Haunted Holidays

by Roberta Simpson Brown

  Lest We Forget

  In keeping with those who now believe that Memorial Day is celebrated to remember all the dead, we will continue our custom of including in our book a story about a family member or friend who has died, but who means more to us than words can adequately express. John C. Ferguson is such a person. We feel very strongly that John sent a message from beyond to help Roberta when she needed it most.

  We met John many years ago when we were working with the Corn Island Storytelling Festival in Louisville. John was an excellent writer and storyteller, and we did many programs and attended numerous workshops together. John had incredible people skills and always had an interesting or funny story to tell.

  John was a graduate of the University of Kentucky, a farmer, and the owner of a trucking company. For many years he was known as the Truck Driving Storyteller. After twenty-five years of trucking, he began concentrating on hypnotherapy. He was also well versed in nutrition.

  We always looked forward to John’s phone calls. Whatever he had to share was always entertaining or helpful. He shared our interest in the paranormal and gave us some fascinating and useful information.

  John and Roberta both suffered from sinus problems. When the subject came up in phone calls, he would tell Roberta about a food supplement that helped him tremendously. She wrote the name down, but then lost the note. She kept meaning to ask John to tell her the name again, but she always forgot.

  I’ll ask him next time I talk to him, Roberta thought.

  As is so often the case, with her and with other people, Roberta thought she would have plenty of time later; but, as we all know, we should never put things off. On Tuesday, August 7, 2012, the unthinkable happened. John passed away at his home in Sonora, Kentucky.

  When the phone rang that night, John’s number came up on our caller ID. It was a little later than he usually called, but Roberta reached for the phone happily, wondering what John had to say.

  “Hello,” said Roberta.

  It was not John’s voice that answered. It was his wife, Carol, calling to give us the heartbreaking news. The whole world went on hold for Roberta. She couldn’t believe what Carol was saying!

  Months passed. Carol, as well as John’s children and grandchildren and all of his friends, missed him terribly. He had seemed indestructible to Roberta. She couldn’t believe that she would never hear from him again.

  In May 2013, following John’s death, Roberta got an awful sinus infection. Nothing, not even antibiotics, would clear it up. From Memorial Day until July, she could not breathe through her nose. She had no idea what to do. The condition was driving her crazy! She had to hold a Kleenex in her hand all the time.

  Why didn’t I ask John about that supplement? she thought.

  Then Roberta got another phone call from Carol. We love her and her family, but our calls to each other are infrequent; we usually stay in touch via Facebook. Of course, Roberta was happy to hear Carol’s voice after so many months.

  “Roberta,” she said. “I read some from John’s journals every night. Tonight I came across this entry about a food supplement John thought you should take. I had the strongest feeling that I should call and tell you!”

  Roberta couldn’t believe she now had this information. As soon as their call ended, she went to the computer and ordered a supply.

  Roberta asked her doctor about the capsules, and he confirmed that there was nothing in them to hurt her. Almost immediately after starting to take the capsules, Roberta’s sinus problem began to clear up. She continues to take the supplement, and her breathing problems are gone.

  Thank you, Carol, for passing on the message from John. Thank you, John, for remembering us on the other side and sending Roberta the one thing she needed!

  This experience reinforced our belief that life goes on, and that our loved ones are still there for us. We have no doubt that John sent us the information Roberta needed through Carol. We wouldn’t be surprised if we hear from him again!

  Father’s Day

  Since the role of fathers is as important as that of mothers, it seemed only right to establish a day to honor them, too. There are differences of opinion about the origin of Father’s Day. Some say it started in West Virginia, others say Washington State, and still others believe it began in Chicago. In any case, the idea to set aside a special day for fathers started in the early years of the twentieth century.

  The most popular origin story credits Sonora Smart Dodd of Spokane, Washington. During a church service in 1909, she thought of how her father, Civil War veteran Henry Jackson Smart, struggled to raise his children alone after his wife died. Dodd’s memories led her to request a special day to honor her father.

  President Woodrow Wilson approved a special Father’s Day in 1916, but it was 1924 before it became an official event when President Calvin Coolidge signed a resolution. President Lyndon Johnson issued the first presidential proclamation regarding Father’s Day in 1966.

  Now we celebrate fathers every third Sunday of June. And in our hearts, we know they are always with us, in this world and the next.

  Dad’s Message

  A neighbor told us of her encounter with her father after he had died. She said it was more helpful than frightening.

  Laurie’s father had always handled all the family affairs. Her mother never worked outside the home and knew nothing of family business.

  Laurie’s father was Cherokee and proud of his heritage. He had family records that proved his background, but he always kept them in a special place.

  From time to time as his children were growing up, he would take out the papers and tell them all the family stories he knew. He said certain funds were available from the government to help young Cherokees through college, if they could prove their ancestry.

  He kept all the papers in a leather bag that he never left lying around. Nobody knew where he put the bag, though. He didn’t even tell his wife.

  When Laurie’s dad died unexpectedly of a heart attack, the family was able to find the deed to the house and the insurance papers. Her father’s special family history papers, however, were not with these other formal documents.

