susan's stories thread

by request, i've decided to start a thread and post some of my stories on it...so i'll start out with this one...

this is a true story

Red Sunset on Gravestones or How To Avoid Getting Locked in a Cemetery Before Five

Back in the early 80’s, a show called “Barnum” played on Broadway. The show was loosely based on the life of showman P.T. Barnum, founder of the American Museum in New York and the Ringling Brothers, Barnum and Bailey circus. It starred British actor Jim Dale in the title role and, for a short time, Glenn Close, as his wife Charity.

Barnum was responsible for making famous a few names such as the Swedish Nightingale, Jenny Lind, and Jumbo the elephant. The most famous of all was a little person whose real name was Charles Stratton, also known by his stage name, General Tom Thumb.

It was his grave that we set out to look for one Sunday on a crisp autumn morning on a trip to Bridgeport, Connecticut where P.T. Barnum had lived.

We had gone for two reasons. The first reason was the show. We had seen a Saturday matinee of “Barnum”. Jim Dale was excellent in the title role and we just missed out on seeing some singer by the name of Glenn Close.

And our frequent trips to a town called Port Jefferson didn’t help. There is a ferry that runs from Port Jeff, NY to Bridgeport, CT. We used to take that ferry back and forth in the summer months because it was inexpensive and a good way to keep cool. We would always see the Barnum Museum from the boat and wondered what it would be like to visit.

The first stop was the Barnum Museum, which contains special exhibits about the life of P.T. Barnum. Included in these exhibits were some information on his American Museum, which opened in New York City in 1841 and burned to the ground in 1865. There were photographs and information of the exhibits in that museum, the many he had made famous, from the Feejee Mermaid to the Cardiff Giant, which unfortunately were both hoaxes.

There was also a miniature recreation of the original circus that Barnum had begun before teaming with James Bailey.

There were a few photos of Iranistan; the large Arabian style mansion that he lived in with his wife, Charity and his three daughters until it burned to the ground. Since it is no longer there, we went to the spot where it had been located and tried to imagine that it was still there and what it would look like.

Our next stop was the Mountain Grove Cemetery, where P.T. Barnum and Charles S. Stratton, General Tom Thumb, were buried.

We stopped at Barnum’s grave first. It wasn’t very far from the entrance and it wasn’t hard to find. It was standing by itself in the center of the cemetery, a high gravestone that came to a point. It reminded me of Cleopatra’s Needle in Central Park. There were inscriptions on either side of the stone.

Then we set off to find General Tom Thumb’s gravestone. The information that we had explained that it could be found easily as it had a statue of the man atop the headstone.

There were no markers telling us which way to go to his gravesite as there had been with P.T. Barnum, so we rode around looking for it.

Not realizing the time, we continued to look, ignoring cemetery signs that warned us quite clearly that the gates would be locked at 5:00.

As the skies began to darken, we realized that it was late in the afternoon. Even though we hadn’t found Tom Thumb’s headstone, we still had a two-hour drive in front of us. With reluctance and utter disappointment, we knew that we would have to leave and so we set out to look for an open gate.

We came upon one giant gate that was closed and moved on to another. We rushed to the next one, hoping that it would be open.

It wasn’t.

It continued on like this for six or seven gates before we stopped the car. We were confused and a little scared.

We hadn’t the slightest idea of what to do next. It wasn’t five o’clock yet and there were all these thoughts running through our heads. Maybe they closed earlier on a Sunday. After all, no one else had been there as far as we knew. We hadn’t seen anyone.

There were no cell phones at the time and we couldn’t reach a pay phone. We looked for a guard or a worker, someone, anyone, but to no avail. The guard booths were empty.

Rob and I looked at each other. It was Sunday and we had to go to work the next day. Can you imagine the excuse we would have to give our bosses? Who would believe us when we told them that we had gotten locked in a cemetery in Bridgeport, Connecticut?

At this point, we were determined that there must be way out, so we started the car again and prayed that we would find an open gate. It was now after five and we were getting a little nervous. After two more tries, we came upon the two main gates of the cemetery.

One was closed; the other was wide open.

We rode out of there as fast as we could and didn’t look back. We realized that we had been lucky. We stopped for dinner and headed back to New York.

