Rough Drafts

I've been tinkering with the idea of writing a short novella about the myriad of strange occurrences that my family has witnessed in our house. Growing up there, it seemed almost normal, though sometimes frightening, to say the least. In fact, I still have friends who would not spend the night in the house for fear of the ghosts.
So, I thought that just for fun, I'd publish some of my scribblings for public consumption on this site. Granted, they're still rough, and the project is far from complete, but I thought this might be a good way to not only get some feedback. So, I hope you enjoy...

Chapter One

The foremost tale, and one that will serve to properly imbue the rest of the book with the tone that is required, took place nearly a decade after we left off. It was the late 1940’s, and America was emerging from World War II. A young family, just getting their start, moved into the apartment upstairs. The father, a salesman, traveled frequently on business, and left his young wife to care for their two children. The solitude of not having her husband at home for long stretches began to wear on the young woman. Her children gave her much joy, but also much angst. She was forever trying to get both of them to sleep at night in the small apartment, fending off crying and tantrums that would certainly wake up the landlord downstairs. Alternately, her days were spent cooking, cleaning, and minding the children, with little time left over to relax. Coupled with this, the woman had battled depression throughout her life. Some days were clear and bright, while others dawned to low, dark clouds that showed no signs of retreat.

It was during a particularly cold and grey February that trouble began to stir. Her husband had been traveling throughout the South for the better part of a month, and the slate gray Ohio skies and never ending snow had practically trapped the three in their apartment. She treasured the brief, sporadic phone calls from her husband on the road, but lamented for the days when they were no longer necessary. It was after a week and a half without a call that the depression began to make way to despair. After a call to her husband’s office, she found that he was in Kansas City, and scheduled to go yet farther down the Mississippi before even considering coming home. As she hung up the phone, she began to cry. Her toddlers, confused by the role reversal, stood silently and stared as she sat down quietly at the kitchen table, head in hands.

After a time, the tears stopped and the children went back to play. But a veil had gone over her eyes, and her usually tender voice to her children was leaden and cold.

“It’s bath time, children.” She said without emotion.

The children were ushered through the bedroom, the kitchen, and past the stairway down to the door and into the bathroom. The claw footed tub, so large that the boy and girl could hardly see over the edge, was filling with water from the tap. Their Mother undressed them, without saying a word, and placed them in the warm water…

A salesman, fresh off the train from Kansas City, disembarked onto the platform in St. Louis. As he walked, he pulled his coat around him to fend off the cold. As he passed a newspaper stand, the proprietor, in his typical hawking fashion, beckoned with the headline of the day.

“Mother drowns two in Ohio!” he called, without realizing how tragic those words would be to the now curious salesman who stopped and turned towards the vendor. The proprietor, sensing a sale, continued;

“Horrible thing; two young kids like that,” he said. The salesman picked up the copy held to him and went cold. The byline was Medina, Ohio, and the children were his own.

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The scandal that erupted took to the bustling village by storm. The Mother was swiftly and, some say, mercifully, spared a trial and sent directly to a mental hospital, where she lived the remainder of her days. The father, consumed with grief, anger, and disbelief, moved quickly out of the apartment and to another city in another state, far from those that had witnessed and reminded him daily of his tragedy.

As a tight knit bedroom community, the public wanted no part in a public excoriation or humiliation in their town, and so the matter was ‘brushed under the rug’, and as the months following the event faded into years, it was spoken of less frequently. As the years passed to decades, many who knew of the tragedy passed as well.

Today, there is nary a record of the event as it transpired; I know because I’ve searched the Health Department, the Newspaper Archives, and even the Courthouse records. But if you ask someone who lived through those times in Medina, a spark of recollection inevitably comes into their eyes, and they remember.

The only solid and staid reminders of the actual event are the house, the bathroom, and the claw footed tub that still sits there.

