Ghost Stories

I've been thinking a lot about ghosts this weekend, as I do periodically. I love the ghost hoax photos of the 19th century (see above), and I love reading ghost stories. I adore getting that chilly spooked feeling--I find it both delightful and heartening. And I will tell you a secret: I do believe in ghosts, as surely as I believe in myself.

Here's my own true ghost story, as it happened to me.

My father died in January 2005, at home, after a long illness. He died in his comfy easy chair, in his living room, with us at his side. The next day, we visited him for the last time at the funeral home. When I bent down to say goodbye, I whispered a little wish, "dad, please, I would love a spooky visitation from you." Just those exact words. I don't know why I did this, except that maybe I didn't want to say a final goodbye, and maybe I knew that he always knew my penchant for the macabre, the eerie, and the supernatural, and might enjoy hearing, and even honoring, this somewhat silly but nonetheless heartfelt request. I felt foolish, but I meant it. Somehow I thought he might understand.

That night, after a restless evening, I settled down to sleep. Out of habit, I placed my cell phone on the bed beside me. I had done this the last night of dad's life, when we left him for a few hours with his carer, to go home and rest a bit. I had programmed his phone so that he could press send and reach me, without having to dial the numbers.

Anyway, I did finally fall asleep and slept soundly until, in the very heavy, chilly dark of an early winter morning, I was startled awake by something. It took me a moment to get my bearings, and then I realized it was my cell phone ringing, insistently ringing right next to me. I grasped for it in the dark room, finding it by the little light of its screen...on which showed, clearly, my father's cell phone number. I blinked, looked again, literally rubbed my eyes to get the sleep out of them...but it was his number. When we left his apartment the day he died, we made sure to leave the cell phone, along with his glasses, the NY Times crossword puzzle, and his familiar gold Cross pen, on the little table next to his easy chair...

In the night, in bed, I picked up my phone and listened. What did I hear? My own voice, a message I had left for my dad on my birthday, January 8th, a week or so before he died. It said "Dad, where are you? I can't get hold of you by phone...call me back if you get this..."

When I hung up the phone, I could see by its clock that it was nearly 4 a.m. I lay there for a long time, until the first light.

And that's my story, and it's all true. I'm still not sure exactly what it means, except that I really like to believe that dad had his odd sense of humor, even after the very end, and I got my "spooky visitation" as I dearly wished I would.

Now I pose it to any readers out there. Do you have a story for us, something that happened to you? If so, I would absolutely love to hear it. Please do share; I know I'm not the only one!

A Post a Day for May

I'm taking this challenge (although I missed May 1). What fun! I shall hold forth on topics I enjoy each and every evening in May. To kick things off, a bit of randomness. First, here's my latest yarn acquisition:



arrayed in my Grandma Eva's fruit bowl. She always had this on her table, full of peaches, pears, and bananas. Doesn't the yarn look a bit like fruit in this context? And what, pray tell, is this stash going to be? Well, that remains to be told, as it's a surprise for the lovely Miss AKPW, and she might run into this post!

And in honor of May Day, for Sissy:

"[H]e does not fulfil himself in his work but denies himself, has a feeling of misery rather than well-being, does not develop freely his mental and physical energies but is physically exhausted and mentally debased. The worker, therefore, feels himself at home only during his leisure time, whereas at work he feels homeless. His work is not voluntary but imposed, forced labour. It is not the satisfaction of a need, but only a means for satisfying other needs."

--Karl Marx

...and Welcome, Whomper

Maybe it's too soon, but the empty cage was making us all feel funny.




So baldly stated, this hamster transaction. There's the food. Then there's the unfortunately named "Hamsteroids," an outsized hamster treat for power nibbling. Then there's the hamster itself. 9.99. Less than ten dollars for a mohawked, whiskered, tufty-butted, whimsical little man. People, I love hamsters. It goes against all sense and reason--the blank, beady eyes, the inexorable movement toward escape. They take everything from us, and give nothing back. But somehow, this household feels incomplete without one.

Godspeed, Dr. Frizzle

I just discovered Dr. Frizzle in a cold, dead circle in the corner of his palatial estate. Poor little guy. Who knows what happened--he'd gotten loose again two days ago, and appeared on our counter a day later--he seemed okay, but I guess he either ate something or fell too far and injured himself. I've seen a lot of pets die, but it's always sad in its little way. Plus, dead rodent isn't so pleasant.

