So it was, that in the autumn following our cabin vacation, we began looking for our own cabin to buy. We had loved the area so we concentrated on property near the park. After much scrutiny, that winter we saw an ad for cabins in the Buffalo newspaper. It sounded ideal, since they were only about a half hour’s drive from Allegany Park. With a sense of triumph, we determined to investigate.
The following Sunday found us driving the winter-slick roads to look at what the sellers had to offer. The people who placed the ad, Ken and Donna R, ran a game farm in the area. As a side-line, they built small cabins to sell to people like us who were weary of city life. One of the cabins shown us was in West Clarksville, near Cuba, New York and sat about half way up a steep hill. When we first saw it, the owners hadn’t quite completed construction of the tiny building but we fell in love with it anyway. By the end of the week, we were the proud owners of the cabin and three acres of land. The cabin had a redwood exterior with a general overhang sheltering a terrace of fieldstone. Inside was a large combination living room/kitchen, two bedrooms and a full bath. The picture window in the front looked out over the patio to a stand of pine and maple trees. From one side of the building was a view of a tree-filled gully. The back window showed our as yet unfinished hilly yard. The view from the other side showed the steep driveway leading through a tunnel of trees to the road.
At that time, I was working as an office manager at the State University College of New York at Buffalo. Phil had a good job as a crane operator for the Ford Motor company. The two salaries meant we could easily afford the payments on the now unbelievable sounding price of $5,800. Even with paying for the addition of a well installed shortly after buying the place, it was a bargain.
Every weekend when the weather turned pleasant, we would escape from the rush of the city and find peace in our quiet retreat. When I look back on the carefree, happy times we spent in that cabin, I really regret ever letting it go. As time went on, however, my well-meant plans began to go awry. Phil no longer accompanied us. My girlfriend, Shirl, the kids and I were the usual weekend occupants.
Still, I loved the place. I continued to hold hopes that Phil would one day see it with the same eyes we did. Looking back, I wonder if he didn’t relish the times when we were at the cabin and he became a temporary bachelor again. Perhaps that’s unkind of me but the thought persists. Gradually, we met other cabin owners in the area and became friends with the family living in a “real house” next door. Their son and daughter became friends.
Campers down the road, Buffalonians also, traded visits with us. A family of four, they always welcomed us although their site had no cabin but only a small camper. Their daughter, Nancy, became a close friend to Beth. Gary, their older son had recently returned from Vietnam and was attending the same College where I worked. In short, we felt right at home.
Every weekend we explored the woods and the surrounding towns, sometimes with the kids’ newly-made friends in tow. We found the town of Obi where the white deer came down to feed at twilight, looking for all the world like graceful ghosts. We bought cheese from the Cuba Cheese Factory. We drove all the way to Corning to tour the Glass Factory. On hot summer days, we waded down a nearby stream looking for crawdads and planaria. To the consternation of the guardian jays, we walked the nearby woods, our wondering, neophyte eyes taking in everything at once. I finally learned not to wear my ersatz fur cap. To my complete astonishment, my family told me it made me look like a deer’s rear end to a hunter. Hunting season was always an anxious time for us. Not only did we dread seeing the deer carcasses slung proudly on gory fenders but we feared we might accidentally become targets for some overenthusiastic “sportsman”.
In “our” woods we found a tree obviously occupied by possums. The little family lived in the tree and used its hollow interior as an outhouse. Instead of a septic tank, it emptied though a wide gash at the bottom of the tree resulting in a rather odorous pile about four feet high. Laughingly, we called it the “mystery tree”. One trip up a nearby mountain resulted in panic. As we climbed, we heard a loud, deep growl. The dogs went to investigate: our spaniel, Binky, and our neighbors’ two dogs. Mary made a beeline for our cabin, sure it was a bear, but I couldn’t leave the dogs to face a possible bear. Upon investigation, we found the growler was a large porcupine. Another lesson learned–I hadn’t known that porcupines growled. Cautious Binky got only one quill in his nose before calling it quits but the other two dogs got a real snootful. We had to take them to the vet. We returned to the cabin and found my mother and father trying to console Mary. She was sure she was an orphan. Before she would open the door for them, they had to identify themselves as human, not bears. Ever practical, Mary had asked my mother if she’d cook for her if a bear had eaten me.
