jane

It’s been tough trying to make it through January in Rochester, New York. Soon—and “soon” means late April—Spring will arrive! Only 4 billion days to go.

Here are some things I learned in January, in no particular order:

• Appreciate your body and the amazing things it can do. The best thing about being temporarily handicapped is loving the thingie you can hang on your visor so you get a good parking spot. The worst thing about being handicapped, is being handicapped.
• You should never give up on your dreams—my friend Mike didn’t give up on himself. I could write “my book,” if I just believed in myself! I don’t. But I will! I don’t know when.
• Wishing doesn’t make it true. I’m sorry to report that despite me saying, “Go, Bills” –they lost anyway. And, hey–I’m no huge fan of Taylor Swift either. It’s still CUTE. Leave it ALONE. At 34, Taylor probably has 10 good eggs left, let’s hope for the best. As far as I know, I still have one good egg left–although I wouldn’t spend it on Travis Kelce.

Happy February!

I was in a Zoom meeting today, and the other person’s parting words were “Go, Bills!”

Then they couched their remark to be politically correct, by saying, “That is, if you’re into the Bills.”

I responded, “Oh, of course! Go, Bills!” Not even knowing if the Bills were playing this weekend, but sounded like they might be. The Bills are probably in something called “the playoffs.” They might be a “wild card,” whatever that means.

I know many readers may be recoiling in horror that I would not know this information.

But here’s my point of view.

First, I do not live in Buffalo, NY. I do not in any way identify with the city of Buffalo. I live in Rochester, NY. I feel the same way about Buffalo as I do about Boise, Idaho. There has been a lot done to improve Buffalo in terms of architecture and recreation, I hear, but that does not change my emotion about the city, which is neutral at best.

Second, not only do I not have any connection to Buffalo…I don’t know any of the players personally. If I did, I might have some skin in the game. Josh Allen looks like a nice person. He has the face of a 6^th grader, atop a huge body. There are some other Bills players that are totally adorable. But I don’t KNOW them.

Third, what is this about their name, “Buffalo Bills.” What does “Bills” even MEAN? If this is a reference to Buffalo Bill Cody, there is (was) only one of him.

Lastly, let’s talk outfits. Some people call them “uniforms.” But they are really “outfits.” The Bills colors of red, white, and blue are not too original. A bunch of teams have versions of red, white, and blue. The Patriots, and maybe the Giants, and someone else, I think. I think the Dolphins orange and aqua outfits are unique and attractive, probably the best in the NFL.

And in terms of the name…well, who doesn’t love a dolphin? I have never heard anyone say, I Hate Dolphins. But I bet a bunch of people hated Buffalo Bill Cody, because I’m guessing he killed some folks. So maybe the Buffalo Bills should change their name.

Perhaps in addition to the SuperBowl Trophy, or whatever it is that you get when you beat everyone else by catching stuff or getting it in that rectangle there, they should have other trophies such as:

-best name (not the Washington Commanders, at least I know that)

-best uniform (separate votes for both home and away uniforms; they must complement one another; for example, the Cowboys’ away uniforms clash with their home)

-hottest quarterback (duh) and

-best people who caught the ball when it was thrown in their general direction. Tight ends? Running backs? Whatever.

Western New Yorkers, including many of my friends—if you want the Bills to win on whatever day they are playing in the near future, I wish you the best only because I care about you. Go, Bills!

I grew up on a farm in the country, with an older brother at home and three boys down the street. No girls around. The boys and I were together almost every free day after school and on the weekends.

Our activities did not include sharing a 64 box of Crayolas while we carefully colored in a Sesame Street coloring book. Nor did our activities include reading the Nancy Drew/Hardy Boys series together. Nor did they include playing dress-up.

However, to the boys’ credit, while I did not personally care for dolls in the least, our activities did include playing with G.I. Joes and Barbies. Well, actually, the activity was limited to disrobing them, then laughing hysterically, like we had just invented that.

No sedentary activities for these boys. They were on the go, and I was always right behind them, trying to keep up. Feeling left out, left behind, or both.

In cold weather, they were on Grandpa’s pond, playing hockey with their friends—as I skated in circles in the corner by myself. In the warmer months, the boys were usually playing in the rock pile beside the field.

In retrospect, I realize that the boys could smell weakness, and my childhood was a bit like being in Lord of the Flies.

One evening, they made a tall chimney out of the rock pile, then tricked me into climbing into the bottom of it. I was just happy they asked me to be part of the activity. Then the boys proceeded to throw rocks down at me as I attempted to dodge their missiles. I wish I was kidding. The only reason they stopped is that I got a defensive wound on my right hand that needed medical attention. I still have the scar to this day.

Another time, we were playing in the hay bale tunnels in the barn. The boys suddenly disappeared. When I realized I was alone and went to leave, I found that they had barricaded me in. I only had to yell for help for an hour before my Grandpa heard me.

You’d think I would learn, and just stay away from them. But they were the only people around to hang out with. I rarely, if ever, told on them—that wasn’t how kids rolled back then. Stockholm Syndrome, anyone?

