Ghost in Minneapolis

                                                                    True Ghost Story

First, I will provide a little history of this cemetery in Minneapolis to put the story in context.

Minneapolis's first cemetery was established in 1857. By the end of thirty years, Maple Hill Cemetery had five thousand graves. It was located at Broadway and Fillmore. The graveyard was not cared for, the paperwork was shoddy, and some graves were only two feet deep. After a storm, some caskets could be seen. The people in the area complained of health hazards, and efforts began to move the graves. However, the lack of funds halted the removal, so graves and markers were left.

In 1908, Minneapolis Park Board decided to acquire the property and make it into a children's park.

By 1918, the children's park was opened at one end of the land. But the cemetery section was still a mess.

Thirty men from the neighborhood went under cover of darkness and hitched up three teams of horses to clear the land of all the debris. They dumped the headstones and markers in a ravine.

Eight of the thirty men were implicated in the "vandalism". Two of the eight were charged but acquitted at the trial.

The Park Board decided to do something, so they cleaned up the land, added a skating rink, a warming house, and horseshoe pits, and renamed the park Beltrami Park in 1948.

Two small gravestones and a monument to forty-six Civil War veterans who were once buried there are still on the northwest side.

This story is repeated from last year as I enjoy it. I hope you do, too.

This true story is taken from Ben Weller's book Minnesota Mysteries. It was published in the Minneapolis Tribune on November 6, 1899.

Now, On to The Ghost of Maple Hill Cemetery.

(Before it became Beltrami Park.)

Ida Olson slipped her arm through Ole Johnson's arms as they walked on Central Avenue in Northeast Minneapolis. Despite the night's blackness, they could see the smile on each other's faces. 

Ole asked, "Will you go to the movies with me next Saturday night?"

Ida opened her lips to speak as she looked at Ole when she caught a movement in the cemetery they were walking past from the corner of her eyes. "What is that?" She pointed to a white shape that rose up from the ground.

"Run!" yelled Ole. "A ghost." His long legs went at full speed up the street.

Ida froze for a moment before she began running and screaming. She saw a man walking further up the street past the cemetery and ran toward him, shrieking, "Help! Help!"

"Calm down. What's the matter?"

Ida gasped and shook and could not speak coherently.

"My name is John Adams. I work at the Columbia Heights mills. Let's go into this drugstore, and you can tell me what has happened." He led her into the nearby lighted warm store with other customers.

"Please, everyone, listen to me," said Ida frantically. "There is a ghost in the cemetery. I saw it. It chased me. A ghost!"

One customer said, "I think she is a bit looney."

"I think she has had too much to drink," said another. The customer stepped over to her and smelled her breath. "Nope. Don't smell any booze."

"Believe me, I saw a white figure rise from the graves. It had horns and a long white beard." After describing the ghost, Ida became hysterical.

Ole Johnson came into the drugstore. "Ida, are you all right? I've been looking for you."

"You ran off and left me. I'm never going to the movies with you."

"After I saw the ghost, I ran toward it to see what it was, but it disappeared. I thought you were right behind me. Believe me, I would never leave you alone."

"I don't believe you."

John Adams spoke up and said, "Mister, what's your name, and did you see this ghost she is raving about?"

"My name is Ole Johnson, and yes, I did see the ghost with my own eyes."

"I'm going to the cemetery to look for this ghost. Anyone want to come with me?" asked John Adams.

Several men from the drugstore, John, Ida, and Ole, walked to the cemetery. In the pitch darkness, they entered the graveyard carefully so they would not trip on gravestones.

Ida stopped. "This is where the ghost rose up."

The men could see the crushed dead leaves and the dried grass, indicating that a body had indeed lain there.

They whispered to each other and stayed together in small groups. After an extended search, during which nothing was found, they headed back to Central Avenue.

A gasp of horror from Ole Johnson as he sank to the ground caught everyone's attention.

A few yards away and hardly visible in the blackness, a white figure with horns and a long white beard loomed up from the ground. It made no sound.

