The Real Story of Grandpa’s the Spirit, Parts 1 and 2

Mateja Klaric posted an invitation for participants in a writers’ group on LinkedIn to share anecdotes about the oddest things that have occurred to them. Well, I’ve seen a great deal of unusual things, but this has to be the only one that delves into the area of the paranormal. At the time it occurred, I accepted what I saw as a ghost; today, as a somewhat more skeptical adult, I maintain that I have no explanation for what I witnessed. In any case, it remains a really unique memory. Here’s the story:

Mom informs me that I never truly knew her father. Grandpa, who I visited only for a few days at a time once every few years, always appeared to be this peaceful elderly guy who spent much of his time sitting in a rocking chair, reading the newspaper. But had I met him in his earlier days, Mom explains, I would have seen him as a busy guy, earning a career in theater. In those years, he had a terrific singing voice. He sang and performed in, and even directed, a variety of musical and theatrical works, from Verdi to Gilbert & Sullivan to Rodgers & Hammerstein. By the time I came around, he must have retired and lost his zip. I know of his theatrical abilities solely via tales my mother told me.

My mother’s parents resided in Milwaukee, Wisconsin. (In case you’re wondering, my father’s parents had both died before he and Mom had met, so I never knew them at all.) My parents relocated to New Jersey before I was born, and we only visited my grandparents on occasional occasions that were frequently years apart. Although my brothers and I definitely loved visiting Grandma and Grandpa, we never felt especially close to them.

Wisconsin is renowned for many things, including huge winter snowfalls. Eventually, Grandpa grew weary of sweeping four feet of snow off the sidewalks, and he and Grandma moved out to Arizona (where they just had to shovel sand and tumbleweeds, I believe). Arizona is significantly further away from New Jersey than Wisconsin is, so the visits ended there. We would have had to travel for a full week simply to get there or take an airline. There were seven of us—Mom, Dad, and us five children. Such a journey was not within our budget. I was eleven at the time.

Late one night, when I was fourteen, I was roused from a peaceful slumber by the padding of footsteps in the room I shared with one of my brothers. I opened one eye and saw Grandpa moving about, appearing a bit ghostly in the dark. Ordinarily, such a sight would have horrified me, but I quickly recognized Grandpa’s rotund form and Romanesque profile and realized there was nothing to worry about. He looked to be appreciating our room. He turned in my way and muttered something, but I was so drowsy I couldn’t figure out what it was. It sounded almost like singing—a quick snippet of an old melody. Then he strolled out the open door and vanished into the corridor.

I was confused by this, as I didn’t remember that Grandma and Grandpa were visiting. Being too tired to waste a lot of time figuring it out, I assumed that they were visiting and that I had simply forgotten that they were here. (This doesn’t make a lot of sense, but at two in the morning it seemed reasonable enough.) I went back to sleep and thought no more about it until the next morning.

When I awakened, I recalled having seen Grandpa in my room and walked downstairs to check whether my grandparents were truly visiting. There was no evidence of them. I asked my mother, who was in the kitchen cooking her breakfast, “Mom, are Grandma and Grandpa visiting?”

“I don’t think they’re planning to just yet,” Mom added.

“No; I mean, are they here right now?”

Mom looked at me weird. “Of course not,” she said. “Why would you think they were?”

“Oh, I thought I saw Grandpa in my room last night.” I felt a bit silly.

“You must have been dreaming,” Mom murmured, returning to her meal.

“I guess I was.” I cooked breakfast for myself and ignored what I had witnessed as only an unusual dream.

That evening, we received an unexpected call from Grandma. The evening before, Grandpa had suffered a huge stroke. He was transported to the hospital by ambulance, but nothing could be done for him. He’d died later that night. Grandma, ever a very practical person, had not phoned us straight away for numerous reasons: the long-distance telephone costs were cheaper at this time of day than at night; there was nothing we could have done anyhow; and it was probably around two in the morning in New Jersey at the time he died.

Two in the morning… I started to wonder whether I truly had been dreaming when I’d seen my grandfather walking in my room.

Since then, I’ve found the concept of ghosts more reassuring than terrifying.

Several weeks later, Grandma phoned us again. She was feeling lonely in her apartment, now that Grandpa had passed, and wanted to know whether she might visit us in New Jersey. Of course we were thrilled to have her stay with us. She planned to travel over, and my parents drove the two hours to Newark Airport to meet her.

At the airport, my folks met Grandma with sorrowful embraces. considering Mom, this was incredibly upsetting, considering it was the first time she’d ever seen her mother without her father.

Grandma’s baggage was supposed to arrive on the airport carousel. Dad and Grandma agreed to go fetch it while Mom waited nearby. Grandma quickly gave Mom a lovely porcelain jar and requested that she kindly hold it. Mom was a little surprised. The jar was extremely nice, had a cover on it, and was loaded with stuff.

Now, remember, Grandma was quite practical. She had had Grandpa’s ashes cremated and deposited in an urn, which is less costly than a normal burial and takes up less room. Mom was quite astonished to be assigned the duty of this jar but expressed no complaint. While Dad and Grandma went to retrieve the bags, Mom sat on a bench, clutched the urn in her lap, and looked sad and contemplative. These are my father’s ashes, she thought to herself, a tear streaming down her face.

For the whole two-hour trip home, Mom carried the urn, as Grandma had not asked for it back. Mom didn’t feel comfortable inquiring about the urn, but the fact that she had to carry it was really beginning to worry her. After all, these were her father’s ashes. Her thoughts got pretty dark as they rode along the Parkway: Is this truly how much you weigh when you’re cremated? What if the lid falls off—will the ashes remain in? Does it smell like charcoal or anything even more unpleasant? Does Dad’s spirit realize I’m cradling his earthly remains on my lap? Why am I thinking these things?

At last they arrived at our home. We kids came to the door and welcomed Grandma with hugs and kisses and helped her carry her bags in. After things had cooled down somewhat, Grandma requested Mom to bring her the jar she’d been holding.

“Here it is, Mother,” Mom replied, attempting to sound as solemn as possible as she handed the heavy urn into Grandma’s hands.

“Thank you,” Grandma said, taking the vessel and lifting it so we all could see it. Then, without further word, she unscrewed the lid.

Mom gasped. Even Dad, who usually remained cool in almost any situation, seemed a bit startled himself.

“Who wants brownies?” Grandma declared with a grin. The room filled with the lovely fragrance of chocolate as we youngsters enthusiastically helped ourselves to the jar’s luscious contents.

“Brownies?” Mom exclaimed. “But I thought...”

Grandma observed Mom’s facial expression and chuckled. “Oh, that! That’s sitting on the mantel back in Tucson. I wasn’t going to carry it all the way to New Jersey!”