My Haunted House

The question that many people ask, within a few minutes of stepping inside our house, is: "Is it haunted?!" It's a 116-year old Folk Victorian with a gothic wrought-iron fence around the front yard. The ceilings are 12-feet tall, with plaster walls about a foot thick, windows leaded and wavy. There's five coal fireplaces and every area seems to have ten doorways.  A warren of rooms lead you from one to the next. It's got porches all around and ancient plants deeply rooted in the yard. There's nothing new about it, except where tasteful and careful kitchen and bathroom necessities have been updated. The old floors don't creak. They were finely joined, with many details, by some insanely skilled craftsmen. The mantels are each a work of art and have been preserved by past, loving owners. We were lucky to buy it, right at the bottoming-out of the downturn. We had to trade in our much-loved homeplace on acreage to get it, but it left us without debt and in a place that makes a dandy Papa and Yaya house. The question still looms: is it haunted?

Our society seems to think there are ghosts everywhere. There's all sorts of reality shows and people chasing poltergeists. Thousands of movies feature gore and havoc stirred up by displeased, floating souls. In my realtor treks, I am often asked by clients if I believe a house is haunted. Sometimes there are freakout sessions because of a strange doll or hole in the wall or a spooky feeling in some of the houses I show. This happens a lot. But I have my own story that I'd like to share...

Ken and I bought a huge fixer-upper home from an estate. A dead guy's estate. A man who had, unfortunately, killed himself. Thankfully, he didn't do it on the property. That might have been too difficult to deal with. There was a profound somberness as we talked with the family and entered into this huge project. The house was only half built and standing roof-high in weeds. Our goal was to bring joy to it, even as a testament to God's life-giving spirit. At the time, we had two toddlers and were pregnant with a third. Ken worked nights and we were living in a friend's basement apartment. I would leave out after breakfast to work on the house so he could get some sleep and quiet for a few hours. 
The first day that the children and I walked into the empty house, I heard heavy footsteps upstairs, directly above us. I yelled "Hello!" and carefully proceeded into the hall. Creeping across the downstairs, I kept hailing the ghost, with no response. Curiosity got the better of me as I slowly climbed the stairs. I even hollered out things like, "Hey Ken, honey, somebody's here." (Remember, Ken was back at the apartment in deep snooze by now). Great security tactic when you don't have a weapon on you. Eventually I realized there was nobody else in the house. At least no Body. I got busy and shook off the spookiness, but we didn't stay long. Ken had to work several days of overtime, so he didn't go to the house until a week later. I told him about the phantom that had made his presence known every day we were there. He thought I might be leaning towards the dramatic and brushed it off. 

Bright and early the next Monday, we pulled into the yard. I wondered what Ken was going to think about our little (well, he sounded big) friend. I didn't say a word when he opened the door and walked in. Within a few minutes, Mr. Casper began his heavy trod across the ceiling. Ken jumped, then grabbed a large metal tool. He went into Ninja mode, crouching around corners and anticipating a blood-thirsty mercenary. After an exhausting search with no visible results, he turned to me: "I'm sorry, Rose! I didn't believe you." He then made a call to my Daddy, who made haste to come over to the house. We stood around, hands linked, and prayed over that abode, over the other family, over us. With the most sincere of hearts, we asked the Lord to bind Satan in the name and through the blood of the Lord Jesus Christ. We had a good laugh and went about our business. It took us six months to finish that house, and then lived there quite merrily for the next eight years. The "ghost" was never heard from again. Not a peep, creak or even one chilly draft.

