The only thing you could definitely get from grandma’s readings is that they would be dead wrong.
At 93, you would think that at some point, whatever spirits, gods, or universal power she was invoking would say something to her, even if that thing was “Stop.”
But every Sunday, after the family meal, she’d take me into her “Hall of Clairvoyance”, the back bedroom draped with heavy curtains and rugs, and read my future.
The first I remember was tarot, a gorgeous forest themed deck from her coven, who thought if she could only connect with nature on the supernatural plane the same way she did with gardening, that she could be powerful indeed.
When I was 10, she eschewed her coven and decided that rune reading was the way, the true and pure path to communing with the beyond.
She chanted ancient words in a Southern drawl, halting at certain syllables, while we held hands and I snuck peeks at the runes, squinting so as not to get caught.
Her readings told of an impending marriage to a foreign prince, a great frog plague, or, most often, an upset stomach. None came to pass, except the upset stomachs, though never on the weeks it was foretold.
For the last five years, it’s been sewing hexes and baking protection.
I try to avoid the “protection cookies,” as her neighbor choked on one, but the hex blankets do keep me warm on a winter night.