So by the time the Big Snowball Fight rolled around—yes, I should have been a little more on my game.

Two embankments had been built, for each team to hide behind and lob snowballs over.

That particular day—surprise, surprise—I was a team of one, and three boys were on the other team.

I was a clumsy kid, but lucked out and lobbed a few good ones that hit their mark, so was feeling very confident and BOOM WHAT THE HELL WAS THAT OH MY GOD IT HURTS SO MUCH

I was lying on the ground on my back, unable to see, my face frozen and pulsing.

The boys saw I was down for the count.

And went off to do something else.

I rolled over and pried my little snow-encrusted eyes open.

To find two huge eyes staring back at me.

The eyes of a dead owl.

A frozen, dead owl.

They had thrown a FROZEN OWL at a SEVEN YEAR OLD GIRL and HIT HER IN THE FACE and then WALKED AWAY.

Did I learn from that experience? No. Being harassed was better than being alone.

The nickname “Owl-y” only stuck for a couple years.

A few days before Christmas rolled around, I was leaving a store in Pittsford Plaza—and missed the last step.

Face plant on the sidewalk.

The front desk people rushed outside and gathered around me in horror (certainly, making sure I wouldn’t sue them for lack of lighting or stair markings).

At the time, I was overcome more by complete embarrassment than the actual pain.

I would have normally literally bounced back up from such an embarrassing stunt, saying “I’m OK! I’m OK!”–but I wasn’t able to. In the meantime, I assured them, “I just need a couple minutes to lay here.”

Everything hurt. I couldn’t even tell what body part took the worst hit. I did know that the brushburn on my chin was the least of it.

I made it home that night, probably still in shock. But the next morning knew I was in trouble, and headed to Urgent Care.

At intake, they asked for my birthdate, which health care providers always do. I always whisper conspiratorily “3/31/68” – like I’m fooling anyone. (“Did you see that supermodel check in? I thought she was 29 but I overheard her—can you believe she’s 55?”)

After about an hour, I was called in to be seen.

First, the nurse took my vitals—my blood pressure was through the roof due to anxiety and pain.

Then they asked me if I was being abused at home physically, emotionally, or “financially.” I thought “financially” was an interesting add.

In 2023 I had often been asked the physical and emotional abuse question—aside from run-of-the-mill PCP visits, in April I’d torn my right elbow, (6 months moderately painful recovery), and in August had a herniated disc in my spine (5 months excruciatingly painful recovery). And now this.

But this was the first time I recalled being asked the financial question. I turned this over in my mind. What does being abused financially have to do with health care? Maybe they were wondering if I would have enough to pay the bill. If I said yes, would they go speak to the financial abuser? I didn’t have the number for Citibank. Why they would demand that credit card payments be on time, I don’t know.

After a while, the PA saw me. X-rays were taken and evaluated. She said broken ankles due to “missing the last step” were a common injury. That was somewhat comforting, although I suspected that most of those people were over 80.

The PA said she saw a lot of “broken bone days” alternating with “abcess days.” I apologized for not having a disgusting abcess. She said, well actually you will have one, if you don’t disinfect the massive wound you have on your other leg from the fall. Duly noted.

The x-rays showed a hairline fracture along the outside and through the middle of the ankle. I was splinted in a half-assed ACE bandage contraption from the foot to the knee, and told that I could shower in it—but only if I put a garbage bag around it, followed by Saran Wrap. Yay! I had to stay completely off of my right leg for at least a week (easier said than done).

When I was assigned $500 crutches was when the real financial abuse began. I was then promptly sent to the Orthotic Urgent Care, whereupon they immediately dismantled the $300 bandage splint, and assigned me a $300 ski boot.

A few days later, it was Christmas. My older son couldn’t come home from the West Coast, so my younger son and I just hung out alone at home. While it certainly wasn’t as fun as a *real* Christmas, we exchanged gifts and bingewatched three seasons of Schitt’s Creek.

We are in love with the character of Moira Rose, who wisely observed:

“Who knows what will befall us tomorrow? You could be hit by a Mack truck or bopped on the head by a tiny piece of space debris.”

True, that.

Have a Happy – and Healthy – New Year! xoxo

I have a very super cool friend. Her name is Becky. Not “was” Becky. It IS “Becky.”

She’s just not here physically, anymore. I think–hope–she went to a tiki bar in the Bahamas.

I am broken hearted. Shocked. Sad. Mad. Guilty. You Name It.

I have seen a lot of bad sh– before, and I have to say that hands down, seeing my friend’s son standing over her grave, struggling to deal with his grief, was the worst.

A couple days before the funeral, I’d shown my own son photos of Becky. He told me how beautiful she was…and then I completely lost my sh–…and realized that I wasn’t ready to look at photos of her. I’m still not. I’m not sure when I will be.

When I met Becky, I took to her immediately. Like me, she was super sarcastic, and had a dark sense of humor, so I stalked her as a “potential friend” as soon as I’d met her. Soon, she had fallen into my dark clutches in my ongoing desperate search for friends who “got me.” She called it like she saw it, and never shied away from her opinions, even if they might not be so popular. Another ballsy chick. Yes, please!

