A Ghost Named Jenny

A GHOST NAMED JENNY

I remember after spending a year at SUNY Brockport, that I'd taken an English essay writing class at Monroe Community College. The professor gave an assignment: Write about something that affected your life in some way.

Not very specific. Actually, quite the opposite. It was a very general assignment.

I thrived in English and writing classes. While students asked for bare minimum guidelines, I asked if there was a page maximum. I knew what I'd write about, didn't have to think about it, and didn't want to be held back by word count or page limits.

Although we had a week to complete the assignment, I completed mine that night.

I wrote about Jenny.

I got the paper back the following week with a “D”. Under the grade it said: "Too much like King/Poe. This was not a fiction assignment."

Jenny affected my life forever. So, you tell me, whether I imagined the below tale or not, regardless of what you think, I believe it happened ... therefore, it affected me. Forever.

When my parents bought their second home in Gates (Rochester, NY), I was nearly two-years old. It is where they still live today. Three bedrooms upstairs, a living room and kitchen on the first level, and below, a family room, and under that a full basement.

If you stood in the living room and looked up the stairs, you'd see my sister's bedroom door, on the wall hung a painting. A young girl, in a white dress stood in a field of yellow flowers.

I always disliked the painting. We all know that when you walk by one, the eyes of the person depicted are said to follow you. The girl in this particular painting was no different. Her eyes followed me. Really followed me. I swore I’d seen them move on more than one occasion.

When I was fourteen years old I could stand it no longer. I took the painting down and put it out into the garage. I used a grilling fork--the ones with two long, sharp tines—and forked the eyes out of the canvas, and dropped the framed and ruined artwork into the Dumpster.

Two days later, when I went into the garage, I stopped short. Against the far wall leaned the painting. Eyeless, but somehow still staring at me.

I snatched up a hatchet and hacked the thing to pieces. I gathered the destruction in my arms and once again dropped it all into the Dumpster. My parents had claimed, and still claim, they took the painting out of the garbage that first time. Said they wanted to hang it back up.

But without eyes?

I don't think so.

This was when it all started. My nightmare.

Had my actions caused a stir in the spirit world? Perhaps.

In no particular order, I want to inform you that since that day I never slept in my bedroom again. I spent the next four years sleeping on the sofa in the living room until I moved away to college. And when I returned from school, I still slept on the sofa.

Why?

That first evening I fell asleep on my bed. I was on my back. My hands on my chest. I woke up. My right hand was numb. Under it, I felt another hand, a third hand. I lifted both my arms in the air. The other hand was still on my chest. I could not see it, but felt it. Cold. And now my chest, too, was numb.

I screamed. I called for my mom, and for my dad.

When my bedroom door banged open, the hand flew off my chest, and a cool wisp of wind blew by my face.

I fell out of bed and scrambled for my father, who told me I'd just had a nightmare.

I was prone to nightmares. Walking and talking in my sleep. My waking up screaming was nothing new. But this was different. I knew the difference.

Something of a slob, each morning I took my blankets off the sofa and rolled them up in my arms. I'd go up to the hall closet. Open the door, throw the blankets in and slam the door before the ball of fabric rolled back out. One day when I did this, a corner of blanket got caught in the door jamb. My sister was right beside me. Laughed at the fact I'd have to open the door, and try again. When I opened the door, we both gasped. Literally, gasped.

Every blanket in the hall closet was folded and neatly stacked. Including the ones I'd just tossed in. There was no corner of a blanket by the door jamb.

One night when my parents were out, some friends were over. It was winter. I was sixteen. They were headed to Blockbuster to rent a movie. I stayed home. In the living room I watched TV. Alone. I heard floorboards creak. (The house was carpeted. No hardwoods). Someone was behind me on the stairs. I was dressed in shorts and a T-shirt. No socks. No shoes. I needed to get out of the house. My legs didn't seem to work. I couldn't turn around. Wouldn't.

Instead, when I could finally stand, I stood. I kept my back to the stairs. I moved along the back of the couch slowly, and when I reached the door I booked out it. Into the snow. Feet cold, and ran for the street. Once in the street I turned back to the house. The front door slammed shut.

