Shades of Death: A Road Not Dead?

Photo Source:  Wikipedia

New Jersey is a haunted state.  Public buildings, houses, even roads have been trampled upon or lived in for over 200 years and most are still standing or in use.  Unexplained phenomena and ghost activities have been investigated and documented by a variety of groups:  ghost hunters, amateurs, publications such as “Weird NJ” magazine and television shows like MTV’s “Fear” and Syfy’s “Ghost Hunters.”

Living in New Jersey, I embrace these fascinating stories and legends.  I want to see if there is any truth to it first hand.  It would be impossible to visit every location, so I focus on a local road known to be haunted.  I am not a ghost hunter, thrill seeker, or crazy for that matter.  Skepticism is a natural tendency in my makeup, but I am open-minded and believe there are things in life that sometimes cannot be explained.

A half a mile away from my home runs Shades of Death Road in the village of Great Meadows.  The road’s long, macabre history stretches back to the mid-18th century. Surround by rural farmlands, picturesque vistas of the Kittatiny Valley and the Pequest River, its pristine landscape veils the dark reputation of the road as it prominently sits in the center of it all.

Because the road is well documented in ghost activity, with strange occurrences the norm, visitors are common to the area.  To curb the flow of unwanted visitors, or even thieves, residents often smear oil or mud on the sign to obscure the name of the road to turn on hoping to deter them.  Many of these road signs have disappeared over the years.

There are no historical documents or records explaining the origin of the road’s grim name.  Without this information all theories are guesses.  Some theories focus on the lower end of the road where highway men and bandits would hide in the shade waiting for victims to steal their valuables, then murder them as they passed by.  Another theory states that the highway men would engage in fights to the death, among themselves, over women.  Some say the locals took revenge on the highway men by capturing and lynching them in the same area as their victims, and the angry spirits of the victims continue to mourn their untimely death.  Others say it was more of a natural reason: the malaria outbreak of 1850, that claimed many lives due to lack of medical treatment in such a remote location.  These theories only add to the mystery.

“Shades,” as the locals call it, is a rural two-lane road running seven miles long.  Old farmhouses dot both sides of the road and are separated by clusters of trees so thick that light disappears even in bright sunshine.  Residents cope with the road’s dark past by simply ignoring it.  “It’s just a road, I try not to read too much in the weirdness and all, I think it’s more in the minds of people that don’t live here, than anything,”  Phillip Bright says, with a hint of annoyance when I ask about living on Shades.  “I’ve lived on it all my life and nothing out of the ordinary has happened to me.”

Luckily for Phillip, that is the case.  The road’s extreme curves and lack of guard rails have caused a number of fatal car accidents, most recently ten years ago when three teenagers crashed into a tree and all died.  People believe the high number of deaths create the perfect environment for ghost sightings and paranormal activity. 

A number of people mention feeling a heavy sensation in the air once they go down the road. “Some people feel such dread that they turn right around and never go back, that happened to me,” Evie Castle-White, my neighbor and Great Meadows native confirms, shivering slightly at the memory.  “If you really want to see something interesting, check out Ghost Lake, especially at night,” adds husband, Ben.  “My buddies and I used to fish there, but it’s kinda weird down around the lake.” 

Legend has it that if you go to Ghost Lake at night, darkness shrouds the road, except at the lake, where the sky above is still bright as twilight .  An old abandoned cabin stands along banks where people report seeing apparitions at night during a full moon. People say the apparitions are the ghosts of campers murdered at the lake years ago, which was never solved.

I decide to see the lake for myself one evening in April when the full moon is high in the sky. I surmise that the apparitions are most likely a figment of overactive imaginations, maybe caused by the fog rolling off the lake.  The road is eerie and quiet with the sounds of crickets.  There are no street lamps and the night sky is black as tar as a gray cloud covers the moon temporarily.  Little dots of light can be seen from windows of the few residents that are still awake and knowing they are there comforts me.

As I round the bend, Ghost Lake appears suddenly in the darkness.  Looking up, I am shocked to see that the sky over the lake is bright.  The oddity of this should not surprise me, having been told by many that this occurs, but seeing it for myself is quite another thing.  There is nothing around the lake that could attribute to the brightness.

