And now for another special edition of Today I Learned … St. Corona is the patron saint of epidemics. She was martyred as a teenager by the Romans, probably in Syria. The Aachen Cathedral in Germany has some of her relics in an ornate gold and ivory shrine. The artistic and religious treasure was scheduled to go on display this summer, but restorers are working on getting it ready to view a little earlier than that. https://www.reuters.com/article/us-health-coronavirus-germany-saint/german-cathedral-dusts-off-relics-of-st-corona-patron-of-epidemics-idUSKBN21C2PM
It’s time for another episode of Lights Out! If you’re stuck at home, why not enjoy a tour of this haunted museum in St. Joseph, Missouri? St. Joseph is known for two things: the beginning of the Pony Express, and the end of Jesse James. And the Patee House has connections to both of these historical events. Come explore this unique museum, and meet its resident ghost, Henry Corbett. https://youtu.be/-KPW8QBUoWc
The word “quarantine” comes from the Italian “quaranti giorni”, meaning “forty days”. Centuries ago, people coming to Italy by ship had to spend forty days on board in the harbor to make sure they didn’t bring in any plague.
The duration of a yellow light at an intersection is based on the speed limit for that intersection plus .5 seconds. For example: if the speed limit is 35 mph, the yellow light lasts 4.0 seconds. If it’s 50 mph, the light lasts 5.5 seconds.
Kid McCoy was a boxer, the welterweight champion of 1896. Early in his career, he showed a desire to win that was pretty ruthless, even for a boxer. Here’s one of his dick moves: he was fighting a guy who was completely deaf. By the third round, McCoy had figured out that his opponent couldn’t hear the bell. Halfway through the round, McCoy stepped back, acting as though the bell had rung. (It hadn’t.) When the other boxer dropped his fists and turned to go to his corner, McCoy knocked him out.
There are more libraries in America than there are McDonald’s. And as of 2019, there are more libraries in America than Starbucks. (From Writer’s Digest, September 2019.)
In medieval times, people walked differently. Instead of striking with the heel first, they put the ball of their foot down first to check for debris that would be painful to step on, then brought the heel down. Shoe soles weren’t the sturdiest back then, so they stepped more carefully than we do today.
Here is a lovely little snippet of Lights Out goodness for you. What better way to spend a sunny summer morning than wandering through a peaceful, gorgeous cemetery? Join me as we spend a few pleasant hours at Mount Mora Cemetery in St. Joseph, MO. https://youtu.be/HH_fZ083sfo
On the show Mr. Rogers’ Neighborhood, Mr. Rogers always mentioned out loud that he was feeding his fish. Turns out there was a reason for this. A young viewer of the show wrote to him, saying that she was blind, but enjoyed the show nonetheless, and she was wondering how the fish were doing. After that, Rogers made it a point to say out loud that he was feeding the fish.
The average cumulus cloud weighs roughly 1.1 million pounds. (No, I have no idea how they figured that out either.)
Ian Fleming, creator of James Bond, required overnight guests at his estate to stay off the lawns in the early morning. The reason? The writer liked to walk around and admire the morning dew on the spiderwebs, and he didn’t want the webs disturbed.
Shaka, the African leader who created the Zulu nation in the 1800s, was of lowly birth. His name translates as “intestinal parasite”.
Welcome back to the virtual campfire! This time we’re going to visit the Sallie House, considered one of the most haunted houses in the country. Is it haunted by the spirit of an innocent young girl? Or is there something much more malevolent here? I learned a harsh lesson with my visit to this place. https://youtu.be/Q9zaRaxAdVM
According to the fossil record, penguins who lived 37 to 40 million years ago weighed 250 pounds and stood six feet tall.
The word PEZ (as in the candy dispenser) comes from the German word for peppermint — PfeffErminZ.
Welcome to another Lights Out episode! If you knew about a church and cemetery out in the middle of nowhere, that was supposed to be haunted because of Satanic activity … would you go check it out? I did, and you can come along with me. https://youtu.be/PDx9Si2nT4k
When John Adams became the second president of the United States, a rumor started making the rounds that he had sent a general to England to choose four women as mistresses, two for each of them. Adams refuted this scandalous rumor, saying, “If this be true, he has kept them all for himself and cheated me out of my two.” (From They Did What!? The Funny, Weird, Wonderful, Outrageous & Stupid Things Famous People Have Done, by Bob Fenster)
Gather ’round the virtual campfire — it’s time for another episode of Lights Out! Malvern Manor, in Malvern, Iowa, was once a grand, gracious hotel, the pride of the town. Through the years it played host to a very different clientele: it became a nursing home, then a home for transients, closing in 2005. Do some of these lost souls still roam Malvern Manor’s halls and curl up on the mattresses in the abandoned rooms? Join me and find out! https://youtu.be/aBd5tKtkDy0
In Skamania County, in the state of Washington, it’s illegal to kill a Sasquatch. Violators can be fined $1000 and face a five-year jail sentence. (Of course, if Sasquatch is indeed humanoid, the police will treat the killing as a homicide.)
