Hello everyone, Dave here. I’m the slightly younger half of this blog and I wanted to share more of my story with you.

I was taken away from my bloodline at birth, court-ordered to be safely removed from their custody after 24 hours out from the womb. Six days later I was placed in a foster home. When I was adopted, I was brought into a family filled with love and hope (and the social worker said “he’s one of those babies with the really big heads”)! My parents had faith in Christ and I was accepted into the family just like the others who were born into it. My sister was adopted a few months later and we were a family of four! The Lord really knew what he was doing when he placed us all together, the miracles that he has performed in our lives are unquestionable. I had a dad and a mom that loved me. I had a sister that loved me. I had grandparents, both sets of them who were married for more than 50 years each, that loved me! What a rarity! On the inside though, there was something that wasn’t settled. All that I had didn’t answer my questions…it wasn’t enough.

When I was growing up — from 5 years old and onward — I always knew that there was this other part of me that was out there. My parents had always told me that I was adopted and that I had a brother! “How come I can’t go see him?”, I wondered. “It’s not that simple, son.” My brother existed in this world, and only a few states from where I lived. “One day I will get a chance to meet him”, I thought. Years went by and we passed pictures along to each other through our parents, and we even exchanged Christmas cards and presents (I don’t have that Patriots hat anymore though, thank-you-very-much). One day when I was 16 I had the nerve to pick up the phone and call him, just to hear his voice. But, that just wasn’t enough.

Fast forward to our early 30s. As we both had chronicled in an earlier post, we finally had our chance to meet. We had an amazing time together for that week, and then again the following year (and thankfully, each year thereafter). Getting the chance to meet and to get to know my brother and his family has changed me forever. It has changed me in ways that I am still trying to wrap my head around. The hole in me was filling in, but it still wasn’t enough.

James and I were curious for more. We found out the names of our biological mother and father through James’ parents. After a quick search online, I had their birthdates and phone numbers right in front of me on the screen. I even had our grandfather’s name (the same as our father’s), age, and phone number. It was waaaaaay too easy to get that information. I called the number for my grandfather and told him that I was his grandson. It felt like something out of Maury Povich…”you are 100% the grandfather of this child!” that went through my head. We had a conversation, that led to other conversations, and we decided maybe one day we could all meet. That still wasn’t enough.

Fast forward again a few months. James and I were in the car, driving toward our grandfather’s house. Our blood! It WAS happening and I was NOT turning the car around now (although I did pass the house, just to be sure everyone was there before we arrived). What would they look like? How would they sound? Most people can look in the mirror and see a reflection that’s similar to their parents and siblings. You typically know why you look the way that you do or sound the way that you do (or you know why you are really weird…you know who you are). For me and James, we didn’t know any of these things (except, of course, for the quirky weird things that we learned from our own families). I ALWAYS wondered why I looked the way that I did. As kids, James and I looked a lot alike, so to me there was no doubt we were related. As I matured into my teen years I looked into that mirror and saw more than me…I saw him…same colored eyes…same brown hair…similar height. I could start to put the puzzle together, but still it wasn’t enough.

When we met our biological father, there was no question where I came from. I knew it instantly. Same build, hairline, facial features. Then we met our father’s parents, our grandparents. Then our Aunt Joyce. All at once with James (who I wasn’t sure I would ever meet), we were talking to our grandparents, both of whom didn’t really know I was ever born. We had pizza. We talked about the past. We talked about who we were, where we went to school, if we were married. They wanted to know more, so did we. But when we were there, and as I stood next to my brother, there was no question we were all related. We crossed our arms in similar situations, we stood exactly the same way when speaking to other people, the mannerisms in our faces were the same. Everyone’s eyes were blue. Everyone. None of us grew up knowing each other, so how could that be? It wasn’t the way we were raised, it was in our blood! For the first time it all started to click. The people that give birth to you shape the way you look, speak, touch, stand, and even think. They may not have been our parents (and James and I will both tell you that we are EXTREMELY blessed to have the families we do), and they may not have raised us, but they did, by the grace of God, give birth to us. The blood. It’s in the blood. 

For most of my life, I felt that my bloodline had kept me from truly belonging in my adopted family, even though I knew that’s where I belonged. It took me many years to give the whole situation over to the Lord and that’s when He revealed it to me…”My son, it’s in the blood”. Jesus’ blood sacrifice for me allowed me to be adopted into His family, once and for all. No matter how lonely I felt, or how lonely my sister and brother may have felt over the years from not knowing who we truly were, that blood was shed for all of us. We were all adopted into one Family on that day. I am thankful for the fact that I was adopted, and I am thankful for my blood, as it makes me who I am.

Now that…that is enough.

Dave

Hi there. My name is James.

Awhile back I started this blog with my brother, Dave. When we started we had this whole plan where we would write about our adventures together. We used the first initial of our first names to identify ourselves. It seemed reasonable to us at the time. The reason for the blog was simple, in theory. We were both adopted into different families as infants due to extenuating circumstances. We reunited years later and discovered who we were and what being brothers meant when you didn’t grow up together. And we figured people could read about our activities and get some sense of what the journey meant to us.

Since we first met there have been numerous adventures, and we have written about a few of them. I think part of the reason we went on these trips was we both wanted to make up for the time we had lost. That first week together we crammed as many different things as humanly possible into our plans. We did every single one and by Friday were so tired we couldn’t look at another historical building without wanting to drift into the wonderful abyss that is sleep. That could be considered the “short version” of the story. But after the first couple of posts, and being busy in our own personal lives, we took longer between each blog update. I wish I could tell you there was a really amazing and satisfying reason for that but there really wasn’t.

I managed to get writers block and wondered if dramatic retellings of trips we went on were really the right way to go with the blog. After all, there are so many blogs on the internet and these sorts of tales are hardly unique, with the exception that they were specifically about my brother and I. But I wasn’t necessarily ready to talk about my personal life either. I was torn. Which way should we take it? What could I tell people that they’d actually want to hear? What could I write that people would even feel like reading?

Although I’m still not sure exactly what the nature of the blog should be, I did feel some measure of guilt over having not updated it in such a long period of time. It was never my, or my brothers, intent to abandon it. To let the cracks show as moss grows on the side. As we get older, maybe there are more things about ourselves that we will feel comfortable sharing. Maybe the blog doesn’t have to be about any one specific thing as long as Dave and I write the posts.

What I do know for certain – the blog is not dead. And I will certainly try to see that it is updated more often. I believe that my brother Dave wishes for this as well. So you’ll be hearing from us soon. And who knows? Maybe we’ll bring you a bit deeper into our respective worlds, and lives.

James

“…on Mt. Vesuvius broad sheets of fire and leaping flames blazed at several points, their bright glare emphasized by the darkness of night.” – Pliny the Younger in a letter to Cornelius Tacitus

February 5, 62 A.D., Pompeii, Italy – The earthquake started with a small rumble, as they often do, but it became a much bigger problem in short order. A great number of buildings in Pompeii and nearby Herculaneum were destroyed by the 7.5 magnitude event. A tsunami also hit Ostia, the port of Rome, and many ships, containing grain for the cities inhabitants, were lost.

Rioting followed after people panicked and worried whether or not they would starve to death. The issue was settled once Emperor Nero finally opened the storehouses of grain in order to ration supplies. Re-building, in Pompeii, Herculaneum, and elsewhere would take a great deal of money and time and the repairs were still ongoing by the time a larger disaster hit 17 years later. This earthquake had merely been the precursor to the event that would eventually make Pompeii famous the world over.

August 24, 79 A.D. – Ash and fire are falling from the sky. Vulcan’s wrath has opened the mouth of Vesuvius and chaos erupts in a frenzied exodus from the city. People literally flee for their lives, and it’s a good thing they are – as running away saves most of the population. Although, none of them will ever lay eyes on their beloved city again. Contrary to popular belief, most of the people in Pompeii, Herculaneum and the surrounding areas were able to evacuate and escape death. In Pompeii, of the estimated 12,000 to 16,000 inhabitants, only 2,000 people were believed to have been killed. Perhaps these men and women were stubborn, or sickly and old. Maybe they were injured and couldn’t walk very good. One thing we know – the intense heat killed all who remained. Superheated ash incinerated people on contact with their skin. Cadaveric spasms, stiffening of the body at the time of death, caused the bones to bend in the hands and feet. The ash covered these charred skeletons resulting in a surprising effect, only appreciated over 1,600 years later.

Vesuvius may have done its damage, but as it remains, so does Pompeii endure to tell of its destructive power.

1599 – While digging an underground channel to divert the Sarno river, workers run into ancient walls covered with inscriptions and paintings. The architect, Domenico Fontana, is called and he makes the decision to simply cover everything up again. Most history classes don’t bother to mention him.

1738 – Herculaneum is discovered during another construction project, this time the digging of a well. A number of statues were found, eventually leading to the discovery of the whole city. The king, Charles III, was sought to obtain permission for further excavations, and the all important monetary contributions only he could provide.

1748 – Intentional excavations, while digging for a good spot to build a summer palace for the king, result in the official, not covered up, rediscovery of Pompeii. The man credited with the discovery is Spanish military engineer Rocque Joaquin de Alcubierre. Future historians agree that his name is long and hard to pronounce. He will be, sadly, forgotten despite his importance to history.

2006 – The mid-morning sun touches the tops of ancient houses as the city of Pompeii first comes into view. There are pathways, alcoves, staircases, mighty pillars, frescoes and other such things left to discovery on the stone-covered road ahead of me. There was a time when I never expected I would find myself there, but that thought has been pushed out of my mind forever. It has taken 3 hours by bus to reach Naples, where Pompeii lies in the shadow of Mt. Vesuvius, responsible for its burial under 13 to 20 feet of ash and pumice all those years ago. I stare into a window of the past, and what I see is incredible to behold.

The presence of the solar panels is nicely juxtaposed with the ancient buildings of Pompeii. Its a nice meeting of different eras in history. What the panels are powering, I’m not sure.

I’m here with my sister, mother, and a small tour group taking it all in. The hotels in Rome offer quite a few trips that provide transportation and when you get the chance to visit Pompeii, a city older than any place I’ve ever been, the only word you can speak is “yes.” Different groups get special access to certain areas not available to other groups, aside from being able to tour the entire city, and ours is taking us into the building with the rounded room you see in the picture above. We are told that this is the entryway to a Roman bathhouse. The walls of which, happened to be covered in drawings of stick figures engaged in activities we can’t immediately identify. The tour group points out that they are fornicating. We’re looking at 1st century porn. The existence of more sophisticated pornography was to elude the world for a millennia at least.

