A Traitor's Ghost

New England cemeteries are living history.  Interactive, open air museums that boast of colonial revolt, romance, lives lived and lost.  As some of the earliest records of our nation, eighteenth century graveyards house the strongest roots of the American story.  Whether you are a history buff, a taphophile, a ghost seeker, nature lover, artist or a photographer, the graveyard welcomes all without prejudice. 

The key to the best New England cemeteries is a good story.  New England loves local lore!  One small cemetery in Norwich, Connecticut is a prime example.  Located just off Norwichtown Green, at the dead end of Cemetery Lane, the Old Burial Ground rests peacefully along a babbling brook and green meadow footpaths.  Revolutionary War soldiers’ remains mingle with early folk art death angels under lichen and moss.  There are headstones so crudely carved it takes a few tangled looks to read the epitaph.  Some stones stand hilltop in graceful repose- having withstood harsh New England elements for more than 200 years. Here, fearless sea captains rest alongside key players in the Declaration of Independence.   But it is the graves that are missing in the Old Burial Ground that get the most attention.  To this day, Hannah Arnold, a grieving mother and wife, is rumored to walk these grounds looking for her husband and sons. It is said, her most infamous son, Benedict Arnold, returns every Halloween on a ghostly white horse to ask his mother for the forgiveness of his sins.

Benedict Arnold, famed traitor of the Revolutionary War, was born and raised in Norwich.  Though he would be a very successful Continental Army General he felt he was slighted in both recognition and money for his service. He traded sides and gave key information to the British that cost the lives of many colonists.  In one particularly bloody battle in New London, Connecticut, a ship named Hannah exploded fueling the fires that would destroy the town.  Benedict’s mother, Hannah, and father, Benedict, died before these acts of treason took place.  But once the Norwich colonists heard of Benedict’s betrayal, an angry mob formed looking for revenge.  Angry citizens descended upon the Old Burial Ground and destroyed the gravesites.

In New England, legend and fact often mix to create campfire stories that are anchored in truth.  Playing in this graveyard as a child I heard both sides of the tale.  Some say the bodies of Benedict Arnold’s father and brother were dug up and destroyed by the angry mob. Details of the destruction depended on the storyteller and the tale grew longer with every new narrator. Others say only the headstones were toppled.  I remember one vivid story about the houses where he served as apprentice and the home where he was born were both burned to the ground. Details of the destruction depended on the storyteller and the tale grew longer with every new narrator.  The one certainty we all counted on: Never be in the graveyard at night, especially not Halloween night. 

No matter where one travels in New England, an early cemetery is in every town.  Ask a local and they are sure to share a haunted or intriguing tale. 

This story was originally published in Folk Magazine Summer 2013.

LOVE & GHOSTS OF OUR PAST

 

 

Empty Nest Newbie

I entered into the empty nest with the highest of hopes and guilty anticipation of new found freedom.  My daily Mom duties would subside.  The days would be full of creative bliss and cupcakes, and all that other happy crap. Yeah.... That was how it was going to be!  All sweet icing and sunshine.

Somehow I have ended up head first tangled in the briars and thorns of emotions, financial strife, heated arguments, and a stress level that hums at non-stop high frequencies.  Go ahead and try to be creative in that!  My studio still remains clogged with the clutter of moving out.  And with Kev in Bangladesh we get to spend the one hour we are both awake in different time zones arguing about who is more off center in the change.  Awesome. (By the by- Dads feel the emptiness far worse than the Moms!)

Most parents say they are sad in the empty nest- a longing for youthful cheer to be all cherub-like at the dinner table again.  Whatever.  Our house was full of free spirits with very big ideas and a tendency for wanderlust.  So when college move-in day came around I thought there might be a chance to stand still for awhile.  A chance to settle.  A chance to live in the moments that previously were filled with the chaos of parenthood and putting out fires.  I am still waiting. 

Funny thing is, we raised a child to be a free spirit, to embrace the world, to travel, and never settle for ordinary.  So why are we so distraught with the result?  Is it the old adage that we find annoying in others what we don't recognize in ourselves?  Looking at everything that has turned my empty nest upside down in the first trial run, I see me at a younger age.  I was never content to be still, I needed more, craved more of this world: to be where life hummed and buzzed.  I married a man who shared this view and together we have been roaming the world seeking new experiences.  Our daughter came with us and learned by example.  Now she is ready to fly.  Sort of.  Maybe not so much- more like she has her training wings on.  And I am in my nest, hiding my head, trying not to micro-manage her life.

