In a recent blog, I mentioned my grandmother on my mom’s side and a story she told me about my great-grandfather. This is a one of those old color-tinted photos taken of her in the early years of her marriage.
Another tale she told me when I was a kid related to her own childhood. The home where she grew up in New York City sat at the bottom of a slight hill. The house was actually at a crossroads. She could look out her front door and stare directly up a street that ended at the street where she lived. And in those days, even in New York, there were still a lot of horse-drawn wagons.
Occasionally, she said, the family could hear a horse coming fast down the street opposite her house. It never slowed down, got louder and louder as it approached, and then slammed into their front door with a terrible crash. Time after time, family members rushed to open the door only to find nothing—no horse and no marks on the door.
When I asked her what she thought about those experiences, she said she figured that long before her family moved in, a horse had actually smacked into their house, and what they heard were just echoes of the past.
I often ask myself how I would react if I continually had something like that happen. What about you?
2 Comment(s)
I’d have researched it with the local city officials or police to see if that actually did happen. I’d also stop looking out the front door.
Hi Kitty, It would be interesting to check that out, wouldn’t it? The event was in the early 1900s which makes me think folks in those days tended to not investigate things like many of us would do now. I do wonder if my grandmother was ever afraid to go out the front door though. Hmm. The things you think about asking people long after they’re gone.
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