Becky was also as cute as a button. A year younger than me, she looked about 20 years younger than me. And that’s why I loved yet hated her

We had a lot in common–except our athleticism. If you can call Cornhole “athleticism.” Becky was always the Chick Cornhole Champion. However, let’s face it–she had one up on me. Her family had a Cornhole set at home. From the masterful way she played, I think she played every day when she got home from work, into the dark of night.

While my credo is, throw it in the general direction of the board and hope for the best, because who even cares, anyway.

So.

Life isn’t fair, and we all know it. Becky is gone something like 40 years too soon. How is that even a thing.

Now Becky is not here? Not breathing the same air as me? How is this a thing? Who “deserves this?”

Well, I have a list of who deserves it more than she did, and near the top, or maybe even at the top, would be…

ME.

When we found out she was sick, I talked to “God,” in case there was one, and told Him that I was OK going instead of my friend. My friend had a lot more to experience. She had plans with her husband who she loved so much, to retire and continue to live a beautiful life together.

I don’t even like to travel. I like to sit around thinking about all the mistakes I’ve made. I live alone, which makes that convenient. I love my kids so much, but let’s face it — they have already moved on with their lives. They’re boys. They love me to pieces. So much that they’ve already planned my funeral, particularly the bands that will appear. (ATTENTION, AMY LEE/EVANESCENCE AND SARA BAREILLES.) That’s OK. Life goes on.

I am exaggerating to make a point, a bit, but I bet there are some of you readers who may feel the same way. 55? I’ve checked off the boxes I wanted to. See ya. I do not fear dying. (Unless you stab me repeatedly while I am still conscious. That is not OK.)

Here I am. Here we are. Becky left first.

We can all ask why why why all day long. Why such an amazing person. It won’t change anything.

When we were called about her terminal ALS diagnosis 18 months ago, my friends and I had been having a great night, singing along to an acoustic act. The band was taking all requests, like Margaritaville, and Amie, and we were having so much fun. Then we got the phone call, and it was so serious we were asked to take the call outside. And all time stopped.

As I heard the unimaginable news about the ALS diagnosis, I lost the feeling in my legs, and slid down the back of my car to the ground.

Thinking back to the insidious beginning of Becky’s illness…she had been totally on top of her health and all over this one, so at least learned about the diagnosis months earlier than she would have, had she not been so sharp and assertive with her health care. I remember her telling me, “They say it could be anything from sciatica, to MS, or even ALS,” and I comfortingly replied, “Well of course it couldn’t be MS, and certainly not ALS.” Because, who would have thought? But she knew, I think.

What I have learned from Becky and what you should know: No one cares more about you than you. No one knows more about you than you. Your doctor cares about you, but only so much. They have a lot of patients. Hound them, hound them, hound them. Get answers. Get tests. You don’t get what you don’t ask for. Just because someone has a medical degree does not mean they are thinking about you and your symptoms frequently and what they can do for you. They have a job, and it is taking care of hundreds of patients; thousands, even.

It only occurred to me a couple days ago that Becky had an unusual episode three years ago right in front of me and many others, 18 months before her diagnosis. We had a milestone birthday party for her and she fell down. She wasn’t inebriated. She just fell down. We laughed and thought that maybe she tripped. None of us thought anything of it at the time.

But looking back, it may have been one of the first signs of her illness.

Hindsight is 20/20. In my imagination, I would have rushed her to the hospital, where she would have gotten her diagnosis, and at least tackled a bunch of sh– on her bucket list while she still could get around. But at the time – it was just a chick falling down. Where do you draw the line between Hysterical Hypochondriac and Let’s Check On Our Health, Shall We? I don’t know. She went to the doctor pretty early on — but still waited a year for them to give her a solid diagnosis.

Please, look out for your own health; don’t take your doctor’s word as gospel. My friend was always a vocal advocate for looking out for your own health and getting second opinions. SECOND OPINIONS MATTER.

We are taught at a young age not to question our elders, our teachers, our ministers, or doctors. Please do. My PCP’s nickname for me is “Dr. Google” and often says “Stop Googling, Jane” but you know what? I Dr. Googled the symptoms of another friend’s rare illness and it ended up saving their life. (Note: I didn’t save their life on purpose. It was totally random. I am not counting the 5,000 times I Googled my own symptoms and came up with inaccurate diagnoses. I take no credit.) Unfortunately, this didn’t apply in Becky’s situation. It was rare, but not that rare, and the diagnosis was clear.

I Dr. Google everything my PCP says, and he can get mad at me all he wants and give me sh– on URMC MyChart–and keep it coming, Doc. I’m not giving up.

Anyway, this certainly isn’t about me. Here we are. We don’t have our loved one Becky anymore, physically. But we still have her in our hearts. If you look out for your own health; and don’t take your doctor’s word for it, I suspect Becky might would feel better about it. Like she made a difference. She’s made a difference in my life, anyway. Well, for one thing, she taught me the secrets of Cornhole! But other more important stuff, too. She was a great listener and then offered her two cents and I was always like, you totally get it, Becky.

