Mass Graves – Past, Present and Future


Mass Graves in Texas

Mass Graves in Texas 2012. 

For most people there is a moment when shit gets real in times of national crisis.. For me that moment happened in my kitchen last night. I had just finished reading the article below from 2015.

Mass Graves of Immigrants Found in Texas, But State Says No Laws Were Broken

Earlier in the day I had been getting ugly and horrifying like/as images between the mass graves of Nazi victims found in the early 1990’s in the Black Forest of Baden Wurttemberg, Germany and the fate of many of the children currently held in concentration camps all over the U.S. (I am not going to politely call them detention camps because that is not what they are.)

After reading the article, a group of dead children showed up in my kitchen. They were grade school age kids, Hispanic and in great distress. I think they were among the dead in the 2015 Texas grave I had just read about. They huddled together with a great deal of crying and screaming going on.

I wasn’t sure how to help them, when my guides told me to call in Our Lady of Guadalupe. She is a popular and well-known case of visitation of the Virgin Mary. There have been a number of such cases over time but this version of the Blessed Mother would have been well known to children coming out of Mexico or other South American countries. I have seen her image at home altars as a guest in homes of Hispanic friends.

Our Lady of Guadalupe

I asked that Our Lady of Guadalupe show up and take the distraught children home. Thankfully she wasted no time in appearing among them. The impact was immediate. The dead children recognized her and flocked around her as if greeting an old friend. The tears and cries of fear petered out as all the children in the group became aware of her presence. Some of the kids brought her to the attention of the others, “Stop crying, look, SHE is here.” The hunched body language of fear and distress evaporated. The children stopped huddling together and stood more spaced out, aware of each other but no longer terrified and lost.

As the figure of the Virgin of Guadalupe started to walk into a wall of light past the point I am allowed to see, the children utterly transformed, not just their body language but their physical appearances. They chose to show up in their best clothes, clean, their hair done with care. Some of the boys wore dark suits, others shorts and summer style dress shirts. One little girl in particular caught my eye. She was dressed in a nice knee-length white dress (perhaps for Easter or from her First Communion ceremony, she looked around seven or eight, the right age for that sacrament) Her hair was done in free-flowing pigtails with cute faux flowers that looked like silk daisy’s adorning each elastic. She had a shiny multi-colored Mylar pin wheel in her left hand as she skipped next to the familiar figure leading them all home.  She was chattering a mile a minute and singing snatches of songs, relaxed, excited and happy as any child might be on a family outing to a fair, parade or holy day celebration. It was a joy to see her transformation.

As privileged as I was to see the change in the dead children and know that particular group has crossed over safely, shit just got incredibly real for me. This is happening in the US. The place our school teachers and parents said such things never could. It has been going on for at least a handful of years and it is ramping up quickly. I didn’t like the comparison images to the Nazi graves in the Black Forest one bit, but I know from experience such images are not presented to me without good reasons.

I do not want to spend the next 10-15 years helping innocent children whose only “crime” was their parents sought better lives for them cross over after horrific and premature deaths. There is no policy on earth that merits such cruelty. We are not deterring illegal immigration we are on a course of increasing attempts at genocide of innocents. This must not stand.



(c) 2018 Lynne Sutherland Olson. All Rights Reserved.

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Anthony Bourdain – Crossing Over

Anthony Bourdain

Anthony Bourdain. Image courtesy of Twitter. 

Not being a Bourdain fan, I didn’t expect to hear from him at all, let alone eight hours after his death via suicide became public. As you might imagine, he was pretty confused at first.

Bourdain first showed up in his pj’s consisting of patterned long flannel or cotton pants and a white crew neck undershirt. Not surprisingly in light of his well-known drug and alcohol abuse history he had indulged in both prior to hanging himself. This would account for the soiled condition of the front of his shirt. His hair looked like he had run his hands through it a number of times in agitation prior to taking that final step. I think it would be fair to say he wasn’t thinking remotely clearly at the time he took his life.

Based on our interactions I would say the women in his life were key to Bourdain. Once he left his body he was looking for a recently deceased female relative and was deeply upset he couldn’t find her. I tried my best to get him to calm down, but my normal approach of invoking angelic help only scared him. When the angel I had called in to help made an appearance Bourdain cowered in terror.