All in all, it was a wonderful time for us. I hope the kids have as enjoyable memories of that period as I do. At any rate, the cabin gave us our first real taste of country life and we liked it.
In retrospect, it seems as though we were on a preordained course and perhaps the house was an unchangeable part of our future. Perhaps it was waiting for us. I could go on and on with philosophical musings about the whys and wherefores and all the if’s, ands or buts but it would do little to alter the facts. We were on a collision course with destiny.
Whatever conjectures I come up with, the fact remains, there came a time when just a weekend retreat was not enough. Each time we returned home, the crowds, noise and dirt seemed more apparent. The few times Phil had visited the cabin had given him the same craving for a quieter life. Or so I thought, anyway. Ever the optimist!
I know in the present day and age we are not unique in wanting to escape the confines of the city. Still, it involved much soul-searching since it would be such a drastic change for all of us. For one thing, I wasn’t at all sure I could take the long commute to Buffalo every day–about 75 miles each way. Phil could stay with my mother and father in Buffalo if it got too rough but I couldn’t leave the kids alone. The move might entail quitting my job, a job I loved and couldn’t afford to lose.
Then too, we had to consider that the kids would be leaving all their friends. Although I was sure they could make new ones, it is a difficult thing for a child to face. In addition, they would have to transfer from a sheltered Catholic school to a public school. That alone might be a difficult adjustment for them. We talked it over, all of us, and finally decided to give it a try.
First, we thought of building a house on the cabin property, a place we already loved. But the woman who sold us the cabin told us she had a farm house for sale in the same general area. She was most convincing when she told us it was just right for our family. We agreed to wait until the repairs on the century-old house were complete and we would decide after seeing the property. There followed a period of unbearable waiting. Since we had made up our minds, we were anxious to put our plans into motion.
The day finally arrived when we were to see the house. The four kids were running around, getting ready, in an almost holiday spirit. It was useless to try to quiet them and, since Phil and I felt the same excitement, we had no real inclination to do so. We were going to see our house! Already we felt it was our house, though we had yet to see it. All portents were good. It was a clear spring day and, though chilly, was very pleasant. With much scurrying and going back for Mary’s teddy bear (“Bunny wants to go too!”) and, of course, last minute bathroom stops, we finally got on the road. The distance was not so great–about 65 or 70 miles and it took us through some spectacular scenery. The earth was waking up with fresh greenery everywhere. Rivulets of water ran down hills at the edge of the road and deer were coming down to sample the tender young shoots. The deer provided a much needed distraction for the still overexcited kids and they managed to count 74 of them during the trip. As usual, I worried about having the proper papers; finding the place and liking it. Phil assured me everything would be all right. Following directions, we climbed Wagner Hill Road and then descended the other
side part way to the turn at McMahon Road. The narrow dirt road passed a stream and an old barn; then took a sharp turn left. There it was–our house! It looked so welcoming–as though it had been expecting us. And we felt as though we were home. The car couldn’t make it any further through the deep mud so we slogged the rest of the way and awaited the arrival of the present owner. She soon arrived in a four wheel drive vehicle and showed us around. She knew she had us sold when the kids began to claim bedrooms.
There was never any doubt in our minds, we knew it was for us. Situated about four miles from the town of Hinsdale, it sat rather importantly in its own little protected pocket of land. Surrounded by heavily wooded hills, it sported a newly-dug pond sitting to one side. How the kids loved that pond! All in all, the property consisted of eight acres. The single story half of the house contained a country-style kitchen, a utility room and a bedroom. The lower story of the other side boasted the living room, a bedroom and the bath. There was a door in the kitchen and one in the living room both of which exited onto the porch. Since we really needed a coat closet and didn’t need another exit, dad and Phil built a closet out of the entrance from the living room. It proved a God-send. The upstairs had one good sized bedroom, a small bedroom and a closet masquerading as another bedroom.
