ghostlifeghostlife.

My father passed away on July 21, 2008, and last weekend on October 18 we had the memorial service at his final church in Hancock, New Hampshire. I wanted to share the eulogy, as well as some pictures I took from the town and church, etc. I thought I had it all together, I thought I would be fine, but then others started giving their eulogies. To hear how important my Dad was to them, to hear how much they loved him, to hear how funny he was to them, to hear how positive he was at every moment, to hear how selfless he was, it was just an amazing feeling. And then it was my turn, and it was so much harder than I expected. My mouth was dry & tasted like bile from being so nervous. I was shaking all over and my voice was shaking. I got through it, but not without pausing for even a minute at a time to compose myself, to take deep breaths, to focus. My voice cracked, I cried, I walked off with tears running down my face. I thought I was ready for it, but nothing prepares you for something like that. The whole thing was so sad and happy at the same time. It was really emotional and I’m glad I went through it, but I’m glad it’s over. At the same time, I don’t like this feeling of closure. Despite my worries of how I came across, it was amazing that during my eulogy and for the first time in the service I heard a lot of sniffling and crying. And when I walked off and everyone erupted for the first time in applause, I felt good knowing despite how I thought I came across, I had brought a side of Dad to them that they had not known, yet wanted to know, and I guess I did it clearly. Everyone came up to me telling me how wonderful it was, and all I could think of was my Dad. This meant a lot to me as it wasn’t about me, it was about him. One gentleman came up and said ‘Do you realize you just made an older man cry?’. But it wasn’t me, it was my Dad. Another guy said ‘I hope my son speaks of me when I pass the way you just did’. But again it wasn’t me, I felt like I was speaking for my Dad. It was amazing. Just as cool was my Mom’s cousin and his wife showed up from Dallas, PA (betw Scranton and Wilkes-Barre), Ned and Betsy, who are really awesome. AND these two women from Martinsburg, where I grew up from 1980 to 1987! Ginny and this other woman I didn’t remember at first, but I started to remember just a bit near the end. It was amazing to see someone from that time in my life as I’ve seen NO ONE from then, and as some know, I loved my childhood in West Virginia and the place means a lot to me. It was really surreal and touching and just amazing. It felt good to look right at them when Martinsburg came up in the eulogy. She smiled and seemed to be happy that Martinsburg meant so much to me. I cant tell you what a great place that was to grow up in!

Anyway, here’s my eulogy for Captain Fun, a nickname his last church gave to him that I had no idea about until this service. It sure put a smile on my face.

Click on the picture after the eulogy for some New England-y Autumn pictures from my trip up …

It’s a few days after my father has passed away, and I’m sitting in his office at home where he was surrounded with some of the simple things in life that gave him great happiness. I’m on his computer, which in itself is so hard to look at, cause as I turn it on there is a screen saver of a picture of Ottawa, Canada which he visited as many times as possible. It’s just one of many Canadian items I see as I look around his office. From Canadian military jackets, to Canadian English dictionaries, to books on Canadian parliamentary politics, to a model of an Air Canada plane I gave him a few Christmases ago. When I open the browser on his computer it automatically goes to his personal Google home page, with his email account that will never be opened again. I begin to wonder what emails are in there; from friends that have emailed him wishing him the best and to stay strong, to shipping confirmations for yet another book he ordered to own and even eventually read in just a few days time. I’m surrounded by rows and rows of countless books, as he was constantly reading and feeding his brain with endless information. From religious books, to political books to books on American slang, and “Baseball for Dummies”. You’d think he’d never heard of a library! I’m surrounded by notes from his final sermon from July 13, the one in which he gave every last bit of energy he had left to give, and gave to his congregation for which he cared so much and devoted all his self and time to. There are flags all around, like the one of the State of New York, which in his final weeks he used to replace the Canadian flag that was outside the house, to ’show his New York City roots’ as he said . There are mountains and mountains of pens, which he could never refrain from buying when he went to Staples. A strange yet harmless addiction. There are political buttons from decades ago such as ‘Win with Hoover’ and ‘We want FDR again!’. I remember going to Hyde Park in New York a few times to see the home of FDR, whom I’m pretty sure was one of my Dad’s heros. There are classical and military music cd’s all around, his headphones sitting next to his chair, just having used it the other day. He was so proud to tell me he just few weeks prior that he had figured out how to use an MP3 player, which of course made me proud! There are crosses on the wall, along with medals he received for running the ‘Run for Canada’ marathon in 2005 and 2006. The floor below me is a spaghetti mess of wires and cables, as he had no patience for making his office look ‘presentable’. This was his office, so it was presentable for him. There are figurines of former presidents and New Hampshire Fisher Cats baseball players. I remember going to Boston Red Sox games with him on his clergy pass back in the early 90s when even Fenway was only half full with fans. On his pass we could sometimes sit just rows behind the dugout for free, and see that awful Matt Young blow another game. There are notes on his sermon stand from just the other day, with his incomprehensible handwriting, which was all the same beautiful and unique, and i always admired for some strange reason. Theres a digital clock ticking in front of me, it not even realizing it no longer needs to work for my Dad anymore. I see a book that for some reason brings to mind when we lived in Martinsburg, West Virginia. When we lived there my Dad was part of a church program that led him to the local apple orchards in the area where many African-Americans worked and lived in very poor conditions. He wanted to reach out, to say he and his church were there for them. My Dad would take me, and we would make these huge dinners for 100 people and play bingo and listen to music out in these fields with the stars so bright and the fireflies everywhere. It was one of the clearest memories of my childhood that made me so happy, and now that I look back on it, it just makes me so proud. It was fun and incredibly uplifting. My Dad wanted them to feel safe, loved and important, and to just give them a little hope.

