Ouija Wisdom Loses Its Pull Over The Years

I knew, at age 10, that I was destined to marry Donna Singleton.

I did not actually know a Donna Singleton, which was frankly a relief. In fifth grade, I didn’t need the pressure of making small talk with my future bride. Yet I was certain that someday, probably at the New England college we would be attending, I would meet Donna Singleton, fall in love, get married and live happily ever after. The Ouija Board had ordained it.

Like many ‘60s families (and many ‘90s families), we had a Ouija Board. Somebody gave it to us for Christmas. Even at age 10, I didn’t actually believe that a product from Parker Bros. could actually possess magical powers. And frankly, at first I found it to be a sad disappointment.

My brother and I placed our hands solemnly on the pointer, and asked the Ouija Board the most important question we could think of: “Who’s better, Maris or Mantle?”

Under our trembling fingers the Ouija pointer slowly began to move in spasmodic jerks until it had spelled out its answer: FERDMURKER.

“What’s that supposed to mean?” my brother said, indignantly.

“I don’t know,” I said. “But I think it’s dirty.”

At that point, I was ready to write off the Ouija Board as a fraud. But then, one day, my 13-year-old sister and her best friend Rosemary sat down with the Ouija Board, and something mystical began to happen. The pointer began to move in a decisive manner, from letter to letter.

“Hey,” I blurted. “It’s doing real words and …”

“Shh,” Rosemary said fiercely, concentrating hard.

The hairs on my head prickled as I began to read what it was saying. A spirit named Gilby was speaking to us, directly from the Spirit World. Gilby could see everything that was happening here on Earth, including things that were yet to come.

Despite these awesome powers, Gilby was a bit more cranky than I expected a spirit to be. He answered one question by spelling out the word, “Duh.”

“You were moving it, weren’t you?” I said, accusingly.

Both my sister and Rosemary swore, in hushed tones, that they were doing no such thing. They immediately made plans for a full-fledged Gilby session the next night, complete with darkened room and white candles.

That night, Gilby proved to be quite accommodating. The girls asked him the two most important questions they could think of, “Will I get married?” (yes, to both) and “When I grow up, what kind of car will I drive”’ (VW Bug convertible, to both). Then they asked for the actual names of their husbands, which I thought was going way too far. Yet to my astonishment, Gilby actually knew. They were manly names, like Jack and Chuck, which just happened to be the names of boys they had crushes on in English class.

I couldn’t stand it any more.

“Can I do it?” I asked. So my sister moved aside, and Rosemary and I rested our fingertips on the pointer. The pointer began to move, thrumming with spiritual energy, as if from an outside power. In the next 10 minutes, Gilby charted out my future. I would attend college in New England, and I would marry a woman named Donna Singleton.

Today, 33 years later, I have never met a Donna Singleton.

However, like Marisa Tomei in the movie “Only You,” I used to imagine that I would meet my predestined mate, in a class, at a bus stop, at a party. I imagined that one day a teacher would be taking roll call and announce “Donna Singleton,” and I would look up, and bells would chime all over the world.

Those bells chimed all right, but for a woman named Carol. She wasn’t a Singleton, and we didn’t meet at our New England college. The fact is, I never went to a New England college. We met in Wyoming, which I doubt if Gilby could have guessed in 100 years. On the day Carol and I got married, Donna Singleton became moot.

Yet to this day, I have never forgotten that name.

Sometimes, I still fantasize about meeting a Donna Singleton. If I do, Fate will require me to pop the question:

“Did you happen to have a girl named Rosemary in your English class in about 1963, by any chance?”

, DataTimes