Leaving here, we walk through a large stone entryway up a road into the larger city. It stretches for miles beyond what I can see. Its intimidating and awe-inspiring at the same time. Humbling too. The obvious evidence of the previous devastations surrounds us. Vesuvius looms in the distance, ever present. The great mountain sleeps with no hint as to when it may wake again. I hope the moment doesn’t come soon as there is much to be learned from such an advanced series of ruins. Archaeologically rich, its been studied and dissected for centuries, its secrets revealing themselves over time, however slowly. I walk through an open forum, where short pillars are lined up in a row. In its day, each one of them would’ve had a product on it and a person trying to sell it to you. Like an ancient mall, with similar crowds.

The basilica at the forum

In the distance, thousands of people, perhaps more than even the number of bodies eventually recovered (over 1,100 based on what I’ve read) roam and take pictures of the site. I wonder how many of the original inhabitants realized they would die, or thought the Roman gods would save them. Salvation was a pipe dream, and too much to hope for in their case. However, some of the bodies have taken on an interesting new life. As the ash and debris covered the bodies it also preserved them in a way. As the city was buried the places where the bodies lay created air pockets around which molds of the corpses were formed and left impressions in the earth. The first person to realize this (or perhaps the first one to do anything about it) was Italian archeologist Giuseppe Fiorelli (1823-1896) who directed the excavations at Pompeii from 1863-1875. He realized that although the bodies would’ve decayed long ago, the impressions of them that remained could be extracted from their holes. The hollow spaces were filled with plaster of paris and, once it hardened, the mold was removed from the ground. The ash was then removed, creating a plaster sculpture of the person at the moment of their death. I saw one of these for myself inside a small crowded building somewhere in the middle of the city. The cringing figure seemed to know it was dying, although its more likely they were already dead when their bodies were unceremoniously buried by the ash and pumice covering the city. It was strange, and very sad, to look at.

Tourists are taking pictures of everything in their line of sight, but for me, there was only one thing in this room worth focusing on.

We went on to see ruined buildings and some that were more intact. There were nice frescoes and paintings everywhere. The fact that the city was buried meant that air and moisture didn’t get in to the spaces occupied by these artistic flourishes. There was even some graffiti in a few places, celebrating the victories of gladiatorial champions. There were stone temples and old houses. One of them had a painting of exotic animals glimpsed in distant lands. A long time before the advent of photography, people were forced to get creative.

After leaving an amphitheater we spied the gladiator barracks and training green. This is where the aspiring warriors would train with swords, tridents, maces and whatever other ancient weapons struck their fancy. Some would die, but more often than not they survived. It would be foolish to let money-making entities perish without getting as much coin from their battles as possible. The warrior who lost a battle in the arena was often spared and lived another day to regain their lost glory.

The streets of Pompeii

I will never forget the warm spring air in Pompeii. The ancient streets, and crumbling pillars. The quiet beauty in the emptiness. I hadn’t just walked through a museum, or seen a TV show detailing the history of the city. I had walked its streets myself. Seen how the people lived, and how some died there too. To date, it remains in a state of continuing excavation and preservation. There are parts of the city left to be discovered by later generations, to see what they can learn from the past and to record it for posterity. The walls are fragile, and the buildings could crumble at any moment. But the memories, and writings of many people over the years have served to fill the hollow spaces left behind. As things once lost are found and Pompeii is brought back to life. – J

Ancient art show

Every now and again, I have a travel notice in my email that says, “fly to (insert destination) for just $89”. In an instant you are made to think that if you fly into New York City, for example, you should want to see the most recognizable landmarks such as The Statue of Liberty, The Empire State Building, Yankee Stadium, and Times Square. What no one tells you is where you can find the best cannoli, or where you might find a peaceful beach away from other tourists, or where you can find a small red lighthouse (make a stop under the George Washington Bridge).

It needs to be said that I’m not a travel expert and this is not an advertisement for any one particular destination. However, I have stepped foot in 44 of our beautiful United States and have been to some of the more isolated or unique places within each one. For those of you that know me, you’re aware of the fact that I am a history buff, I love lighthouses, and I have a way of finding the unusual in any trip that I take. Because of this level of nerd-dom, I also have a list of places in each state that I’m trying to cross off (I will get to you one day, Carhenge). When I get to cross something off, it means more because I’m not necessarily there just to visit that state, but to actually experience something different that made it a memorable place to visit.

Paradise.

Here are my tips for finding the unusual, beautiful and less-traveled places that this country has to offer.

1. Don’t always stick to the agenda…I frequently have an agenda. Typed. With directions. And maps. In an Excel spreadsheet, with colors, numbers, dates, times, etc. Don’t believe me? Ask my wife, my sister, or my brother. When I stay away from the agenda, that’s when I catch something I would’ve otherwise missed. While traveling around and through York, Maine with my brother, we took a turn on the edge of town and found a candy store with candy from floor-to-ceiling. Literally. I’ve never seen anything like it. If you couldn’t find your candy at this place, then you don’t eat candy. You can’t just get to a store like that and not buy anything, so we sampled. I’m glad that we did. In North Dakota, on the way to Theodore Roosevelt National Park, a friend and I stopped at a town just across the border from South Dakota to find a small little hole-in-the-wall restaurant that makes the best biscuits and gravy I’ve ever had. Seriously. I couldn’t tell you the name of the place, and the name of the town has slipped me, but I could find it again if I had to. Outside of Miami into Key Biscayne you’ll find a white lighthouse facing the ocean sitting in and among palm trees and some of the whitest beaches I’ve ever seen. The best part? There were two people on the beach other than me, as far as the eye could see. If I had been looking for any one of these places intentionally, there wouldn’t have been an element of surprise to make it memorable.

2. Find a place you’ve heard about from someone else…and then keep going. When I was a kid, my father always told us the story of Jack and the Beanstalk. “Fe Fi Fo Fum, I smell the blood of an Englishman!” How I remember the change in my father’s tone as he told that part of the story, and what a story it was! I, like my sister, always wanted to hear that story, day after day. I think it’s that story that turned up my sense of adventure. If the locals tell you to climb the beanstalk at the corner of town, don’t be so quick to say “no”. Walk to the corner of Plymouth, MA to find a monument located in a residential area…don’t go to see the rock…find that monument that no one knows about. I was there when no one else was and it was if the clouds were happy I was there.

3. Go, just because you can…There have been times that I’ve been in a hotel for work and I’ve got nothing to do for the evening and I will become aware of my surroundings. Have I been to the neighboring state to the east? Nope, and I’m only an hour away…time to go. There’s a historical site two hours away…when will I have a better time than now? What will happen if I don’t go? Nothing…and what fun is there in that? If I’m in a situation like this, I decide to step out because who knows if I’ll ever be “here” again. There are cities and states that I see each year that don’t require as much of the new exploration, but I tend to find something new anyway, without even trying. I’m being led that way, to see the beauty that this country has to offer and the more I see, the more that I love it.

When I was in Indianapolis I thought I would try to find Santa Claus, IN, not knowing it was 3 hours away. It was worth the trip. Even with the extra 6 hours in the car. North of San Luis Obispo, CA driving along the coastal road is a place called Piedras Blancas, or White Rocks. It’s a great place to stop off for the scenery alone, but I was surprised to see a couple hundred elephant seals hanging out for a few weeks only. Alabama, Montana, Utah were quick stops, states that have occupied a total of 25 minutes of my time. For all three. But, I was there and I have proof.

The point of all of this is to say that there is so much to see in this country outside of the landmarks and popular tourist traps. Take this as a challenge, like a “Choose Your Own Adventure” book, only, take the third ending that you write yourself. Find a place that no one knows about and make up your own story that you’ll never forget.

D

Here is the list of my top-10 destinations that I found without knowing I would stumble upon them. Each destination is listed in descending order from lowest rank to highest. For each number on the list, I’ve provided my destination and the sites that tourists normally visit in that area. Enjoy!

In descending order:

My Destination                                                          People normally visit

10. Santa Claus, IN                                                   Lincoln’s Birthplace; Louisville

9.   Holy Trinity Church, Wilmington, DE                   Winterthur, DuPont’s estate

8.   Hollywood Cemetery, Richmond, VA                   Confederate Capital

7.   Pea Island National Wildlife Refuge, NC              OBX; Cape Hatteras Lighthouse

6.   Goodale’s Cutoff, Oregon Trail, ID                       Craters of the Moon National Park

5.   Johnson’s Island, OH                                           Marblehead, Cedar Point

4.   Badlands, ND                                                       Thdre. Roosevelt National Park

3.   Virgin River Gorge, AZ                                         Las Vegas, Utah parks

2.   Point of Key Biscayne                                          South Beach, Miami

1.   Matanuska Glacier, Glenn Highway, AK              Mount McKinley

This story could be summed up quite simply: a man named Robert Harper had a ferry. That’s it, the end, thank you for reading.

That was only the beginning for a sleepy town at the easternmost point of what is now West Virginia. From the top of the main railroad, you’re looking at the Shenandoah River to the south, the Potomac River to the north, West Virginia to the west, Maryland to the east, and Virginia to the south. There are 4 states out West that can brag about their convergence on one spot, being able to stand in them all at once. Whatever. Do they have two rivers at that same spot? A small historical town? The Appalachian Trail running right through it? The Lewis & Clark National Historical Trail? Oh, and there are mountains too? Yeah, I didn’t think so. Is this spot unique? Yeah, you could say that.

In 1763, a man named Robert Harper had a 125-acre parcel of land granted to him where he had a ferry that crossed the Potomac River. At this spot a town was established within the Virginia Assembly, and they called it “Shenandoah Falls at Harper’s Ferry”, later shortened to “Harper’s Ferry”, and is currently referred to as “Harpers Ferry”. J and I arrived late to our hotel and traveled through Virginia (for all of 60 seconds) to Harpers Ferry, this spot between the mountains. It was too late to see any of this at the time, but an early April start would awaken us to a beautiful place with a conflicted past.

We parked and took the shuttle to the town, passing through the mountains and railroad trusses as we went. The shuttle set us down near the point and because the town is a national landmark (as in, the whole town), we expected there to be more of a crowd. But, J and I always seem to find the right time and place where we don’t have to fight with the multitudes. Maybe being there in April helped, as not many people want to come to a higher elevation in a colder month hoping to catch a heat wave. It’s your loss, not ours. We ventured onward.

Before us was the preserved engine house. A man started a raid at the center of town against the Commonwealth of Virginia from this spot, October 1859. U.S. Army Lt. Col. Robert E. Lee and his aide, J.E.B. Stuart (maybe you’ve heard of them) were called in to expel the rebellion. They stormed the engine house and captured John Brown and most of his gang. Brown was tried for treason against the State of Virginia and hung to death. This event is significant for events that would happen just a few short years after.

It should be noted that this is the third location of the Engine House, moved from its original location to Chicago, then to its current location not far from the original spot.