I tried a different approach by asking if someone from his family might come from the other side to bring him home. An elderly grandmother figure appeared. Bourdain instantly changed to a childhood version of himself and asked this grandmother if she was there to take him to hell? She told him, “Tony, don’t be silly, I am here to take you to heaven.” At this all the fear and worry vanished and Bourdain although he remained in his boyhood form stood up and took her hand.

The last I saw of them she was telling him all the wonderful delicacies she was going to make for him on the other side.  Spumoni and biscotti were both mentioned.  Bourdain was a world-famous chef, known for his love of the local dishes of many cultures. He was French on his father’s side, and Jewish on his mother’s. So I wasn’t quite sure what to make of an apparently Italian nonni showing up. When I asked where did the Italian grandmother figure come into it I was told she wasn’t a blood relative but someone who filled a grandmother role for him growing up, a bonus grandmother so to speak. She was a close family friend. I am simply grateful she showed up for him in his hour of need.

Rest in peace Tony, may all your demons now be gone.




(c) 2018 Lynne Sutherland Olson. All rights reserved.

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Martha School Seattle – Native Influences, Part 2

Chief Sealth in Formal Headress

Chief Sealth in a formal Native American headdress similar to those I saw presiding over ceremonies at the future Martha School site.

As Mari, Al and I read the grounds of the old Martha Washington School for Insane Girls in south Seattle, we also got glimpses of much earlier Native American activity on the site long before Seattle was a place on a map. As in my prior post about the Martha School location what I am writing about is a combination of impressions among the three of us, all talented mediums in our own right, unless otherwise stated.

Native tribes used to camp and fish on the shore of Lake Washington including the 500 yards that is now part of Martha Washington Park. The locations of the eventual and now former school buildings were used to train young warriors in assorted athletic games. I saw foot races being run, a great deal of enjoyment of bragging rights and a lot of laughter. Al saw annual powwow’s held in the same meadow spaces. I got brief impressions of the formal ceremonies involved in such events led by elders wearing headdresses similar to those in a famous Chief Sealth portrait.

The Native presences got a lot stronger down in the clearing by the old Martha School caretaker’s hut. In part one I mentioned that a member of our investigating group was in danger from a combination of presences from the shade of the old caretaker, a couple of strong thugs from his era and some Native spirits. Since I could see what they intended to do was a lot more than just push someone into the water for a dunking, I felt I had a good faith obligation to warn that group member. If they had not stopped what they were doing they would have been thrown quite a distance into the lake from the shore with a strong possibility of them striking their head on substantial rocks in the water. That had the potential for serious consequences.

When I reluctantly found myself standing in the area where the caretakers hut once stood I had a better sense of why the Native spirits were not happy. For starters the area was a sacred burial ground. Remote viewing human remains is not my favorite pastime, although I have certainly done my fair share of it over the years. I did a quick remote viewing sweep under the ground below the hut. To this day it contains multiple eras of human remains. Many of them are Native, some are modern era, as in the last 100 years or less. Like most not conserved Native burial grounds I have seen in Washington state, the bones below the ground were a mess. Sadly most European settlers never gave a second thought to the appropriate treatment of Native burial grounds. Although laid out with respect by their own, over time the earth was dug up for other purposes or projects and remains ended up in a travesty of shattered bone fragments .

I got an image almost out of “Star Trek” that the Native spirits were containing things that should not be released into the world below that clearing. I was shown for lack of a better term a three-foot thick force field of reddish gold light that was holding toxic and negative energies in place. It started just under the grass and encompassed the entire clearing and quite a bit of land beyond. I don’t know how deep it was, but it went past where I could see with a quick mental sweep. I chose not to look any closer. Normally when things are sealed in such away, it’s for good reasons and I really did not want to meet what was contained face-to-face. Suffice to say, some things should be left alone. False bravado or not believing in them will not protect you if they are released.  I couldn’t wait to leave that clearing, especially the confines of the walls of the caretakers hut. If a living person wasn’t in danger I would not have gone back.