Feeling slightly scared, I force myself to stay and find the old cabin.  The dark roof is barely visible through the trees as it looms over the water.  Luckily for my nerves, apparitions, of any sort, do not appear.  Relief is short lived as the crickets go quiet and a heavy feeling takes hold of me.  The air becomes chilly as I start the car and leave, forcing myself to look back in the rear view mirror, turning slowly on Shades.  I swear I see something moving, but decide it's my imagination.  But just in case, I will give up looking for ghosts, at least for the time being.

May You Rest In Peace...

1932-2011

I cried yesterday at the passing of Dame Elizabeth Taylor.  Known for her breathtaking beauty, her enormous talent, and, of course, her extensive love life, she was also a mother, grandmother, faithful friend, and activist.  There will never be and could never be anyone so remarkable in this lifetime again.

It really is an end of of an era.  Goodbye...you will be truly missed.

Marilyn

Fragments:  Poems, Intimate Notes, and Letters by Marilyn Monroe

I've always been a Marilyn Monroe fan.  The myth of Marilyn Monroe as the quintessential "blond bombshell" lives on today. With her child-like voice and dumb blond persona, it is easy to overlook who Marilyn really was.  She was a woman who survived a unhappy childhood fraught with isolation and abuse.  Marilyn rose above it with inner strength, courage, and determination to reinvent herself into a successful movie star and sex symbol.

(Photo Source:  Sam Rose)

But that was only one side to this complex woman.  She loved reading great works literature, wrote stories and poems; a genus in her own right who always sought ways to improve herself and her mind.

The world loss a truly talented woman, too soon.  If she had lived longer who knows what she would and could have achieved.  How sad for her...and for us.

The same blood running through your veins doesn't make you family.  It is what you do and how you treat each other that makes you family.

And all my family are the friends I've cultivated in my lifetime, my husband, and children to come.
 
I'm lucky.

"The supreme happiness of life is the conviction that we are loved."

Victor Hugo

Time for a new bed...

The hubby likes this:

But I like this:

Two things:

I still like pink.
I don't live in Muir Woods.

But with marriage comes compromise so, dearest, how about this:

 (All Photos:  Apartment Therapy)

On the list of things to see in Costa Rica

Poas Volcano, Costa Rica

Always

I am not jealous
of what came before me.

Come with a man
on your shoulders,
come with a hundred men in your hair,
come with a thousand men between your breasts and your feet,
come like a river
full of drowned men
which flows down to the wild sea,
to the eternal surf, to Time!

Bring them all
to where I am waiting for you;
we shall always be alone,
we shall always be you and I
alone on earth,
to start our life! 

~Pablo Neruda

Je t'aime

The wind has changed and I long to move somewhere again.  I am a gypsy at heart; a nomad that can never really settle in one place for long.  I need change, to see the world even though it it's smaller than it once was in the days of old where travel was really an adventure.  The unpredictability of life is what makes me feel alive.

Where would I go?  Belize?  Costa Rica?  Australia?  Thailand?  No. Argentina? Martinique? Maybe later.  Despite the fact that an exotic location would be exciting, I want to got in the other direction...to Europe.  I have family in England.  My mother's English genes course through my veins beckoning me home all the time.  But still, it's not enough.  It's not really home.  Truthfully, the urge to leave hits me all the time because I haven't found the place I want to be...meant to be.  Maybe it's because I haven't found my home yet.  It's that feeling that is missing and has been missing my entire life.  Is there a place that I've been to that evokes the feeling of contentment?  One. The country that most inspires me with its people, culture, and beauty is France.

Ahh...Paris
(Photo Source:  The Brooklyn Nomad)

I went to Paris the first time when I was 13 years old.  The hustle of the city did not distract me from observing the breathtaking beauty of it's architecture and the thrill of discovering quaint cafes, shops and more on side streets only traveled by true Parisians.  Even at 13, I didn't complain of foot burn as I walked miles and miles taking in everything I could see in that short week.  I cried when I left.

I returned years later at 25 and still felt the absolute thrill when I set foot on French soil again.  I stayed in Montmarte, in the 18th arrondissement, in a small hotel right next a restaurant that served the best oysters.  I still enjoyed the feeling of not knowing where I would end up as I walked Rue after Rue.  The people I encountered were quite friendly to me, even with my elementary French skills.  Maybe they could tell I was sincere in my endeavor.  Numerous artists dotted the streets and I longed to be 18 again, more carefree and not afraid of devoting myself to the arts, capturing the images before me with deft strokes.  The talent- the fearlessness of true artists are an inspiration for us all that are afraid to live.

