Ghost Fudge
Over the river and through the woods, to Grandmother's house we go!” Except for my family, the words should have been, “Over the river and through the unending, brain-dulling, snow-covered industrial soybean fields.” After crossing the Ohio River we had traveled along one pot-holed rural road after another. The sun had dropped below the horizon but the blowing snow had smudged the line between daylight and dark.
The scenery and weather were, truly, disagreeable. But the journey itself is a treasured gem of my childhood. The four of us, mother, father, baby brother, and myself, sped along in a Volkswagon-shaped cocoon of warmth and family-ness. My favorite part of these trips was the quiet late nights when my brother slept and I was an only child again. Garrison Keillor’s baritone would unravel as the distant am radio stations bounced off the ionosphere. Stretching out across the more than my half of the backseat, I would struggle to keep my eyes open against the gentle hum of the tires and the occasional murmur of conversation.
The last thing I remember was Reverend Ike promising his radio congregation eternal salvation when the car jerked abruptly to the left and my head slammed against the door panel. I tumbled onto the floorboard as the car slid off the icy paved road and nosed into a field of frozen corn stalks. A moment of shocked silence hung like a teardrop and then the adrenaline kicked in. My brother started a sleepy confused howl and my father began assessing the situation.
Reaching for her screaming son my mother asked, “What happened?”
“I’m not sure. I thought I saw someone…”
Realization dawning my mother began, “Oh my God, did we hit someone?”
Turning to look into my mother’s eyes, he insisted that we all stay in the car. When he was able to force his door open past the frozen stalks, bits of ice and cold wind blew into the warm car. We waited while he stumbled and stomped around the car. I watched from the rear window as he climbed back to the blacktop. After a few minutes he slipped back down the bank and wedged himself back into the car.
My mother looked at him questioningly. He shrugged. “I didn’t find anything. But, the front tire is blown. I don’t think I can change it in this weather.”
Kicking into maternal overdrive my mother protested, “We can’t just sit here. The children will freeze to deathqs.”
Responding to her ensuing panic with angry frustration my father demanded, “Well, what the hell do you want me to do?”
Taking a breath to calm her voice she offered, “I think I remember seeing a house just a bit back.”
“How far back?”
“Does it matter? We can’t stay here.”
With a sigh of resignation, he turned to me. “Okay sweetie, I need you to put your coat and boots on, we are going for a walk.”
“Don’t forget your hat and gloves,” added my mother unnecessarily. “And hand me the blankets for your brother.”
I probably should have been frightened but I was still young enough to believe my parents were invincible. Walking down the icy road as snow drifts swirled around my feet, I felt as safe and certain as if I were at home in my own bed. While my mother carried my brother swaddled in blankets that dragged the ground, I walked beside my father relishing the feel of his gloved hand gripping my icy mittens. The snow had stopped and the obscenely bright moon peeked between the clouds turning the snow into fields of diamonds. The air was sharp and painfully cold, but I laughed as my father tried to teach me to blow “smoke” rings with my icy breath.
Eventually, the exhilaration of evening wore thin. My bare toes began to ache inside my boots--no one had told me to put on my socks. When I began to stumble, my father scooped me up. Snuggling my cold nose against his warm neck, I heard my mother calling out from behind me, “Hey, do you see that? That light? There!”
A few minutes later, I stood beside my father as he knocked on the front door of the small home. The door opened to a blast of heat and odors. The first smell was fire. The scent of wood and sap popping in a grate. Then came what my brother would later call, “geezer smells”- furniture polish, Avon scented powder, Polident, and old kitchen grease. Finally, the scent of food, specifically sweet food wafted out the door like bait. When my father began stuttering explanations in the doorway, the old woman just patted my head and mumbled, “yes, yes, I know.” Perhaps her disarming trust should have been a red flag but I was young and cold.
“Come, come. Come inside near the fire.” When I headed towards the fire, I heard her behind me. “Careful now little one, not too close!” I was old enough that the “little one” comment stung a little but I let it slide. I stood with my stinging fingers stretched towards the fire. The adults scurried about with introductions and explanations but I was oblivious to everything but the warmth seeping through me. When I finally breathed a sigh of relief, I turned to study the old woman.
