Unsettled Sins in Savannah
Reverend John Wesley stands as a statue in Reynolds Square with the same commanding presence he had when he used to clutch his bible under his arm and preach to his flock in the very same spot. After growing up and receiving his religious training in England, Reverend Wesley undertook a mission to spread the word in Savannah which lasted from 1735–1738. He started the Methodist church and established the first Sunday school class in America.
Reverend Wesley stood outside his home which was located at his statue when addressing Native Americans in the great outdoors. This practice cause controversy within the church because the custom was to deliver the Gospel within the church.
Reverend Wesley began seeing a young woman in his congregation, but refused to marry her. His mistress would go to the square and stand under a tree to listen to him preach even though he heartlessly shamed her. During the conservative period, once he ruined her reputation, the community rebuked her. The woman fled Savannah and never returned.
However, her spirit still haunts Reynold’s Square. There is a blue spirit orb in the tree that looks over the statue.
Poor indentured servant, Annie, wanders the Oglethorpe Square where she hanged to death. Early teen, which was marriageable material for the times, Annie was physically and emotionally abused by her influential owner. Like any other young lady, she yearned for love and acceptance. She found her soul mate in a boy who also worked for the man.
When she discovered she was pregnant, Annie asked for freedom but her cruel employer refused. Determined to give her child a better life, Annie and her soul mate sliced her employer’s neck while she washed his hair.
The authorities found her guilty of murder and hanged her. Her spirit lingers in the square. Above her execution spot, Spanish moss never grows, even though the rest of the trees remain covered. Visitors regularly report speaking to a hysterical woman in search of her lost baby. There are ghost orbs in the above photo.
Oftentimes, visitors of the DAR cemetery have seen a child dressed in a white dress sitting on a bench, crying her heart out. Those who walked over to comfort her witness her transform into a white light and vanished as soon as she noticed them getting close to her. She was a victim of the Bay Street killer.
In the late 1800s, a teenage boy named Renee had been accused of snapping the necks of numerous children and animals, and then tossing their dead bodies into the graveyard and alleyways. The community arrested Renee and placed him behind bars. The killings ceased. Renee managed to escape during a city fire and the deaths increased, once again.
Outraged, a mob attacked Renee and strung him by the neck from a tree along the river on Bay Street. Alas, the townspeople made a mistake. Within days, the bodies of additional animals and children were discovered with broken necks. Unless, the folklore is true and Renee’s ghost continues to kill. The only way to ward away his spirit is with iron since it held him captive during his life.
Renee ‘s red spirit is visible at the DAR cemetery. He hovers over the unmarked spot where his body was tossed after his execution.
Ghosts love being alive in stories. In my novel, Surfer Murder, when a surfer returns to the water after her sister’s death, she is confronted by spirits that lead her to a murder.
Twinkle, Twinkle, Little Fairy
Where’s a gal supposed to go in order to find a good fairy?
Take a close look around your plants. Even indoor potted plants can be infested with the playful spirits. They appear in many forms, one of which is a fairy light. Expect to find the loving spirits around unique natural settings, like trees that have grown together as if they are kissing.
Fairies seek out areas where there are tree stumps and even miniature manmade houses. Anywhere they can quickly hide from intruders pleases them.
Fairies are peaceful, nature spirits charged with inspiring beauty and abundance for plants. They are specifically responsible for encouraging fragrant flowers.
Any colorful grouping of flowers can become an enchanted garden. Fairies gravitate to bright yellows, deep purples, and hot pinks. Shiny surfaces, dangling mirrors, glass marbles, and prisms hung in the sunlight increase fairy energy.
Fairies have a sweet tooth and gravitate towards sweet smelling plants. Rosemary, licorice and peppermint entice them to stay around. Sniff your flower selections before planting them to make sure they remind you of cupcakes and honey.
Fairies love a good party and anything that reminds them of festivities. Look for wind chimes, wood pipes, and bells to add to their play land. Hang them away from the wind so you’ll know their chimes are caused by fairy activity.
If you haven’t noticed a fairy population around your houseplants and on your property, keep an eye out for any fairy doors they use as portals. Unlike entryways for other garden spirits, fairy doors have are similar to a Gothic keystone where the tip of the archway is more narrow than the bottom. Also, the edges will have the precision of having been cut with a sharp blade. Most importantly, make sure you have a pure heart when trying to connect with the cheerful spirits. No need attracting the wrong sorts. They can be mischievous, causing mishaps in your garden, and those are the nice ones.
Roaming Gnomes Surround Your Home
A furrow in the base of a tree near your house might not be a random hole. It might belong to your local gnome population.
Gnomes are earth dwelling spirits with the tough job of protecting plants and minerals in the ground. As vegetarians, they adore animals and are always on the lookout to save them. Since people are the number one offenders of abusing the planet, the six inch tall gnomes tend to stay away from humans.
If you happen to glimpse the shadowy figure of a gnome, check out his feet. Gnome legs rotate inward, causing his toes to point to each other. This effect allows him to run as fast as a tiger. His keen vision give him detailed sight a couple of miles in the distance.
If you are thinking your landscaping could use some improvements by the peaceful gnomes, try making your outdoor environment more desirable to them. Gnomes gravitate toward nut bearing trees, mushrooms, vegetable gardens and berry bushes.
The two natural predators of gnomes are cats and trolls. Gnomes won’t live around your house if you have either.
Check out your yard for any gnome homes. They live at the base of trees in furrows between exposed roots. Of course, you won’t see their real home, but only the entryway to their other world. If you want to capture a photograph of a gnome, you don’t have to wait until dark. Simply approach the tree with good intentions and if they are receptive to you, they will greet you in the archway.