Facing the dangerously steep stairs as one descended was the door to a crawl space–a feature of the house with which I was not familiar. Having always lived in houses with attics, the awkward crawl space was not my idea of a storage space. It was peak-roofed and almost inaccessible. The only way to enter was by balancing a plank on the narrow sides of the stairway or on the stairs themselves and tightrope walking across. When the door was open, hot, dusty air rushed out. Looking in, one could see the neat, brick chimney among the angled rafters.
Another feature of the house which offended my city sensibilities was a root cellar. Now, I have lived in houses containing cellars all my life. I have always found them to be efficient storage spaces, convenient laundry rooms and very good locations for children’s parties. But the root cellar was something else again. The only entrance was through a rather narrow door set in the bathroom, of all places, about a foot from the toilet. One would find it difficult to imagine a more awkward location. If the cellar itself hadn’t been so dreary, perhaps the oddly-placed door wouldn’t have been so bad. But descending the rickety stairs and coming to the dirt floor made my flesh crawl. The side walls were rough-hewn stone. To the left of the stairs as you descend you could actually look under the foundation. A good place for animals to hide. There was only a small area in which the ceiling was high enough to allow one to stand. The “dungeon” had no virtues that I could see. In fact, after taking one look at it, I uttered the portentous words “Vincent Price lives down there!” Later we came to recall those words with more than a slight shudder. My profound apologies to Vincent Price!
In spite of its many faults, we fell under the enchantment of the place. The panoramic scenes visible from every window were truly breathtaking. The thought of owning such a place and getting a pond and eight acres besides was intoxicating. It didn’t take us long to trade our cabin in for the house. Thus it began.
As the spring weather improved, we, that is the kids and I, began to take trips to the house. Doggedly, we started moving some of the smaller items in our station wagon. Since to reach our house we had to drive two and one half miles of dirt road, the spring rains presented a definite moving problem. On one of our mini-moving trips the first of our soon-to-be-famous car trouble occurred. My mother and I took the kids down so the telephone company could install our telephone. I may like to rough it but I like to do it in comfort–and safety! As far as I was concerned, a telephone was a necessity living so far from town.
Our car, which up to now had given us no trouble, suddenly overheated and boiled over. Luckily, the man from the telephone company helped us and we were able to make it back to Buffalo. The station wagon was a 1970 model and, from that day on, radiator problems plagued us until we got rid of the car. There was no way I could have known it then but this signaled the beginning of constant car trouble. Trouble that struck not only us but many people who visited us.
In the fall, one of my co-workers had offered to give us a kitten for Laura’s birthday. Ethel M insisted that country living required a mouser. I agreed and Laura became the proud owner of a most remarkable cat, aptly named Fluffy. She was to become a tiny, indefatigable protector against the worst the house could offer. During one of our trips to the house, though, she gave us a quite a start. She disappeared. For about an hour we looked high and low for her. Laura cried and swore that she wouldn’t leave without her. Finally, we found her curled up in an opening made for an electrical outlet. Yes, she was that tiny. Ethel hadn’t been just bragging about Fluffy’s abilities. Not only did she teach all of our succeeding cats to hunt mice and other rodents but she litter-trained all of them too. In fact, she litter-trained our raccoon, Princess. The only problem was that Princess had hands and couldn’t properly neaten the litter after she used it. This lack brought reproving looks from Fluffy, whereupon, she’d take it upon herself to do the housekeeping duties.
One day I saw her sitting at the side of the spring house seemingly waving her paws in the air. Puzzled, I walked across the yard to investigate. She had found a nest of water snakes and was busily and calmly cutting them to bits with her claws. I watched, fascinated, as she actually sliced them up. We never had snakes in that area again.
