I was ten years old and packing up my room in the house I was born in. We were moving from the countryside of Connecticut to the suburbs of New Jersey, and I was not happy about it. I loved our house. It was roomy and roamy and airy and light. And old. Very, very old. A few years earlier my mother had seen a ghost in the window in the living room. I was a realist/cynic even as a kid, but I believed her.
"What was it Mommy?"
"She was nursing her baby before they had to leave and keep moving."
"Where were they going?"
"Wherever they could I guess."
Our farmhouse was a bona fide stop on the underground railroad. It's included in the town records as a place where "the coloreds gathered" in the 1850s. Seriously.
When I was packing that last day, bitter and teary over leaving my house and my friends and my roaming backyard and field, I saw him. A little boy in the window, for the briefest of seconds. He flashed me a smile and disappeared, and I ran downstairs in fear and exhilaration.
"Ghosts definitely live here," I say.
The above is a wholeheartedly true story, and I stole the first line of this post from "You'll Never Eat Lunch in This town Again," by Julia Phillips, as part of Grace's awesome series. Aside from the obvious, it's awesome because there is no deadline and I can do it a month later than everyone else.