“Sometimes the fear won’t go away, so you’ll have to do it afraid.”
~~Anon
[Image from Ghosts. Myths. Folklore. Legends. Facebook Group]
The information regarding the image above is from a subgroup (All That’s Interesting) of the FB group mentioned in the credits. Confused? Let’s move forward.
This is about the Dark Watchers–and a few other matters.
It’s a story that is set in the Big Sur, California area. But I suspect that it’s a tale common to every mountainous region. Perhaps the White Mountains in New Hampshire has their own version. Or the Adirondack Mountains of New York State. I’ve hiked in many of these locations (except Big Sur) and, alas, I cannot say that I encountered the Dark Watchers.
Over several centuries, the people who inhabit this particular part of California have had terrifying experiences with the Dark Watchers. Ten feet tall, with hats and brooms, they appear and then vanish. I admit I love stories like this. I’m not so much into the Bigfoot Thing but Urban Legends pertaining to wilderness areas have long been an interest of mine.
I did have a very unsettling experience in the Adirondack mountains. It was the 1970’s and I was on my second attempt to hike the Northville-Lake Placid Trail. Solo. I can’t stress enough that the solo aspect of the trip brought me into conflict with a number of issues. I would be alone, something I abhor. I would be in the deep dark forest. And I would have to spend the night on my own, stirring up my loneliness and my fear of the dark. I can make the story very brief. I was leaving a lean-to after a lunch break. As I continued along the trail I had a very distinct feeling of being watched and followed. The anxiety and fear escalated until I was actually running along the path to where a public campsite was located. I arrived, out of breath and sweating. I caught a ride into the nearby town. I never forgot the fear.
I have read that a logical explanation for this phenomenon is called Pareiodolia. Simply put, the brain provides a familiar image that seems very real when put against an unfamiliar background. That’s Occams Razor; The simplest explanation is usually the correct one.
Which brings me to a disclosure of sorts. I will tell you up front that I am a huge fan of strange things. I especially love ghost stories. This does not mean that I necessarily believe in ghosts, I just love reading about them. At heart I am a Dana Scully. I look for proof. Something that can be tested over and over. I understand that many things are faith-based. That’s okay, as long as the believers allow me the freedom to disbelieve. The Church and the State are supposed to be separate. But, that separation is slowly being blurred by the Supreme Court and the Far Right.
Having said all that, my wife and I are having a wonderful time watching all the X-Files on Hulu. Remember: The Truth is Out There.
I’m walking the streets of my hometown. The calendar pages have been turned from mild September to cool October. The weather always dictates my moods when I walk. On a cloudless day, the maple yellows against the azure blue sky can lift my soul into rarefied air. When the cold clouds drizzle, I stare at the flagstone sidewalks and the fallen leaves–and my spirits sink.
I am not a poet as you will shortly see, but I thought it would be amusing to attempt a short ditty as a Halloween treat for you, my readers. A treat is better than a trick, or so I’ve been told:
October nights, the spirits rise,
To save your soul…you must be wise.
On nights when the chill wind blows,
On dead branches sit dead crows.
Their eyes, they blaze a crimson hue,
They lurk, they creep, they lust for you.
Oh, the specters seek you,
And the werewolves eat you,
And the angels forsake you,
…all that’s left is…HALLOWEEN.
[Source: Google Search]
[Source: Google Search]
Two more things, dear reader. I’ve always been afraid of the dark. And I’ve always been uneasy about giants.
So it’s no surprise that I dread the night when I encounter this…
Never respond to a whisper of your name when no one is there…
~~mi abuela
[Photo: Google Search]
{The narrative that follows is the truth. Some ghost stories start with this statement but it is often part of the fiction. It’s setting the reader up to ‘buy’ into the story–perhaps a willing suspension of disbelief. But, this little tale is the truth–to the best of my recollection and that of my wife. She should know. She heard the voice.}
It was a cold New Years Eve in Cooperstown, New York. Upstate winters will drive you indoors, insure that you will have a wool scarf and force you to pull your cap down and over your ears. Yes, it was quite cold on the last day of December, 1992.
