Ghost Stories

“Do you believe in ghosts?” is a great conversation starter (or stopper). The Lion from “The Wizard of Oz,” Ebenezer Scrooge and many other famous fictional characters had reasons to believe in ghosts. I have also talked to several real-life people who have had their own afterlife encounters. But, because of my overactive imagination I can’t be trusted as a credible source for any hearsay evidence (“Did you hear that?”).

Apart from seeing a shadow move past a window and a faint image (seen through several panes of glass) of a frail old man sitting at a table waiting for his wife to serve him dinner, I have no scary ghost stories to tell. However, I have found that some memories can be so strong that they come to life.

This summer I had reason to visit some of my old-haunts and stepped into what felt like the middle of an old home-movie. The first stop I made was my boyhood home on Church Street. When my folks moved from there they left behind lost toys and my childhood. When I walked up the driveway the memories hit me so hard my vision blurred and I stumbled.

All the familiar cars were gone, as was the basketball hoop that hung over the garage. As I shuffled through the breezeway I was careful not step on any grasshoppers that may still be there. One summer day my brother Dan and I caught hundreds of them in jars (with holes punched in the metal covers for air) and released them in the breezeway to see how our cat would react. She just sat and stared. After I stood and stared for too long of a time I turned my attention to the screen door.

It appeared to be the same door. Thousands of times I had opened, closed and slammed that door (sorry), now for the first time I knocked on it. I know the current owner and he politely invited me in. He talked about some of the changes he and his wife had made and how happy they were there. As I looked around I struggled with conflicted emotions. I wanted to run through the house and look in the all the rooms but I also wanted to turn and run down the driveway back to my truck.

I thanked him for his hospitality, turned and walked (fast) to the truck. I revisited the rest of the neighborhood with the bike I had with me. Being careful not to trespass, I pedaled up the alleys and coasted down the sidewalks. Mrs. Schultz’s white dog no longer barked at me, Andy McCormick and his one-room house (cot, table, one chair) were both gone as well. I slowed as I went past the Miller’s house. It was on that concrete step that Tommy Miller introduced the world to the idea of putting peanut-butter on toast (at least that’s how I saw it).

The siren used to blow every day at noon –that’s how everyone knew it was time for lunch, now the church bells sounded alone striking 12. I circled back to the truck and had lunch under the shade of a tree Dad had planted. With the windows down I could hear the lawn mowers and I was back at Minnie’s. My brother Terry and I would mow her lawn (using two mowers) for the agreed upon price of $2 each. Later on we picked up the Murphy account as well.

I finished my peanut butter sandwich (not toasted) and jumped on my bike. I went down the block and past the cemetery where I would be sure to have more memories jump out and surprise me.