Ghost Stories

by Beth Alexander Walsh

Have you seen the ghost of Tom?
Long white bones with the skin all gone.
Ooh, ooh, ooh, ooh, ooh, ooh, ooh
Wouldn't it be chilly with no skin on?

I have always loved a good ghost story.

 I recall the stories told around the campfire at Girl Scout camp, where each story teller tried to out scare the one before with a flashlight lit under our chins for dramatic effect. TV was also a great place for ghost stories. Scooby Doo never disappointed and I loved watching reruns of The Ghost and Mrs. Muir and the Twilight Zone. As a teenager, candles would be lit and the Ouija Board would come out as we called upon spirits to answer our questions, i.e., is Elvis really dead?

The movie theater was also a great place for a good ghost yarn. I’m not talking slasher horror movies or the adaptations of Stephen King novels (with the exception of The Shining). I’m talking real ghosts; spirits from the past trying to connect with humans in the present or disrupting the lives of a family living in a house, like the Amityville Horror. I loved watching Barbara Hershey being chased in The Entity and Carol Ann disappearing into the closet in Poltergeist. Shoeless Joe walking out of a cornfield in Field of Dreams is an image that has stayed with me.  Then there are poor Bruce Willis in The Sixth Sense and Nicole Kidman in The Others whose characters don’t realize that they are dead. Some ghost stories could make you laugh like iconic films Beetlejuice and Ghostbusters. Let’s not forget Whoopi, Patrick and Demi in Ghost. No one would ever look at throwing a pot the same way again.

Literature is also full of great ghost stories.  Edgar Allan Poe’s The Tell-Tale Heart gave me chills the first time I read it. We will never know what happened to Ichabod Crane after being chased by the Headless Horseman in The Legend of Sleepy Hollow. The most famous ghost of all, in my opinion, is Jacob Marley wearing the chains he forged in life. This Halloween I have decided to add The Turn of the Screw by Henry James to my ghostly reading list.

The last decade I have become more existential and my ghosts have become spirits. I am more thoughtful about what happens when we die and where that energy goes, drawing me to watch John Edwards, Theresa Caputo and Tyler Henry work their medium magic, connecting with loved ones that have passed. These shows command eye rolls from my husband, but I believe that the presence of spirit is around us, especially when we need it the most.

The most wonderful thing about ghost stories is that everyone has one.

Our First and Only Home

by Lauraine Alberetti Lombara

My husband and I bought our first home three months prior to our wedding in September of 1964, while we were still living with our parents. The sweet garrison colonial sat on an acre plot in Beverly Farms, abutting a salt marsh, the Boston and Maine commuter rail line to Gloucester and a small stretch of unoccupied land beyond the railroad tracks fronting the Atlantic Ocean. Route 127 ran by the front of the house, but we had a big lawn edged with trees which muffled l the traffic noise and sheltered us from the road view.

A small kitchen with a tiny porch entrance on one side, a full bathroom and a small den ran across the back of the house. A small dining room and medium living room bracketed the front entrance; all of this over a full cellar. The stairway upstairs was directly in front of the door.The second floor had two bedrooms and a half bath. Off the top landing, a cut-out deck looked over the marsh and ocean.

My mother-in law’s eagle eye spotted the real estate notice advertising,“close to West Beach” and alerted us to this treasure house. My only desire when my husband asked where I thought we might live was,“Close to a beach, if possible.” One look and we were sold. A lovely couple left the spec house in great condition. Granted, there was no attic space nor garage but we were enamored by the fantastic view over the salt water tidal marsh. We were warned by well-meaning family about possible or probable flooding from the marsh. Although we had yet to have a problem with this, after two daughters arrived quickly, space constraints began to arise.