My soon-to-be wife, Mariam and I decided to get out of Manhattan and plunge into the heart of Central New York State. I always loved Cooperstown, for its history, its small town charm and its interesting architecture. This was in the dark ages before TripAdvisor, Yelp and Google, so we used a regional pocket guide (a paperback book!) to find a B & B. We booked a room for two nights at an old house that had been converted to an inn. I can’t recall the name but even if I could, I most likely wouldn’t use it in this post. Let’s just call it The Old B & B and move on.
I believe we were the only guests registered. After a short rest, Mariam and I went searching the streets for a place to have dinner. After our meal we stopped at a few pubs. I remember looking at my watch and thinking that we should get back to our room by nine-thirty at the latest. We didn’t want to get involved in a festive bash to watch the ball drop in Times Square. Too many kisses from strangers and too much noise. We wanted quiet and not be a part of anything that was…too much.
By ten o’clock we were esconced in our cozy room watching Dick Clark in NYC. By twelve-thirty Mariam turned over and closed her eyes. I propped myself up and read a book for an hour or so.
I switched the lights out and pulled the covers up to my chin. I was warm and comfortable. Mariam was deep in slumber. Within a few minutes I followed her into Dreamland.
I felt Mariam’s arm nudging me. “Get up, she’s calling you?”
“Who?”
“The landlady.”
“When?”
“Just now. She called: Patrick. Patrick. Twice. She called you twice.”
I didn’t hear anything. I was asleep. But Mariam said that she was fully awake. It was about eight in the morning. I got out of bed and stood by the door. “Yes? Yes?” I spoke loudly. Silence.
“Yes,” I said again. “Who is it?” Silence.
I cracked the door several inches and peeked out. The hallway was was empty. The light of morning came through a window. I closed the door and began to wonder.
A few hours later, we decided to go for a walk. The landlady was sitting at her desk in a small open office off the dining area.
“What did you want me for?” I asked.
“Excuse me?”
“You called me earlier. What did you need?”
“I’m sorry. I wasn’t here this morning. I didn’t go upstairs. It wasn’t me.”
“Oh, must be the ghost,” I said as a joke. Her smile faded.
“Well, maybe so,” she said. “Maybe so.”
She then told us a story. She and her husband bought the place to convert it into a B & B. (Her husband was away during the days we were there.) There was a daughter who was not present, the night we were there either. The story went on. A few years ago, she and her daughter were in the yard raking leaves. As they went into the house, the girl asked the mother who the lady in the second floor window was. She replied that she didn’t see her but asked what the woman looked like. The daughter said that she was an old lady with white hair that was put up in a bun.
The story went on. The next day the landlady was standing in line at the supermarket. She got into a conversation with the woman in front of her. She told the woman that she and her husband just bought the house and were planning on turning it into a B & B. She asked about the previous owner. The woman told her that an old woman lived there for many years. In fact, she died in the house. That she was well-known around town for her attractive white hair…that she always wore in a bun.
~~
It has all the elements of a classic Urban Legend, doesn’t it? Perhaps. That’s the story as Mariam and I recollect it. I reconstructed any dialogue I, myself, did not hear to the best of my knowledge.
Who was the woman who called my name on that cold New Years Day…on the first morning of 1993?
One thing for certain. I don’t know. But if was indeed a spirit, I would have liked her to stick around. I had plenty of questions for her. Was this my Ligeia moment?
I shrieked aloud, :can I never–can I never be mistaken–these are the full, and the black, and the wild eyes–of my lost love–of the lady–of the LADY LIGEIA.
~~Edgar Allan Poe
[Poe and Ligeia. Source: Google search]
[Photo: Google search]
HAPPY HALLOWEEN
[England’s Lady on the Staircase. Perhaps the most famous ‘ghost photo’ of all. Source: Google search]
I know it’s April Fools Day but this is not a trick or prank.
{NOTE TO READERS: The name of this post says it all. I did not write it. Backstory: Several weeks ago I had a dinner conversation with my son, Brian. He is almost always one step ahead of me in matters of technology and most every other thing. I do win, on occasion, about things that happened twenty years before he was born. During this dinner (I had Chilean Sea Bass and he had a boat of sushi), he told me about how far AI had come. He suggested I procure ChatGBT for my laptop. So I did. I don’t feel I need to explain anything about AI to my readers. You’re an educated lot. In brief, it’s like a search engine on steroids. Brian mentioned that some guy published an entire novel using ChatGBT. It sounded like fun. I tried it out on a few small tasks like giving me a few writer’s prompts about harvesting cucumbers. Then I got an idea. Wouldn’t it be interesting to have ChatGBT write a blog for me.
