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Ghosts, Part I

As I was making my way across the Powder Point Bridge in Duxbury last weekend, I found myself thinking about ghosts, not the kind in campfire stories, though I do have a few of those to tell you.


While there were many gifted teachers at the Pierce School during our family's time there, my favorite was Mrs. West ("She's the best!") who, despite being new to teaching, calmed we parents who were nervous ninnies about what we perceived as the traumatic transition our children were making from pre-school to kindergarten. She was hands-on, loving, inclusive, ever so patient, had a sense of humor and kept a piece of decomposing pumpkin in a jar that the kids, ok and we parents too, examined daily.


Mrs. West with a few of her many fans


On the Friday afternoon before winter break, we were having a chat about her plans for the week. She was headed to Race Brook Lodge, a place I knew after having held a 50th birthday celebration for my then husband, with friends and neighbors convening on a beautiful October weekend. Mrs. West's reason for going was, among others, to visit a friendly ghost who lived in the fireplace of one of the rooms in the main house. She asked if I had met her (I hadn't). When I questioned her further, she shared how she had been able to see them since she was young, and that the only time it was problematic was when she and her husband were house hunting, as it created an extra level of assessment about the ongoing conviviality of additional roommates.


This fresh faced, warm, lover of children who was training for a marathon upended all my unexamined stereotypes of mediums, by never wearing black or purple or feathers. As well as being a teacher, she had a business providing spiritual guidance, reiki, coaching. Someone I knew who had suddenly lost her brother asked Mrs. West for help and was able to hear from him directly, gaining peace and closure to what had been a complicated relationship.


Stories of ghosts abounded at Tanglewood, most notably the one at Highwood who would turn the pages of sheet music at the appropriate moment when someone was playing the piano, and then there was the one at Seranak in the front room who didn't like visitors opening the armoire where Serge Koussevitsky's tails still hung. But the ghost closest chose to ignore me.


Highwood

Seranak


One particular summer I was sharing a place on East Street in Lenox with two colleagues who were due to arrive a few weeks after me. For the time I was alone, I worked at Tanglewood duirng the day and did whatever it was I did back then in the evening. When Marc, who had rented the place for many summers, arrived, he asked me if I had met the ghost. Nope, but glad I didn't know when I was alone. Later in the summer, a friend came out for work and was to stay in our tiny little guest room that held a twin mattress and little else. Sitting out on a nice summer evening with a bottle of wine, I told her the house was supposedly haunted but that I had seen no evidence, and we reviewed the various Tanglewood stories which we both wrote off as tall tales. In the middle of that night, I was awoken by my friend who looked like Struwwelpeter. She was holding her pillow in front of her and quiveringly asked if she could sleep in my bed. There had been a small child in her room who was pulling a train back and forth over and over, and while it was going on, she received a very bad shock. It was hard to discount her because of the physical evidence of her hair standing on end. I don't recall if any sleeping happened after that.


Struwwelpeter. How did this ever become a children's book that (my) parents actually bought and why isn't there more mental illness? Do I remember correctly that his fingers got chopped off because he did something naughty?


Early in our paddle tennis careers, a friend and I were playing a tournament out of Myopia Hunt Club in the northern suburbs of Boston. As happens, matches were spread out to different locations, in this case Essex Country Club and Turner Hill, our first match assigned to the latter. While Myopia and Essex are posh, we found Turner Hill an odd place, with a drive that wound up a hill past the relics of a building that had fallen into disrepair. At the top of the hill, there was a long, regal brick manor house on one side looking down the hill, and on the other, a new, treeless and muddy suburban development of white side by side townhouses that looked out of place next to all the sedate brick. We found the paddle courts, also in a state of disrepair, and as our opponents hadn't arrived yet, headed for the bathroom inside the manor house, which was unlocked and empty, though the lights were on.


As I was sitting in one of the two stalls, a freezing cold breeze went down my back and moved inside my body. I could feel an angry presence in the stall with me, that I wasn't supposed to be there. When I ran out to find my friend, she told me she had had a similar experience. Who know's why, but rather than tear out of there, we somehow got pulled further into the house by a Best of Boston sign, Best Wedding Venue. We admired the great room, appreciated the view and continued along, remarking on the old woodwork and leaded windows. When we got to the far side of the building, there was a beatuiful carved oak staircase with a sign saying PRIVATE, which we took as an invitation. Up we went, to find a long hallway with bedrooms on either side, most of the doors open. To the left, the beds were made up and looked ready to receive guests, to the right, there was old furniture piled up, attic style. Beaten upholstered chairs, rusty bed frames, lots of boxes. We began to walk down the corridor, curious, before noticing the sconces on both sides of the passageway had little white tags with string hanging from them. The tags were moving around furiously, as though being blown by a strong wind, of which there was none. We both screamed, turned around and ran.


We lost our match quickly and relieved, drove back to Myopia for lunch. There we were told by the locals that oh yes, there's a woman in a wedding dress who roams the halls there. We returned with reticence for our second match, needless to say, we didn't go inside. At some point, I needed to walk back to the car to get something, and while doing so, a white sedan with Florida plates pulled up to me, the driver's side window opened and a woman, perhaps in her mid 80s to 90, had on makeup that made me think she was trying to look like a 20-something city girl, but caked on so thick she looked like a clown, red lipstick that went way beyond her natural lips, eyes that had lots of black aorund them, and many many wrinkles. She stared at me with eyes a little too wide open, and said "Which way to the Manor House?"


Freaky abandoned building on an otherwise well manicured property

It was a wet, snowy day, which didn't help


Despite these events being real and witnessed by others, I still have an ongoing dialog about whether or not I believe in ghosts, or other presences we can't see. I suppose we are taught to only believe what we can see and touch. But the older I get, the more I am comfortable acknowledging that there is some business going on that we're not aware of, a spiritual life that may be calling a lot of the shots. But I couldn't say more than that.


Back to bridge in Duxbury next week.


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