Chapter 1
A House in the Country
THE MOVE–July 18, 1970
After what seemed an eternity, moving day finally arrived. My mother and younger brother, Gordon, went ahead with our clothes in his car. I wasn’t to find out what greeted them until hours later. When they arrived they found the house completely filled with bees. Every window was so black with them it was impossible to see out. During all our mini-moves we hadn’t seen one bee. How they could have accumulated so quickly still baffles me. Consultation later with a bee expert told us that it was unnatural for them to swarm at that time of the year. Gordon had to brave the almost solid phalanx of swarming, buzzing insects to reach the phone and call an exterminator. The exterminator, astounded by both the number of bees and their strange behavior, sprayed the house and assured them the spray was safe for humans and animals. Thus it was that, before we even moved in, we had to pay $75 to rid the house of our unwanted guests. Our arrival, then, soon after was greeted by piles of dead bees–bodies everywhere. Mum and Gordon had been busy since the exterminator left sweeping them up. There were grocery bags full of them and still they covered the floor. We were troubled for many months by minor incidents with bees, including honey dripping off our ceiling until finally the queen bee had had enough and drew the swarm to better and, I presume, more welcoming, quarters.
Dad was driving a big moving truck with the bulk of our furniture and Phil a borrowed pickup truck carrying the rest. On the way, however, my father took a wrong turn and got lost. Laura was with him and we had some very anxious moments until they finally pulled in the driveway. I formed the caboose of our caravan and brought my oldest daughter, Beth, my youngest daughter, Mary and all the pets.
At that time the pet contingent consisted of two dogs (Binky and Tyger), a cat (Fluffy), a raccoon (Princess), four guinea pigs, two parakeets, two finches and a woodchuck (Nipper). Naturally, our old reliable station wagon boiled over before it had gone 20 miles. The outside temperature was over eighty degrees so I had some coolant put in the radiator and prayed the rest of the way. It was now July 18, 1970.
When we arrived, the smell of the chemical the exterminator had used still filled the house. The man assured us it was harmless to humans and animals, so the kids and I decided to stay. I felt a deep sense of relief when Gordon offered to stay with us. Phil had to return the borrowed truck and would drive his own car back in the morning. Dad and mum returned home in the truck.
Now, we got a closer look at the house.
At first glance it had the drawbacks I have already mentioned. The dank, dark root cellar always topped my list. Whoever designed the dark crawl space, almost inaccessible, above the kitchen did not intend it for storage. The heating system was archaic and inadequate and the gravity-fed spring water was unreliable at best. The “furnace” was in a hole in the living room floor. You had to drop a match in to light it! Are you surprised we replaced it? I didn’t find out until sometime later that our septic tank was an old oil drum! I knew nothing about septic tanks at that point anyway. Everyone assured me that my apprehensions came from my big city upbringing. Phil assured me that all root cellars were the same. Gradually, he told me, we could correct most of the faults. Looking back, I wish these physical shortcomings had been the only problems we had to face.
After talking it over, we decided to let our woodchuck, Nipper, go free when we arrived as we thought she’d be happier in the woods. With many tears, Beth opened the cage, whereupon Nipper promptly darted out and right into the house. For three days we couldn’t find her amid the piled-up furniture and boxes. We knew she was still around as our supply of apples was mysteriously disappearing. Once we had the furniture arranged, however, Nipper decided she’d like it better outside after all.
Up until the supper of 1972, Nipper paid regular visits to the house for handouts. Hearing noises at the crawl space door, we’d open it to find a hungry looking woodchuck asking for her favorite food, oatmeal cookies. Unfortunately, this special treat was not available in the woods. I know her home was washed out during the flood in the spring of 1972. She took refuge with us and was a very wet and bedraggled looking animal. By her condition, she had obviously just had babies and, by her distress and the way she clung to my hand, it was painfully clear that she must have lost them as well as her home. In her sorrow, she allowed me to cuddle her and hold her on my lap like a baby. Hopefully, I was some consolation to her. After sheltering with us until she the worst was over and the water level dropped, she left and must have moved some distance away as we never saw her again. I prefer that explanation to the more difficult one of a hunter or farmer shooting her as a “pest”. Another victim of the flood was our much-loved raccoon, Princess. She had been caught in a trap once before. The trap was set in a nearby ravine. A couple of hunters saw her and were surprised that she seemed to be asking for help. They freed her and she raced home. She must have gotten caught in another trap just before the flood hit. I still have nightmares about that.
Echoes of a Haunting - Revisited Page 2