So I fed it a few topics: The Adriatic Sea, Castles, Food, Love and Ghosts. I sat back and waited about forty seconds. The story came through. [Full Disclosure: Mariam and I are indeed going on an Adriatic cruise in May.]
I am printing this story, in full, as it came into my laptop. I didn’t alter a word. The character names were not changed. I will say that the departure city for us is not Dubrovnik, but Venice.
One more important thing: I have written over 600 blogs. All of them, to my knowledge, were conceived and written by myself. Rest assured that I would never publish a post in the future using ChatGBT without a disclaimer.}
So here’s the story courtesy of Artificial Intelligence:
Once upon a time, there was a young couple named Alice and Ben. They had been together for a few years, but they had never been on a romantic vacation together. So, they decided to take a cruise sailboat trip of the Adriatic Sea, hoping to create unforgettable memories.
Their journey started in Dubrovnik, where they boarded the sailboat that would take them on their adventure. The first thing they noticed was the incredible food. Every meal was a feast of fresh seafood, pasta, and local specialties. They dined on the deck, with a stunning view of the sea and the coast, feeling like royalty.
As they sailed along the coast, they stopped at several small towns and villages, each with its own charm and history. One day, they visited a castle perched on a hill overlooking the sea. They walked through the ancient halls and courtyards, imagining the lives of the kings and queens who once lived there.
But as night fell, they began to hear strange noises and whispers that seemed to come from nowhere. Alice was scared, but Ben was intrigued. They asked the captain about the history of the castle and he told them a story about a ghost that haunted the castle, the ghost of a queen who died tragically. Alice shuddered but Ben was excited, he wanted to explore and find the ghost. Alice reluctantly joined him and they explored the castle, hoping to catch a glimpse of the ghostly queen.
As they continued their journey, they fell deeper in love, their days filled with adventure and their nights filled with passion. They saw the most beautiful sunsets and swam in the crystal-clear waters of secluded coves. They danced under the stars, feeling like the only people in the world.
Their journey ended in Venice, a city of romance and mystery. They strolled through the narrow streets, hand in hand, feeling like they had just lived a fairy tale. They knew they would never forget this magical trip and the memories they had created together.
[Ernest Hemingway’s typewriter. Located at the Hemingway House Museum, Key West, Florida. Photo is mine.]
Today is only one day in all the days that will ever be.
~~Ernest Hemingway
I am sitting in the air-conditioned Monroe Country Public Library (Key West Branch). It’s quiet, cool and has a WiFi that takes no prisoners. I chose this place to celebrate the posting of my 600th blog. (Confused? See Title.)
So I posted my first real blog on July 18, 2012. It was an excerpt from my first published novel Standing Stone (2012). I was totally unsure as to whether I had the energy and ability to write real content. In truth, only a year before I had very little idea what a “blog” was. I’m still learning. If my math is correct, that’s close to eleven years ago. I was sixty-four years old. When I’m sixty-four, I probably thought at the time, where will I be in eleven years from now? It wouldn’t be telling lies if I said that in my most dazzling dreams, I’d still be pounding on the keys of my laptop (actually, today I’m using my iPad) and trying hard to amuse and inform and entertain. Time will tell if I’ve succeeded.
What follows is a short list of the various places and topics I’ve written about in the years after 2012. They are scatter-shot…in no particular order. Just a quick look back:
I’ve told you stories of Adirondack Trolls, my frustration with snow, ice and sub-zero weather, thermometers that never run a battery down. You’ve heard of the joys and hardships of living in Big Bad New York City. I’ve reposted a true story of my father’s youth, “Coal for Christmas” every December (does that throw my count of posts off??).
I shared my joys of visiting my daughter, Erin and her husband and my only grandchild, Elias from Orting, WA. You’ve read numerous complaints about my bad back and the health issues I’ve had (including my diagnosis of leukemia).
I wrote of my love for the desert and our wandering in Death Valley and the Mojave. Numerous tales were written from England, Ireland, Portugal and Paris. I told you how I celebrated several birthdays in recent year (i.e., when I turned sixty-eight, Mariam and I walked sixty-eight steps along the nave of Wells Cathedral and paused to kiss).
