This happened in 1963.  It started prosaically enough; we had just moved into a farmhouse situated one-half mile from the village of Wainfleet, in Welland County.  It was an area we knew well, as I had gone to public school there, and in fact my son transferred to the same school after we moved.  The move was made because my father had suffered a bad heart attack, and while he was recovering he told my oldest sister, Ruth, that he wanted to “go home to die”.  She and her husband Lawrence knew that the house was for rent and made all the arrangements.  We were familiar with the house, as we had in earlier times bought beautiful, big, juicy apples from a man named Walter Palmer, when he lived there.

We had only been there ten days when my father was stricken by a massive heart attack, and he died later the same night.  Soon after the funeral, my son saw his grandfather standing beside his bed, as though saying goodbye.  It was after this that we started to hear the footsteps; every night, after we had settled in bed, we heard the footsteps of a weary man climb the stairs, turn at the head of the stairs and walk down the hall to my bedroom door.  Oddly enough, we all knew that it was not my father’s ghost wandering around, but we didn’t know who it might be.  After about a week, though, I began to suspect his identity.

There was no feeling of threat or fear, but still, it was a very eerie feeling, especially for me.  Night after night, as regular as clockwork, the footsteps climbed the stairs and walked the hall to my bedroom.  This went on for a couple of weeks, and I was getting just a little disturbed, as it was hard to settle down to sleep when those ghostly footsteps always stopped just outside my bedroom door.  At the time, my son was doing a school project on haunted houses and the people who de-haunted them.  One morning as he prepared to leave for school, he told me about one method the “ghost-busters” used to rid a house of spirits.  I had to walk into the village that day to pick up some groceries, and as I always did, I stopped by to visit with my eldest sister, Ruth, who had lived there for over twenty years.  This time I had an ulterior motive and in the course of our conversation, I asked her where Walter Palmer had died, was it in the hospital? She thought for a moment and then said “No, in fact, he died at home, in your bedroom”.  That was all I needed to hear, my suspicions were confirmed, and I knew what I would do.

 

We went to bed that night as usual, and as expected, we heard the footsteps climb the stairs and walk to my bedroom door.  I used the method suggested by my son.  “Walter” I said, “you are dead; you do not belong in this world any more.  You must move on now to the next world, for that is where you belong.”  After saying this, I felt calmer than I had for many nights, and went straight to sleep.  From that night on, we never again heard the ghostly footsteps.  I think that my father’s death and appearance at my son’s bedside had somehow roused Walter’s spirit, causing him to walk once again in his old home.

 

For three months, I happily planned another visit my youngest grandson, in Dunnville, Ontario. That trip, by car, would take about two hours. However, by bus it takes four, since it goes ‘all around Robin Hood’s barn’! It was September, and I planned on visiting from the 19^th to the 26^th.  We were both looking forward to another visit, and I planned on getting him to take a walk at least once a day outside. He stays in his room at the computer all day and far into the night, and I thought it would be good for him to have a little change.

 

All the plans were made and I was mostly packed, when I went to a meeting of the Arts and Crafts group in my building. I had heard a snippet of news that disturbed me before I went down, and asked if anyone had heard the whole report. Several said yes, and the report was that Greyhound was going on strike at midnight. That is the bus line that I use, the only one that has a connection to Dunnville. I almost stopped breathing! Oh, drat that Murphy!

 

In order to visit my grandson, I have to let the place where he lives know, a month in advance, my arrival and departure dates. The room was booked – when could I re-book if there was a strike? And how long would the strike last? I went back up to my apartment with my mind in a whirl, and got on the computer to contact Andrew. He was, as he said, ‘not happy’ at the thought of a strike, and my visit being indefinitely postponed.