Since that time, we have only been to Bridgeport to take the ferry back to Port Jefferson when we return from our trips to New Hampshire. It is more expensive, but it is an easier ride and there is no traffic to get stuck in. But we have not been back to the cemetery and have not yet found Tom Thumb’s gravesite. I don’t think that we ever will.

Wow, a wonderful story Susan, thank you. I am certain that this opens up a horizon to many more stories, whether you have created or experienced them.

yes i will probably be posting a whole lot of stuff that i have saved up...thanks for reading...

That was great Susan, thanks for sharing.

It also makes me feel slightly ashamed that the only things I write these days are cheques...

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"Critics are like eunuchs in a harem; they know how the Tatty 100 is done, they've seen it done every day, but they're unable to do it themselves." - Brendan Behan

Great story Susan. You really have a way with words.

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Do not meddle in the affairs of Dragons.....for you are crunchy and good with ketchup.

hehehe! Sounds like a really fun trip. Barnum was a fascinating guy. I haven't seen that show, but have studied him a little bit. We used the story of him and the Swedish Nightengale as the basis for a murder mystery, back when I was writing scripts. Great stuff!

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Review: Cabin in the Woods 8/10

How to Make a 45 Minute Trip Last For Two Hours Longer Than You’d Expect

In May of 2002, we flew down to Florida to visit my parents. Our US Airways plane took off and landed without incident. We picked up our rental car from Alamo and we were on our way to visit with my parents.

We decided to visit a house located in Fort Lauderdale, which was a forty-five minute trip from my where my parents’ lived. Called the Bonnet House, it was famous for being one of the last undeveloped tracts of land along the Fort Lauderdale oceanfront. It houses an unusual and whimsical collection of art, shells and china.

Built and designed by artist Frederick Clay Bartlett in 1921, its 35 acres and 30 room two story plantation house gives you a feel of what old South Florida was like.

Surrounding the house are lush formal tropical gardens complete with a boathouse, a theatre and a small bridge. On its grounds live Brazilian squirrel monkeys that you can see in the palm trees from time to time. Its name is derived from the bonnet water lilies, which still grow in abundance in the many ponds that surround the house. The Bartletts used this as a winter home until the death in 1977 of Frederick’s second wife Evelyn. I have included the link to their website so that you, the reader, can see how beautiful it is for yourself.

Rob and I decided that in order to make better time, we would travel down to the main road called A1A, which travels the length of Florida.

When we got to Pompano Beach, we ran into traffic. We waited at least twenty-five minutes before the police turned us around. It was at this point that we noticed the news van. Then we looked up and saw at least six people, all clicking away on their cameras. We didn’t find out until later on the news what had actually happened.

Turned from our original direction, which had been south, we now headed west trying to find an alternate route down to Fort Lauderdale and resume our southerly course. This way though was a little harder. The Intracoastal Waterway runs through Florida especially down in that area. In order to get anywhere; you have to cross the bridges on the highway, which goes over the Intracoastal. These are drawbridges and go up every time a boat passes by.

Well, you could probably guess where the rest of this is leading. No sooner had we gone one mile when the drawbridge went up. Two boats came through and as soon as the bridge went down, we began again. This time we turned to go east and headed back down to A1A. We figured the roadblock would be over by now.

We rode a little ways east before we heard the clanging bells of the next drawbridge going up.

Another ten minutes later and we were back on A1A heading, once again, in a southerly direction. That was when we started to see the signs for the Military Air and Sea show. It wasn’t until Saturday, and well this was Wednesday, shouldn’t be any problem

Famous last words.

We ran into another roadblock down the road, this time from the show. A policeman was standing there telling everyone to turn around. Preparations had to be made for Saturday’s show and no one could go any further.

So we turned around and headed back up the same street and wouldn’t you know it? The bridge had gone up again.

By the time we reached our destination, two hours had gone by. We walked into the gift shop to find out when the next tour of the house would be leaving. We waited another twenty minutes before they could find our tour guide.

During the house tour, we were promised a tour of the grounds by tram as well, but we found out later that the tram wasn’t running. So we walked around instead.

The gardens were breathtaking as well as beautiful. And we also got a glimpse of the Blue Angels in practice flying above our heads getting ready for the Air and Sea show. For those of you unfamiliar with them, the Blue Angels are military stunt pilots.

I have included the website if anyone is interested.

