Ghosts

I love our old house. It's filled with history and romance. And ghosts, of course.

So far, the ghosts seem more Casper than Poltergeist. They've never bothered anyone in any significant way. They just give you the creeps, which is what they're supposed to do. Hats off, ghosts. Well done.

This week, I opened up "grandma's room," the spare room where my mother stays when she visits. It's been closed since August, when Rosie left for college in New York. The problem with this room is that we call it "grandma's room." Why not "serial killer's room"?

Bean, our dog, followed me into the room. Then he looked into the middle distance, backed up, and started barking. He wouldn't come into the room after that.

This is proof of nothing. Bean is an 8-month-old dog. He has eaten cat poop. He licks himself. He understands very little English and speaks none.

Still, he saw a ghost.

I've seen ghosts in the hallway. I don't make a big deal about it and neither do they. It's like we're New Yorkers in an elevator. Trained obsolescence.

I've heard them. They mimic other people and call "Mom" when I'm napping. Is that Rose? Lily? Again, I ignore them -- just like I've always done with my real children when I'm napping -- and they drop it after one call. As pranksters, they lack stick-to-it-ness.

I have no intention of hiring ghostbusters, although I would like to meet Bill Murray. None of us mind the ghosts. They keep to the code of "seen but only very rarely heard." They don't fight for control of the remote. They've left the liquor cabinet alone. They are, in fact, better house guests than most living people.

Again, hats off. Or, sheets. Whatever.