 

It wasn’t until eight a.m. on Friday, September the nineteenth that I called Greyhound and, at last, talked to a real, live person. I heaved a big sigh of relief when the young lady checked and informed me that there would be no strike. I computered Andrew to let him know, and finished my packing. At two p.m. I boarded the bus for the first leg of my journey, from Toronto to Niagara Falls. I thought Murphy had struck and gone on his way, and settled back to enjoy the bus ride. Little did I know!

 

The bus went through Mississauga, ran into heavy traffic at Burlington, went on through Grimsby and St. Catharines, so we arrived at the Niagara Falls Terminal about one minute past five p.m., and saw another bus pulling out. I asked the dispatcher who was standing by the bus door when the Dunnville bus was due to go. He looked almost sheepish, tilted his head toward where the bus had disappeared, and told me that was it! I almost wailed, “What can I do? I’m supposed to be on it!”

 

 

The Toronto driver hadn’t looked at the second part of my ticket, only the part he took off, so he hadn’t realised he had a passenger to connect with the Dunnville bus. He was mildly upset, but radioed the Dunnville driver to come back and pick me up. I thanked him, and dragged my suitcase into the terminal to await the arrival of my bus, muttering curses at Murphy and his nasty tricks.

 

By six fifteen or so, I realised that the driver had either ignored the call and refused to come back, or the Toronto driver hadn’t been able to contact him, and I was stranded. I asked the man who sold tickets and announced arrivals and departures, and he told me to contact Greyhound, and refused to even try to do anything himself. I sat for a while wondering what to do, and groused to a young lady sitting beside me. She suggested calling my grandson to see what could be done. It was a great idea, but I wasn’t sure I had the number with me. You can imagine my relief when I found I did. Then came the problem of getting enough change to make a long-distance call.

 

Once I had everything I needed, I went to the public phone and started to make the call. I placed the little book and the change on the top of the phone, just below eye level, ready to make the call. And Murphy took over again! The little phone book I had wouldn’t stay open, I had my purse and a large tote bag on one arm, my glasses, a handful of coins, and the phone receiver to cope with, while I put the required coins in and tried to punch in the numbers. Coins went rolling all over the floor, so I had to hang up, gather the coins, take the ones from the return slot, and start all over.

 

I managed to get through to the reception desk, and started telling the young lady there my problem. While we were talking, I was told to put in another quarter for one more minute. I tried to pick one up, only to have coins scatter again, and was cut off. This happened again on attempts two and three, (at three dollars and eighty cents a shot!), after which I finally re-organised everything, using the suitcase as a more reachable and roomier table top for the coins and book. Thankfully, that worked, and I was able to get through to Andrew at a few minutes before 9 p.m. The receptionist had notified him of the problem, so he already had John standing by, who told me not to worry, they were on their way to get me. I thought I had at last defeated Murphy.

 

I sat back down and waited, and at around ten p.m. John and Marilyn arrived. I was so happy to see them, I hugged John (to his surprise), and would have hugged Marilyn too, but she had a bad cold and didn’t want to spread it.

 

It was after 11 p.m. when we finally pulled in to the parking lot at Edgewater Gardens (the bus arrived in Dunnville at six oh two!!), and we went in. We were greeted by the head of the night staff, who was very upset. She couldn’t find the key to the room I had booked, and didn’t know if she could get it before Monday! “Sheesh” I thought “Murphy is really working overtime on this. What else can go wrong?”

 

John and I went to Andrew’s room and I hugged him and thanked him for his good work getting me there. John said I would be staying with them overnight, so we said goodnight, and left. I had a nice, quiet, rest that night, breakfasted with Marilyn on Saturday morning, and she drove me back to Edgewater Gardens. I was greeted by a happy staff member, who had the key to the Harvest Room, and all was well. Marilyn brought my luggage over later that day, and, except for providing a very cold, windy afternoon for the Church picnic on Sunday, Murphy backed off and went to play his tricks on someone else. I do hope he leaves me alone next year, when I go to see Andrew!

Just in case the reader doesn’t know Murphy’s Law, it’s: anything that can go wrong will go wrong, the corollary, at the worst possible time.