Silence gripped everyone as they stared.

A group member drew his gun from his pants belt and said, "Speak, or I'll shoot."

The figure remained silent and did not move.

"Speak up, or I'll shoot."

The horned white shape moved a trifle and then broke the fearful black silence with "Ba-a-a-h!" It moved toward the men. "Ba-a-a-h," issued forth from a huge white goat with beautiful horns and long gray whiskers as it approached the men and began nosing around for food.

Tension broke like a dam, and laughter split the air until everyone had tears streaming down their faces.

After the 'ghost' was spotted, Ole Johnson was nowhere to be seen, and the brave-hearted men walked Ida home.

Later, it was learned that the goat's owner had pastured it in the graveyard for the summer and had not yet come to claim it. 

I must admit that if I were walking in the blackness of night past a cemetery and saw a white shape rise from the ground, I would likely run screaming, too.

                                                          Happy Halloween.

Halloween Poem

                                 Halloween 

Hi, this is my favorite Halloween poem, as requested. I hope you enjoy it as much as I do. Remember, poems need to be read out loud. I read it in a ghostly whisper. Have fun. 

                                              Halloween

Tonight is the night

When dead leaves fly

Like witches on switches

Across the sky,

When elf and sprite

Flit through the night

On a moony sheen.

Tonight is the night

When leaves make a sound

Like a gnome in his home

Under the ground,

When spooks and trolls

Creep out of holes

Mossy and green.

Tonight is the night

When pumpkins stare

Through sheaves and leaves

Everywhere,

When ghoul and ghost

And goblin host

Dance round their queen,

It's Halloween!

                                                           by Harry Behn

When I was teaching, I would have the class learn the first verse, so when we walked in the hallway, instead of pushing, shoving, and talking, their minds would be busy.

Halloween activities stopped when some parents felt it was a form of Satan worship. They likely did not know Halloween is from the words "All Hallows Eve " from the Catholic church. 

Halloween

                  Snap Apple and Nut Crack

 Here we are in October. Of course, October is noted for Halloween, the oldest celebration in history, but with different names such as Day of the Dead, Samhain, and All Hallows Day, which was shortened to Halloween.

In some societies, Halloween was a joyous harvest time.  People wanted to celebrate together before the cold winter, accompanied by possible illness and isolation.

Snap Apple Night was a time of fun with friends and neighbors you might not see again for many months.

Hebrew women bathed in water mixed with apple sap in the hopes they would have children. I don't know if that worked, as apple sap water does not help a woman get pregnant the way I understand having babies.

In some cultures, boys bobbed for apples, and if they came up with one in their mouths, it meant that the girl they loved loved them.

Also, the boys had a chance to try out their skill at biting into an apple hung on the end of a stick. If he succeeded, it meant he would be the first to marry.

The girls, too, had fun. They would peel an apple in one long piece. After swinging it over their heads three times, they threw it over their left shoulder. If the peeling landed unbroken, it would indicate the initials of their future husbands.

A girl could also name two apple seeds for two different boys and stick them on her eyelids. The one that stuck the longest was the boy for her. I am told that some girls would twitch one eye to make the seed fall off. Crafty!

Apple seeds helped determine the lady's future. Twelve seeds were placed on her palm, and she recited the following poem as she struck the palm with her other hand. Did she go with the seeds that fell or the seeds that stayed on her hand? I don't know.

One, I love,
Two I love,
Three I love, I say;
Four I love with all my heart;
Five I cast away.
Six he loves,
Seven she loves,
Eight they both love;
Nine he comes,
Ten he tarries,
Eleven he courts, and
Twelve he marries.

Some cultures called Halloween Nutcrack Night

In Scotland, people put pairs of nuts named after a couple on the hearth before the fire. If a pair burned to ashes together, the couple would have a happy life. If the nuts cracked or moved apart, it was a sign the couple would have quarrels and separation.

In Ireland, three nuts were put on the hearth. One was named for the girl, and the other two were named after her sweethearts. The nut which burned steadily with the girl's meant that sweetheart would be more faithful.