We're not charismatic, heck we're not even non-denominational anymore. We don't watch scary movies and we've never celebrated Halloween. And now we live in a really old house that people want to believe is haunted. So what's my take on all this? From the scriptures, we can find truth about these things. The Bible says that it is appointed once for a man to die, and then the judgement. Once. If you're dead, you're dead. You're not floating around. You're either in heaven or in hell. But the Bible also says that there are spiritual beings, both angels and demons. Good and bad. And there are entities on this planet that we cannot explain. He also tells us that we are to take dominion of this earth and to pray against principalities and powers that are evil. This spiritual warfare, in my opinion, can attach itself to all sorts of things and people. I know that I am not in a bubble, life is not ever going to be perfect, and I may have bad things happen to me at the hand of evil people and things. But I also know that, as a Christian, the Lord is working all things for my good (Romans 8). I have that confidence and do not have to be afraid. When we prayed over the weird spirit that seemed to be in our house, we knew that God had the preeminence. We never had to doubt or to be fearful of what something might do to us. God's on the throne and Satan has to flee in His name. 

When we bought our Victorian, we did as we have learned to do. We prayed and dedicated it to God and His glory. These flawed, sinful souls that live in it are firebrands that He picked out of the flames, redeemed bearers of His mercy. So when someone asks me if our house is haunted, I just tell them, "Yeah, it is. With the Holy Ghost."

A High Calling

In this most childish of seasons, I have been pondering the role of children in our society lately. Every generation tends to bemoan how the next batch is doing...or not doing. As a youngster, I recall the seasoned folks shaking their heads and wishing for the old days.  The truth is, societies do tend to rise and fall in cyclical fashion. We often point to the downturn of the Roman empire as it met its demise over decades of gradual moral slippage, slouching towards mediocrity and decadence until it imploded. 

We've raised four children to adulthood, so now I'm the one clucking and shaking my head. It's easy to raise commentary when you are no longer responsible for little humans. It's easy to forget how difficult it is and also how profoundly tired you were. But meanwhile, I still have my checklist. We used to breed and raise (responsibly, of course) lovely Golden Retrievers. Over twenty years, I saw dogs go from being treated as pets to being adopted out like children. In the same period, I've seen children go from being potential adults to being pets. Children as pets. I think there might be a book with that title. They're cute, with these big, dewy eyes. They're standard issue, for most families. Sure, they come with their package of problems, but if you can find a way to outsource a lot of stuff, maybe you can keep your hands clean. Good luck with that.

I'm just hoping that we will have enough parents in these next few generations that have the gumption to see past the immediate. Because the immediate is what is generally getting answered. Instant gratification, devices on auto-pilot, entertainment at every juncture. They say that the attention span of today's typical elementary child has shortened to a ridiculously few seconds, because of the amount of artificial stimulation that children are receiving these days. Gone are simple pleasures that drag out the minutes and hours and teach us to focus. There are some families that are defying this trend, but they have to be intentional and vigilant to make it stick. 

I made plenty of mistakes in raising our children -- neglect, germs, yelling, not noticing dirty sheets, spending too much time on the phone, being generally selfish and sometimes stupid. At the end of the day, it's only the grace of God that gave us these awesome children who are hard-working, thinking, God-fearing adults. I pray that there will be those in this generation who will look beyond surviving today's crazy bustle to the deeper, nobler, higher things that they have been entrusted with. That they'll see children as a blessing, not a curse. Not as pets, but as the framework of the future. God help us.

Goin' Nuts

We were seeing smoke, almost every day. I'd wake up, walk outside and think somebody must be burning leaves... but then we heard that there were wildfires tearing through the woods. North Georgia was a crazy place, with new flames cropping up every day. The drought did a number on our dear South. We had the hottest, longest summer on record and the skies had no mercy. Our grass went away, til all that was left was moss...my goldfish pond starting looking puny. Nobody wanted to go outside all summer. We waited, not so patiently, for fall, but it never really came. We rolled from Hades right into winter this week, when the sky finally relented and let loose the rain. Drought is a scary thing. Everybody grumbles at first, strangers talk about it to each other in elevators, the weatherman reminds us every hour. But then something wears thin and it begins to worry the earth. We can't help but start to think about what will happen if it never ends. I think about the book of Exodus, about locusts, dust bowls, dying cattle. But then again, I do tend towards the dramatic. Funny, how many things are like the rain after a dry spell. It starts pouring and in short order we forget what we were worried about. Sorta like when my husband was unemployed, then got a job. A few months ago our lips were starting to stretch real tight over our teeth. Feelin' a little parched and gettin' bug-eyed. He gets a job and next thing you know I'm buying recliners and a new mattress, when I probably ought to be tucking dollar bills under the old one. 