Ginger Parks was like a beautiful wilted flower-- right before it rots. She was small. She was not just short, she was small all over. Her skin hung around her like it was one size too big. Her thin gray hair hung loosely down her back. She might have been a bit scary but for the large blue eyes staring out from her wrinkled face. She reminded me of the plump blue fairy in one of my storybooks. The oddest thing about the old woman, though, was her clothing. She was dressed, head to toe, in a matching baby blue skirt and jacket with a wide lapels, a glittering brooch, and high heeled pumps.
Noticing her attire my father asked, “I hope we are not interrupting your plans? You look like you are about to go out.”
“I don’t go out anymore. All my friends are dead.”
Rescuing my father from the awkward turn in the conversation, my mother inserted, “Your suit is gorgeous. It is a beautiful color for you.”
Ginger shrugged and laughed, “What? This old thing? I wear it all the time. Here now, where are my manners? Let me get you some coffee. Young lady, how about some hot cocoa? And I have some fantastic homemade fudge.”
The “young lady” comment had earned my undying adoration and so I pulled out my best manners and replied, “Yes, ma’am, thank you.” I could actually feel my mother smiling behind me. While the old woman puttered around her kitchen, I took a moment to look around. The rust colored couch sagged a little in the middle. A crocheted afghan in alternating shades of brown, orange and white draped over an old brown recliner. Tabletops made of rich glossy wood gleamed in the firelight. A dark caned footstool was pulled from a corner to serve as a perfect table for the plate of fudge and cookies she placed in front of me.
Later when I was warm and began to nod off, Ginger fashioned a little nest of blankets for me near the fire. I reluctantly agreed to lay down but insisted that I was only resting my eyes. As I drifted off, I heard her telling my parents about her husband, John.
“John Parks was a good hardworking man,” I heard her say. “He worked this farm all day and he crossed that road twice a day to open the barn for the cows. He was killed crossing that road.”
“Oh my goodness, I’m sorry,” offered my mother. “You must miss him terribly.”
“I do but…”
“But what?”
“Do you believe in ghosts?”
Shooting a quick glance to make sure my eyes were closed, my mother shrugged and said, “I don’t know. I suppose anything is possible.” My eyes were closed but my ears weren’t.
My father interrupted scoffing, “Oh, there is no such thing as ghosts!”
“Really? Are you sure? Then tell me how you wrecked your car,” Ginger demanded.
“We veered off the road and ended up in a corn field.”
“But why did you veer off the road?” she pressed.
“I thought I saw someone. Wait...you are not trying to tell me that I saw a ghost are you?”
Turning to my mother, Ginger asked, “Did you see anything?”
“Uhmm-no, but…”
“Take this picture.” Ginger shoved a large framed photo into my mother’s hands. “Don’t let him see it.”
Returning to her seat Ginger commanded, “Now describe what you saw.”
“Well it was pretty fast but I swear I saw an old man.”
“What did he look like?” asked my mother.
“Describe what he was wearing?” urged Ginger.
“He was gray and had a long beard. He was wearing denim overalls, you know, like farmers wear? But I do remember thinking how odd it was that he had a dark coat over them. No an outside coat but a suit coat.”
I surrendered to sleep before hearing if my father had accurately described the departed Mr. Parks, but the next morning I surreptitiously looked for the framed photo. But I forgot all about the ghost farmer when Ginger placed a stack of pancakes with butter and syrup oozing over the edge of the plate in front of me. After breakfast I dried as she carefully washed each dish. A blast of cold air skittered across the floor when my father returned from checking on the car.
“It’s not as bad as I thought. I got it out of the ditch. I think we can make it to the next town. It will probably ruin the rim but I can’t budge the lug nuts.”
“There’s a small town about three miles from here if you turn left at the next fork. That’s probably your best bet,” supplied Ginger.
“Well, then. I guess we will be on our way. I cannot begin to thank you for your generosity. Can I give you some money? I mean, at least to pay for the groceries we ate?”
“No, no. You keep your money. I don’t need money. I was just grateful for the company. Like I said, everyone I know is dead.”
“Well...okay. But seriously, thank you. You saved our lives. We will be forever grateful.”
After additional goodbyes and exchange of addresses, I was bundled back into my coat and hat. Ginger had produced an old pair of men’s tube socks for me to wear inside my boots. My father left us standing just inside the door as he went to start the car and turn on the heat. When we heard the toot-toot of the horn signaling it was time to join him, we hugged Ginger one last time.
“Oh wait!” Ginger cried. “I have something for you.” She returned with a plate covered in aluminum foil. “More fudge,” she said winking at me.
I watched out the rear window as Ginger waved and then returned to her warm house.