Last year when I had the opportunity to visit Stonehenge for the first time, I was introduced to the idea that human beings who spend too much time in proximity to the deeply sacred tend to go off the deep end. I saw that happen to a well-known early modern European researcher at Stonehenge. I think that also happened to the Martha School caretaker. His hut was built over centuries of Native burials. He of course had zero respect or consideration of that fact if he was even aware of it. That didn’t give him a pass from the consequences of living on top of a desecrated sacred burial ground.

In my prior post I mentioned the caretakers alcoholism did not help his already lackluster personality and lack of moral character. I got glimpses of “demons” he would see when deep in his cups. They could have been figments of his soused imagination, or they could also have been the ghosts of Native people buried below his quarters. I suspect they were a combination of both.

There was an additional layer of bloodletting that complicated the site of the caretaker’s hut. It was used in teaching life skills to Native youth. Practical things such as the correct ways to kill and butcher game, prepare fish and process pelts. It was also used as an execution ground for that particular tribe’s enemies or those taken as slaves in war. Animals were not the only ones whose throats were cut in that clearing.  In my experience murder victims, even ones hundreds of years old are not happy beings. They are usually furious.

As far as I know I don’t have any Native blood lines, so I am always an outsider looking in when I read sites associated with Pacific Northwest Indian tribes. I will say I have found their sense of humor has taken some getting used to on my end. It tends to be direct, sometimes silly along the lines of many 14-year old boys I have known in my life and also exceptionally clever. If Native spirits want to drive a person crazy, they will.  I have had a number of emphatic conversations with Native ghosts about that when trying to sort out the mess caused when developers build homes on burial grounds and unwitting modern families buy those homes only to be terrified by the original inhabitants intense dislike of them. Not every Native ghost is anti-modern human, but some of them have exceptionally solid reasons why they are. Unsettled graves can cause a lot of problems for lingering spirits and current homeowners alike.

It only takes me a couple of seconds of thought about how I would feel if someone disturbed my mother’s grave to build townhouses, railroads or other structures to understand where these ghosts are coming from. Angry, hurt and ready for revenge would only be the tip of the iceberg. It could happen some day. The cemetery she is buried in has a lease of 500 years. After that all bets are off. If you think nobody would be crazy enough to build on a cemetery above the U District, take a look at the location of Seattle’s Pike Place Market. It is built on a thousand-year old Native burial ground.  Now consider the price of real estate, any real estate in the Seattle area in 2018. I can hear the earth movers rumbling even 400 years in the future.

I understand, the living must build over the dead, but that necessity as land is a limited resource doesn’t negate the need for respectful treatment of those who have come before us. I think the Martha School caretaker learned that the hard way.




(c) 2018 Lynne Sutherland Olson. All rights reserved.



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Martha Washington School for Insane Girls – Seattle Part 1



Part of the Lake Washington shoreline at Martha Washington Park, Seattle 

I recently had a chance to explore the former site of the Martha Washington School for Insane Girls in south Seattle. This time I was lucky enough to be working within a group that included two of my favorite fellow mediums, Mari and Al. Sam was also there with all his tech gear. I got to meet a couple of awesome new people I foresee as house guests in the not too distant future.

At first the site was deceptively calm and pleasant as we enjoyed the broad green space and warm late May weather. That did not last. The Brighton neighborhood location opened in 1922 and underwent a number of functional and oversight transitions until the site was sold to the Seattle Parks Department in 1972. It started out as a part of the Luther Burbank school for troubled boys in a nearby community. I grew up roaming that park and I never liked the Burbank school building from about age three when my Mom took me to dance classes there. If half the things I saw at the Martha School happened at Luther Burbank, small wonder I had an early gut level aversion to it. (To be fair I have never investigated the Burbank building as an adult.)

It soon became clear combining the sexes when caring for teens wasn’t a good idea and the Martha School  became its own institution, operating briefly in the Ravenna neighborhood before building the Brighton location. Most of what I saw there happened in the 1930’s and 40’s.

Today all that remains of the Martha School is the original circular driveway of the main brick building and a dirt covered blank spot in the grass over the capped former well that supplied the campus with water.

