Hauntin' around the Christmas Tree

Another personal ghost story of mine dates from the 1980s when I was a member of the choir at the Church of Gethsemane (now closed) in downtown Minneapolis.  One of the choir members, Kay, invited us all to her large 1960s house in Edina for a holiday party.  Kay knew that I collected ghost stories, and she told me privately that her house was haunted.

When she and her husband first moved in several years earlier, they noticed odd things happening: a cupboard door found open when it had just been closed, a book placed on a side table sliding off onto the floor, lights turning off and on, and a rocking chair moving on its own. After doing a little research, they learned that a young couple previously owned the house and that the wife, Barbara, had died of a virulent cancer that had spread quickly. They deduced that the woman was the one moving objects around the house. The rocking chair was Barbara's particular favorite. Kay said she often found it rocking away when she came into the living room. 

With a couple dozen people in attendance at the choir party, it was hard to tell if anything ghostly was going on. People were sometimes sitting in the rocker, sometimes not. In any case, only Kay, her husband, and I knew about the ghost. 

At one point, I decided to go down to the family room on the lower level to check out the Christmas tree. Several guys were at the bar at the end of the room opposite the tree discussing the Vikings' prospects as I went over to see the ornaments and lights on the tree. I hadn't been there more than a couple of minutes when all of the lights in the downstairs went out: the tree lights, the overhead lights, the bar back-lights, the stairwell lighting. It was pitch black. To my surprise, the men stopped talking for only a few seconds, and then went right back to sports talk, sitting there in the dark like nothing had happened. I stood there by the tree, wondering how long the blackout would last. I was afraid to move, concerned about stumbling into furniture in the dark. A few minutes went by, and the lights went back on all at once. Since the lights were on three different switches, no one person could have accomplished this.

 I went back upstairs and told Kay what had happened. She just smiled, nodded, and said, "Merry Christmas from Barbara."

God bless Us, Every One!

Ghost of a Winter Solstice Past

 

      Andy Serkis scares the dickens out of Scrooge as the Ghost of Christmas Past (BBC 2019)

One of the most delightful traditions of my family was the Winter Solstice party and carol sing, held each year on the solstice itself. Guests would bring holiday treats to share, and a large pot of glögg (Swedish mulled wine, very potent) and another of apple cider would be simmering on the stove. After socializing for an hour or so, the guests would assemble in the parlors of my Victorian house for a short program of readings of the season--for example, Wallace Stevens' "The Snow Man", Thomas Hardy's "The Oxen", Clement Moore's "'Twas the Night Before Christmas" or a humorous holiday story. 

After that, people would arrange themselves around the tree and baby grand piano in the front parlor for the carol sing. Since many attendees were from the St. David's (Welsh) Society, we'd sing carols and songs in English and a few in Welsh in four-part harmony. We'd sing all the favorites, as well as some unfamiliar ones, always ending with "Silent Night" in English and then in German.

                  Singing around the tree, Solstice Party 2014, with David Evan Thomas at the piano.

Most years, 15-25 people would show up to celebrate the solstice. But one time in the early '90s, heavy snow falling kept away all but the most avid carolers. Around 9 p.m., five of us were in the front parlor singing as the snow fell silently with about 8" already on the ground. Few cars and pedestrians were out and about.

We were therefore quite surprised when we heard the sound of heavy boots coming up the steps to the porch and across to the door. All of us heard the footsteps, but we couldn't see anyone out the front window. I got up from the piano, went into the foyer, and opened the front door. But no one was there. I looked out onto the snow-covered porch and was nonplussed to find no footprints there or on the walk from the gate. When I went back to the parlor, everyone wanted to know who had come to the door.

I knew. It was Frank Cartwright, the owner of the house from 1912 until his death in 1942. Frank had been putting in appearances since the early '80s. A number of friends and family had been witness to Frank's shenanigans, which ranged from making the sound of footsteps and opening doors to turning lights and the TV on. He wasn't scary--a protective ghost. 

                                                        The front porch in falling snow.

Several years after this, we had another party that Frank showed up for. In this case, the house was filled with people who were going to listen to or to tell the stories of their ancestors' experiences during the American Civil War. I was in the front parlor with my friend Mitzi and several others awaiting the arrival of Colin, who was going to play the trumpet for the parlor concert. Clomp, clomp, clomp went the heavy footsteps across the porch. I was facing the window, but couldn't see anyone pass by. I went to the front door and opened it. No one there. The people in the front parlor were a bit freaked out that there was no one at the door after they clearly heard the footsteps going up to it.

I could go on and on with Frank stories--and one day I will write them up for the blog. But suffice it to say that Frank's daughter, who was a professional singer, told that us that the Cartwrights often held musical soirees in the house, with people gathered around the piano in the back parlor. It's possible that Frank came to other musical parties at the house, but because of the noise made by all the party-goers, we didn't hear him. 

                                                                  Frank M. Cartwright