My Haunted House

Let me state right up front, that all of my "On the Road" tales are true stories about my life. Although I've considered experimenting with fictional stories, all past reports, including this one that I am about to write, are real accounts of events in my life.

In the early '90s, I was in the market for a new home. Having found a house that was desirable to me, both in size and price, I made an offer on a bank-repossessed home, situated on a busy highway in my hometown. The house had been vacant for more than two years, and needed some work. Being a "do it yourself" kind of guy, that was of little concern to me. The price was more than appealing.

My three children and I had been staying at my mother's home, while I worked to make our new house habitable. After a month or more of preparing the new house for occupancy, it was time to move in. I moved in first, as I was anxious to start making the house a home. There were still a few minor jobs that needed addressing, before the home would be comfortable for my family.

As long as I live, I'll never forget the first night that I stayed in my new house. I had partially furnished the house and was thrilled about spending my first night there... alone. Or was I? As best as possible, I will attempt now to describe the chain of events that took place, once in my bed in my second floor bedroom.

It was around one o'clock in the morning, when I had finally retired for the night. Within minutes of getting comfortable, and just starting to fall asleep, a strange feeling came over me. I opened my eyes to see the image of a man slowly walk across my bedroom from the far corner to the doorway, and then exit the room. I was startled.

Being the reasonable man that I am, I discounted the event as having been a dream. Although somewhat shaken, I turned over and fell asleep.

A short time later, I awoke to an indescribable feeling of someone or something pulling me out of my bed. The force was real and it was scary as hell. I felt like I had to hang on to something for fear that I would be pulled out of the bed. The feeling was so intense that I not only felt it externally --as if something was pulling on my physical body-- but also inside of me, as if an energy of some sort was attempting to completely overtake me.  I spent the remainder of the night on the sofa in the living room.

The next day, the recollection of that event was still vivid. I spent the next few nights on the sofa.

Once my children joined me in our new home, the strange events, although different, continued. One morning, after a peaceful night's sleep, and upon entering the kitchen, all of the cupboards and drawers were wide open. Another event which took place during the middle of the night, involved a conversation between two people in the den.  Although you couldn't see anyone or anything, the muffled sounds were obviously voices of people talking.

Even though there were many occasions where abnormal activities were witnessed in my home, the events were typically small, insignificant anomalies that I dismissed as being coincidental. Hallway lights were found to be on in the morning, which had been off during the night. Many nights, there were sounds of someone walking on the first floor, when all of us were upstairs in bed. These oddities were common, and somewhat frequent.

My children were aware that our home was "different", but we never really talked much about it. One son used to come into my bedroom fairly frequently during the night, to report that there were strange noises in his bedroom --mostly centered around his closet. My daughter mentioned on more than one occasion, that she had seen an old woman in a rocking chair, in the upstairs hallway. I think that she may have been joking about that, however.

Because none of the occurrences seemed to be threatening in anyway, I wasn't concerned about anyone's safety and I didn't feel as though we needed to vacate the home. I had my own theories about the events taking place, as I was familiar with some of the home's past history --the knowledge that my home had been built in the late 1800s-- and the realization that probably more than one person had died in the house.

In the Fall of 2000, we moved out of the house, having purchased a new home closer to my job. While my haunted house was on the market and once again vacant, two final occurrences took place that helped to confirm what I had already known.

The first event which occurred a month or so after we moved, involved one of my adult sons. He had left some of his personal belongings behind, when we first moved.  He went back to the vacant house on a Thursday evening to sort through his belongings, which were in his bedroom closet. While in the bedroom bagging up his belongings, a strange presence came over him. Consequently, he left the bags in the center of the room, and left earlier than he had planned.  On Friday, he returned to collect the bags and was surprised at what he found. All of his belongings had been removed from the bags, and were lined up around the perimeter of the room against the walls. Everything, that is, except for a wooden plaque bearing the image of a crucifix. The plaque was in the center of the room, apparently untouched. He gathered his belongings and quickly left the house.

A few months later that winter, I received a phone call late one evening from a friend of mine, the Police Chief from the town where my haunted house was located. He stated that he was sitting in my driveway, and a light was on in an upstairs bedroom. He was concerned, because he hadn't noticed any lights on, prior to this evening. He further stated that he had checked all of the doors, and everything was secure. He had been watching the property for me, as it was vacant. While we were talking, he told me that the light had just gone out. In describing the location of the lighted room, I was not surprised that it was in the room that my son had occupied while we lived there. I explained to the Chief that I had put a light on a timer at the house...but truthfully, I hadn't.

Did our home have intruders, or were we the intruders? Our house sold the next year.

Fact or fiction? You decide. I'm interested in your feedback!

~Safe Riding~


-The Chief

The Day I Saved Chip

The day started out just like any other ordinary day. Once out of bed --a quick shower, dress and breakfast-- then out the door to enjoy a day off.  I've never been one to sit inside and be idle. I don't remember what I had planned for the day, but I'm sure I had a list of "to do's" neatly packed inside of my pea sized brain.

