In the spring of 1976 my two girls and my young wife and I went up to Wisconsin Dells on a day trip. It was early spring and many of the attractions were not yet fully open for the season. We found a few, like the riverboat ride, and lost canyon, and took the kids on them. It was fun just to be out and about in the Dells with so few people around. We got a little lunch for the kids early at McDonald's, and stopped in later in the afternoon at a local bar for a beer for me and sodas for the kids. We went all around town locating attractions for future visits. Late in the day we passed a place advertising ice cream and palm reading. On a lark we decided to stop there, and get Mary Jo and the kids some ice cream, while I went in to see what it would cost to have my palms read.

 

It turned out that the place was owned and run by genuine eastern European Gypsies. There were pictures on the walls of their family and ancestors, and the four or five family members we met were all quite conversational about their heritage, and quite friendly. When I was a boy in Marion Ohio in the fifties, Gypsies would arrive in town on a Saturday in a parade of black Cadillacs. Some local storeowners would actually close their stores until the Gypsies left town. They were still considered then to be thieves and confidence people, who trained their children to steal. My Grandmother was fascinated with their culture though, and told me then that such reports of infamy were highly exaggerated fear and prejudice.

 

In any case I approached them with skeptical humor. We went in and I asked how much it would cost to have my palms read, and get my fortune told. They informed me it was ten dollars, five for each. Mary Jo and the kids set about picking out flavors of ice cream while conversing with an older couple who turned out to be the owners. A beautiful young Gypsy woman came and took me to a back room and sat me down at a table. I gave her the ten dollars. She took both my hands in her hands looking at them intently, and began the ususal patois about life lines and heart lines and their explanations. She asked my age, and how many kids, and how long married, how many siblings, and so forth. She said nothing to me out of the ordinary, and after about ten minutes I thanked her and started to get up and leave.

 

She held my hands fast and breifly restrained me by squeezing harder and said, "A dark haired woman loves you very much, oh very much!" I said, "Oh you mean my wife. I know that." Mary Jo was a beautiful young mother at the time, five foot three, about a hundred and fifteen pounds, with long dark hair. Taking her anywhere in those days was a challenge to my manhood, as men were always ogling her and hitting on her. The Gypsy firmly replied, "No not your wife." She caught my interest for a second and I said, "My Mom and my Grandmother and my Aunt Maryanna have dark hair, and all of them love me very much." She said more emphatically, "No, no, no, not family members, someone from the past in your future. You will know her, though you don't think you can. Not your wife at all. This woman loves you very much, and you love her. I can see that!" I said, "I'm not like that, I love my wife." The Gypsy looked at me and said, "It is what I see." I said, "Well thank you, but I don't think you see it right." I left the room and collected Mary Jo and the kids, said a cordial goodbye to the Gypsies, chuckling politely and thinking the palm reading woman was a fraud. It was just a lark to me. As I left the woman said behind me, "I am sure. You will see." The old man behind the ice cream counter met my eyes intently for a few seconds, and I turned and walked out the door behind the kids.