I had not seen my youngest grandson, Andrew, since his sister’s wedding in 2002. It was now June, 2007, and I decided that I would like to have a visit with him. He lives in Edgewater Gardens, a long-term care facility in Dunnville, Ontario. But could I get there by bus?  I thought if I could, I would go for a weekend, from Friday to Monday. I would have to find a place to stay and someplace where I could get meals. Then, when I was chatting with him on Google chat one evening, he told me that there’s a room right in the facility that I could rent, and I could get my meals there for $5.00 each. That was the best bargain I could wish for. We could spend all day, every day, together, instead of me having to go from wherever I found a room to Edgewater, which would waste a lot of time.

So he helped make the arrangements, and I started organizing. Friday, June 10^th rolled around – a notable day; my oldest great-grandson’s second birthday, and the day I would leave for my weekend with Andrew. All was ready, great-nephew Kim arrived and I gave him my keys, as he would check up on the apartment while I was gone, and be there when I returned on Monday. He helped me get my luggage down to the sidewalk where I hailed a cab, and off I went.

All went well, I made it to the terminal in plenty of time, the bus trip was comfortable, but very slow. We were supposed to be in Niagara Falls, where I would transfer to the Dunnville bus, by 4:10 p.m. It was about ten to five when we pulled in – just time to run to the washroom and still make the connection. That’s when Murphy stepped in. The driver took my ticket, looked at it, and asked “How are you going to get back to the Falls on Monday?” “On this bus,” I said. He shook his head sadly and told me “This bus only runs on Fridays!”

I stared at him in shock, thoughts rushing through my head – what should I do? Just turn around and go home? No way!  I got on the bus, settled in, and worried. The trip was smooth, my seat mate was a friendly young woman, and even using the washroom wasn’t too scary. Though it is good that the room is so small – you can bounce off walls, but you can’t fall.

I got off the bus at Dunnville’s one and only stop light at 6:02, right on schedule, gathered my luggage, and set off. I walked along, pulling the big suitcase, and wondering just where the facility was. I knew the name of it, and the address, but not how far it was from the bus stop. I met some high school kids and asked if they knew where Edgewater Gardens was, and they directed me on. Murphy took a hand again, as I walked on for what seemed miles, until I finally saw some people sitting around tables under umbrellas in a small courtyard. I went in and asked them where Edgewater was, and was told that I had walked right past it. Following their directions, I went back a short distance and there it was.

I went across the parking lot to the front entrance, and there was Andrew, just inside, waiting for me. Just the way he had always done when he was little and living at Bloorview Children’s Hospital residence. He let me in, I hugged him and said “Andrew, I have a problem!” After all, if a like announcement worked for the Apollo 11 astronauts, it should work as well for me, right? He asked what it was, and I told him I couldn’t get home again – at least, I couldn’t get from Dunnville to Niagara Falls. “Don’t worry, grandma,” he said. “I’ll look after it. I’ll call John, he’ll help.” And that is how I met two of the nicest people in the world. They have been invaluable friends and helpers.

The visit was a success, we had a great time together, and I decided that next time, I would make the visit for the week, from Friday to Friday. That would save a lot of worry (I thought). I met several residents who had lived in or near Wainfleet, a small village where we had lived for several years. It was fun talking to them, remembering old friends and events from years back.

I got mostly packed Sunday night before bed, and finished in the morning. We had breakfast together, and John and Marilyn picked me up with time to spare to get me to the return bus. I knew that I would be making the trip again next year, making sure that I would leave Edgewater in time to catch the Dunnville bus. It seemed that if I could do that, there would be no more trouble, and Murphy would be foiled. But I did wish that when I bought the tickets, they would have told me about the ‘only on Friday’ schedule for the Dunnville buses. What a way to run a bus line!

Oh, well, I did try! Read on, and find out what happened for my 2008 visit.