Because I was working with two other talented mediums, most of what I write about in this post will be a combination of our shared psychic perceptions unless stated otherwise.

Fundraising With a Twist

Martha School 1925

Girls’ Parental School (Martha Washington School for Girls), Seattle, 1925

Courtesy Seattle Public Schools (Image No. 392-1)

Located off the circular driveway this was the showcase building where wealthy donors were courted for support. If only they had stuck to fundraising. Beatings, rape and prostitution occurred all over the former campus. The gala evening I saw most clearly happened in the 1930’s. It was full dark when a number of gleaming black Packard sedans brought the glittering guests to the event. A select few husbands were neatly separated from their wives by going to the smoking room to the left of the front door. They were tended to by an attractive usually blond girl called the “Cigarette Girl”. She was dressed in what I can only call a variation of a French maid’s costume and carried a standard vendors tray from which she sold cigarettes, cigars and snacks. As needed she turned bartender, mixing drinks to order. The ambiance of this otherwise all black tie clad male gathering degenerated quickly. Like any modern waitress at a bar will tell you there was plenty of grabbing, pinching and fondling of the cigarette girl as the men become more intoxicated and egged each other on. The really bad part came next.

The smoking room was adjoined by what I consistently thought of as the procurement room. It was beautifully appointed in floral prints and frills. The beauty ended at the bed where the girl selected to service the men was chained. The men in the smoking room would take turns raping her, return to their fellow guests and encourage each other for the next one. The evening I saw the girl on the bed was also blond. Sometimes if the clients wanted a more “exotic” girl a Pacific Islander or Asian girl would be chosen. None of this would be out of the ordinary in any brothel, but it certainly should not have been happening to young girls who were wards of the state.

Non-gala evenings also had their share of “regulars”. One car in particular stood out to me. It was a 1934 cream and maroon Packard 110 Coupe. The man who drove it would park in a reserved spot at the back of the building for his bi-weekly visits. It was distinct enough that I was able to find a similar car among stock photos online.

Martha WA School Car

Stock photo of a 1934 Packard 110 Coupe

Burn Box

The Martha School campus had a number of buildings and in some of them the girls were well cared for with appropriate adult supervision. However as students statuses changed so would the building they lived in. There was a vast difference in how the girls was treated in each building. Depending on where a girl was in the school pecking order her quality of life deteriorated sharply. In some cases the students were basically reduced to abused slaves treated worse than dogs. They didn’t always survive such treatment and some of their bodies remain under today’s peaceful grass.

Behind the main building in the direction of the shoreline of Lake Washington, but still on high ground was a long rectangular wooden dormitory. That was where the worst horrors took place. In the back of the basement of that building we saw girls chained to the walls. They were filthy, often in their nightgowns or slips. I saw half a dozen all in one bare, concrete floored basement room.

On the other side of the basement was a huge coal fueled boiler for the heating system. When the raped girls got pregnant, the results of clandestine abortions were disposed of in the burn box for the boiler. So were a few of the bodies of the girls who died.

Eventually that dorm burned to the ground. It was not an accident. At one point there was an incredibly vile male staffer, a huge, muscled guy who treated the girls in that building like his personal harem for many years. They were terrified of him, but eventually they had had enough. One of his “favorite” victims was in on the plan. She got him into one of the bedrooms with an exterior window. The rest of the girls emptied the contents of their kerosene lamps down the hallways and into each of the subsequent rooms. (The building did have electricity, but it either wasn’t fully wired, or lamps were used to save money.) Once they got the girl who acted as bait out, they trapped the man in the bedroom and lit the place up with a kitchen match. A wall of fire instantly seared him. I think he died a little later of from inhaling smoke and fumes but by then he was in agony. The flames eventually got to him and in a truly macabre scene his former victims and executioners watched him burn from outside via the bedroom window. It was quite the party and I can’t say I blamed them in the least. The next day all that was left of the building was blackened smoking bits of timber. The girls responsible were quickly and quietly shipped off to mental health or similar warehouse hospitals, not different juvenile homes where they might talk.