Gnome characters play a major role in my novel, The Elf Book of Enchantments, when they interfere with a teenage girl’s quest to right her wrongs that are destroying her family.
Good luck!
Dial 911 for 311 Hauntings
While visiting Chattanooga, Tennessee for Zip’s annual gun show, we stayed at the Sheraton Read House. The National Register of Historic Places recognized the hotel for its Georgian architecture. The hotel brags about its Drexel Furniture and Sheraton Sweet Sleeper Beds, and I am here to tell you, the sleeping situation is outstanding. There is a rumor about the hotel being haunted and seeing as how I love a good mystery, I had to check it out. The hauntings are so well known, the locals believe them full-heartedly and even use the room to their advantage. As a joke, they put Al Capone in room 311 on the night he was taken into custody before being tried and convicted for his unlawful gangster related tax evasion.
Site History
The hotel site has had several names beginning in the 1847 when the Western and Atlantic Union train station was built across the street. During Civil War days when it was referred to as the Crutchfield House, the location thrived with politics, social events and boomed economically, acting as the Union occupied headquarters and hospital during the war. In 1861, Jefferson Davis and William Crutchfield argued vehemently about whether or not Jefferson was a traitor and military despot, drawing guns and firing into the crowd. After a fire, the hotel was reinvented as the Read House in 1872, with Georgian Revival additions in 1926. The impressive guest list includes, Winston Churchill, Richard Nixon, Ronald Reagan, Bob Hope, William McKinley, Eleanor Roosevelt, Margaret Truman, Charles Laughton, Tallulah Bankhead, Eddie Rickenbacker, and along with the many other famous folks, of course, Al Capone.
Likely Spirits
During the Civil War in 1863, a prostitute was taken to room 311 and heartlessly murdered by a soldier. Coincidentally, in the late 1920s, after the Crutchfield House burned to the ground and was rebuilt as the Read House, a woman named Analise Netterly died in the new room 311. There are several versions of her story. 1) She was a kept woman and once she realized her male suitor was dishonorable, she unexpectedly died, some believe due to a broken heart, others say suicide and still more claim murder. 2) She was a wife who cheated on her husband and was cast off at the hotel. Determined to get even with him, she intended to live a lavish lifestyle on his dime, but days before the divorce was final, she was found in the bathtub with a slashed throat.
The Haunting
Regardless of which woman remains attached to the property, men who smoke cigars or cigarettes have reported being harassed by a female spirit. For many years, the third floor of the hotel was the smoking floor but with so many guests checking out during the middle of the night, demanding a refund because they woke with a woman sitting on their chest, or slamming the bathroom door, or staring at them inches from their faces, the hotel came up with some strategies. 1) The hotel switched the room number with 313, thinking people fabricated the sensations, but the hauntings never left the original 311. 2) After switching the rooms back, all guests were responsible for the hotel fee regardless of what time they checked out. 3) When hauntings continued after the smoking floor was removed, room 311 was removed from the guest room list. It is no longer available for lodging and has been converted into a broom closet.
Why Al Capone?
Chattanooga was once referred to as the Dynamo of Dixie because the town relied on manufacturing for its revenues and with that, was a strong supporter of unions. Al Capone was incarcerated nearby and spent his last night as a free man in room 311 during the early 1930s. The guards stayed with their ears against the door, laughing amongst themselves, expecting to hear Capone cry out in fear any minute. Instead, all they heard was loud, rattled snoring. A new legend was born. The discontented spirit in room 311 recognized Capone as being more evil than she was, and hid from him that night.
Al Capone in Chattanooga
My photos suggested to me that an evil spirit looms in room 311 as opposed to a woman with a broken heart. Could it possibly be the intense personality of Al Capone? I wondered if the gangster leader would have close enough ties to the hotel for him to remain there in his afterlife.
He owned property on top of a mountain forty-five minutes west of town. Today, it is called High Point, a restaurant voted as having the Best Gourmet Meal in Tennessee. Capone financed the stone house for John Dillenger as a hideout for booze transported across the country during the prohibition years. The building has underground tunnels and escape hatches and sand under the floorboards to stop bullets, plus numerous bullet holes in the walls. On December 30, 1941, his son, Albert Francis “Sonny” Capone, married his sweetheart Diane Ruth Casey who was from Chattanooga. Apparently, Capone spent quite a bit of time in the area.
Haunting Encounter
Once I heard the stories about the 311 hauntings, I rallied my children to investigate the third floor with me. My husband, Zip, who doesn’t believe in such rubbish, couldn’t resist joining us, just in case something interesting happened. The hallway was empty and just as the story said, all the rooms on the floor were numbered except for 311.
I took photos from different angles, at first finding an orb beside the door, which grew smaller. As we stood outside the room discussing whether or not the hotel brochure would mention the story of Ms. Netterly being afraid of Al Capone, I noticed a black image, a reddish smokey figure shaped like splattered blood, move across the door. I asked everyone to step back and took another shot. We ordered the ghost to return to its home, i.e., not follow us back to our place. The figure slipped under the door frame and was gone.
I’d never photographed a sinister image before and all of us were a little spooked. Even skeptical Zip flinched when he saw the figure move around us. In unison, we all said it must’ve been Al Capone, maybe attached to his last great night of sleep. He might’ve been curious what we had to say about him, or wanted to protect his property. This haunting resembles the ghostly character in my novel, Under a Full Moon, by interacting with others on the material plane.
