Yaddo Ghost Tour

Yesterday, my mother and I took a ghost tour of Yaddo, an artist's colony in Saratoga Springs, NY. Saratoga has a long and storied history, dating back before the Revolutionary War.  I've only visited Yaddo's rose garden during the summer, and was curious to see what my favorite season did to such a beautiful place.  Autumn didn't disappoint.  The grounds were festooned with crinkly leaves in a variety of fall colors. 

As we gathered around the docent to hear her opening words, I noticed a movement out of the corner of my eye and turned.  All I saw was a falling leaf, so I wrote it off, even though I could have sworn that what I saw in my peripheral vision was bigger than a leaf.  Nearby, a hanger hung from a tree.  The strangeness of it provided a spooky counterpoint to the growing twilight.  The statues were covered to protect them from the impending arrival of another upstate NY hurricane.  With the marble statues covered in protective housing, and the leaves gone from the trees, the energy of the place had changed from what I've experienced during the summer.  It was still peaceful, but just a little creepy, like a mummified pharaoh.

Yaddo was created by Spencer Trask, a New York financier and philanthropist, and his wife Katrina.  Previously, the land had been owned by Jacobus Barhyte, who operated a tavern on the property.  The most notable visitor at Barhyte's tavern was Edgar Allen Poe.  The place must have made an impression on him, because he is one of the more commonly seen apparitions at Yaddo. 

By the time they purchased the land, the Trask's had already known tragedy.  Their 5 year old son had died of meningitis.  Later, Katrina would develop diphtheria.  Their two surviving children were exposed to the contagion, and died within days of each other.  After the death of their first three children, Katrina gave birth to a baby who died in infancy.  Spencer himself died tragically, in a train accident on his way down to NYC from Saratoga.

The area was also a Native American meeting place, and it was while describing the legends of a Mohawk and Mohegan skirmish that the docent started describing some of the sightings that have happened over the years.  Many people report seeing an apparition out of the corner of their eyes, but when they turn, nothing is there. 

That sounds familiar, I thought with a smile.

Later in the tour, while we gathered in the garden behind the pergola, a few people spotted some deer grazing in a meadow beyond the trees.  For several moments, we tried to catch glimpses of the young animals as they nibbled the grass in the deepening dusk.  They moved farther into the meadow, and became hard to see, so I turned my attention back to the docent.  After a few minutes, I saw a movement off to the side.  The dark shadow was large enough that I thought one of the deer had moved into the wooded garden area to my left (pictured below).  I turned, convinced I would get a closer view of one of the deer.  But there was nothing there.  Nada. 

Yaddo has truly become a place of creativity.  It has hosted many notable writers, like Truman Capote, Sylvia Plath, James Baldwin, and John Cheever.  Some of those writers, it appears, never left.

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All photos from my visit to Yaddo can be found here.

Garlic: Superstition and Fact

Can superstition have a basis in fact? When the ancients ascribed a magical meaning to an item, had they observed some real world results?  Modern skeptics would have us believe that superstition is merely the product of primitive fears; is it possible that superstition is a window into higher knowledge?

Take garlic, for instance.  We now know that it can protect us against heart disease.  It can act as an antiseptic, guarding against sore throats, colds, earaches, and intestinal worms (garlic enema, anyone?).  Modern science has shown us that garlic has some very real health benefits.  The ancients weren't oblivious to this.  During the building of the Giza pyramids, the slaves received daily rations of garlic to protect against disease.  Roman soldiers consumed garlic for courage and strength.  We've all heard that garlic will protect against vampires, however many cultures believe it will ward off all evil spirits as well.  Sailors would carry garlic to prevent drowning.  Palestinian grooms would wear a clove of garlic to ensure success on the first night of marriage.  The ancient Greeks would leave garlic at the crossroads, to appease Hecete, and cause evil spirits to lose their way.

Not all cultures saw this plant as benevolent and protective.  An Islamic myth states that wherever Satan walked, garlic would grow from the print of his left foot, and onions from his right.  The Buddhists believe that garlic is a detriment to meditation, as it encourages sexual and aggressive impulses.  As someone who has participated in group meditation, I can say that any strong smell can be detrimental to meditation.  (Dude with the crotch sweat, this means you.)

The strong smell may have prompted the superstitions against garlic.  Allicin, a compound released when garlic is cut or crushed, has been known to cause anaphylaxis.  As with many medicinal products, the benefits outweigh the risks.  Perhaps our ancestors saw those health benefits and thought it would be a useful protector in other situations.  Superstition can be fueled by fact, garlic is just the yummiest example.

What is it about that place?

We took a lot of road trips in college.  It was not uncommon for us to leave the dorms around 8PM on a Saturday and find ourselves in Niagara Falls or the Syracuse area in an hour or so.  One cool October evening, my roommate, Liz, decided she wanted to pay an old friend of hers a visit.  I rode shotgun, and our mutual friend Rich* tagged along in the back seat.  We drove through rural western New York to a darkened house on a deserted road and parked near a barn.  The only illumination came from a weak mercury-vapor lamp on a pole.  Liz promised she would be right back, and disappeared into the barn.  It was unremarkable as barns go, red and boxy.  But something about it didn't feel right.  The woods beyond the barn looked blacker that Nietzsche's abyss.  Rich voiced the thought that consumed my own mind.