Josh Rocks Beachland

Posited in the alcove, we peered out through the stage door and watched as Josh Ritter and his compatriots tore through a set list of classics and new material at the wonderful Beachland Ballroom last evening. It was our fourth trip in as many years to see Josh, and just as in years past, he stayed after the show until every fan had paid their respects, chatted about anything that struck their fancy, and posed for the requisite photograph with that same wide grin he wears so naturally on stage. This is a man who loves his job, and his fans.

Being that his music has played a significant role throughout my own relationship with Katie (I gave her his cd on our first date, and we've been diehards ever since), it was with some surprise that he appeared on stage with a wedding band on his finger. After the show, Katie asked him if it was true (thus breaking the heart of my sister and thousands of girls everywhere), and he happily revealed that he married Dawn Landes five weeks ago. We congratulated him on his nuptials and thanked him for the postcard he mailed to us from Alaska congratulating us on our own marriage last fall (seriously, he took the time to write us a postcard and mail it; I told you he loves his fans).

The show, as always, was a high energy singalong for the nearly sold out crowd; the biggest I've seen for any show of his save Bonnaroo in 2005. Girls nearly wilted when he crooned the opening lines of "Kathleen": "All the other girls here are stars, you are the northern lights...", and hundreds of feet stamped in unison to "Lillian, Egypt" and its' rollicking old west saloon piano. The lights were snuffed out for the poignant and beautiful "Harrisburg", and three little girls in attendance with their parents got the memory of a lifetime when he brought them on stage to sing along with "Leaving".

The night passed too quickly, as enjoyable evenings often do, and we were soon walking back to our car, feeling that post-concert excitement that only good shows can provide. It's always a pleasure to catch up when the band rolls into town, a sort of rite of passage every summer. I've got no misconceptions that in actuality he probably couldn't pick us out of a lineup, and that he has fans just like us in every major city in the country, but the fact that he makes every single person feel appreciated is undeniably unique for an artist of his stature. I know it means a lot to us, and it will keep us coming back for many glorious years to come.

Fighting for the Union

As you are no doubt aware, tomorrow marks the 233rd anniversary of the signing of the Declaration of Independence in that sweltering Philadelphia heat. I thought that today, to take a moment to reflect on what that means, I would review some scans I made a couple of years back. My Grandmother gave to me a binder full of beautifully scripted and yellowed letters written during the Civil War. The correspondence was largely from James Damon, my Great Great Great Great Grandfather. He served in the 124th Regiment from Ohio until his death.

What is remarkable about these letters is not that they reveal anything history buffs didn't already know, but that they are proof that my ancestors served and struggled and fought for this country in its' most precarious hour. Here are a few sentiments from Gramps;

"We can see the rebels from a hill one mile from here. They have been reinforced and are strong" - From summer of 1863; Cumberland Gap

"All we think of... is the girls we left behind... which is talked a good deal among some of the boys." - Before a rumored march into Virginia

"Tell Cora I'm glad she is a good girl. Tell her I want her to learn to write so she can write me a letter" - In letter to wife, regarding his young daughter, Cora, my Great Great Great Grandmother

"We're waiting for reinforcements. We will have one of the largest fights there has ever been in Kentucky" - Serving under General Marshall at Cumberland Gap, preparing for a battle there that never came, though the garrison there changed hands four times during the war.

"Mrs. Damon, I take this opportunity to inform you that your husband is very sick with the typhoid fever and there are some doubts entertained as to his recovery" - Letter from Lt. Stedman, informing his wife of James' impending death. He would die shortly thereafter. Interestingly, records indicate that he is buried in three places; Franklin, TN (where this letter was written in 1863), in rural Pennsylvania, and in Chatham, Ohio, his home town.

From talk of everything from boredom and cold, to battles and Generals that would go down in history, this family record is something I treasure, and especially revere on days like this. This country is truly the greatest in history because of the service, sacrifice, and hard work of our predecessors, our ancestors, our own families. Happy Fourth of July, everyone.