Crazy Crap Item #238: The part where I spend the weekend communing with the saints and the spirits

*** WARNING : This post is LONG. Bookmark it now and plan to return to it later. ***

This story starts a year ago, when I entered into what has to come to be known as the worst summer ever. My dear friend, Mr. Czajka (Chris) experienced the worst of it, losing his partner of 12 years, Jonathan, after a 3-year battle with leukemia.

During those dark times, while waiting for the inevitable in the lounge of cancer ward at Mount Sinai Hospital, Czajka made a vow. "If we make it through this horrible summer," he said, "we will reconvene next summer in Rochester, and sample the many wonders of upstate New York." Rochester, he told us, is more than just his bucolic childhood homestead. It is a stone's throw from the birthplace of Mormonism. It offers the wonders of the nearby Jell-O museum and the further-off splendor of Niagara Falls. And, most tantalizingly, it offers close proximity to Lily Dale, a lakeside resort and home to the American Spiritualist movement as well as many real, live, bonafide mediums. If we survived, sane and intact, the vicissitudes of the summer, all these glories would be ours.

And so it came to pass that in the summer of 2009, a group of us made an journey to upstate New York, confronting the terrors of JFK and O'Hare airports, wending our tired way to the sylvan suburbs of Rochester. What wonders we saw! What mighty spectacles and spine-tingling phenomena! Here, I record it all.

The Prelude

Let us begin with the cast of characters:

Chris Czajka: Czajka (Chy-ka), as he is known, has been a good friend of mine since my days at Northwestern, where he served as stage manager of Sunday in the Park with George and director of Meet Me in St. Louis, two productions in which I appeared. In the late '90s, he and I penned a web-based serial novel, Waylaid on the Road to Riches. He has a number of obsessions, and can be considered an expert on the following topics: The Wizard of Oz (book and movie), Gone with the Wind, Little House on the Prairie (book series and TV show), the sinking of the Titanic, natural disasters of all sorts, and homesteading on the American frontier. He also reads tarot cards. He has made several previous appearances in this blog.

Kristen Freilich: Kristen is also a veteran of the above-mentioned Northwestern productions, where she played (a.) my patient/employer, and (b.) my sister. She is a talented actress and singer on the Chicago theater scene, and has a day job as a web guru. She stood up (and sang) at my wedding. As an interesting side note, she appeared in Waylaid on the Road to Riches as the character "Leia Freitag." She has also appeared many a time in this blog. She is best described as "Carol Burnett on crack."

Billie Lape: Miss Billie is one of Czajka's oldest and dearest high school friends, and still resides in Rochester, where she works in insurance. She has an adorable 4-year-old son named Ian. She was a major linchpin during the dark summer of Mount Sinai, serving a constant vigil during Jonathan's painful last weeks. She is also an English Renaissance freak like myself, and delighted me by knowing of an obscure authoress with whom I am currently obsessed. She also boasts a collection of wee plush figurines of Henry VIII and his wives that I secretly covet. She is not to be trifled with.

Katie Heilman: Like Billie, Katie has known Czajka since his school days and hails from Rochester, although she currently resides, by sheer coincidence, in Chicago. Like Czajka, Katie is given to obsessions, her chief one being Russia, about which she knows everything. She can tell you anything you need to know about Rasputin and the Romanovs, and has served as host to important diplomats from Russia. She owns an antique samovar, which she received as a high school graduation gift from her father upon her request. She exudes the air of a Victorian lady trapped in the wrong century. This is not an insult, merely a observation.

Kelly Demaret: Kelly is also a Northwestern crony, but was unknown to me until the worst summer of all time. She is a glamourous NYC actress, and recently made an appearance on TV's Law and Order. She once stole a shower (see below) and, with Carrie (see below), tried to sneak into David Koresh's Waco compound as a Spring Break lark.

Carrie Houchins-Witt: Also a member of the Northwestern theater mafia (as it is known), Carrie shares a fascinating history of travel and adventure with Kelly, with whom she spent a year rambling around the country attending annual events and festivals and stealing showers (too long a story to be recounted here; soon to be recorded in a blockbuster book, if I can get them to dictate it to me). Currently she resides in Chicago with her husband and two darling sons, where she makes her own yogurt and picks up pin money participating in focus groups.

In preparation for our journey, we were given two bits of required reading, both of which I highly recommend:

Under the Banner of Heaven, by John Krakauer
A thrilling history of Mormonism interwoven with an account of recent outbreaks of violence in extreme LDS splinter groups. Includes a full account of the founding of Mormonism, the early phases of which take place in Palmyra, NY, not far from Rochester.

Lily Dale: The Town That Talks to the Dead, by Christine Wicker
A journalist's insights into the town that serves as the center of American Spiritualism, as developed over a series of visits and interviews. Very entertaining light reading.

The Trip: Arrival

And so it came to pass that on July 17 in the year of our Lord 2009, I embarked upon a none-too-roomy United Express jet and hurtled eastward to the Rochester airport. Mr. Czajka arrived in the same locale (from his westward hurtling embarking from JFK) mere minutes before me, and gave me a quick tour of none-too-bustling Rochester terminal en route to ground transportation.

We were picked up by the venerable Billie, and I was introduced to 4-year-old Ian, of whom I had heard many tales prior to this. I told him as much, to which he replied, "Everyone knows my name."

As the venerable Billie taxied us along, Mr. Czajka provided a dandy nickel tour of his hometown burg -- pointing out an outpost of the Underground Railroad and a doll museum -- accompanied by the tuneful strains of one of Ian's favorite songs, "Little Red Monkey."