As we pushed along onto the railroad tracks and up the hill, we have a beautiful view of Maryland Heights. As we look to the east across the Shenandoah River, what’s left of the railroad bridge is a reminder of the soiled past of the town. As we would see with many structures, the remnants of the bridge remain as they were, never to be rebuilt, missing windows and rooftops, just shells of what they once were. Up and onto the walkway on the bridge into Maryland we find a sign under the bridge. A black arrow with text in white tells us that, “You are here” on the Appalachian Trail, almost at the halfway point. If we decided to turn right, we could head to Maine, where a quick 1,165 mile hike would take us to the north end of the trail. Turn left, it’s a short 1,013 miles to the other end, in Georgia. Interesting. Halfway between the North and the South…as the citizens of Harper’s Ferry would find themselves in the middle of this war with the town changing hands 8 times. Because of its strategic location, it was an important point where one could more easily resupply their troops. With the constant back and forth, it would be difficult to realize what side your town fell in if it weren’t for the constant changing of flags above the buildings in the town. By 1863, Harpers Ferry, along with other portions of northwestern Virginia decided they had enough of the Confederacy and said, “peace, we’re out”, making West Virginia the 35^th state to enter the Union.

From the bottom portion of the point, we worked our way through the town, walking through abandoned and gutted churches and houses sitting untouched with only the weather to subdue them further. Up the rocky mountain stairs we went, slowly toward the top, to a place called Jefferson Point. From this spot, Thomas Jefferson would say that, “The passage of the Patowmac through the Blue Ridge is perhaps one of the most stupendous scenes in Nature.” After standing in that same spot, I’m not sure how someone could look out, see everything, and not believe that God exists. His touch on this land is obvious. So, TJ, I couldn’t agree with you more.

The view from Jefferson Point. The picture doesn’t do it justice. I imagine TJ sitting here and enjoying the spot, just as we did.

We marched up the stone steps from Jefferson Point to a local graveyard that we happened to notice (to no one’s surprise), and on the way, near a tree were a few graves from the late 1700s and early 1800s. Leaning on the back of a stone surround was the grave of Robert Harper, the namesake of the town. Not anywhere in prominence and not a large headstone per se, but it was an important find for us. The spot where he was buried offers a different perspective of the nature of the area and beside the obvious serenity, you knew why so many would come through this place and choose to rest where they do now. Others may find it odd, but J and I enjoy the peace that comes from being in such a spot. As we stood there taking our pictures, we wondered what Harper had seen in his life that led him to start his business at this juncture. There’s no way he could have foreseen what the town would experience not too long after his death.

The founder of Harpers Ferry, d. 1782.

As the day wound down, J and I were near the point, not far from the Appalachian Trail. We decided to climb up the hill and up onto the railroad tracks running through the outer edge of the old historical town. From this spot I had time to reflect on what had come through the town on these tracks and what the people here had to endure over the years. This was a town that boomed in a beautiful landscape; that was then scarred by treason; that witnessed the hanging of John Brown; that fell into Confederate hands one day, and into Union control the next; that ultimately became its own state halfway through the Civil War. This place is a living museum, in some ways it’s just as it was 150 years ago. Thankfully in others, it’s very different. The combination of landscape and history here are like no other. And, just like every other day before it, the sun would come up again tomorrow. If there’s more history that you want, go find it for yourself. I’ll bet you find it fascinating.

D

Imagine all that has come this way…we certainly did.

The screams carried into the street, and people felt the kind of chill that seems to pull your skin apart so the cold can seep in. They pulled their coats tightly around them and walked down the street as fast as they could. The call had gone out. Another poor soul had died in Weston and the patients in the asylum cried out in despair. Eventually, the wails would die down and the drugged, zombie-like, inmates would shuffle back to their rooms to await the next horror. Of course, that was when the asylum was open. When those cursed with insanity and mental decay writhed in agony behind the walls. It is said, by some, that the old Weston State Hospital has been even scarier since its closing in 1994. You can tour it, for a fee, and that was really all D and I needed to hear.

If one wished to play Metallica’s “Welcome Home (Sanitarium)” after viewing this picture, I would find it fitting. Note: There are many photos of this asylum on the internet and though some look similar, the photos you see on this blog are, in fact, original to it.

All over the internet you can read tales of supposed hauntings in the old hospital down in Weston, West Virginia. There are noises and apparitions. Strange shapes skulk in the shadows. They have quite a few places to hide. The Weston State Hospital, (also known as the Trans-Allegheny Lunatic Asylum) is spread out over 26.5 acres of land (down from the ominous 666 acres it once occupied) and the main administration building appeared to take up a standard city block just by itself. It was a slightly chilly day in April of 2012, when we approached the imposing structure to see what lay within. The complex has been privately owned since 2007 and it operates tours, with much of the proceeds going to restoration. It may go without saying that such efforts remain ongoing.  We were there for one of the day time history tours as we were just passing through the area. The staff will tell you about the night time flashlight tours, which are self-guided and much scarier. Bring extra underwear and a coat. The buildings have no heat.

Although one may have ideas about what they can expect to see in such places, there is also the sense of the unknown. Every asylum has its own series of stories and Weston is no slouch in this department. It began construction in 1858 in the style of the Kirkbride Plan, formulated by Dr. Thomas Story Kirkbride, which called for lots of large buildings with numerous windows. The buildings would be staggered in a way that would make the complex appear like a bat if viewed from the air. The main idea behind the Kirkbride Plan was that the way the buildings were set up, and the amount of light streaming in through the windows, would create an atmosphere more conducive to healing. If you have read about any old mental asylum, chances are that Kirkbride’s name came up. Open for patients in 1864, Weston State Hospital was originally constructed to hold 250 patients in isolation, but that number had more than doubled by 1880. By the time the 1950’s came around, there were over 2,500 patients within the walls. Naturally, this lead to some problems. The conditions were less than sanitary, with insufficient light and furniture to boot. All of this before we get around to mentioning the lobotomies.

Some of the old hallways have been restored and look as new, while others look more like the decaying atmosphere one might see in a horror movie. As we walked through the building I was struck by how empty it was in some places, but that it didn’t feel empty. As if atmosphere alone could fill the space. The ravages of time were apparent on nearly every wall and door. At one point we passed a room that wasn’t open because it was too dangerous to step inside. The floor would’ve given out on us and then our ghosts would be added to those said to haunt the asylum. Another room held a coffin, although how much of its placement there was for show, I couldn’t say. Through barred windows I spied the Tuberculosis Ward, which saw quite a bit of death during its operation. It saw so much disease that at one point you could get Tuberculosis simply by entering the building.

Here is how the Tuberculosis Ward would’ve looked to a patient back in the asylum’s heyday. The tour doesn’t include a visit there. I think that was a wise decision.

We were lead outside into a courtyard to see where patients would occasionally be allowed out to get some fresh air. The fencing around this area helped to emphasize the level of control needed in that environment. I looked up and saw some odd looking stone heads near a bricked up window. The creepy factor started to rise a bit. Even more so when we walked back inside and the door made the kind of creak noise that almost made people jump. The tour guide remarked “if that’s the weirdest thing that happens today, we’re lucky.” After exiting the main administration building, we approached the Medical Center in order to see where the lobotomies happened. The story we were told was that a Dr. Walter Freeman was proficient in his use of the “Icepick Lobotomy”, which is just as pleasant as it sounds. We were also told that he won a Nobel Prize for the technique but actually, it was his mentor that won. Further research reveals that Freeman had used real ice picks when he started but they would often break off inside the patient’s head and have to be retrieved. His downfall began when a lobotomy performed on Rosemary Kennedy, JFK’s sister, left her with severe mental and physical disabilities. His methods were widely criticized and many bizarre and horrifying stories emerge the more one looks into his history. Eventually Dr. Freeman was banned from performing surgery after a number of his patients died from cerebral hemorrhages.

The Medical Center bore witness to many horrific lobotomy procedures. Today they are not highly regarded in medical circles.

I found all this information to be fascinating, even without the ghosts, and was listening intently when we came to a rather large, empty room on the 2nd floor. As the tour guide was talking, I thought I heard a scream coming from the hallway. It was loud enough for me to hear but not deafening. I immediately looked around and saw nothing. Perhaps my mind was playing tricks and I had just imagined it. I was keen to accept this as the answer when I noticed a woman and her son in the tour group staring at me. Their eyes were wide and I knew in an instant that they had heard it too. I looked at D to see if he had heard the same sound from the hall, but he was fully invested in the tour and seemed to take no notice of it (he would later admit to me that he hadn’t heard a thing). What this was I can’t say, but to this day I remain unsure of it’s true nature.

Society is just as good at abandoning people as it is buildings, and the large room was a reminder of that. The parts of its history that I did hear before the scream, suggested that it had been used to hold a “Christmas in July” fundraiser for the patients. Each patient would get a gift and the simple act of receiving one had been a blessing to many of them. Their families had left them behind, never to return. There was a stigma attached with having a mentally ill person in the family and for many, the association was too much to bear. So they would live out the remainder of their days behind the walls, waiting for people who would never come back to get them, to tell them it would be alright. As is bound to happen, some patients would die and the staff tried to be as secretive as possible with removing the body. But if a patient noticed, they would moan and wail, and it started a chain reaction that carried to the street. I thought about that as we left the asylum, the clouds having parted to reveal the blue beneath, and I realized that we are lucky to live in the times we do now. When technology, and bedside manner, has greatly improved. When the Weston State Hospital closed in 1994 it may have been just a shell of what it had once been, but it was far from empty. The souls of the abandoned left their mark, and on certain days or nights, if you happen to be lucky (or unlucky) you may just encounter something you never expected – a ghost of the past. — J

Did you really think there wouldn’t be the obligatory hallway shot? I know its been done before, but I rather like my attempt at it.

I had a Big Breakfast on my lap as we neared Jasper Lee’s grave. The hunt makes me ravenous. For food, certainly, and for adventure? Definitely. A short message, quickly viewed on an Internet message board, had led us here and we were zeroing in on our target. It’s important to remember that the note had been in my pocket all along. The note I had forgotten about when I was halfway up a mountain the day before. Surrounded by unfamiliar forest, my cell phone dying, and a steep cliff to my immediate left, I suddenly thought “welcome to West Virginia.”

As mentioned in a previous post, I often do research on my genealogy and when I started working on the family tree for my real bloodline there were more than a few delays. For one thing, my information was limited. There were several names but everything had to be fleshed out. But just enough tidbits existed to build on. The trunk of the tree. Not everything blooms in the same season. Other trees were filled in and researched but in the back of my mind, it always lingered that my blood was out there and perhaps documented. I knew the names of my birth parents and paternal grandfather already. The puzzle came together slowly. Eventually the branches of the tree reached my great-great grandfather (and even further), a coal miner named Jasper who lived in West Virginia since his birth in October 1879. He died of stomach cancer on March 8, 1927 at the Salvation Army Hospital in Charleston. He was 47 years old.