In Wales, a nut that blazed meant good fortune. A nut that smoldered or popped meant misfortune.

What do you think? Do you want to try the long apple peeling or bobbing? Or what about the nuts?

Several years ago, I posted the Halloween poem by Henry Behn, which is my favorite. If you missed the posting or forgot this delightful ditty, let me know, and I will post it again. 

Have a great Snap Apple and Nutcrack Time. 

Writers Have Homework

                 Writers Have Homework, Too! 

When I was a student, I had homework. As a teacher, I had homework. Correcting papers, making lesson plans, and filling out endless paperwork needed by the district, state government, and federal added to my day. And then there were the Pet Projects: the science, math, social studies, language arts, art, and, of course, the music departments. I'm not kidding.  I could not procrastinate, or the whole world would tumble down in chaos, and the finger would point to me with whispers, "It was all her fault. She didn't do her homework."

Don't get me wrong. I enjoyed the kids and the teaching part of each day. And guess what. Even though some children did not do their homework. I got a letter from a mom asking me to excuse her son from handing in his six-week project as she did Spring cleaning and put his hard work in a salad bowl, and after the cleaning was done, she couldn't find the salad bowl. I thought about giving the mom an N for needs to improve for Spring cleaning. Still, I enjoyed the students and their enthusiasm. 

I retired after forty years.

I must secretly love homework, as I became a writer. I enjoy several parts of writing; however, there are definitely required areas I do not enjoy. So, I can identify with Jane Yolen, who wrote this little missive.

                                                                  Homework

What is it about homework

That makes me want to write

My Great Aunt Myrt to thank her for

The sweater that's too tight?

What is it about homework

That makes me pick up socks

That stink from days and days of wear,

Then clean the litter box?

What is it about homework

That makes me volunteer

To take the garbage out before

The bugs and flies appear?

What is it about homework

That makes me wash my hair

And take an hour combing out

The snags and tangles there?

What is it about homework

You know, I wish I knew,

'Cause nights when I've got homework

I've got much too much to do!😝😧😫😬

Think about it. I bet you have some kind of work you don't like to do and procrastinate, as Jane Yolen and I do. 

Right now, my homework is finding out why an eight-year-old Jewish girl in Sweden became an orphan in the 1800s.

I also need to find some information stored in a file on my laptop. I am looking through my files and can not find the information even with the laptop's search. I know it is rattling around in there somewhere, but where, oh where, can it be?  Maybe it got put in a salad bowl and lost in Autumn cleaning. 😵

Range War Legacy

What is a range war and its legacy?

After meeting several people at the Northtown Book Fair, the question was, what is a range war?

We all know war is a time of hatred, anger, and killing. Often, people who want nothing to do with the war are sucked in.

Wars leave a legacy behind them. People not involved in the war are affected by the killings, anger, and hatred. It colors the rest of their lives. 

The book Range War Legacy is about a war between the ranchers who raised sheep and the ranchers who raised cattle. They wanted the same public land pastures for grazing. The ranchers depended on their animals for their livelihood. 

There were several cattle and sheep wars, but the last was in Crook County, Oregon.

The first chapter is about a real man named Creed (I kid you not).

                                                                              Chapter One
                                                                              Oregon 1905

  Grasping his whiskey bottle, the scruffy man yanked on the reins and slid off his horse. He stumbled to a poplar by the trail and leaned his back against the trunk. He then slid down to the ground and pulled the cork from the bottle, taking a swig. Hearing hoof beats, he turned to see a rider approach. He grinned and waved the man over to the tree. "How come you're out this way?" he asked.

  "I heard what you said in the bar in town, Creed, and I wanted to hear more."

  "I didn't see you."

  "You had a pack of men hanging on every word you said about the gunnysackers. I was in the back."

  "Yep, I had everyone's attention. And why not? I spoke the truth."

