Between me and my husband, I’m the one who has had strange experiences throughout my life. I do vaguely recall having brief discussions with my maternal grandfather after he passed away when I was 6 years old. Of course, at that age, I didn’t understand what death was. I didn’t understand that I’d never see my grandpa again, wouldn’t get to spend the summers with him at the cottage in Janesville, Wisconsin, or the house on Fawell Street in Chicago, Illinois. I would never again go to Fannie Mae with him, or snuggle up on his lap in his Lazy-Boy recliner dozing off to a Chicago White Sox game on…