Milk money.....strange but true.

Many many years ago, I believe around 1980 or so....it was a most

unusual day, an odd day.... a day I remember when ever I see an old milk

can at a garage sale or roadside stand. It was part of Undertakings in

2015...I think you'll enjoy the story...maybe it will bring back remembrances

of your own.

Milk Money

     This day wasn't unlike any other day during my residency. The day had started with the usual delivery of flowers from a previous day’s service. The cars were checked for fuel, the operating room given a quick overview for cleanliness and supplies in place.  That is one thing that is always foremost in the mind of a good undertaker: you always had to be ready for the next call as you did not know when the phone would ring or what circumstances the phone call would reflect.  And so, you were always ready, kind of like the firemen at the fire station, ready for the alarm to go off, and then you were off to the call, wherever it would take you, in a moment’s notice.

     And so it was on a typical day that the call came in from a local coroner who requested our presence at a home near Lake Ontario where a woman had died, unattended at her home.  An unattended death in New York State always summoned a coroner or medical examiner.  They would determine if and when an autopsy would be necessary, or, after talking to the person’s doctor, if the body would be released directly to the undertaker who was called. 

     So it was on such a lovely sunny day that we put our removal stretcher into our grey station wagon to head to the scene, about thirty minutes north of the funeral home.  Our wagon was always pristine, shined to the max, immaculate inside and out, window glass sparkling and bug free.  In the days when station wagons were used for removals, the rear windows had to be black or darkened to some degree so the public could not see in.  You couldn’t have people gazing in to see a stretcher, let alone a stretcher with a deceased contained therein!  The funeral business has always been, and still is, concerned with the sensitivities of those who watch what you do and how you perform both when you are out on a call and in the funeral home itself.           

     So the owner and I, dressed in short sleeved white shirts and narrow neckties, headed north to the scene, really not knowing what we would discover upon arriving. My boss, a skinny little guy at sixty, showed signs of the thirty plus years he had already invested in the business.  As he lit up his usual cigarette, I lowered my window for some air.  He smoked too much, especially when he got a death call. It calmed him, he said.

    In a short time, we had arrived at the house. It was a dilapidated old farm house, the mailbox half off its rustic fence post it was attached to, the name on the box not even identifiable.  As we drove to the front door, we saw the sheriff’s car and another vehicle, the coroner I presumed.  Both men stood on the front porch, it too showing signs of extreme age and wear. In its time, I am sure the house was magnificent, a huge old three story farm house, and in its shadow, two or three smaller out buildings.  Yes, in its time, this must have been a wondrous place with its long tall windows and weathered oak door with its iron knocker, now frozen in place from lack of use.

     My boss and I both recognized the coroner and the sheriff’s deputy, and we exchanged pleasantries as we entered the home with our stretcher in hand.

    "She's been living alone for years," said the coroner, "Husband’s been dead over forty years according to the daughter.  She's been kind of a hermit since he died." 

    The inside of the house was like a museum, furniture all appearing to be those pieces you see in an antique shop, including mantle clocks, not running but stilled by time and covered in dust. Most of the windows were draped, allowing little daylight into what must have been a very private life, a life now quietly ended in this cavernous house that felt so lonely. 

     We made our removal and took the deceased to the funeral home where she was embalmed, dressed, and made ready for burial. The daughter had made very simple arrangements, as she felt her mom had little money for anything elaborate. And so on a quiet day we returned the woman to a small cemetery not far from her home and buried her in with only three people in attendance. 

     About a week after the service and burial, we received a call from the coroner who had handled the case.  My boss was sitting at his desk in the back room near where we did our work.  He had a metal study light on an adjustable goose neck that he could move around to illuminate his work.  Again, the smoke hovered near the lamp head as he took the coroners call.  After what seemed like only a minute or two of conversation, he put the black phone back in its cradle, shook his head and started laughing.

     "What?"  I said, wanting to know what I had just missed out on.

     "Do you remember Marian from last week? The lady we pretty much buried as a pauper?  Well, upon investigating the out buildings around the house, the coroner and the sheriff discovered an old milk can.  Upon opening the can, they found over one hundred thousand dollars in cash in bills of all denominations, covered in mold and dirt. I guess she wasn’t a ward of the county after all."

    We couldn’t believe it.  Evidently the lady had just continued to put more and more cash into the milk can, choosing to live a life of just barely getting by.  Her funeral had been a very meager one, but the final chapter was yet to be written.  Upon hearing of the discovery of her mother’s money, her daughter was moved to the extent that she purchased a very large and expensive grave marker to place upon the grave. 

    I revisited that grave site a few years later, and yes, there it was:  a marker that was a true testimony to a fine lady.  You can never judge what a person has on first discovery. Sometimes, you have to wait and see just how much milk money is saved for a rainy day.

Gettysburg.......a haunted place.

It was Saturday, October 17^th 2019. My sister, her daughter, my
two brothers and their ladies, plus myself were making a two day
visit and exploration of mysterious Gettysburg, Pennsylvania.

Oh what history defines this historic place. Large open fields,

interrupted by splotches of dense trees and underbrush….

all accentuated by boulders and rail fences….culminating in

a real landscape of beauty and wonder.

Silent cannons and statues standing guard now over the still

country side that had been rocked in 1865 by the largest

three day battle of that great Civil war. So many dead, wounded,

bewildered and shocked. We had made several stops along the

historic battle ground to walk, listen, photograph and to imagine

what it must have been for those who were there to see, smell,

and feel the horrors of war.