And then the grandest vision of all:  the Sacré Coeur.

(Photo Source:  Wikipedia)

The hours I spent sitting there writing everything down that I laid my eyes on:  the mother, smothering her angelic baby with loving kisses, the old man, sitting alone, sadly gazing up at the basilica holding a yellow rose, and the lovers, arms intertwined, caressing, rubbing places I would be afraid to do in public, but not them.  Heavy petting aside in the open public, it's nice to be in love...and to be in love in Paris. There is so much more, so many things to see and take in.  It is unending and the richness of this place seeps into your soul.

I miss Montmarte.  Most of all, I miss that small cafe, whose name I've unfortunately forgotten, but serves the best Cafe Au Lait I ever had...not to mention the scrumptious, melt-in-your mouth, better than sex (okay, almost better) desserts that cause my mouth to water, even now. 

Street in Montmarte
(Photo Source:  www.photoparis.com)

After all that, I still wanted to satisfy my desire to see more of France and ventured on a train to the city of Lourdes at the foothills of the Pyrenees.  I walked the cobble streets that Bernadette walked two centuries ago. I engaged in imaginary conversations with her.  To have experienced what she did at such a young age.  Remarkable, really.  Even if you don't believe, I do.  I took in the peace and security of the grotto, and stood in awe Rosary Square, and prayed in reverence at the Rosary Basilica.  Even in a small french town, the Byzantine architecture of the basilica is magnificent.

(Photo Source:  Famous Wonders)

I would miss that small little town.  A piece of my heart still resides there.

Someday, I hope to return again.  To Lourdes.  To Paris.  To France.  Someday, I hope to come back to a place I consider a home.

Oh....Writing

(Photo Source:  www.outofmargins.com)

“Writing is like sex. First you do it for love, then you do it for your friends, and then you do it for money.”

Virginia Woolf

Rememberance

Photo Source:  Tom Davidson

In my dreams, she stands with her back to me. Her caramel hair reaches her lower back in cascading waves. As the wind blows, the scent of lavender permeates the air. Her scent. She turns and smiles–teeth gleaming white, perfect. It is her eyes that command attention: aqua blue with flecks of gold. I’ve seen colors like that once after a storm in the Caribbean Sea; standing on the Seven Mile Beach in Grand Cayman with my husband on our honeymoon, I broke down in tears, then, when memories fluttered into my mind for a moment before I pushed them away. Not because I wanted to, but because it was too hard to remember...her.

Her name was Julia and she was my sister. When I am asked if I have any brothers or sisters, my answer is, “Yes, a brother–John.” It’s not the whole truth, but I do not lie to be deceitful. I lie to protect my heart. For years after her death, I couldn’t even say her name. Sometimes, it’s just easier to live in denial.

Julia was eight years older than me. Growing up next to perfection would make others resentful or jealous, but not me. I felt blessed to have Julia as a sister. She never failed in making me feel loved beyond anything or anyone. Despite the age difference, she would come into my room at bedtime and share the adventures of her day and involve herself in mine. When I was sad or hurt, she lent an understanding ear and comforted me until my tears were replaced with a smile.

Built like an Olympian, Julia’s thirst for adventure was undeniable. Much to my mother’s constant worry, Julia also lacked fear, particularly when it came to physical activities. She would try anything once: snow skiing, water skiing, ice skating; you name it, she would try it. But her true love was the water. “I feel such peace when I am in the water. There is nothing more beautiful,” she would always say to me.

During the summer months, we would spend it at my Aunt Kitty’s house in Ft. Lauderdale. There, Julia would live in her bathing suit until it became a second skin. I imagined that she was a water creature doomed to be on dry land and always longing to be home again, feeling its dark blue call. “Please be careful.” My aunt would beg to deaf ears whenever she and our cousins would go swimming. I never worried because I trusted her strength; she was an amazing swimmer, and an amazing teacher. With great patience, she taught me to swim, and to do it well.