I went out to the patio to check the pool, which was a daily routine for me. Within minutes, I was to become a hero. Yes, me...just a simple, ordinary, everyday kind of small town guy --soon to be a hero!

Chip must have fallen in the pool just moments before my arrival. It was obvious to me that he had been swimming frantically for a short period of time and was struggling to keep his head above water. It's times like this, that all of those hours of classroom training seem to pay off. I can't recall how many times I've taken CPR and First Aid classes during my career, but the numbers surely must be in the millions.

Without any further thought about my own safety, I sprang into action! Quickly, without delay, I grabbed the skimmer net and ran to the edge of the pool. Chip was in the deep end of the pool and it was now evident that his energy was waning. Time was of the essence!

Within seconds, I extended the long pole out to Chip's flailing arms. With the last bit of energy that he could muster, he grabbed onto the net and I pulled him to safety.

As he collapsed onto the concrete patio --his heart pumping like a young man's heart on his first date-- I carefully helped to dry him off while reassuring him that he would be fine. A few easy compressions on his stomach proved to expel any remaining water from his lungs. It was obvious that he was extremely grateful for my quick action to rescue him.

It took about twenty minutes before Chip was able to get up on his feet and slowly walk away. A feeling of satisfaction came over me, as he stumbled away, glancing back at me with obvious gratitude. I was thankful for being in the right place at the right time, and also for all of the training that I had taken over the years.

On this otherwise ordinary day, I became an instant hero to the chipmunk community --a sort of God, if you will. To honor my bravery and quick action, Chip and his friends filled my workbenches in the garage with gifts of nuts and twigs.

Thank you Chip!

~Safe Riding~

-The Chief

My New Honda

The year was 1972, and I remember the day as if it was yesterday. I was a high school freshman, and I wasn't really into the whole "education" thing. To me, life was more about making money and having fun. Little did I know.

The day I reached my sixteenth birthday, I was camped out at the local motor vehicle department ready to take my learner's permit test. Within a few short months, I found myself with a driver's license --having passed my road test-- and my first 200 dollar car, a Chevrolet. It was an ugly car, pale yellow with a torn black vinyl roof. Painting a black stripe down either side, and adding a flame at the end didn't help to disguise its ugliness, but the radio worked!

The day that I remember as if it was yesterday, however, was the day that I bought my first motorcycle. My love for two wheels started long before that day. As a young boy, probably around the age of twelve or thirteen, I was thrilled with motors and vehicles --or practically any thing that was capable of moving from point A to point B under its own power. Someday, I'll probably write about my first motorized contraption, but not now.

Prior to the purchase of my new Honda, I had built a couple of mini-bikes, by swapping and bartering different possessions of mine        
--including, but not limited to my pet raccoon that I had trained as a family pest. The mini-bikes were fun for a young and adventurous boy such as I, and they also helped to teach me about traffic laws and other rules and regulations about life and living in peaceful neighborhoods. I was well known in my town.

Many times during the winter of '72, I visited the Honda dealership in Ithaca, New York. That Spring, I went with my father to pick up my new bike, with sixteen hundred hard-earned dollars in hand.  Times were different back in the seventies, and I was a young man extremely uneducated about motorcycles, driving and well, life in general. Dad and I took a two by six wood plank --you know, a motorcycle ramp-- along with us in his van to pick up my newest treasure. Tie downs? I didn't know what they were, and I didn't give any thought as to how to secure the bike for its trip home. "I guess I'll have to sit on the bike so it doesn't tip over", I said to dad, hoping no one at the dealership heard me.

Once home and unloaded, I remember rejoicing in the fact that I finally owned something new. My car, when I purchased it, was six years old and ugly. It ran and did its job, but it was ugly. My Honda was shiny and new. Uh, I need to be honest here though...it was ugly too. Apparently I didn't have very good taste in colors, when I was a much younger man. My new scoot was brown... plain ugly brown. To make matters worse, I let one of my older brothers give my new bike a test ride in our backyard, and he discovered quite quickly that front brakes and grassy surfaces don't quite go together. After his maiden voyage around our yard, my plain ugly brown Honda became a plain ugly brown Honda with a bent front turn signal.  I kept my first motorcycle for a couple of years, and then traded it for a bigger, faster and not quite as ugly bike.

My ugly Honda served me well. It helped teach me the rules of the road, and also some safe driving habits. I had just one mishap on the bike, and it involved a collision with a dog. I won, but didn't feel as though I had. Actually I was fortunate, in that I kept the bike upright and I was only slightly injured. The dog didn't fair so well.

I've watched the motorcycle industry come a long way. I've learned volumes about motorcycles, riding and safety on the road. From mini-bikes, to Hondas, to Harleys --I've enjoyed them all. Times were good back then. It's been a long, fun journey, and my days of bartering with raccoons are a thing of the past.