Are you planning on staying up to watch the ball drop in Times Square? For a change of pace, you could visit Lebanon, PA — they celebrate New Year’s Eve by dropping 200 pounds of bologna.
This holiday season, my friend Elizabeth Koelle suggested a return to the grand old Christmas tradition of telling ghost stories. She’s right — ghost stories are a great way to celebrate the darkest, spookiest days of the year. A roaring fire, good things to eat, a glass or mug of something lovely, and wonderful entertainment … I can’t think of a better way to spend a winter’s evening.
Here is a true ghost story from my collection Spirits of Christmas: The Dark Side of the Holidays. Enjoy!
Footprints in the Snow
It was a cold winter afternoon early in the last century. A mother huddled in her cabin on the west fork of the Little Pigeon River in Tennessee. She held two of her children in a tight embrace … but one was missing. Her two-year-old son had wandered away from the cabin earlier that day. Since then, the temperature had been falling steadily, along with a heavy snow.
A neighbor came in, stamping the snow from his boots, to grab a few moments’ warmth by the fire. The mother looked up, hope dawning briefly in her eyes—then looked back down, defeated, at the shake of the neighbor’s head. She was grateful, of course, that all the menfolk were out looking for her precious lost little one. Word had been passed from cabin to homestead, from house to church, and soon the entire community was out looking. Her own husband was off in Europe in the trenches, fighting the Germans. All she could do was pray that one of the neighbors would find her little boy—and soon.
Dr. Thomas appeared at the door of the cabin. He’d dressed warmly for the trudge through the woods. He’d come thinking to help the young mother. One look at her stricken face, though, and he realized that he could best help not by doctoring her, but by finding her missing son. Pulling his heavy overcoat closed, he headed out into the snowstorm with the other searchers.
Dr. Thomas struck off in a random direction, hoping he was looking at ground that hadn’t already been covered. With the snow falling so thickly, the footprints of the searching men were soon being covered over. Dr. Thomas held his lantern high in the gathering dusk as he scanned the area.
The shadows of the evening crowded close under the pines as the last light of day slipped away. The doctor stopped for a moment, listening to the silence of the woods. Somewhere, he knew, men were searching for the little boy with dogs. But he hadn’t yet heard the deep bay of a hound on a scent.
All around him, the snow fell in a silent hush. The branches of the pines swayed with the wind, even as laden with snow as they were. As night fell, the snowstorm grew worse. Dr. Thomas trudged along the dwindling path in the woods, stopping every so often to look closely at any fallen log that might shelter a shivering little boy. His toes were beginning to go numb, even with the three pairs of thick woolen socks he wore. But he kept wandering the woods, his lantern held high in search of any sign of the boy. If he was cold, the toddler would be even worse off.
Dr. Thomas stopped and turned in a slow circle. He couldn’t give up hope, not while the boy was still out there lost in the storm. He held his lantern high … and there on the ground was one footprint. Dr. Thomas bent closer to study it. It wasn’t the track of a deer, or a dog.
It was the footprint of a child. A child who was barefoot.
The doctor’s heart leapt, and adrenaline spun in his cold fingers and toes, warming them briefly. Finally, here was some sign of the boy! The doctor looked around carefully for more footprints.
There was another one, and a third! The bare footprints were just visible in the hard-packed old snow, and as the doctor watched, more appeared, the feathery new snow blowing off of the old prints. Carefully, the doctor followed the prints. As soon as he passed the last one, the next one appeared, leading him further into the woods. The doctor no longer cursed the biting wind, because oddly enough, the wind seemed to be blowing the fresh snow off of the prints, revealing the path the barefoot toddler had taken through the woods.
Dr. Thomas followed the footprints as they led him to a patch of evergreens. The doctor lifted a low-hanging branch, and gasped. There, curled up on a soft bed of fallen pine needles, was the young boy. But the doctor had come too late. The boy’s skin was waxy-white, and his little chest didn’t rise and fall with peaceful sleeping breath.
The boy had frozen to death in the storm.
Dr. Thomas stifled a low moan, and gathered the child up in his arms. He unbuttoned his coat and his woolen shirt, and cradled the boy to his chest. The boy had died in the freezing cold. Although it was too late, the doctor could at least keep him warm for the sad walk home. He rebuttoned his coat and headed back to the cabin.
