The Maple Street Terror--- (Yes, this is true...)

                               

                               The Maple Street Terror

 It was a hot, clammy late summer day. The early morning showers followed by a humid afternoon hinted that fall was coming soon, better than any date on the calendar. A few weeks would pass, and those long, bright summer days would be gone; everyone would be back in school with only Halloween to look forward to.

  I never purposely spied on my brothers and sisters, but discovered early that a little blackmail was sometimes profitable in our large family of sibling rivals. The social currency of our realm at the time went something like this; “If you tell on me, I will tell on you.” The threat was often enough to guarantee silence. I knew where John hid is girlie magazines, Judy knew Bill was not at basketball practice, and who he was making out with at the time, Jackie knew I was the one who dropped and shattered mom’s prized ironstone pitcher and bowl set. And everyone had something on Jackie.  As the youngest in the family, I watched my brothers and sisters closely; noting any inconsistencies or clues to anticipate trouble before any family dramas would occur.

  On this Saturday afternoon the house was unnaturally quiet, always a bad sign. Dad was at the hardware store, Mom, Jackie and Judy were shopping, Bill was at basketball practice with the Betts brothers, (of course he was), and I had just finished the Battle of Little Big Horn on the front porch with my Fort Apache Playset. This time, Custer won. But where was John? 

  I left the front porch mostly to see what John was up to, and when I rounded the corner of the Addison’s place next door, I saw John hurriedly take some white bed sheets from the Addison’s clothesline and scurry off. I wasn’t surprised about John’s theft, he was always planning some outrage, but I was puzzled why he needed the sheets. Later that day, old Mrs. Addison stopped by during dinner and complained that someone had stolen her sheets off her clothesline, and was thoroughly confused by the event. I watched John closely knowing the truth, but kept quiet, as he unexpectedly snickered and somehow managed to make it sound like a cough, and left the table.

  In the early sixties in our neighborhood, in Cambridge, Ohio, the long hot summer was the best part of the whole year. Back in those days, there were no I-Pads or sophisticated video gaming systems, TV was still in its infancy, and not many folks had air conditioning. Back then, busy Moms encouraged their kids to go outside and play so that they could finish the household chores. In those days, parents had a naïve, trusting view of the world, and believed that living in America was not unlike an extended episode of Mayberry R.F.D.  It sounds unbelievable today, but it was customary and not unusual for children to be allowed to have the run of the neighborhood at all hours of the day until dark.  Nearly every day was spent rounding up enough kids for a football game, Kick the Can, a bike race, or small larcenies at the Royal Blue grocery store.

  The very best attraction for us, was the Haunted Mansion on Maple Street. Everyone knew for certain that it was haunted. Long abandoned, and left with every piece of household items and furniture intact, the old house stood on Maple Street, dark, sinister and silent. Early on, one of our number of domestic terrorists discovered an unlocked door, and we inevitably found our way inside. In retrospect, the house wasn’t really a mansion, but just an aging, neglected, Victorian pile that once was the gem of Maple Street. A thick layer of dust covered every room; there were old daguerreotypes of the family that had once lived there, and an overwhelming, shadowy sense of decay and death. Our explorations of the Haunted Mansion never lasted more than a few minutes, the absolute limit of our frayed nerves. It was here, in this dark place that our story begins.

  I’ll admit, I had been watching John closely since the events of the day before, but lost him in the late afternoon. Certain now, because he was missing, that ‘the game was afoot’; I was surprised to see our battered station wagon pull into our driveway with Mom and John inside.  Still suspicious, I approached and discovered Mom had only taken John shopping for school clothes and gym shoes.

  Somehow, John had managed to persuade Mom to buy him a pair of Red Ball Jets! At the time, Red Ball Jets were the first canvas-topped rubber sneaker to be mass marketed in America. John would instantly be the envy of the neighborhood. Daily commercials on TV loudly proclaimed Red Ball Jets could make you ‘run faster, and jump higher’ than anyone of the block. Deflated, and more than a little jealous, I watched John happily pull the sneakers on in the driveway, and proudly rub the distinctive Red Ball logo near the heel of the shoes. I turned, and walked away knowing this would not be the end of it.

