MY FORAY INTO THE REALM OF AURAS -- Vonnie Davis

I was a sophomore in college when I met Erin. We were both nontraditional students. I was forty-five and she was late-twenties. One day as we were traipsing across the campus to the library, she told me I had a cranberry red aura.

 I stopped in my tracks. “A what?”

“An aura. That colorful energy force that surrounds everyone.”

“Energy force.” What in the world was she talking about? I worked six days a week at a third shift job and attended college during the day as a fulltime student. I had NO energy force. I’d used it up the previous semester.

We started walking again. “Haven’t you ever heard of an aura?” Erin asked.

“No.” I hate being in the dark about something. “What do you mean you can see energy forces?” She was kind of freaking me out. Even so, the writer in me, the part that needs to know everything, was quite curious.

“I see them out of the top of my head.” She splayed her hand over the crown of her brown hair. Good grief, what kind of crack was this girl smoking? She beamed at me with her usual animated sweet spirit. Too bad what she was saying made zero sense to me.

“So you can look at someone and see or sense from the top of your head a ring of color around them?” My eyebrows furrowed as I tried to come to grips with what she was telling me. Frankly, I’m very conservative in some ways; too often skeptical of most things out of the norm.

“Yeah, I’m told we can have various layers to our auras, but I can only see one.” I nodded as if I understood but, folks, I was clueless. She went on with her tutorial. “Our aura reflects our health, mental activity and emotional state. It holds all information about who we are.”

“Kinda like our credit reports,” I quipped as I reached for the library door. “So, tell me, is a cranberry red aura good?” And how did she know it was cranberry red and not tomato red or brick red? What if she were color blind and read everyone’s aura wrong?

“Oh, yeah. It signifies passion, love for others, enthusiasm and courage.” Sounded like a one-size-fits-all psychic reading to me.

Two weeks later, I was sitting in the cafeteria with another nontraditional student eating lunch and talking about our business law exam. Gary was late-thirties, early-forties. He was seeking me out more often, and I wasn’t sure how I felt about that. I was still reeling from my divorce; even after two years, my emotions remained raw.

Erin came bustling over. “Vonnie, can I talk to you in private for a minute?”

Gary took the hint and made some excuse about making a phone call.

“What’s up?”

Erin sat in the seat he just vacated and glanced back over her shoulder. “His aura scares me.”

“Who’s? Gary’s?” Enough with the auras, already. I didn’t believe in them. I couldn’t understand how she saw or felt something from the back of her head. It all sounded like mumbo-jumbo to me. I mean, really…

“Gary’s aura is dark grey and black, and it’s moving and swirling. Has he asked you out? He keeps looking at you funny. I think you better keep your distance. I’m worried.”

Three days later, police came to campus and arrested Gary for beating a woman until she was near death.

Color my aura “Oh-My-God Scaredy-Cat Yellow.”

What about you? Do you believe in auras?

I won’t be online to read or respond to your comments for a couple days. I’m having surgery today to remove the saliva gland in front of my left ear. It has a cyst about the size of a grape growing in it, causing ear aches, headaches and jaw pain. Because of all the facial nerves, it’ll be a delicate operation. Color my aura black and blue.

COULD SOMEONE DIM THOSE SPOTLIGHTS, PLEASE? --Vonnie Davis

The spotlight shines on me today at Roses of Prose, and I’m squirming in my seat wondering how I'll introduce myself--one of the "new" yet old roses on the vine. What can I possibly say to engage and entertain? Granted, I’m a writer, but my heroines—strong women, all—and my heroes—alpha males with a soft caramel center—are more interesting to write about than myself.

For you see, I am the typical late bloomer. I didn’t start college until the age of forty-four. The love of my life didn’t enter my life until I was fifty-five. And I didn’t start writing seriously until I was in my early sixties. But I do have a wild and crazy variety of life experiences that spill over into my writing.



What was it like going to college with kids the same ages or younger than my children, who were college students themselves? It was a blast! At the time, I worked in a factory on third shift as one of three women working with sixty-seven men. Tough odds, I'll admit. I was a member of the machinists’ union, read blueprints, ran machines and worked in the oil and dredge of heavy steel industries.

After my shift ended at seven in the morning I’d rush home, shower and change before dashing off to campus.  

I was a full-time student at Penn State, majoring in Business Management and English with a concentration in technical writing. Slowly I became the campus mom; the person homesick kids went to with their problems.

Yet, it was my sons I called in the evening when I couldn’t do my homework. I struggled with sciences, and my youngest was majoring in micro-biology. A collegiate wrestler, he shared an apartment with five other wrestlers. One night when I called for help, Mike yelled to his roommates, “Hey, guys, quiet down! I’m trying to help my mom with her homework.” Of course, his roomies responded with various questions like When is she making us more brownies? Is she bringing us some more jars of homemade spaghetti sauce? Ask her to make us those yummy stuffed shells like she did last time she was here. Men, we do know how they think, don’t we?

My oldest son transferred to my campus for his final semester so he could say he went to college with his mom. What fun we had. To be sure, my college years were a special time.

On the tenth anniversary of my divorce, I bought a bottle of wine, Chinese takeout and a bag of Oreos. Folks, I was determined to have one last pity party and finally—finally—get that man out of my system. A few hours later in a wine-MSG-sugar-induced moment of madness, I went online and filled out a profile on match dot com. I woke up the next morning with a start, head throbbing, vision doubled, mouth tasting as if a herd of buffalo had roamed through it and an obscure, wild memory that I’d put myself out on the internet for every wacko to find. Surely I hadn’t done that! Surely not…

But I had. Did the wackos find me? Oh, yeah. They came in droves. Oh, the horrors!

Then one day, Calvin sashayed into my mailbox on a jazzbeat and a smile—a gentleman with southern charm, a retired English teacher and a writer. We met for the first time at a Barnes and Noble. He was standing by the door holding a bouquet of red roses, and I was entranced.

That was eight years ago. Since then we’ve married. I retired as a techincal writer and, with Calvin’s encouragement, started writing. Last month we each had a book released. His The Phantom Lady of Paris is set on the Left Bank of Paris in 1968. My Storm’s Interlude is a contemporary romance full of family love and passion set in the hill country of Texas.

Having shared all this, I suppose if there’s one thing I can pass along to you, it’s that one is never too old to pursue his or her dreams. Age be damned. Truly. For it is our spirits that define us. No matter how downtrodden or damaged or dinged our spirits are, they’ll always rise to the occasion. They’ll whisper in our ears, “Let’s try it. Let’s see what we can do, shall we?”

I'll be here posting the 12th and 27th of every month. Write on!