Inspirational Manatees Make Dreams Come True
Years ago, soon after I first saw manatees, several appeared in my dreams. They saved me from drowning in the ocean when the dolphins were too busy playing. A gentle sea cow carried me to safety, far away from the alligators and sharks, and deep into a cavern through an entrance under sea level. Books covered the walls of numerous alcoves inside the cave, with plush seating clustered in all the nooks. I woke with a great sense of peace, a feeling of new beginnings, and an appreciation toward the mystical looking creatures.
I’d never seen anything like them before, with their tiny, eternally sleepy eyes and their silly mouths puckering into sloppy kisses. They have short flippers, like a seal, but with their enormous bellies, they can hardly do more than push each other aside when I bend over the stern of the sailboat to say, “hello.” As vegetarians, they love greens, cabbages and leafy vegetables, and will cross the filthiness rivers for a taste of fresh water whether it is running out from my sailboat when the air conditioners are cooling or flowing from a hose while I swab the deck. Manatees always travel in pairs, like lovers languishing in the heat. Other times, they arrive with a third calf for an afternoon family outing.
Even the busiest sailors and children stop what they are doing to watch the manatees argue over which gets the longest drag of fresh water. They captivate attention not only because they are so charming and endearing, but also because of their resistance to the environment.
Their backs are covered in algae, giving them shimmers of turquoise and metallic greens on their tough skin, making them seem all the more magical, like wizened mermen. Deep gouges in their backs reveal how careless man is, charging through the No Wake Zones full speed without warning to the manatees that their lives are in danger, that they must submerge their sluggish bodies before their heads become lobbed off.
I remembered my dream when writing my fantasy, Evangabella, and shared their hidden world in the opening chapter. It is because of their secretive serenity that the protagonist causes an accident that thrusts her into a mystical world where she must right her ancestors’ wrongs. No matter how many times manatees visit me while I’m on the water, I’m always overcome by their magical presence. Surely, they are related to mermaids.
Savannah Savors Spirits
Savannah, Georgia is one of the three most haunted cities in the United States. Ghosts throughout the town squares are so active, their stories are told with the same enthusiasm as nasty gossip, spoken without hesitation or question as to the likelihood spirits savor the old houses and historical town squares.
For instance, at the 17 Hundred 90 Hotel, an unfortunately poor child named Anna was forced into a servitude marriage with an old, abusive man. She performed into hard labor in addition to having almost no food and too many beatings. After a few years, she fell in love with a sailor who promised to return and free her from her enslavement. When the boy returned, her husband beat her to death, then tossed her out the upstairs window. There in the window, her spirits remains, waiting for her one true love.
At a quaint house around the corner, a black cat once lived and played with the local children in the courtyard. So attached to the fun and energy of happy kids, after his death, the cat makes himself visible to children in the form of yellow streaks.
Ah yes, the famed most haunted home in Savannah is the Hampton Lillibridge house that survived the 1820 town fire. The spirits love this home so much they refused to leave when the house was relocated, which incidentally resulted in an accidental death. The then owner, Jim Williams stood trial three times for murder and the word on the street was that in addition to a crypt found in the basement, Jim placed his victim there as well. During the 1960s, the hauntings were so outrageous, the neighbors accused him of having loud parties every night. The community insisted the local bishop perform an exorcism, however the paranormal activity continued.
The orb in my above picture belongs to a boarder who hanged himself. The below picture shows three white orbs and at the edge of the picture is a blue orb, all probably there for the nightly party.
Hippies Strengthened My Beliefs
One fall morning during my eighth year, a life-changing visitor arrived at my house. Sick with the flu, I stayed home from school that day. The doorbell rang and I ran to see who was there.
I swung the door open upon two tall, beautiful men. They glowed in the humidity. Both angelic beings had long hair framing their faces. They emitted tranquility by clasping their hands across their chest. Shocked by their presence, my waist-length hair stood on end and I screamed.
“Momma, Jesus and one of his disciples are at the front door!” I left them standing outside to let her know the great news.
Never in all my days had I expected to meet Jesus Christ in person. My mother taught Sunday school at the Presbyterian Church. I won a Holy Bible the prior year for not missing one class during 365 days. Having Jesus stop by my home was even better than when the preacher paid his tri-monthly visits to see if everyone was well.
To my disappointment, the disciple was my Texas cousin and Jesus was his mere mortal friend who happened to have been blessed with strawberry-blonde hair, hence giving him a nickname having to do with wine. After graduating first in his class from college, my cousin and his pal refused to submit to society by joining the masses. In search of truth, they embarked on nomadic wanderings. Crossing the Mississippi River and stopping for a rest in Tennessee satisfied their awakening. They made their political statement by loading boxes at a warehouse.
“Well, they must be hungry because it’s lunchtime,” my mother said after a few visitations.
“Why do you think that?” I asked.
“Because, whenever we eat they show up,” my mother said.
“Just like Jesus. That’s how he and his disciples got fed, too.” I wasn’t ever completely convinced they weren’t angelic.
For several months, the two boys gathered at my house at mealtimes. They never came out and asked for food, but somehow as I watched cartoons with a bag of Ruffles potato chips, their hands would sneak inside.
They were endearing. They never complained about wrestling our 120-pound Airedale. I told them silly stories and we had tickle contests. My cousin carved the highest quality pumpkin faces I’d ever seen. The guys were peaceful and benevolent, making a huge impression on my life. I loved how we all gathered together without any expectations or resentments as to what the other was doing. No judgments whatsoever.
