Another night of freaking myself out

Ever since I was a little kid I have loved to scare the crap out of myself.  Some might call me a glutton for punishment, but I have always enjoyed scary movies and a good ghost story.  During my frequent road trips, I'll often seek out haunted hotels or inns to stay at.  Sure, it sounds good while booking it, but more often than not, I'm the dude jumping at every sound and scurrying under the safety of a blanket.

Through the years I've stayed at the Lizzie Borden Bed and Breakfast and the infamous Myrtle's Plantation just to name a few.  I'm up here in DC giving tours for a few months so my precious days off are filled with random adventures.  Recently, I decided to visit Gettysburg and found and a haunted Inn at a fairly reasonable price.

The Farnsworth Inn was witness to the epic battle and to this day it bears some of the battle damage.  Unlike some places, the Farnsworth revels in its haunted history and even advertises it.  I splurged and booked the Sarah Black room which is supposed to be the most haunted on the property.

The story goes is that a young boy was run over by a carriage in front of the property in 1855.  The child, Jeremy, was then brought up to the nursery where he died from his injuries.  The former nursery is now the bathroom adjoining the room.  Guests are encouraged to leave toys in the room for Jeremy to play with.  Often, when you come back from a day of touring the battlefield, the toys will have changed positions.  

The attic of the property was also a Confederate snipers nest and many report hearing footsteps above even though the attic is locked when not being toured.

Once I checked in and did a quick walk around the place, I settled in for a night of potential terror.  I brought my EMF detector and a ghost box with me but did not get any substantial readings except when I made fun of a dress that was on display in the room.  As I stood there commenting on it, my EMF detector spiked and went crazy.  It only last a few seconds and I could not get it to happen again.  Apparently the ghost forgave me quickly.  

Naturally, I found it difficult to fall asleep because every sound made me squirm and with an old place like this, there was bound to be tons of creaking.  At one point, I did hear something move in the bathroom like it changed position but I could not identify what it was.  Close to 3 in the morning, I also heard footsteps in the attic for a minute or two before they went silent.  

The door to the attic.

Sure, I got some evidence but nothing incredibly mind-blowing.  I guess that being in Gettysburg, I figured there would be a random soldier that would stop by for a visit, but I guess they all had better things to do that evening.  Regardless, I still highly recommend a stay at the Farnsworth.  Beyond the hauntings, it's a charming place to stay.  Perfect for the history nerd on the go.

Just call me Morbid Mike

I have this odd fascination with cemeteries.  I really have no idea where it came from but walking through a burying ground is always a great history lesson for me and I find myself wondering about the people six feet under.  Their epitaphs offer up clues, sometimes humorous even.

When someone goes on a road trip with me, they are guaranteed at least one graveyard stop to go in search of a famous grave.  My friend Micheal is still giving me a hard time about our marathon of finding country music stars graves in Nashville, but that could be an another blog post entirely.  On my most recent trip up to visit him, he put the brakes on my latest gruesome endeavor which was finding the grave of Dixie Carter, Miss Julia Sugarbaker herself.

Growing up, I loved watching The Golden Girls and Designing Women.  I especially loved watching Dixie Carter as Julia, going off on one of her many rants regarding politics or whatever else set her off.  I'll even admit, that when I want to get fired up about something, I'll still watch one or two of the rants on Youtube just to get in the mood.

Even though Carter played Julia as a raging liberal, in real life apparently Carter was a Republican and sometimes was not fully supportive of some of the rants that were written for her.  Having a love of singing, Carter struck up a deal with the producers that she would not cause grief about some of the lines if she was given an opportunity to stretch her vocal cords on the show.

Micheal loves Dixie Carter as much as I do, but he said there was no way he was driving two hours there and back just to see her grave.  Yeah, definitely not a TRUE fan. Despite his protests, that did not stop me from going on my own and I made the journey as part of my trip over to see my Dad in Arkansas.

Carter is buried in her hometown of McLemoresville, TN.  It was definitely out of the way but getting off of the interstate is always a treat since it affords you the chance to see some of the real culture of the regions.  Upon reaching the town, I didn't have a clear idea of exactly where the cemetery was but since the town is so incredibly tiny, I figured that with a quick drive around, the cemetery was bound to be spotted.

When I got into town, my partner called me to check on where I was.  I had not told him that I was going in search of Dixie, because I know he would have instantly been rolling his eyes at my mission.  By the tone of my voice, he knew I was up to something and I came clean with him.  I could tell that he thought I was nuts, but he would have done the same to find Lucille Ball.  Actually, that sounds like a good idea.