So for now I will be still.  I will shed my preconceived ideas of what my empty nest SHOULD be like.  Nothing has ever been normal, routine, or "as expected" with the family I have created and that is what has brought me the most joy over all the full nest years.

 

LOVE  &  EMPTY NEST NEWBIE

The Great Wide Open

The Great Wide Open

 

  I wonder if all women long to be free?

 To hop the fence and charge the horizon!

Where the great wide tears open

                     And clouds float like lazy rivers;                                             

Where greens grow brighter

From grass to reed to leaf

To reach summer's sky.

 

Where hawks fly circles

Steady like clock hands;

Far overhead, never seeing

 Still spiders silent at my feet

Just outside my steps

As I walk through doorways

Worn out by winds and winter rains

 Of decades passing, decades decaying.

 Nature reclaiming spaces she had lent.

I look through jagged broken panes

seeking souls who once settled here.

Women who raised families here.

Who loved and lost here.

Who sought the great wide open,

Longing to be free.

 

        

A Restoration Life

After my recent visit home, many people have asked about living in an old house.  Here is my article published in FOLK Magazine's Summer 2013 issue.  Because the issue was only digitally released, it missed many of my usual readers. So here it is in its entirety. 

 

 A Restoration Life

 

The gem of New England architecture is undoubtedly the iconic colonial home.  Stark lined salt box houses wrapped in primitive color clapboards. Stoic and serene, their simplicity speaks to their origins in an austere new world. New Englanders and visitors alike marvel at these beauties, sometimes voicing how cool it would be to buy one for themselves. But ask anyone who owns such a beast and has attempted a quick fix-up project and they will tell you there is nothing simple about these homes.  Ask the maniacs who devote their lives to restoring these confounded structures, and they will weave a tale like that of an early whaling expedition. (Using my best sea captain voice…) The waters were rough, often unfriendly. Many a foe were encountered.  At times it seemed all would have to abandon ship, but in the end the whale succumbed to the will of man. Reluctantly.

My parents were two such restoration maniacs.  They possessed the Yankee ingenuity, the iron wills and perseverance necessary to spend fifteen years restoring their 1759 Connecticut colonial.  My brother and I would be the unwilling deckhands in their quest for historical accuracy.  Weekends were not meant for relaxing when I was a kid.  My friends knew not to call or knock for fear they too would be drafted into service.  On any given morning, I could wake to the sound of a buzzing table saw sometime before sunrise.  The battle cry of the “Great Restoration” declaring another Saturday would be spent holding up sheet rock, hauling debris, and sweeping up dust held captive for centuries.  This scourge for preservation would last throughout my childhood.  It was a war my parents appeared to enjoy, much to my dismay. Though I didn’t know it at the time, the days working with my parents would build a strong foundation for my future.

When I was in elementary school I regarded my home like a dangerous lair with wide planked floors, low plaster ceilings, and skinny staircases leading into dark crevices.  Any visitors taller than six feet left with a cramped neck and a bruised forehead from a low flying beam.  One bedroom’s floors sloped so badly my brother and I could roll from one side of the room down to the other.  At times we had to watch our feet as we navigated repairs between the bedroom floor and dining room ceiling.  Complaining was not allowed.  If we fell through, it was because we weren’t watching our step. There were no hallways.  Each room connected to the next and the only bathroom was the very last room on the second floor.  Anyone needing to use the toilet, had to go through my room to get there. Privacy was often a luxury surrendered when one wishes to live authentically in a colonial house. Our home was in a constant state of architectural chaos as one by one, each flaw was corrected.



Cerberus, as I affectionately referred to my childhood home, was also pure magic.  For every wall that came down, or floorboard pulled up, treasure waited to be found.  Colonial coins, papers, signatures on wooden beams spelled out the mystery of the home’s earliest residents.  Digging foundation supports or gardens yielded thick old glass bottles, clay tobacco pipes, flatware and discarded pottery.  Part of our backyard was an 18^th century dumping ground.  As a child, summer hours were whittled away under the oaks, trolling away layers of dirt on archaeological digs.  Using giant old antique encyclopedias, my parents and I would research china patterns and coins to identify my finds.  It was like growing up in a museum.  Every day was an opportunity to learn from an artist, an expert in hands-on history.

