50-19 – Ghost Stories

As skeptical and full of cynicism as I am, I still believe things. While it’s still in the mainstream, I don’t need to see G-d to know He exists, but I also believe in other spirits. I’ve seen them and felt them, and unexplained things are unexplained for a reason. Sometimes, it just is.

One of the reasons I never watched The X-Files or came so late to Supernatural and hated The Twilight Zone is how much of it I believe can be reality. The supernatural and unexplained aspects of shows like that, of seeing things in the corner of your eyes, of hearing things that others don’t – I could never accept it as fiction because I’m a believer in those spirits and happenings. Some of those types of stories are just too real. For me, there is no suspension of disbelief; my disbelief is already suspended and I clutch one hand to my armrest, and one over my eyes with barely separated fingers.

The first experience that I can recall was as a child visiting the Jenny Wade house in Gettysburg. Jenny Wade was the only civilian casualty of the Battle of Gettysburg. A bullet propelled through her street facing closed door and hit her, killing her instantly while she was kneading bread. As a child, there was a mannequin of a soldier in the kitchen that told her story. They projected a talking face onto the mannequin that creeped me the fuck out. Even as a kid, I knew it wasn’t a ghost or ghostly figure, but it was still scary for me. The promotion of the house was that the walls could talk as the only eyewitness to the death.

I visited there again with my husband and later on with my kids when they were younger, and I remember a distinct feeling of not being alone in the cold cellar of the house. The simple act of opening the doors tilted and facing outside, and descending down the stone steps left a profound feeling.

Gettysburg is full of spirits, though. Out of all my encounters, three have taken place in Gettysburg or areas of the Civil War battles. I distinctly remember waking up to find a soldier in a Civil War era uniform standing at the edge of my hotel room bed. I still get shivers when I picture him; like now.

The third time, my husband took my son exploring some of the gravestones on the Battlefield while I stayed in the car with the two younger kids, and I could feel it all around me – the unrest.

I think of all the battles we’ve experienced as a country, the Civil War has the most unrest, the most restless, the most tragic spirits still roaming about.

Once, after college, I was driving my car and was stopped at a red light. I think I drifted off to sleep. My foot stayed on the brake and there was no one behind me to honk, but when the light turned green or just after, I felt a hand on my shoulder. It just nudged me and I was awake. I’m not sure, but it felt like my grandmother. She had recently died, and of course, no one was in the car with me.

In 2010, I kept a dream journal on post-it notes. I had been having odd dreams, and so I kept track of them at that time. I didn’t discover it until several years later, but one of those dreams was of my friend getting shot. When I looked at the date, it was exactly one year before he was actually shot by a mutual friend’s ex. That definitely gave me pause.

That mutual friend was murdered, and a few of us, some who knew her and some who didn’t, drank a variety of teas and wrote or journaled about them and/or our friend, B. There were five different varieties of tea that we were all sharing at different times and in different places, and I could definitely feel her presence during those tea drinking moments, and while journaling about them. She was very present for about a year after she died; maybe a bit longer than a year, but it was palpable, almost a tangible feeling of her spirit, encouraging me to taste the tea with all my senses and keep writing about the feelings. Her spiritual presence was one of the many influences on this blog coming together more consistently.

There have been others, including the moment that my belief in Jesus Christ came upon me in cliched and literal glowing white light and sudden understanding, but other than that the other moments were much less, just there nudging me forward, sometimes a comfort and sometimes a question, but my mind and my heart are both open to these and other encounters.

50-17 – Manchester

I thought I was just afraid to fly. I thought I was really afraid to fly. I had a talisman to hold onto from my friend, a bottle of Xanax from my doctor, and even then I wasn’t sure if I’d get on the plane or not. I’m wasn’t worried (and still not for the most part) about the plane crash landing, but the enclosed spaces get me. I want an aisle seat every time, and that doesn’t really help. It gives the illusion that I have an escape route.

Psychology. It’s mind-boggling.

I didn’t find out until about three years later, but that fear of flying wasn’t a fear – it was anxiety in the form of disorder. It was diagnosed when I was diagnosed with depression, but at the time of this transatlantic holiday, I thought I was afraid to fly.