Turning back around in my seat I announced, “She was really nice.”
The town was right where Ginger had promised. Our little car limped into town on three wheels and a rim. Fortunately the single gas station also served as the mechanic’s shop. My little brother and I were parked in front of a fifteen inch black and white television in the lobby while my parents negotiated the repairs. A heavy lady with orange hair and a name tag that read, My name is Lola stood behind the cash register. She told me I could have a candy bar if I wanted. Glancing down I noticed that I still held Ginger’s plate of homemade fudge. Holding the plate up towards her I offered, “Would you like a piece of fudge?”
Grinning the large woman squeezed out from behind the counter and pulled up a folding chair beside me. “Sure, thanks.”
Accepting a large piece, the clerk sighed, “Wow. That is really good fudge. Did you make it?”
“No, my friend Ginger did,” I replied stuffing another piece in my mouth.
The orange haired woman froze. “Your friend, Ginger? Is Ginger a kid from school? Or your maybe your aunt?”
“No, Ginger is this really nice lady that lives up the road. We crashed our car last night and Ginger made us cookies and cocoa and pancakes.”
“What did Ginger look like?” asked the clerk with enough wariness that it pulled my attention from the talking horse on television.
“I don’t know. She was old and wrinkly. She had gray hair.”
I heard the bell over the door jangle as my mother came in to check that I was behaving.
“Are you keeping an eye on your brother?”
I had honestly forgotten he was there, but he was a baby and they don’t do much so I replied, “yes ma’am.”
“Did I hear you say something about Ginger?”
“This lady was asking me about Ginger. What she looked like and stuff,” I replied turning my attention back to the television.
“Why do you want to know? She was just a lonely old woman who treated us very kindly last night.”
The orange haired clerk looked uncomfortable. “Please just tell me, was she wearing a blue suit with a big wide collar?”
“Well...yes. How do you know?”
“Ginger Park died twenty-two years ago.”
“You must be mistaken. The woman we spent the night with was very much alive. She did say her husband, John was dead. Maybe you have the story wrong? Maybe we met her daughter? How could you possibly know?”
The next thing the clerk said sent chills down my spine. “I know because I am Lola Park, the only child of John and Ginger Park.”
“ I know because twenty-two years ago, my mother lost control of the car and hit my father as he crossed the road in front of their house. They were both killed instantly.”
“I know,” continued the distraught clerk, “because that blue suit is the one I buried her in.”
The scenery and weather were, truly, disagreeable. But the journey itself is a treasured gem of my childhood. The four of us, mother, father, baby brother, and myself, sped along in a Volkswagon-shaped cocoon of warmth and family-ness. My favorite part of these trips was the quiet late nights when my brother slept and I was an only child again. Garrison Keillor’s baritone would unravel as the distant am radio stations bounced off the ionosphere. Stretching out across the more than my half of the backseat, I would struggle to keep my eyes open against the gentle hum of the tires and the occasional murmur of conversation.
The last thing I remember was Reverend Ike promising his radio congregation eternal salvation when the car jerked abruptly to the left and my head slammed against the door panel. I tumbled onto the floorboard as the car slid off the icy paved road and nosed into a field of frozen corn stalks. A moment of shocked silence hung like a teardrop and then the adrenaline kicked in. My brother started a sleepy confused howl and my father began assessing the situation.
Reaching for her screaming son my mother asked, “What happened?”
“I’m not sure. I thought I saw someone…”
Realization dawning my mother began, “Oh my God, did we hit someone?”
Turning to look into my mother’s eyes, he insisted that we all stay in the car. When he was able to force his door open past the frozen stalks, bits of ice and cold wind blew into the warm car. We waited while he stumbled and stomped around the car. I watched from the rear window as he climbed back to the blacktop. After a few minutes he slipped back down the bank and wedged himself back into the car.
My mother looked at him questioningly. He shrugged. “I didn’t find anything. But, the front tire is blown. I don’t think I can change it in this weather.”
Kicking into maternal overdrive my mother protested, “We can’t just sit here. The children will freeze to deathqs.”
Responding to her ensuing panic with angry frustration my father demanded, “Well, what the hell do you want me to do?”
Taking a breath to calm her voice she offered, “I think I remember seeing a house just a bit back.”
“How far back?”
“Does it matter? We can’t stay here.”
With a sigh of resignation, he turned to me. “Okay sweetie, I need you to put your coat and boots on, we are going for a walk.”