  The man dismounted from his large bay and crouched next to Creed. "Yeah, but you've been known to stretch a good yarn. You said you knew who the gunnysackers are, so prove it and tell me their names."

 "Oh, I do, all right, but I ain't telling. They're good fellas, and I ain't going to get them into any trouble. No siree. My secret."

  "How did you find out who they are if you aren't one of them?"

   "I was in the barn over in Hay Creek, working in a back stall when ten or eleven men came in and talked about where they were going that night and where they would meet up. They didn't know I was there, and I kept real quiet. Didn't take no chances I might spook them, if you catch my meaning." Creed laughed and shoved his bottle toward his companion. "Have a drink."

  The man took the bottle and sipped the booze before handing it back. " I didn't take much, as money is tight, and a whole bottle is dear."

  "Don't worry. There's more where this came from." Creed guzzled several gulps.

  "Really?"

  "Yep. Those gunnysackers are good guys. I think they'll do the right thing by me and help me out when I need money. I just have to get one guy off by himself and let him know I ain't telling anyone what I saw. He'll pass the word around, and they'll all be grateful to Creed." He smiled. His throat uttered a guttual "yeah." He waved the bottle toward his friend. "Here, drink as much as you want."

  "Looks like enough for one good drink. I think you should be the one to finish this."

  "All right, if you insist." Creed raised the bottle to his lips and gulped down the last swallow. Smiling and sliding sideways farther to the ground, he sputtered, "I think I'm drunk. Yes, siree, I'm drunk."

 "I think so, too. Better let me take your gun from your holster, so you don't lie on it."

  Creed pulled himself upright against the tree. "You're a good guy, like the gunnysackers. A good guy." Creed closed his eyes and exhaled a foul breath. His head slumped forward.

  "I'm a good guy, all right." He pulled Creed's gun from the holster, pointed it at Creed's heart, and squeezed the trigger twice. The roar disappeared into the air as quickly as it had shattered it.

The man took Creed's hands and laid them in his lap. He positioned the gun between them and pointed it toward Creed's chest.  "You're a good guy, too, and I know you'll be keeping your secret." He mounted his horse and headed off down the dirt trail. 

_____________________________________________________________________

Note: gunnysackers were the cattlemen who killed sheep herders and sheep. They wore a gunny sack over their head with two holes cut for their eyes. Gunny sacks were burlap bags used to hold heavy items such as fifty pounds of potatoes.

Find out about what happened after Creed was murdered. The book, Range War Legacy, is on Amazon. It is a historical fiction that shows the violence and the attitudes of the people involved and the effect it had on others. 

 

Gypsies

  

                                 Gypsies!

 If you remember my last post, I said I was starting a new book. It is set in the 1800s in Europe, and the Swedish, Jewish, and Gypsie cultures would meet. So, I have started my research into the Romani gypsies. Their culture is complex for me to understand, and I wonder if I can write it in a fiction novel in a way the reader will understand.

I came across this story, which I will share with you. Let me know what you think.

                                           The Sevenfold Liar

A traveler meets a deaf and dumb man on the road and asks him how far it is to the next village. The deaf and dumb man replies, "Quite a way. Perhaps three to four miles." The traveler moves on, meeting a blind man and asking him what the time is. The blind man looks at his watch and says, "Ten to three." The traveler moves on again, next meeting a naked man, whom he asks for a smoke. The naked man obliges by producing from his pocket a pouch of tobacco. The traveler moves on again and next meets a man with no arms wheeling a sack of potatoes along whilst being chased by a man with no legs who is crying, "Stop, thief, stop!" The traveler soon arrives at the village, where he meets a man over 100 years old. The old man is sobbing. "I was living with my grandfather," he weeps,  "and he has just thrown me out because he's getting married again and doesn't want me around." The traveler finally reaches the center of the village, and as he passes the church, a coffin moves past, and the lid of the coffin is lifted, and a face looks out and recognizes the traveler. "Would you like a pint of beer?" the body in the coffin asks.

The story ends with the storyteller saying, "That's the truth. No truer words have ever been spoken!"

