A slice of memoir for my writing friends, who requested the story of my mail-order ghost…
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The 1970s were steeped in tabloids, monsters, horror, psychics, UFOs, and ghosts.
Weird times.
And I was a weird little kid.
I thought I could see a lady sitting high atop a tree across the street from my house. Every day, year after year, she sat there, a regal bark-colored woman, never moving, just looking out over the world from her tall branchy throne.
I thought I saw feet in a pair of bedroom slippers left in my Grannie’s hallway…where was the rest of the person? None of the adults could make sense of my sudden hysteria.
Speaking of hysteria: My young parents, for some inexplicable, out-of-character reason, carried me through a haunted house before I was two. Just as they were exiting, a witch popped out from a secret chamber and her long hair swept over me. I have no memory of this. My father told me the story; he said I screamed and screamed, like I’d been burned. I figure it marked me permanently. Like a smallpox vaccination. I wonder what kind of immunity witch hair carries…
I recall being really being burned. I was afraid of cigarettes, of their red-hot circular tips, because some grown-up or other at a family gathering hadn’t thought to move his indolent hand out of the way when my preschool self went running through the living room. Maybe this is why I also feared flames shooting up from backyard charcoal grills (smell that lighter fluid?), from the flattop grill behind the counter of the local diner, and the whoosh of brilliant blue whenever someone turned the burner knob on a gas stove.
I was afraid of big smells. Like collards cooking. I’d gag and run out of the house (love to eat ’em now, though, with plenty of hot pepper vinegar).
My weirdest childhood fear (perhaps): Black toilet seats. Utterly terrifying. Why did anyone ever think these were a great idea? I wouldn’t even enter the bathroom at the doctor’s office, let alone “go,” because of that ominous seat. I sobbed and tried to get away from my mother. Not understanding, she became angry.
And I was afraid of ghosts.
So much so that I didn’t want to go to sleep the first night I stayed with my grandparents after Granddaddy retired and they moved back home to the countryside. Their cozy little house sat amid whispering woods, strange canals, and a tiny dappled cemetery situated diagonally to the left of their front yard, across the dirt road.
I took one look at those weathering old tombstones gleaming white in the dusk and thought Ghosts.
Grandma, I’m scared of that place.
Oh, honey. Don’t ever fear the dead. Fear the living.
It didn’t help.
Oddly enough, TV shows about monsters and ghosts did.
The Addams Family: How did Morticia move at all in that skinny black dress, drawn so tight ’round her ankles? How could a disembodied hand called Thing materialize from random tabletop boxes throughout the psuedo-gothic house to deliver mail or light cigars? My parents’ then-childless friends got a black Lab puppy and named it Thing. I loved that dog. She dug a big hole in our backyard; in the years to follow, I’d expand Thing’s hole many times over, along with my imagination.
The Munsters: Who could be afraid of Herman, with his goofy laugh?
Casper the Friendly Ghost: I quickly grew to love him and all the dark gray haunted-house scenery on the Viewmaster reels Grandma bought me. Casper wasn’t remotely scary. He was cute. And comforting. Somehow.
And so it was, one summer when I was nine or ten, I happened upon the little ad in the back pages of a magazine (or maybe it was in a novelty catalog, another 1970s staple):
Order Your Own Ghost!
I didn’t bother to read the rest of the details. The creepy illustration sold me.
I went in search of Grandma.
I would have it. My own ghost.
My land. What do you want this for?
I just do… please, Grandma?
She sighed, clipped out the form, addressed the envelope, enclosed the couple of dollars (?), and mailed it.
When the package arrived she helped me open it. One doesn’t want to slit a ghost by accident.
I’m not sure what I expected. I knew the ghost couldn’t be “real,” yet the ad had conjured a misty apparition in my mind, a filmy thing that would do my bidding. Could it be the allure of supernatural power? The need to overcome a fear by mastering it? Sheer curiosity? All of the above?
Would the the thing rise before me as soon as the package was opened?
Um.
No.
Opening the package the rest of the way, I found a folded white plastic sheet, deeply creased when I shook it out, a white balloon to blow up and place under the thin plastic, white thread for tying under the balloon “head” and to be taped to the top of the plastic so that the ghost could then be hung from a door or hook, etc., where it might move a little whenever we passed by (or if I decided to turn Grandma’s floor fan on it).
Oh, and helpful directions to locate a marker for drawing draw eyes and a mouth, if desired.