Worse Than Dogs

Slightly uphill from the capped well, was the most horrific scene that neither myself nor Al could get out of our heads for a few days after our investigation. (Trigger warning for my readers, this gets extremely bad. Consequently abuse survivors may wish to skip the next three paragraphs.)

Al and I saw a naked teen girl chained to the ground outside, face down. Her head had been shaved and she was so gaunt at first I mistakenly thought she was a boy. She was being beaten to within an inch of her life. Al could hear her screams. My guides apparently decided I didn’t need to hear that. I could see her thrashing around in agony as she futilely tried to avoid the blows. I could see she was screaming but thankfully I couldn’t hear her screams. This wasn’t the first nor the last time she was beaten that way.

We didn’t get a name, but the girl told us she had first been raped and gotten pregnant at age 15. The same thing happened the following year when she was 16. We saw her at age 17 by which time she had already had a third abortion earlier in the year. Two to three weeks following the beating Al and I saw, she was subjected to the same treatment again. She didn’t survive more than a few days past the final beating. Her unborn children and her body were all disposed of in the burn box of the boiler mentioned earlier.

I wish we could have helped her move on, but she wasn’t ready. She was still in the midst of the agony of her life and death. She asked Al over and over, “Why”? Why did they do that to her? We had no answers other than they could. As a medium I have seen in graphic detail how many, many people have died. This was one death I will not forget anytime soon.

The Well

The now capped well was occasionally used as a method of disposing of inconvenient bodies. Worst part was some of the girls were not dead when put down the well. At least one went in head first. I saw one of the girls drowned in this manner wore a gold tone charm bracelet on her left wrist. The bracelet had a single round medallion charm on it. Much later her skeletal remains were identified via that bracelet. I could see it on what remained of her arm.

Over time the well system was expanded to serve the Martha School campus. It became more of an open air cistern with a complex series of pipes that provided water to different buildings. The really gross part was bodies were left in that cistern/well that the rest of the facility was drawing water from. At one point decomposition clogged one of the major pipes and a crew of men in green protective suits had the task of clearing the biological matter from the system. They were heavily bribed to keep quiet about it, which they did.


Our group was told about the ghost of a former grounds caretaker who still haunts the site, closer to the lake. Today it is just a grassy patch by a walking trail along Lake Washington. No sign was needed. The very air felt heavy where his hut used to be. This was not a nice man. He abused and assaulted the girls. He was severely paranoid and mentally ill on top of everything else. Whatever his crimes they didn’t take place in his quarters. I doubt his chronic alcoholism helped matters in the least. When he was home he definitely wanted to be alone. I had no desire to walk into the area where his hut once stood, so at first I stuck to the walking path. Nevertheless he was well aware of my presence and shouted “Leave me the fuck alone!” I was inclined to do exactly that and kept walking.

Unfortunately I wasn’t done with that section of the grounds. Several hundred yards on Al brought to my attention that one of our group members was in danger. We knew going in thanks to the organizer that the ghost of the caretaker had a habit of pushing living people into the lake if he was annoyed with them. Earlier Al had gotten the impression it was probably the ghost of a young boy who was behind the dunking’s of prior investigators.

I have been known to get a heads up at assorted locations when the resident ghosts or spirits are about to give living investigators grief. So when Al brought his sense of impending danger to my attention, I tuned in and he was right. I felt the caretaker, two additional ghostly men and even some much earlier Native presences were about to throw one of our group members in the lake. I really did not want to go back to that spot but I couldn’t leave a living investigator in peril. So back we went. In the end everyone stayed dry.

As our group walked along the shoreline path a deeply embedded stone caught my attention. As I looked at it I saw a girl had died there. Her head had been crushed against the stone. Death followed quickly.  Asked Mari if she got anything. She obligingly stood on the stone and tuned in. Sadly she got the same thing as did Al.