And you know what? I’m going to try harder at mastering the Cornhole game. It is super fun. It won’t be the same fun as when she played. At all. We might not be able to get the game out of the garage for a couple years. It might get thrown out. And it might take a long time for me and others to not associate the game with her.

But I know I can be better at cornhole than the most worst, and I know she will be wholeheartedly rooting for me. So I will try.

I love you, Becky.

Jane

Whoops! In all my problems with my Money Pit, I missed Love Your Lawyer Day, a week ago today. That is a “holiday” I certainly would not want to miss, because…

While I don’t really have “a family lawyer,” I’ve worked with a few attorneys in the past.

But the one I would want to most associate myself with, hands down, is Paul M., Esq.

I loved him from the moment I met him.

Was it his gentle manner? His sarcastic wit? His responsiveness?

No.

Paul has all those qualities, but that is not why he is such an extra-phenomenal lawyer.

It is because of his love of Parker Stevenson, the co-star of the Hardy Boys TV series with Shaun Cassidy, circa 1982.

When I first entered Paul’s office last year, my eyes were immediately drawn to the framed headshot of the esteemed Parker Stevenson, with an autograph addressed to Paul.

Paul and I had a meeting scheduled to talk about a specific topic, but of course once I glommed onto this framed photograph, there was no turning back. If Paul had known I was obsessed with celebrities, especially those from the 1970s and 1980s, he would have taken the photo down before I had entered his office.

The Parker Stevenson convo took at least 30 minutes of his time, which was fortunately not billed.

I had many questions for Paul. Not that many about the legal matter. But many about the “real” Parker.

For example:

How did you meet Parker?

Was he a jerk?

Did he talk sh– about Shaun Cassidy and/or Kirstie Alley?

Did he sign your photo carelessly, or enthusiastically?

How did you feel about the experience upon parting ways?

Those were only some of the many many many questions. I just love to dig into this sh–. If you know me, you know that is how I roll.

Fortunately, Paul is as much of a celebrity aficionado as I am, and was more than happy to talk about his Parker experience.

Paul told me that he didn’t ask Parker, “Why did Kirstie Alley and you divorce after 14 years?”

Or, “Why have you not done anything that Jane Knickerbocker can recall since the Hardy Boys…not that there’s anything wrong with that, because Jane herself has done nothing of note in her entire life to date?”

Paul told me that he didn’t want to bother Parker too much, so simply asked him if he would sign a headshot…he did, and that was that.

Who can you trust, if you can’t trust an attorney who loves Parker Stevenson.

If you would like Paul’s number, give me a shout.

“Go to the Rolling Hills Asylum Ghost Hunt,” they said.

“It will be really fun,” they said.

“I got pushed down the stairs by a ghost there,” my hairstylist said.

She continued, “Yeah, I got to the top step and just felt pressure, like two big hands shoving me. Next thing I knew, I was at the bottom of the steps. I don’t even remember landing there. I went back up to the top of the stairs—and it happened again.”

Oh blah blah blah, Sarah, you and your stories, I thought to myself at the time.

But by the time I had talked about the ghost hunt with Sarah, Mike and I had already bought our tickets to that infamous Ghost Hunt at Rolling Hills Asylum for Halloween weekend. Mike and I worked at the same employer, and asked around the company to see who else was interested. Joe, Maria, Cheryl, and Chris were all in.

Rolling Hills would open its doors at 9pm that Saturday night, and the entire group of about 40 people would be locked in until 5am.

Yes. Locked in.

We were all very stoked about such a unique adventure. We drove in a few separate vehicles, and stopped at a country diner on the way out. Foreshadowing Alert: three of the six of us ordered the same meal—Mike, Joe and I had the cheeseburger and fries.

It was very exciting as the crowd gathered outside the door. Listening to their chatter, I realized that most people were taking this ghost hunt pretty seriously. That surprised me a bit. Our group was taking it seriously, too. The participants in our group were sensitive and open-minded. Well, all of us but one.

Me.

I was scared to death. I’d already had a ghostly encounter there with Shadow Man (see previous blog post, “Ghost Hunt Prequel,”), and it was during Christmas! What the hell was going to happen to me at Halloween?

I’d read that ghosts only reveal themselves when you are open to them. If you do not want them around, you tell them, and they back off. So before we’d even gotten out of the car, I decided to close my mind. I’d already begun to chant inside my head: “Ghosts, stay away from me. I am not ready. Ghosts, stay away from me. I am not ready.” I didn’t want to sabotage my friends’ experience, but I had to keep my head on straight. You know?