I felt like throwing the worthless stuff straight in the trash. When I eventually learned the term rip-off, this mail-order ghost would drift to mind.
Grandma, who’d tried to discourage the purchase in the first place, now tried to placate me: Here, I’ll blow up the balloon…
We assembled the sorry specter and strung it on the old bedroom doorknob where it dangled in front of the metal keyhole. I hated the sight of it hanging there, grinning at me.
I didn’t know it then, but Lessons were afoot…
Be careful what you wish for. You might get it.
It may not be at all what you thought.
Fears are exhausting.
Fears can be overcome by recognizing the inherent ridiculous (look up Harry Potter boggart).
Things and people will sometimes (oftentimes) turn out to be something other than they seem.
Above all: Life is a carnival, a strange journey of compelling facades and disappointing realities, a house of shattered mirrors with perpetual distortions and misperceptions obscuring truth, of false narratives and unseen, lingering harm lurking in the darkest corners, where occasionally flares a red-hot tip held in an indolent hand…
Ghosts are, in the end, about loss; what do we fear more than that?
I’d had enough. I balled up my ghost and smushed it into the trashcan where it belonged.
It was a beginning.
Ghost. David Ludwig. CC BY-SA
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with thanks to Two Writing Teachers for the Tuesday Slice of Life Story Challenge
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Oh, Fran, I enjoyed this is much! I was so excited to get to the end and see you had included a picture of the ghost. What a great story!
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I was excited to find a photo online that looked like my ghost! I am still playing with the story; there are so many ways to take it… thank you for your words.
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Fran, I’m so glad you wrote about your mail-order ghost today! I’ve been wondering about that since you mentioned it awhile back. It’s so nice to know the story now. I wanted to order the X-ray glasses from the back of one of those same 70s magazines. I broke bones as a child (arm, finger, collar, wrist), and thought the glasses could save us the need for the Xray anytime I got hurt (often). But oh, these gimmicks just call to us, don’t they? Your ghost story just puts a smile on my face – – a young Fran, learning those hard lessons of life and moving on a wiser woman. But now, that witch hair, like a Harry Potter Lightning bolt from a wand that resisted and left you with…….the magic of writing! You have been anointed, my friend!
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Oh, Kim, all those injuries – ! I wasn’t an especially active or sports-minded child but had several sprained ankles and I broke my arm on the school playground at the end of 4th grade. I am trying to imagine being your parent-!! Those 70s magazines and catalogs…treasure troves of junk, yet I learned all about birthstones from them. Kids today have no idea what their birthstone is. Egregious! So – about this ghost story. It’s been simmering for a long time. Wasn’t sure where to start it. Seemed like fear, or the overcoming of it, was the beginning place. That, of course, opened the door for the whole motley crew of those other fears to come parading. So I allowed them their moment onstage (poor players, strutting and fretting, lol). But there’s also this… in writing memoir, no matter how far back we go, we write from who are now. When you are a child your norm is your norm and you don’t know differently until you see others’ norms…there was darkness brewing that I could not see then, brokenness that shaped my life and others, and great loss to come. I would face these things for what they were as an adult, but recently the ghosts have stirred a bit. Writing is a way to put them back into context, laying them to rest. Not exactly a stake through the heart, but the removal of one. For healing. There is, of course, much more to write. The witch’s hair: I cannot fathom my parents’ thinking, but they were young, so… what a fun plot device to play with, at least. I have wanted tu use it in a story someday. Thank you always for the amazing gift of your words.
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What a great story! The memories of fear that led up to the ordering of a ghost-by-mail take me back to my own fears as a young child. The witch hair was especially jarring. It all makes me think of the child’s brain and how impressionable it is. We want to shield our children from all fear, but that is not possible. Thanks for sharing this story.
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Thank you Margaret, for your always-keen insight. Part of the allure of that ghost was a need to master a fear, to have some control. I’ve wanted to write the piece for a while but wasn’t sure how to start. Fear seemed the beginning place…once I opened that old door, then all those other fears came crowding in. I let them live again here, for a moment. I still can’t believe the story of the haunted house and witch’s hair – what were my parents thinking?? But they were young…I’ve also wanted to use that witch’s hair as a device in a story, eventually.
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I love how you’ve entwined and included so many memories in this piece.