50-16 – Grandma’s Basement

Nancy Drew Mysteries, The Mystery of the 99 Steps, 1966

My grandmother’s basement was perfect for reading Nancy Drew mysteries. It was the kind of basement you’d expect to find a body buried in. It was scary and exciting, and inviting all at the same time. There was a window that you couldn’t see out of because of all the overgrowth in the yard just above the window line.

It was a finished basement with a floor and paneled walls. Between the brush shadows and the paneling, it made for a very dim space. Dampness hung in the air, but that didn’t dimish its charm to a preteen girl reading mystery stories.

There were built in shelves filled with dusty books for all age ranges. I remember a lot of different blue hued books. Blue seemed to be a popular color for a book cover. None of them had book jackets that I recall.

There was a couch and a round coffee table in the center of the seating area.

There was another side to the basement that I don’t remember as well. I don’t think we went on that side or if we did it was rare. That is probably where the washing machine was and the furnace – those important things that keep the house going, but remain invisible to visitors.

There was also a door leading to the garage. It was a one car garage at the bottom of a steep driveway. It smelled of oil and gasoline, and every time we drove into the dreiveway, I thought for sure we were going to slide right through the closed garage door.

But the other side, with the books and shelves and seats, that was where we played and read and pretended. Nancy Drew, the Hardy Boys and whatever else came to mind.

When I think of my grandmother’s house, this is invariably what I picture in my mind.

Google Image, 2016. This is the outside of my grandmother’s house. It is a little different than when I visited her there in the ’70s.

50-15 – Bart Conner and Nadia Comeneci

Many of these begin with ‘when I was a kid’ or a teenager or in college, but so many of the things that I rmember are from those times. Sometimes they stand out because of the people I was with or I’m reminded of them because of a recent event or circumstance.

When I was in high school, I had a huge crush on Bart Conner. I loved watching all of the gymnasts – male and female – compete both at the world championship level and at the Olympic level. I was a big fan of the Olympics and u sed their subject for several papers and speeches throughout high school and college. I was a fan.

For a long time I followed the careers of Kurt Thomas – up until his retirement to coach, and Bart Conner. They seemed ot always finish one or two, but for the life of me, I can’t remember who finished where.

I got ahold of Bart’s address in college – the University of Oklahoma at Norman and sent fan letters, letters of congratulations and the like. He returned with a postcard and a Christmas card. The Christmas card is long lost. I have a photocopy of it from my friend, Susan who joined me on the Christmas card writing.

Many years later, after we’d moved to the upstate New York area, I saw an advertisement that Bart Conner and his wife, Nadia Comeneci would be signing autographs in the local mall.

How could I pass up this opportunity, not only to meet my crush and hero, Bart Conner while making a fool of myself reminiscing about our high school correspondence, but to meet Nadia Comeneci, the most famous international gymnast in the world. During the 1976 Montreal Games and at 14, she became the first gymnast to score a perfect 10 at an Olympic Games.

It was beyond thrillling.

If it occurred today, I would easily ask for a photo, but back then, about eighteen or so years ago, I felt I was intruding despite them being there for their fans in the first place. I was so intimidated with stereotypical jelly legs and stammering voice, but they were both kind and lovely, and someday I will find that autographed picture.

Meeting your heroes can be either a blessing or a curse. I’ve been lucky that in all my instances of meeting celebrities and sports figures, I’ve been very lucky that I have not been let down. It is a testament to their seriousness as role models in their fields.

50-14 – MahJong

When my mother died a few years ago, I asked for her mah jong set. No one else cared; no one else wanted it. I was probably the only one who had any real memories of it in action. In our childhood neighborhood, and at aunts’ and uncles’ houses in the Bronx and Queens there were weekly games.

Bubbly hair that was so full of hairspray it could withstand tornado, nuclear blast or the annual wedding dress sale at Filene’s. The cat’s eye glasses that is so central to the 1970s vintage look that then was merely in its infancy.