Promptly at 9pm the owner, Grace, opened the door and let the large group into something like a holding room. We scrambled in and stood together in the tight space as we were read the rules of the hunt, which included:

• We encourage you to take photos, even when you don’t see anything to take a photo of. Something might be there. Spirits are energy. Keep in mind that you are more likely to capture a photo of an energy “orb” than the outline of a person.
• There are certain rooms in Rolling Hills Asylum that are “hotter” than others in terms of spirit activity. These include the “Piano Room” where the Warden would play the piano for entertainment; the Christmas Room where they would hold celebrations; and the Mausoleum (no explanation necessary).
• You will have the most luck experiencing a spirit if you are quiet, hold hands with others, and focus on sending your collective energy toward the spirit world.
• Feel free to speak to the spirits and ask them to make themselves known.
• However, if you say anything bad about them, the spirits may get angry. We do NOT recommend doing this. Foreshadowing Alert: this will be relevant later in this story.

The holding pen then opened, and the group spilled out into the asylum.

Rolling Hills Asylum was a sprawling hospital-like former orphanage/poorhouse that was nearly 200 years old. When all 40 of the group were let loose in it, of course everyone ran directly to the “hot rooms.”

This “Survivor”/Easter Egg Hunt mentality caused a bit of a disruption in the chill vibe our group was trying to cultivate. Our group of six went from hot room to hot room to hot room, only to find others had beaten us to them. So to kill time until the good rooms opened up, we went to “less hot” rooms and took photos, hoping to see orbs after the photos were snapped (we did).

Eventually, we settled into the Christmas Room, which had finally emptied out. After 20 minutes of sitting there alternately being quiet and saying everything enticing we could think of–no response.

After deciding the Christmas Room was a bust, we lost a little steam. We were frustrated we hadn’t seen any action yet. We wandered back out and down to the coffee shop on the first floor to take a break and re-set.

A couple groups were in the coffee shop comparing notes. A young guy was in the middle of telling another group, “And a ghost touched her leg (he pointed at a girl, and she nodded vigorously), and then my baseball cap got knocked off and FLEW ACROSS THE ROOM!”

“What room?” asked Mike.

He replied, “The Warden’s Piano Room.”

The Warden, the owner had told me (see previous blog “Prequel”), was the Shadow Man I had experienced. He already seemed to like me, or maybe just wanted to kill me. But either way, there was a higher probability we would see some action. I wasn’t quite as scared about him. He’d already had his chance to kill me and had chosen not to, so probably wouldn’t try to kill me on the ghost hunt. I rounded my group up, and we raced to the Piano Room on the fourth floor.

Luckily, it was empty. While I still had mixed emotions about having a ghost present itself, I had a lot of money and time invested in this, so was not opposed to seeing some action that did not involve being hurt; and to my understanding ghosts did not hurt people.

We all sat in a circle and held hands. We tried to make ourselves quiet and receptive but also I was really scared, and again alternated between being receptive and chanting in my inner voice, please stay away I am scared, please stay away, I am scared.

Something felt different in this room, compared to the other rooms. I know I sound like a whackjob, but if you’ve felt it…you know what I mean.

The most spiritual person in our group, Cheryl, said something gently such as, “Spirits, if you are open to joining us, please do. We are open to you, and we are not here to harm you.”

I half expected the piano to start playing ragtime.

But, nothing. Not even Chopsticks.

Just the Sound of Silence.

After what seemed like an interminable ten minutes, but really was probably only two minutes tops, the BIG MISTAKE HAPPENED.

THE UNRETRACTABLE, MOST HORRIBLE MISTAKE THAT NO ONE IN OUR GROUP WILL EVER, EVER, EVER FORGET.

Mike shouted, “Come on out, Warden. What are you, GAY? You’re GAY, aren’t you?”

This was back when Gay, and calling people Gay, wasn’t even really a thing. This happened more than several years ago.

Anyway, regardless of that, the rest of us looked at Mike, and each other, in horror. Almost in unison, we yelled at Mike, “WHAT ARE YOU DOING? YOU CAN’T MAKE THE GHOSTS MAD! THEY TOLD US! DON’T MAKE THEM MAD! WHAT IS WRONG WITH YOU!”

I added, loudly, as if the ghosts needed us to speak more loudly to project across the spirit world, “Warden, we’re so sorry. Mike was just joking, he gets nervous. He has a lot of gay friends. He reverted to 1982 8th Grade vocabulary. Please forgive him.”

We all braced ourselves (and, frankly, sort of wished) for Mike to get punched in the face by an invisible fist, but no such luck. We stayed a little while longer, but nothing happened ghost-wise.

We then made our way down to the mausoleum, in the basement.

But this time, it was already 3am. We went from room to room in the mausoleum, but there wasn’t much to see, and it was too cold to sit down.

Suddenly, Mike pulled me aside. He was upset. He said, “Jane, I feel really sick. All of a sudden my head hurts really bad, and my stomach’s upset. I think I have to go out and lie down in the car. You guys keep going.”

We were all exhausted from 6 hours of ghost hunting, but no ghost catching. We all agreed to ask if we could leave a couple hours early, and graciously, they let us.

Our group had three cars, and we followed each other through the dark country roads back to the expressway. Mike and I drove together.

Mike didn’t look well at all, and when we finally hit a small town, he said weakly, “I need to pull over at this gas station and buy some Tums.” We and our friends all pulled over so we could stay together. Mike and I pulled up to a gas tank, and our friends parked alongside the convenience store building.