Upon our arrival at Czajka's childhood home, we were treated to delightful conversation and a tasty repast of pizza, chicken wings, and cookies by Czajka's parents, Barb and Duane. As Ian's bedtime approached, we piled back into Billie's car and were squired to her home, where I was treated to a glimpse of the fabled plush Henry VIII dolls and a Sesame Street-style puppet approximating the Statue of Liberty.

And so it came to pass that poor Billie was very tired, and asked if I had a drivers' license. When it was ascertained that I did, it was determined that I should squire her vehicle back to the Rochester Airport where we would pick Kelly up from her 11pm flight. Aside from nearly backing Billie's car into a ditch as she looked on helplessly from the top of her uncannily dark driveway, the trip went off without a hitch. With Kelly in tow, Mr. Czajka and I headed back to Casa de Czajka, where we rendezvoused with Kristen, Carrie, and Katie, who had all taken the late flight in from the Windy City.

I will pause to note that everyone on this trip, with the exception of the venerable Billie, has a name that starts with a "K" sound. There is no significance to that fact. It's merely interesting.

At this point, any sane individual would go to bed to rest up for a full weekend of enlightening and enlivening experiences. This is not, however, what came to pass. Instead, we stayed up, along with Barb, till some wee hour in the morning -- 3am, I think -- discussing the history and theology of Mormonism. As it turns out, such a discussion was necessary, as -- ahem -- some of the participants had not done their required reading! Shocking, I know.

As we reviewed the various ins and outs of the LDS church -- the battle of the Nephites and Lamanites, the mystical Urim and Thummim (I imagine them as some sort of 3D glasses such as you get at the movies) that Joseph Smith used to read the "Reformed Egyptian" of the original Book of Mormon, the fact that Indians are red because they are 'evil', the violence of Mormon persecution and the horrific Mountain Meadow Massacre -- Kristen kept a tally of everything she 'had a problem with' by holding her hand aloft with her fingers keeping count.

We also discussed our earlier broached plan to masquerade as a husband and 6 sister wives, and bemoaned the fact that we had not found matching gingham dresses to wear. It was determined that we would designate the order of sister wives according to the length of time we had all known Czajka: Billie, Katie, Kelly, Carrie, Kristen, Kay. This means that I, despite being the oldest of the group, hold the position of "hot, young wife" about whom the patriarch still holds some glimmer of sexual attraction. Funny, that.

It was also noted that in penning the Book of Mormon, Joseph Smith clumsily adopted many pat phrases cribbed from the Old Testament, including the utterly superfluous transition "And so it came to pass."

Finally, Kristen announced that Katie must take her home as she was about to pass out from exhaustion. I concurred. We three retired to Katie's parents' home, some blocks away, where we would be lodged for the duration of the trip. Kelly, Carrie and Czajka presumably headed to bed at this point, though I wouldn't put it past them to stay up yet longer.

We slept in on the following morn, and reconvened at Chez Czajka for a delightful afternoon of bocce ball, barbecued chicken, and a lovely beverage known as "Yellowbird." We were joined by Czajka's brother Jeff and his girlfriend, the always charming Aunt Bev (another stalwart from the worst summer ever) and her son Andy. Throughout the afternoon, Ian entertained us by singing the "Little Red Monkey" song, playing a keep-away game called "Monkey in the Middle," and offering a lively rendition of the classic children's tale Caps for Sale: A Tale of a Peddler, Some Monkeys and Their Monkey Business. It was an afternoon replete with monkeys.

The Trip to Palmyra

And so it came to pass that approximately 4:30pm in the afternoon, we had had our fill of chicken and yellowbirds and thirsted instead for spiritual fulfillment. Ian and the Venerable Billie loaded into their car, while the remaining K-named individuals piled into a large van rented especially for this occasion, and we all embarked, caravan-style, on a trip to Palmyra, NY, the birthplace of Mormonism.

To pass the time on the trip, Mr. Czajka prepared a diversion -- an audio game involving a CD of appropriately themed music and related trivia questions. Participants were invited to shout out their answers to the questions about the songs as the answer struck them. The first person to bellow out a correct answer -- determined by Mr. Czajka -- would receive a small toy farm animal, dispersed from a stylish purple sack. The contestant with the most farm animals at the end of the game would win a gift bag full to the brim with gifts appropriate to the journey. The game was to be a two-day affair, starting with Mormon-themed songs and questions for the car trip to Palmyra, and finishing with Spiritualist-themed songs and questions for the trip to Lily Dale.

It is with great pride that I announce that at the end of the first of half of this game, I was far and away in the lead with 12 farm animals, dazzling my fellow K-named individuals with answers including "The Mormon Tabernacle Choir," "Marie Osmond," "The sinking of the Titanic," "Thanksgiving," and "Bringing in the Sheaves." Kristen launched her own coup, randomly shouting out the correct answer of "Nearer My God to Thee" before the song had even begun to play. It was not enough, however, to overtake my monumental lead.

Upon arrival in Palmyra, Billie and Ian parked for a nice nap at the site of the Hill Cumorah Pageant, while the K-van sped on to the historic Joseph Smith Family Home and Farm. It was here that would take in many sacred sites of the LDS Church, including:

* The sacred grove where young Joseph Smith was visited by Jesus and God, who told him that he should not adhere to any faith as there was one true religion that would later be revealed to him. I was intrigued by the sacred wasps' nest, which was pointed out to us by a church elder. It was later surmised by the K-group that it was a fake, planted to keep tourists such as ourselves from wandering off the path.

* The holy visitors center, where we checked out some kind of spooky-looking paintings of the various high points of Joseph Smith's revelations and where Mr. Czajka was asked where our "family" was from. We all looked confused, and I fear the cat was out of the bag that we were not a God-fearing Mormon family. That, and Czajka's beard, since facial hair is forbidden to men of the LDS faith.