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Thank you – in trying to remember why I wanted to order that ghost in the first place, I realize it was partly an attempt to have control/overcome a fear. Once the door was opened, the other childhood fears came knocking and, well – I had to let them back in, for a moment.
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Fran, I’m so glad you wrote this part of your memoir and it sounds like you continue to explore the story and consequences. I love all the specific details you give, which make it so much more convincing. That photo is awesome, and exactly how you describe it with your words. I too am glad you found the photo that looked like your ghost.
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Denise, I always appreciate your responses and insights. I’ve thought about this “ghost” several times over the years, telling myself “I need to write that.” This post could have been condensed to that simple vignette…but I had to explore why I wanted that ghost so much in the first place. I think it was partially an attempt to overcome fear, to have control over the darker side of humanity that at the time I couldn’t even understand, and which would lead to losses later in life. Some old ghosts have stirred of late. This is part of my putting them back to rest. Thank you again for your thoughts!
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The fun of look at old fears and emotions. A good story to share. I had a ghost friend who lived in our basement. She helped me deal with odd sounds in the house when I was home alone. Thanks for sharing
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I love this basement ghost of yours – definitely benevolent! Thank you for your words, Joanne.
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I was one of your readers who clamored for the story of your mail-order ghost. But reading it today with its ‘Lessons . . . afoot, it seems so much more than just a story about your mail-order ghost.
One of my childhood fears was of the dark, so much so that I would insist my dad keep a watch out as I dashed across the street to run two houses down to spend the night with my granny.
“Ghosts are in the end about loss” are words that send shivers and recognition down my spine.
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Ramona, I appreciated that request for the story. I’ve been wanting to write the memory before I forgot it. The piece could certainly be shortened to just the vignette of the ordering and receiving of the disappointing thing, but I kept turning it around in my head: What does that experience mean to me? Definitely one of learning. What did I learn? My young self would have said something along the lines of “Some things turn out to be very different than you thought.” Absolutely a life lesson. I had to try and remember why I wanted that ghost so much in the first place. I think it was, in some small way, an attempt to have some control, perhaps over fears and darker spiritual things that I couldn’t understand, and which led to losses later in my life. some of which have recently resurrected themselves. So, my perceptive friend, you are right: it is much more than a story about a mail-order ghost. It would fit better, I think, in a longer piece…anyway, know how much I treasure your words. And, I can see little you dashing down the street in the dark, with your father watching…what a spiritual metaphor that is!
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Fran,
This is quite the catalog of fears. I thought about Stephen King’s essay on why we love horror movies as I read. I often think about the source of my own fears: drowning and heights being the two main ones. But fears are something we must face. Sometimes these days I think some folks need to have a greater sense of fear rather than being comfortable in their complacency.
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Ah, King…I have his book on writing, have always been intrigued by his process. If I recall correctly, in the essay you mention on why we love horror, he plays with the idea that “we’re all mentally ill, some more than others” and basically that witnessing insanity helps keeps us sane, etc. As a teenager I loved horror movies. I can’t stomach them now. You are right that fears are something we must face. I think that was a big lesson behind my wanting the ghost in the first place; the desire to take control over something I’d long feared. It is, in larger context, a metaphor for losses I’d encounter later in life. Some of those “ghosts” have been stirred recently. This a piece I needed to write. I probably need to expand it. In writing memoir we are really writing from where we are now, as we can’t write from where we were then. It’s like putting puzzle pieces into place and seeing the real picture, at last. Not to mention putting ghosts to rest. Fear serves to aid self-preservation, so I’d agree with some folks needing a greater sense of fear instead of being comfortably complacent. All too often I encounter folks trapped by a host of fears, such as what others think of them or feeling judged. Maybe it’s just me but I think I can trace the thread of loss even in that. Thank you as always for your thought-provoking insights, Glenda.
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Hey Fran! Hunted for this post and glad I did. I can’t seem to find a subscribe button! I loved all of this – the witch hair, the fear of being burned, the Munsters and Adams Families, the mail-order-not-what-you-expected ghost. Your grandmother’s loving guidance. I connected with all of it. And you are spot on – LOSS is what we fear most. Thank you for this. I always learn so from you and about you.
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Thank you for these thoughts, Joanne – not sure what’s going on with the subsribe button but I get notifications that people subscribe. Will investigate. Wanted to let you know that after wishing I could have seenyour green heron a couple of weeks ago…one came to me! It’s the basis of today’s post. 🙂
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