  The insurance was enough only to pay off the house. For the first time, Laurie’s mother had to look for work to support the family. The kids were old enough to pitch in, but they barely got by.

  Laurie was the oldest, and when she graduated from high school, there was no money to pay for college. She was determined to go so she could get a good job and help her brothers through, but it was going to be a long, difficult process. Her school counselor asked her if she knew there were some federal funds available to help Native Americans with college expenses if they could prove their ancestry. She thought of her father’s papers, but had no idea where he had put them. Nobody in the family knew either.

  Laurie tossed and turned that night. She woke about 2:00 a.m., amazed to see her father standing at the foot of her bed. She blinked her eyes to make sure she wasn’t dreaming.

  “Dad,” she whispered. Somehow, she knew he was trying to tell her where to find the papers.

  He didn’t answer, but motioned for her to follow him.

  Laurie was too amazed to move. She held on to the bed covers and stared at him, and slowly he faded away.

  She dismissed her experience as a dream—until the next night. Again, she woke at 2:00 a.m. She sat up in bed and watched in silence as her father materialized at the foot of the bed again. Once again, he motioned for her to follow him.

  This time, she got out of bed and followed him. Together, they went down the hall to the kitchen. He pointed to a cabinet that stood against the wall. Then he vanished.

  “We have already looked in the cabinet,” she said aloud, and went back to bed.

  Next morning, she told her mother about the dreams, but they agreed that nothing could be in the cabinet.

  On the third night, Laurie again woke up in the presence of her father’s ghost. He didn’t look annoyed with her;
he just had the patient look he always had when he was trying to teach her something.

  Again he motioned and again she followed him to the cabinet in the kitchen. He disappeared as her mother came into the room.

  “What are you doing up?” her mother asked. “Did you have that dream again?”

  “I don’t think it was a dream,” said Laurie. “I think the papers are in that cabinet.”

  “You know we looked on every shelf and in every drawer,” said her mother. “If it is here, your father needs to give us a clue.”

  Laurie and her mother couldn’t believe what happened next. The bottom cabinet drawer flew out partway. They had looked in that drawer before, but now they pulled it all the way out. Upon careful examination, they discovered that the drawer had a false bottom in it, and there were the missing papers.

  Laurie was able to apply for funds and received financial aid in completing her college education.

  “And guess what day I finally found the papers?” asked Laurie when she told us the story.

  Together we said, “Father’s Day!”

  Spirits of the Upper River Road

  This story was given to us by a dear friend from Hitchens, Kentucky, who has granted us permission to pass it on to you. He has asked that we not use his full name.

  On bright June days, people we know usually do not have ghosts on their minds. Our friend Matt told us of a haunting experience that happened to him when relatives were visiting for Father’s Day. We think it is a wonderful example of how this world and the next exist side by side and that all living things, like trees, for example, are connected and can communicate with us if we will only listen. Read Matt’s story and see what you think.

  My first wife, Francesca, and I lived in New Albany, Indiana, on the downriver side of the Ohio falls. At the time, I was employed as a draftsman in a Louisville firm, while my spouse worked on earning a graduate degree at nearby Indiana University Southeast.

  We were good friends with one of Fran’s classmates, Cynthia, and her boyfriend, Tony, and often visited with them in their turn-of-the-century home in the Highlands area of Louisville. Cynthia and Tony announced to us one day that they’d recently rented a small cottage—the gatekeeper’s house on the former estate of a Louisville industrialist. They invited us to drop by some weekend and walk the grounds of the estate, which bordered the left bank of the Ohio River and ran parallel to the very rural upper River Road section of the city.

  We enjoyed a beautiful, late spring Saturday visiting with our friends, seeing the gatekeeper’s house, and picnicking all by ourselves on the immense grounds of the old estate, which had actually served as a summer residence away from the city for the industrialist and his family. We noted that the mansion was gone. According to Tony, it had been severely damaged by fire in the late 1940s and was eventually torn down. What remained of the mansion complex was a large, mosaic-tiled swimming pool, as well as some of the pillar bases and floor tiles that still served to outline the original bathhouse. Cynthia mentioned that the current property owners were pleased to be able to rent the gatekeeper’s house to her and Tony, as the owners needed the on-site security that renters would provide. Eventually the owners hoped to subdivide the former estate into building lots and develop the entire property as a high-end residential subdivision along the river.

  It was hard for Fran and me to imagine such a lovely and pastoral landscape of woods and meadow being bulldozed and refashioned as make-believe country homes for the upwardly mobile. As Fran and I thanked our hosts and readied to depart for home, Cynthia told us to stop by anytime and walk the grounds, even if she and Tony weren’t at home.

  One month later, near Father’s Day, Fran’s parents came down from South Bend to visit us for a couple of days before heading on to the Maryland shore. On their last day with us, I suggested that we take them out to see the old estate on the river where our friends lived. Fran was rather hesitant at first to take her folks there; she was concerned that Tony and Cynthia might not be at home. I reminded Fran that our friends had extended an open invitation to us to visit the grounds anytime. The property was always open, and the owners had never posted “No Trespassing” signs on it. With some trepidation on Fran’s part, we set out for River Road in Fran’s father’s new 1973 Cadillac.