* The hallowed restroom, where all the ladies except me took a pee. I ascribe my lack of need to pee to the miraculous workings of this most holy of sites, as I have the tiniest of bladders, and usually am the first to declare the need for a pit stop.

* The venerated log home, or rather, a reconstruction of such, where the angel Moroni appeared to Joseph Smith and told him something important that I can't quite recall. We make a short-lived attempt at taking a picture in the famed attic of us quailing in fear at the site of the angel, but were interrupted by some devout visitors and felt it would be disrespectful to be caught in such an act. We all agreed that the missionary/tour guide at this stop seemed like she was ready for fight, and looked uncannily like Kirsten Dunst.

* The blessed but rather stuffy frame house, where the Smiths later lived, and where they stashed the gold plates that held the original Book of Mormon when pillagers swept through and tried to take them (for reasons that are yet unknown to me). We were given a preamble to the house by a Mormon elder, who recounted how the Smiths bought and later lost these farmlands, an exchange I found confusing, as it seemed to suggest that a lender can simply say, "You have only two payments left on your mortgage, but I want them now, so you lose your farm." I'm still not sure how that works.

* The sanctified but not very compelling barn, which did not hold enough appeal to make us stop, so we passed it on by in our zeal to get a good spot at the Hill Curmorah Pageant.

One thing to note before we leave the historic home and site: It was here that we were introduced to an interesting, seemingly institutional quirk of Mormon tour guides and ambassadors. After providing the standard tour-type info of the site in question, each guide finished with a sort of testimonial to the truth of Mormonism, introduced by the phrase "I know." To wit: "I know that the scripture of the Book of Mormon to be true, and that the angel Moroni appeared on this very spot." It was unnerving and a bit Stepford-ish.

The Hill Cumorah Pageant

And so it came to pass, after browsing the many states represented on the license plates in the historic farm parking lot (Massachusetts, Ontario, Quebec, West Virginia, Michigan, New York, and, of course, tons of Utah), we piled back in the van and headed to our second Mormon site, the Hill Cumorah.

To those unfamiliar with Mormon lore, let me explain. The Hill Cumorah is the site where Joseph Smith was reputedly directed by the angel Moroni to dig, and where he uncovered the famed golden plates upon which are recorded the Book of Mormon. Each summer, there is staged a vast, spectacular pageant that acts out the high points of this book of Scripture on an outdoor stage. Did I mention it's free?

We arrived, and noted many fundamentalist protesters gathering to dissuade the faithful. Mormons, it seems, are like poison to fundamentalist Christians, a fact of which I was not aware. Since we had access to the intertrons by way of many a phone and Blackberrys, we quickly consulted the two websites we were directed to: http://www.josephlied.com/ and the rather bulkier URL, http://www.whatmormonsdonttell.com/. Neither was terribly satisfactory. We also noted the excellent level of parking-lot guidance, in which we were situated in the lot based upon which direction we would be heading after the pageant. This excellent service, we noted, was provided by almost exclusively bearded men -- thus not members of the LDS church.

And so it came to pass that by providential guidance we found Billie and Ian nearly immediately, and repaired to the spot they had marked out for us on the grassy field behind the seats of the pageant area.

At this point, all the K-folk headed toward the visitor center, as we had been promised a glimpse of a talking Jesus statue. Along the way, Carrie -- who it was later revealed has never met a stranger -- encountered a woman wearing a t-shirt commemorating Carrie's mother's high school. A short chat uncovered that the woman and her friends knew many of Carrie's relatives and that -- wonder of wonders! -- Carrie's mother's cousin was actually in attendance at this very pageant. And lo it was that the Hill Cumorah reunited never-before-acquainted members of the Houchins family.

Next, we finally arrived at the visitors center, and after a short wait, were ushered into a rotunda that featured a large statue of Jesus surrounded by small divans. We were given small cards upon which to inscribe the names and addresses of any friends and acquaintances that we wished to receive a visit from representatives of the Mormon faith. My friends and acquaintances will be relieved to know that I did not submit a card.

I regret to report that the alleged talking Jesus statue did not talk at all; rather, it simply stood there as a piped-in voice recounted some speech attributed to the Son of Man in the Book of Mormon. It was disappointing in the extreme. Next came an address by a young, perky missionary, who stuck to the "I know" formula of all such tour addresses. She polled the audience for our responses to the talking Jesus and, after receiving none, awkwardly acknowledged that such feelings were very personal and hard to share.

And so it came to pass that we were ushered into a small screening room, where we were told we would be presented with a short film about the experiences of Joseph Smith. The perky missionary noted that boxes of tissue would be posted in the front and back of the room for our convenience. I was puzzled by this until the elderly lady began dabbing her eyes almost as soon as the opening titles began to roll.

After the film, which I am pleased to report was produced according to fairly high standards of the cinematic arts, we passed into the museum area of the visitors center. Here, we gazed upon a real, authentic replica of the gold plates, which looked -- as Mr. Czajka had promised up -- like a Trapper Keeper wrought in gold tin foil. After much fuss, lost companions, regained companions, and trips to the restroom, we departed.

We repaired to our spot on the lawn, where we had set up chairs and a cunning table for our comfort. En route, some of our clan stopped for a photo with the Old Testament-costumed cast members who were now prowling the audience. Katie and I, bashful as we are, put our heads down and walked on.

Upon our arrival at our picnic spot, we remarked upon the good luck that we had brought so many blankets, as it was unseasonably cool for July. And this it was that began to feast on many tasty comestibles, thoughtfully packed for us by Duane and Barb, including : Doritos, Pringles, cheese and crackers, Twizzlers, cherries, Jell-O (a Mormon favorite), and M&Ms. As we supped, we enjoyed the spectacle of our young, Sephardic-looking Ian as he romped and played with blond, blue-eyed Mormon children.