I relish those memories when I have the courage to play them in my mind. I can hear her sweet sing-song voice, “I’m going to live right on the ocean when I’m older, Katie. You can live with me too and we’ll lie under the sun and swim all day.” Sometimes in my dreams, we do just that.

When she was seventeen, Julia begged my mother to let her learn to scuba dive. “Absolutely NOT!” My mother was horrified at the notion. I now realize it was fear that something bad would happen. “It is far too dangerous, people die all the time from doing that.”

“That’s because they weren’t careful,” Julia said, knowingly. “I’m a good swimmer and I’m careful, please.”

“No.” Mother refused to budge. Julia didn’t quit–nagging, pestering–really whatever she could do to make my mother reconsider, Julia would do it. The draw was too much for her, Julia would say to me. Being nine years old, I didn’t quite understand why this was so important to her. I knew she loved the water, but the idea of being underneath for so long was quite scary. I mean wasn’t swimming enough? “It’s not the same.” she would say.

At 18, mother relented, begrudgingly, after all, Julia would be heading off to college in the fall, and she was “almost an adult,” Dad would gently remind her. “No little girl anymore, Nora.”

We spent that summer at Aunt Kitty’s again, and Julia got her wish. John and I didn’t see Julia much that summer. Her days were spent with daily lessons at the pool, hours of lectures, breathing practices with her best friend Cayla as her partner, trips on the dive boat, and the ultimate: five open water dives.

Julia was ecstatic when she became PADI certified. It was a badge of honor for her. The prize at the end of a long journey. “I did it, Katie!” She picked me and spun me around. I laughed, still not understanding its importance, but nonetheless happy for my sister. Julia stayed behind three extra weeks after John and I left for home. I wished I stayed with her.

*******

It was August 25, 1995, 5:10 pm. I heard my mother wailing downstairs. John rushed past my room, but I didn’t move. I stayed there frozen. Did I know that my life, our lives, were about irrevocably change? Did I know at that moment that I would never be truly happy ever again? Did I know that I would never see Julia’s face again? I must have known something as sorrow filled my soul; I couldn’t breathe, I stumbled to the door calling out to my mother, who couldn’t hear my cry over hers. I lay there on the floor until John came to get me. “Something happened, Katie.” John’s face was red, tears filled his eyes. That alone, scared me, because John, in his 13 years, never cried.

Dad told me a while later the “how.” He was the only one who could still form words. It was their last trip out to celebrate the end of summer and the start of their new lives–Julia, Cayla, our cousins Randall, and Eric; all young, healthy, everything to live for, and they would do just that. Except Julia. My Julia, my sister, my best friend, my everything; nothing left but emptiness and despair.

The currents were strong that day. Julia said she was always careful, but I guess she wasn’t on that day. They were fine at first, paired up as they should be; Julia was with Randall, Cayla with Eric. After a short time in the water, Randall indicated they should return to the boat, he knew that it wasn’t safe. An avid diver for four years, he knew that currents could be tricky. They all ascended, but not Julia. Randall went down to find her, but it was too late. Two weeks, later she came home.

*******

I grew up that summer, way beyond my years. My childhood stripped away in a phone call. I couldn’t fathom a life without Julia. I loved her so much and I also hated her for leaving me. Why did my mother relent? Why did Julia have to go out one more time? Why? Why? Why?

Our family moved on in different ways: Mom became harder, distant from all of us; Dad aged twenty years and I never saw the twinkle in his eyes again; John and I became closer, desperate to hold onto any piece of that once close-knit family we remember. We never wanted to admit that without Julia, it would never be that way again. I wished I could see her one last time. Her smiling face...her eyes...especially her eyes. None of us had her astonishing eyes and I missed them terribly–they exuded love and kindness whenever they looked at you.

*******

It’s my niece’s fifth birthday. She squeals as she opens my present: a large Victorian dollhouse. She runs into my waiting arms and give me a tight hug. “I love you, Aunt Kate!” I look down, my brown eyes meet her aqua ones, and I smile. “I love you too, Julia.”

That's a big YES to "do you write letters?"  I also love receiving letters.  A rare experience nowadays.  I wish others engaged in this act more.

So want to go here...

The Promise

“Do you promise that we’ll best friends forever?”  I turned to look at Helena surprised at the concern in her voice.  Ten minutes earlier we were trying on the new clothes we’d bought at the mall and talked of our long awaited trip to Florida at the end of our junior year in a couple of months.