My father hand-planed fireplace panels, plastered walls, wood shingled the roof, re-wired, re-plumbed, and restored original floorboards.  Wooden planks too far gone were re-purposed into period furniture and trinket boxes which remain in the home today. Only when the chimney needed to be replaced were outside professionals brought in.  Otherwise the entire home was meticulously restored by my family.  

 

My mother weaved her own baskets, participated in a quilting circle, dipped her own candles and strung miles of greens into wreathes and garlands for holiday celebrations.  I remember years of watching her hands work small tools around a white painted banister until the original finish was revealed- a deep maple syrup brown flecked with age, smooth from centuries of hands securing their steps down the narrow stairs.  These same steps would carry me through seventeen years until I was ready to leave for college. 

My life would take me far from my beloved home, but I am lucky that my parents still live there.  I can go home and see their years of hard work still standing strong.  Somehow I also still here that distant whirr of a table saw! The lessons I learned in the restoration years have become my own guiding principles.  The beauty is in the details.  Never do shoddy work thinking no one will notice.  Every small stitch is vital, every hand forged latch necessary.  Never turn away from your heart’s desire, no matter how daunting the road to attainment. Never quit what you have started.  Know it is okay to ask for help. Most importantly, never underestimate the power of teamwork.  With the right people by your side, even the mightiest of whales can be captured.

To read the original article and see more from FOLK Magazine click on the link below.

http://issuu.com/folkmag/docs/digital_folk_summer

 

LOVE  &  RESTORATION!

Texas Justice

The great wide open roads of Texas offer countless historical gems off the beaten path. With my daughter now 4 hours away in college, I have a new roads, much less taken, to explore while making the drive between Houston and San Antonio.

Ever since my trip to the Spanish Missions in Goliad, Texas, I have been in love with the Gonzales Flag.  It's simple lines and strong daring message stand as a tribute to Texas Independence.  So naturally, Gonzales would be my first side trip.  A simple architecture photo journey turned into a deeper, richer history lesson in Texas justice.

The Gonzales flag proudly waves in the wind on every corner of this tiny community.  I just had to have one of my own so I pulled up in front of the unassuming Chamber of Commerce.  What waited just steps away totally made my entire day!

Greeted by an enthusiastic volunteer, I learned the building was actually the town jail- currently under restoration.  I was shown the warden's office, the tiny downstairs cells complete with original furniture, cots, and confiscated prison shanks.  Seeing my excitement and interest, the docent boasted, "Oh you have to see UPSTAIRS!"

I followed behind her like a kid seeking candy!

Upstairs was the hardcore jail in use from the mid 1800's until 1974.  The first sight  was the hanging platform- looming large like a warning to all the newly incarcerated of their potential fate.  Hangings did occur in this space, as death row was just off the gallows, though the earliest hangings took place in the courthouse square.

  This day was hot!  100 degrees outside and not much cooler inside.  Fresh hot air blew through the open windows behind the rusted bars.  I sweat as I stood snapping photos.  I can only imagine how hot, smelly and frustrated prisoners here felt doing their time.

 Layers of prisoner graffiti spanning the decades covered the walls, floor to ceiling, like a tramp art time capsule. Many bearing the strike marks of days served, some noting early gang affiliations, and most just simple carved names of lives lived on the wrong side of the law.

Behind this door was death row.  Thick iron bars and doors protected the warden from the condemned.  I walked the narrow hallways that wrapped the ward and definitely felt I was not alone. The docent had left me to my own explorations but the air was thick with unseen company. At times the hair on my neck stood on end and I could almost hear chatter dripping from the ceiling.

One particular cell chilled me.  I froze, considered running like scared cat.  So I did the logical thing: took a picture.  Perhaps it's dust dancing in the mottled sunlight, perhaps my eyes wanting to see an old-timey man's face there.  But just maybe it's something supernatural.  A wandering soul, an old inmate, a proud warden.  I'll let you decide for yourself.

Should you find yourself in Gonzales, visit the Chamber of Commerce and take the jail tour.  I was doubly surprised to wrap up my visit with a woman who grew up in the jail.  Her father was the last warden.  (The Chamber is located in the adjoining living quarters.) She has happy memories of a small town country life and is directly involved in the continued restoration of her iconic Texas Justice home.

LOVE  &  THE ROADS LESS TRAVELED

Lessons Learned

 

 "Sometimes the lights all shinin on me;

Other times I can barely see.

