I will tell you three, about Gram, my great-grandmother.
When Gram was about six, she lived with her parents in the hills of California, and their closest neighbor was a couple of miles away, on the other side of the hill. Gram was playing outside in the rain, then came into the house to tell her mother that Mrs. Neighbor had fallen in the mud and would need a hot bath and a change of clothes. So G3 used the kettle to fill the tub, and waited. And waited. And waited.
Finally, Mrs. Neighbor arrived, soaked and covered in mud, and after G3 got her into the bath, Mrs. Neighbor asked how she'd known to draw it, and G3 told her, "[Gram] saw you fall in the mud, she told me," to which Mrs. Neighbor replied, "That's impossible. I fell on the other side of the hill, and she never goes past your garden."
Story 2: When Gram was in her twenties, she was in her sewing room doing some mending, and passed out on the bed. Her husband found her just pushing upright, and the immediate words out of her mouth were, "Dad fell off a ladder changing a lightbulb and broke his hip, we have to go see him in the hospital." Her husband told her she'd dreamt it, as the telegraph containing the message arrived at their door: her father had fallen and broken a hip, they were needed.
Her husband cited to the judge that her 'being a witch' was why he wanted a divorce.
Gram's second husband was a Wild Princess. Injured animals would come to him from literal miles around to be nursed back to health. He rescued a baby monkey (I was never told what kind but small enough to be a Shoulder Guy) from a flash flood and hand raised several orphaned kittens, chinchillas, escaped pet parakeets (one spoke very clear English and had a better memory than Gram), and one old desert tortoise with a ring drilled into the front of his shell that he called Clyde.
Gram warned him of flash floods and helped him locate and rescue creatures caught in them. By his count, she didn't miss once, and he'd swing at any man that called her a witch, because to him she was an angel.
She called him to say goodbye right before he was sent out on the call (he was a lineman by trade) that killed him.
Bonus story: Gram and her daughter, my Nana, lived alone across the street from the fire station and a block from the police, so any time they had a problem they called the firemen. They had a man try to break into their house once, and Nana called the firemen while Gram, calmly putting back the shotgun in the hallway, said, "he's gonna break his leg running in the dark."
The boys came over shouting and weilding axes, the guy bolted, tripped on the chicken bricks, and broke his leg.
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