Sadly, I wrote too many posts of sad farewells of my family…and my very best friend of over sixty years, Greg Stella who passed in July, 2022. Rereading those posts still make me cry.
I’ve concocted outrageously silly stories of the demise of or moral failure of our favorite cartoon characters like Popeye, Dennis the Menace and Mr. Peanut.
I’ve shared ghost stories and posted ghost photographs (leaving you to be the judge of the real and the fanciful).
I wrote numerous recollections of my childhood sweetheart, my family home in Owego and my time-warping walks down Front Street in my aforementioned home town.
I described how, on a beautiful autumn afternoon (or was it in the spring?) of helping a cemetery caretaker dig a grave for a woman I never met.
There are many posts that told you of my love of the poetry of Bob Dylan. I even wrote a pre-death eulogy for him.
I’ve tried to celebrate my love for my wife, my children and my grandson. I told you how sad I got in Bruges, Belgium, Pere Lachaise Cemetery in Paris and along a footpath in England.
I have played with different writing styles like noir and meta fiction. I’ve written short short stories.
And I did it all for you, my readers. I never wrote anything cruel, hateful or boastful. I was honest with you. I respect those of you who took a few moments out of your busy lives to read my efforts. Scrolling this page, I see that there are too many “I’s” and not enough “you”. I apologize.
I will close this rambling post with a photo and a microscopic story:
[The famous Key West Kapok Tree. Photo is mine. Taken by Mariam Voutsis.]
Legends about about the Kapok (native to Indonesia) Tree. One belief: The Devil entrapped a unwary carpenter inside the tree because he had the temerity to carve out rooms in the ginormous trunk. Another: The Tree is said to grow into the heavens (it is known to grow up to ten feet a year).
The Tree has many uses. It is soft so artists use the wood for carvings. It is used for dugout canoes and…caskets.
Good-bye for now. The beach beckons.
Be kind and never let anyone to be lonely or forgotten or be invisible.
To be fully alive is to have an aesthetic perception of life because a major part of the world’s goodness lies in its often unspeakable beauty.
~~Yukitaka Yamamoto
[An old triptych of three women wearing kimonos. Source: Google Search.]
Recently, my wife and I spent an afternoon at the Metropolitan Museum of Art (MET). She wanted to see the Tudor exhibition. I went through it quickly…I love English period decorative and portraiture art but that interest peaked with the final season of Downton Abbey. The newly restored (and painted!) ancient Greek and Egyptian statuary was where I wanted to spend more time. So we did both. We then visited the Asian art wing and saw the Kimono Style exhibition. From there we retired to the Member’s Lounge for a glass of white wine ($17.00) and a bottle of Pellegrino. While eating our Hummus and Pita plate, we discussed what we had seen and I mentioned that I would like to revisit the Kimonos once more before it closed. We finished our visit to the Hall of Medieval Art to see the Christmas Creche.
The Kimono Style (which closes in February) was more than fascinating. Within three minutes of entering the gallery, I realized that my concept of Kimonos was, to put it mildly, somewhat simplistic. The background, styles and fabrics were intricate and beautiful. So, I did what every good blogger does in such a situation…I ran straight to Google to find out as much background as I could. And, like yours truly, I fell asleep before I could get to the Edo Period. I awoke after a brief nap, shoved my laptop aside and headed for the bed. I slept the sleep of an opium smoker.
My dream came quickly. There were cherry blossoms everywhere. I was standing at the edge of a Dark Forest. “Don’t go in there”, I was told. “Those who do often end up as suicides. It was the Aokigahara, where the ghosts of Japanese mythology are said to dwell. I was not alone. Her name was Akari, which translates to ‘vermillion red’. Her beauty was heavy with gravity. A deep, peaceful and somehow alluring aura made the air around her radiate a golden light. Her face was as while as the first snowfall of winter.
She was a Geisha. But unlike western stereotypes, she was not for sale. A Geisha is not a prostitute but instead is a highly educaated woman trained in the Art of the Tea Ceremony, music, literature and calligraphy. She was one of about 1,000 active Gheishas in Japan today.
In my unenlightened world, I thought she would take care of my every need, even before I knew I had it. She took my hand and led me to a low desk. She mixed the ink and began making brush strokes. She made me try to copy her bamboo leaves. My attempts were embarrassing. She smiled and led me back to edge of the forest. I took a step toward the trees…
I woke up.