As twilight approached, we in turn were approached by two cast members: a be-wigged fellow who looked uncannily like the father on Malcolm in the Middle, and his similarly clad wife, who announced with relish that she was to play "an evil woman" in the evening's pageant. They were a friendly but vaguely unsettling couple -- a strange cross between straight-laced Mormon and dewy-eyed flower children rhapsodizing about Woodstock. They asked Czajka the ubiquitous opening question of Mormon country -- "Where is your family from?" -- and informed us this was their third year in the pageant. Their three kids were also in the cast, and they had all been sleeping in a tent for the last 21 days.

The husband seemed torn between twin impulses: to proselytize his beliefs and to advertise his role in the pageant and the fact that he knew the guy who played Jesus. Eventually, he took a knee, cracked open his Book of Mormon, and showed us the scene in which he appeared. He segued seamlessly from a discussion of scripture (the familiar phrase "I know" eventually came out), and he noted that performing in the pageant provided a sense of intimacy with the savior that was touching and inspiring. His wife agreed, and told us the pageant was really something, and that it was amazing when they lowered the savior down on wires from 50 feet above the stage. "Well, it's not 50 feet," her husband scoffed. "He comes down from 50 feet, and it's really something!" she repeated. "Not really 50 feet," her husband countered. We chatted a bit longer, and the husband asked if any of us had the book of Mormon. With our varied and unconvincing answers, he seemed to sense we were not worth the effort, quickly stood, yanked his wife up, bid us adieu and went on his merry way.

As darkness began to fall, it came to pass that it was time for the pageant to begin. Then it was that we were treated to many a spectacle, including fire effects, explosions, waterfalls, the aforementioned descending Jesus, the building of a ship, the battle of Nephites and Lamanites, the horrible inhumanity of man to man, the intractable wickedness of even the favored and sometimes pious Nephites, the burying of the story of the Nephites by Moroni, and the discovery of said plates on this very spot in the 19th century.

More on the pageant: it features of a cast of nearly 750 volunteer actors on a mammoth platformed stage perched on the summit of the Hill Cumorah. All audio is piped in, and the actors simply mouth the words while gesturing wildly to ensure those of us even way in the back can tell who is talking. It really is a wonder of stagecraft, special effects, directional acumen and people management. The Theater Department of Brigham Young University should be very proud.

Another note: The music for the pageant is rather odd and, in parts, sounds much like an MGM musical. The opening strains quite distinctly echo Gypsy, and a grand scene of baptism was accompanied by strains recalling The Wizard of Oz.

During the pageant, it seems the miraculous expansion of the tiny bladder failed me, and I had to pee. Knowing that it would be nigh unto impossible to access the can after the pageant when the throng of humanity was pushing toward the parking lot, I opted to head out during the final battle of the Nephites and Lamanites, which due to its graphic nature, spread sufficient illumination onto the lawn. Sadly, plot and lighting failed me upon my return, as Moroni buried the plates in a single pinspot, and left me on a plain darkling. I had to edge along, foot by foot, on uneven, pitch-black sod, sidestepping groups of the faithful as I went. My fanny hit the seat again just as Joseph Smith made his fateful discovery.

Leaving the pageant, we found the parking lot crowded but fairly convivial. The fact that we were waved into the flow of traffic as quickly as we were is a testament to the fact that Mormon doctrine, if it teaches nothing else, instills its members with nice manners. As we departed, Mr. Czajka noted that the young actor who had played Joseph Smith in the movied we had watched was "totally gay."

The Journey to Lily Dale

And so it came to pass that it was a good thing that we all went straight to bed after the pageant as Sunday, July 29, in the year of our Lord 2009 was to be a full one.

After an early arisal, we left the house at the bleary-eyed hour of 8:30am to meet Billy at the local Ted Horton's. Coffee, donuts and breakfast sandwiches obtained, we hit the road for Lily Dale, the center of American Spiritualism.

En route, we continued our audio game, this time answering questions relating to the realm of the spirits, and identifying music from Poltergeist, The Lady in White, The Amityville Horror, and Ghostbusters. It must be recorded that I did not turn in as stellar a performance as I did on the previous day, but due to my staggering lead, I still managed to win. My prizes included:

* A CD containing all the songs used in the game
* A t-shirt commemorating "Rochester, NY, Lilac Capital of the World"
* A refrigerator magnet in the shape of New York state, with Rochester prominently marked
* My very own copy of the Book of Mormon
* A DVD of the PBS series The Mormons
* A book entitled Devil's Gate: Brigham Young and the Great Mormon Handcart Tragedy
* A book entitled The Reluctant Spiritualist: The Life of Maggie Fox
* A pencil stolen from Lily Dale

As we pulled off the expressway after more than two hours of travel, Mr. Czajka adjured us that it was now time for a few moments of quiet reflection. We had scheduled private readings with one of Lily Dale's registered mediums, Marti Hughes, and she had directed Czajka that we should "pack our trunks" with our dead so that there would be much for her to unpack in our readings.

Just as we launched into this moment of reverie, Katie caught sight of a Bob Evans, and launched into a vituperative tirade upon the poor quality and value of the food at said diner. After several minutes, it was noted that this was to be a moment of silence. Undaunted, Katie continued her rant, noting that everyone had told her how good Bob Evans was, but that it really wasn't, especially for the money you pay, and why would you go there anyway. Just as she started to settle down, someone in the car, it might've been Carrie, inquired as to some particularity of Bob Evans, and the rant renewed. I commented that we would undoubtedly encounter the spirit of Mr. Bob Evans in all our readings.