My mother said they must’ve gotten tired of needing money because, eventually, they relinquished their protests against the “Big Man.” My Texas cousin became a hot-shot CPA attorney, still fighting the system but within luxurious surroundings.
The way my mother welcomed my cousin and his friend into our home gave me a sense of security in knowing people took care of each other. I felt extra love in watching her fuss over the charming boys. She didn’t mind that they wanted free food. She accepted them as her own children and always encouraged them stay longer.
I modeled the mother of Shea Tabor in the Stone Zone Mystery to accept her daughter’s carefree idol with the same love. Everyone deserved the comfort of trusting his neighbor and the confidence in us all being here, struggling to survive together.
Passion Flares in Copenhagen, Denmark
I belong in Copenhagen, Denmark. Its atmosphere enters my soul and embraces me. Even my husband says I blend with the rest of the civilians. Residents ask whether I’m from there.
Such a romantic city, even Denmark’s royal family smolders with passionate tales wherein their enduring love for one another broke all barriers. Established by Danes and Vikings, Copenhagen has a special quality that combines contemporary artistry with avid traditions. Bronze and plaster sculptures created by noteworthy artists adorn every street and most buildings.
Copenhagen’s Town Square is fairly new, rebuilt during the early 1900s. The romantic Scandinavian Renaissance architecture includes twisted spires held high by demons, copper rooftops supporting copulas, and dramatic coloring within the textures. Decorative doors enhance the clean lines of the smaller buildings. Some doors are geometric with contrasting primary colors, and others are hand-carved with intricate vegetation scenes. There are no boundaries imposed upon the creativity of Denmark artists.
The city is known for its damp, moderate climate. Vibrant splashes of flowers bloom around houses and illuminate fields. If you are lucky to visit during a storm, plan to search for amber deposited by the waves along the northern shores.
As a sea faring city, red, navy and white boats brighten the harbors and accentuate the charming yellow and orange cottages designed in Danish Neo-classicism. Entering from the waterway, you will see the Little Mermaid, sculpted by Edvard Eriksen, sitting on a rock, staring out at sea, waiting for her prince to return.
Funky décor accentuates restaurants that spill onto courtyards. The meals are prepared with the same crisp appeal as the immaculate washrooms. And the people are gorgeous.
Shops are tucked into basements and inconspicuously nestled along quiet streets. Antique stores offer unique selections of World War II relics and needlepoint. Bright moccasins, capes and weapons crafted by Eskimos and other tribes near the North Pole are treasures. Selections are unique and highly crafted.
A must see is the Tivoli Pleasures Park that inspired Walt Disney. Its authentic international themes lead you along walkways strung with celestial lights and surrounded by fountains. There are countless museums and churches with refreshing architecture and prehistoric relics. Denmark is an example of imagery at its best.
Pack sweaters and light jackets. Depending on the time of year, you might even need heavier clothing. Make sure they are stylish. Copenhagen remains atop the most current trends in everything from clothing to furniture to light fixtures. Even dishes and silverware have a zesty spin. Be prepared for twilight hours during the summer, which means more daylight for enjoying the picturesque town.
A definite “yes” for families who enjoy long days of endless visual stimulation. An “absolute” for couples who yearn for a fabulous backdrop over a delightful holiday.
Having such a huge impression on me, Copenhagen is the inspiration for the enchanted world within Evangabella. I place the protagonist in enchanted swamps possessing similar characteristics. My most outrageous settings are sparked from their futuristic ways of thinking within their traditional locales.
Talking to Ghosts, Walking in Orlando
We love Scooby Doo at our house. For a live experience, we made an appointment to walk through downtown Orlando with the American Ghost Adventure. I expected a man dressed in Victorian garb with a top hat to tell us ghost stories. Instead, we met Christopher, a regular guy wearing a black tee-shirt with a gothic cross on his chest. His ghost hunting activities aired in Great Britain.
He educated us on the different classifications of paranormal activity. Memories of emotional moments in a person’s life sometimes repeated themselves without intentions. Lost apparitions had no idea people noticed them. Other spirits reasoned and interacted with living beings.
He passed around KII EMF meters and we strolled through downtown Orlando. The fresh city had more history than the glass skyrise buildings made it seem. Christopher didn’t focus on historical events. He reported details of recent paranormal encounters.
Okay, sure. It’s possible. I mean, I’ve seen a few odd things myself over the years.
With the setting sun, the accounts of ghosts hauntings became spooky. I appreciated being greeted by a cross whenever I looked at Christopher. The bar activity added to the atmosphere. Stilettos and cocktail dresses were the perfect ghost hunting wardrobe because as it grew dark outside, the streets fill with hoochie girls, Hollywood boys, and transsexuals. It was a nice touch for the raucous happenings behind the unrested souls.
Did I see a ghost? Maybe, at the top of the Bumby building where apparitions of children played upstairs. The white light suggested they were active.
At the end of the walk, with a scary tone established, Christopher took us to his home-base located at a reputable museum. As bold as I was, entering an unfamiliar building after closing hours with a security guard locking us inside bolstered the creepy factor.
Upstairs we went into a historic courtroom. A streak of terror hit me when I touched the last spot Ted Bundy, the relentless serial killer, sat outside jail. He etched his name on the table during his trial. According to our EMF devices, a ghost was in the courtroom with us.
The real action started in the judge’s chamber. Several ghosts lingered after traumatic life experiences. They seemed accustomed to Christopher because they answered his questions by turning on flashlights.