Four folding chairs, unfolded and set around a card table taken from the hall closet. No tablecover that I remember, but four different colored tile racks, the top for showing your play and the tilted one (like Scrabble) that no one could see what still remained in your hand.

I didn’t know how to play. I still don’t,but when I was a kid, I thought I did. I’d move the tiles around. My mother’s set has jewel toned racks, and I brought out the green one to display on top of the case – it is very much like a briefcase with two latches on the side that keep it closed, but doesn’t require a key to open. The rest of the set is housed inside the case.

I keep it on the bottom of my barrister bookcase. That’s one of those bookcases with a glass front so you can see what’s inside. It fits perfectly on that bottom display.

Whenever I look at it I think about the card table and the food we weren’t allowed to touch. We were sent outside with the other kids.

I don’t remember if everyone shared one set to play on, but everyone had their own set. Maybe the host provided the playing set.

Even now, I can hear the clattering of the tiles on the racks. They look like marble but from their weight, I’d guess that they’re not.

I can hear the bam, and the dot, and the joker and dragon.

Wine flowed, crudite crunched, and tiles clattered while we kids ran around outside, and then through the living room being chastised and sent once again on our way and our of our parents’ ways.

50 – 11 (Photo) Five Dollars

Current Front. 2016

Current Back. 2016

For anyone who’s already read the 11th reflection in my 50 series, this is a photo that I added to the original post.

The bills my uncles gave us when we’d visit were much different, but we spent those.

These are the current ones in circulation.

While still called paper money, they are actually printed on polymer or plastic. The five is the lowest denomination of paper money. There are $1 and $2 coins. They no longer use pennies.

Consequently, when we went out to eat, we were charged $94.23 if we used a credit or debit card or $94.25 if we paid cash. It took about a day to get used to.

50 – 13 – 337

When I was in high school and for as long as it was on television, I was a tremendous fan of Matlock starring Andy Griffith. He played a Georgia lawyer who wore the same suit every day – three piece grey. That’s all he had in his closet for court.

Each show was some kind of a mystery culminating in a trial. I loved it. I’ve always been a big fan of mysteries and the law, so this was perfect for me despite my not exactly being in the demographic that it was aimed for.

One of those mysteries was a murder in a television studio. The victim queued up the VHS tape (yup, that’s how long ago that show was on) to 3:37.

It was assumed that the murderer appeared on the tape at the three minute, thirty-seven second mark. However that person had an alibi. It confused everyone until Matlock laid down on the floor under the VHS player and suddenly from the angle of the murder victim, instead of the numbers 337, it spelled out LEE. Lee was the murderer.

I don’t know why this always stuck with me through the years, decades even. I noticed when I was buying something and the total was $3.37. I think for a short while gas prices went up to $3.379. I would notice the time – 3:37pm.

My husband would point it out to me when he would see it.

It became my favorite number.

Well, about five years ago, I got one of those day planner books that listed the days of the year. January 1st was #1. February 1st was #32. March 1st was 60, and so on.

Out of curiosity, I thumbed through the whole calendar to my birthday, December 3rd to see what day of the year I was born on.

As it turned out, in non-leap years, my birthday is celebrated on the three hundred thirty-seventh day of the year.

My birthday is 337.

I was kind of astounded by the coincidence, but it was also one of those feelings that wasn’t deja vu, but it was special – that things are there and we need just to take a closer look at them; that some things mean more than they appear on the surface.

50 – 12 – Air Horns

My family drove everywhere. We’d load up the car the night before, get up and pile in the car to leave at 4am, still in our pajamas. After about four hours of driving, we’d stop for breakfast and put on real clothes, then continue on our way. We went to Canada, Pennsylvania, Florida, Virginia. There were three of us in the backseat, and going there was more room than coming back. Canada had the duty free shop and my parents smoked. Coming back from Florida, we were covered in cigarette cartons and oranges because the prices were so cheap down south.

We played car games, like keeping track of the states on the license plates, car colors, signs, some magnetic games, anything to keep us occupied and not touching each other or breathing on each other.