Someone had been there before and it wasn’t me. I thought about it when I saw the picture online for the first time. There was a grave with my ancestors name on it. When you are just learning your true family history, the prospect of seeing it in person becomes very exciting. When the opportunity came to visit West Virginia, I jumped at the chance. Jasper and I would meet face to face, in a way at least. The death certificate lists the burial place as a “Georges Creek Cemetery.” It turned out that this was in an unincorporated village named Malden, not 10 minutes from the center of Charleston. I spied an interesting message on a message board, indicating a Hawes Drive. I wrote it down and brought the note with me on the trip. Of course, months had passed and I’d just barely remembered to bring the note at all. Soon it would sit in my pocket, forgotten.

A good time to remember it would’ve been before we reached the wrong road, looking for an area called Powell Hollow. This was supposed to be near Georges Creek, where the cemetery would have taken its name, and the thinking was that if we found the right area we could find the graveyard. Few things are ever as easy as they appear. In unfamiliar territory, with trees all around, everything looked the same. Knowing the name of a place didn’t mean there would be a sign pointing right to it (would’ve been nice though). The road we found ourselves on couldn’t be traversed by car. Rocks jutted out everywhere that would cut up the tires and there were mud pockets to get everything dirty. We walked for a time and found nothing but I was determined, obsessed really. D eventually decided to go back to the car, as he couldn’t see it from our location and knew nothing of the area, while I decided to climb a mountain.

I had gotten the idea into my head that people were buried on mountains in West Virginia (and there is some truth to that), but there was no way to tell where an unknown path would lead. D and I would communicate via Cell Phone. I had been using mine all day and should’ve realized that it wouldn’t last me too long. The path wound up the hill as I spied D in the distance with the car, getting further and further away as I climbed. The trail was steep and eventually, sharply narrowed. Steps had to be careful and deliberate. On the left was a large cliff. About halfway up I realized something. I had no real idea what I was doing. Time to go down. There was mud on my shoes and the sun was setting. Something told me this was hardly the place one would want to get lost after dark. Back at the motel, I was changing for bed and I felt the note in my pocket. We’ve all had those moments where we realize we made a big mess of something that didn’t need one and this was absolutely one of those. All you can really do is laugh at the reality of it. At least I wouldn’t have to climb a huge mountain again.

Georges Creek Cemetery is located down Hawes Drive in Malden, West Virginia. The dirt road opens up to a small residential area and then ends abruptly. When you enter, the cemetery will be on your right, just up a steep hill surrounded by tall grass and trees. Jasper’s grave is next to a wrought iron fence. A simple flat stone in the ground bearing his name, and that of his widow. There was a slight breeze and a dog barked as I stared straight at the contours of the name on the grave. This would be a peaceful place to die. A beautiful land to be buried in.

Georges Creek Cemetery – my ancestors grave is close to this fence, but not visible in the picture.

About 45 minutes away from Malden, is the unincorporated community of Alkol. A coal mining town where my great grandfather Elihu is buried. One might imagine a time when there was a great bustling of activity when the coal miners and their families populated the landscape and lived their lives surrounded by the vast wilderness. Maybe they would hunt for food, or go fishing at a nearby stream. When the coal mining jobs dried up in the area, many families moved on to other pastures, if not greener ones. Now i’m not sure there are any more than 10 people living in the area. Alkol contains one post office, but no restaurants, hospitals, police or fire departments, or even a grocery store.  There are no buildings larger than a 2 story house and they aren’t all that close together. The streets are unpaved in places and random paths seem to lead directly into the forest. The silence is deafening. I didn’t grow up in a major city, but a place like this was foreign to me. Everything is such a bright shining green. If you want to escape from civilization, you will find few better places to do so.

There was a man staring at us as we drove past. It’s not strange when you consider he probably doesn’t see too many people he doesn’t recognize. Why would he? When there’s nothing in your town, few people will visit it. But it makes for great exploring. There’s a sense of undiscovered country there. We stopped to ask directions at a house with a large satellite dish attached to the roof. The man who answered the door was friendly and was more than happy to tell us his grandparents were buried on the hill in view of his home. He thought the one we were looking for was nearby but couldn’t give an exact location. There are many cemeteries in the wilderness you see. People tended to be buried close to where they lived with their families laying next to them. Where else would you want to be buried if you lived out there?

I got nervous when I noticed there was no cell phone service. Hardly a surprise, and yet if something were to happen what would you do? Ask a neighbor for help? You wouldn’t want to knock on the door of a house made out of aluminum siding. Junk lying in the yard, strewn all over the place without rhyme or reason. There were a number of such dwellings nearby. Its a different kind of life. Nature takes over when man leaves the land to its own devices. The Wild encroaches on your territory. We passed a church with a hand written sign denoting its name. It was smaller than my living room and had an outhouse with the word “men” clearly visible on the door (I can’t imagine they wouldn’t let women use it as well, as I only saw the one outhouse). A little further down the dirt path you could see an abandoned house with vines crawling up the sides. Nobody had been there in some time. There was a clear path up a steep hill, again covered with rocks, and we decided to climb.

A cemetery lay at the end of the path, and there was no sign to even indicate it was there. If you weren’t actively looking for it you might never even find the place and yet it was clearly maintained. Some broken graves had been repaired but there was a number of good quality stones and several were quite recent burials. The sunlight streamed in between the trees and I started to imagine what life would be like in a place like this, even as I stood among the dead. I heard the birds chirping and breathed in the air. It was a sweet serenity. A vivid dream of a colorful world at the edge of civilization. Where nature takes its course and people rise and fall with the sun. Elihu wasn’t buried on that hill, and maybe not even the next one over. But it was easier to imagine him at peace, having visited such a peaceful place, and perhaps that will have to be enough. Of course, if I ever go back, you know the hunt will simply begin again… – J

A lasting peaceful slumber on a hill in West Virginia

Freedom. Noun. The state of being free or at liberty rather than in confinement or under physical restraint. Or, exemption from external control, interference, regulation, etc. What do you think of when you hear the word “Freedom”? For me, I immediately think of William Wallace, as portrayed by Mel Gibson in Braveheart, as he yells “Freeeeeedooooooom” before being executed, fighting for Scottish independence and refusing, even with his last breath, to give in to tyranny. From this story, there is a strong connection to Freedom, but what does it mean to you? J and I had the opportunity to walk on hallowed ground, where some of the major beginnings of our country first took root. Read along, as you hear of people that you know and others that you don’t (along with my own personal twist on our journey, of course).

A notable Patriot was born October 30, 1735. As a lawyer, he decided to take on the case for the British soldiers who fired on colonials during the “Boston Massacre”. 6 out of 8 were acquitted. Nominated George Washington to be Commander-In-Chief (turned out to be a good move, wouldn’t you say?). Later nominated John Marshall as Chief Justice (another good move). Assisted Thomas Jefferson in writing the Declaration of Independence (seriously, does this get better?). First Vice President of the United States (yes, it does get better). Second President of the United States (okay, this resume is crazy good). Died July 4, 1826 (the Fourth of July! Awesome). His last words were, “Thomas Jefferson still survives.” Welllll not quite, Jefferson died the same day, just 5 hours earlier. I could tell you about the story of his birthplace, or the house next door where his son was born (later another U.S. President), but the main location for this part of our journey was at Peacefield, near current day Quincy, MA. The house is majestic, construction started on the oldest part in 1731. I could tell you about the Yorkist Rose Tree planted by Abigail in 1788 (roses have come up every year since), or the majestic library in the back of the house that contains some of the oldest volumes in our country’s young history. I could tell you about the “1790 portrait of George Washington that John thought looked the most like George” hanging in the dining room, or the original copy of the Declaration of Independence hanging on the wall. I could tell you about how each room was decorated, painted, and constructed of the finest materials. What I will tell you about is the woman who guided J and me through the house and gardens of John & Abigail Adams. Every room we walked into, you felt as though you were walking in the 18th and 19th centuries as her intricate details brought the story to life. Her enthusiasm was contagious as everyone on the tour hung on each word in every room. She knew everything about the house and the people who lived there for generations. I wasn’t the only one in tears when I saw the copy of the Declaration (okay, maybe I was the only one who was literally teary-eyed, but not by much). As we walked through the house, the tour guide allowed us to live life through the eyes of those that once walked the halls. There’s no doubt that the Adams’ contribution was all kinds of significant to the beginnings of our new nation (grand understatement), but it was real because of the woman leading the tour. She talked as though she lived it. She spoke this way because she believed in it. She was excited about her freedom and conveyed it through their story. She was proud of the fact that this colonial family had allowed her to have it. She poured her excitement out to others to accept it as they wanted. We took all of it. I don’t remember her name, but I don’t think I’ll forget her. What a start down the Path…

Yorkist Rose Tree set out by Abigail Adams in 1788

Samuel Gray. Samuel Maverick. James Caldwell. Crispus Attucks. Patrick Carr. Christopher Monk. These men would give their lives at the hands of British soldiers on the streets of Boston after an altercation on March 5, 1770. One was a rope maker. Two of these guys were 17 years young. Three of them would die on the spot, one the next day, one two weeks later, and the last 10 years down the road. You read about the Boston Massacre in textbooks, you hear about how it changed the course of history. Not until you read the names on the tombstones do you really understand. In your mind you wonder how you couldn’t have seen the significance. When you stand on the street where they were killed, that’s when you realize what they gave up. Most of you know by now that J and I appreciate walking around cemeteries. Some for the art, but always for the history. As we walked the grounds of the Granary Burying Ground (where these victims and other notable men and women are buried), we talked about who we saw there and what life must have been like for them. Getting to know the people that walked the ground before me always helps give me perspective to appreciate where I am and who sacrificed so that I could live free. Continue with me further down the Path…

Grave marker for the first five victims of the Boston Massacre

One if by land, two if by sea. A signal of the ages for Old North Church as part of Paul Revere’s famous ride April 18, 1775. The number of lanterns lit in the tower would signify how the British were moving toward Lexington and Concord. For those of you that might not know, Robert Newman climbed the tower with two lit lanterns. The signal stood only momentarily, but it was all that was necessary for the Patriots to know what it meant. When we approached the Church (officially called Christ Church in the city of Boston) with the sunlight meeting us just over the peak of the tower, I looked up and stared in awe. Here I was, standing at the base of one of the top 10 places in the U.S. that I wanted to see in my lifetime. I had done my research here and wanted to pay for the tour, visit the gift shop, spend some quality time examining all that I could, including the souvenirs. This was the symbol of freedom for me, and I was dying to get in. When we arrived at the front door however, J and I realized that we wouldn’t get that chance. As might befit a building of such significance (built in 1723), many schools in the area have arranged for graduations to take place here, and we had hit the Church on such a day. With kids coming out of the building and parents running up to meet them, I wasn’t going to let an opportunity pass to see such a place. I climbed up onto the side of the church and grabbed on to a window ledge, catching everything that I could, including my balance, as I just about fell through the window. After regaining my composure and not drawing attention to myself (miraculously), I was able to slide my camera through the open window and get a few pictures. I was disappointed that I couldn’t get in, but we ventured on…to the gift shop. Everything you want to know and don’t want to know about the Old North is in this little building just to the right of the church (if you’re facing it from the front). I bought my souvenirs and walked out. Here I was at one of the greatest points of freedom, at least symbolically in our nation’s history, and I couldn’t do anything more than peek in through the window. As I looked through the window the words of Henry Wadsworth Longfellow accurately touched on how I imagined Paul Revere’s ride would have gone…

“If the British march by land or sea from the town to-night,
Hang a lantern aloft in the belfry arch
Of the North Church tower as a signal light,–
One if by land, and two if by sea;
And I on the opposite shore will be,
Ready to ride and spread the alarm
Through every Middlesex village and farm,
For the country folk to be up and to arm.”