Christopher placed equipment on the table for anyone to use. EMF (electro-magnetic frequency) detectors revealed paranormal activity. An ovilus exposed the words on his iPhone. Bursts of heat and chills read on the temperature gauge suggested other-worldly presences controlled the paranormal activity. He took photos with a night vision camera.
An EVP (electronic voice phenomenon) taped paranormal communications. One ghost engaged us in a thirty-minute conversation. He asked me to get a pencil and paper to write down his words.
The EVP gave cryptic phrases, same as if English wasn’t the first language of ghosts. It reminded me of the way neuroscientists routed brain waves of paralyzed patients who had lost their ability to speak to computers. As images flashed on screens, the computer verbalized the patients’ thoughts, proving loss of the ability to speak didn’t mean lack of intelligence.
This experience was perfect for paranormal lovers. It was thrilling, clean fun. Highly recommended to be added to the theme park entertainment list. The tour ended by ten o’clock and made an excellent cocktail hour before clubbing, too.
I became a believer. How about you? Well, fine then. If you have pictures with suspicious looking images or experiences out of your comfort zone, contact the specialist for yourself at americanghostadventures@gmail.com. He answers all emails and freely provides his opinions.
Apparitions are characters in some of my novels. In Eangabella, they pester the protagonist, same as a persistent guy at a cocktail party tags along after getting the brush off. In Under a Full Moon, a ghost materializes on certain nights to guide the protagonist toward clues for solving a mystery.
My Childhood as a Fire Starter
When I was at the glorious age, too young to ride a bicycle and overjoyed to cruise the cove on my Big Wheel, my younger brother and I played with fire. Actually, he was my older brother but the youngest of my siblings, leaving me with the permanent nickname, “Doc’s Baby,” since my father was a surgeon.
Having a ten year gap with our older siblings, my younger brother and I ate meals in a separate room in front of the fireplace. It was a fabulous set-up allowing us to discover the variety of colors flames created. During warmer months, we were lucky enough to have candles on our miniature dinner table. We burned napkins, wrapping paper and Dixie cups, unwanted brussel sprouts and string beans. Even our leopard print hearth cushion caught on fire a few times. We made wax art with soda bottles and melted crayons.
When we got bored with burning, we created new condiments. We mixed into Ketchup bottles everything left on the table, including the unwanted beans and radishes and hot sauces. We didn’t taste our experiments but laughed our heads off, all the same.
Early on a Saturday, my brother woke me so he could show me how quickly matches burned in a Charles Chip cookie container. After lighting several dozen, we decided to go outside and ride our bikes.
“Where’s Momma?” I asked.
“She’s not here. We’re all alone,” my brother said.
Just before leaving the room, I got the clever idea to cover the metal container with my grandmother’s bedspread to keep it safe. I put on my white, go-go boots and we headed outside.
In an adventurous mood, I recommended we go beyond the end of our cove. We turned one way and another, until we were completely lost. Nothing looked familiar. There were new sounds in the foreign neighborhood.
“What’s that noise?” I asked my big brother.
”It’s a police car. He’s chasing someone,” he said.
“Let’s follow!” I said.
“No. We’ll get arrested if we do that,” he said.
Even though my big brother thought it was a bad idea, I convinced him to follow the sirens. They led us to the end of a wide hill.
“Hey, that’s our house,” he said.
“No. We don’t live anywhere around here. Why would the sirens go to our house?” I asked.
Sure enough, firetrucks led us home. I felt relieved and confused at the same time. The firemen were amazing to watch. I couldn’t help getting excited about the whole thing. They carried hoses across our patio and stomped around, determined and fast.
A young firefighter noticed me and asked in an irritated tone, “Are you the kids who were playing with fire?”
“Who me? It must’ve been a very small fire.” I didn’t think matches counted as actually being irresponsible.
“A neighbor called the fire department. She saw flames rising from your window. Why did you leave the house without telling your mother?” the firefighter asked.
Well, it ended up we weren’t alone that morning, after all. Somehow, my brother and I woke up before everyone else. Momma was taking a shower when we left.
My brother and I were grounded, which meant we had to sit in a leather chair all day long. We weren’t allowed to talk, either.
My oldest brother strutted across the den and grabbed our experimental bottle of Ketchup. We tried to stop him, but since we weren’t allowed to speak it was difficult for him to understand our warnings. He poured the dark brown mixture of Tobasco sauce and unwanted greens and crusty condiments onto his sandwich.
As he shushed me for shouting, he took a big bite to go with that adorable, “Smokey and the Bandit,” Burt Reynolds attitude he flaunted. Needless to say, our time-out on the leather chair was extended.
I couldn’t believe my fortune when Grandmomma Shelton’s furnishings were replaced with a pink Holly Hobby decor and a fancy new headboard with a cushy mattress. Certainly, no excuse for starting a fire.
I incorporated my fire starter experiences into an accident caused by Ivy Clearwater in Evangabella. Like me, she didn’t intend to be a delinquent. Fate and all the supernatural powers of the universe invoked a punishment on her that was more fitting than a few hours in a time-out chair by forcing poor Ivy into the enchanted underworld of Florida.
Mud Wrestling with Pigs
Throughout my childhood, I resided in the suburbs of Memphis with weekends at the cotton farm around Longtown, Tennessee. It was the best of both worlds. Although I appreciated modern conveniences, I never forgot the difficult life-styles experienced by some of my friends who were raised in the country.
Beside our barn for the horses, two boys and a girl lived in a dilapidated shack without electricity or running water. Their outhouse was a rotting board with a torn wool blanket hung on rusty nails. I referred to their toilet as an “outing-house,” making them laugh at what a silly city-slicker I was. Even though all but one of the children had repeated several grades in elementary school, on more than one occasion they taught me a thing or two.