I’ve digressed.
Kimonos were first reported in the Kofun Period (300-538 CE). Over the centuries, the style has changed in many ways. The first Kimonos were of Chinese design. The trade between Japan and China brought new styles to Japan. In 718 CE, the Youo Clothing Code was enacted. This determined who was eligable to wear one, the kind of material and even the fact that the robe opening was to be Left to Right. The opposite closure was reserved for the deceased.
During the Edo Period (1603-1867), the obi was added. Length of sleeves and multiple layers were common.
By the early 20th Century, many class distincions were abololished. Western clothing came into style. But the Kimonos remained popular. After an earthquake in Kanto in 1923, a shortage of fabrics became available from unused clothing. In recent years, the Kimono has grown in popularity. Men are wearing western suits to work and changing into a Kimono robe in the evening.
[A present-day mother and child with modern Kimonos. Source: Google Search.]
What follows is a gallery of Kimono photos I took at the MET. I regret that I can not give you the style name, fabric or historical context of each one. Just marvel at the subtle striking beauty of this small sample of Kimonos:
[My personal favorite.]
A few days later we returned to the MET. I headed straight to the Kimono Style exhibit. I took a few more photos and went further into the Asian Art wing. I wanted to sit in my favorite place. It’s a replica of a Chinese (or Japanese) Courtyard. I sat and listened. In years past, there was a small trickle of water from a fountain. I loved the tranquility of the murrmering water.
It was silent in the room. For some reason the fountain had been turned off. I was disappointed. But, if nothing else, I am a resourceful guy. I pulled out my ear buds and plugged into my iPhone. I went to my Calm app and found “babbling brook”.
I think you can work out the rest of the story…
[Sources: the historical material is from Wikipedia. All the MET Kimono photos are mine. The rest are the result of Google Searching. And in the spirit of full disclosure, I did not have the aforementioned dream.]
“Maybe you have to know the darkness before you can appreciate the light.”
–Madeline L’Engle
[Reading by the light of a single candle. Source: Google Search]
For reasons unknown to me, I’ve always been attracted to things that are dark and gloomy. When the wind blows against the thin glass of my window and the moon appears and reappears behind the darkest of clouds making shadows black and sounds in the woods (or wherever) make a dreadful moaning, then I’m happy. Well, sort of.
But first I need to tell you that as far as ‘ghosts’ in the common meaning are concerned, I’m pretty much of a skeptic. I don’t necessarily believe in the dead returning, but I do love a good ghost story. And, make no mistake, I’ve read more than my share. My favorites are M. R. James, Algernon Blackwood and Poe, of course. But Poe didn’t really write a classic ‘ghost story’…he was just plain creepy and morose.
Instead of telling you a ghost story, I thought I’d like to share just a small sample of my favorite Spirit Photographs. Many of the most famous photos have been debunked. Some have not and they defy explanation.
–Here is perhaps the most famous (if you exclude Mary Todd Lincoln sitting in a chair with Abe hovering just behind her) is the Grey Lady of Raynham Hall in Norfolk, England. A Captain (sorry the name escapes me) took this photo in 1936. I’ve read many possible explanations but the photo remains an enigma.
What do you think?
[The Grey Lady descends the staircase. Source: Google Search.]
The woman has even been identified. She is the sister of British statesman, Horace Walpole. Apparently she was having an affair. Someone didn’t like that and had her locked in a room for quite a few years.
–I find the next one very interesting. Perhaps because it involves children (often the haunters). The back story is that the little girl’s sister died in a fire I believe. The photo was taken in 1925:
[At the poolside in a cemetery. Source: Google Search.]
I’m not a professional debunker, but this one has me puzzled as to how it was done…assuming it’s a fake. If it isn’t, well then.
–The next one has very little information regarding it. It looks like Ireland. And we all know Ireland is quite haunted:
[I’ll say this. The composition is too classically “ghosty”. A sheet? Your call.]
–The Bachelors Grove Cemetery in Illinois is reputed to be a very haunted place. When Paranormal Investigators set up their equipment, all manner of odd readings came up. I’ve seen many photos from that cemetery, but I find this one heartbreakingly sad:
[She sits. She is thinking about something profound. Who is she? Why is she there? Source: Google Search.]
