Ghost Stories

My grandmother's home was filled with ghosts. She had sand dollars that never stopped producing sand even after years on display. She had a statue of Saint Francis that shattered during an earthquake. Only Saint Francis was harmed. The animals remained intact. Ever protected by their loving guardian, even in white porcelain form. She heard lions roaring inside The Colosseum. She once smelled her grandfather's pipe tobacco in the dark hallway of a museum when walking alone.

She read palms at parties, but, one day after seeing the faded lines of a stranger's hand, she refused to proceed. She never agreed to serve as the palm reader at a function again. She didn't have to say more than, "Sometimes, there is too much darkness."

She had a set of Tarot cards that smelled of cedar. I would often look at the pictures on the cards. Fascinated by the colors. Fascinated with my young, tingling thoughts of beautiful pictures holding knowledge of a life not yet lived.

Right before her death, she called and asked to spend some time in our home with her great-grandchildren. She spent the day telling us stories, holding the children on her knee. She was creating memories. Not the memories of our childhood. She wanted them to be based in our adult present. Less of the childhood ghosts and more of our small children on her lap. That day, she gave me the Tarot cards. In a small, plastic Ziploc bag; still smelling of cedar.

When I am at a crossroads, I pull them off of the shelf where they sit tucked behind board games. I hold them in my hands and think of her. I stare at my palms searching for secrets. I count the cards wondering if I sit still enough, and for long enough, maybe I will find the scent of  my own grandfather's pipe tobacco.

I wait to hear the roars of lions while surrounded by the roars of children. I have none of her foresight. I can not see what may be.

But, she is here. In the strangest of times, I will smell the lilac in candles or on the rag of a mother cleaning her counters and think of her. When my daughter is painting, I see a look on her face that is so much my grandmother that it leaves me breathless. In her paintings hanging on my walls, I drink in the colors deeply, wondering how much of her is in the brushstrokes, peering over the breakfast table, watching the children eat scrambled eggs.

My grandmother's mother was a bird lover. My mother swears that when each of us was born, a beautiful, rare bird would come to visit the babies. Once, a crane. Once, a cardinal that inspected my sister with such care that my mother wept.

When we moved to Vermont, a blue jay came to my windowsill and stared in to our kitchen. For what seemed like a lifetime, I stood silent. Staring. Waiting for one of us to flinch. After watching my frozen body at the sink and inspecting the children with head tilted, the blue jay flew away. To this day, I wonder. Bouncing between acknowledging the ludicrous idea and wanting so desperately to embrace it as truth.

The magic in our ghosts. The ones that reside in only our memories. The ones that reside in stories, making them real. Tangible.

I tell these stories looking for belief. I've heard more often than not, "I don't believe in ghosts."  I'm not sure if I do either, but, I believe in telling ghost stories.

I tell them softly and often because when I do, lilac becomes my grandmother. Beautiful birds, my great-grandmother. Pipe tobacco, the smell of a loving father and grandfather. Tarot cards, the mark of a great decision. Stories, the memory of our ghosts.

Once Upon A Time...

My husband and I have a pretty good deal. I can write whatever I want about anything I want as long as I extend him some vague, undetermined amount of privacy. I think that's fair, in theory. I'm sure no one dreams of becoming blog fodder or, in this case, blog father. I've kept this unspoken agreement that could never be held up in a court of law, until now. Honey, I love you. There's a box of your favorite cake mix in the pantry.

When I met my husband, I was on the heels of the bitter, ugly end of a long term relationship. He was a college student living in his twin sister's spare bedroom, sleeping inside a sleeping bag on a futon. On our second date, he said, "I'm going to buy you dinner. This may be the only time this happens. I just got my financial aid check." and I thought, "Wow, this is the man of my dreams."

His car was a devastatingly old Saab that required equal amounts of pressure on the gas pedal and brake in order not to stall at a stop light. I was impressed with the dexterity it took to make that happen. One foot pressing in the clutch. One foot hovering beautifully on brake and gas pedal. Hey, miracle man, wanna make some babies?

We officially set a date to be married before he officially proposed. I may have also been pregnant with our first. Details. In true good guy fashion, he hounded my dad for a private meeting. My father, always a wise man, tried to blow him off, but, my husband was persistent. At their sit-down, he asked for my hand in marriage. My father said, "May I suggest a long engagement?" to which my husband replied, "We've already set the date." This is the stuff Hallmark movies are made of.

We were married in a small ceremony in a quaint little Chapel. In Las Vegas. In the middle of July with a temperature in the triple digits. I have fond memories of holding my $99 eBay gown over my head while hovering my pregnant rump over the wall unit AC in the "bridal dressing room" -  an ancient, mildewy on-site motel room 100 feet from the entrance to the chapel. In the throes of awful morning sickness, my main concern was if I would vomit directly into my husband's mouth during our first kiss as man and wife.

We did not have a honeymoon. We instead decided to have several children in quick succession. Anyone will tell you that this is a fool-proof plan.

We went on our first date 8 years ago. We were married 7 months after our first date. Our first daughter was born 7 months after our wedding. Our son was born two years later. Our second daughter, 2 years after that, our 3rd daughter, 21 months after that.

When I look at the details that make up our story, it is not the traditional fairy tale romance. It is awkward, untimely and ridiculous. It is more often unplanned than carefully constructed. It is silly and full of shenanigans. Some did not take us seriously. Some probably still do not. However, on our third date, I knew. I knew that he and this ridiculous, hilarious, silly life were supposed to be mine. So, back off ladies, he's taken. You don't really want to take me on as a crazy ex. I mean, can you imagine?  It wouldn't work out anyway; this is a well-loved and regular conversation in our home.

Husband: "You know that I will never give you a divorce, right?"
Me: *sigh* "Yes, I know."
Husband: "Even if you move out, I will NEVER sign the papers."
Me: "What if I get a restraining order?"
Husband: "You'll have to let me see the kids. When I drop them off after our visits, I'll say, Kids, tell Mommy that I love her SO much. Ask her when I can come home. Tell Mommy I know she doesn't love me, but, I love her."
Me: *Through snorting laughter* "That is terrible."
Husband: "Well, I guess we have to stay married then."
Me: "I guess so."
Husband: "I love you."
Me: "I love you too."

And they lived happily ever after.



Never gonna give, never gonna give...GIVE YOU UP!