“Don’t forget your hat and gloves,” added my mother unnecessarily. “And hand me the blankets for your brother.”
I probably should have been frightened but I was still young enough to believe my parents were invincible. Walking down the icy road as snow drifts swirled around my feet, I felt as safe and certain as if I were at home in my own bed. While my mother carried my brother swaddled in blankets that dragged the ground, I walked beside my father relishing the feel of his gloved hand gripping my icy mittens. The snow had stopped and the obscenely bright moon peeked between the clouds turning the snow into fields of diamonds. The air was sharp and painfully cold, but I laughed as my father tried to teach me to blow “smoke” rings with my icy breath.
Eventually, the exhilaration of evening wore thin. My bare toes began to ache inside my boots--no one had told me to put on my socks. When I began to stumble, my father scooped me up. Snuggling my cold nose against his warm neck, I heard my mother calling out from behind me, “Hey, do you see that? That light? There!”
A few minutes later, I stood beside my father as he knocked on the front door of the small home. The door opened to a blast of heat and odors. The first smell was fire. The scent of wood and sap popping in a grate. Then came what my brother would later call, “geezer smells”- furniture polish, Avon scented powder, Polident, and old kitchen grease. Finally, the scent of food, specifically sweet food wafted out the door like bait. When my father began stuttering explanations in the doorway, the old woman just patted my head and mumbled, “yes, yes, I know.” Perhaps her disarming trust should have been a red flag but I was young and cold.
“Come, come. Come inside near the fire.” When I headed towards the fire, I heard her behind me. “Careful now little one, not too close!” I was old enough that the “little one” comment stung a little but I let it slide. I stood with my stinging fingers stretched towards the fire. The adults scurried about with introductions and explanations but I was oblivious to everything but the warmth seeping through me. When I finally breathed a sigh of relief, I turned to study the old woman.
Ginger Parks was like a beautiful wilted flower-- right before it rots. She was small. She was not just short, she was small all over. Her skin hung around her like it was one size too big. Her thin gray hair hung loosely down her back. She might have been a bit scary but for the large blue eyes staring out from her wrinkled face. She reminded me of the plump blue fairy in one of my storybooks. The oddest thing about the old woman, though, was her clothing. She was dressed, head to toe, in a matching baby blue skirt and jacket with a wide lapels, a glittering brooch, and high heeled pumps.
Noticing her attire my father asked, “I hope we are not interrupting your plans? You look like you are about to go out.”
“I don’t go out anymore. All my friends are dead.”
Rescuing my father from the awkward turn in the conversation, my mother inserted, “Your suit is gorgeous. It is a beautiful color for you.”
Ginger shrugged and laughed, “What? This old thing? I wear it all the time. Here now, where are my manners? Let me get you some coffee. Young lady, how about some hot cocoa? And I have some fantastic homemade fudge.”
The “young lady” comment had earned my undying adoration and so I pulled out my best manners and replied, “Yes, ma’am, thank you.” I could actually feel my mother smiling behind me. While the old woman puttered around her kitchen, I took a moment to look around. The rust colored couch sagged a little in the middle. A crocheted afghan in alternating shades of brown, orange and white draped over an old brown recliner. Tabletops made of rich glossy wood gleamed in the firelight. A dark caned footstool was pulled from a corner to serve as a perfect table for the plate of fudge and cookies she placed in front of me.
Later when I was warm and began to nod off, Ginger fashioned a little nest of blankets for me near the fire. I reluctantly agreed to lay down but insisted that I was only resting my eyes. As I drifted off, I heard her telling my parents about her husband, John.
“John Parks was a good hardworking man,” I heard her say. “He worked this farm all day and he crossed that road twice a day to open the barn for the cows. He was killed crossing that road.”
“Oh my goodness, I’m sorry,” offered my mother. “You must miss him terribly.”
“I do but…”
“But what?”
“Do you believe in ghosts?”
Shooting a quick glance to make sure my eyes were closed, my mother shrugged and said, “I don’t know. I suppose anything is possible.” My eyes were closed but my ears weren’t.
My father interrupted scoffing, “Oh, there is no such thing as ghosts!”
“Really? Are you sure? Then tell me how you wrecked your car,” Ginger demanded.
“We veered off the road and ended up in a corn field.”
“But why did you veer off the road?” she pressed.
“I thought I saw someone. Wait...you are not trying to tell me that I saw a ghost are you?”
Turning to my mother, Ginger asked, “Did you see anything?”