For a moment, I had the sitcom idea of replacing him without telling Hedgehog (let's be completely honest here; one hamster is pretty much like another, except for the ones who bite), and then realized that yes, I'll have to tell her. It's not that she hasn't been around death--unfortunately, she's already experienced the death of my dad--but somehow this I know will hit home. I'm absolutely dreading tomorrow morning...

Well, so be it.

"The world was not made for one as beautiful as he," eulogized Sarge. Okay, maybe that's overstating it, but I liked the little guy.

post script: I told Hedgehog this morning; there was a flood of quiet tears, and then we buried him in the backyard by the stone lion. It really was very sad.

But we're already planning for our next hamster...Sgt. Pepper seemed none too pleased...

Brooklyn Mayberry

Our neck of the woods, as I've mentioned before, is really a small town. It may be in Brooklyn, but it's not what you think: although NYC is synonymous with big, bustling, anonymous, those of us who live here know that its neighborhoods can be awfully Mayberryish.

In Mayberry Brooklyn, you can't walk 8 blocks (that's the distance between home and Hedgehog's school) without passing someone you know, at least enough to warrant a smile and wave, more often a passing conversation ("hey!" "Nice weather!" "The nicest!"), and sometimes even a quick stop to chat. Hedghog commented the other day: "Mama, sometimes I just want to walk along and think thoughts." Well, Hedgehog, that's just not the way of Mayberry.

Next characteristic of Mayberry Brooklyn: all news hits the pavement running. Everyone knows everyone's business before the sun is halfway in the sky. A typical conversation on my block which I'll call Elm Street: "Pssst! c'mere..." "hi, what's up?" "did you hear the news?..."

Take your pick:
a. "we think Vinton Calloway killed his wife, although she appeared at first to have died of a heart attack"

b. "Sally's roof fell in and she just boarded up the room rather than have it repaired"

c. "Darcy McAllen fell in love with that homeless guy who sleeps under the BQE overpass, and now she gives him part of her trust fund money every month in the form of booze and tube socks"

d. "Leah passed by here with her third Venti Iced Americano of the day...she must be hopped up as hell, I don't know how she thinks straight enough to raise that kid of hers..."

You get the picture.

Anonymous it ain't.

All that's missing is Aunt Bee--and just give me another five years...

To Market

I've lately (well, in the last two days) become obsessed with a certain post on salad cream, an apparently everyday English occurrence. Now that I have seen it in person at the Fairway today, I suddenly understand all the wisecracks and must acknowledge, then quickly move on, that it looks disturbingly and unappetizingly like a certain other substance that shall remain nameless because this just isn't that kind of a blog. Nevertheless, the recipe sounds so tasty. Then this morning, still ruminating mildly on all the tasty English foodstuffs that I can't procure, I ventured out to market where I discovered, in a moment of pure serendipity and coincidence, that Fairway has an entire aisle of it. Here's some of what I made off with, posing all lined up like joyful little soldiers (are soldiers usually joyful?):




My faves. The baked beans are pretty much just baked beans, but SUCH beautiful packaging, don't you think?

I'm so pitifully Anglophilic...

Here's some more of my grocery haul, American-style:




I can't get enough of the iced tea. I like it SO much better than homemade. I was thrilled to find the gallon size. It's enormous isn't it?

Also the Meyer lemon. Sublime. I'm going to make candied lemon peel and preserved lemons (suggested by Faycat) after we use the juice for lemonade and salad dressing.

Some days marketing is just so life-affirming.

Here's Why Parents Shouldn't Have Weird Fantasies Involving Characters in Children's Books

Yesterday afternoon I took Hedgie to her friend's birthday party--Harry Potter themed. I was quite gung-ho, as you can imagine. I knew the party would be wonderful, because this boy's parents are wonderful, brilliant, and fun-loving people and if anyone could pull off a Harry Potter party properly, they could. But I also felt a little funny with anticipation as I stood at my dresser and sprayed Mandragore. See, it was almost like I knew.

