Ghosts on the Coast of Maine (2 page)

Her impression could not be forced to stay in the back of her mind, however, the day she turned on a light which was immediately turned off by someone not visible to the physical eye. Later on, a door shut that had just been opened. No wind, no cause, no person. For no apparent reason, she started calling him George. Every time an article was moved out of place, it was “George's” doing.

I sensed a military presence in the house, based on the connection with the war boots, but I wasn't sure which war. Jewell said that anything was possible, since her place had been a funeral home prior to her ownership, but she didn't know exactly when.

“Funeral home” started buzzing around in my mind after I left my gutsy neighbor. (Jewell was the first person to give written consent to use her name and that of her establishment, in this book.) “Vietnam War Era” came to mind next, and that's all I knew until I talked to the former operator of the funeral home.

Dewey wasn't sure he wanted to talk to me. I suppose my non-Maine accent made him wary. Figuring this, I gradually slipped into my best “ayuh” kind of speech, and we had ourselves a grand old chat. As it turned out, Dewey knew my family because last fall he had taken care of my grandmother's body before her Providence undertaker could make the 365-mile journey up here. That put us on even better terms.

Come to find out, there had been a young chap from Rockland about twenty-seven years old, whose body had been flown in from Hawaii. Dewey didn't rightly know which year, either 1967 or 1968. The fellow had quite a nice service, as he recalled, an outdoor military funeral on a beautiful day in May, with guns smokin' and practically the whole town out to mourn him. He had died in a car accident in Hawaii while stationed there in the army. His name: George Golden.

His widow was quite shook up about it. She was just a young thing, no kids or anything. She ran a small ice cream shop on the outskirts of town, that is, until George died. Then she took up and moved away, and nobody's seen her since. There was reason for her to be upset, as well as the whole town, actually.

George had sort of been their fair-haired boy. He was an all-star basketball, football, and track athlete. Many a time he had put his high school on the front page of the newspaper. After George graduated, he continued lobster fishing with his father, a decorated veteran of World War II. Their whole family was very patriotic.

When George signed up for the army, he was determined to make himself a hero. Ayuh. He was going to fight them Commies, yes sir, the finest kind of fighter there'd be. He'd put his hometown on the map, by God. George Golden, from Rockland, Maine.

And then his life got cut short. George wasn't a wild one; he was in the passenger seat of the car when it happened. One of his army buddies got drunk and drove the two of them right smack into a tree. There he was, halfway to Vietnam, but he never made it.

Dewey wanted to know why I thought the Golden fellow was the ghost. I explained to him about my “feelings” with regard to the presence in the house, and why George would make a perfect ghost. A violent death is a prime factor, since the spirit is jolted from the physical sphere to the non-physical sphere. The soul may be confused, may not understand that its body is dead. Secondly, George's death would have been a huge frustration to him. He didn't want to die in some silly accident, he wanted to go out in triumphant glory, fighting for his country. He had anticipated a more honorable death, one with an enemy bullet lodged in his chest or something. That's why he's been bugging Jewell for attention. He'd like to relay this emotional burden to someone in hopes of being relieved of it.

All I can say is, George, you did your best. Let it go at that.

S
arah Whitesell was surrounded by her loving family when she died. This cushion of strength and goodwill allowed her to pass on gracefully, without much confusion, but her spirit has remained here as a testament of youthful innocence and gentility. Even if you cannot see her, her presence unmistakably permeates the last bit of ground her feet trod upon, the Mt. Megunticook trail.

Her life story was short but meaningful for those around her. It was full of energy and sensitivity toward others. It ended May 6, 1865, two days after her thirteenth birthday.

On that day the Whitesell family decided to go “Maying,” in celebration of a crisp, sunny Lincolnville morning. They hitched up the buggy and rode west, discussing which place was best for a picnic.

Father Whitesell didn't have much to say. He was too busy driving the buggy. Sarah and her two little brothers were arguing about their favorite spots, so Mother had to play arbitrator. The boys wanted to go to the shore because they loved to play in the water, and they didn't want to spend time climbing up a mountain. Sarah kept talking about the mountain because she liked to skip through the leafy passages of light where birds sang to one another in the treetops. It was so pretty, and there were interesting rocks and flowers to collect all along the way.

Mother hesitated to interrupt long enough for Father to intervene. “We'll go to the mountain,” he said.

Sarah hugged her father. He was so strong and kind and mostly gave in to her when there was a choice to be made. Zachariah Whitesell felt close to his daughter, the family member most interested in the profession he had chosen, the practice of law. Even though she did not understand everything she read down at his office, she loved to keep her father company, poring over the dusty old books full of big words. As with her father, criminal cases were her favorite.

Mary Whitesell shrugged her shoulders in acquiescence. She wasn't about to take on daughter and husband at the same time, both strong-willed personalities. She gave Sarah a knowing glance, however, because she knew that her daughter would be concerned about her feelings. Mary then settled down the boys, and they were all off to Mt. Megunticook in the Camden hills.