After revealing my secret mission, I hung up an continued driving around.  Within just a few minutes I found the cemetery and tucked toward the back was the crypt where Dixie Carter is buried.  It's hard to really say I was "Star Struck", perhaps the better definition is "Grave Struck" in that particular situation.  Regardless, I didn't do anything weird like weep uncontrollably or perform lines from the show in a wig and shoulder pads.  I just simply paid my respects and took a few pics before going on my way.  Now if the wig and shoulder pads had been in my car......



Eventually I made my way back down to some real roads and continued on to my Dad's house with the satisfaction that I had truly earned my Gay Scouts Badge for that trip.

Lessons From My 1st Grade Teacher

Mrs. Miller is sitting next to me along with my Mom and Grandmother.  I have no idea what occasion brought us all together.

I can admit it now, I was a total mess in the 1st grade.  I was that kid that had major anxiety and everyday, like clockwork, I ran to the bathroom to weep.  I was never sure why I was so emotional, but I do remember that my 1st grade teacher, Mrs. Miller, was always there to give me a pep talk so that I could get on with my day.

Despite my emotional ups and downs, I remember my first grade year fondly.  It was where I met my best childhood friend, Jason. It was where both Jason and I turned our playground into a whimsical wonderland where anything could be imagined, including the discovery of a dinosaur egg which ended up being a gourd.  It was also where I discovered a love of reading even though I was placed in the "low level" reader category and slogged my way through those color coordinated reading books that were a very important symbol of status back in those days.  To this day, I can attribute a lot of my successes in life to Mrs. Miller and our classroom volunteer, Mrs. Lindquist. Collectively, these two women taught me to read.

Mrs. Lindquist helping our class. I'm in the Arkansas shirt.

I'm sure it was no easy task for the two of them.  Surely, I was diagnosed with all kinds of disorders, but word was never mentioned of them.  Rather than focusing on what was wrong with me, they chose to focus on what was right and helped me to adapt to make up for what made me different.  I also forgot to mention that I was incredibly hyper.  I would have been the poster child for ADHD, but back then Mrs. Miller let me know my limits without ever getting angry.  She could get stern, but never angry.  It was through Mrs. Miller, that Mrs. Lindquist came into my life.  Imagine having your grandmother in class everyday? That's what it was like.  She would often work with me one on one and I even went to her house on Saturdays for special tutoring sessions which I loved, because if I did a good job, she would give me a cheap toy car as a present. I remember always coming in and seeing a little box wrapped up on the desk.  I just had to earn it, which admittedly I did not do 100% of the time and she would casually take the box off the desk for a future session.

For 18 years, I was a teacher and often looked to Mrs. Miller as an inspiration.  Recently, I was summoned back home due to a family emergency and learned that Mrs. Miller was in a retirement home in the area.  My dad works for a local pharmacy and often drives out there for deliveries and he said that Mrs. Miller asked about me often. I decided to go there for a visit, not really knowing what shape she was in or if she would even recognize me after all these years.  To me, she would always have the same glasses and red hair, tightly wound up in a bun.

After checking in with the front desk they directed me toward her room.  I knocked on her door and could hear that familiar sweet voice say that she was on her way.  When she opened the door, I discovered that the red hair was long gone, replaced by gray and it was down, not in a bun.  The one thing that remained the same was her welcoming smile.  At first, she thought I was making a delivery, but then after I said my name she threw her arms around me for a hug.  I'll admit, that with the craziness going on with my family, that hug felt so good!

Mrs. Miller and I holding up her retirement quilt

Mrs. Miller's room, much like my house is a museum to teaching.  All around her were reminders of her teaching career.  Notes, awards, and hundreds, yes hundreds of Raggedy Ann dolls.  Early on in her career, she had mentioned how much she loved Raggedy Ann and she received hundreds of various shapes and sizes during her 50 plus year career.

I sat with her for over an hour and she could recall my first grade class like it was yesterday.  She said that I was one of her most memorable students and that she always shared a story involving me to people through the years.  I figured it was some story about me crying.

We went on a special trip to a local farm and Mrs. Miller took me by the hand as we crossed through a cow pasture. When we got the edge, she leaned down and said to me "Michael, I am so proud of you for not stepping in that yucky stuff."  According to her, I looked around and gazed up at her and said "Mrs. Miller, is that cow shit?"  I vaguely recall an adult in back of us breaking out in laughter, but Mrs. Miller just looked at me and said "Yes it is Michael.  Yes it is."  She could have flown off the handle telling what a naughty word it was, but she didn't. She knew I meant no harm with my question.  It wasn't until I got home that my parents told me that it was not appropriate.  Without my knowledge, she had called my parents and told them of my language, but that I should not be punished for it.  According to her, I was simply a little boy who didn't know better.

I'm sure that we have our own Mrs. Miller to tell stories about.  I hope that as a teacher, I was a Mrs. Miller to a student in need. She was an continues to be a remarkable woman.