I read that all the researchers present claimed there was no-one in that location when the photographers went to work. I would like to know more about her. Alas, I fear I’ll never know any answers.
That’s not all the photos I have, but I wanted to share a small sample.
I’ll end this frightful post with this:
It’s plain to see that this is an illustration and not a photograph. That’s okay. It still sets the mood for a memorable Halloween.
I began my walk to the Barnum Brook Bridge carrying an emotional load that nearly broke my already painful back. It was a warm and very muggy afternoon. There were grey clouds in the hazy sky. There were grey clouds in my mind, my soul and my heart. I was not dreading the Bridge like I once did. In fact, I was looking forward to visiting an old friend…sort of. I walked slowly because I needed the extra minutes to think. At the same time, I was formulating my words. It’s not every day that one has to say farewell to a friend. For me, now was that time. I must make this my finest hour.
I walked on, pausing to photograph a wildflower for a later post on Facebook.
[The Trail to the Barnum Brook Bridge]
I had arrived. I put my foot down hard on the first plank, making more noise than usual. Sure enough, out pops The Troll. He looked about and disappeared beneath the bridge when he spotted me.
“Who is passing over my bridge?” he asked.
“I am passing over your bridge,” I said. “Let’s get this over with. I need to sit down.
He emerged from under the wooden planks and said: “I know you. Listen up. Keep your distance.”
“Why?”
“The Covid thing, remember. Are you still in lock-down mode?”
“Not really,” I said. “Things aren’t as bad as they were when I last came this way. Now it’s the Monkey Pox.”
“Just in case, don’t come any closer. I’m packing a can of Mace.”
“Let’s get the riddle thing over, shall we. I need to have a talk with you.”
[The Bridge. If you look closely for a long enough time, you may see a bit of Troll’s head peeping out]
“Okay. Okay. Here’s the first riddle:
What is dirty when it’s white?”
I pondered the question for about forty-five seconds when it came to me. “A Blackboard.”
“One down and two biggies to go, Patrick.
What goes from Z to A?”
Another new one. Where did he get these riddles? I thought. This time I was really puzzled…for about a minute. “Zebra”, I almost shouted.
“Whoa. Who’s on a roll today?”
“I am. Let me have the third one, Sir Troll.”
“Don’t get cheeky, my friend. You know what fate awaits you if you miss one. I cringe to even contemplate…”
“Spill it,” I demanded.
He looked smug. He thought he was going to get me on the last one.
He spoke with a twinkle in his large eyes: “What is the saddest fruit?”
Now I was worried. I had no idea. This wasn’t in the Big Book of Riddles I study before every trip to the VIC. And no mention of any of these new puzzles in the Ultimate Book of Norse Mythology. The newer edition that has a new forward by the author, Dr. Sven Sunquist.
“The clock is ticking, Patrick.”
“Go ahead, grind my bones or whatever you do when someone misses a riddle. I give up.”
He stared long and hard at me: “You look like a beaten donkey. I see damage in your eyes. I’m going to give you a pass. The answer, appropriately, is Blueberries. You can pass, but you owe me one.”
“I owe you a riddle?”
“Figure of speech,” he said. “Don’t get anal on me.”
I sat down on the wooden bench near the bridge: “I’ve got something to tell you, Troll.”
“You won the Mega Millions.”
“Don’t I wish. No, it’s…it’s that we’re going away. We’re moving. We’re going back to New York City, I do believe I’ve had enough woods and winter and slush and bugs.”
He looked deep into my eyes again. No words came to his lips. He just looked at me. His eyes were moist. He sighed.
“How long are you gonna be gone?” he asked slowly while trying to swallow. “When can I expect to visit with my favorite human again?”
[A rare image of The Troll]
I chocked at my following words: “That’s just it, Troll. We’re moving away for good. It’s possible that we may never see each other again. Don’t think for a moment that I won’t miss you because I will. You see Troll, these last few months have been very hard on me. I lost my closest friend. I wish he had just moved somewhere, but he didn’t. He passed away. I have only a few real friends. You could count them on two of your three fingers. I’m lonely up here in the North Country. You, Troll, are the only real friend I have left…besides my wife, of course.”
