Sometimes, They Come Back

As summer paints the western sky in burnished shades of yearning; to save the carefree summertime and autumn leaves from turning, my heart urges time to a standstill. Though the past has come; a midnight moon while stars were deep in slumber, a spirit rode on wings of loon and tore the dates asunder. Reluctant is the tiny bird that knows it must take wing, though winter songs are not yet heard as garden birds still sing.  The time is now as winter nears; the anxious hummer knows, and late one balmy August night, he’ll spread his wings for home. 

Whoever said, “Parting is such sweet sorrow” had it right, don’t you think? As you know, at many of the places I visit folks simply never leave. And they can get a bit testy when someone new moves in and wants to make a few changes; as we saw in my Cottonwood post, where at one home the ghostly resident repeatedly ripped up newly laid tile and dragged construction materials out on the lawn during renovations. 

As one might think, refurbishing a home or building that isn’t still “occupied” is a relief in itself. But can you imagine what could happen if sometimes, they come back?

When purchased by the former Sonora State Senator Carlos Velasco, back in 1878, it was no more than a three room adobe hut. By the time of his death in 1914, Velasco and his wife had lovingly transformed it into one of the finest manors in El Presidio; boasting 15 ft. ceilings with many fine Spanish and Old Mexico gildings that enhance the elegance of the enduring abode that spans nearly five acres in the middle of downtown Tucson, Arizona.

It wasn’t until renovations began in the late nineties on this 150+-year-old home that reports began circulating of a certain distinguished looking gentleman with a mustache, appearing out of nowhere with a keen interest in the on-going project at the old Velasco Pueblo.

Workers reported being watched at all times, only to turn and find not their supervisor, but the floating upper torso of a man with a direct, discerning gaze that seemed to express approval before the apparition vanished. He watched with particular interest as walls were refurbished in the burned-out room that had served as his office when he created and printed Tucson’s first Hispanic newspaper, and as the project neared completion, Velasco’s presence was further revealed in rearranged furniture, reset clocks (a particular fascination for Velasco in life), and pictures being moved from wall to wall. 

Throughout renovations and for years to follow, Velasco’s appearances continued; ever imparting a sense of contentment at his return home. There have been no reports of anyone minding his presence, and the privately-owned home is now listed on the National Register of Historic places.

Are you ready for summer’s end? Could you live with the ghost of Carlos Velasco? Might you be hanging around at your house to see how newcomers treat it?

During the Hours of Darkness

This week, in my never-ending search for all things odd and ghostly, I’ve been exploring the oldest region in the country – New England! Today the state of Maine has captured my attention. Home of the largest toothpick factory in the United States, Maine encompasses nearly as many square miles as the other five New England states combined, and like most of our states still carries a few odd old laws on their books. For instance, it is customary to bring your shotgun to church on Sunday - in the event of a Native American attack, and stepping out of a plane in flight is prohibited.  I hear they make the best Clam “Chowda”, but for now, it’s the charm of the coastline that lures me with summoning harbors so deep as to port the lot of worldwide Navy fleets!

Accessible only by boat or helicopter, the Seguin Island Lighthouse stately stands as Maine’s tallest and second oldest maritime watchtower; overlooking breathtaking views of the mainland and mid-Atlantic coast.  The winters are long and understandably desolate for a young Keeper’s wife, and to alleviate her boredom her husband ordered a piano.  The young wife immediately took to the clavichord and proceeded to play the only song for which sheet music had been provided; over and over. And over again. Driven quite insane by the inveterate repertoire, her husband took an ax to the piano one night, before using it on his wife, and then himself.  According to legend, the piano was never truly silenced; for a lone melodic stanza tinkles soft on wintry seaboard breeze, and soothes the plight of the Keeper’s soul; ever searching for she who plays.         

Note to Self: Not all Superhighways are fast and free. Sometimes you have to wait…and pay! Toll roads? Meanwhile, back on the mainland…

It can be challenging enough to find a headstone by day, but imagine traipsing around the Old Anderson Cemetery in Windham, Maine – at night!  Dating back to the 1700’s and accommodating many more than just the Anderson family, this place has raised hackles in broad daylight when visitors returning to their cars find the doors wide open. But its popularity is derived from activities detected after-hours; when you need permission to be there. One of the more obvious, yet benign attractions is a three-foot mound; designating the resting spot of a decorated soldier, in a veritable sea of markers placed on flat ground. Then there is the ‘den’, a cave-like area inhabited by an unfriendly entity with hot, fetid breath; which shows up in pictures as a red orb. If you’re still feeling brave, you can visit the mausoleum and listen to someone (something?) knocking to be let out. If you’re like me, by now you’re high-tailing it out of there as shadows furtively dart between trees, only to find your dome light on in a car that won’t unlock!  (Note: Cell Phones do sometimes work out there - thankfully)

If you were to use one of these settings in a story, which one would it be? Have you been or would you visit either place? 

Thanks for coming along!

Out of Character

By morning light it’s hard to imagine that darkness could come, once a day, to the glorious golden carnival my yard has become in just a matter of days. Catclaws and Dogweed, Fiddlenecks, Snakeweed and Cactus Apples (lovely names, aren’t they?) have all bloomed in pollen-bearing splendor. Casting a dubious eye on bright orange milkweed blossoms (they don’t typically bloom before late April), I can’t help but cringe. La Nina may be in rare form out west this year. 

And that brings me to my subject for this month’s post for the Insecure Writer’s SupportGroup. No, not early spring, or flowers—allergies! You see, I have a young character who sneezes, a lot.  The setting being such that many modern conveniences have not yet been introduced, Hanky (nicknamed that for obvious reasons) muddles through with all of the youthful resilience one might expect from a precocious eight-year old. Oh sure, the affliction has its fun points; like how she can’t play hide & seek without giving herself away, but how much is too much? I suppose I could phase out the fact that she sneezes, but wouldn’t that be out of (the original) character? Or perhaps I should change the setting to include available allergy shots. Your thoughts are most appreciated, dear fellow writers.

With that I shall continue to delight in the tiny Poorman’s weatherglass that are popping up in all new places and enjoy my beloved blooming creosote bushes; bent on dispersing those pesky fuzzy fairy things that float around like dust bunnies from beneath a guestroom bed. achoo! Wishing all a great week too :-)

Wednesday Witticisms