research but had not shared with anyone. This made me question whether there was some validity to her readings.
"The cards don’t lie," she assured me.
After that initial encounter, I made it a habit to visit the farmers market every week and always made time to stop by Connie's tent. Sometimes I just wanted to chat with her, other times I asked for a reading. She shared tales about her beloved cats and even told me about the time she tried working a "regular job" in an office, but the pull of tarot was too strong. Encouraged by her words, I decided to enroll in an astrology class at the university. I aced the class.
Connie had been a resident of Eugene for most of her life. Her grandfather owned a large plot of land in the foothills, about an hour away from the city, where he would take each of his grandchildren to test their innate abilities. He called it "The Juice" and used it to identify those with intuitive powers through dowsing. Connie explained to me that dowsing is a form of divination used to locate not only underground water sources, but also minerals, precious stones, oil, and even burial sites. As it turns out, Connie had "The Juice".
Connie was convinced that I possessed "The Juice", and I have come to believe it as well. There is an unexplainable sixth sense within me, allowing me to foresee future events. My mom also possesses this gift, and Connie explained that when multiple family members have psychic abilities, they often share distinctive physical attributes or have shared inexplicable occurrences.
My mom and I share a strange trait: we both have the same missing molars and retain a baby tooth in its place. Even stranger, we both have pencil led embedded on the palms of our left hands from tripping and impaling ourselves with a pencil as third-graders, thirty years apart at the same elementary school.
In 2005, I left Eugene but made one final visit to the market to see Connie. After telling her about my upcoming graduation and move to Portland, she embraced me and expressed her hope for our future meetings. "The cards don’t lie, Vince. Remember that," she reminded me before standing up and gifting me her bamboo wind chime.
I never saw Connie again.
Upon my arrival in Portland, I stumbled upon a quirky apartment in a trendy neighborhood. While my fascination with the mysterious realm had diminished, it never truly disappeared. I kept a deck of tarot cards on my coffee table and delighted in giving readings to visitors. To add a finishing touch to my home decor, I hung the bamboo wind chime on the patio. Connie was just a distant memory.
But then 2017 arrived, and everything changed.
I splurged and spent $49.99 on a DNA test that promised to uncover my genetic ancestry. After spitting in a tube and sending it off for analysis, I anxiously awaited my results. When they finally arrived a month later, I was presented with a long list of names, most of whom were strangers but supposedly related to me. As I scanned through the list, one name caught my eye: Connie Bender. Could this be my old friend from Eugene? I reached out to Connie through the company's communication portal.
Dear Connie, are you the same Connie Bender who practices tarot at the Eugene Saturday Market? If so, this is Vince. Do you remember me?
While I waited for a response, my curiosity got the best of me. I began to do some detective work and after some digging, I confirmed that Connie Bender with the matching DNA was the same person from Eugene. As I delved deeper into our shared genealogy, I uncovered that we were both descendants of a minister who played a significant role in the Salem Witch Trials of 1693. A week later, I received a notification via the DNA company's messaging portal that Connie had sent me a message.
Dear Vince,
My name is Mary, and I am the administrator for Connie's account. Yes, she is the same Connie who has been a staple at the Eugene Farmers Market for years. Unfortunately, she passed away last night from a stroke.
I was upset.
I wanted Connie to know that my interest in the mystical world had been inspired by her.
I wanted Connie to know that she had given me tools to open my channels of extrasensory perception.
I wanted Connie to know of our shared genetic connection to the Salem Witch Trials.
I then looked out onto my patio. Although there wasn't a breath of air stirring outside, my bamboo wind chime began to clack together.
Great read :)