It was a hot summer day during junior high when I decided to frolic with farm animals. I couldn’t believe my friends didn’t realize how amazing it was to keep pigs a few feet away from their house.
“Let’s play with the pigs.” I leaped into the pig pen and wrestled the large critters. I kicked up mud and danced around the pink guys as a dozen grunting, rolly-pollies circled me.
“You shouldn’t do that,” the girl my age said. She was the oldest and didn’t like to talk about it, but her brothers had passed her grade in school. While extremely kind and quiet, she preferred napping on the porch with the flies swarming around her over anything else.
“Come on. It’s fun,” I called out, tickling the unresponsive oinkers behind the ears.
The three children stood on the fence, open-mouthed with their eyes three times their regular sizes. The youngest one, he was the smartest, he shook his head while his siblings stared in disbelief.
“Ut-ah. I ain’t going in there,” he said.
The following Monday, I returned to my city-slicker personae. I had play practice at an all-boys’ Memphis prep school. Sitting in the red theatre, I propped my feet up on the chair in front of me as I chatted with a close guy-friend, who happened to be an heir to the largest chain of jewelry stores in town.
“What’s that smell?” He wrinkled his nose and sniffed.
“I don’t smell anything,” I said, more interested in the people on the stage.
“Oh yeah. There’s a smell.” He squinted and inhaled another drag of air. “It’s your shoes.”
I pulled my foot up to my nose and took a whiff of my Tretorn tennis shoe. It was putrid.
Bleaching and washing failed to get rid of the pig smell. I burst into laughter. How could my privileged friend understand what I’d been doing over the weekend? He had an aquarium and solarium in his gigantic home bathroom.
It hadn’t occurred to me at the time I jumped into the pig pen, but there was a reason they lived in mud while the rest of the yard remained arid. Pigs defecated, urinated and vomited within their living quarters. I did notice trash in the mud, too. My country friends had told me their father fed the pigs garbage. Why hadn’t I realized how gross that was at the time?
I might be a slow learner, but I never played with pigs after that day. And I don’t eat them either. My protagonist in Evangabella captured the same sense of never fitting in with the majority. She grew up in the ritzy suburbs of Orlando but kept strong ties with her rural relatives. Luckily for her, the survival skills she learned in the country saved her life.
London Ghost Warning
If during a visit to London you have a vacant evening, consider filling the time with a ghost bus tour. Beware, or that is to say wary, if you anticipate actually seeing paranormal activity.
The London ghost tours answer any questions you had about where out of work British actors find work. The commentator of the bus tour puts on a grand show, leaning into the camera to distort his face, utilizing every crazed voice he’s developed and screaming as he runs up and down the stairs. Not that he’s uninformed. Quite the contrary. The commentator shares educational narratives about English monarchy and their brutal deaths. He gives accounts of fires and romances. The catch is, he interrupts himself regularly to intentionally create chaos.
It is all in good fun and is an excellent opportunity to see areas of the city you might otherwise overlook. He talks rapidly, pointing out so many interesting monuments and providing such shocking accounts of English history, it is difficult to glimpse every location.
If there are ghosts, the bus moves too quickly for anyone to take photographs or see them. The actors are there to entertain. The ghost tour creates suspense to scare the patrons. It is similar to a haunted house where the purpose of going inside is to be scared.
Patrons include a families and gothic collegians. Young adults show up with wigs, black lipstick and Goth clothing. Expect to laugh and sit at the edge of your seat to avoid being attacked by ghoulish monsters. The interior of the bus resembles a coffin and gives the feeling you are headed to a funeral.
Surprises crop up, according to the time of year. For instance, around Easter, a serial killer rabbit joins the crew.
Patrons get off the bus one time, and a huge surprise is that the tour ends on a sentimental note, instead of somewhere dangerous. It is a great way to learn about London and monarchy deaths. The actors discourage young children from taking the tour because they do want to scare you.
The tour reflects on experiences of people who often lead to their becoming ghosts. Paranormal activities first interested me when I was three years old and my grandmother passed away. My interpretation of paranormal activities appear in my stories. In Evangabella and Under a Full Moon, the protagonists encounter ghosts they must learn to understand in order to solve their conflicts with the world.
Ghost Orbs Populate St. Augustine
The ghost tours in St. Augustine, Florida encourage visitors to take photographs of the haunted locations in hopes ghost orbs appear on film. Orbs are a recently discovered phenomena. Researchers theorize orbs of light appear in pictures when spirits drift into the scene. Some believe the spirits seek out past relatives to comfort and protect the living. Others consider the orbs to be disquieted souls with unfinished business on earth. Such ghosts suffered emotionally or physically at the time of their death.
Even though I saw no evidence of ghost orbs while walking around the town, images of round lights appeared on my developed pictures. “Are they nothing more than distorted refractions of light taken by digital cameras?” I asked the film developer. He also toured St. Augustine and felt some were glitches with digital cameras and others were actual spirits. “It’s whatever you want them to be,” he said.
The spirit of a boy likes sits in this tree at the Catholic cemetery. Thousands of confused spirits join him, wishing someone would tell them how to get out of the graveyard.
Native American Chief Osceola was imprisoned at the fort on the river. Upon his death, the doctor decapitated him and kept his head as a souvenir. Taking on a bluish appearance, the head of Osceola bounces above the fort in search of its body.
