Newscoma

I’ve been reminiscing a great deal lately about what has happened, what could have happened and where today stands. In all honesty, it’s a big waste of time doing this but shutting down the cranium is sometimes tricky business.

I’m used to being incredibly busy and I admit that I’m in somewhat of a conundrum about the immediate future. As my mother is not available for me to have a conversation with, I headed out to see Squirrely’s mom yesterday. I guess I just needed someone to talk to and she listened.

I hope I returned the favor.

As she talked about Mabel’s pal, and her long-time friend, passing away, we started talking about our ghosts. She talked of Squirrely’s father, who died three years ago and I talked about my mom, who died in 1998. I think every once in awhile, you have to revisit those people we no longer see and realize the impact they made in our lives. As time does heal and grief must be navigated through, there are still very deep feelings that run through us on our losses.

I told her that this past month, I wish my mother was still around because she was wise about things and I could use her input right now. She would know some answers to questions I have that have somewhat paralyzed me. When she didn’t know, she would help me set myself on a path. I feel a bit lost right now, not near a path or even a trail, and could use her help.

“You are kind of depressed right now, aren’t you?” Squirrely’s mom said. “That’s understandable. We all get down sometimes. Just don’t get too low.”

Of course, this is a very mom thing to say and I guess I needed to hear it.  SQ’s mom is one of my friends and I appreciated her kindness. In an email yesterday between friends, someone used the word “face time” about a friend who just recently lost her mother and is having a rough time of it. Something I completely understand. I was given some much needed “face time” because a person can only Mary Sunshine things so much without it becoming a burden too heavy to bear.

Face time with friends and family is important.

So, I guess I’m visiting my ghosts this week although it’s something I really don’t want to do. I realize I’m in one of those stages of grief everyone talks about regarding the recent downsizing.

As I sit here this morning, I silently wish my ghosts could talk.

And life goes on.

My house is haunted. Just ask Scout who housesits for me occasionally. This one sent chills up my spine.

Well, a little after 2 a.m., I just couldn’t go on anymore and decided to call it a night. I was to sleep in the downtown bedroom and before hitting the sack, I went around the house turning off all the lights, made sure the T.V. upstairs was off and then proceeded to call the dogs because I wanted them all on the bed with me for protection. And……that’s……when……I……heard…….the……giggling…….coming……from……upstairs. Tiny little giggles leading to louder guffaws leading to raucous four-alarm borderline screaming.

T.V. was off. Lights were off. Nobody was home. They were all on vacation. Yet, someone was upstairs laughing her head off. I listened for a minute or two, paralyzed. Frozen to the spot. If I were smart and my wits were still with me, I would have darted like a mad man to the light switch and the tape recorder, but I couldn’t budge past the foot of the stairs. I glanced up to the top, hoping to catch the glow of the television on the adjacent wall, but I had definitely remembered to turn it off.

As I was contemplating leaving, the laughter was interrupted by three shaky, shy words, hardly discernible, but still there…”You don’t say.” The person I heard was having a conversation with someone else. There were two people upstairs.

And then, it was over. No more laughter. No more words. Nothing. As soon as ‘Coma returned from vacation, I hesitantly related the story back to her and her reply back was equally as scary as the event itself.

“My mom used to say that all the time when she couldn’t think of anything else to say.”

Read the rest of it. It’s creepy.

Wanna housesit.

This isn’t the only one. You need to get Squirrel Queen to tell you her story.

You know weird, creepy stuff fascinates me and Aunt B. asked for ghost stories earlier today so I went on a ghost hunt.

This video is definitely creepy and if horror movies freak you out, I wouldn’t watch it but for the rest of you I present Ghosts, Spirits and Demons. (No seriously, that’s the name of the video.)

Happy Halloween month.

There are times that I find out things that I didn’t know. It’s an oddity rather when you have perceptions about things and then you find out stuff like this.

Dear Newscoma’s cousin from Memphis,

When my Dad was in the Marines in WWII and stationed at the Marine Barracks in Washington and guarded the Tomb, the requirements were different then because he certainly wasn’t 5′10″.  When we went to Washington on vacation after I graduated from college, we saw the changing of the guards.  I saw the precise drill and how sharp all the guards were and asked him if he did all of that.  I thought guarding the Tomb of the Unknown Solder was just standing out there making sure no one bothered anything.  He replied to my question, “Yep we did all that”.  Once again I was impressed with my fathers humility and deeds.  He also was a guard for President Roosevelt whenever he made a public appearance.  He would be in plain clothes and carry a pistol.  He recieved a medal for that duty.  He and mother were married after he was stationed there.  She moved to Washington and worked in the cosmetics counter of the department store Woodward & Lothrop.  Mom was pregnant with Jackie when Dad was shipped out the Pacific after about a year and a half in Washington.  Jackie was almost 2 yrs old when she first saw her father.

Newscoma’s Uncle

My uncle sent this email to a member of my family about my grandfather. I am constantly reminded that my grandfather did things that I didn’t know about. We all have our secret lives and I’m constantly, as my uncle said, amazed by his humility.

Jackie was my mom.

My grandfather probably only stood about 5′7″ but I can remember that, until he became ill, that he had the biggest muscles ever. He was little but he was tough. My sister and I would ask to swing from his muscles, his guns if you will, because they were huge from working on his farm, where he let us name all of his cows after the characters on Gilligan’s Island.

He wouldn’t talk to us about the Battle of Saipan where he was one of the first Marines to hit the beach. He would tell us that they would catch sharks off the beach because they were plentiful to eat because there never was enough food.

I asked him if he had ever killed anyone when I was a about 6. He leaned down and gave me a hug yet said nothing. I was a kid. I didn’t know what I was asking.

It was in that moment that I realized that adults were a bit more complex than I had initially considered. I remember that clearly.

Adults had secrets.

I knew my grandfather as a postman and the guy that bought me Chocolate Soldiers and peanuts. He had a mixed-Chocolate Lab named Roscoe. He loved Freddy Fender. He drank Budweiser, but never to excess. He died 28 years ago. I don’t think any of us have ever gotten over his passing.

I realized much later he was so much more that what I knew of him.

Last year sometime, I threw up a post about Joe Hill. It was about him being the son of Stephen King (not the labor guy or the guy that used to work for John Tanner.)

I have been in a funk for about a month so I decided to set ye olde laptop aside and read his debut book called Heart Shaped Box yesterday. I really needed not to think about things for awhile and so I decided to go back to that well-worn practice of actually picking up paper bound in glue and giving it a whirl.

I’m glad I did.

Spoilers after the jump if you haven’t read it:

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