“Take it easy, babe. Maybe Thaleia wanted it for that party she threw,” I said.
“Not funny.”
What could we do? We had a ghost. She liked to play with the electricity and hide things from us, end of story. The incident with the dress really got me thinking, though. I began to think about all the people that must have been born and died in the house over the past 120-plus years and I decided to do a little research. I went downtown to the local historical society and located the builder for all the homes on the block and then located the tax records for my house dating back to 1879. On a hunch, I wrote down all the names of the owners of the house and the years the property changed hands.
The next day when I went into work, I went down into the basement where the records are kept and took a look at our funeral service records dating back to 1891, when the company was founded. They are big, dusty, leather-bound ledgers with one gilded page dedicated to each entry. Back then, the owner only did fifty calls a year, so I was able to blow through the records pretty quickly. I knew the names I was looking for. It took me a little over an hour and a half to go ten years and find it.
In 1901, the tax records indicated, a man by the name of S. Roemer sold my house. The 1901 ledger listed an entry for a young girl, aged 17, named Juliana Roemer. Her father’s name was Samuel, and her address matched mine. Cause of death was listed as “cholera.”
In those days, the founder of the mortuary would have driven his horse and buggy out to the house, embalmed Juliana in her bed, and most likely would have laid her out in the parlor of the house for one, two, or three days for the wake. After that, she would have been loaded up on a horse-drawn hearse and taken to the cemetery where real gravediggers, not backhoes, dug her hole and bricked out a grave liner.
I ran my finger down the dusty gilded page and located the section and lot in the old city cemetery where Juliana was laid to rest.
These days, my wife and I go out once a year to the old city cemetery and lay flowers on Juliana’s grave on the anniversary of her death, and though things really haven’t changed at home, I no longer have to hunt for my keys in the morning anymore.
Sara still won’t sleep alone with a ghost in the house.
Acknowledgments
First and foremost I’d like to thank my agent, Elana Roth. In a literary landscape littered with apathy, she chose this manuscript and championed it, and ultimately made all this happen. Also, my editor at Kensington, Amy Pyle, who helped me produce the best possible finished product. To Bill Thompson, who I have had a relationship with as long as I have been scribbling, thank you for getting the ball rolling. Your advice on the original draft made all this happen.
I’d also like to thank my biggest backers and fans, my grandparents, Jean and Max Robinson. When I embarked on this crazy dream of writing you never doubted me. A special kudo to Barbara and Kruger; my beautiful wife, Melissa, who had to suffer the humiliation of our first date; my uncle, Rick, who taught me
I want to thank my sister, Katie; my grandmothers, Alyce and Katie; and Dr. Bob and Bill W. All these people have given direction and meaning to my life.
As this book was nearing publication, both my mother and her mother passed away unexpectedly and peacefully.
My mother always taught me that you can obtain anything in life that you want. She proved this when she became a commercial pilot in 1978. One of her big life secrets: “Always be able to laugh at yourself.”
My grandmother taught me many things: how to fish, bake, and even knit. And her secret for keeping cookies soft? “Place a piece of bread in your cookie jar, and your cookies will always be moist.
People usually ask me where my freewheeling sense of adventure comes from—writing a book like this, for example—and I tell them, hands down, it came from my grandma. My grandma’s unique sense of humor and spirited personality shaped my life and helped me achieve all that I have. I think the above photos show her personality. In the photo on the left the year was 1938, my grandma was 16, and she had just been at the Solano County Fair. Alyce—grandma—saw what were billed as “Live Nude Dancers” there (behind wooden fences, of course—it was 1938, after all). Later, tooling around with her friend Dorothy in Alyce’s Model T, they came upon a wooden fence. Dorothy posed a dare. Sixty-four years and a lot of bragging later, how could Alyce top that photo? Do it again at age eighty! Grandma, this book is dedicated to you.
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