Despite Katie's outburst, I managed to ponder who I would "bring along" to my reading. My life is surprisingly unencumbered by dead people. The most recent ones I could think of -- namely, Jonathan and my neighbor Dolores -- seemed unlikely visitors. I couldn't imagine either had anything to say to me (apart, perhaps, from Dolores inquiring whether I was still enjoying her hand-me-down tupperware), and I was not special enough to either warrant an appearance. Going back further, I knew grandparents were my fallback option, but I wasn't particularly close with any of them. It struck me, however, that I might like to hear from my maternal grandmother, as she suffered from the same late-in-life health issues my mother currently suffers from, and I thought she might have something to say on the matter. So I dedicated a few minutes thinking of her, even though I was not convinced that mediumship consists of anything but a great ability to read subconscious cues and provide vague guesses.

A few words on Lily Dale and the surrounding area: it is a small community on the shores of a lovely lake surrounded by sylvan splendor. It was founded in the 19th century, during the height of the craze for spiritualism initiated by the rappings and tappings of a famous family of psychic siblings, the Fox sisters. The Rochester/Buffalo region, in fact, is frequently referred to as the "burnt over district," as waves of religious passion and evangelism passed through country in the mid 1800s. Spiritualism, Mormonism and the Shaker movement are among these waves. Lily Dale hit its apex at the turn of the century, and has sagged a bit since. It's really a rather charming little community, boasting quaint, peeling Victorian houses, a hotel, library, museum, and a big, general-use auditorium -- a fantastic open-air structure that looks like is should be housing a carousel.

To hang out your shingle as a medium in Lily Dale, you must past a certification process -- testing and such -- though some scoff that it's "all political." Some claim there are "vortexes" in the region -- centers of spirit that put the "other world" in closer contact here. There is also "Inspiration Stump," a site of "profound spiritual energy" in a nearby forest clearing where mediums provide messages from beyond twice a day during the summer. Did I mention it's free?

But while the message services are free, entry to Lily Dale is not, and so it came to pass that we forked over $10 a head and entered the hallowed gates. From there, we located Marti Hughes' home, where she does her readings, and then repaired to one of the community's three gift shoppes, where I purchased my very first pack of tarot cards.

Our private readings were scheduled throughout the day, and interspersed with other, otherworldly experiences. I wasn't in attendance for any of the private readings but my own, so I'll capture a few recollections and recounted details here (I regret that my account of details from my reading are, naturally, the fullest):

* At the start of Czajka's reading, Marti told him there was a young man standing in the corner, arms folded, looking annoyed. We assume this was Jonathan, who had been to Lily Dale once in life, and had declared it a "dump." During the last horrible summer, he assured Czajka that he would never make an appearance there. During the fall of last year, Czajka made a visit to Lily Dale with Billie and had an uncanny experience during a private reading which suggested that, if such things are possible, Jonathan had changed his mind and showed up. But he swore he would never return. Hence the spiritual annoyance.

* Marti described Czajka's two grandmothers in such stunning and accurate detail, he was shocked.

* Marti told Czajka he was "worth his weight in gold" to his current employer -- a palpable truth -- and told him he had a job there forever, which both encouraged and dismayed him.

* In my reading, she started by noting she sees me teaching, but not in an academic setting. She also noted that I had no trauma in my life (largely true) -- that she usually spent her days helping people deal with traumas, but that I had none. My life, she said, generally works out for me (echoing, uncannily, a former roommate, who once called me "Fortune's darling"). I live "a life of preferences," choosing what I wish to do, and filling in the blank canvas of my life. She told me that in my work, I probably never had to look for clients; they just come to me. All this, largely true. She said I need to keep being grateful for this.

* She also told me that I'm "very open to guidance from the universe," but that I'm not aware of it. Things, she said, just come to me when I need them. I always am prepared and have what I need, but I never consciously do this. Anyone who knows of my basement knows this to be true.

* She identified one individual who was with me, and surmised it was -- ahem -- my maternal grandmother, who was presenting me an old-fashioned layer cake. A lemon layer cake. She asked if this particular grandmother was "old-fashioned." As it happens, she was -- my other grandmother was kind of stylish, voguish lady, but mother's mother was a classic 1930s-style grandma with white hair and housedress. Her message, Marti said, was that like the old-fashioned cake, she was an old-fashioned lady, and for all my modern ways, I was an old-fashioned girl. True that. (And, one week before, I sang "I'm Old-Fashioned" at Davenport's Open Mic Night.)

* Much to my surprise, Marti told me there was also a "gentleman" present, and that he rolled his eyes when she said "gentleman." She indicated it was Jonathan. I was surprised, as I didn't think that -- if spirit visits were possible -- Jonathan would stick around for me. Either Marti picked up on this, or Jonathan felt the same, as she then reported that when she asked what message he had for me, he "shrugged his shoulders." She said, "That never happens, it's a conundrum." Then she laughed and reported that he said, "Conundrum, that's a good word." Which actually seemed like something Jonathan would say.

* Marti also correctly identified that I had recently been through a "long night of the soul" in which I had given up faith and, in her most vivid evocation, flipped off God. This is true.

* I was less convinced later in the reading, when she told me that Jonathan felt I should not only sing in a group, but should take to the stage solo and "strut my stuff like a hot mama." "It's all in the shoulders," she said he said, shimming his spectral shoulders. This strikes me as drawn more from the sack of homosexual male stereotypes than from our actual Jonathan, unless the ectoplasm has gone to his head or something.

* Kelly was not impressed with her reading, which she felt was full of cliches and counseling, and not much that could be counted as "otherworldly."

* Billie's reading opened with the identification of two men who were protective, who Billie felt were her father and uncle. Marti noted they were confused and scratching their heads, and then asked, "Who is the mystery baby?" Billie was amused, as her son Ian is the produce of IVF by way of an anonymous donor. "They want to know why you didn't do it the old-fashioned way."

