We were married in Oklahoma City in 1962. Dick was the news director and anchor man at WKY-TV.

Before the year was out, Dick had a new job in Pittsburgh, and we loved that city. We found fun friends, Dick thrived in his work, and something exciting was always going on, from formal balls to foxhunts riding through our yard, to dinner-dances on the river to crazy Sunday brunches. We spent evenings before the fire, watching the huge, soft snow flakes fall and reading poetry.

We first lived in the wooded area of Sewickley Heights, a Pittsburgh suburb, where every house had at least 5 acres. We were a stone’s throw from the Heinz (as in pickles) estate. Our house was nice , but trust me, a far cry from those surrounding us.

Next, we moved to Pittsburgh’s North Hills. I wrote this story about one of our experiences there. It was published in the Houston Chronicle.
 

THE QUESTION
 

Do I believe in ghosts? Once my answer would have been a smile and a quick, “Of course not.” I was too sophisticated for such nonsense and young enough to have no doubts about my opinions. Now I’m a little older, and not quite so certain.

Dick and I had been married a few months when his work transferred us to Pittsburgh. Bravo came with us, of course. He’d grown from the wet-nosed, wiggly puppy who was my wedding gift into a proud young German Shepherd, ready to take on the world. He never strayed far from my side.

When we began house hunting, we discovered a stately English Tudor, around a hundred years old, set amid several acres of trees and a small orchard. We couldn't understand why it had stood empty so long.   

The moment I stepped past the massive oak door, I knew we would look no further. The house had three stories and lots of room, with delightful little nooks and hideaways. It was far too big for us, but we leased it on the spot.
The third floor was divided into two huge rooms. We used one for storage and furnished the other as a den.

From the beginning there was something strange about that part of the house. I found myself rushing to finish whatever errand had taken me to the third floor so that I could hurry downstairs again. I fought the desire to turn abruptly and look over my shoulder, in some vague way fearing to do so. I felt ridiculous.

One evening I made a flimsy excuse to avoid going upstairs, and Dick said quietly, “You aren’t comfortable up there either, are you?” We found we’d independently experienced the same unreasonable feelings, but blamed our over-active imaginations. After all, the rambling old house in its isolated setting was perfect for such fancies. We said nothing to anyone, but joked between ourselves about our haunted house.

Our neighbors became our friends, and several of them were over for a dinner party when one asked, “Well, have you seen her yet?” We stared at him as the others added their comments. Our house was said to be haunted by the presence of an elderly woman who had died on the third floor. No one knew her identity, only that her life ended decades earlier.

One neighbor insisted he’d seen her at the third floor window on a winter night while the house was vacant. She was gone instantly, but he knew what he’d seen. Another claimed there had once been bars on that window. Rumors about the circumstances surrounding her death ranged from tragic to suspicious. One far-out version held that she was still young when she died, and that the apparition seemed to age as the house itself grew older.

Dick and I laughed and maintained, quite truthfully, that we'd seen nothing. Privately, we agreed that if - just if - anything dwelled in the rooms above us, it didn’t seem menacing or evil, just unwelcoming, cold.

We entered an unspoken truce with the spirit. If indeed she existed, she could have the third floor, but there she would remain. For our part, we never went above the second floor again unless we had no choice.

I remember happy days in our house. We romped with Bravo in December snow and picked apples from our trees in the Spring. Friends came for Sunday brunch. Our house and our lives were filled with sunlight and laughter.

Only once was I truly frightened. Dick was working late that winter night, leaving Bravo and me alone in the house. Wouldn’t you know, it was storming.
I’d gone to bed when suddenly all about me there resounded the agonized wail of a soul in torment. Had she left the third floor? Bravo, with one mighty leap, landed in the middle of me.

The sound stopped as abruptly as it began, and there was only the cry of the wind and the pounding of the rain on the windows. We lay there shaken until Dick came home. I blurted out what had happened. He finally convinced me it must have been just the storm, and we fell asleep.

Deep in the night, the terrible cries echoed throughout the house once more. Dick bolted upright, his eyes wide with astonishment. I was terrified, but found some satisfaction in my vindication.

Now that Dick was home, Bravo trotted bravely in front of us while we followed the wailing. It led, not to the third floor, but the basement. The house was old, and we discovered that when air got trapped in the pipes, the weird moaning resulted. With a couple of sharp raps of the hammer in the right spot, peace was restored.

Dick relished pointing out to me that there is always a logical explanation for things. It was fun thereafter. If the agonized wails came when guests were present, we’d look at them innocently and ask, “What sounds?"

When we decided to accept a new job in Los Angeles, leaving the house was what we regretted most. On our last day, I went to the third floor to give our resident spirit one final chance to appear. I saw only empty rooms. How silly we'd been to think we shared our home with a ghost! The man from the moving company stuck his head in and said, “Nothing left. We took everything, just like the lady said to.”

“What lady?”, I fired back.

He looked at me oddly. “Why, the old woman who was up here.” And he walked away.

Do I believe in ghosts? Time and distance have convinced me that one of our neighbors must have enlisted the mover to help play a parting joke on us.
But I still wonder about one thing. Why, from the start, did Bravo refuse to set foot higher than the landing above the second floor?
 

~~

A full-page ad in the Los Angeles Times heralded Dick’s arrival in L.A. It was a heady experience in some ways. We were on the edge of the celebrity crowd, (way out on the edge, but on there, nevertheless,) and we caught a glimpse of what that life is like. It brought perks, but those can be embarrassing sometimes. And it isn’t fun to be unable to go to dinner without strangers leaning close to hear what you are saying to one another.

That was an interesting time. We took in a premiere riding on Dick’s motorcycle, dressed in satin jumpsuits. And I bought a mynah bird, whom I named “Honda,” because I was determined to have a Honda of my own. And Ric and I spent a terrifying night, waiting to hear from Dick as he covered the Watts riots. We flew to Las Vegas to hear Sinatra at The Sands. We drove down the coast to San Diego and stayed at the Hotel Del Coronado and drove up the Pacific coast highway, drinking in the beauty of the ocean and the mountains.

We enjoyed our house in the hills. It perched high above a valley, and when it was foggy, it felt as if we were living in the clouds. The house was built around a swimming pool, surrounded by fountains. What I really loved about L.A. was the ocean. We spent a lot of time at the beach. I soaked up the atmosphere at the missions and Farmer’s Market and the little Danish town of Solvang nearby.

When the TV station replaced all of its on-the-air talent, we returned to Oklahoma City for a brief stay. Then it was on to Houston, where we lived for over thirty years.

During that time, I got my law degree, practiced law and became a judge. Dick worked as anchor man and news director, then left to become a media consultant. Somewhere in there, we were divorced for a few years. However, as someone told me at the time, “You may have a piece of paper that says so, but you’ll never really be divorced.” That was true. He proposed to me the second time, as Big Ben chimed in the New Year in London. We remarried in 1978, and it looks as if it’s going to last. We traveled across Europe over thirty times, often spending Christmas in Zermatt, Switzerland and New Year’s Eve in London, and much time on the Greek island of Mykonos.         

We sought refuge from the world in our cabin on a small lake in East Texas.

We have loved each phase of our lives. Now, here we are in North Texas, starting a new chapter at 75 and 78. I’m relishing having time to write and Dick is getting so accomplished at the computer, it’s scary. We are content. but there is so much more we want to do. Hang around for the latest.

We had some great times ..

Campaigning for the bench

Dick and me at the cabin in the 1970s

Quail hunting in Western Oklahoma