  It began that very night. I had given up monitoring John’s whereabouts, and found myself on the front porch watching the lengthening shadows as the night approached. From down the street, near the intersection with Maple I heard running footsteps, a curious metallic sound, and a surprised scream, followed by another, and yet another. In the awful silence that followed, my brother Bill had emerged from the house, and we both stared open-mouthed at each other, unable to understand.

Bill bolted and ran down the street towards Maple and the Haunted Mansion, and I followed close behind. We found a small crowd of kids surrounding Mary and Becky Balts, nearly in hysterics. They said they had just seen a ghost.

 Within a few minutes a small crowd of neighborhood kids had turned out we peppered them with questions. It took a while, but Mary and Becky said that they had just crossed Maple Street past the Haunted Mansion, and suddenly a ghost appeared and chased them, and they were nearly caught. Bill and I looked at each other, and I could read Bill’s doubts in his face. I was at first unconvinced, but looked closer at Becky’s face and saw her terror as she said quietly;

  “I saw his face, it isn’t a ghost. It is a scarecrow. We never should have gone into the Haunted Mansion.” Bill and I exchanged serious look, and didn’t say much as we walked the Balts sisters home.

  The events of that night were only the beginning. The following night the Stimson kids, little Joey and Sarah were surprised by the specter in white tattered shrouds wrapped in chains that relentlessly chased them clear to Court Street downtown. Later, that same night old Fred Deshler spotted the ghost tearing past on the street as he left the Humble Gas Station. For the better part of a week the Maple Street Ghost terrorized our neighborhood, and seemed to content himself with chasing kids, sometimes with a tortured howling for effect.

  One night, the sightings abruptly ceased. To this day, no one has been able to offer a plausible explanation for the events for that week so long ago. It remains just a small town legend, local folklore bereft of evidence, and any corroboration.

  That is, until now. I’d like to offer my version of the story on that last night, and close the door on this riddle. It was late Thursday night, and I had put off taking out the trash as long as I could. Honestly, I wasn’t very keen on the idea, I was more than a little scared to be outside in the dark, all by myself, with only a howling ghost for company. Mom reminded me that Friday was trash day, and I had “Better get to it; else there would be trouble with your father.” Given the choice between the two possibilities, I quickly chose to take out the trash.

  By the time I managed to build up enough confidence to leave the safe confines of the kitchen it was completely dark outside. I had to move slowly as the stairs outside were poorly lit, and I was carrying the bundles of garbage to the trash barrels. It took a while, and as I returned to the safety of the door leading to the kitchen I came face to face with the Maple Street Ghost!

  Unable to breathe, rooted to the spot, I can still remember his terrible face, and heard a frightening howl begin. And I have to admit, I ‘lost some water’, as the saying goes. The monster seemed surprised for a moment, but regained his composure, silently put his index finger to his lips, and turned to go. As he turned to go, his white tattered shroud fluttered at his feet, and I saw dimly the unmistakable Red Ball Jets logo.

 

Thanksgiving and my Uncle Neil- (Excerpt from 'Our Ohio Story'.

                           My Uncle Neil

 Uncle Neil was a kind of legend in our family. He was a small man who had odd habits that sometimes puzzled and frustrated our side of the Wilson tribe.

  Neil was married to my father’s sister Janie, and I was never certain if she was a sister, or a step sister to my father. There was some kind of distance, yet strangely a bond between them, but my father was such a reticent and sometimes surly man, I was never able to gather the courage to question exactly what was going on. We would get together with Aunt Janie and Uncle Neil for holidays, and I would listen closely when they talked for any information that would clear the matter up for me. Instead of sharing stories about their childhood, the small ‘remember when?’ stuff that gives children insights about their parents everything was kept within the range of the moment. They were like people stuck on an elevator for a few uncomfortable minutes waiting for the time to pass. The best answer I had to this riddle was my father and Aunt must have shared a lousy childhood or had a terrible falling out at one time.