* Marti also informed Billie that Jonathan had his two cents to add, and some choice words about the handling of some of her personal affairs. Jonathan, Billie described it, "yelled" at her. According to Czajka, these sentiments were totally consistent with our dearly departed's feelings on this matter.

* As Billie was leaving, Marti noted that Jonathan pointed to his feet, and noted that he was now not wearing socks. In life, Jonathan never went barefoot, so noting the change was meaningful. He also noted that he "now wears loafers," a sharp departure for the living Jonathan.

* Kristen, like Kelly, was not terribly happy with her reading, as none of her dead relatives showed up. She thought it felt like run-of-the-mill counseling, and was confused by a tangent about how one could teach a course on theater online.

* Katie, like some of us, enjoyed a visit from Jonathan, but it was, as she put it, "an uncharacteristically nurturing Jonathan" who didn't yell at her at all.

* Carrie felt her reading was "all misses." Marti asserted that she had had a difficult pregnancy when, according to Carrie, her pregnancies were "textbook." Marti also asked, "Who's the butcher?" When Carrie asserted that she knew no butcher, Marti kept asking about it -- a ploy, Carrie felt, for covering up a patent miss. She also asked Carrie about someone who knitted in the family. Misses all, Carrie told us. More on this anon.

* Marti also told Carrie not to "drive too fast" after we left Lily Dale.

And so it came to pass that we enjoyed the all the many pleasures Lily Dale affords, including:

* Not one but two services at Inspiration Stump, where four mediums come out for 15 minutes of cold-reading of people drawn from the audience. These range from the eerily dead-on ("Your aunt's name is May." "Yes.) to the pathetically vague and inaccurate ("There's a spirit from the mother's side of the house and she wants you to know she's so proud of you.")

To our grave disappointment, no one in our party received any messages at either service. This led us to surmise that perhaps there were all sorts of angry spirits and negative energy hovering around us, since our required reading had taught us that the mediums of Lily Dale would not convey negative messages.

We were also struck by the strange verbal formulations of the readings -- rather like the interpolation of the "I know" statements by the Mormon tour guides. One medium interspersed "please" throughout her messages ("There's a man here, please, who was hit on the head, please, and his name starts with J, please"). Nearly all mediums ended there stump messages with the phrase, "I leave that to you with God's Blessing," which became the refrain of the rest of the trip.

* A visit to the Lily Dale museum, where we browsed bent spoons and brass trumpets that had been levitated by mediums of an era past.

* A viewing of a film, "Welcome to Lily Dale," at the library, which unfortunately coincided with my private reading, so I am unable to convey its contents.

* Luncheon at the Sunflower Cafe, not worth reporting on.

* A guest lecture at the auditorium on the difference between choices and decisions given by a resident psychic, directing us to consider with each decision how we will be impacted in 10 minutes, 10 months and 10 years. This led to the repetition of this formula for nearly ever decision made on the rest of the trip.

* Yet another message service following the guest lecture with a medium who was uncannily dead on in many of his pronouncements. To wit, the woman who he identified as wearing her mother's necklace, which she was.

At the end of the afternoon, it came to pass that Kristen departed with the venerable Billie, who spirited her away for an evening flight from the Buffalo airport. The remaining K-folk embarked upon a tour a mysterious Lily Dale attraction called the "Fairy Trail."

What we expected was a trail in the forest where fairies are reputed to be seen. What we got was a forest trail bestrewed with offerings for said fairies, constructed largely from bird houses, glitter, figureines, and sequins. As I told Mr. Czajka, I could live the rest of my life there. We resolved that on our next visit, we would construct a multiroom house to be left on the fairy trail, and that each participant would be required to decorate one room with fairy fancies. A contest, you see. For another valuable gift bag.

We Flee to Canada

And so it came to pass that we departed Lily Dale and all its gauzy wonders and headed west (!) to Canada and Niagara Falls. Along the way, Kelly read to us from intertrons on the subject of fairies, about which we now had many questions.

We arrived on the U.S. side of the falls, and headed to a nearby casino, where we dined. During dinner, Carrie again bemoaned the fact that her reading was so full of misses, including the laughable statement that she had a difficult pregnancy.

Kelly, who had not yet heard this detail, chimed in, "But you were in labor for 36 hours and had an emergency C-section."

"Does that count?" Carrie asked. We assured her it did. Score one for Marti.

Dinner was a leisurely affair, not concluded until 10:30pm. At this point, we had to flee to the falls, as we were not sure when the lights would turn out for the evening. An inaccurate casino employee told us the bridge to Canada was a five-minute walk away. He lied. Thankfully, suspicious heads prevailed, and we cabbed it to the bridge, then to the famed "Horseshoe" on the other side.

As we gazed upon the sliding waters as they fell inexorably away, I mused on the fact that this entire weekend had been a meditation on the subject of suggestibility. Our trip to Palmyra raised the question of how one could believe that the age of miracles was still with us. Our foray into Lily Dale teased us with hits and misses, daring us to believe, then chiding us for our gullibility. Now this natural wonder was working its magnetic force, beckoning me over the edge in a way that speaks not so much to self-annihilation as to wanting to join a mighty force already in play.

And then, we visited a gift shoppe, and I joined the flow of commerce by purchasing a puzzlingly ugly commemorative shotglass. After a few misturns, we found our way back over the border, and Carrie made yet another friend with the border agent, who hailed her on account of her West Virginia t-shirt.

And it came to pass that the entire remaining K-crew, with the exception of myself, enjoys the gaming tables, and so remained at the casino for 15 minutes of gambling as I dozed on a lobby chair. It was now 1:15am.