I waited outside for nearly twenty minutes, shivering, waiting for my friends to get back home. They all had a good laugh at my expense. I laughed along with them. Inside, my heart beat wildly against my ribcage.

It was on one night in particular that I learned Jenny's name.

I was asleep on the sofa. This may have been a dream. Felt like one. I'd opened my eyes, and seated on the chair across from me was a girl in a red robe. Her hair was wet, long, worn down over her face. (I wondered later if her hair covered her face because she had no eyes...)

She told me her name was Jenny. That she was not here to hurt me, but that she wanted a friend.

A friend.

One weekend when I was home for the weekend from Brockport, I'd brought a friend. She and I were in my room. We sat on my bed. She opened up to me, told me that she "saw" things no one else could see. I just politely nodded and listened as she counted off strange things she'd encountered. Know what? I didn't believe her. But I listened. Why not. I was just waiting for her to shut up, and take her shirt off. Figured I could stomach a few minutes of jibber-jabber.

And then she looked at me with wide eyes. She told me, we're not alone. I almost laughed. She wasn't joking. She asked me, "Who's Jenny."

My breath caught in my lungs. "What?" I asked.

"Jenny," she said. "Who's Jenny ... because she's not happy I'm here."

I grabbed the girl's hand. I got to my feet and ran for the bedroom door, pull/dragging her with me. As we stepped out of the bedroom, the bedroom door slammed shut. We practically flew down the stairs. Up in my room, things banged, and thumped and fell.

We ran out of the house ... breathless ...

Jenny might have wanted a friend, but she was jealous, it seemed. I don't think she liked me having a girl in the room. In fact, I think she was pissed.

Unfortunately, I never looked into Jenny, to try to figure out who she was, why she was haunting my parents' house, the way people do in movies, and in books ...

After getting married, and moving out of the house, I never saw signs of Jenny again. I've been back to my parents' house, have spent nights there, and nothing. Nothing.

I wonder if Jenny left; if she actually was a figment of my imagination, or . . . real?

To be honest, at this point -- I just don't know.

What I do know is, from the time I was 14, until I was 21, something kept me from sleeping in my room, kept me from ever getting a solid night's sleep. And, from the time I was 14 until I was 21, Jenny was as real as any ghost ... real. Whether she existed or not, whether you believe me or not, it happened.

That professor giving me a D was uncalled for. And I fought for a better grade, explaining all of this to the professor who, decidedly, changed my grade to a B.

Sincerely,
Phillip Tomasso

Water Parks

I had a different blog planned for today's post. One about a ghost named Jenny, and how she lived in the house I grew up in. You'll still get to read that blog. Just not today.

While at work tonight we talked about, among many, many other non-repeatable topics, water parks. There is a new indoor park opening in Batavia. There is one in Canandaguia, and another in Pennsylvania. I'm sure there are more. I just don't know where they are. And frankly, I don't care.

But I am not just picking on indoor parks. It's going to be on both indoor and outdoor water parks. Like the one at Darien Lake and Sea Breeze.

Did I say, Pick On Them? Oh yeah. That's what I said.

I'll start by saying, I go in them. I love them. I enjoy water slides, and wave pools, and the lazy river. The bigger, the faster, the rougher, the better.

However, this is my problem with them. And maybe you won't agree. Maybe you'll think I'm just too obsessive compulsive. Or maybe, just maybe, you'll see that I am absolutely right.

I'm going to start and focus on Darien Lake. Know this, four of the last five summers, I've been a season pass holder. And more than likely, next spring, I will once again purchase season passes for my kids and me.

So what is my problem? What's my big gripe? What has me so irked that I am dedicating this week's blog to Water Parks instead of sharing with all of you the story of Jenny?

I'm glad you asked. Because, folks, I'm about to tell you.

The wave pool.  Do you know what this is? It's a giant pool. It has a deep end and at the mouth, a shallow end. It's like being at a cement beach. You walk into ankle deep water, and each step takes you out deeper and deeper into the pool. A generator behind a huge wall kicks on every fifteen minutes, and for the next ten minutes waves are pushed out. It becomes like the Perfect Storm, only controlled.

Although lifeguards man the walls, armed with whistles and floatation devices--swimmers are really on their own. Once the waves start, hundreds of people rush into the water. They scream, and jump into the oncoming waves. Their is body surfing, and yelling, laughing and quite possibly many near-drownings.