Oh, and I almost forgot. The reason that we were turned back on A1A turned out to be the discovery of 500 years old bones dug up as they were working on the roadway. There was an investigation going on at the time, which explained the cameras and people from the press and the media. We found this out on the 11:00 news that night.

http://www.bonnethouse.org/main.html

Great story Susan and I especially liked the visual tour of the Bonnet House. The Bartletts were very interesting people.

PS. My parents used to live in Pompano Beach and never told me about the bones.......

Hey.........I want more stories!!

alright...i will get one up tonight...

thanks birdy...

Three Wishes

Everything seemed quiet when Nathan Chessworthy woke up. Nice and peaceful, he thought as he threw back the covers with a smile, exactly as I had ordered. That genie was the best thing that happened to him.

He stepped off his old bed, stretched and headed over to the window of his new home. It was lovely with the waterfall so close to his house. In the distance he could see the tall turrets of the old castle and the thatched cottages of the small village below. In a few minutes, he would call to check in with his guards, but for now he was going to have a shower in those falls. He shook his head, not believing his luck.

Six days ago while walking on the beach, he stumbled upon an old looking bottle buried halfway in the sand. He had picked it up and had stared at it. Nathan looked it over and with a sly smile, rubbed it to see what would happen. Sure enough, out popped a genie who gave him three wishes, but with a few restrictions.

“Choose wisely,” the genie told him, “because I can only give you exactly what you ask for, not what you expect. The rest is up to you. And, unlike some other genies, your wishes will be granted while you sleep.”

When the genie was sure that Nathan understood, he told him that he was ready to grant him his wishes three.

The first of Nathan’s wishes was to become the wealthiest living man in the entire world. As promised, his riches were waiting for him when he awoke.

The second was to be king of all he surveyed. “Granted,” the genie replied. And when he woke up, he found himself in a castle with servants and townspeople scurrying to and fro, waiting to do his every bidding. Suddenly he realized that he didn’t want anyone around, that he didn’t want anyone to know that he had all this wealth and power. He just wanted to be alone, to enjoy all this in his solitude.

And so, Nathan’s third and final wish was his desire to keep all these things to himself. The genie looked at him skeptically. “You are sure that’s what you want?”

Nathan nodded his head. “Of course,” he said, smiling.

“Then your wish is my command,” the genie told him.

Now here he was, laughing and soaking under the ice-cold waterfalls. When he finished, he grabbed his hooded terry robe and pulled it around him. It was then he noticed how strangely quiet it was. Not a bird, not a deer, not even a fly. There was no wind and no airplanes overhead. He shook his head and pulled the hood over his hair. Probably his imagination, he decided and headed for the door.

It led into the kitchen where he found everything he needed, including a refrigerator. Nathan opened the door expecting to find it fully stocked, but there was nothing in it. He frowned and closed the door.

He walked over to the sink and turned on the faucet, but no water came out. Puzzled, he walked into the living room. Not a stick of furniture, nowhere in the entire house. No radio, no television and no telephone. Not a thing.

Panicking now, he threw open a closet door, only to find it empty and devoid of anything. He ran to the bedroom, found his bed was still there and sat down on it, bewildered. He was very lucky that the genie had at least left him that much, along with his robe that he always kept on the bedpost.

There must be someone or something else here, he thought. How could this be?

Still in his robe, he got up and ran out the back door, past the waterfall. The car that he asked for and received, a 1964 cherry red Mustang convertible, was waiting for him. The genie had included this in his first wish. He turned the key in the ignition, expecting the car to start, but the engine wouldn’t turn over. He looked at the gas gauge. It read empty.

He hopped out of the car and began to walk down the hill toward the village. No sign of life anywhere, not even a hint of an existence of any living thing. He entered one of the abandoned cottages where he found a phone and a television set that didn’t work.

He took a quick tour of the place and didn’t find a thing except an old yellowed newspaper, which was lying on the floor. It was dated July 29th, four days ago.

Right after he made his second wish.

He picked it up and turned it over. That’s when he caught the headlines on the front page. “Sudden unexplained illness has surfaced in Europe and Asia and is responsible for killing everything in its wake. It is headed to the United States with a vengeance.”

I don’t believe this; he thought, crumbling it up. It’s impossible. Nobody? Not one single being anywhere.