  Aunt Janie was a sweet and kind pleasantly obese Aunt who seemed to have been born with a look of sudden surprise or astonishment on her face. Being my father’s sister, she shared Dad’s bright intense blue eyes, but the resemblance stopped there. My Dad’s eyes had a very singular aspect that denoted fixity of purpose, or indignation at the world around him. As children, we were never really sure when he was boiling mad at everyone and everything or just needed more roughage in his diet.

   In contrast, Aunt Janie’s eyes though roughly similar, always seemed wide open with a look of childlike wonder and curiosity. Aunt Janie sometimes had trouble following what was going on about her, and was given over to odd silences that made conversations difficult. Dad claimed she was “a little forgetful”; but Mom preferred to call her “just crazy”.

  But let’s get back to Uncle Neil. Neil was a small man with slightly greying hair, who made a habit of over dressing for family get-togethers. He paid much attention to his hair, had neatly manicured nails, and was always closely shaved. Quiet and reserved, he was always courteous but somehow remote.

  Every year Mom and Dad would gather for Thanksgiving or Christmas visits with Aunt Janie and Uncle Neil for a big meal, a long afternoon of drinking beer and euchre. The card game euchre was the highlight of the day, though the game was often interrupted because Aunt Janie often forgot whose turn it was, or trump her partner’s lead during card play.  Traditionally, the big event was planned weeks in advance, with phone calls exchanged, a date set, and the big meal planned. Dad left the logistics to Mom and she engineered how to move five kids, the green bean casseroles, carrot salads, and candied yams in the old station wagon for the trip to St. Marys, Ohio.  

 
  But there was another annual tradition strictly observed that was the most fun for us kids to watch. Everyone in the family knew Uncle Neil was wily cheapskate, and he practiced his craft whenever possible. Somehow Uncle Neil would always find a way to stiff my Dad for most of the costs of the holiday meal. Every year Dad would swear on the long drive to St. Marys that Uncle Neil would not ‘nail him this time’. My father, a serious and self-possessed man never saw it coming, and was always undone, much to our enjoyment.

   It always started simply enough like this: We would arrive for the big holiday meal and Uncle Neil would turn to my Dad and say; “Jack, I’m a little low on gas in my car, can we take yours and pick up some more soda?”

  Dad would of course say yes, and we would go to the grocery store and pick up pop, and Uncle Neil would decide we needed a case or two of beer, some more pretzels, coleslaw, and they were also out of milk; he remembered suddenly. Generally the grocery cart would be full by the time we made it to the checkout stand.

  All the goodies were loaded onto the grocer’s belt and totaled up, and Dad looked up and discovered Uncle Neil was gone. A few uncomfortable minutes would pass as more customers would line up behind us waiting for their turn. My sisters and I would exchange knowing glances, trying hard not to laugh and Dad reluctantly swore and paid the bill. By the time we loaded the groceries in the car Uncle Neil would suddenly appear saying:

“I had to get some chips! Golly, Jack you didn’t have to do that, we will settle up when we get home, OK?” But, of course he never did.

  The tradition lasted for years and last time I recall going to St. Marys for Thanksgiving dinner Aunt Janie met us at the door and seemed confused and surprised at our appearance. Even though Mom and Janie had exchanged phone calls weeks before about Thanksgiving dinner, Janie had somehow forgotten. Uncle Neil, my sisters and Dad all went to the grocery store and bought enough beer and food to put together a big Thanksgiving meal for everyone.

  At the checkout stand I watched Dad’s face as Uncle Neil hastily explained he somehow forgot to bring his wallet along and was surprised to see Dad smile. I never understood why, but at the time I was a child and had little understanding of the real meaning of Thanksgiving and family.