The kids who were graduating might not have realized their part in the story, just a sign of the changing times as they were welcomed to the next part of their lives, free from high school and ready to move on to another stage of life. In this case, with this building, freedom would mean something else, at least temporarily. I realized that freedom doesn’t ring as strongly as it once did. Marching down the Path…

Once an indoor pavilion, now a source for all types of fast food, Quincy Market was our next stop. Within the narrow halls are seemingly endless food choices, running the gamut from sausage and peppers, pizza, to gelato, and many other options that would not have been available when the vendors walked these halls in the late 1820s. J and I enjoyed some of the fare here (mmm waffle cone…) and sat back and watched the people. As I watched, I noticed that in this predominantly Irish-American city were people of all nations, colors, and tribes; all were well represented at the market. Not that you don’t expect to see that in a large modern metropolis, but in this place at that moment was a concentration of everything mixing together. Obviously, I know how I came to be at that place in time at exactly that moment; that at least 9 other generations had been born before me in this country to allow me to be where I was, was not lost on me. But, how many of these people had been here for 6 months? Had any just earned their citizenship? Some may have been here for 200 years, 10 years, 10 days, or 10 minutes, but they were all here. The Path was walked on by other people…

From our Declaration of Independence, these words were written, “We hold these truths to be self-evident, that all men are created equal, that they are endowed by their Creator with certain unalienable Rights, that among these are Life, Liberty and the pursuit of Happiness.” Tell that to Prince Estabrook. Actually, that wouldn’t have been necessary. This man understood that, and as a slave in the North, decided to fight as one of the Lexington Minute Men. He was wounded in the Battle of Lexington (not far from Buckman Tavern which has the original door from 1775 with a musket ball still in it…incredible). Estabrook would live to serve elsewhere throughout the Revolution. Once his time of service was complete, his master freed him because of his service to our country. But the Path is stained with the blood of many who were not so fortunate…

Imagine for a moment that you were born into a wealthy northern family. You have opportunities to be successful in everything that you do because you are educated and have a chance to pursue your wildest dreams. In the midst of your young life, the Civil War begins and you take up with the local New York militia and head off toward D.C. When your service is complete there, you join up with the 2nd Massachusetts, a division that sees one of the bloodiest days in American history at Antietam (Sharpsburg for you Southerners). An opportunity comes for Robert Gould Shaw to take the lead of an all-black regiment. After a pause, he takes the job. The men inspire Shaw to lead them on, and in the second battle for Fort Wagner, Morris Island, SC, he dies pleading with his Massachusetts 54th to charge forth toward the fort. Confederate General Johnson Hagood left Shaw’s body where it was. Hagood said of Shaw, “had he been in command of white troops, I should have given him an honorable burial; as it is, I shall bury him in the common trench with the negroes that fell with him.” Shaw’s father eventually said, “We would not have his body removed from where it lies surrounded by his brave and devoted soldiers…We can imagine no holier place than that in which he lies, among his brave and devoted followers, nor wish for him better company…” As J and I stood there at a monument honoring him in Boston, these thoughts crossed my mind…this guy gave up all social status to fight as an equal with other men, despite their color. These men fought along with him, died with him, and were buried right next to him. They fought for freedom together as one unit, not as men with skins of different colors. Shaw understood that…so did his parents…so did his men…so did his newlywed wife of two months that he left behind. The Path is straight and narrow, few take the walk…

As J and I finished our extensive and historic (pun-intended) week’s journey together, we ventured to a gem of a park, one of the oldest in the country of its kind. A park that has seen the likes of the Babe, Johnny Pesky, and Carlton Fisk’s pleading for the ball to go fair in the 1975 World Series. Fenway Park has seen its share of heroes, and new ones would emerge in 2004 , leading the Red Sox to their first title since they traded Babe Ruth to the Yankees (they would see further glory with another championship in 2007). We had seats in center field, were able to see the guy change the score manually between innings, and were briefly on television as a ground-rule double bounced right over our heads. What topped it all off though were the people that sat next to us. A father and son team enjoying the game, trying to get the best view of all of the Boston players. They spoke with a heavy Boston accent and probably lived in the area for generations. Those two were good for my spirit. Wicked good. It’s people like them that make America great, not for anything special that they were doing, but for being who they were, and nothing else (although the dad disappeared for a few innings mysteriously, but that’s another story). The Path today is free…

San Diego gets the win, 5-4.

I could have mentioned soooo many others on our walk along the Path to Freedom, but these few caught my eye on this journey in one part of our country, those that lived and died for our rights and freedoms. In today’s world, where we literally have everything at our fingertips, do we still think of those who walked the Path before us? Do you think about what makes America great? It’s great to be able to eat what we want and when, to have food delivered to our door, to worship where we want, and to live free. What really makes America great today is the people…you, me, your neighbors, your co-workers, bosses, friends, family, strangers, wealthy and poor, regardless of gender or skin color.

I love these United States of America, and to the Republic for which it stands, one nation, under God, indivisible, with Liberty and Justice for all! I have the chance to love this country because of those that walked before me. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you for my freedom. I may not have earned it myself, but I will not take it for granted, and I will do my best to carry it forward, further down the Path…

D

As we sprinted down the path in the pouring rain, the tall grass concealed us from the world. We whipped along over the rocks and into the clearing as the scenery vanished at the edge of our periphery. Everything looks the same when it rains. The colors of the trees seem almost as dark as the sky and time seems to slow down. All my perceptive powers were dulled. The air had gone out of my lungs. I was out of shape and tired but we were almost there, at our goal, and after everything we had been through nothing was going to stand in our way. At that moment, as I had so many times before, I asked myself “how did we end up here?”

The locals will always tell you that the best time to visit Salem is in October. Once a haven for Puritans, this coastal hamlet has existed since the earliest days of the American Colonies, when Roger Conant came over from England and became, in 1626, the first Governor of the city. If you have read a book on American History you will likely have heard that apart from it’s age, the city is most well known for the Witch Hysteria of 1692, in which a bunch of children essentially conned their parents and other adults into having village elders hung as witches, probably because they found older people creepy. It’s hard to ascertain their true motivations for making such claims, as all the principle players have been dead for centuries, but it was an incident that remained burned in the consciousness of our nation ever since. Naturally, tourists love the story. Every October, they’re out in droves to see the various shops, colonial era houses, statues and, of course, the old cemeteries which contain some very interesting 17th Century gravestones. Stories abound of ghosts and hauntings in many of the buildings. It’s my personal belief that such tales are remnants carried over from those early days, when every scary story was a good way to keep children from going out after dark.

The grave of infamous Witchcraft Trial judge John Hathorne. His actions condemned innocent people to death. (Click to view Larger)

D and I were exploring the town on a cloudy day in June of 2011. I had already been to Salem numerous times in my life and felt I knew the area well enough to be an effective tour guide. We were in the Old Burying Point Cemetery (a must visit, if you’re in town) so that I could share my hobby of visiting old graveyards with him. The clouds opened up and rain started to drip down. As a drizzle became a pour, we had lunch and kept dry. Afterwards, we checked out some stores at the local mall to check out the endless trinkets now so familiar to my eyes. There were places to see in town, but I had done it all before and after touring The House of the Seven Gables (tour is short and overpriced, house is empty, senior citizens can’t get enough), The Witch House (none of the Salem “Witches” ever lived there, but sheriff George Corwin did), and the cemetery, we had completed what I felt were the authentic historic spots worth seeing in town. But it was early yet, and the rain continued to fall. We’d been having fun all week, but this day didn’t seem as exciting as the others. It felt like something was missing, but then D made a suggestion that changed everything. He felt it was time to visit Danvers.

Danvers is the town next door, but it’s history is just as important as Salem’s. After all, both were once part of Salem Village where the Witchcraft Trials took place. But if Salem is the town happily flaunting its association with the hysteria of 1692, Danvers is the town that likes to avoid the spotlight. What happened within its borders is something the people there seem less proud of. In 1992, the Salem Witchcraft Victims Memorial was dedicated there in time for the 300th anniversary of the trials. It was the first monument to recognize all of the victims, including those that died in prison. But on that day, we didn’t know what to look at. At first we drove by various old residences, including the former home of Bridget Bishop which is now a private residence. But then we stopped for a bit so I could check my GPS. I looked up nearby historic properties and came up with one that piqued my interest. On the screen it read “Rebecca Nurse Homestead.” I had no idea what we were about to experience as I told the GPS to guide us there.

If you grew up in Massachusetts, you would have heard about Rebecca Nurse at one time or another. It’s an easy name to remember and for many people she had come to represent the tragedy of the trials, the archetype of the innocent person wrongfully executed due to the fear and suspicion of others. I can’t remember the name of the TV Special we watched in school about her and her sisters, but I do recall she was depicted as being much younger than her actual age of 71. We’re always being told that people “had a shorter life expectancy in those days” but the more history I read, the more people I hear about who lived past this supposed life expectancy. Are they the chosen few? I can’t say for certain, but Rebecca Nurse was among them. Born in Yarmouth, England in 1621, Rebecca Towne would go on to marry Francis Nurse, also born in England, after her family settled in Salem in 1640. Later accused of witchcraft by members of the Putnam family in 1692, she was found guilty all too quickly, and met her untimely end on June 19, 1692.

But death would not be the end of Rebecca Nurse’s tale. Her last journey would take place after her son dug up her body from the shallow grave she had been dumped in. The tradition of the times was that those hung for witchcraft were buried where they died, so as not to contaminate the resting places of people more beloved to the community. But her son was determined to see that his mother got a proper burial and as he had witnessed the execution (a horrible enough thing to endure), he couldn’t abide any further disrespect to his family. He had seen where they buried her and, under cover of darkness, dug her up and escaped by boat with the body of Rebecca Nurse. She was taken back to the family cemetery where she was buried in secret. It was only later that, when people learned of the tale, that a monument was built in that same cemetery on her family’s land.

