Today’s post was going to be the latest addition to my I Fell In Love With A Bar Boy series of articles. The Supreme Court’s rulings on gay marriage issues earlier this week, however, threw me off schedule. And then my plans for the weekend suggested a different post too. Though neither is to blame, neither is the problem that suggests this post instead. Partially at fault is Phil, who I introduced to you in a I Fell In Love With A Bar Boy post. He’s the guy I met last November. We’re still seeing each other. Lots of and as often as possible. For convenience, as well as a few other reasons, we’ll be staying at my mom’s house over the weekend; it is the house I grew up in. Phil and my mom have already met. So she is not the problem either. The house is. I’m not supposed to talk about it – and haven’t a clue what I’m going to do about illustrating this post – but that house has ghosts. And that can be a problem.

Quit rolling your eyes, oh ye of little faith. A lot of people don’t believe in ghosts. None of those people are Thai. I’ve never told Noom, my bar boy friend and current love of my life, about the ghosts at my childhood home. If and when I do, I know he won’t roll his eyes. I’m not sure how he’ll handle the rest of the tale though. I’m not sure how Phil will either. But since he reads my blog, telling it here is a nice cop-out. I mean I can’t really let him stay in the place without explaining first. Even if you don’t believe in ghosts I think you’d agree that would be a bit rude. But by doing so through this blog, I’ll get the story out without having to watch his reaction. Undoubtedly there will be one after he reads this. But that will be a nice change from his usual reaction, which is, “When are you going to quit referring to Noom as ‘the current love of your life”?”

Ouch.

You may have noticed that I did not say the house was haunted. That would be silly. Our ghosts are not the haunting kind of ghosts. Nor are they just our ghosts, meaning my family’s. They belong to the entire community. And since I’ve never heard of a haunted community before, I tend to avoid using the H word. I’d avoid using the G word too, but that’s a bit difficult to do when they are such a well-known part of the community I grew up in. At least within the community. Much as with The Fight Club, the first rule of the community is that you do not talk about its ghosts. At least not with outsiders. Doing so tends to make people look at us strangely.

So I can’t tell you where this community is, or name it either. I can tell you the houses, a development of some 600, were built in the late 1940s and early ‘50s; that the neighborhood sits tucked into and onto a ridge under which runs a major fault line; that its geography separates and secludes it from its closest neighborhoods; and that the original inhabitants were the Chocheño, a subdivision of the Ohlone Native American Nation. You’d think ghost-wise some of the community’s inhabitant’s might still be Chocheño. But they are not. They are not African American either because though the community is an unincorporated area, the city it is affiliated with prohibited the sale of real estate to African Americans until 1960. And the ghosts have been around longer than that.

While I have to be purposefully obtuse to ensure I don’t identify it, I can also tell you that the name the community was know by to its earlier settlers from south of the border – before that border existed – translates to ‘The Gateway’. Cue The Twilight Zone theme song. I can also tell you that while said early settlers had a name for the area, none were stupid enough to actually live there. I can also tell you that just outside of the neighborhood is a large hospital. Now. When it was built it was a facility for the mentally deranged. Which I don’t think has anything to do with our neighborhood’s ghosts, but probably does with why no one in the community wants to talk about them.

My parents bought the home when it was new, part of the developer’s final build-out. It was in an area of the development that required a lot of excavation and earth moving work, being on the lower lip of an undulating ridge. The house is considered a one-story, but has 28 steep steps leading upward to its front door. Originally a two bedroom/ 1 bath domicile, like many of the young couples who bought in the community, once all the kids started coming along my folks added on using the extensive backyard to put in a few more bedrooms and an extra bathroom. That resulted in the windows of the back extension ending up at the ground level of the backyard. Having windows just slightly above eye level that provided a view flush with the ground made it easy to tell when the backyard needed mowing.

All of the neighbors whose property was similarly inclined also built additions to their houses; those whose real estate was flat land did not. That would make for a big difference in property values today. But not a single family of those homes where our ghosts hung out has ever sold their house. Or tried to. Even before California’s strict real estate disclosure laws would probably require you to mention the ghosts to prospective buyers.

I don’t know when my parents first started seeing the ghosts. Or when their neighbors did either. Nor do I know when someone in the neighborhood grew a big enough pair of balls to mention the sightings to a neighbor. By the time I came around, they were a given, an accepted part of the community. My brothers and I knew them before we knew they were ghosts. As did the kids living on both sides of our house. We grew up with them. Just as we grew up with our houses shaking whenever there was an earthquake in the area. Neither phenomenon caused much concern.