So…I didn’t see what happened next, because the gas station’s tanks blocked my view…but the others saw it.

Mike ran toward the front door of the store, but wasn’t able to make it.

[SPOILER ALERT: DO NOT READ FURTHER IF YOU HAVE A SENSITIVE STOMACH]

My friends watched as Mike leaned against the outside of the store and projectile vomited multiple times. (I later asked them if his head spun around like Linda Blair’s character “Regan” in the Exorcist, but they just looked at me funny, so I guess the answer was no.)

When he was finally done, Mike went inside to clean himself up. When we were all sure he was OK for the time being, we all went our separate ways. Mike stayed at my house, and didn’t get sick again.

So.

Of note, if you were paying attention earlier in the story—

Mike ate the same thing that Joe and I did.

Joe and I were perfectly fine.

And, Mike projectile vomited 9 hours after we all ate.

Projectile. Wouldn’t you consider that a bit unusual? If something is going to upset your stomach in such a major way, it’s going to be fairly soon after you eat it.

So, the next day, I told my sister about the incident.

She said, “That’s weird. Today’s there was an article in the local paper about how when ghosts are ‘mad’ at you, they sort of possess you, and can make you sick.”

My sister added, “Did you know that ghosts can also follow you home? It talked about that in the article, too. They don’t just haunt a location. They ‘attach’ themselves to you. They can end up haunting your house, versus where they used to haunt.”

AHA. Remember someone put doorknobs and dishes inside my walls (see Money Pit blog post)? Now that I think about it— it was probably that friggin’ ghost that Mike brought home from Rolling Hills Asylum. It’s certainly a plausible explanation.

Well, as long as the ghost doesn’t try to push me down the stairs, it can stay. I wonder if it knows how to clean, and/or fill a dumpster. I could use the help, and what do they have to do all day while I’m at work? Let’s use our time efficiently, ghosts!

Do you believe in ghosts?

It was on a sunny Saturday afternoon in November that I first visited the Rolling Hills Asylum. Rumored to be haunted, the nearly 200-year-old former orphanage and poorhouse was promoted in October as a site for ghost hunts, and in November and December as a holiday craft fair. (Apparently, the hauntings ceased October 31, and on November 1 it became a happy place where all could rejoice.)

Even in the light of day, the rambling brick building was imposing—but only just a teeny bit creepy. I’ve been known to have a bit of a sixth sense <cough>, but looking at it, I didn’t feel a sense of dread wash over me or anything of the sort. It was just a worn-out old building. Any ghost hunt they might have was more than likely a shtick. My friend Mike and I wheeled into the parking lot to check the place out.

There were directional signs to the “Holiday Craft Fair,” so we bypassed the woman at the front desk area—giving her a courteous nod of hello, rather than stopping to chat. I didn’t want her to know we were interested in the ghost thingie. I wanted to wander around with a clear mind, just to see if I sensed anything otherworldly. I loved historic buildings anyway, so I considered it time well spent.

Rolling Hills Asylum was set up in a wing structure, like a hospital. It was the first floor’s East Wing that housed the holiday craft fair. As we passed each room of the wing, we saw that it housed a different vendor. We went to the far end of the wing, so we could work our way back to the front desk area.

I walked into the first room of the “craft fair” expecting to be greeted by a person who would make me super uncomfortable and pressure me as I browsed their wares, while I frantically wondered how long it would be appropriate to pretend to look at stuff before it would be acceptable to leave.

Entering the first room, the first thing I noticed was that there was no person inside (alive, or dead.) What a relief.

But that was just when the terror began.

“Oh, geez,” Mike said. “What a friggin MESS!”

There were “crafts” piled everywhere in the room. It was like a bad episode of Hoarders. No offense to people who Hoard! Like my Dad.

Anyway, I was frozen in fear. Because it was at that very moment that terrible memories, previously repressed, washed over me related to “crafts.”

1. Quality. My bar is high. I’m on a tight budget, and I’m picky, and what’s beneficial to craft vendors is that I make rash purchasing decisions on the spur of the moment. But my bar is still high enough that any crafts I will even consider must be at least the level of T.J. Maxx. But preferably the level of the stuff in the middle of the cul de sac at the Pittsford Farms Dairy that the woodworker makes and also he has a rabbit. I know that is uber-specific but you have to check that guy out I mean WTF? and;
2. Propensity for crafts. I am not a huge fan of crafts. Not at all. When I acquire a craft, it’s usually to give to someone else as soon as reasonably possible.

Anyway. We moved on to the next room, then the next. Our eyes were assaulted with so many unspeakable horrors. From the least offensive…a white cloth throw pillow that screamed, “HAPPY HOLLY-DAYS!” …to a wooden yard reindeer with a bulging eye and a severed hoof…to hundreds of disturbing ornaments of all shapes and sizes that—unbelievably—were of even worse quality than what my kids would bring home from school. The kind you put on the back of the tree.

This craft fair was a torture chamber.

Mike sighed. “Hey, I’m going to run ahead…no hurry, I’ll catch up with you at the front desk.”