"This place is creepy," he said.  I agreed with him.  My memories of what was said are hazy, but it seems like we discussed the topic at length while Liz spent more time than necessary establishing that her friend wasn't home.  When she got back in the car, Rich commented on it.  Only then did Liz inform us that she'd brought us to a place that was violently haunted.  Her friend frequently heard voices in the barn, and once experienced banging on a door that lead up to a second story.  Whoever - or whatever - was pounding on the door, slammed it with such force that the wood bowed outward.  Nearly a century ago, the barn was used as a dance hall, and dozens of revelers had carved their names into the walls, leaving small reminders in the wood of those that had come before.

It was the names that creeped me out the most.  For years, I wouldn't understand why.  Now I think I have an idea.  In Voodoo and Hoodoo, a written name can stand in as a place holder for a person.  Anything from curses to love spells involve writing a name on a piece of paper, and what you do to that name depends on what you want to do to that person.  At the center of this belief is the idea that a little of our personal energy appears on the paper that bears our name.

I believe that objects and places do have energy, just as humans have a certain energy.  We've all know someone who exhausts us with their mere presence.  Perhaps we've visited a place that creeps us out, or tires us out, or inspires us.  I don't always get sick when I travel, and I understand how visiting a place full of germ laden tourists can expose someone to the common cold.  I've noticed a trend, however.  Every time I visit Salem, MA, I come home with a cold.  Recently, I was in New Orleans.  We switched hotels halfway through our trip, from one in the French Quarter to one in a much more modern part of the city.  Within a day of that move, I had a sore throat and the sniffles. 

This idea isn't original to me.  Many people believe in the energy of ley lines.  When the idea was first conceived in the 1920's, these lines were simply the connection between sites of historic significance.  In the 60's, author John Mitchell ascribed a spiritual energy to these lines, and the idea struck a chord with the New Age community.  Some believe that Salem, MA lies at the intersection of these lines.  I've heard a possibly apocryphal story that the Native Americans would not spend the night in the area where Salem now stands.  They would come to trade with the settlers, but believing the land was cursed, and anyone who spent the night there would lose their minds, they left before nightfall.

My account is so subjective and experiential that I'm sure I won't be convincing any skeptics.  However I find it hard to ignore my own senses.  Right now my senses are tingling.  It's almost 11PM, and my eyes are growing tired from staring at a lit screen.  Perhaps my bed lies at the intersection of two ley lines, because I'm noticing it's taken on a certain hypnotic energy.  I'm feeling sleepy, verrrrrry sleepy.

*The names have been changed to protect those creeped out by empty barns.

The Most Wonderful Time of the Year

Most people mourn the end of summer. Not me. When the sun starts setting earlier, and the days get cooler, my thoughts turn toward some of my favorite things. Autumn brings Mellowcreme pumpkins, Native American Corn (Brach's calls it Indian Corn, but we like to be sensitive), apple picking, cardigans, the smell of a wood fire on a cool morning, leaves changing to glowing shades of red and yellow, Halloween, and endless marathons of every ghost hunting show on cable. This is truly my favorite time of the year. I know I'm not alone in this.

It's only October 1st and already the Halloween decorations are going up. This morning, I spied a porch sporting a life-sized mummy complete with Egyptian headdress and a haunted butler greeting visitors. That kind of hard-core decor always makes me smile. But only the most dedicated Halloween lovers are decorating right now.

Which brings me to an interesting question: how early is too early to decorate for Halloween? Some years, I'm so excited for autumn to start and the heat of summer to leave me the hell alone, that I'm set to pull out the spiderweb table runner and eyeball lights the day after Labor Day. This year, it didn't start feeling like fall had arrived until -astrologically - fall had actually arrived. So is the Vernal Equinox the ideal date? I say yes. Early September is still too hot to evoke the spooky dark nights of the Halloween season. By the time the equinox rolls around, the sun is going down earlier and the nights are getting chilly. If Christmas can start the day after Thanksgiving, then why can't Halloween be more than just a single day? I say let it be a full season. Let's all do it like they do in Salem, MA.

Speaking of Salem, I've heard the time between the fall equinox and Halloween referred to as "the season of the witch". In Wicca and Paganism, the equinox is the second of three harvest holidays, and is called Mabon. October 31 is the final harvest holiday, and believed to be a time when the veil between the worlds is at it's thinnest. It's a time to connect with and honor our dearly departed. To me, the entire season between the equinox and Thanksgiving crackles with a different energy than any other time of year. Perhaps it is the cool air, not so cold that it's hard to cope with, but too cool to forget ourselves with the sun and all of the activities that come with the season of light. We tuck in, wrap ourselves in warmth and the spoils of the growing season. And on those breezy, dark nights, we sense the dying of the light and the coming dormancy of the natural world. This changes our perspective somehow, turns us inward, and prepares us for the winter. And just maybe, it quiets us enough to hear the voices of those that have come before us.