Spirits enjoy hearing stories about themselves and follow the tour guide along with the visitors. My dog growled and became anxious at this point so I took a picture curious if she was reacting to ghosts.
Many townspeople died at the city gates, forbidden to enter because of an illness or unsatisfactory behavior. The town burned to the ground on several occasions and fleeing residents died. One sweet little girl still skips down the street and then sits at the top of the left column.
Robbers uncovered a body and stole a man’s gold teeth. The man’s spirit searches for his teeth during the night. This yellowish orb is identical in size and placement to other photos posted on the ghost tour websites.
Three rogue brothers lived a jovial life, drinking and partying every night. Even after their death, the three brothers play around the cemetery.
A school mistress looks out the window in search of her students who burned in a fire. The spiral lines inside the orb suggest it is a spirit and not refracted light.
Ghostly encounters throughout my life inspired the theme for my supernatural story, Evangabella, where a girl senses paranormal activity but doesn’t know whether to trust the spirits.
What do you think? Are they real?
Philippa Gregory Prefers Queen Victoria
Did I befriend Philippa Gregory on the Queen Victoria’s transatlantic crossing?
The day we disembarked from Florida, a captivating woman and a man got on the elevator with my family. Her hair was naturally fair – perhaps a soft grey with frosted highlights, or was it a muted blonde with sprinkles of grey? The coloring depended on how the light caught it. From the front, her hair duplicated the swept-back style Philippa Gregory wore, but the side view revealed cropped curls on top while the rest of her hair hung just above her shoulders.
The short lady beamed with enthusiasm, thrilled about life in general. When she moved, her gold jewelry shimmered around large stones. Her effervesce bubbled throughout the entire elevator. She laughed, overjoyed about something, pushing the button for the Lido buffet. This woman was clearly Philippa Gregory, except an older, more serene version of the photos on the back covers of her books.
Her expression was open and she held her chin up with an air of royalty, like the character’s in her historical fiction. She turned to me and giggled a greeting. I stared, absorbing every detail of her face. For fear of scaring the dear lady, I smiled and looked away.
My husband tapped my arm and nodded at Philippa. He noticed something amazing about her, too. It wasn’t my imagination.
I took him to the library, looking for a back cover photo of the famous authoress we encountered. I hurried up the spiral stairs and back down, determined to find the Gre fiction section.
Three books by a Gra author leaned to one side but where Philippa Gregory’s books belonged, the shelf was empty. Room remained for eight hardcover books. It was the only vacant space in the library.
“We saw the historical fiction author, Philippa Gregory, on the elevator. They don’t want anyone to recognize her,” I insisted.
The following afternoon, Philippa and the man ate at the 24 hour Lido buffet. A woman approached her table. They shook hands and talked briefly. The woman left. Perhaps another fan.
Two Belfast dames also sensed Philippa’s heightened presence. The redheaded cocky dame considered the lady’s high cheekbones and regal stance obvious signs of her success.
“Opportunities only come once in a lifetime. Go over and ask her if she is Philippa Gregory. She might be flattered,” the blonde, flirtatious dame said.
“It would be in poor taste to interrupt her while she is eating. I’ll wait until the next time I see her,” I said.
Philippa made eye contact, maybe recognized me from the elevator. No, her eyes roved around the room taking in everyone with equal interest. Maybe, she studied people for inspiration on a new project.
My opportunity came at afternoon tea. The only seat in the room faced Philippa. I sat, wondering if I seemed intrusive. The man traveling with her introduced himself as Anthony. While he talked, I kept one ear fixed on Philippa’s conversation with a Belgium bombshell across from me.
“Rejection is the worst. You never really get used to it. And it comes. Expect rejection to come because you can’t do it without rejection. I can’t quite describe the pain with a rejection but they come and you have to expect them. You can’t stop. And when I got rejection, I decided I didn’t care what others said. I felt I was right in what I was doing and didn’t let others tell me not to continue. I determined to persevere and that’s what you have to do until you finally get there,” Philippa said.
I didn’t have to nerve to jump into their conversation. Instead, I sat taller and asked the group whether they were familiar with two cities where my ancestors owned castles. Philippa fixated on me. She scooted closer and asked what research I had done.
“Well, none. I assumed locales ending with “hide” or “shire” were sections of London,” I said.
“Why no,” Philippa explained. She asked me if I had Googled the towns and suggested a few other research avenues off the top of her head. She impressed me with her knowledge regarding English monarchy. She suggested I talk to the ship librarian for recommendations on atlases and maps.
We shared family tragedies and personal antidotes well past the end of tea time and during the two-week journey across the big pond. With each bit of information, I kept changing my mind as to whether it was Philippa Gregory.
She introduced herself as Sophie, explaining she didn’t like to use her formal name. Perhaps Philippa Gregory was a pen name anyway.
A man broke into a home she owned in Yorkshire. He committed assault and battery on the person who lived in her house. Maybe a crazed fan looking for Philippa Gregory. She also owned property in Yorkshire.
She lived on the coast outside London but frequented her Yorkshire home. Perhaps Philippa Gregory spent winters in the south and summers in the north.
She and Anthony had a total of six children in their combined family. Philippa Gregory and her husband raised the same number of kids.
Anthony shared the same first name as Philippa Gregory’s husband. Did coincidences like that really happen?
She preferred staying in the shadows, observing other peoples’ flirtations and dancing. Sounds like a clever way to gain inspiration
for developing characters in historical romances.
Every day, she ate breakfast at noon. Could she be writing through the night while I wasted time in bed wishing my husband would close the balcony door so the gale force winds wouldn’t cause the wall panels to howl?
