Spirit Lake

I had a crazy idea some years back—a few of my friends know of this. Forgive me if I repeat myself.

I saw that people were hanging out shingles as pet therapists. I don't think any particular credentials are necessary. As always, I thought, "Why should somebody be making money off something I could do equally well? Actually, I can do them one better."

So as a rather elaborate joke (you know I do these!), I told a few friends that I wanted to hang out a shingle as a psychotherapist for haunted houses.

And I actually have credentials to be a therapist (even though today I would run many miles away from any situation where I might be expected to function as one.)

So my premise was that ghosts are not necessarily a bad thing to have in a house. Lock yourself out? A cooperative ghost could just slip through the wall and open the door from the inside. Get things out of high cabinets. Pick the safe. Take the dog out while you're gone. Retrieve the diamond ring you dropped down the drain or the key that fell behind the dresser. Bring you a cup of tea and a scone without having to bother with doorways. A ghost really could tell you what is making that noise in the attic. Act as a security guard. Beetlejuice borrowed my idea of enlisting a cooperative ghost or two to send unwanted guests packing.

So why are some ghosts unpleasant? Because they are frustrated. Lonely. Feel unappreciated. Feel that they have no purpose. Maybe life was really awful, but they have found that the afterlife is even worse. That would make anybody (or any disembodied entity) grumpy.

The remedy is to help ghosts work through those feelings. Give positive reinforcement and affirmation. If needed, do family counseling between homeowner and ghost. Give the ghost a whole new lease on [after]life.

The ghost, once rehabilitated, would be free to stay or to go. The benefits of staying would be much- appreciated companionship and a rewarding afterlife. The consequences of going would be far less security and a constant worry of being exorcized.

Of course, if a house has multiple ghosts, it might be group therapy with additional individual sessions.

(I think you can imagine the twinkle in my eye as I'm telling this!)

So when we lived in Portland in the late 1970s, I shared my 'plan' with some friends. They loved it. Shortly thereafter, they had dinner guests over who had just bought an old house and were concerned that it might be haunted. William told them about me. The woman became very excited and asked how to get in touch with me.

William gave a big Cheshire cat smile when he told me about it later. "I told her that you and Dale were up at Spirit Lake."

Which was actually true. And it really was that Spirit Lake. It was a beautiful place, far from civilization, truly pristine. We made the 2 1/2 hour drive from Portland several times between our arrival in October 1978 and the huge eruption that destroyed the lake (and made Mt. St. Helens a household name) on May 18, 1980.

Later, I thought about writing a sitcom about a therapy group for people who gradually discover that their homes are occupied by poltergeists. The group would develop coping strategies, and report back on ways to help the spirit feel more appreciated. A contented poltergeist doesn’t feel compelled to create mischief, but can easily scare off any unwanted visitors. A foolproof home security system. And a storyline with lots of comic potential.

I really did believe in ghosts when I was little. I developed a “protective” habit of sleeping with at least a sheet pulled up over my ears. I still do that, at least sometimes. It must have worked: I’ve never been harmed by a ghost… like the old joke about sprinkling something to ward off elephants in your house. (“Does it work?” “Well, do you see any elephants?” “No.” “See? It’s working.”) 

I don’t believe in ghosts now, at least in the same way. I do believe in the transcendent spirit and spiritual connectedness. That doesn’t require any intervention at all. Just peace, hope, and faith in the human race. 

And it leaves plenty of room for my imagination, along with my rather unique sense of humor.

Swear Words

I grew up in a household where the only swear words I ever heard were “Damn” and “Hell.” These were reserved for instances of great pain or anger. We did not use vulgarities, ever. 

Of course I heard all those words-- the familiar, the outrageous, and the exotic-- elsewhere. A couple of little boys in the neighborhood added to my vocabulary. I didn’t know what they meant, necessarily, but I knew they were wicked. When I was a teenager, I had friends who were artists. They swore, sometimes very imaginatively. I tried out some of those words, surreptitiously, sometimes behind my hand, sometimes looking around to make sure my parents, or anyone who knew them, were not listening.