It's so easy to get into debt. We slap that credit card down instead of putting stuff on layaway or paying cash. The card is a deceiver. "I'll think about it tomorra." You walk away with your goodies, without paying. But the extortion is looming. Layaway makes us wait. It's not real fun. Until it is. I remember my Mama picking up all the Christmas gifts at stores where she had been paying for weeks. Then I tried it after I acquired children (it's almost unheard of now)...and what joy to retrieve something that's already paid for. There's a giant sinking feeling when your credit card bill comes in the mail, but there's no happy dance quite like paying cash for things. I'm considering just putting an orange and some pecans in everybody's stockings this year. Wouldn't that be special? I am joking, but the truth is that there's eighteen shopping days left and I've only bought one present. Don't tell my grandkids.

Dance to the Music

I get cracked up when I see commercials where you can buy CDs of "the classics." And they're talking about Pink Floyd, not Mozart. I like all sorts of music and at the same time can really hate others. Music is spiritual in nature. It burrows right down into your soul and tells you things. It makes you dream, makes you mad, makes you crazy, makes you think. I marvel at the immense power it has. 

As a child, I heard my MawMaw humming as she swept. It changed what she was doing. I used to sneak out to my Daddy's Volkswagen Beetle and flip stations until I found songs that I liked. Georgie Girl, tunes by the Beatles, Up-Up-and-Away, the Mamas and the Papas. It was fascinating and forbidden at the same time. The public pool and the skating rink were dangerous, because of the boys and especially the music. Christmas was about the shows that came on once a year, with their delightful verses woven throughout. And church, well...there was nothing more beautiful than voices lifted in praise, hushed arias to the Lord. In fifth grade, our teacher introduced us to Mozart, Bach, Beethoven, Haydn, Schubert -- music that stopped time for me. My Mama bought me albums at a yard sale for a dollar -- Beethoven's Ninth Symphony, his Pastoral Symphony and then a whole whopping sixty minutes of Mozart. I died and went to heaven. My friends thought I was weird. It was the most deliriously gorgeous thing I had ever heard. 

Time marched on. Music, a smorgasbord of delights -- sweet and sour, tangy, spicy, creamy, smooth, bitter, salty, from subtle to insane. I added likes and dislikes to my palate, ever thankful that I was lucky to get to play the piano, my flute and sing in the church choir. Music doesn't ask you, it compels you. It brings other worlds and the field next door right on up to your brain, your soul. I remember the first time I got to see the Nutcracker, with its Pandora's box of melodies springing out. The story came alive because Tchaikovsky churned it. Hearing Messiah and the Hallelujah chorus, then "For Unto Us a Child," not to mention the incomparable Alleluia at the end -- I heard angels. Then again, how I love an earthy folk tune, sung by a husky, time-worn soul. A traveler who has seen those places I haven't, whose heart has dragged the depths. There are mysteries there and at once all that is familiar. There's rock, pop, swing, jazz. And so much dancing to be done.

When the holidays roll around and Christmas peeks at us from the bend, I love to drag out all the decor and music. Recent years have cheapened it, as they start playing it right after Halloween and at every store and street corner. No longer do we pull out the Perry Como album once a year from its fragile sleeve and play it with the white noise and pops and scratches. We open an app on our phone and conjure up instant gratification, any time we like. There's good and bad in that, but I just don't want to lose the magic. It's kind-of like the cure for anxiety and the eating of a chocolate truffle, both... The anticipation, the taking-in of it, the melting into the soul. In the end, it's about that crystalline moment where the cares of the world fall away and, if even for just a little while, all is well.