Mari and I worked together at regional psychic fairs for years, so we are used to bouncing impressions off each other. We also try not to influence what the other person may or may not be getting, so often we will just ask the other, “Do you get anything about x, y or z?” Al and I have worked together four or five years on mutual investigations of interest, so it is really easy for me to fall into rapport with each of them. What usually happens is we all independently get the most important information about a location or situation and then each get different details, or as I like to put it pieces of the puzzle. We can and do check each others details and then add what we are each getting to the picture. There is really only one other person I can work with so easily but they live thousands of miles away, so that doesn’t happen often. Most psychics, especially mediums have ego’s the size of a small city. Consequently many investigative groups will only allow one medium per event to avoid such clashes. Thus it was a real treat to work with several of my favorite people. It granted the whole group a much more complete picture of past events at the Martha School.

Not So Insane

As far as the sensational name, the Martha Washington School for Insane Girls, not so much. I think perhaps a half-dozen or so of the girls would have ever qualified as severely mentally ill or actually insane. Many were orphaned, abandoned, didn’t fit in standard education programs or were otherwise unwanted. They had tough situations in their early lives but none of them deserved the abuse some of them endured. I want to make clear not every girl who attended the Martha School was treated in such a manner. In fact, most were not. The terrible things our group saw transpire there happened over many decades and to a smaller number of former students. Such events leave the strongest energy signatures, so it is not surprising the horrible hidden events are what still remain in the grounds.

There was a lot of Native American activity on the grounds of the former Martha School. Part two will explain some of what we picked up on from a much earlier era.




(c) 2018 Lynne Sutherland Olson. All rights reserved.











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Margot Kidder – Lois Lane

Margot Kidder Christopher Reeves.jpg

Margot Kidder and Christopher Reeves at the Oscars 1979. Photo courtesy of Reed Saxon/AP


Margot Kidder known to the pre-“Smallville” generation as Lois Lane to Christopher Reeves “Superman” died today, (5/14/18) at age 69. Cause of death had not been released when I spoke with her. I think it will turn out to be accidental asphyxiation. I do not mean a “Fifty Shades of Gray” scenario. Kidder wanted that to be made clear. “Last thing I need is the world to think I died doing something kinky!”

From what she shared with me she lost consciousness, woke up briefly and died via asphyxiation. It was not intentional. There was another person in the house, but they were playing video games in another room and did not hear her distress. I asked if it was her grandson, but she said no, it was a “neighbor kid”.

Kidder apologized to her daughter Maggie “For the mess I am leaving behind for her.” She did not go into detail about what that mess entailed. I got the impression some of it will be the media attention Kidder’s death will garner worldwide. There will probably be a great deal of speculation and possibly even a mistaken cause of death released. To repeat, it was NOT a suicide.

Kidder’s response when she realized she was dead was a common one along the lines of “Oh GREAT”, a reaction many of us have had when a day goes radically sideways. Doesn’t get much more sideways than death. It certainly wasn’t what she expected when she woke up with breathing privileges intact.

She was hurting as it wasn’t an easy transition. She said she really didn’t know what to do next or what was even an option about what followed death. I asked if she wanted help. She paused a moment and said in a very small voice, “yes.” It seemed to take a lot for her ask for and accept any help. I called in the appropriate Archangel and she spent a few cathartic moments having a good cry into the angels chest. I saw them walk off together engaged in intent conversation. She did pop back briefly, dressed to the nines and gave me a formal, final bow.

Rest in peace Margot Kidder. You will always be Lois Lane to me.





(c) 2018. Lynne Sutherland Olson. All rights reserved.





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Harry Anderson – Night Court

Night Court Cast Picture

“Night Court” cast. Harry Anderson, center front. Photo courtesy of NBC.

Death didn’t dent actor Harry Anderson’s flair for a dramatic entrance. I laughed when Anderson showed up in his Judge Harry Stone robes from his best known role on “Night Court.” I asked, him, “Really?” “Well it  got your attention didn’t it?” he retorted.  I have to admit, it was effective.

Once he had my attention he switched to a more casual look in blue jeans and a plaid print shirt, long sleeves, top few buttons open. Then he added a white ten gallon hat to the ensemble. When I asked about the hat, he said he had a fondness for them and they were a private joke between him and his wife. Publicly Anderson was known for his fedora’s, so maybe the cowboy hats were a more recent passion?