He had one hand in his pocket and the other one rested on the planks of the bridge. He was drumming his fingers on the dried wood. He said: “Funny thing. I don’t have many real and true friends either. We’re both the same here, are we not?”
He turned away and began to cry. He didn’t just cry, he sobbed and wailed. I’d never seen him like this before.
“Please Troll, don’t make this any harder. It’s not you, it’s me. You have your little place under the bridge. I’m a restless guy. I need a change. I need something new. I don’t know how many years I have left.”
“Hah, I can see right through you. You’re leaving me for some Big City Troll, right? I knew it. Those Big City Trolls are different than ones like me. They wear the traditional outfits. They look like they just got off a photo shoot with National Geographic Magazine.”
“No, there’s nobody else, in New York or anywhere. Come here. Let me shake your hand and wish you farewell.”
“Oh, but that’s against the Rules. You can’t touch me. Strange things might happen.”
“There are no such Rules out here, Troll. Here, give me your hand.”
As he placed his very large hand in mine I felt a jolt. I swear a bolt of lightening hit my arm. I closed my eyes. I had visions. Troll standing in the rain and waving at me, or standing in a foot of snow and grinning up with those big cow-like eyes. Or wiping away the sweat on days like this. I remember how he played the Pan Flute and made me see the different Adirondack seasons squeezed into one short vision. He was a treasure trove of wisdom and I’d be crazy to let him go out of my life for good. No. I would return someday…some sunny day. I will be older, more feeble, more pained and maybe just a little bit wiser. But Troll, he will never age. He has all the time in the world. I don’t.
I withdrew my hand: “I have to go now. Be good, my friend. It’s not forever, it’s just for awhile. I’ll be back.”
“That’s what the little girl said in Poltergeist.”
I turned and began the walk back to my car.
“I see your son was in Iceland for a few days. He loved it, didn’t he?”
“Yes, but how did you know?”
“My Icelandic cousin. And, oh, I see your daughter, her husband and your grandson came for a visit. I bet you loved that.”
“I did.”
“Oh, by the way. I know you used a photo of Fluffy to hawk your books. That’s shameful.”
“Little Lambs Eat Ivy.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“You’re the Riddle King. Figure it out.”
The trail curved to the left. I looked back for one more wave. I saw him blowing his large nose with a red bandana.
[Note: All photos are mine with the exception of the Troll image. That was a result of a Google search.]
[illustration of mysterious man behind glass surface. Source: Google search.]
To me, Halloween evokes memories of walking down Front Street in Owego, NY, kicking the piles of unraked leaves while dressed up in a throw-it-all-together costume. Clutching paper bags, my friends and I would go door to door seeking treats. There was a chill in the air, mixed with the rotting leaves that produced a scent that has stayed with me over the years. Never has an autumn arrived that doesn’t take me back to the old houses of Owego and the leaves.
It was a magical evening that enriched my store of memories that etched themselves in my fascination with the past.
Before the advent of such films as Nightmare on Elm Street and Halloween, the themes were witches, Frankenstein, vampires of all sorts and ghosts. Every young kid on the streets that night became believers in spirits from beyond the grave.
It certainly didn’t hurt to live in a town overshadowed by the presence of the awesome Evergreen Cemetery set on a hill to the north of town.
Do I believe in ghosts? I’d like to say that I do but I am a true skeptic. I’ve heard many strange unsettling stories about my hometown over the years and I do believe some of them sound quite believable. But still I wonder. I have never seen a spirit (once in a B&B in Cooperstown a voice called me at night.)
I post many photos in my blogs and on Facebook and I love looking at supposed “spirit photos’. I look at these pictures and wonder.
Here are four of my favorite:
[The Brown Lady of Raynham Hall. Source: Wikipedia]
This photo has never to my knowledge been fully debunked or proven authentic. This is arguably the most famous ‘ghost’ photo that has been published.
[Little girl being comforted by a friend/brother sitting on the stairs. Source: Wikipedia]
I have no comment on this photo.
[Who is in the corner? Source: Wikipedia]
Again, I am not familiar with the background of this photo.
[Little girl looks into a pool. Source: Wikipedia]
This photo has always fascinated me. If it’s a faked picture, it’s a very clever one.
It’s creepy!
[If you care to comment on any of these or just tell a ghost story, be my guest. pegan7@roadrunner.com.]