To ensure that Carrie remained awake during the drive home (she being behind the wheel), Czajka decreed that we would play a game inspired by the cabaret open mic I had attended earlier that week. We were to go through the alphabet, naming shows for each letter, then singing full out a song from each show. We did very well, but unaccountably had trouble coming up with a good "T" show (we chose Tommy but realized no one knew any of the words).

Thanks to "Officer Krupke" (or perhaps to Katie's rant about how awful a song "Officer Krupke" is), we managed to miss both Rochester exits, and swung a bit out of our way. As we left the expressway to backtrack, we heard the unmistakable sound of cars crashing. On the underpass below us, there was a collision, and two cars had spun out. Carrie, whose reflexes were unexpectedly spry for 3am, spun a u-turn and parked us on the side of the road behind one of the cars. Czajka ran to check, and discovered the driver of one car injured and pinned by his airbag. The other driver, a young woman, was undeniably drunk. Kelly dialed 911, Kate gave the operator directions. We waited till the police arrived, who told us to leave, as we had not witnessed the crash.

We mused that it was lucky that we were not going, as Marti Hughes had warned us, too fast, or we might have been part of that accident. Or we might have missed the chance to help.

And so it came to pass that exhausted but exhilarated, we were soon safe in our beds, 'round about 4am. I arose at 7:30am, was cheerfully driven to the airport by Katie's charming father, and arrived home some time around 3:30.

Coda

Later, we all received the following missive from Carrie:

Wanted you all to know that I spoke with my mother. Her Aunt Judy was a butcher her whole life. My mother said "She would be the one person I would have wanted you to hear from" in Lilydale.

Did I mention that Aunt Judy was also a knitter?

I leave that to you with God's Blessing. Thank you.

Crazy Crap Item #237: The part where my basement expands to next door

Oft and anon, I've noted that everything I need is located in my basement. Neighbors have marveled how fabulous stuff, stuff I don't even know I own, leaps forth from this wonderland of discarded goodies, seemingly at the bidding of unseen hands. Just recently, my neighbor Jim asked whether I had any of "that spongey shelf paper, the kind with holes in it." I produced it (the product is known, apparently, as "grip liner"), and his wife Ann asked, "Was it in your basement?" It was.

So, just this morning, I emailed the local listserv, Ruth's List, because I needed a notary public for some financial papers. I could go all the way down town to Charles Schwab and have them notarize it, but that would necessitate leaving my house, something I avoid at all costs. Minutes after hitting send, I received the following email from Ann:

Jim is a notary but he's out of town. He could bring his seal home on Thursday night if that's not too late for you.

Once again, what I need is just under my nose, as the boundaries of my basement expand to next door.

Crazy Crap Item #236: The part where Jim Croce follows me wherever I go

Lately, my life has been a veritable whirlwind. I've been researching and writing about Iceland, Italy and Scandinavia for various and sundry travel brochures. I started on a new pro bono project with Taproot Foundation. I've been girding my loins for a weekend away with Mr. Chris Czajka and company for a tour of all upstate New York's most glamourous phenomena, including attendance at the annual Hill Cumorah Pageant (a fabulous outdoor presentation documenting the founding of Mormonism; I've got my fingers crossed for the Angel Moroni suspended on fishing wire); private medium consultations with a psychic at the center of American Spiritualism, Lily Daly, NY; and (yawn) a visit to Niagara.

This last weekend alone was a maelstrom of activity. After a Friday night on the town, I sang at a Saturday night concert by my a cappella group, Faces for Radio, followed by zany karaoke hijinks at our favorite dive, Cafe Bong (affectionately known as "The Bong Ho"). First thing Sunday morning, we met for brunch with James Eason, an old friend of mine from high school, then sped out to Pilsen for a soon-to-be-disclosed art project of epic proportions.

Given all the mayhem, it's no surprise that I had failed to follow up on the strange arrival in our household of a stray Jim Croce CD.

Now, I know Mr. Croce of old. I grew up in the '70s, after all. Many's the time my mother would dance about the kitchen, crooning of bad, bad Leroy Brown ("Badder than old King King,/ Meaner than a junkyard dog"). I have not, however, had any contact with the works of Mr. Croce since then, or ever expressed any desire to own his greatest hits.

Despite this lack of interest on my part, there it was: "The Greatest Hits of Jim Croce," courtesy of my father. I assumed my father had meant to have this item sent to himself, but had a pre-set address on Amazon for my abode. I thought nothing more of the matter.

On Monday, despite my tornado-like weekend, I ventured out to Davenport's Piano Bar. This fine establishment boasts a cabaret open mic night, an event which my must have been invented solely for my own amusement. A fantastic accompanist and a bunch of friendly folk singing showtunes, old pop songs, standards, original compositions, you name it. (This is not to be confused with Petterino's Monday Night Live, which is a much more formal and daunting affair).

So, there I sit with my good friend Lindsay, nursing a glass of Sauvignon Blanc and contemplating my next tune, when a fellow gets up and sings a song about being in love with a roller derby queen. This is, of course, amusing to me, as Eamon is an official for Chicago's women's roller derby league, The Windy City Rollers. I text him about the song, and like magic, he walks in the door (mere coincidence -- he as actually at derby practice that night, which is not far from Davenport's). I recount this mystifying bit of synchronicity.

The week plods on, and I finally chat with my father on Wednesday. He asks if I received the Jim Croce CD. Memory jogged, I exclaim, "I've been meaning to ask about that. Did you send that to me on purpose?"

Yes, he assures me. "Number 14 is for Eamon."

After we hang up, I hunt down the CD and check the song list.

#14: "Roller Derby Queen"

Jim Croce and the derby girls, they follow me.

Crazy Crap Item #235: The part where I tend to a long overdue memorial

I told myself I wouldn't let a year pass before I tended to this, but here it is, a year later, and I've yet to post.