One thing that we always did when we were kids were to get the attention of the truck drivers. My Dad had a CB radio so we talked to them and when we got their attention in person, through the window, we’d pretend to pull the air-horn.

They copied us and returned the gesture only they blew their air-horns and the regular truck horn.

It was fantastic.

I don’t think they do that anymore. While we were driving to Niagara Falls a few weeks ago, we told our kids to do that. The one truck driver who saw them waved, which was pretty thrilling in itself.

We would also moo at any cows we passed by. I’m happy to saw our kids think we’re dorks, but it’s such a good memory, I wanted them to have it as well.

50 – 11 – Five Dollars

When I was a child, we traveled to Canada often; more often than most kids living in NYC and on Long Island. Our grandfather was born and raised there, so we would visit his sisters and their families as well as going on a summer vacation before returning to school in the fall. Not every year, but almost every other.

Every visit always included dinner at Old Ed’s Warehouse in Toronto. We’d all meet there – aunts, uncles, cousins. It was a fancy restaurant, and men had to wear jackets and ties. It was a steakhouse, and it was misery for my brother, sister, and I. Steaks. No hamburgers, even less chance of cheeseburgers, and absolutely no ketchup. I can still see my sister’s face when we found that out.

My husband and I continued that tradition when we visited Toronto before we got married. We visited my Aunt Goldie, and had dinner at Old Ed’s. It was different since I was ten – they had several sections of the restaurant – steaks, pasta, casual dining, etc. No jackets either. They are closed now, but they were a place that was part of my childhood traditions.

When I was a kid, everyone would gather on the street outside the restaurant in front of Ed’s. You needed reservations. We parked and waited for the rest of the family to arrive.

My aunts, Goldie and Janet were my grandfather’s sisters. He also had a brother, but we didn’t see him very often. I can only remember one time distinctly. Both of them had husbands named Joe. We found this funny. Two Uncle Joe’s. We also had two Aunt Shirleys, two cousin Sharons and more Davids than you could shake a stick at.
When Uncle Joe (Goldie’s husband) arrived he took each of us kids aside, gave us $5 in Canadian money for our own and told us not to tell our parents.

About five minutes later, Uncle Joe (Janet’s husband) took each of us aside, gave us $5 in Canadian money for our own and told us not to tell our parents.

The two of them shared a look and a wink, and the three of us each got $10 to spend on our vacation. I don’t know if my parents ever knew. We were Gerry’s kids, and he was there so often he was a favorite of the family and in addition to all the other ways, we reaped the reward of having a great Dad.

The current $5 bill. Front. 2016

The current $5. Back. 2016

50 – What Was I Thinking?!

At the beginning of the year, I had this great idea for a series of posts. To celebrate turning 50 at the end of the year, I would post one reflection every week talking about the past fifty years in my life. Mostly anecdotes, memories that are always floating around in my head. I’ve posted similar ones before that I’ve tagged as “I remember” especially when my kids do something that reminds me of my childhood, like eating McDonald’s fries in the car or visiting Grandma, and you know the types of stories. Some would be longer than others, but they would all be meaningful to me, and hopefully encourage others to post and share their own memorable moments from their lives.

One a week was do-able and I’d have fifty by my birthday in December.

Well, here it is the end of summer and the early beginnings of fall. The kids are back in school, the choir is back at my church, I’m wearing my new fall jacket, and we actually went on a short vacation to Niagara Falls, both new family fun and memories come alive.

Niagara Falls, as seen from the Canadian side, 2016 (c)

I have posted ten of those fifty. Ten. With my birthday in less than twelve weeks, I can still make my goal of fifty by my birthday. I would have to post about three to four each week, but it can be done.

This has been a mostly successful year for writing despite falling off the motivational hamster wheel this summer, but I’m confident I can get this done. And getting this done is something that I not only want to do, I need to do it; for myself.

Setting goals and deadlines have always been issues for me. The anxiety kicks in and if I never finish it, it feels as though I can’t fail.

I hope you enjoy reading the forty remaining in the next eleven and a half weeks. I know I will enjoy writing them.

Griffins and Ginger Snaps

-I write, and I have a blog because of course I do-

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