As the doctor approached the cabin, the young mother came out to meet him. Seeing her there, silhouetted against the yellow glow of the lit cabin behind her, Dr. Thomas felt his spirits sink. How could he break this woman’s heart?
The mother caught sight of the doctor, with his sad burden, and ran to him. Dr. Thomas reached the open cabin door just as the woman came out, crying joyful tears at the return of her baby. The doctor unbuttoned his coat and opened his shirt.
“I’m so sorry. At least I found him …”
And to his shock, the little boy blinked sleepy brown eyes at him. The child turned his head, hearing his mother’s cry of joy. “Momma?”
Stunned, Dr. Thomas handed the toddler to his mother, who cuddled him fiercely. She looked up, tears of gratitude standing in her eyes.
“Thank you, doctor, thank you so much. You saved my little boy. Please, come inside and get warm.”
The doctor followed her into the cabin. His analytical mind fumbled for an explanation. The boy must have been chilled to the point where his vitals had slowed, putting him into a state of suspended animation. The walk back, cuddled against the doctor’s warm chest and wrapped in the heavy overcoat, must have warmed the child slowly, enough for him to recover with no harm done. The gentle warming had brought the child back to life as surely as a violet blooms in the spring. Vaguely, he became aware that the boy’s mother was still talking.
“I’m so grateful to you for finding him!” She kissed the toddler, who sighed sleepily in her arms.
Dr. Thomas roused himself from his thoughts. “Yes, I followed his footprints in the snow. I’m amazed he was able to wander so far with bare feet.”
“Bare feet?” the mother said, puzzled. “But he’s wearing shoes.”
Frowning, Dr. Thomas lifted one of the boy’s feet. Sure enough, the boy was wearing sturdy brogans.
“I have to tie his shoes on tightly, with double knots, so he won’t kick them off,” the mother explained.
“Here, have some coffee, it’ll warm you right up. Good job!” a neighbor said, putting a tin cup into the doctor’s hand. Dr. Thomas accepted the congratulations and heartfelt thanks of his neighbors. The little boy was safe. That was all that mattered.
But the doctor’s scientific mind wouldn’t rest until he’d figured out the answer to the mystery. Several nights later, he woke from a sound sleep, sitting bolt upright in bed, reeling from a thunderclap of realization.
The wind hadn’t blown the fresh snow off of the child’s old prints. The bare footprints had been appearing in the snow, step by step, as he’d been following them. He hadn’t been tracking a living child. He’d been following an invisible child—a ghost, or an angel.
Sandringham House, pictured above (courtesy of Getty Images), is where the royal family spends their holidays. The Queen usually arrives on the Thursday before Christmas, and the rest of the family join her there for the celebration. Sandringham was the favored residence of King George V, the queen’s grandfather. He gave the very first Christmas message broadcast to the nation over the radio from the manor in 1932, and Queen Elizabeth II gave HER first Christmas message there in 1957. The Queen hangs out there after Christmas too — she stays until February 6, to mark the anniversary of her father’s death in 1952.
And hey guess what? Here’s something People Magazine’s not going to tell you: like all good English country houses, Sandringham has its very own ghost — or maybe a whole bunch of them. Around the holidays, the house is plagued by a mischievous poltergeist, or more properly, a pooka. The shenanigans start on Christmas Eve and continue for about six weeks. (Hmm … roughly the time Her Majesty is in residence.)
For centuries, ever since the house was built, servants have reported hearing footsteps along empty corridors, doors opening and closing with no one around, and lights mysteriously turning on and off. Christmas cards displayed with pride are moved from one wall to another. And, most annoying to the servants, beds that have been freshly made, in rooms that have been closed and locked, are often found with the bedclothes stripped off and thrown to the floor.
The hall on the second floor that leads to the footmen’s quarters, especially the sergeant footmen’s room, seems to be the most active area at Sandringham. One footman flatly refused to sleep in the room that had been assigned to him. And I can’t say that I blame him, either; he explained that “a large paper sack in this room breathes in and out of its own accord, like a grotesque lung.” Disturbing, to say the least!
I’ve never heard of the royal family admitting to anything like a haunting in any of their castles. But they wouldn’t, would they? Stiff upper lip and all that. But servants will talk, and they tell some pretty wild stories about Christmas at Sandringham House. (Now there’s someplace I’d love to investigate. Particularly when the Queen is hosting her Christmas Day buffet …)
I wish you all a Merry Christmas and a Happy New Year! Sleep tight, and don’t let the kallikantzaroi bite. Be sure to leave some schnapps out for Krampus, and … wait, who IS that coming down your chimney?!?