The air was so clean and the sun so bright that they caught Sarah's spirit from the beginning of the trail. She bounced up the path like a mountain goat, checking back now and then to make sure that her little brothers were not too far behind. She wanted this to be a pleasant trip for them, since it had been her idea.

By the time they reached the top, Mary had grown tired so she sat down in the soft long grass. Sarah went over and rubbed her mother's shoulders, then proceeded to help her father spread the blanket and take food out of the picnic basket. “Wouldn't it make a nice touch to have some flowers with our spread,” she thought. The most colorful blooms were growing about twenty feet away, on the edge of the precipice. Sarah picked some, then turned around to show her mother. At that point a gust of wind knocked her off balance, and she tumbled off the thousand-foot cliff onto a rocky shelf several hundred feet below.

Zachariah was first to reach her, after much difficulty. There lay her form, small for thirteen years of age, unbroken but unconscious. Now it looked even smaller, unmoving, helpless, and extremely bruised. The little girl's condition paralleled her father's feelings.

It took a while to gather rescue team members, but they did their best, lashing her to a plank and lowering her from crag to crag. It was a painstaking operation that lasted several hours. Sarah was brought to the nearest house, where everything possible was done to save her life. She passed away that evening, however.

Sarah's family, along with the family in the house, knelt down at her body and prayed through most of the night. They wanted her to be as happy now, as she had made them during her lifetime. The next morning Zachariah talked with Mary about erecting some sort of memorial on Sarah's mountain at the spot where she had slipped. A white wooden cross was decided upon and placed on the small hill overlooking the cliff.

Many people have traveled the path up Mt. Megunticook since then. It's a long walk, but it is so beautiful that a sense of purification captures the soul. The higher altitude might produce some lightheadedness, but that's to be expected. One might be tempted to walk over to the edge of the mountaintop and catch sight of the whole expanse of Lake Megunticook and miles of surrounding lands below. Be careful, especially when the wind is blowing.

It is the wind that blends with the spirit of Sarah and enfolds a person standing on top of the mountain. It bends the gentle grass backward and turns one's head ever so slightly in the direction of the tall weather-beaten cross several feet away. It creates a chilling effect that might be heightened by the sight of a little girl hovering in the flowers with an angelic smile on her face.

According to one witness, Sarah wears the clothes of her era, and colors can be distinguished, although her form is translucent. Another woman, a teacher, relates that Sarah does not stay long, and only seems to appear in the spring and summer months. People have experienced her as a non-threatening presence, simply a warm glow of friendliness. The sightings have been on good weather days, not cloudy or foggy ones, and the frequency of Sarah's visits was greatest during the 1930s and early ‘40s. The last reported appearance was in 1976.

Sarah's flowers might be tempting, too, but the locals warn not to pick anything atop that mountain. They consider it bad luck. They want to keep Sarah's mountaintop a place of inspiration and light, a place that people will remember by name, “Maiden's Cliff.”

T
he lucrative shipping era of 1864–1874 produced men with big personalities and derring-do. They were generous with their investments (they could afford to, no income tax), then turned around and socked most of their money into supporting the home town.

Shipbuilding was the industry that allowed most of these men to live out their dreams, but it was also a risk because it dealt with the sea. These men didn't mind the challenge; they welcomed it. Because ship merchants were not afraid to put their money to good use, small coastal towns boomed with business.

Tenants Harbor was the best example of this. Every other dock was littered with loads of cargo headed for Boston; New York; or Savannah, Georgia. They were boarded on schooners called coasters, which were built in the shipyards of Tenants Harbor. The busiest shipyard was Armstrong & Keane.

Gilbert Armstrong fit the description of a nineteenth-century shipping magnate. He was proud, healthy and bold. He loved to look out upon the harbor and see piles of lumber, coal, and stone, waiting to be loaded on the queenly coaster ships that belonged to him. In the other direction, toward town, he could see the general store that he owned, which was a good-sized contribution to the Tenants Harbor economy.

Gilbert stuck to the commercial end of the shipping industry. A shrewd trader, he knew ships, shipmasters, and buying and selling of materials. He was the richest and most respected merchant in town. He had a good eye for quality, and that's what he saw just west of his establishment, in the year 1872.

Harry Keane, ship builder, had just moved to Tenants Harbor and had set up shop on the shore below Armstrong. Harry was an excellent craftsman, with much experience and ability to choose the best materials for the job. He worked alone, but when the product was finished, she was a firstrate ship.

Harry was also a good talker. When he realized the success of Armstrong's operation, he coupled that with his own artistry as a builder, and asked his neighbor to go into business with him. Together they would build the most, the finest, the lowest-priced vessels of any shipyard on the coast.

In 1873 Armstrong agreed. The two partners successfully complemented one another. What Keane lacked in business sense was demonstrated by Armstrong; when Gilbert had a question about what wood to use, Harry supplied the answer.

Their common denominator was guts. A large part of their business was shipping paving blocks, a rather heavy cargo, literally the cornerstones of Fifth Avenue buildings, before concrete came along. Armstrong & Keane soon added lime to their list of shipped products, which was risky because of its propensity to catch fire when wet.