It was after 5 p.m. when we reached the dirt path leading up to the Rebecca Nurse Homestead. The winding drive terminates in a field with a big wooden fence, made out of large enough logs to deter entry when the gate is locked. We were a bit surprised to find it wide open with the chain on the ground. Nobody else was in sight. Perhaps, if I had not just met my brother for the first time that week and hadn’t felt the need to show him a great time (as opposed to a merely “good” one) I would not have felt as compelled to trespass. But then, I hadn’t been the one who left a gate open to a historic property. D didn’t need any convincing. As I looked over I could see he was already right there with me, having the same idea I was. The opportunity was too enticing. We’d have to risk it. My initial paranoia soon gave way to an increasing excitement that pushed me forward. History took place here, and the feeling was palpable. There was an old wooden shed and a much newer looking house, painted a fire engine red. It would have to be a restoration as it looked too pristine. But there was an old world quality to its size and construction. I’m no architect, but it seemed to me that parts of the building must be older than they appeared at first glance. There was a small garden in front of the entryway, enclosed by a small wooden fence. A good place to call home in the 17th Century and not too shabby looking now. We didn’t try to go in, as properties like this typical have hidden security measures to deter intrusion. Just because the gate had been left open, didn’t mean there couldn’t have been video footage of us wandering around, for all we knew. Just behind a row of trees in the back, and beyond a large open field, D spotted something that appeared to be a cemetery surrounded by trees.

The cemetery itself is small, but historically significant for its ties to American History. Although the story of Rebecca Nurse being buried on the property is a family tradition, we may never know for sure how much truth it contains. The location of her actual burial spot, on the property or otherwise, is unknown today. But the large, admittedly newer looking, monument that lies in the center of the graveyard is probably the closest anyone can likely get to the poor woman’s earthly remains. As the canopy of trees sheltered us by the increasing strength of the rain, another surprise would make itself known. It turns out that Rebecca Nurse is not the only witchcraft trial victim buried on the property.

George Jacobs Sr. was accused of being a warlock by no less than 12 people, including his granddaughter Margaret Jacobs. He found the charges amusing at best, laughing them off publicly when questioned. Despite this refusal to admit any wrongdoing, he was found guilty and was one of the first men to be executed during the trials, on August 19, 1692. Some time was to pass before there would be any further additions to his story. In 1711, after reparations were made to George Jacobs family, his body was moved to the family farm from its original resting place, the location known by those who had witnessed the execution, and re-buried. In 1864, his remains were rediscovered on the family property and, as the ownership of the property was to change hands, the body was claimed by the town of Danvers. It remained in their possession until 1992 when the 300th Anniversary of the trials created the perfect opportunity to finally rebury George Jacobs Sr., this time on the Rebecca Nurse Homestead.

The bugs were picking D apart, clearly enjoying his delicious blood, and the rain fell harder just outside the trees as they struggled to keep us dry. It was fascinating to see all the old graves and get a view that perhaps not everyone experiences. We were having a good time but worried about the cost of lingering too long on the property. As we took our leave, a plan started to form in my mind. I suddenly knew what I wanted our next destination to be.

Photography in the rain is rather difficult. But we didn’t know if we’d ever get this opportunity again. (Click to view Larger)

The current, and final (?), resting place of George Jacobs Sr. (Click to view Larger)

In 1878, The Danvers State Hospital was built on Hathorne Hill, overlooking the town of Danvers. The construction was to follow the Kirkbride Plan, named after Dr. Thomas Story Kirkbride who believed in beautiful settings and large buildings with lots of wide open spaces and windows. The idea was that all these elements together would provide a better environment for healing the troubled individuals that found themselves institutionalized for a variety of mental conditions and ailments. Large asylums like Danvers State were all over the place in the 19th Century but in the 1960’s, as new treatments were developed and the emphasis shifted to alternate methods of care, the population of the institute saw a sharp decline. In 1992, it was closed due to budget cuts. Soon afterwards, the Danvers State Hospital (also known as the Danvers State Insane Asylum), gained a darker reputation with a rise in stories of strange happenings and possible hauntings. One particular tale that sticks out in my mind is the one in which an urban explorer approached the shuttered complex looking to have his own adventure when he noticed a light on in one of the windows. As none of the buildings currently had working electricity, he was quite terrified by the occurrence of light where there shouldn’t have been any. He never got further than the spot on which he stood before turning and running away. The residents of Danvers, knowing that the asylum was built on the former property of Witch Trial judge John Hathorne (hence Hathorne Hill), took to calling it The Witch’s Castle. It became almost like a kind of Mecca for paranormal enthusiasts.

Before too long, a company came along looking for an opportunity to build a housing development where the unused buildings of the former asylum stood. In 2006, all the buildings were demolished with the exception of the imposing outer facade of the main administration building, which found new life as the current facade of the new administration building for an apartment complex. The cemetery was left on the property, but it isn’t visible from any of the roads there and it definitely isn’t talked about. I suppose this is only natural. Would you live somewhere if you found out that it was once the site of a mental institution? It certainly would make marketing to prospective tenants more difficult. What would they say, I wondered, if they knew about the hidden cemetery?

It is a sad fact of reality that those with mental health issues have often, throughout history, had to face a social stigma which only increases the further back in the historical record you go. Many patients were abandoned by their families, and in large enough numbers that a cemetery would be necessary. It’s location isn’t obvious. We didn’t know where to start looking but we took our chance with a field further down the hill. The remnants of old pipes dotted the landscape. Occasionally we came across some odd looking object we couldn’t identify just left on the ground. It was as though the demolition had stopped and whatever remained was left scattered around. No cemetery though, so we had to keep looking. Another area of the property has a long winding path that leads into the woods, with overhanging trees like something out of a creepy horror movie. Amidst the trees we found a dish and fork, and a stone which looked to have been a sign post of some sort before its metal plate was removed. But still no cemetery. The rain would increase and then recede in fits and starts. It would pour and then pull back to a slight drizzle. It was the Summer, so we weren’t exactly dressed for the occasion. D had been checking his smart phone for any help its internet connection might provide us. The directions left behind by other travelers can be found online, but you have to know how to follow them. In the dim light, I fear we misinterpreted the rudimentary map we saw as we continued to drive around for several hours.

A dark path leading into the woods. Where have I heard of something like that? (Click to view Larger)

Eventually, D had a kind of epiphany about what we got wrong. We were looking at the map from the wrong direction and once we got our bearings it lead us to what a nearby sign post called “The Memorial.” A viewing platform, overlooking the town, made out of stone and with a bench. There are no informational kiosks there to let people in on the history of the property or even the town it overlooks. Near to this spot is a path that is lined with tall grass on both sides. If you aren’t looking in the right direction, and it happens to be pouring rain, your chances of seeing it are slim. We came across it in the near darkness as the sky opened up above us. The rain came crashing down all around us and we started to sprint over the path. I grew tired quickly, I was out of shape and the air went out of my lungs. I was soaked and worn out, but it seemed like the wrong moment to give up. We had been looking for a long time. We had to keep going.

D was looking down the path at me, feeling more soaked by the second. If we were going to be standing in the rain for much longer we couldn’t waste any more time. My second wind kicked in like a jolt of electricity to my system. I pushed myself into the large clearing just beyond the grass lined path and spied an opening straight ahead of our position. A large rock with writing on it was barely discernible in the poor light. On this rock words declaring our arrival at the cemetery were faintly readable. We had made it. No time to dawdle. I knew our visit would be short, but there was a great satisfaction in finally reaching our goal. The weather hadn’t been able to stop us. The graves alternated between having names, and simply having numbers where a proper stone hadn’t yet been placed. Out of over 1,000 burials rumored to have taken place on the property, only 200 have been identified for certain. There are three memorial stones in the center that name as many people as could be discovered, but there are a lot of blank spaces at the end. I took what pictures I could, but many were blurry or too dark. Some day, when the light shines through the trees on the fields below, I will return. But at that moment we knew the adventure had reached its conclusion. As D sprinted back down the path, I took one last look before turning and racing into the darkness.

One of the three memorial stones in the cemetery for the former Danvers State Hospital. (Click to view Larger)

A number for a name. Who lies buried here? (Click to view Larger)

–J

Further Reading:

http://www2.iath.virginia.edu/salem/home.html (A great source of information regarding the Salem Witch Trials. Contains quite a few things I never saw mentioned elsewhere, and links to scans of old documents as well)

http://www.danversstateinsaneasylum.com/home.html (The asylum as people once knew it may be gone but its history lives on here, with fascinating photos and information for those who didn’t get enough in this post)

On a warm summer morning in southern New Jersey, D and I were exploring a cemetery in the small town of Beverly. I do a lot of research for my genealogy (for both my natural bloodline, and my adoptive family) and it was such an effort that had now brought us here. The dead may speak to us, but not in the way most people might imagine it. It is only when we stare at the silent stones, that we are able to conjure their lost voices. The graves often contain information about birth, death, and where these events may have happened. There are few more valuable resources than the inscriptions on a monument. They are clues to what has come before, hints to the past and perhaps, if we allow our minds to wander, a look into possible futures. The sunlight had just reached the stones and right as we had found the objects of our search a strange figure took his opportunity to approach us.

The man said we could call him “Phantom” and he had quite a few stories to tell. What had supposedly drawn his attention to us was the fact that Monument Cemetery (it’s actual name), located right next to the Beverly National Cemetery, had fewer visitors than its more prominent neighbor. He usually only saw old ladies walking through there. Phantom stood shorter than either D or myself, and appeared to be in his late 50’s or early 60’s. He seemed to be in good shape despite his age, with the musculature of a man much younger than him. A natural storyteller knows how to read the audience that sits before them, and our private bard was no exception. D and I like to explore, and it could hardly be more obvious to people who know us well.

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The tales spun by Phantom were ones of Urban Exploration, in which an individual, or individuals, explores an abandoned and usually derelict location regardless of whether it is legal or safe to do so. The thrill of exploration drives them, but it comes with its own costs. Often an abandoned building will be structurally unsound and filled with asbestos to boot. Some buildings are guarded and contain alarms. The floors are often covered with detritus like broken glass, or rotting garbage. For those who like to go on this kind of adventure, it can be a rush. But remember to take precautions lest you find yourself in the dark and breathing stale air. A mask is a good place to start, and a flashlight would be another. I personally, have not done too much of this type of exploration myself. There are already a great many people who do, and I mostly like to live vicariously through them. Phantom quickly convinced us that he wasn’t the type to stand idly by.