But then he remembered the genie’s words


“Choose wisely because I can only give you exactly what you ask for, not what you expect. The rest is up to you.”

So now he had his money, his house and his kingship, but what could he possibly do with it? He was truly lost.

“How does it feel to be the last person on earth, Nathan?” he thought to himself. Then he began to cry.

The Ghost of Ellis Island


I was standing on the deck of the Staten Island ferry when I first saw Ellis Island in 1972. Immigrants from many countries had come through here. During the peak years of immigration, 1898 to 1924, the island was at its busiest. In later years, mass immigration had dropped and there was no need for a processing station. Ellis Island closed down in 1954 and was abandoned.

By 1972, it was starting to show its age. Time had turned the shiny brown copper trim on the main building to green. Weeds, fallen branches, and debris covered the lawn. A sign standing amid the ruins said that Ellis Island had become a part of the Statue of Liberty National Monument on May 11, 1965. It was to open sometime in the future. As we passed, I could not take my eyes off it. I felt as if someone or something was calling me there.

I found myself wondering how it felt to be an immigrant, to walk the halls of that majestic brick building on my way to a strange new land. In May 1976, when the island opened officially, I heard that voice again. Since then, I have been back seven times, five times before the renovation and reconstruction and twice after it reopened in 1990.

The trip we made in 1980 was my favorite. My husband secured a reservation with the National Park Service for what was known as a three-hour photographer's tour. My husband, his friend and I put on hard hats and set off to see what we could see. We had the entire island to ourselves and we had access to places that we could not visit on the usual one hour guided tour.

Our first stop was the main building. We found some suitcases, an old baggage cart, and an old hat and used them as props. The photographs we took look as though someone we knew had just landed there and we were helping him with his bags.

The Great Hall or Registry Room, where millions of immigrants passed through medical and legal examinations, lay in ruins. Although scaffolding had gone up, paint was peeling everywhere. Staring down at me from the balcony wall was a large gaping hole.

The stairs on the far side of the hall led up to the balcony where the medical examination rooms were. One room was set up with lab equipment, medical cabinets, and crutches. A lab coat hung from the side of an old wheelchair and looked as if the doctor had gone on break and would return any moment to find his patient waiting for him.

We passed many more ruined rooms. A wooden bench with only one arm stood all alone amid piles of plaster and paint peelings. A yellowed newspaper lay atop its seat.

In the hallway, I caught sight of a ruined stairway, plaster and paint crumbling on each step where immigrants once walked. An old chair with a coat draped over the top stood at the foot of the stairs. It looked as though its wearer had laid it there and would soon return to pick it up.

Our trip took us to the Railroad Ticket Office where immigrants waited anxious hours for a train to bring them to the United States. Nearby, the table in the cafeteria was set for a meal. The sign on the wall read in five different languages "Deposit trays and dishes here." Inside a crumbling stairwell was a window sill carved with many immigrant names and words, each written in a different language.

The most frightening part of our tour was the main and contagious disease hospitals on the other side of the island. Thousands of immigrants were held here while waiting for a more thorough medical examination. When I first entered, an eerie feeling came over me. It did not look or feel like a hospital at all. Doors stood open to empty medical wards. Rusty bedpans and washbowls lay among more crumbled heaps of paint and plaster. There were broken windows everywhere.

When it was time to leave, no one wanted to go. On the ferry ride back, we sat in silence as we watched the island get smaller and smaller in the distance.

Today, a partially restored Ellis Island stands as a monument to all immigrants who entered the United States. The Great Hall looks as it did during peak immigration and it is absolutely breathtaking. The exhibits are educational and informative and are worth a trip.

Although the walls are intact and the paint is no longer peeling, something is missing. There is no longer access to the ruins, although they still exist. Most of the objects we photographed in 1980 are now behind a large glass wall in an exhibit called "Silent Voices." A food court and souvenir shop stand in places where immigrants once walked and talked of a future in the New Land.

However, something still calls me there. I do not know what or who it is. Now when we visit the island, we try to find some part that has not yet been restored. We always manage to discover something. Maybe one day, I will find the ghost who calls me there.

New Hampshire

In 1987, my husband, Rob and I took our brand new Mazda 323 and headed up to the White Mountains of New Hampshire. This was our second time up there, the first of our annual Labor Day weekend trips.