“Don’t worry,” I replied. “Believe me, I am right behind you.”

There were maybe twenty rooms in that wing, the remainder of which I briskly entered and exited in record time. At that point, I had forgotten all about being in a “haunted asylum.” I’d forgotten about being in touch with myself about “creepy feelings.” I just wanted to get the hell out of there. I’d had hopes that perhaps one room had an ornament I might like, maybe Santa playing a guitar or something, but—nope.

Eventually, I arrived at the last room. Phew.

As I crossed the threshold in relief, I was literally stopped cold in my tracks.

A blast of freezing air hit me like a strong gust of wind.

I pushed through it into the room, thinking that there must be some sort of massive fan on—perhaps to simulate the North Pole!

The entire room was very cold. I poked around as to the cause

I didn’t see a fan. No air conditioner.

I checked the window. It was closed and locked.

I felt the window glass. It wasn’t cold.

Confused, I went back into the hallway. I saw Mike chatting with the lady up at the desk. I covertly waved him over.

Mike met me at the doorway. “Check this room out,” I said. He gave me a quizzical look, and went in. I followed.

No cold whoosh this time as I entered, but I still felt ice cold inside the room.

We stood there. He looked bemused.

“So. What do you think of this room?” I asked him.

He looked around at the haphazard crafts. “It’s as awful as the rest of them.”

“Yeah, right, I know,” I answered. “But, I mean, don’t you think it’s super, super cold in here?”

He frowned. “No…none of the rooms are very warm. But it doesn’t feel ‘cold’ to me.”

“Hmm. Okay. I guess it’s just me. You know I get cold easily,” I said. “Let’s just get out of here.”

We made our way to the front desk, situated amidst what looked to be a little makeshift gift shop. Standing at the desk was a woman in her late 50s, with long black hair parted in the middle, flowing straight down her back, and she was giving us a big, toothy smile.

“Well, hello,” she said, directing her greeting at me, as she’d already met Mike. “Welcome to Rolling Hills. I’m Grace.”

“Hi, Grace, I’m Jane. Nice to meet you,” I said.

“We just swung by quick to check Rolling Hills out,” I continued. “We missed the Halloween season. So I guess we’ll have to catch the Ghost Hunt next year.”

(Note: I said this with no intention of “catching the Ghost Hunt next year.” This place seemed just about as haunted as the Geneseo Walmart.)

“The ghost hunts are very popular,” Grace said with a smile as she handed me a flyer, which I reluctantly accepted. “There’s a lot of history here…and a lot of spirits.” She winked. I acted the appropriate level of WOW, THAT IS SO CRAZY on the outside, but had a bored, beaten-down feeling on the inside. The craft fair had crushed my soul.

“Yes, I know there’s a lot of history,” I said. “The building is very cool. Actually, speaking of cool, I have a question. So, I was in the craft wing, and one of the rooms seemed super cold. Mike didn’t feel it, but I did. When I entered the room the first time, it actually felt like a cold wind hit me. It’s that room over there,” I pointed. “The one closest to us, on the left.”

Grace grinned broadly. Reaching under the desk, she pulled out a 8-1/2 x 11” enlarged black-and-white photo encased in a transparent sleeve, and handed it to me.

It was a photo of a woman with her hand on the doorknob of the cold room.

There was a man standing behind her.

Yet—not a man.

A dark shadow of a man. In a suit. With a brimmed hat. Like from the olden days.

WHAAAAAAAAAAAAAAT THE

“We have many photos of ghosts here at Rolling Hills, but this is by far our best one, that we are most proud of,” Grace said, her face beaming. “We are confident that this is the Warden of the asylum. He makes his presence known quite frequently.” She continued, “Jane, you must be very sensitive to spirits. When ghosts are present, those of us in the ‘real world’ can experience cold, or sometimes a very strong gust of what feels like a cold wind.”

While I may have been very cold before, now I felt very hot—and sweaty. Shadow Man could have been standing next to me in that room, with me none the wiser. Maybe he was standing next to me right now.

AAARRRGGGHHH

As I slumped to the floor, the last words I heard were Mike saying, “We’ll reserve two tickets to next year’s Ghost Hunt, please!”

(Well. Karma’s a b—-. Little did Mike know that he would be very sorry about getting those tickets. At the ghost hunt that following year, we found out the hard way why Rolling Hills is the second most haunted site in the United States.)

Next Up: Part II—Sure, The Ghost Hunt Is Fun—If You Like Getting Possessed, That Is, and Mike, You Totally Deserved It

“Life is what happens when you’re making other plans” – John Lennon

When Evan was 12, he started taking piano lessons from Katy at the local music store. Katy was a sweet young woman, and the three of us immediately clicked. She was a phenomenal teacher, and very patient with Evan, who was (is) quite a talker–and asks a lot of questions. “Why are some keys white and some black? Why does hitting the key make a sound? Why can’t we learn Evanescence songs instead of practicing chords?” Et al.

Evan’s practicing echoed throughout the entire house–unfortunately the piano resided in the living room, where our family spent most of our time–and I then was questioning my decision about these lessons.