  It was a glorious June day, with weather like we enjoyed during our visit to the estate in the previous month—blue skies, wall-to-wall sunshine, and comfortable temperatures as Fran’s father, Vince, drove the Caddy up the drive and to the turning circle, where we parked under a young elm. We got out and walked around the grounds—pretty much the same as where we’d walked earlier with Tony and Cynthia.

  After we’d been there no more than twenty minutes or so, Fran pulled me aside and said, “I think we’d better leave.”

  Fran had always been in tune with the spirit world because she had lost both of her birth parents in her adolescence, but I didn’t make the connection that something was wrong. I just assumed other persons, maybe the new owners, were on the property and headed our way.

  Fran’s parents came up to us and seemed to be ready to go as well. We all stood facing the old swimming pool and had our backs to Vince’s Cadillac. Suddenly, there was a sharp “crack” sound from behind us. As we turned, a large limb from the elm tree came crashing down onto the hood of the car. The base of the limb had to have been at least six inches in diameter, but by some stroke of luck, just the younger, slimmer branches had come to rest on the vehicle’s hood and windshield.

  Without saying a word, all of us rushed to the car and began manhandling the tree limb off the hood. There was little damage—just some faint scratches on the hood and nothing more.

  After we quickly pushed the limb to the side of the parking circle, Vince started the Cadillac. In seconds we were back on River Road and headed for the city and the bridge.

  Once we felt we were out of harm’s way, Fran’s folks and I started talking about what had just happened. We all agreed that there had to be some logical explanation of what we had just experienced. Yet it was a cloudless day. There was no one else around the tree or even in close proximity to it. It was a green and seemingly healthy tree. The limb had not been cut.

  While the rest of us tried to analyze the situation, Fran remained silent as the Cadillac sped back to our apartment. Months later, Fran confessed to me that she’d heard voices and laughter, and the sound of clinking drink glasses that ghostly day as we headed away from the pool toward the car.

  Never before that day had I been convinced there was a spirit world.

  When we heard Matt’s story, we wondered whether the partiers had made the limb fall as a warning that trespassers were not wanted at that particular celebration long ago. It could have been a Father’s Day get-together where only family was welcome. Maybe the ghostly revelers saw Matt, Fran, and her parents as party crashers. In any case, it is a fascinating tale of walking back in time.

  Independence Day

  Independence Day, July 4, is a federal holiday honoring our nation’s birthday. It commemorates the signing of the Declaration of Independence on July 4, 1776, which marked our independence from the kingdom of Great Britain.

  The first recorded use of the name “Independence Day” was in 1791. The U.S. Congress made Independence Day an unpaid holiday for federal employees. In 1938, Congress made Independence Day a paid federal holiday.

  We celebrate July 4 in many ways—with picnics, concerts, parades, political gatherings, speeches, and fireworks! Macy’s, in New York City, sponsors the largest fireworks display in the country.

  Considering Americans’ depth of feeling for freedom and our country, it is no wonder that spirits from the other side come back to this side to visit on the Fourth of July.

  The Sinkhole

  On February 12, 2014, we were shocked to hear that a massive sinkhole had opened up under the Corvette Museum in Bowling Green, Kentucky, and swallowed up eight cars that the news described as “vintage a
nd rare Corvettes.” We are used to sinkholes in Kentucky, but they are usually small and do not do damage of this magnitude. We only knew of one large sinkhole that opened up on an uncle’s farm in Glasgow while he was plowing, but even though it was deep enough to require help getting out, he and the tractor did not suffer too much harm. Still, it is a scary thought that the earth could suddenly open up without warning and gobble us up!

  A sinkhole is an area of ground that has no natural external surface drainage, so the rocks beneath the land surface (like limestone and salt beds, for example) can be dissolved or eroded away. Geologists call this “karst terrain.” Kentucky, Tennessee, Missouri, Florida, and other midwestern and western states are areas susceptible to sinkholes. Of course, we were not aware of all this technical information when we were growing up.

  The news of the sinkhole in the Corvette Museum jogged our memory of a strange sinkhole happening that we could never explain. It happened to Roberta’s cousin’s family on Grandmother Simpson’s old farm.

  It started out like any summer.

  Things slowed down after the end of school each year, and children enjoyed the lazy summer days that they could explore on their own at their own speed. Mother’s Day and Father’s Day brought special relatives to visit and special meals to eat.

  Cousin Larry stayed to spend this particular summer after the other relatives left. He had gotten in with the wrong crowd, and his widowed mother in Cincinnati thought he would benefit by spending time in the country, away from his new friends. We always liked Cousin Larry and welcomed his visits because we knew he would bring some excitement into our lives.

  Larry always had new ideas to share with his country cousins. This one summer, which we would later call “The Summer of the Sinkhole,” Larry decided that there should be a fireworks display on the farm on the Fourth of July like the ones he had seen in the city. He had some money with him that his mom had given him, but he needed to find a way to get more. Fireworks were legal back then and easy to come by, and there were several places to buy them in town.