“Sure, forever,” I said, assuring her.  Her whole constitution seemed changed in a matter of nanoseconds.  Of course that was an ordinary occurrence with Helena.

“What’s up with you?  You seem upset.” I sat next to her.

“I am just glad we’re best friends.  Sometimes I worry that something will happen and we won’t be that anymore.”  She turned her emerald eyes on me.  I loved looking at her eyes, they just took your breath away at how stunningly green they were, but, at the same time, I also envied her for them because my brown eyes seemed so dull in comparison.  

“That could never happen, you’re like my sister,” I said, hugging her.  “We’re sisters,” she repeated, as if she were trying to convince herself that I meant it.  I did.

I tried on my newly bought sapphire blue bikini.  “So what do you think?” I asked, spinning around waiting for Helena’s approval. “Stephen loves blue.”

Stephen Farris.  His name alone sent pleasant shivers down my spine.  Butterflies began their flight again in the pit of my stomach as I thought of the picnic planned the next day to celebrate the return of warm weather.  If truth be told, none of us needed an excuse to head to the water and bare ourselves to the sun gods.  Despite it being early April, it was hot as summer outside.   Living near the coast in Brunswick, Georgia afforded us many opportunities to enjoy the beach early.  But this was my excuse to show my new bikini and, hopefully, snag an invitation to the prom the following month from my dream guy. 

“I know.”  Helena smirked at me.  “You got it bad for him, but I can understand why, he is totally hot!” 

“Hot” was an understatement, too unrefined of a word, I thought to myself.   Stephen was like a Nordic God who was cursed to walk among us mortals was what I felt every time he graced us with his presence at our lunch table or sat behind me in French class.  I loved the way his thick, blond hair curled at his neck, the way his aquamarine eyes crinkled up when he laughed, most of the time, I felt like I was drowning those eyes; blue as the Caribbean Sea.  But most especially, I relished those moments when he would come up and grab my hand when we’d walk down the hall together.  People kidded that we were secretly a couple, but really, we were just good friends.  Not that I would be opposed to a change in our status.

“Well, when you go off and marry him, don’t forget about me,” Helena said, smiling at me.

“Never!  Remember nothing comes between us, especially not a guy,” I said. We had promised each other that we wouldn’t fall victim to the common pitfall upsetting best friendships the world over, namely men.  Too bad promises are hard to keep.

The next day, the gods graced us with a cloudless sky.  The sun warmed our bodies as we laughed and played under its 78 degree rays.  The Atlantic was still cold and nipped at my toes ensuring only the brave among us would venture into the rolling waves.  Stephen and I, not being one of them, sat on the sand and talked about everything that came to our minds.

“Love days like this,” Stephen said, laying back on the sand, looking over at me.  Please let this be it, I silently prayed.  “Man, I was thinking about prom,” he began.  Wow, that was fast.  I held my breath.  “I should have got on this earlier, but you know me,” he said laughing.

His laugh was infectious, a disease I wanted to catch and never get better.  “Does Helena have a date yet?”  I was amazed that the strength it took to keep the smile plastered on my face.  “No, not yet.” I answered, my teeth clenched so hard that at any moment my jaw would break. 

Helena told me earlier that she didn’t want to go, but I always knew she really did and was just waiting to be asked.  Most males, old and young alike, were intimidated by Helena and her goddess beauty.  I suppose it was only fitting that Stephen would be attracted to her, I thought bitterly.

“Good.  Now I just have to work up the nerve to do it.” he laughed again at me and took my hand. I seemed to have been miraculously cured of the disease.   Now the laugh left my bikini-clad body cold.  “I am so glad that I can talk to you about stuff. You’re like my sister.”  Sister, I guess that was my lot in life.  One I used to want, but not this way, not with him.

Later, Helena came to find me.  “So, I guess you’re going to the prom.”  I said quietly, turning to look at her, I saw tears in her eyes.  “I’m so sorry,” she said, softly. 

“Yeah...well...”  I started to walk away. 
                           
“Wait, let me finish.  I am not going to the prom.  Unless you want to be my date.”  She came over to hug me.  “No guy comes between us...ever.” 

We kept that promise to each other.  Until she broke my brother’s heart.