 Off to college I went. I added a few terms. I said them out loud. But one thing I always did: when I used them, I made sure that there was nobody around who would be offended, or who would think badly of me. 

I even tried them out in poems, and crossed them out.

My first major job after college was as a juvenile parole officer. I was 21. It was the mid to late sixties: my caseload was mostly runaways and truants, kids from troubled homes. Although I had a few who committed actual crimes, the majority were just sad kids. A more innocent time than the decades that followed. 

I was one of three women P.O.s in the office, and I was there much more often than the others, because my territory included the county where the home office was located. I worked almost daily with the men who worked with delinquent boys.  Most of the men were forthright about the kinds of things they saw and heard. At the beginning, they curbed their language around me, but as time went by, they relaxed. I picked up some new words. And I used them. I became, in essence, one of the guys. Again, I was always my mother’s daughter: I was careful of my audience, and looked out for anyone nearby who might think less of me.  

One of my community contacts was Alma, the social worker for an agency that helped pregnant girls. We liked each other immediately. She was thirty years my senior, and she grew up in a tiny town in western Ohio, the only child of the only Jewish family within fifty miles. The nearest synagogue was also fifty miles away. She told me of her loneliness and isolation, and how she became an avid reader.

She told interesting and sometimes funny stories: about trying out for a high school play, and discovering that her reading vocabulary didn’t prepare her for speaking those words aloud—to hilarious effect. She also talked about her adult life as a conservative Jew, her membership in the synagogue’s literary society, some trials and tribulations of some of her friends, and one instance where someone came to the door while she was cleaning her house, disheveled, not looking put together as she normally did. She pretended that she was the cleaning lady and would give the lady of the house their message.

I loved her sense of humor. I was also very respectful of the breadth of her scholarship: she read avidly--philosophy, history, literature, essays. 

After several years of professional contact, I decided to go to graduate school. I found out that she was going to be attending the same school, in the same program at Case Western Reserve University. We would be working toward a master’s degree in social work at the same time.

We lived in Akron, and decided to commute together. Sometimes another woman rode with us. We had lively conversations. When Alma and I were by ourselves, we talked of weighty matters. 

I was driving one morning on a new stretch of freeway that traversed the Cuyahoga River Valley. It curved and climbed through wooded hills, with no homes visible for miles. There was snow on the ground, snow on the road, and, on the bridges, there was glare ice.  Few other cars were on the road. I knew how to drive in those conditions, but one other driver apparently did not: he came within inches of side-swiping my car as he struggled with the slippery road.

My heart was racing as I steered away from that near-miss. 

I let out a volley of profusely blue language. And was immediately horrified at what I had done. What would this very cultured lady think of me?

Out of the corner of my eye, I could see that she leaned back against the passenger side door, crossed her arms across her chest, smiled, and said,

“Janice! I thought they only talked like that in NOVELS.”

Much relieved, I apologized and we had a good laugh. I still watched my language, but used swear words when they were useful for emphasis. She tried out one or two herself.

A few years later, after graduation, we worked for agencies in the same town near Akron. I worked at a community mental health center, and she worked for a family service agency. She invited me to speak to the staff about mental health issues.

On the day of my presentation, I arrived at their building and was met by a young man who she had sent to show me upstairs. We introduced ourselves, and he stuck out his hand. 

“I’m delighted to meet the person who taught Alma to swear!” Taken aback for a brief moment, I joined his laughter. He had a good handshake.

Now I discovered that I had a reputation.

I’m still careful. I still look around and gauge my audience before I use off-color language. When in doubt, I self-censor. I am, after all, my parents’ daughter. All these decades later.

© Janice Mastin-Kamps, February 2017

Minnesota Winters

We spent three years in St. Paul, Minnesota.  My husband was posted there in 1984, moving us from the Portland, OR area.  Our son was just a year old, and our daughter joined us the following year. I had taken our son's first year off, but was ready to work again. 

I found a part- time position: through a private non-profit, I served as a counselor for two different large mainline Protestant churches in neighboring communities.  It was undoubtedly the best job I had in that field: working with members of those congregations, I could reach out to the ministers for any material needs that my clients had; a special collection would be taken up anonymously, and a family received a wood stove to heat their farmhouse, or transportation to doctors’ appointments, or new school clothes for the kids. I never had another job that allowed me to help people so simply. Of course I did this with my clients’ permission, and quite confidentially.