See, but that's the fun part of it all. The amusement park atmosphere--taken from the rides into the water. And the water and the fun is not where the problem stems from. It's the people. People. Therein the problem lies.

Darien Lake is known for its campgrounds. Hell. Campers get excellent deals. Stay on the campgrounds, and get free access to the park for the day. I'm no camper. In fact, I hate camping. I find it dirty, gross, and filthy. I know. I used pretty much the same word, three different times to describe camping. I did that on purpose. That's how much I hate camping. To think people choose to do this. For fun? Yeah. You'd be seeing me get an MRI, CAT SCAN, blood tests, whatever -- if I ever found myself booking a camping trip.

So now. These dirty campers?

Let me explain. I don't have anything against camping if say--I hung out with Laura Ingells. That would be fun. Cool, even. But once hotels were invented, I'd say fuck camping.

Where was I? Oh yeah. When you are at Darien Lake...You see them. Campers. Greasy hair, unwashed, wrinkled clothes, toe-thong flip-flops on dirt crusted feet -- you see them, a towel slung over a shoulder as they make their way -- not for the showers, screw showering. No. The campers are headed to the wave pool.

Why? Because to campers wave pools are more than merely used for entertainment, as a way to keep cool under a scorching summer sun, the wave pool is used as a fucking shower. A bath.

Hell, I might feel better if I saw the stupid hicks produce a bar of soap as they submerge smelly asses into water meant for enjoyment, and not as a means of sanitary cleansing.

Forget the fact that I've nicknamed Wave Pools, Band-Aid Bowls. Because when you step into one of them, the first thing you see is a band-aid skirting across the floor. Band-Aid's are a lot like cars. Once you spot a fucking Volkswagon Beetle, you see them everywhere. I gave up counting how many Band-Aids I spotted one day. There were just too many.

The worst is when the Band-Aid is floating gauze side up. You can see the dried blood marks, and wonder how much had washed off the gauze, and why the rest of the blood wasn't bleached out of it ... And the reason the blood isn't bleached clean is because there is no way there is enough chlorine in the pool to kill the infestation of germs and viruses thriving in the warm water.

And then, there is the Warm Water.

Where the hell do you think all that warm water comes from? Maybe the pools are heated. Maybe the sun has something to do with it. But my guess--if you ask me? It's people urinating in the water. And why not. You bathed in the fucking thing. Your Band-Aids are ripped off your skin in the flush of waves. Why get out and use a restroom like a normal person.

You're on vacation! Enjoy yourself! Pee in the water.

And that's the adults I'm referring to.

How about the kids, whose parents strap a diaper on them at 8 AM and then don't bother to change the thing until after swim time is all done? Those diapers full of piss and poop just ... you see what I'm saying?

Oh yeah. You have to see what I'm saying.

And this. This blog. It's the explanation. It is why I can not fully enjoy water parks.  Because as you know -- or maybe you don't -- that water, as it passes down the drain, does not get flushed out to sea like it should. No. It simply gets recycled.

Yipee!

In August 2005--1,800 people got sick at a New York water park. Gastrointestinal illness.

Know what that is? Gastrointestinal illness?

According to the Centers for Disease Control and Prevention, the most common symptom is diarrhea, dehydration, stomach cramps, weight loss, fever, nausea and vomiting. "Symptoms typically begin within days of exposure and usually last for two weeks."

Nice. Can you say, "I think I swallowed too much fecal matter?"

According to the CDC, Cryptosporidium is a microscopic parasite that causes the diarrheal disease cryptosporidiosis. Both the parasite and the disease are commonly known as "Crypto."
While this parasite can be spread in several different ways, water (drinking water and recreational water) is the most common method of transmission. Cryptosporidium is one of the most frequent causes of waterborne disease among humans in the United States.

I googled outbreaks. There are plenty. But I won't bore you with numbers and stats. Hell -- I know you can't live in fear. Swimming pools are similar -- I won't get into that right now though.

You know what? It's September.

Chances are, if you were appalled by this blog, you will have totally forgotten about it by summer.

I know I, more than likely, will have forgotten my irk-ness.

Possibly.

Anyway. Just wanted to share :-)

--Phillip Tomasso