The names of many long abandoned places were rattled off in rapid succession, as though they were merely notches on a bed post or check marks on a list. I couldn’t help but notice the obvious pleasure of our unexpected host, as we mentioned one such place in West Virginia that we intended to look at (this one being more legal, which will be explained in a later post). He thought we were naive to go to a place that would charge us money for entry, and that most of what we were told would be a lie (Phantom was wrong about this, but at the time we didn’t know it). He saw such places as sell outs, but I think that the restoration of a historical place is an honorable quest and well worth pursuing for any that can handle the exorbitant monetary commitments. We appeared to amuse Phantom, and perhaps he thought we were fools for not immediately accepting everything he told us, but you have to be careful when you have a conversation with strangers. In my estimation, it would’ve been more foolish to trust such an eager storyteller so completely. You have to keep a safe enough distance, so that you can read the situation better as it plays out. Explore, but not blindly. That has always been a motto I kept for myself.

Phantom, upon learning our route, a journey that would take us to such varied locales as West Virginia, Ohio, Delaware, and Kentucky, among others, told us of the ruined edifice once known as the Henryton State Hospital. Our drive was going to take us through Maryland, and we would be passing the former mental institution and TB hospital on the way. It was an intriguing possibility for adventure, that we were both suddenly made aware of. The best entrance that Phantom knew of would take us into a train tunnel that was still actively used, and ended at a back entrance thereby allowing us to avoid detection. Sometimes a police car would patrol the area, he said, but if you were already inside and kept your wits about you, arrest and prosecution could be avoided. He then went on to mention, in a casual tone of voice, that he kept a dog skull above his bed. I checked my pockets for grains of salt. D and I were both sure, discussing this meeting after he took his leave, that Phantom may have embellished some of his exploits, in order to have some fun with strangers. Perhaps, we thought, he didn’t get many visitors out here, living across from a cemetery as he does.

Once on the road again, his words lingered in my mind. What was it about forgotten things, that drew people back to them? Even if people are ignorant of their history, there is a pull that abandoned buildings have on the mind. An air of mystery, seemingly unsatisfied by inertia. The Henryton State Hospital, once built to deal with people suffering from Tuberculosis, has a history dating back to 1922. As in many other cases, the epidemic initially required a larger number of buildings than were necessary once cases of Tuberculosis started to drop off in the 1940’s. This left the administrators with much more space than they had use for. In 1985, it finally closed for good. All attempts to have the property demolished or sold for alternate use have, for whatever reason, failed and so it sits there looming amidst the forest, waiting for something nobody can now be certain of.

We drove down a long winding road in Marriotsville, Maryland as darkness approached on all sides. The trees seemed taller in the pale blue light. We eventually reached an area where the road just stopped. As I left the relative safety of D’s car, I approached the edge of the pavement and promptly noted that the bridge was out. There didn’t seem to be any way across. The tunnel that Phantom had mentioned lay across a river just below me. There were train tracks over it and as it got darker I couldn’t see too far. But out of the corner of my eye, higher up on a hill, I glimpsed a white building covered in moss. That would have to be it. I went back to the car and when we noticed a smaller dirt path going up the hill, we attempted to drive up. But there were rocks everywhere. I would have to walk up, alone, if I felt so inclined as D had decided to stay with the car. We couldn’t be sure who might come along, and it would be better not to leave the car unattended. Neither one of us had flashlights or masks, and I wondered if it was right to come here. A rapid, dark, shadow passed behind me. I just caught a quick view of it as it ran from my sight, into the endless forest.

As we were unprepared and the light was fading, the decision was made by both of us to leave. I couldn’t see myself going it alone in an unknown, and increasingly eerie, environment and certainly not without the proper preparation. Henryton would keep its secrets, for now. But as we drove away, I remembered what I saw from the edge of the road, across the way on the other side of the tracks. There was an old brick building with words spray painted on it, that read “The Void, Again.” Perhaps that’s where we had been, I smiled to myself. A void between the world we knew, and a stranger, less knowable place. I wondered if it would be the last time I would travel there, but even then I knew that it wouldn’t be the last time we went into the woods, looking for adventure. Henryton sits alone on its perch, the weight of time wearing heavily on its crumbling facade. But I suspect that as long is there are people out there searching for new experiences, that it won’t be devoid of company for long. — J

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Now this is a story of about how my life-got-flip-turned-upside down, and I’d like to take a minute just sit right there and I’ll tell you…that most of you know this line comes from a hit television show from the 90’s. Not only that, each word of that first sentence is accurate…

My curiosity was taking over; I had to dig deeper and find out more. I asked J one afternoon if his parents knew the names of our biological parents. My adoptive parents had not been privy to this information when they adopted me, but it turns out that his parents knew their names (due to other circumstances surrounding his adoption). Armed with that information, I told my dad about it, asking him what he thought we might do if we were to reach out to contact someone. He told me of a website that had public information for people, similar to what would be available in a phone book. After just a few minutes of investigating, I had found the information for our biological mother, father, and paternal grandparents that I was looking for (assuming they were all in the state I wanted, which they were). My quick find had motivated me to take the next step. Holes in my life could be filled in, just by making a phone call. It seemed like a no-brainer, right? The courage that it would take to actually d-i-a-l the number wouldn’t come easy. My dad told me growing up that even when a situation was hard, I would face it and move on. Well, it was time to face the music. So, a few days later, I decided to make a phone call to my biological mother, to see if I could connect with her. Choosing her first was not coincidence, as my adoptive mother, the only mother I had ever known, had passed away 3 years earlier and I was looking for answers that I didn’t feel the need to seek out before. When I finally made the call, I wasn’t sure what I would hear or who would pick up, but here I was, throwing myself out there. To my surprise, my biological mother was in a home, and the number I had dialed was the right one for her, but I didn’t reach her directly. I asked if I could speak with her, was told that I couldn’t, but I would be able to speak to her next of kin who was responsible for her affairs…her mother.

After bible study on Wednesday of that week I decided to make a call to my mother’s mother, my biological grandmother. What happens when you make a call? Someone usually picks up the phone on the other end, and sure enough (with the “oh-geez-here-goes-nothing” attitude), she answered. I explained who I thought I was and immediately she said, “Do you know you have a brother named J?” I said that I did certainly, and that I was in touch with him. We talked easily, as though the relationship had existed for many years. She went on to explain that J and I had been torn apart, and referenced a specific argument between my biological parents that changed our lives forever. When this argument took place, our grandmother took J out of the apartment and to the local hospital to be looked after. Our biological father called the police on our grandmother and they met her at the hospital (on grounds that she kidnapped the child). She told the cops that they could take her to jail, but that they should first take a look at the baby and tell her that she did the wrong thing…then they could take her.  The cops did just that, went in to look at J, then walked out, just nodding to her as they left, admitting with one nod that the baby needed to be right where he was. From this point forward, J was removed from the care of our biological parents.

Fast-forward a short while and I was scheduled to arrive (just 16 months after J). Authorities asked my biological father what he would change to ensure that the behavior in the apartment would be different from before (when J was taken away). He simply said, “nothing”, and that was all. When I was born a few months later, there was a court order to remove me from the custody of my biological family and to place me into a foster home, where I landed at 6 days old. At that point, our grandmother knew that she would probably never hear of us again.

We had a great discussion on the phone, and I soon learned about her faith. She was not hiding it, and never had, she said. There was a time when she was angry with God because of the decision she was forced to make, essentially ruining her daughter’s chances at a normal life, by taking her children from her. Our grandmother felt that she had no choice and explained to me, “If it was you and your mother (my biological mother) drowning in the water, I would’ve saved you boys every time. My daughter has had a chance at life, you hadn’t, and ultimately that’s why I decided to do what I did, knowing full well what the consequences would be of taking J out of that apartment.”  Wow. Goose bumps? Check. If something was going to happen to your children or your grandchildren, of course you would do anything for them. What would happen, though, if you had to make that choice, knowing it would be better for them and worse for you, probably for the rest of your life? She told me how she prayed for our well-being every day, praying that God would protect us and to send us to good Christian homes. I was finally able to get in a few words (trust me, at 81, she’s a firecracker and goes off at about 10,000 words a minute), and I told her of my faith and my trust in the Lord. What a joy to find out that she shared the same faith that I did, and that we could talk of it freely. There was a true peace there, knowing first that God had opened the door to allow me to reach her, then to walk through it not knowing what would come.

Several months later, I had asked her if she would like to meet in person….“Yes that would make me very happy!!” There were other exclamatory remarks from her side, but too many to list (trust me), so I’ll leave them out. We set a time, and she said we would go to a local “restaurant” near her house. Well, little did I know how much she liked Burger King, so that’s where we were headed (you would never know she ate there by looking at her…she’s maybe 4’6” and 85 lbs. soaking wet). Anyway, I picked her up at her apartment and off we went. At the “restaurant” I was able to tell her how I felt the Lord had a word for her, and that because of her faithfulness to him, we were able to come together. She agreed but acknowledged, “I never thought I would be sitting across the table from you, one of my grandsons.” A little while later, I said good-bye, and she walked backward toward her door. She told me later that she didn’t want to turn around and miss a chance to see me leave. I could only image what this woman must have been feeling at the time. She was responsible for taking her grandchildren away and then to have one of them return as an adult and enjoy some time with her must have overwhelmed her. She cried as soon as she walked through her door (happy tears, I’ve been assured).

We continued to stay in touch, and an opportunity had presented itself for our grandmother to meet my family. She had a chance to meet our daughter, her only great-grandchild, and they connected instantly…although our 2-year-old daughter made it easy when she said to her great-grandmother, “Could you write Dora?” on her doodle pad. Several “Dora’s” and numbers later, she was walking our daughter to the car. I couldn’t help but stop at that moment and appreciate what I saw. There it was, a three-generation difference, walking hand-in-hand toward our car. It hit me later, but what I was looking at was worth its weight in gold. She continues to pour out her love toward our daughter, and it’s a special relationship that they share.

On another separate occasion in 2012, an opportunity presented itself where both J and I were in Ohio on one of our journeys together. We had a plan to meet our grandmother for lunch one day at a restaurant near her house. Not Burger King. We ordered our sandwiches and were able to get to the heart of the matter very quickly. J spoke of how his life was literally saved by her, passing his gratitude along with that of his adoptive parents. I echoed the sentiment, stating that without her, we wouldn’t be where we are in life, wouldn’t have had the opportunities that we did to really live and to be loved like we might not have been otherwise. She was very humble about it all, saying how she just did what she felt was right. She explained how she never thought she’d have both of us together at the same time, and you could tell how moved she was to have us both (“my boys!” she said on more than one occasion). Then she did something I’ll never forget. J has a small scar on one of his hands from something that was done to him while he was in custody of our biological parents. Without saying a word, she very gently leaned in and kissed the scar. Her arms brought him to safety, saving his life, and 33 years later, she brought healing with one kiss. Where’s that daytime television special now? There were no cameras; it was real. I felt like holes in my life were again filled in at that moment watching from across the table. Conversation then easily flowed, moving to our jobs, what did we enjoy doing, our current adventure together, amongst other things. In the midst of our conversation, the food came. The sandwiches we ordered were huge! At first, they mistakenly gave her one of our sandwiches, and she laughed! Oh, how she laughed…almost like she hadn’t had anything to laugh so hard about in a looooong time. She said, “How’s a woman like me supposed to eat that!?” She calmed down only slightly when they corrected the error and showed her that her sandwich was smaller. But not by much.