Rob, as usual, was looking for a shortcut. The side road he was looking at took only 45 minutes to get across, while the major road took over an hour to go around.

Of course, we opted for the shorter road.

Logging was a large part of New Hampshire’s past. This is what they called an old logging road. Most of them are unpaved and not in the best shape. In other words, something that I thought a new car should not attempt to even go across. Rob, however, had other thoughts.

Things didn’t start off too badly. The road was paved, at least it was in the beginning. It turned to gravel about 5 minutes later. When it turned to a pure dirt road, that’s when the fun began.

We passed grass, bushes and trees. Not one house in sight, not one sign of civilization. More grass, more trees. Lots more trees. The stones in the road didn’t help. Of course, you know I’d have to go to the bathroom. So I went in the bushes. It was only fifteen minutes since we started down this road. It felt like an hour.

Back in the car, on the road again. More trees, more grass. More stones in the road. I asked Rob if we had a spare. I was sure we were going to need it. A four wheel drive jeep was coming toward us. . We never saw that jeep again. I fiqured it disappeared into some great underground tunnel that was waiting to swallow us up as well. I looked at my watch. Ten more minutes had gone by.

Wait a minute! What’s that I see on the left? A mailbox! On the box were the words "U.S. Male". Could there be a house nearby? Sure enough, there were two houses on top of the hill What difference did it make? I would never know and who cared, anyway.

A little past the mailbox, the road split. Okay, which way now? Luckily, for us, Rob spotted a small arrow pointing down the road. Like sheep being led, we followed the arrow. More grass, more trees. More stones banging against our new car. To our left, a small national park appeared. We decided to stop off and go to the bathroom. No bathroom existed. Back in the car again. It was now almost forty minutes. When would this nightmare end?

It didn’t last too much longer. We finally drove into what looked like the center of town. I say looked because it was only four white houses in a circle. In the middle of the circle was a general store. We pulled up and parked the car near the general store. There were two white haired gentlemen standing outside the store, talking to each other. They looked up as we pulled in. I wondered what they could possibly be thinking.

Rob asked if I was hungry or thirsty. I said yes and he got out. He spoke to the men before going inside. I saw Rob point in the direction we had come and one of the men shook his head. They talked a few minutes more, then Rob went inside.

He came back out ten minutes later with two iced teas, snacks and fruit for each of us. "You are not going to believe what they just told me," Rob said. "Tell me," I answered. That’s when he told me.

As soon as he had gotten out of the car, Rob wanted to find out where he was so he spoke to the two men. They told him he was in the town of Center Sandwich

"How did you get here?", the other man asked. Rob pointed in the direction that we had come. "Sandwich Notch Road?" they both said. Rob said yes.

The two men looked at each other, then back at Rob. "That road was washed out two years ago," he said.

We have not taken a short cut in New Hampshire since.

This is not true.

This past Memorial Day, Rob decided (and without telling me, I might add) ventured onto ths particular road again (grrrrr) and found, to his utter surprise, that it was in worse shape than 1987.

However, some familiar sites, like the mailbox with U.S. Male painted on its side were there. Heck, we even passed a little red Mini Cooper which led Rob to turn to me and say "See, if that Mini can do it, so can ours."

I beg to differ.

Needless to say, when our little pepper white Mini came out looking a lot darker than when we started, Rob stopped the car at the same general store (believe it or not) and said "I promise, this will be the last time I take this road. I thought after all this time, they would have fixed it over."

Ah ha....famous last words.

wow i only had time to reas the first and its really good. will read the others soon

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"A good film is when the price of the dinner, the theater admission and the babysitter were worth it."
- Alfred Hitchcock

great stuff Suzi Q

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Health is the greatest gift, contentment the greatest wealth, faithfulness the best relationship.
Buddha

Thank you so much for posting these stories. I especially liked the one about the back roads in New Hampshire having taken many of them myself, just to see where I would end up. On one lazy Sunday afternoon while I was out on such a journey, I passed a field of flowers. I stopped and got out. I saw the most amazing sight..........the field was full of Monarch butterflies.......hundreds of them. And me without a camera!

Here

sounds lovely...i wish that would happen to us....although memorial day i managed to see two bears at about 5 in the morning from our motel room...i wish i had a camera then..it was barely light outside

thanks birdy

These deserve a bump.

More stories please