I am told this story is all about telling the truth while it seems to mock the physical laws. It is part of the Romani belief in the Otherworld, which comprises the Upperworld, Middleworld, and Lowerworld. It is an example of Romani humor. It shows life turned upside-down.

This story is on pages 170 and 171 of We Borrow the Earth by Patrick Jasper Lee. 

If you understand this story from the Romani Gypsies' point of view or if you have any information on Romani Gypsies of the 1800's in Europe other than what is on Google, please let me know. 

 I came across this curious bit of trivia, which you might enjoy.

We have all heard the expression, 'to jump out of the frying pan into the fire.' The history of that expression may start with second-century Greek, which was 'out of the smoke into the flame'; the Italians and Portuguese had 'to fall from the frying pan into the coals'; the Gaelic said, 'out of the cauldron into the fire, and the French had 'to leap from the frying pan into the fire.'

We know that the expression means to escape one evil by leaping into another just as bad or worse.

The expression was first used in England (as far as I know) during a religious argument between William Tyndale and Sir Thomas More.

In 1528, Mr. More published a paper titled A Dialoge concerning Heresyes. The paper was read by Mr. Tyndale. He disagreed with the thinking of Mr. More, so in 1530 he wrote, "An Answere unto Sir Thomas More's Dialoge."  Mr. More did not like Mr. Tyndale's "Answere" so he wrote "The Confutacyon of Tyndales Answere," In which he said, "Mr. Tyndale "featly conuayed himself out of the frying panne fayre into the fyre".  (I used the English spelling of that day.)

I think both men jumped from a frying pan into a fire.  William Tyndale, who translated the Bible into English, was publicly strangled and burned as a heretic in 1536.  The author of Utopia, Sir Thomas More, because of perjured testimony, was hung as a traitor because he would not approve of the bigamous marriage of Henry VIII to Anne Boleyn.

The following is another bit of trivia.

We all know Francis Scott Key wrote the words of the Star-Spangled Banner. Mr. Key's son, Philip Barton Key, became a U.S. attorney for Washington, D.C. He was reputed to be a ladies' man, and even though he was a friend to Daniel E. Sickles, who represented New York constituents in Congress, he had an affair with Theresa, Mr. Sickles's wife.

Mr. Sickles found out, and after a heated discussion with Theresa, she confessed in writing, so Mr. Sickles sent his wife back to her mother.

On Sunday, February 27, 1859, Mr. Sickles saw Mr. Key walking on Pennsylvania Avenue. He grabbed his pistol and ran to Mr. Key and, near the White House, shot him at close range. Mr. Key died on the street.

The congressman was arrested and, at his trial, said he had temporary insanity. The jury said he was not guilty, and they joined the congressman at a hotel celebration. The public sentiment was for Mr. Sickle, as no one should trifle with another man's wife. 

Mr. Sickles jumped from the frying pan but avoided the fire of disgrace and prison.   Mr. Key was shoved from an affair frying pan into the fire.

___________________________________________________________________________

Now, a personal note having nothing to do with jumping from a frying pan into a hire, at least I hope so.

As some of you know, my house has squeak hall floors. I call them Nightingale floors. While writing Texas Cakewalk, which took about 3 years, the characters would come into my bedroom just as I was falling asleep. They would tell me their side of the story and what they thought I should say about them.

The book was published in June, and the characters no longer annoy me. However,  different characters want me to write about them, so they trudge into my room, making the floors squeak (although some people say it is temperature and humidity, but I know better).

The characters are from the 1800s in Europe. They are from three different cultures: Swedish, Jewish, and Gypsy. The Swedish characters speak English with a strong Swedish accent, the Jewish character speaks Yiddish, and the Gypsies speak their own language, which has never been written, so no dictionary helps.  I've told them they must all learn English so I can understand their perspectives on the events.

Recording the people and events at Texas Cakewalk took three years. I think this book will likely take five years, which means I will fall asleep listening to their jabber, have chaotic dreams, and wake up with a morning headache.