Looking for larger quarters in the surrounding areas (no way were we leaving the ocean, beach and marsh), we decided to stay put and renovate; multiple enlargements, walls removed to make open space, the deck upstairs remodeled to make two bedrooms as the number three child, our son, had arrived. No loss since the deck turned out to be a sun-baked sauna! Instead, we added a deck to the back of the house off the lower level which gave us more room outdoors and clearer, glorious views from inside and out.

My husband built a foyer onto the front door entrance and reworked the brick pathway to a beautiful bluestone walk. He also built a treehouse on the lower branches of a huge maple tree on the side of the house for the children - a treat for them with its hanging ladder of which I was quite fearful. Boston Globe and North Shore photographer Ulrike Welsch captured the treehouse and our children in an iconic photo!

Two stately weeping willow trees at the top of the driveway, causing problems, are gone, replaced with pretty pear trees. Two apple trees in the backyard on either side of the house have died, but a crab apple tree has survived the fifty-five years here, as we have. Three grown children moved on after college, marriage and work relocations, but now we have our daughters and their families living in Beverly, so they and our four grandchildren are a joy close by. We remain and have become an “uncommon breed” of First and One-and-Only  Home Owners.

Apple Picking

by Sharon Obelsky

 We usually went to Applecrest Farm in Hampton Falls,N.H. the last week of September. If you waited too long into October, the best would be already picked and a lot would be on the ground. The day would dawn clear with just a little touch of cool weather but you knew by afternoon it would be much warmer. It was always best to dress in layers and definitely wear boots, the mud is pretty bad in the orchards. I would wear jeans, socks, boots, tee shirt, sweatshirt hoodie or a light jacket. Paul had a special outfit for this occasion; a flannel plaid shirt, leather vest, cowboy hat and buckle, jeans, cowboy boots and he’d bring his guitar. He always made an effort to talk with the band first and see if he could join in for a few songs. He had a guy from Lynn, Henry the hatter, who custom made his cowboy hat and he found the belt and vest at the Topsfield Fair. We would meet everyone at a certain spot off route 95 going onto route one and continue on together up to Applecrest. 

 One time I remember videotaping our ride up the road that leads to the farm. Paul was driving and we had our song from John Denver, “Take Me Home Country Roads”. There were beautiful, typical New England homes, wood clapboard with colored shutters and bright doors, some red with pumpkins and corn husks at the doorway. There were rock walls lining their yards from the road, American flags hanging from poles or posts off the houses and big old barns and white picket fences. The line of cars would start as soon as we turned off route 1 and winded its way to the farm. We’d pull into the parking lots, per se, for actually they were fields that had already been harvested. 

We’d unload and set out to the spot to pay for bags to be used for the apples we’d pick. On the way, we’d stop off at the band stage and of course they welcomed Paul to join them after we got our apples. 

There were hay-wagons to ride out to the orchards and it was fun bouncing and jouncing along the muddy fields. I always picked the Cortland apples, they were the best for pies that I made from my great grandmother Abby’s recipe. We’d have everyone back for coffee, pie and ice cream later. Paul had made this special picker that reached higher up in the trees where we couldn’t reach, he should have patented it like the pooper scooper he had made before they were invented. 

After putting the apples back in our cars and shedding a layer, since it had gotten warmer, we would head back to the festival, now in full swing. Paul would now grab his guitar and join the group on stage and we’d all sing along and clap to the music. Afterwards there would be hot apple cider and warm cider doughnuts. What a gorgeous September day it had turned out to be, with white puffy clouds, deep blue sky, with a touch of summer fighting off the chilly hint of fall to come that we had felt earlier. The stage would be decorated with cornstalks, ribbons, pots of fall mums and pumpkins.

 We all would drive back to our house, the guys would go down cellar to play some darts and the girls and kids would stay up in the kitchen. We’d make a couple of pies, filling the house with the wonderful smell of apples and the anticipation of the slices to come. The girls would bring their pie pans so they could bring one home with them. I always had this feeling of contentment after days like these. I read something once, “ I’d like a do over”. It fit for a day like this one, a day filled with good times, good friends and good weather