I went to see my father in the hospital soon after he was admitted on the night of July 13. My Mom had hoped he would be awake as he had been for the prior few days, so he could see me one last time and hopefully feel closure and know it was ok to let go. I felt nothing but anger as I saw my Dad for the first time with the real final stages of cancer having taken hold. This was not my Dad. This was not my Dad who would come home singing the national anthem or some beautiful church song. This was not my Dad who came home after a long day and wanting to watch “Law and Order” with a big bowl of ice cream. This was not my Dad who dedicated his life to fellow humans, day in and day out, year in and year out, with never a second thought. He never woke up while I was there, but I think he knew I was there, but lacked the energy to open his eyes. It was hard to even look at him. It was hard because it made me so angry that this could happen not just to my Dad, but at such an early age, and to someone who cared and loved people so much. All I could think of was how unfair this was. He said to me a few weeks prior that he felt blessed, which was amazing to hear someone in such a situation say such a thing, but it was his positive outlook, an outlook that I think helped him survive this 10 year battle, physical, and emotional, time enough for him to feel at peace with saying its time to go. In a way it was ok knowing this was in many ways NOT my Dad. His soul and spirit were almost gone and in another place. So it felt ok at one moment to say goodbye, but then when I put my hand on his head and said ‘I Love You’ and ‘Bye Dad’, it hurt worse than anything I ever felt. No more high fives, no more hugs. This WAS my dad, and I knew as I looked at him, he knew I was there, and telling me he loved me and that he would see me again.

As my Dad said to my Mom a day after he was back in the hospital, ‘this is a heck of a thing’. It sure is Dad, and you are a heck of a human being. You were a man who loved everyone and judged no one, wishing for nothing but peace and love for everyone, and I couldn’t be more grateful for you instilling those qualities in me. You fought your battle with such hope and you were so brave during every moment. You stuck around for Mom, you stuck around for me, you stuck around for your congregation. You saved all your energy and love for your final service, which made me for one final time feel such intense pride in not just knowing you’re my Dad, but just for knowing you. The sadness is pretty unbearable, but my pride in you is even stronger. You endured this condition with great humility, never letting it stop you from doing your work of helping others, and never letting this roadblock get you down. You always held your head high, even through to the very end. I will think about and miss you every day, but also celebrate what a great person and inspiration you were to so many. I feel so lucky to now and forever be able to call such an amazing person ‘MY Dad’. With all my heart, I love you.

It’s very easy to be skeptical of ghosts. Ive always had a small fascination with them (‘Ghostlife’ for example). Not sure why, but I always have. Maybe it was seeing ‘Poltergeist’ when I was a kid, or even ‘Ghostbusters’ that created this curiosity in me. Either way it brought upon this slight interest in ghost stories and peoples experiences with possible encounters. Not that I believed them. I kept an open mind, for both sides of the story. Maybe they are true, or just maybe they want to believe something so much that the stories they’ve created just become ‘fact’. Maybe what they believe has some reasonable explanation. A scientific explanation? A rational explanation? Well I had an ‘experience’ in 2001 at my old apartment in Jamaica Plain that not only made me believe most of the ghost stories I had read in the past or will read in the future, but solidified my possible belief in the paranormal.

Now of course, you may be skeptical of this story and that is absolutely fair enough. Its always hard to believe any of these kind of things until they happen to you, but keep an open mind.

I lived on Parkton Road in the Jamaica Plain section of Boston. My street was weird, and it was creepy, but I liked it. It was horse shoe shaped, and it was a one way street, but the weird thing was the bottom of the ‘U’ was at the bottom of a hill, so the ends of the U were at the top of the hill. In other words you entered the street at the top of the hill, went down to the bottom, right where my apartment was, and then you went back up the hill to get to the end. The street was lined with tightly packed 3 floor apartment buildings, and lots of dark creepy trees. As dearest Maria so wisely said to me, “I just remember sitting on your porch and feeling like all the bad stuff that had ever happened on that street was just collecting at the bottom, all the “bad vibes” just slid down to your house.” She couldn’t have said it any better.