We arrived at the party, and who should be sitting in the corner, blowing up balloons, but my lover, Severus. I had a strange moment of vertigo--and I am TOTALLY serious--where fantasy and reality whirled together--wait, I thought in my delusion, did I arrange to meet him here?--and felt a deep blush creep up my cheeks--and Hedgehog turned to me with narrowed eyes, thinking I'm not sure what--

then the world stopped swinging, my psychosis abated, and I realized it was a friend of my friends wearing pale face paint and a glossy black wig. A man dressed up as Severus, in other words, to entertain the CHILDREN at the party. But the power of fantasy and of a costume, however ill-rendered, cannot be underestimated. Even after my psyche righted itself, I couldn't get over the feeling that somehow I was in the corporeal presence of the heretofore only imagined. Never mind that the wig slipped askew over his forehead in a display of disequilibrium uncharacteristic, I feel certain, of the "real" Severus; that ultimately, in the heat generated by six little people with excess energy, the face paint melted in sweat that Severus himself never would have sweated; that this faux Severus confided in me that he'd taken a bit too much cold medicine and was high as a kite; still the illusion never totally evaporated.

I wanted to impress Severus (a harsh and judgmental man, his favor would be gratifying) and wondered for two hours, did he notice how gamely I helped out with the party duties? How heady was my Mandragore? How I managed to be both wry and loving with Hedgehog? And perhaps the depths of experience in my brown eyes? Did he? I couldn't keep from glancing as he went about his own duties as Potions Master--fielding wand pokes from 7-year-olds, passing out bowls of cotton candy, rescuing a box cutter from the birthday boy, and leading class in an advanced potions lesson to see what would happen when vinegar, baking soda, and green food coloring were mixed...

At party's end, Severus lay back in a chair, indeed sweaty, wig askew, high, and bested by the children. Poor, poor Master, covered in a humiliation of sticky cotton candy, taunts and pokes, and one mother's finally fully realized delusion...

A Poem in Your Pocket

Celebrate the first national Poem In Your Pocket Day!

Here's how: select a poem you love, copy or print it out, then carry it with you to share with co-workers, family, and friends today. They were really doing it up at Hedgehog's school. We were greeted at the door by a big sign saying "Do You Have a Poem in Your Pocket?" When we went in, the lower school librarians had set up a table for the kids who'd forgotten their poems, with paper, pencils, and books of poetry to choose from...Hedgehog chose "Monday's Troll" by Jack Prelutsky.

Here's mine (click on picture to read it):




I hope you'll tuck a poem in your pocket--it can even be a silly one, and/or one you've written yourself. Tell me if you do it!

I Never

A couple of weekends ago, Sergeant Pepper and I traveled to New Jersey to empty out a storage space of old stuff his mom left behind when she moved to Texas. When we opened the gate, we were greeted by a hideous jumble: myriad curtain rods, moldy suitcases, a kit for a go-cart, travel brochures, a trampoline, and a mysterious locked trunk (don't ask what I think my MIL is storing in that thing). Important memorabilia, precious books, and literal garbage all crammed in together. There was even a cauldron in there!

And then there was this:




My man was in the army awhile back, before I met him. I'm proud of him for serving, and it only adds to his overall coolness in my eyes. So when I saw this box, I was dumbfounded. Then we both couldn't stop laughing. I opened it up, and sure enough, there were all of his awards, haphazardly stashed in with old bath mats and rugs from the bathroom in MIL's old house. The rugs were neatly folded and packaged up in plastic.

Did You Know I Love Online Quizzes?

Well, I do. I love them so much. Time-wasting, superficial, meaningless really. But I love 'em. The only reason I'm posting this is because I laughed when I saw the "classic" movie I got pegged for:



What Classic Movie Are You?
personality tests by similarminds.com

Yup, I'm "Schindler's List" alright. That is SO on target. And not because I "put the needs of others before my own" (although yes, I am a martyr of the worst sort--and by the way, that's not exactly what Oskar Schindler did--right up until the end, he did his good deeds for the sake of his own ego--I mean, not that that negates what he did, but still). But certain other qualities come to mind--Jewish, gloomy, death-obsessed. I mean, I just laughed when that picture came up on the screen. Because of course, I'd never be pegged as "Seven Brides for Seven Brothers" or the Woodstock concert film...