At night, when the murmur of beloved voices has whispered to silence, I sometimes sit musing in near dark by a fire quieted to embers glowing red. Uneven floorboards of oak and chestnut, smoothed by centuries’ footfalls, speak to generations of living in our old house. As I contemplate the span of history witnessed in our familiar rooms, I long to know the stories. In these unsettled and unrecognizable times, I find comfort in thinking about those who lived here in the past. They weathered their own storms of personal or global making. Now on the other side, they know all the answers.
Intent on conjuring the shadows of the mothers who have gone before me, I imagine an aproned woman, flushed and awkward as she leans to tend a pot on the fire, striving to keep her heavy skirts from the flames. With an exhausted smile, she ladles hot stew for a pale young man after his day of labor. Where did she find the energy to enjoy that food herself after tending to chores, animals, mending, churning, spinning, and cooking?
Why do we never see her?
The young man has made himself known. He is thin and bearded and when our daughter, Casey, was little, she reported seeing him, peering from the doorway of her room at night. For years we dismissed these tales as childish fantasy, but then, our former neighbor, Jim, once shed inexplicable tears while sitting before our massive fireplace. His mother was a psychic, and when he told her of his experience, she said she’d “seen” a family in mourning when last she visited us. A young man, thin and bearded, was laid out for a wake.
So, apparently the previous residents remain here, although I have yet to perceive them. Friends who are more sensitive than I marvel at the spirit stirrings. “You don’t feel anything? My god, there’s all kinds of activity!”
We tenants, past and present, have occasionally disagreed as to whether lights should be on or off. More than once, my husband, Dave, has returned upstairs in the morning, wild-eyed, with news that our ghostly friends have been about during the night: lights we definitely extinguished at bedtime were back on when he went down for breakfast. There has been no pattern to the lamps chosen, so it’s not faulty wiring.
One day, when Dave was particularly agitated by this feisty fiddling with switches, I waited until the kids left for school and Dave headed to work. Standing in the front hall, I called to those within hearing. Respectfully, I thanked them for passing the house on to us and told them how much we love it. I requested that they leave the switches be, and restrict appearances around my little ones and their anxious father.
It appears they listened, these eternal homeowners, and for the most part, they keep a low profile.
I let them know there are times I’m not ready to meet them, when even the thought of a filmy form at the foyer window leaves me breathless. But on other occasions at the flickering fireside, my stool pulled as close to the dancing light as I dare, I long for a visit. I close my eyes and wrap about me the beeswax-scented, pewtered past, and seek the other woman who once worked at this hearth.
A spirit passed through you! What an astonishing sensation and experience. And yes, I do feel those who lived here before are joint stewards with us. Thanks for sharing YOUR story!
I love hearing about your others. In my apartment in New York, I felt a presence 15 years after I'd moved in. A spirit passed right through me. I love that you feel so tenderly toward your spirits and yet set boundaries!