“Uhmm-no, but…”
“Take this picture.” Ginger shoved a large framed photo into my mother’s hands. “Don’t let him see it.”
Returning to her seat Ginger commanded, “Now describe what you saw.”
“Well it was pretty fast but I swear I saw an old man.”
“What did he look like?” asked my mother.
“Describe what he was wearing?” urged Ginger.
“He was gray and had a long beard. He was wearing denim overalls, you know, like farmers wear? But I do remember thinking how odd it was that he had a dark coat over them. No an outside coat but a suit coat.”
I surrendered to sleep before hearing if my father had accurately described the departed Mr. Parks, but the next morning I surreptitiously looked for the framed photo. But I forgot all about the ghost farmer when Ginger placed a stack of pancakes with butter and syrup oozing over the edge of the plate in front of me. After breakfast I dried as she carefully washed each dish. A blast of cold air skittered across the floor when my father returned from checking on the car.
“It’s not as bad as I thought. I got it out of the ditch. I think we can make it to the next town. It will probably ruin the rim but I can’t budge the lug nuts.”
“There’s a small town about three miles from here if you turn left at the next fork. That’s probably your best bet,” supplied Ginger.
“Well, then. I guess we will be on our way. I cannot begin to thank you for your generosity. Can I give you some money? I mean, at least to pay for the groceries we ate?”
“No, no. You keep your money. I don’t need money. I was just grateful for the company. Like I said, everyone I know is dead.”
“Well...okay. But seriously, thank you. You saved our lives. We will be forever grateful.”
After additional goodbyes and exchange of addresses, I was bundled back into my coat and hat. Ginger had produced an old pair of men’s tube socks for me to wear inside my boots. My father left us standing just inside the door as he went to start the car and turn on the heat. When we heard the toot-toot of the horn signaling it was time to join him, we hugged Ginger one last time.
“Oh wait!” Ginger cried. “I have something for you.” She returned with a plate covered in aluminum foil. “More fudge,” she said winking at me.
I watched out the rear window as Ginger waved and then returned to her warm house.
Turning back around in my seat I announced, “She was really nice.”
The town was right where Ginger had promised. Our little car limped into town on three wheels and a rim. Fortunately the single gas station also served as the mechanic’s shop. My little brother and I were parked in front of a fifteen inch black and white television in the lobby while my parents negotiated the repairs. A heavy lady with orange hair and a name tag that read, My name is Lola stood behind the cash register. She told me I could have a candy bar if I wanted. Glancing down I noticed that I still held Ginger’s plate of homemade fudge. Holding the plate up towards her I offered, “Would you like a piece of fudge?”
Grinning the large woman squeezed out from behind the counter and pulled up a folding chair beside me. “Sure, thanks.”
Accepting a large piece, the clerk sighed, “Wow. That is really good fudge. Did you make it?”
“No, my friend Ginger did,” I replied stuffing another piece in my mouth.
The orange haired woman froze. “Your friend, Ginger? Is Ginger a kid from school? Or your maybe your aunt?”
“No, Ginger is this really nice lady that lives up the road. We crashed our car last night and Ginger made us cookies and cocoa and pancakes.”
“What did Ginger look like?” asked the clerk with enough wariness that it pulled my attention from the talking horse on television.
“I don’t know. She was old and wrinkly. She had gray hair.”
I heard the bell over the door jangle as my mother came in to check that I was behaving.
“Are you keeping an eye on your brother?”
I had honestly forgotten he was there, but he was a baby and they don’t do much so I replied, “yes ma’am.”
“Did I hear you say something about Ginger?”
“This lady was asking me about Ginger. What she looked like and stuff,” I replied turning my attention back to the television.
“Why do you want to know? She was just a lonely old woman who treated us very kindly last night.”
The orange haired clerk looked uncomfortable. “Please just tell me, was she wearing a blue suit with a big wide collar?”
“Well...yes. How do you know?”
“Ginger Park died twenty-two years ago.”
“You must be mistaken. The woman we spent the night with was very much alive. She did say her husband, John was dead. Maybe you have the story wrong? Maybe we met her daughter? How could you possibly know?”
The next thing the clerk said sent chills down my spine. “I know because I am Lola Park, the only child of John and Ginger Park.”
“ I know because twenty-two years ago, my mother lost control of the car and hit my father as he crossed the road in front of their house. They were both killed instantly.”
“I know,” continued the distraught clerk, “because that blue suit is the one I buried her in.”