The sun was shining brightly as we drove slowly along the

battle field route…with little being said amongst our group

as we meandered the fields on this beautiful fall day.

I was sitting in the left rear seat, facing forward, scanning not

only out my window on the left, but also observing the path

coming forth through the windshield.

To my great surprise…. all of a sudden, I felt my left arm being

grabbed…between the elbow and my  left shoulder.

It wasn’t a pinch, or a brush…it was a solid grab. I jumped and

 at the same time blurted out a “hey!”

It was like the flesh of my left arm was actually being held

for half a second or so. Those around me asked what was

going on and I recounted to them what had just transpired.

No one in the car was responsible for what I had just

reported to them.

Now I had to process this all in my own mind. I have never

had any spasms, twitches, or anything of the like in any of my

extremities….this was a brief but powerful squeeze  as if a

school teacher in ‘the old days’ might be trying to get your

attention in school.

I thought about that occurrence for the rest of the day… and

for many days ahead. I have read of others who have visited

Gettysburg and experienced seeing or photographing some type

of unusual activity or figure on the battle fields…or in many of

the old homes in Gettysburg itself.

So what did I experience that day in Gettysburg? I can’t explain

it…..was it the spirit of a soldier lost or killed there trying to get  my

attention…for whatever reason? Perhaps.

I’ve always thought there is a thin line or veil between where we

are now….and where we will be going upon death.

I’ll go back to Gettysburg again someday. It’s a place you could

easily spend a week in, not just two days.  I’m sure I’ll never have

another experience like the one I had that day….and I most

certainly won’t seek one out. Gettysburg is indeed a mysterious

and awesome place. I recommend it.  

On a death 93 yrs. ago....

'Piercing the veil'...

‘Piercing the veil’…….

The great magician Harry Houdini was a fascinating magician and illusionist. He captivated

audiences not only in the U.S. but abroad. His untimely death on Halloween in 1926 resulted

from an unusual incident days before while performing. For many years Houdini had been

challenged by his family and close followers to ‘bridge the gap’ after death; to make contact

from the great beyond. For years after his death, yearly se’ances were held in hopes of

making contact with Harry, and some with positive results were later debunked as just

fakes. Death was finally the ‘realm’ that Houdini could not escape. His story is a great one

and is briefed here with information from wikipedia. Many books have been written about

the man over the decades, and probably more will be forthcoming.

Harry Houdini died of peritonitis, secondary to a ruptured appendix at 1:26 p.m. on October 31, 1926 in Room 401 at Detroit's Grace Hospital, aged 52. In his final days, he optimistically held to a strong belief that he would recover, but his last words before dying were reportedly, "I'm tired of fighting. Eyewitnesses to an incident at Houdini's dressing room in the Princess Theatre in Montreal gave rise to speculation that Houdini's death was caused by a McGill University student, J. Gordon Whitehead, who delivered a surprise attack of multiple blows to Houdini's abdomen.

Before Houdini died, he and his wife agreed that if Houdini found it possible to communicate after death, he would communicate the message "Rosabelle believe", a secret code which they agreed to use. Rosabelle was their favorite song. Bess held yearly séances on Halloween for ten years after Houdini's death. She did claim to have contact through Arthur Ford in 1929 when Ford conveyed the secret code, but Bess later said the incident had been faked. The code seems to have been such that it could be broken by Ford or his associates using existing clues. Evidence to this effect was discovered by Ford's biographer after he died in 1971. In 1936, after a last unsuccessful séance on the roof of the Knickerbocker Hotel, she put out the candle that she had kept burning beside a photograph of Houdini since his death. In 1943, Bess said that "ten years is long enough to wait for any man."

The tradition of holding a séance for Houdini continues, held by magicians throughout the world. The Official Houdini Séance was organized in the 1940s by Sidney Hollis Radner, a Houdini aficionado from Holyoke, Massachusetts.Yearly Houdini séances are also conducted in Chicago at the Excalibur nightclub by "necromancer" Neil Tobin on behalf of the Chicago Assembly of the Society of American Magicians; and at the Houdini Museum in Scranton by magician Dorothy Dietrich, who previously held them at New York's Magic Towne House with such magical notables as Houdini biographers Walter B. Gibson and Milbourne Christopher. Gibson was asked by Bess Houdini to carry on the original seance tradition. After doing them for many years at New York's Magic Towne House, before he died, Walter passed on the tradition of conducting of the Original Seances to Dorothy Dietrich.

Houdini's funeral was held on November 4, 1926, in New York City, with more than 2,000 mourners in attendance. He was interred in the Machpelah Cemetery in Glendale, Queens, with the crest of the Society of American Magicians inscribed on his grave site. A statuary bust was added to the exedra in 1927, a rarity, because graven images are forbidden in Jewish cemeteries. In 1975, the bust was destroyed by vandals. Temporary busts were placed at the grave until 2011 when a group who came to be called The Houdini Commandos from the Houdini Museum in Scranton, Pennsylvania placed a permanent bust with the permission of Houdini's family and of the cemetery.

And the stones on the grave marker? It’s really a Jewish custom but is now practiced by

many of all faiths..the simple act has come to be a great sign of respect for our deceased

loved ones. It is a ‘sign’ to those stopping by that the grave has recently been visited and that

the deceased has not been forgotten…so next time you visit… take a small stone or two

with you!