As we prepared to leave, I asked that the server take a picture of us, as we wanted to remember the moment. As we’re standing next to her on either side, she said, “Woahhh, you’re both so tall, and I’m so short! Maybe I should stand on that chair over there!” We said that wouldn’t be necessary. As the server was taking our picture, other servers started to gather ‘round when she said, “These are my grandsons, and this is the first time we’ve all been together!” In that instant, she had the servers laughing AND on the verge of tears. She laughed and laughed once she saw the picture and how “mini” she looked. There she was. Our grandmother Florence. Beautiful Florence. Captured in a photograph between “her boys”. The picture would have looked much different 32 years ago had she not saved us. We will do our best to change the picture now so that we might be able to save her.

D

When you’re lost in the middle of the forest the last thing you feel like doing is admitting it. “I can figure this out” I told myself. All around me the edges of the landscape were blurring together in a sea of green leaves, tall trees, and giant rocks. D can tell I’m confused, but I’m trying to look sure of myself. The map in my hands is wet from the rain and mosquitos are everywhere. Its becoming more clear that we need to get out of here, but the GPS on my phone isn’t helping any and I can’t find our location on the map. The light gets slightly more dim with each passing minute and a nagging thought occurs to me. We’re running out of time.

The adventure started like so many do for me, with a half-remembered idea read in a book. D and I were in Rockport, Massachusetts, near the fisherman’s haven of Gloucester, coming out of a candy store. We had plans to meet a family member later on for dinner, but there was extra time to kill. Naturally, I had a suggestion. In Gloucester, near Cape Ann, lies a forest containing the remnants of an abandoned settlement known as Dogtown. It was in the search for fun and interesting times that I came across it in a book about such places, and in my head resolved to visit someday. Although I like adventuring, I’m really more of an explorer. When there are stories about something that isn’t commonplace, I find myself drawn to it. The sense of discovery can be exciting, but also dangerous. It’s enticing, but you have to be wary of what you might be getting yourself into. The key to that is research, but I hadn’t done much of it, I just wanted something fun to do to pass the time. I sensed in D a willingness to do the same. We were more alike than I could have hoped for.

It seemed that, despite the gathering clouds, it was the best day for it. We were in the right frame of mind and, more importantly, we were close by. We parked at some business, closed for the day, near a communications tower. The rain was light but it didn’t bother us too much. Near the communications tower is a trail marked with a rock that reads “Olde Rockport Road.” I smiled because I knew we were in the right place.

On the trail you come across large rocks with interesting phrases carved into them. The first one we came to said “Get a Job” and then there was “Help Mother” and “Save.” Someone had crudely written “yourself” underneath it, which made it just a bit creeper than I had been expecting. The basic story that I had learned was that a billionaire named Roger Babson had paid for these messages to be carved into the rocks during the Great Depression. I imagined the messages were meant to be more inspiring than silly, but it amused me to see them. After the third message, we started to have some trouble finding the fourth and I knew we would eventually need to leave to be on time for dinner. It was time to head back.

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Our dinner plans soon changed when we realized we were a decent distance away from where we needed to be and that my family was all for us spending more time getting to know each other. We had waited so many years for this, and now it was happening. These were bonding experiences to look back on fondly in the far, far, future when we’re old and decrepit. Now we had time to return to Dogtown and find the other Babson Boulders, as they’ve become known. Based on what I had learned, there were at least 15 of them and we had only found 3. As we had trouble finding the others, I suggested we try going to a different entrance and picking up the trail from another angle.

The official entrance to Dogtown has its own signpost and a small metal box attached containing copies of maps for walking. It was 5:30 p.m. in late June. It wouldn’t be dark for another two and a half hours. We grabbed a map and a rain jacket and umbrella from my car. Although it was raining, neither one of us was going to let it stop us from having an adventure. The excitement I felt was hard to describe, here I was with my biological brother and we were having not just a good time, but an interesting one. We walked the trail into the woods, making note of the large rocks everywhere. As a teenager, I loved exploring the woods behind my house and although they seemed large to me back then, they weren’t even close to the size of the place I now found myself in.

The mosquitos started to eat D alive. They seemed to enjoy the sweet, salty taste of his blood and I made a mental note to bring bug spray the next time we were going to be in a forest. The map seemed straightforward at first but over time it seemed to be more inconsistent. The minutes passed slowly, but we weren’t finding the Babson Boulders. Upon turning a corner we were greeted by a rock with the number 15 carved into it. The map referred to it as a cellar hole, and implied that this marker was left to note where someone had once lived long ago. The history of Dogtown is a sad one, that D and I have since read about, but at the time we didn’t know that it was a failed settlement, abandoned long ago, with rumors of witchcraft and strange occurrences. As a rule, nobody in Gloucester really talks about it. I always wondered what a place could do to the public conciousness to have that kind of effect. But when I saw the rock I knew we were in trouble. Because we had seen it before and had just gone in a circle.

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So I looked at the map and told myself I could figure it out. The ever dimming light filled me with a sense of urgency. If there’s one thing I was certain of, it was that we shouldn’t be there after dark. I felt guilty because this had been my idea and my stubbornness had prevented me from recognizing that things weren’t going according to plan. In these moments, you tell yourself that it’s not over, that you can still find what you’re looking for if you look hard enough. There’s something you’re missing but you’ll find it. Was I going crazy now? Did I look crazy? I really wondered if D thought so. It’s no good for him to think his brother is an obsessive lunatic. I hadn’t wanted to give up, to quit. But it was just an adventure, and we were lost. Of course, it wasn’t long after locating the rock on the map that we figured on using it to try to get us back. We had been trying to use these landmarks to find the other Babson Boulders, but to no avail. Now, we needed them to get us home. Of course, it was then, when we started to make progress, that we heard the scream.

The bloodcurdling sound pierced the air, and I shivered a little bit. It sounded very close and yet far away. The wind can easily pick up sound and carry it great distances, but when you’re in the woods this is the last thing on your mind. I’m not a huge believer in signs but if we needed a cue that it was time to go, we could certainly have done worse. D had heard it too, I could tell, because he stared straight ahead, avoiding my gaze ever so slightly. When I asked him about it, he said “I was hoping you hadn’t heard that.” It’s important to note that we don’t know what it was, and never did find out, but it made our adventure more memorable than a tale of people lost in the woods likely has any right to be.

D doesn’t think I’m crazy, but he knows I’m stubborn. I know that he has his own stubborn streak as well. Both of us like exploring and finding things and we seem to know how to have a good time, even when it rains. It wasn’t the first time we were caught in a storm, and it wouldn’t be the last. But at least now, as the narrow spaces widened into the greater world beyond the forests edge, we knew we would be by each others side when it counted. It feels good. — J

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The first day I ever met a blood relative, I was 32 years old. The sun was in my face and sweat was lightly dripping down my cheeks. “He’s going to be calm and collected and I’m a nervous wreck” was the thought lodged in my brain. All my pacing couldn’t shake loose my anxiety. My feet were set to dig a hole in the driveway. The funny thing is that I really wanted this meeting to happen, more than anything in the world. But how do you prepare yourself for someone you’ve been waiting your whole life to meet?

As a child, I was very non-chalant about the whole thing. “I have different parents and a brother I don’t know? Ok, Mom. Can I go play?” It didn’t really stick. What could something like that actually mean? My memories told me of the family I grew up with and not about another one that there were no pictures of. As the years passed I would get the occasional video tape (remember those?) or letter. One time there was an awkward phone call where I barely said a word. It took a long time to figure out what it meant to have a family I didn’t know. It would take even longer to figure out that, it was more than just an inherent need, it was something I truly wanted.

The actual meeting was, of course, nothing to be so afraid of. We talked for hours on the first day and spent a week together. We saw Boston under the Summer sun, and went looking for strange legends in dark forests. There were cemeteries, old buildings, and castles by the sea. It turned out that we have quite a bit in common, despite having grown up far apart. There would be many things to talk about and plenty of stories to tell. But the real story, our story, was just beginning.

This blog has been a long time coming. I wanted to make sure that it would encompass the best parts of both of us and the adventures we have experienced, both separately and together. There will be many tales to tell and when we experience new ones, you will too. We’re opening the door to our world, and you’re invited along for the ride. I, for one, know it’s going to be a good one.

J

We had lived our whole lives apart. We knew about each other, but we didn’t yet KNOW each other.  It’s a story that you might expect to see on one of those afternoon talk shows…”brothers meet for the first time after being apart their whole lives” or something to that effect. I’m sure many would tune in to that, after all, the story includes heartbreak, drama, emotional tension, separation from birth parents at a very young age, unconditional love from adopted parents, then coming together at last. People watch all kinds of crazy shows these days, so I know that one would get some views, as the story has something for everyone.

After 30+ years on the planet, I finally was getting the chance to meet my brother. The Lord had led me down this road and finally the time had come in June 2011. My wife and daughter joined me as we set out on a trip a few hours from our home and we settled in just a few miles from my brother’s house the night before we were to meet. Restless. Anxious. Excited. Really Excited. Good..luck…sleeping…because…you…can’t…stop…thinking…about…it. The morning came and we drove to his house. He was standing in the driveway, waiting with the same kinds of thoughts and emotions that I was having (“How will he react?”, “Will he appreciate me as I am?”, “I hope I don’t say the wrong things”, “Will our adopted families understand the importance of our meeting?”). The instant that I saw him my whole world changed. There was a giant hole in my life that was filled in. Instantly. Before he said a word. Just from one sight I was a different man and I continue to thank God for that feeling, and I pray I never forget it.

From that moment it was incredible to see how similar we were. Hair color, eye color, the way we stand, the way we speak and express our thoughts, the way each of us enjoys walking around cemeteries even if it means we go at it alone, the fact that we really don’t enjoy many condiments other than ketchup.  There are more that I won’t list, but a lot of what I couldn’t explain about why I am the way that I am was finally answered.

Once we met, we set out on an epic week-long adventure together. Exploring history, sports, cemeteries (oh and there were cemeteries), museums, and random spur-of-the-moment trips, there are enough stories there to write several blog posts about. Most important of all, we had a chance to get to understand each other, and that’s when we found out all that we had missed for so many years. The good news, we didn’t have to wait another day before finding out what it would be like to FINALLY know each other.

This blog is our story, not just how we met, but how we will go through life checking items off of our list of must-see places. We will post together and separately, each with our own signature.

Stay tuned for more, it’ll be better than your favorite day-time talk show.

D