There were only about a dozen houses whose resident count was upped by non-human inhabitants. They did not make a solid block, the lucky homes were not all located next to each other. It was more of a meandering trail. Probably thanks to kids who can’t keep a secret, those who lived in houses the ghosts never bothered with knew about the neighborhood’s little problem, they just weren’t part of the club. When we got to an age where we realized not everyone has ghosts hanging around their house – and realized how cool that was – we were always the more popular kids in school. Everyone wanted to be a buddy and get to sleep over at one of the ghost homes. I’d guess by the fourth grade, everyone in my class had met at least one of our neighborhood’s ghosts. Except maybe Dennis Moore. He was a weird little kid no on liked and I doubt if any of us ever invited him to a sleep-over. You can imagine how weird you have to be to be considered too strange to introduce to a ghost.

I don’t pay much attention to Hollywood’s version of ghosts, having grown up around them. And I know some paranormal professionals talk more about spirits than ghosts, more about energy fields than spectres. I don’t think they’ve ever met a real one. Ours were not energy fields. Or hazy apparitions. They were clearly identifiable. To the point that as kids we tried to give them names. My parents discouraged that practice. I’m not sure if that was out of respect, or that it was just not considered proper ghost protocol. Though it may have had something to do with my brothers and I naming our first cat Bubblegum. FYI, cats, regardless of what you name them, are not big on ghosts.

Our ghosts were, or had been, people. Or at least looked like them. I’m not sure if ghosts appear in their true form or it is one they choose to fit in with the crowd. They were all adults, though of several ages; gender too was easily discerned. Though they never aged. Not that you would expect ghosts to. Their facial features, while not very animated, were clear. And though you could never tell which one would show up at your house – just like most neighbors – there was one or two you’d see most often at your house. Next door it would be a different ghost. There were eight to choose from. Our family’s ghosts were two younger men (and no, I don’t think they were gay. Geeze you people!) Our next door neighbors’ was an old lady. I think we lucked out. Our ghosts were better than their ghost. Though since they were Catholics, you’d expect whichever ghost got assigned to their house had drawn the short end of the stick.

You never knew when they would show up. The ghosts, not the Catholics. All of a sudden they just were there. Standing. Doing nada. If you acknowledged one it would quickly reappear next to you. And then follow you around for a while. Then for no reason it would disappear and go back to doing whatever it is ghosts do on their downtime. You could talk to them, though they never responded. And they seemed to have the good sense to stay hidden when someone from outside the community came to visit. I never had one show up when I needed some privacy either. That was of some concern when I first discovered the joys of masturbation. You don’t want your ghost hanging out in your room when you are jacking off anymore than you want your dog to.

Growing up with ghosts wandering about your neighborhood probably is an extraordinary thing. It just didn’t seem to be at the time. No one ever made a big deal about them. Other than knowing we were not suppose to mention them to outsiders. When I moved away, and then came home for a visit, I never thought about whether or not one would appear. No more than I would wonder if an earthquake would occur while I was visiting. Sometimes I’d get a ghost, sometimes I’d get an earthquake. Sometimes I’d get both. None of which was of great enough import to write home about. But I did know that if I brought someone home with me, how I felt about that person would have lots to do with the chance of a ghost making an appearance or not. Causal friends and fuck buddies meant no ghost. Someone I cared about, was crazy about, or thought I was in love with has a good chance of meeting one of our ghosts. How much I cared about them, how crazy I was about them, or how deeply I was in love with them determined – if a ghost did appear – whether or not I’d try to explain or just act like they had had too much to smoke.

Introducing a friend to your family is always an uncomfortable proposition. Every family is dysfunctional in its own way. You’ve had a lifetime to grow accustomed to the peculiarities of your family members, your friend gets to experience them all in on fell swoop. Introducing him to the skeletons in your family’s closest can be even worse, especially when they have a habit of introducing themselves on their own. You can prep him for the experience, you can warn him of what to expect . . . but sometimes telling him to not be nervous just doesn’t cut it.

So welcome to the family Phil. You’re in for an interesting weekend. And as for that ‘When are you going to quit referring to Noom as the current love of your life’ . . . I guess we’ll see what my family thinks about you first.

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