She questioned my marital skills during each conversation and evaluated my behavior. For instance, my filling a plate with sandwiches and pastries for my husband prompted her to pat Anthony’s hand and comment on how wonderfully I treated him. She asked if my husband instructed me to get the food. “Yes, he instructed me to return with egg salad sandwiches,” I explained. “Oh well. That does make a difference.” She digested this detail, likely analyzing relationships for establishing motives in her novels.
Every minor event intrigued her. She had never seen nacho chips before and found the concept of corn creating a chip fascinating. Passionate writers exaggerated insignificant elements of life.
Parables about men rolled off her tongue. She asked whether my husband liked the food I took back to my cabin. “Why no. He refused to eat any of it and was upset because I took so long,” I said. “That is true for all men. No man ever understands what a woman does with their time.” If she were a writer, it made sense she theorized about mankind for situations to play out in her novels.
With the same wispy air of a timeless classic, she explained how women ought to return to the old way of managing men, no raised voices or nagging. Women used to direct a man’s actions without resorting to such behavior. I shrugged. Maybe Philippa Gregory provided marital counseling in her novels, life lessons for her readers.
One time, she stumbled into an interview about how her love-live evolved. She wasn’t usually forthcoming about personal information, but once the interviewer started talking, her story slipped out. Her love story will appear in an upcoming publication along with some other people’s stories. The interviewer commented that although he taped her lovely voice, he wasn’t able to capture the dazzle in her eyes. Clearly, she was famous.
She magnetized the energy around her. Anthony became captivated by her when they first met because she was such a striking woman. She giggled, saying, “Striking wasn’t what I want. There are many characteristics more appealing for a woman than striking. I’d like to be one of those.”
My life stories intrigued her by playing out like a series of novels. “Actually, I do write, ” I said. Finally, on the last day of the trip, I asked what she did for a living. She bowed her head and gazed at Anthony. “I never did do much of anything. I was born in the wrong time. Perhaps if I had been born in a different period I might have done something more.” Yeah right. The Tudor period. When I coaxed her for more information, she picked up a corn chip and marveled at the toppings. “They eat these in Mexico? They really are delicious,” she said.
I remained undecided about whether the woman on the Queen Elizabeth was my favorite authoress, Philippa Gregory. It doesn’t matter. She was my Philippa Gregory.
For having known her, I admired Philippa Gregory even more. Being exposed to her manner of relating to people and her philosophies regarding relationships taught me lessons in writing; observing and cherishing reality provided material for flavoring fictional relationships in my stories. For instance, my protagonist in the Stone Zone Mystery finally gets to meet her idol, only to discover life isn’t what it seems for the rich and famous.
Thank you, Philippa.
Leopards in London
Is it uncivilized to wear leopard in London?
My family and I took the South Hampton train to Cardiff. It was cold compared to my homeland Floridian climate. For warmth, I wore my favorite article of outerwear: a faux leopard print jacket. It made me feel happy, like having a thick blanket wrapped around my shoulders.
We barely had time to throw our overstuffed luggage onto the train before it departed. Inside the compartment, there were two satchels on the luggage shelf. Just as a woman with a hat slowed down the Thomas the Tank Engine schedule, a stoic woman refused to allow us to move her satchel to make room for our luggage. Our suitcases remained in the aisle with a few outside the door in the entryway.
The train passengers rolled their eyes and whispered about our barbaric packing skills. They laughed and talked loudly of how a place such as Florida where the vegetation remained green all year round couldn’t really exist. It was all too outlandish.
The trolley conductor made his way toward us, walking backward as he pulled a cart full of snacks and sodas. I jumped up from my seat and started to place our luggage on the shelf.
“Just leave it,” the same woman said. “Don’t touch it. Your bags are fine where they are. You can get by.” Everyone around her nodded in approval.
So there I stood on a rickety train, straddling my luggage while her dainty, baby goat-skin tote barely took up any space on the shelf. I felt the coziness of my leopard print jacket jolt all the conservative passengers. They glared, refusing to actually look at me.
I knew the problem. I was a savage wearing a garish article of clothing in a country where black was the only proper sense of fashion. Accessories could have frills, shoes could be four inches tall and coats could have ruffles layered upon lace, but nothing aside from black would do.
Now, I am a Southern lady of the Tennessee Delta chapter, making me well equiped for managing the fiercest of situations without scandalous outbursts. As always when in doubt, I smiled.
The trolley conductor bumped into the first of our seven suitcases. He looked around confused.
The expression on the woman shifted from hostility to realization. She mumbled permission for me to move her bag.
After thanking everyone, I took my seat, humiliated in knowing my leopard print jacket gave the impression I didn’t belong amongst the people of my ancestors. It didn’t matter that my blood served kings and owned castles.
My husband turned to me, pointing in distaste. “It’s because of that jacket. You need to pitch it.”
I packed away my fuzzy wardrobe and traveled from Cardiff to London in solid black with faded denim. Shamefaced, I admitted we were met with carefree conversations, giggling and unsolicited offers to have family photos taken. As a matter of fact, wearing thermal underwear I purchased at an outdoor sports store as a shirt I qualified as a “smart jean” dresser for afternoon tea at the Savoy.
Shifting from my comfort zone into a more conservative environment gave me insights as to how my protagonist in Under a Full Moon, a seaworthy traveler solving a mystery in the Caribbean, would have to tone down her image according to local customs at each destination.
Learn from my mistake. Unless it is a scarf, retire leopard fashions from your London wardrobe out of respect for the culture.