Lately it occurs to me what a long, strange trip it's been."

- Jerry Garcia

Connecticut, in my childhood home, was the last place I expected to be this summer. Especially in the midst of so much change in my adult home in Texas.  Emily was packing up for college, Kev and I nervously approaching empty nest status, and so many plans in the making. But the late night call came.  My Dad was in the hospital with an aortic aneurism.  I was on the first plane north, while Kev and Em would take on move-in day without me. The two weeks ahead would hold heartbreaks,tears, prayers, resolutions, and a permanent change in my soul. 

I've always loved my parents. I've always known they love each other. But life or death situations have a way of bringing out truest words and "don't hold back" feelings. In the days before surgery, we filled nervous hours with our appreciation for one another.  In the hours before the operation, our tones became a bit more serious, and in the delicate hours following surgery the most beautiful emotions emerged. I thought I might be reading into what I was seeing but my sister-in-law saw the same picture. Though my Dad wasn't able to speak or open his eyes, my parents spoke with the subtle touch of their hands.  These were the gentle touches that assured one another they were together, they were alive, and everything would be ok;  their wordless connections perfected over 46 years of marriage. 

Within two weeks, everything I thought I knew, arrogances I held, and childish misconceptions I hoarded over the years all fell away, were disproven, stripped down until only love and faith remained.  I saw in my parents the love I have for Kevin- the willingness to see through together whatever life brings. A total acceptance of the other.  A bond necessary for a full life.  Without one, the other is but a shell. 

My Dad is well on his way to full recovery.  Despite the hospital setting, and missing Emily's move-in day at UIW, the two weeks in Connecticut were magical life lessons that I will bring home to Texas.  Most importantly, I learned to appreciate Kevin and Emily not only as my husband and daughter but as individual people with their own identities and their own stories to tell. 

The easiest way for me to sum it all up is this: Enjoy this life.  Cherish the people with whom you share it.  Don't hold back on love, kind words and laughter.  It is the stuff that makes this life so alive.  Find the answers you seek.  Ask the questions that scare you the most. Share your story for it is not the great deeds that are treasured,but the small steps we make everyday.

 

LOVE  &  LESSONS LEARNED

 

The Dreaded Late Hour Call

My father and I share the same eyes, hair color, and the family pre-disposition to poke fun at everything, no matter the situation, regardless of social etiquette.  So it seems fair that in this morning's conversation I jokingly accused him of attention seeking while he referenced Monty Python's Holy Grail with a slurred holler, "Bring out yer dead!"  Normal banter, but bittersweet today as he was flown by helicopter to Yale New Haven Hospital in the wee hours of the morning with an aneurism.  I missed the frantic overnight call from my Mom but I was relieved this morning to hear everyone alert and as calm as one can be given the circumstances.  I have never been so painfully aware of every mile between Texas and Connecticut.  To end the call knowing I am at least 24 hours of travel away from home, hollowed like an internal sink hole of desperation.

The seconds between noticing that out of place missed call at 12:39 a.m. until hearing my Mom's voice felt like slow motion running in mud.  It's like a nightmare being chased by all the negative outcomes and fears of what she'll say, how her voice will sound, or even who will answer at the other end.  With every phone ring  I found myself saying, "no, no, no,no,no!!!" Louder and louder, my dogs bewildered at my feet.  And then the huge relieved sigh when I hear her: voice steady, matter of fact, with that barely noticeable trace of panic (my Mom wears stress like everyday shoes!), "Yes, your Dad is stable, awaiting surgery and complaining because he can't have a snack or a cigarette."  Yep.  That's my Dad!

Over the past weeks, I've watched my friends go through long hospital scenarios with their husbands, mothers, and even one dear friend who unexpectedly lost her father just a few days ago.  People in my family tend to stay healthy well into their 90's, so I have had the privilege of avoiding such heartaches until now.  It's a very different empathy today than I had yesterday.  The understanding of potential loss, things left unsaid, minutes and hours taken for granted.  All the memories floating in like an old-timey snapshot slideshow as we wait for the doctor's next words. 

 So to all my friends that have struggled over long hospital hours, for the ones still fighting for their loved ones, for a special mouse-maker who continues to be a champion for her husband, and my dear friend who sadly will attend her father's funeral today; I reinforce my hugs, strengthen my prayers for you and understand with a fuller heart.

 

LOVE  &  PRAYERS!