RIVER CITY JOURNAL: THIS WILL GIVE YOU GOOSEBUMPS, SO TAKE A DEEP BREATH FIRST

Let's just say I had a premonition that Tuesday was going to be a spooky day.

It started when the alarm went off at 5 a.m.

I don't know about you, but the older my body gets, the more habits it picks up. One habit that's only a few years old is waking up exactly five minutes before the alarm is set to go off. So being awakened by the alarm is a rare thing for me.

I was startled and rattled by the alarm. I grabbed the clock to push the Alarm-OFF button. But in my fog of half-sleep, I apparently pushed another button that turned on a night light built into the clock.

Folks, this is spooky because I didn't know my clock had a night light.

And that sucker is bright. I'd say it's capable of making the dead of night as bright as the noonday sun.

So there I was fumbling with my alarm clock, trying to turn off that danged light. And then it occurred to me that the alarm was still going strong. Which, of course, was not exactly what my wife wanted to hear.

I finally got the alarm to go off, but for the life of me I couldn't figure out how to turn off the night light. So I turned the clock upside down and put a pillow over it.

What I learned from this experience is that being jolted out of a deep sleep by an alarm clock with a mysterious light leaves you addled.

At least I'm blaming my addled state of mind on the alarm clock. And I'm sticking to my story.

The other thing I learned -- but didn't know I had learned it until most of the day was gone -- was that those frantic seconds of being outsmarted by a small electronic device was a harbinger of more spooky things.

Later in the morning, as I was leaving for work, I paused on the patio to admire the wild hedge that separates our property from the next-door neighbor. The hedge is God's handiwork, and it is a thing of beauty, if you happen to like the Almighty's way with every possible hue of green. The wild hedge flows and dips and swirls and curves with forsythia, wild grape, honeysuckle, elm, wild roses, poison ivy, boxwood and much more.

There is a neatly trimmed boxwood hedge that curves around one side of the patio, and it makes a nice contrast to the shapes of the wild hedge.

I noticed right away that both Mama Cardinal and Papa Cardinal, lately of the grapevine wreath on our back door just steps away, were in the wild hedge. And they were having a fit.

Since the baby cardinals had just left the nest the day before, I assumed they were nearby, and the adult birds were trying to divert my attention. But even though I searched for the fledglings, I couldn't spot them. I looked high and low. I looked over and under. I looked around and around.

I was standing next to one end of the boxwood hedge, and the adult cardinals turned frantic.

Suddenly I had this spooky feeling. I looked down. There was one of the tiny birds edging its way out of the foliage and into my pants pocket. I nudged the bird back onto a branch and walked toward the garage, giving the adult birds a bit of relief.

Later that day a copy of Arkansas Business, a weekly magazine about all things business in the Razorback State, found its way to my desk. I usually pass these magazines along to writers of business stories. But for some reason I started leafing through this copy of Arkansas Business.

I came to the magazine's editorial page and noticed that the managing editor's name was listed as John Henry.

As it turns out, I happen to know a John Henry. I met him 30 years ago when my wife and our 1-year-old son moved from New York to Moscow, Idaho, in the middle of winter.

At the time, we owned a 1967 Volvo, the only new car we have ever owned. I wondered if I would ever find anyone to repair the Volvo in northern Idaho. Imagine my surprise when I pulled into the newspaper parking lot in Moscow for my first day of work and found the only available parking space was next to -- are you ready for this -- another 1967 Volvo. Same model. Same color. Same everything.

Spooky, huh?

The other Volvo, it turned out, belonged to the sports editor, John Henry.

A year or so later, John left Idaho to return to his hometown of Pine Bluff, Ark., where he went to work for the newspaper there. In the intervening years, John and I visited once on the telephone.

So here was John Henry, managing editor of Arkansas Business.

I immediately sent an e-mail to make sure it was the same John Henry.

Could there really be more than one?

In the same state?

Sure enough, it was the same John Henry. And we exchanged a couple of catch-up e-mails.

But wait. Here's the really spooky part.

On the same editorial page of Arkansas Business where I found John Henry's name, there was a letter to the editor about some stories the magazine had published about the timber industry. The letter was from someone familiar with Potlatch Industries, the wood-pulp and paper-products giant.

The letter writer listed his address as -- hold on to your Cheerios -- Moscow, Idaho.

The rest of Tuesday, I am happy to report, was uneventful.

Then there was Wednesday. And Thursday. But that's another story.

I have a premonition I'll be telling it soon.

~R. Joe Sullivan is the editor of the Southeast Missourian.