There's No Place Like Home

There it was, a castle rising out of the ground. Behind it were the rough and tumbled mountains, all golden and bronze. Crowds of people lined up in their cars and then in a queue to get inside it, freezing and blown by an unexpected onslaught of northern wind. My daughter and I had abruptly made our plans, booked a cheesy, cheap motel, cancelled all other projects, grabbed an extra friend and drove four hours up to Asheville, North Carolina for the weekend. All because a chum had given me the idea a few days before. It just seemed like we needed some early holiday cheer -- a trip to the Biltmore House, all gussied up for Christmas. Even though it's a tourist trap, costing way too much, it truly is splendid. Liz and I love to tour old homes, and this one is the Mack Daddy. From the smooth Indiana limestone to the finely hewed mantels, the craftmanship that makes up this mansion is overwhelming. Gargoyles on the corners, statues overseeing the edges, soaring glass conservatory, a library to die for, fireplaces everywhere, wood and stone, exquisitely crafted etchings and carvings...it would take weeks to really properly examine all the details. 

At first glance, a rich man's ability to command and pay an army of workers to build him a monument might seem superfluous, useless, too much. It is certainly nothing I can relate to, as far as being the rich man. But I have been on the other end - the worker, the artisan. The wealthy who have employed me to paint, create, and decorate have done me a great service these many years. They have helped us to feed our family, to own our home, to enjoy the fruits of our labors. But even more importantly, they have given me the opportunity to perform my crafts with abandon. The things that I am gifted with, I do not lay claim to... I wasn't trained in them, I didn't chase them down. They were given to me by God and He put internal compulsions inside that I cannot explain or even sometimes control. When people pay you to swim in that, well, it's just gravy.

These days, it seems that there is some sort of righteousness connected to being jobless and homeless. Though Ken and I have never been without a home, we have experienced rounds of unemployment and have had our trials, though in America I find it hard to believe there's much true hunger or suffering. Go to a third-world country and try to make a case... Currently, however, the trend is to act as if the rich man is the devil. I know several devils, wealthy ones and dirt-poor ones. Having money doesn't mean you are one. Looking at this garish, over-the-top mansion this weekend made me think about all the thousands of people who fed their children because a monied tycoon employed them to build and sustain his empire. Even today, as the wheels of commerce turn and myriads show up to gape at it, a hundred years later, scores of jobs have been created to keep it all moving. The American dream, where scads of poverty-stricken individuals, children without shoes or family, the humble of the earth, have managed to scrap their way up to the top and build mansions. Or a humble cottage. Or buy an RV and travel the land. Where people like my folks, one from extreme poverty, one from dysfunction, can work hard and change their world. I'm not only talking about wealth, but possibilities. They are still here for the taking.

We wound up our tour and sat outside at the stables, drinking hot cocoa and looking at the magnificent house and the glorious sky behind it. Somehow it suddenly seemed intimate, not so grand, not so impossible. We had peeked into the life of other people, with far different lives than us. People who were also now pushing up daisies. They had a few brief years, with money, yes, but also with sins and trials and indigestion, just like us. It made me think of my own family, my husband, my children and grandchildren, our sweet domicile. I think I'll keep 'em.

Bah Humbug!

I never intended to become Scrooge. I've always loved the delightful promise of Christmas, with twinkling lights, wonderful smells, the excitement of the season. The baby in the manger has held my heart since childhood, so the advent and celebration of His birth holds much meaning for me. When we had our four babies, it was like getting to be a kid all over again. Their new discoveries peeled the years off our old cynical selves. And then grandbabies came, with their innocence and joy. I had no clue that was part of the fun that arrived with the treasure of a baby.