Not surprisingly he was concerned about his wife, Elizabeth Morgan. As Morgan was his second wife I asked him about his first. He said He wasn’t worried about his ex, Leslie Pollack because as he put it, “Leslie always knows what to do. She will take care of everything.” The implication was she would break the news to their grown children and handle any details that needed attention.

Anderson told me it was “the old ticker” that gave out on him. He said the pain only lasted for a few moments and then he was floating above his body in his bedroom, looking down on it. “Now THAT would have been a heck of a magic trick” he quipped.  At first he watched Elizabeth sleep from his new vantage point, and then her distress when she woke in due time and couldn’t wake him. He wanted her to know it was an easy death at least for him. He knows it wasn’t easy on her and is sad about that. If he could talk to her right now he would say, “We did have a good run, didn’t we babe?” (Morgan and Anderson married in 2000.)

He warned his son Dashiell, no magic tricks that snap, pop or smoke at his funeral as that would upset Elizabeth. “You can pull as many flowers from your sleeves and rabbits out of hats as you want, just nothing that goes boom,” he said. “No body piercings either,” he added as an afterthought. (One of his best known Saturday Night Live skits involved an apparent piercing of his arm.)  Like nearly every single funeral I have ever attended,  Anderson will be at his own services, Tom Sawyer style “Without the punchline” he noted as the news of his death was all too real.

Anderson was well-known as a major  fan of Mel Torme. I was given a glimpse of their reunion on the other side. A hearty handshake quickly became a big hug with lots of laughter, tears and back pounding to go around.

I got the distinct impression Harry Anderson, actor, magician and by many accounts an all around nice guy will enjoy his afterlife as much as he did his time on Earth. He walked away me whistling a tune I didn’t recognize, but as far as I could tell in a good mood, come what may.

One of my fond childhood memories was watching “Night Court” with my grandmother. It was one of the few shows both of us could enjoy.  Thanks for the memories, Harry. If you run into Nonni, say hi for me. I know she will want to meet you.



Lynne Sutherland Olson



(c) 2018. Lynne Sutherland Olson. All rights reserved.











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Stephen Hawking – New Adventures

Hawking Family


Stephen Hawking, Jane Wilde Hawking and family attend the British Academy Film Awards at The Royal Opera House on Feb. 8, 2015 in London. 

Stephen Hawking was absolutely the LAST person I expected to show up in my living room following his death today, March 13, 2018 at age 76 from complications of ALS (amyotrophic lateral sclerosis). While it is not uncommon for the dead to show up to chat with me shortly after I learn of their passing, most of the time it is people I knew personally or at least am connected in some way to the friends and family of the recently deceased. That is why it always blows me away when dead celebrities show up. Not every late celebrity contacts me and of those that do, only a few give their permission to publicly talk about it. Hawking gave his permission, so here goes.

Not quite believing what I was seeing when Hawking showed up in his famed wheelchair complete with synthesized computer voice, I told him flatly, “I don’t believe you are here. I don’t agree with your science.” His response via “The Computer” was “That is irrelevant.”

Fine, I asked him what he was about since he had long and publicly made it clear he had no believe in any kind of afterlife and called such beliefs “a fairy story for people afraid of the dark.” He replied, “I did not expect this.” No I imagine he didn’t.

Since the dead never show up without some reason I asked if there was anyone he wanted to pass a message on to. He replied, “Tell Jane she was right.” Jane Hawking was his first wife. They divorced in 1990 but regained a relationship on good terms after he divorced his second wife a little over a decade ago.

I had the impression Hawking expected his ex to find that comment both laughter and tear inducing.

When I asked if he had anything else to say, he simply turned his wheelchair around and rolled away beyond where I could see. I repeated the question to his retreating back and only got a curt “no” before he faded from sight.

I think Hawking probably showed up in a form I would recognize him in. In my experience the dead can show up in any form they please, but normally choose one that will be most easily understood by those they visit.

I couldn’t make this stuff up if I tried. On the off-chance Jane Hawking ever sees this post, message delivered.  I wish Stephen Hawking all the best on his new adventures, wherever they may lead.


Lynne Sutherland Olson


(c) 2018. Lynne Sutherland Olson.

All rights reserved.

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