One of the churches had members of modest means, the other was more well- to- do.  The latter gave me the best work setting I have ever had: my office was just down the hall from the sanctuary, where, on Wednesdays, the organist practiced. She was an extraordinary musician, a member of an elite academy of church organists. I met with my clients as she played Bach and Handel and Haydn. Not surprisingly, my clients got better. Not surprisingly, my nerve endings also were brushed into blissful composure.

The organist was a doctor’s wife, quite wealthy. She had a beautiful home, and lovely, independent, self- confident children who were in upper elementary school. 

Also on staff was another musician, a younger woman who was in the process of a divorce from her own doctor husband, who had left her for his nurse. She had a toddler and a baby. 

Her kids were the same ages as mine, and I know how she struggled to get them into snowsuits and boots and mittens and hats and scarves, and then in and out of her car to get them to childcare before she got to work. Little people in slick snowsuits do not go easily into baby car seats. Fastening them in is a chore, and somebody almost always kicks off a boot in the process.  Mom bends over with her backside blocking the 40° below windchill as she props the baby up, adjusts the buckles, replaces the boot—and goes through the reverse process when she arrives at her destination. Hours later, she does it all over again to bring them home. 

I understood this perfectly. We didn’t have a garage—used block heaters to keep our cars drivable. That part I had a little worse than she did, but she had the sadness and anger of an unwanted divorce… much more painful. 

One day she was lamenting a little—Minnesotans aren’t known for complaining much. She described the ordeal of getting the kids ready that morning, getting them to the babysitter, and she said, “I wish we lived in a nicer climate.”

The well- heeled church organist looked a bit rapturous, and said, “But wouldn’t you miss the change of seasons?” To my dismay, the younger woman said, wistfully, “Yeah,  I guess so.”

Ever after that, when horrible weather descends upon us, either Dale or I will say, in one of those coded messages that the long- married share with each other, “ But wouldn’t you miss the change of seasons?”

Riiight….

 © J M-K  August 2016

The Beatles

When I was 21, the Beatles played at Cleveland Stadium-- you know, the old one, on the lake, with bleachers. It was August 14, 1966. I still have my ticket.

I didn't go alone. Well-to-do friends invited me, because their kids wanted me to come (during a very brief teaching career, their 13 year old son was one of my students).

They took us first to the air show. Sam was a well-known industrial designer. He wanted to get into the restricted area, and pulled out an accordion-fold case filled with credentials-- flashed it to the guard, letting the sections cascade to the ground. Before the guard could look closely at any of them, Sam snapped it up and put it back in his pocket. His kids and their friends got to clamber around in the planes-- great fun for them! (Hugh Grant did something similar with a Blockbuster card in "Notting Hill," when he was trying to get into a press conference to see Julia Roberts.) I asked Sam what they all were. He laughed and told me that they were his library card, passes for a lot of professional design conferences dating 20 years back, just random stuff. But he knew how to present it with power and charm!

Then, on to the Beatles concert. We were supposed to have first row seats in one of the sections with actual seats, but they had put 2 rows of folding chairs in front of us. No matter, they were great seats.

The Beatles had performed in the US the past two years, but this was to be their last concert tour. They were at the top of their game. They had crazed fans, mostly young kids. The crowd was at fever pitch. Kids started pouring out of the stands onto the field. The aisles were rivers of adolescents making their way down to the low wall that bordered the field. Many hopped over the wall.

Cops were catching little girls by the arms if they tried to get too close, turning them around and heading them back toward the stands. Occasionally they had to drag somebody to the edge of the field.

I felt a heavy weight on my right shoulder. I turned my head to look: it was a foot. A second foot landed on my forearm and the armrest. It was one of those little girls. I had become part of the stairway.

I'd like to think I heard a "Sorry!"... but I can't swear to that.

In the midst of the madness, Paul smiled and waved, and swung into "Yesterday." Cool as an Ohio spring day.

© J M-K  February 2016