But something happened. Maybe I've just gotten tired. Or older. Or really out of shape. Never mind, all that has kind-of happened. After Halloween hits, the pressure begins to mount. Layers and layers of guilt from all directions press onto my psyche. What I should do. What I don't do. What I will do. What I won't do. Food, more food. Gifts and thoughtfulness. Not to mention forgetfulness. Thanksgiving is looming. Gotta get the trees up, get the house cleaned. How will I do that turkey this year? Butter and more butter. More and more guilt. I start thinking about last year's resolutions and how this next year's are starting to seem like a broken record, played how many times? And are we gonna have those potato yeast rolls or just buy some packaged ones? I want everybody here, everybody. No grousing or griping about this or that, what am I supposed to bring? I have no idea. I'm making the turkey, with rosemary and butter up its hiney. And some jello. Bring whatever you like. It'll all work out. I haven't even read the Thanksgiving edition of Southern Living, much less the Fall edition. That insane pecan pie on the front will take me a week to figure out, so I guess I'll pick one up at Walmart. Speaking of pecans, they're dropping all over the backyard and I can't even get the ones picked out that I've got sitting in a monstrous bowl in the living room. And that's just Thanksgiving. Then there's four weeks to Christmas. A mural to paint, three houses to decorate for clients and obligations to city events. Don't mention the real estate. Or how I've neglected pretty much everybody I love this year. 

Ah, there it is. My people. We run about, making money and projects, only to forget about the people. It all starts with good intentions, where that's exactly what we are doing: taking care of our own. Then it morphs into the tyranny of the urgent and chaos and mayhem, until we've forgotten who or why. How do we change it? Here in America, we've made the holidays into a strange melee of consumerism. It's what makes the world go 'round. How do we make it stop? 

We don't really have true winter here, in our lovely South. There's very few snow days, though usually a day or two of some really bad ice. There's no lingering with a snowflake tipping onto your tongue or long months curled up with a book next to a fire. But we do have Christmas. Let's take this year to be intentional about our lives. I am going to vacate for a day, sometime in the next few....and write down what each person in my family means to me. I am going to put to pen all the things that I'm thankful for. I'm not going to promise to lose a hundred pounds or change the world. But I'm resolving to make these holidays better, to have a plan and not just wait on Chernobyl to happen. To seek the face of the Lord who made it all and who makes it all worth it. Maybe I'll just cancel that confounded magazine.

Special Christmas Tour!!!

I adore old houses. Their walls have seen lives unfold before them, but they keep them secret. I ponder at all that might have conspired in the 116-year-old house I live in. I wonder if there were babies born here, if people died here, what kinds of love and pain were made here... We are adding to the layers of words, memories and thoughts swirling inside this peaceful abode. Many people want to have new houses, to make them their "own," to not have to live in other peoples' dirt and mayhem. It is indeed a pleasant experience to move into a fresh, shining place that is full of possibilities. But then, there is something wise about an old place. It tells me that we are not here forever, that we are just passing through. Stop and savor it, ponder eternity. Slow down. Sit a spell on the broad, gentle porch. Curl up toes in the old moss in the yard. Look up at the old pecan trees in the backyard, spitting their nuts everywhere. Ken and I have loved houses and real estate all of our 34 married years. We have ridden around and stared at architecture, posing scenarios for the different places we see. Our annual anniversary trip in February has usually included tours of homes. We've been all over the southeast, wandering around ancient places and marveling at everything from mansions to wee cottages. Our daughter, Liz, and I love nothing more than to get in on any kind of home tour. It's fascinating to see history and craftsmanship, be it rich or humble.

This year, Villa Rica is having its own show-down. Suffice it to say, I am promoting our Tour of Homes this week. We have several delightful, historic homes: cottage bungalows and Victorians...and a beautiful old church. It will be on Saturday, December 10. We are having two different tour times: 11-1:00, which includes lunch(!) and then a second tour from 6-8:00, which includes heavy h'ordeuvres (that's snacks, ya'll) and drinks. The price is $25 and includes the lunch (the early one) or heavy snacks/drink (the late one). Here is where you can go to order tickets: http://www.downtownvillarica.com/events/tour-of-homes/ -- or you can purchase them at the Main Street office in Villa Rica (106 Temple St, Villa Rica -- 678-840-1160). Each tour will begin at Uncorked on Main, located at 129 Main Street in downtown Villa Rica. There will be lovely music, musicians, hosts, Christmas lights, and of course, FOOD! Main Street will have shuttles running to each property, bringing you right to the doors. What a lovely addition to the Christmas season. Bring your friends and loved ones (hey -- it can be their gift!) for a fun day and then do some shopping in downtown Villa Rica!