When Sarah Winchester died there was enough new lumber stacked outside the San Jose mansion to build an entire second mansion and then some. I sit here looking over my built-in bookshelves, contemplating how high the yet-to-be-read books would stack after I get moved out to the old folks home (or even worse).
Realistically, I could be sixteen years old and the number of books I might want to read still would be daunting .. well, yes and no .. when you’re sixteen the idea that you won’t live forever is never considered. Can I get Dad’s car on Friday night? Will my cow-lick ever lay flat? Is that a zit on my nose? When your brain is full of important questions like those, who has time for mortality?
Continue reading “Food Fight!”
After the death of William Wirt Winchester, his wife Sarah inherited vast amounts of money including a sizable interest in her deceased husband’s firearms company. She also received a spiritualist warning that as long as the construction on the family palace in San Jose continued, she would escape death, possibly from the ghosts of those killed by Winchester repeating riles.
I first heard of the Winchester House in grade school when a student shared the story about stairways to the ceiling and doors in the walls with no rooms on the other side. Several years later on a family trip to San Francisco we drove past the house but didn’t take the tour. Years after that I saw the house again, standing in the midst of typical suburban sprawl: strip malls, multi-cinemas, car dealerships.
Continue reading “Stairway To the Wall”
The landscaping crew picked up all the leaves in the yard the other day. I was resting in bed, listening to Progressive Radio and wondering about deadly viruses crawling on my eyeshade when the ratcheting cacophony of leaf blowers and lawn mowers started the windows to rattle and my teeth to tinkle .. in the jar on the bathroom sink.
Picking up the leaves is a good thing. Otherwise I am forever searching for Ricky’s dog poops which tend to blend into the ground foliage and lay waiting for an innocent foot. But for whatever clichéd reason, I was reminded that my reading pace has been accelerating lately: is it fallen leaves or the blind Fury?
Continue reading “Snip, Snip, Snip”