If you’re smart you’ve been vaccinated and now, mask free. And it’s summer! Time to dust off your Speedo or your polka dot bikini and head for the nearest beach. The nearest beach to us is Lake Clear…about five miles away. Normally I would avoid going anywhere near water. This is the Adirondacks and the summer is under control of black flies, gnats and mosquitos. But I do make an exception for Lake Clear Beach. There is a constant breeze from the lake that keeps the number of biting insects to a reasonable level, whatever that is. One is too many for this less-than-hardy soul. But it’s nature, it’s the Northern Forest and we should all make an effort to become one with our environment.
But I digress.
If you’re like me, stretched out on a Walmart Beach Chair, staring at the cumulonimbus clouds building to the west can get a little boring. What’s the solution? Read something. I’ve collected a few can’t put down books to serve as a guide to help you wile away the hours on the sand. So grab your Visa card and iPhone and Google Amazon to order these literary gems. Ready?
Lincoln in the Bardo by George Saunders
This is truly an awesome book. Unique and very original this novel imagines the grief of Abraham Lincoln just after the death of his son, Willie. Much of the narrative finds Lincoln making mid-night visits to the vault where Willie is buried in Rock Creek Cemetery on the edge of Washington, D.C. This story brought more than one tear to this reader’s eyes. Totally original and awesome. Makes for a great bed time read as well.
The Captive & The Fugitive by Marcel Proust (Moncrieff translation) Vol. V of In Search of Lost Time
If you can get past the cover you will be treated to one of the Masterpieces of Literature. Once known as Remembrance of Things Past this translation uses the updated title. It is often compared with the works of Jackie Collins or Nora Roberts. You have to start with Volume I of course. There are six books that make up this awesome piece of literature. Volume V (the one I’m reading is a mere 1,000 pages. I looked at Volume VI and was relieved to find it was only 700 or so pages long. This is a contender for one of the longest books ever written. To be honest, it’s not a real page turner unless you enjoy reading thousands of pages of nostalgia brought on by the smell of a Madeline cookie. [Note: Do not read this book in hardcover when in bed. The weight will crush a few bones in your chest and collapse your sternum.] Look, if after a few thousand pages you find that this is not for you just leave the book on your coffee table or carry it to Starbucks and stare at a few pages. It’s a real chick magnet and will impress the in-laws. Walk around with any of the volumes tucked under your arm and people will make way for you and give you more credit than you probably deserve. It helped me on my dates with a gypsy (Romani) woman named Tanya. We read to each other, cooked a chicken over an open fire, drank red wine and talked of going to Oslo. It’s truly an awesome book.
Mosquito by Timothy Winegard
This is a totally awesome book. It contains a complete study of one of the most dangerous insects. Malaria wouldn’t be a problem if it wasn’t for the tiny mosquito. Me? I just find them really annoying. Reading it brings out the urge to scratch my knee.
Ned & Ashtabula: The Erie Canal Hauntings by Patrick Egan
This awesome writer has given us yet another novel to move your soul and scare you silly. The author deftly weaves a tale of the mysterious happenings along the Canal in the 1830’s. A coming of age tale with foreshadowing and scary scenes. The author uses foreshadowing, metaphors and gratuitous nudity to weave a tale of dread. There’s magic in this book. Demons and a pretty young woman compel our protagonist Ned, to come to terms with his past and to face the future with a new found wisdom. Another awesome book by this gifted writer and is available from Amazon (paperback and Kindle).
Essential Muir
We all love Greta from Norway don’t we? Well pick up this collection of writings by John Muir who founded the Sierra Club. Nature writing from the Master. It is truly awesome.
A Freewheelin’ Time by Suze Rotolo
We all can agree that Bob Dylan is one awesome guy. This memoir by the woman who is shown clutching Dylan’s arm on the cover of A Freewheelin’ Bob Dylan album. The book reflects the heady days in Greenwich village in the early 1960’s. It’s not a kiss and tell and avoids revealing the real Dylan. I could tell you more about this awesome book after I read it. Rotolo passed away in 2011.
So there you have it. A handful of suggestions from yours truly. Don’t blame me if you’re bored this summer. You could always go into your own lockdown if that’s your thing. Don’t forget the sunblock and have an awesome summer.
patrickjegan 