So I lived on the first floor of this old 3 story building. The doors were old and crickety. The stairs to the other floors were old and needed painting. It was dusty and their were some spiderwebs for sure. But the setting for my story is simple. After going through the front door and into the staircase area, there was the door to our apartment, again as it was the first floor. Walk into our apartment (myself and my two roommates, Lauren and Chris) and its a typical foyer area. Wood floors, cheesy old chandelier. Straight ahead at the end of the foyer is the bathroom. It had a wood door, and right above the door one of those random 2 foot high and width-of-the-door windows which you could open for ventilation. Now if you’re standing in front of the bathroom door, then just on your left would be the door to my room, and on the RIGHT, just a few feet back, is the door to a large walk-in closet where my roommates and I stored a whole lot of junk! Now the setting is drawn, and the story begins. All this build up, for a short ending.

So I did my normal work day at my job downtown, took the train back to JP, and walked home. I walked in the front door and the shower was running in the bathroom. I guess Chris is home before me, although that rarely happens. I went to the kitchen and made a snack. Took me maybe 10 minutes to settle down. Then I watched a little TV. Then I got a bit curious. The shower has been running a bit long. So I waited maybe another 20-30 minutes before I started to get worried. Maybe it was Lauren who was in the shower. So I decided to call her cell and see if she would answer, and if she didnt, it must be her in the shower. So I called … and she answers. Straight away I ask her when she answers why Chris was home so early and taking a shower for so long, cause I was a bit worried. And she says ‘He’s not at home, he’s still at work, I just talked to him’. At that second it felt like the walls were closing in on me. Who the hell is in that shower? I felt violated and scared, and I ran outside. And I just stood outside and waited and waited, probably for like 10 minutes. What was I going to do, and who is in there? This unknown was scarier than anything I had ever felt. There was a stranger in my apartment, in the shower, and I was home alone. Was it a homeless person who broke in and wanted to clean up? Was it our upstairs neighbor for some strange reason? But why would he break in and use our shower? Something just didnt feel right. I had told Lauren what was going on before I hung up with her, and she was a bit scared as well obviously, and said she was coming straight home. Do I want until she gets back? NO! Time to face the music.

I walked back to the front door, and opened it, and at the end of the foyer, the bathroom was still there. The light was on, and the window above the door was all steamed up, and the shower was still running. I just slowly walked towards the bathroom, and knocked on the door quietly. Nothing. I knocked louder. Nothing. I banged on the door. Still nothing. I took a deep breath, and really expecting the worst, I quickly opened the door. The room was filled with steam, and the shower curtain was drawn. I quickly opened the curtain, and there was nothing, nor anyone there. What the hell is going on?!?! I looked back out the bathroom door, and for whatever reason, the door to the walk-in closet next to the bathroom was now open, and the light inside it was on. I really started to get freaked out, as it wasn’t like that just seconds ago. I just ignored that fact and walked out of the bathroom and into the walk-in closet. I shut off the light, backed out of the closet, closed the door, and just looked at it for a second. ‘OK, it was nothing!’ I went back into the bathroom to turn the shower off, and for whatever reason I felt something behind me, some sort of presence. I looked back out the door towards the closet, and the closet door was open again! And the light inside was on again! Every time I think of this story, or tell someone, I always get chills, and its happening right now as I write this. So I quickly went to the open closet door, and motioned to close it to see what the hell was behind the door, again expecting the worst. All of sudden, right after shutting the closet door, as I just stood there, I felt what was all I can really say was a ‘mad rush’. It felt like something had passed through me. I got very warm on the inside, but felt a cool chill on my outside, and just felt like SOMETHING had moved through me, like a ghost or spirit or something. All I know is that it was quick, it was powerful, and it was scary as hell, but all the fear and dread I was feeling cause of the whole situation was now gone. It’s really hard to explain what that feeling was like, and I’m sure this sounds like absolute nonsense to everyone. If I read this story by someone else I would have been skeptical too, but its natural to be skeptical until something like this actually happens to you, and it just happened to me.

I sat down in the living room for just a bit and then made a few calls, to some skeptical people of course. About an hour later my roommate Lauren came home, and I told her what happened, and she looked at me like I was crazy. It didn’t seem like she would even at least grasp the fact that the shower was running like that with no one in the apartment all day, but I think the rest of my story made her think I was making all of it up. Thanks for the support. So this is my story, lots of buildup to something that may seem simple and nothing, but it was the scariest thing that ever happened to me, and affirmed my belief in the supernatural, or ghosts, or what have you.

Love,
Peter Venkman