I was very happy with Katy’s teaching style. Evan’s prowess grew by leaps and bounds. However, I hadn’t taken into account that our piano echoed throughout our house. It was one thing when I played it, and completely another when Evan did.

A Facebook post from that time:

Me: Evan, Why won’t you practice the piano?

Evan: Because every time I do, you and Kyle yell, “SHUT THE HELL UP!”

Ultimately, more than ten years later, Evan is not able to play Row, Row, Row Your Boat–but is able to play the left hand bass part to Evanescence’s “Call Me When You’re Sober.” I’ll take it.

But this isn’t about Evan. It’s about Katy.

Katy recently was in a car accident that has rendered her unable to walk. We are praying that this is only a temporary disability. Katy is a wonderful person who is loved by many. She is brave, optimistic, and a fighter.

So. It just so happened that at the time of the accident, I’d been feeling sorry for myself. A pity party of the most gargantuan proportions. Something had happened that had completely upended my plans for the future. The way I saw it, my hopes, dreams, and plans for the rest of my life had been crushed.

Then I heard about the terrible accident.

The music community, and the community at large, wrapped their arms around Katy, with much love, tributes, and benefit concerts. Many knew Katy personally—but many did not. It didn’t matter. At gigs, musicians and audience members proudly wore T-shirts emblazoned with “Katy Strong.” And Katy is, indeed, Strong.

This caused me to step back and consider: Are my problems really so bad? If this had happened to me, how would I handle it? Here I was focusing only on myself, when I should have been grateful for what I still had, and appreciating others.

I concluded that rather than focusing on my troubles, I needed to focus on my support network–my family and friends; focus on having a positive impact on others’ lives; and focus on ways to be resilient when facing life’s challenges. It’s really all on me. Katy’s positive outlook reminded me of that.

“Life is 10% what happens to you, and 90% how you react to it” — Charles Swindoll

Please send positive vibes to Katy, who is an inspiration to all. To contribute to Katy’s recovery, please click here. Love you, Katy!

At the store, I scan through the “Sympathy” greeting cards. None of the messages seem quite appropriate for my friend’s family.

Then I come across a misplaced card that said:

BACON FIXES EVERYTHING

I burst out laughing. My friend would have, too.

And couldn’t help but think: Does bacon fix everything? Is it that simple? Are we just taking Life all too seriously?

I struggle with my friend’s death. I search for answers.

Maybe I could have saved his life?

Opening up our last Facebook Messenger conversation, I read it over and over again, searching for clues.

I had given him some ideas on how to feel better…based on my own experience of feeling down at times…and my last words to him were, “Don’t worry. It’ll be OK.”

Now that this has happened…they seem such trivial words.

I spend an inordinate amount of time playing out scenarios in my head where I wrote him back and said something meaningful. Offered to have coffee with him.

Maybe I could have saved his life?

I scroll back through his Facebook page. I am taken aback to see that leading up to his death, he had a series of posts along the theme of “life is hopeless.” If I had only seen them.

Maybe I could have saved his life?

I see now that back then I had even “Liked” one of the memes he posted toward the end:

“Three stages of life:

1. Birth

2. What the f— is this?

3. Death”

In and of itself, I’d agreed with that post at the time, so I’d “Liked” it. But I hadn’t seen all the other downer posts that preceded it. If I had, I’d like to think that I would have sent him a private message asking if he was OK.

Maybe I could have saved his life?

I went to his memorial celebration. A photo slide show played on a big screen. His urn was front and center. I watched the photo montage with other attendees. The photos reminded me of so many good times together. He loved sports cars, and photos of his many speeding tickets were featured. It called to mind the time we went 140mph across “The Flats”…only to catch some gravel and do 360s in the road until we stalled out. All the louvres on the Camaro’s back window had flown off from the force. Ahh, good times.

The crowd eventually dispersed, and I was left alone with the photos—and the urn.

I placed my hand on the urn as I watched the photos play, over and over.

I thought to myself, what is my friend doing in this urn. How is this even a thing.

I kissed the urn, and said goodbye to my old friend.

And told him how sorry I was that I didn’t save his life.

Later, after speaking with his family, I learned that they had tried to get him medical help many times. They tried and tried, and nothing ever worked.

The thought that my help or my words would have prevented this, was perhaps ludicrous. Who was I to believe that I could save anyone’s life? For all I know, an attempted intervention on my part would have accelerated the outcome.

Sometimes, bacon…or loved ones…or friends…or anyone…can’t fix anything, I guess.

Clinical depression is a brain disorder. Sometimes treatment doesn’t work and you have to keep trying new meds, over and over.

So maybe I couldn’t have saved my friend. But of course that doesn’t mean we all shouldn’t try when we sense someone in need.

A number of sources indicate that nearly 25% of those who end their lives make the decision within 20 minutes of acting upon it…and another 25% decide within FIVE minutes.

September is National Suicide Prevention Awareness Month. If you or someone you know is in an emergency, please call 988, or The National Suicide Prevention Lifeline at 800-273-TALK (8255), or call 911 immediately.