There's also a rather creepier story involving my aunt and the furnished apartment she and a friend rented after the elderly occupant died, but I think I may have told that one before.

Not to me!

sits on floor, waits patiently

The more ghost stories I get from other people who I know are sane and stable people (stop laughing), the more confident I feel that what's happened to me is real and not just some brain-grape I had.

I was listening to NPR this morning and a Dr being interviewed pronounces a word basically the way it's spelled, instead of correctly. I'm embarrassed for the guy and think how humiliating that would be to mispronounce a word in front of however-many listeners on the radio. So when I get to work I look it up on Dictionary.com, trying to give him the benefit of the doubt, thinking maybe it's an alternate pronunciation. And it turns out he pronounced it correctly...AND I'VE BEEN SAYING IT WRONG! Who knows how many times (probably not that many, it's not that common a word) over how many years! THE SHAME! Do not forsake me, fellow Word Lovers!

The thing is, here's the thing: it is: SAY-shuh-tee. And we don't care about your opinions.

This leads me to my greater point. A couple of times a month, Christopher mispronounces a word. We call this THE READER'S CURSE.

His last mistake was subterfuge. He said it like it was: "Sutter-fudge."

"Sutter-fudge" is still our go-to laugh.

Oooh, and I just a few seconds ago used the word "subterfuge" against a friend on FB (addressing his abject failure to exercise same). Goosebumps!

Zen, I will attempt the story about my aunt but Matilda requires fizzy water first. Back in a moment.

I still remember when my sister wanted a ca-NOPEY bed. ...of course, she also thought her middle name was Ceiling, for a long time (it's Celia).

I used "obstreperous" in an email the other day and my boss told me she had to look it up.

May have been posted elsewhere, but I love this

Star Lord and Captain America Just Made the Most Boy Scout Super Bowl Bet Ever

Yeah, my Facebook page kind of devolved into beefcake pictures of Chris Evans for a while after that.

I bet the end result of that bet will be that both groups of kids get a superhero visit, regardless of which team wins the sportsball event.

Okay, my aunt and the furnished apartment.

In the late '60s/early '70s, just out of college but not yet married, my aunt, a good friend of hers, and the German shepherd of whom they shared custody rented an apartment in Oakland that was a great deal -- cheap, and came completely furnished, as the last occupant had been an elderly immigrant from China who had no relatives in the US and nobody to take any of his things; he'd kept everything neat and tidy so the landlord was content to just vacuum and rent it furnished.

My aunt and her friend moved in, settled in and were perfectly happy for about four or five days. Then thing started happening. Cold spots. Rattling windows and banging doors. The dog furiously barking at nothing at all, then whining and cringing and hiding under the kitchen table. And one morning near the end of their first week in the place, they were having breakfast when they heard a door slam furiously, and then the roar of a furious wind with no rational source howling through the living room on the other side of the door. They heard things banging, pounding, being flung about, and the shepherd huddled at their feet and cried terrified doggie cries.

And then it all stopped. Dead, utter, breathless silence. They looked out into the living room, and saw everything inside out and upside down. Knick-knack drawers pulled out and dumped, pillows flung from the couch, curtains bunched up on the curtain rods, rug corners flipped over.

Being good Catholic girls barely past twenty, they (a) freaked out good and hard, and then (b) called the rectory of the nearest parish. The pastor listened to them, every word, and instead of pooh-poohing or laughing it off, he just said he'd be over as soon as he could.

And over he came, and looked at everything, and asked about the previous occupant; then he looked around the room again, and said, "He must be looking for something. Let's help him." And then he slowly and methodically began searching the room, tidying up as he went. Along the way he found, smooshed into the back of the sofa behind one of the cushions, a single gold silken tassel, but nothing else of note.

After the room was all tidied up, the priest held up the tassel and addressed the room in general; my aunt says that he said something like, roughly (it was around 45 years ago, and it scared her shitless at the time, so she doesn't remember his exact words): "This is a little thing, but it's beautiful, and it must have belonged to you. I'm going to take it back to my church and lay it in a corner near the candles and the altar. My faith may not have been yours, but it's still a sacred place, and I promise that this one thing of yours will be taken care of and you will be remembered, and if you leave these girls in peace you can come to the sacred space and be near your object of remembrance any time you like. You can follow me out and see where I'll put it; it's a nice quiet place and I think you'll like it."

And then he shook the hands of my aunt and her friend, and took the tassel and left, and tucked the tassel into a quiet corner near the altar, and the ransacking spirit was never heard from again.

JZ, that's an excellent story! Not creepy, just a lonely old spirit looking for one thing to be remembered by.

That is just beautiful, JZ.

What a kind and understanding soul.

This reminded me of an amazing moment, related to a person who had passed, but not a ghost story.

When I was in Lockerbie, after Pan Am 103, I spoke with one of the mothers of a Syracuse student. The young woman's name was Wendy.

When Wendy's mother went to the field where she fell, a man stood near the mourners, quietly offering presence. After he heard Wendy's mom cry, he walked up to her and asked if she carried anything that belonged to Wendy. The mom took out a necklace that had been one of Wendy's favorites.

The man put out his hand, silently and Wendy's mom handed it over without a word. He walked to a tree a short distance away and hung it on a branch, near the trunk.

He walked back and said, "My family has been on this land for 400 years. As long as there is breath in my body and in that of my children, we will care for her spirit here.

I can never think of that stoic and certain kindness without crying.