~Safe Riding~

-The Chief

A Chip Off the Old Block

When I was a young lad growing up, I was fortunate enough to have parents who believed in a strong work ethic. Their philosophy about getting things done, revolved around the fact that doing things for yourself was most often the best route to take.

Dad was a self-made man and was handy at pretty much everything. A lot of what I learned growing up came from his willingness to be a mentor to me. Probably the greatest gift however, must have been passed down genetically, even though remaining somewhat dormant for the first couple of decades of my life.

Thinking back over the years, and remembering all of the projects I have taken on and completed, is a testament to the skills that I began learning as a young adult. Throughout my life, I generally felt that if something needed to be built, rebuilt, or fixed, who better to do it than me? Thank you dad, for instilling that in me.

Recently, I decided that a new patio constructed of concrete building pavers, would be a fun and worthwhile project. The thought of laying more than 200 heavy cement blocks on top of the ground, to create the illusion of a well-designed patio, typically wouldn't pique my interest. My initial design plans revealed a wooden deck, built over an existing concrete slab. The change in plans and driving force however, was the fact that there was an obstacle --cleverly disguised as a building permit-- lurking in the shadows of my, "I want to build it now" disposition. When I make up my mind to take on a project, I'm not the type who is willing to wait. Similar to heading out the door for a run; when I'm ready to go, I'm ready to go. Simply stated, it's best not to stand in my way. Thankfully, permits are not required for those wishing to strategically place chunks of cement on the ground. Not yet anyway.

If you've never taken on a project that involved clearing and leveling 200 square feet of earth, and preparing it as a bed for cement blocks, my advice is... don't. Okay, as home improvement projects go, maybe it wasn't that difficult of a task. If nothing else, I think that I was trying to prove something to my aging self and besides, I had the best equipment that money can buy. My state of the art shovel and garden rake are second to none.

During my "do it yourself" career, I have come to realize that all of my projects normally have a happy ending. Regardless of whether or not there are issues or roadblocks during the building stage, the end result always seems to please me. By no means am I an expert on building or fixing anything, and believe me I have made many mistakes along the way. Thankfully, to the "untrained eye", small blunders that I have made while constructing my --soon to be enjoyed creations-- seem to go undetected. The life expectancy of my projects has never really concerned me either, as I have made it a habit to frequently relocate --along with keeping an unlisted phone number.

Once completed, I was pleasantly surprised with this new concrete concoction of a patio. The surprise was not about the end result being aesthetically pleasing and somewhat level, because as I stated earlier, my projects typically seem to have a happy ending. The surprise to me this time, had to do with how quickly everything seemed to come together. Within just a few days of semi-hard --I guess I'm not retired anymore-- labor, what was once just a typical backyard was now transformed into a patio paradise complete with accent lighting, mulch and shrubs.

A chip off the old block? Perhaps.

Did I chip any of the blocks? The untrained eye may never detect that. Only this DIY-er knows for sure.


~Safe Riding~

-Chief

I Never Knew

I never knew when I was a child, just how hard it was to raise a family. I took a lot for granted, as children often do.

I never knew, mom, that when you bought me a new pair of sneakers, someone else in the family went without something. This was a common thing in our family because there were eight of us children, and dad --who was self-employed-- was the family's sole means of support.

I never knew that all of those times when you took me shopping, and I was a pain in the ass and cried, making a scene to get that certain toy that I had to have, that I was adding to your stress and gray hair. I didn't need those toys, and I remember that sometimes I didn't even want them.

I never knew as I was growing up and stumbling through my final years of school  --not really having a direction in life-- that you would always want the best for me and never give up on me, although there were times that you surely could have.

I never knew just how proud you were of me, as I became an adult and began my career. As I started my family and my life became more jumbled,  from the daily stresses of life, I chose --selfishly-- to work many hours and pay little attention to you or your needs. I have learned now, to slow down and enjoy life while also embracing those who are closest to me.

I never knew how hard it must have been for you, when dad died just days before your 50th wedding anniversary. The emptiness and feelings of loneliness that you surely harbored for many years thereafter,  I will never know.

I never knew, mom, just how much you suffered in pain as you aged the last few years of your life. You were the strongest person I ever knew. I have no right to complain about minor aches and pains as I often do.

And Mom, I never knew, the last time that I took you to the hospital, that you wouldn't be coming home. You knew it and you told me, but I didn't really listen.  I didn't know just how much you hurt or how sad you were, as that tear ran down your face when you asked me to take you home.

I never knew how painful those last two weeks of your life were. I didn't realize how much suffering and agony you had to endure.

I never knew, mom,  how great the void would be --after you were gone-- not being able to call you or stop in for a visit, just to let you know how the kids were doing or to ask about your day.

I never knew, mom, or totally understood - but now I think I know.

Happy Birthday, Mom!

You were the best mother anyone could have ever wished for.

Sadly missed...