I remember so well sitting at my grandmother’s kitchen table, waiting anxiously for Sister Rose.  She came by every Wednesday to bring my “Nana” mystical news of good fortune.  You simply didn’t bring bad news to my grandmother’s house. Nana’s small tenement took on a whole new aura on those Wednesday mornings — our little eyes looking around for unknown and unseen spirits also hovering in silent wait for Sister Rose.

First, the whistle of the kitchen kettle set the mood for the readings.  Then sip, sip, sip ’til the cup was empty. The remaining tea leaves then mysteriously told the story.