What I'm referring to is a sad event that transpired one year ago today: The passing of Dolores McDermott.

Please don't misconstrue the long delay. It's not that Dolores' death passed unnoticed, or that her absence wasn't mourned. It's just that tributes are always hard to write, and particularly so when the person you're memorializing took on mythic status. That's the case here.

In a way, this entire blog serves as Dolores' memorial. What else can be said about someone who appeared so often in these pages?

But it's not just a matter of frequency. Any account of 1500 Norwood would be incomplete without the tales of Dolores. She was a fixture, an icon. "The lady in the lawnchair," the first harbinger of spring whose habitual appearance seated in the folding chair in her driveway signaled that the fine weather was finally here.

She was the "mayor of Norwood," constantly observing, always with a bit of news about this neighbor or that. Passersby would stop to say hello; sometimes cars would even stop. Anyone who doubts the ominpresence of Dolores need only visit Google maps, and take a street view of our block. Dolores sits there to this day in her lawnchair, enshrined in Internet glory.

It's only on a block like 1500 Norwood that you'd have a Dolores -- the sometimes sweet, sometimes crotchety old lady who knows everyone and everything that's happened in the last 40 years on this block. What's more, she assumes you know them as well -- "You know, Bill on Glenview. He was the one who lived in the blue house when the dime store caught fire..."

I don't even know how long Dolores had lived on Norwood, but it was a long time. I estimate it must've been at least 100 years. In my mind's eye, I see her in a 1930s housedress, Marcel waves in place, calling in the kids to listen to "Little Orphan Annie" on an enormous wood-paneled radio. That's all wrong, of course; Dolores would barely be a baby in the early '30s. But there was something so undeniably old-tyme about Dolores, so Depression-era, so much of deep roots and cherished traditions, the image feels right. She was like a throwback, an icon of old-ladyness from another time--not unlike her block, a throwback to the old-fashioned Chicago neighborhood.

In fact, I'd say it's not simply that you cannot describe 1500 Norwood without mentioning Dolores. I'd suggest she herself was a sort of emblem for everything that's special about this block. She embodied the permanence of a neighborhood where people don't move away, and where old ladies stay in houses that are too big for them long after many would retire to the nursing home. She was a living example of the shared memories, the traditions, that makes community on such a block coherent.

She wasn't just sweetness and light, some latterday Aunt Bea. She was Chicago life, warts and all. She got crabby and complained about her relatives to anyone who would listen. She spied. She harbored a long-time feud with our other neighborhood stalwart, Bernadine.

But she also held up the pillars of community by keeping tabs on all our neighborhood doings. It was she, long-term readers may recall, who revealed who stole my Autumnal pumpkins, and who pooped on my lawn.

There was a certain shamelessness to Dolores that was the hallmark of old-ladyness, the privilege of living into your 80s. She never hid the fact she spied on you; she blithely proclaimed she had watched you doing thus and such. Often, she skipped a greeting altogether, and launched into her latest complaint instead--the fact that her grandkids hadn't washed the dishes or that someone had looked at her squinty-eyed--followed by an exasperated rolling of the eyes.

But her shamelessness was coupled with an oddly circumlocutionary way of addressing matters. She was paradoxically direct and indirect at the same time, skipping the niceties of normal human discourse. I fondly recall the time I came home, and as I pulled up to the curb, she beelined straight for me, waddling into the street on her characteristic blue Crocs. "I'm going to a wedding Saturday, and I need a dress. I wanted Ray to take me to the store, but he's not home. He said he would but he's not there..." To know Dolores was to realize that what she was really saying was, "I want to go dress shopping, I want to go now, and you're going to take me." Who was I to disagree?

But she was also generous. Nothing gave her more joy than discovering she had something she could give you. One time, she complained of a deli-quality meat slicer that was taking of space in her pantry. "Does your husband like meat?" Soon, we had a meat slicer. And bags of tupperware. And a tub of frozen cookie dough.

In the few years I knew Dolores, I got small glimpses of her life before old age. Once she told me of how she loved to sing when she was a little girl. She laughed at herself, showing me how she'd sit tipped back in a chair in her backyard, crooning to the moon.

Another time, she told me about how she'd take her many (8? 9?) kids to the dime store, which was at that time located about a few blocks north of us on Clark. She described leading them down the street, and how they'd have to stop and inspect each and every gangway. The trip would take hours, she recalled.

But these were only snapshots, and after she passed, I was delighted and surprised to get a fuller image of Dolores from the remembrances of her children at her wake and her funeral. Dolores loved to dance. She was committed to family traditions, particularly at the holidays. She raised her children with love, joy and energy.

Finally, it must be recalled that it is thanks to Dolores that Eamon and I ever came to Norwood. After viewing our house, we loved our house so much we decided to go all in. We made an offer of the highest amount we could pay, knowing it was still under the asking price. Our offer was politely declined. Later, mysteriously, it was accepted. Dolores later gave her version of the story. She'd met Eamon when he came back to see the house, and took an immediate liking to him. When she heard that our offer had been declined, she told the owners--the O'Malley kids who had lived across the street from her nearly all their lives--that we were nice people and they had to sell to us. We were the sort that needed to live here. The rest, as they say, is blog history.

So that's Dolores, our Lady of the Lawnchair, Mayor of Norwood. As a final farewell, let us pause to recall her legacy:

Crazy Crap Item #6: The part where my pumpkins go missing

Crazy Crap Item #61: The part where I see the first robin of spring, Norwood Street style

Crazy Crap Item #94: The part where we light the torch on the summer block party tradition

Crazy Crap Item #111: The part where I experience the joy of city living

Crazy Crap Item #115: The part where I document the first robin of spring

Crazy Crap Item #136: The part where Delores experiences an upgrade