October 2025 – Roadkill Crossing

A Ghostly Encounter I Can’t Forget

Hoover Auditorium, Lakeside, Ohio. Photo by Bruce Stambaugh

I didn’t believe in ghosts until I saw one.

It was July 3, 2010. My wife and I were enjoying our annual laidback week at Lakeside, Ohio, a Chautaqua community on the shores of Lake Erie.

Lakeside provided a respite away from the daily grind of life for thousands of families during its Memorial Day to Labor Day season. Founded in 1873 as a Methodist summer camp, the village has grown into a thriving community that promotes education, recreation, religion, and arts and entertainment.

My wife and I participated in selected activities from all four pillars of opportunity during our week-long stay. But we mostly relaxed with friends on the wrap-around front porch of the hospitality house where we stayed a week each year. We played dominoes for hours.

Across the street in the 100-year-old Hoover Auditorium, Lakeside offered a variety of entertainment and lectures each evening, Monday through Saturday. That’s where I saw the ghost.

A lively and loud Celtic group of singers and dancers nearly filled the 2,000-seat venue. We arrived early to secure seats where the breeze would provide relief from the hot and humid Ohio summer days. The old auditorium remained essentially unchanged from its construction in the late 1920s, including the absence of air conditioning.

The band busted out lively tune after tune. The music wasn’t my cup of tea, but experiencing new cultures was part of the Lakeside design. I was glad we had chosen front row seats in the second section of Hoover, where I could stretch my feet into the east-west aisleway.

About halfway through the program, the excessive noise emanating from the stage made me restless. Apparently, it bothered the ghost, too. For some reason, I looked up at the suspended triangular metal beam that held the speakers and the spotlights that illuminated the stage.

From stage left, a glowing, blueish-white figure appeared. A man walked casually across the beam, not built to hold any significant weight, to stage right.

As the music boomed out, I sat transfixed on this man from another era. He had the appearance of a maintenance man. The man looked to be in his 50s, clean-shaven, and I can never forget his ruddy face with that square jaw. His hair was slicked back, a style of the time, and parted on the left side.

He wore a work shirt with no label, thick denim work pants cinched with a thick leather belt, and heavy leather boots that laced up in the front. The apparition was dressed in the attire of an early 20th-century construction worker, the same era as when the storied auditorium was erected.

I followed the man as he casually stepped across the beam until its end. He knelt and appeared to be adjusting something. I wondered if he was attempting to turn down the sound.

Had the clanging and drumming of the uproarious music awakened this ghost? Was he annoyed at all the ruckus?

At that point, I briefly looked around at the audience. All eyes were fixed on the musicians and dancers on the stage. I glanced back up to the man, and he wasn’t there. In his place was a softball-sized glowing orb, the same blueish-white color as the man. The orb quickly arched back to where the man first appeared and then disappeared.

I looked at my wife beside me, but like the rest, she was focused on the performers. I had always wondered what I would do if I ever saw a ghost. I had my answer. I just sat there in disbelief.

Questions ran through my brain like a runaway train. What had I just seen? Had anyone else seen the same thing? Why did I see it? What did it mean? Was I crazy?

At the show’s end, we retreated to the porch across the street. I sat quietly as other guests discussed the show, waiting for someone to mention the ghostly maintenance man. No one did.

The next day, my curiosity got the best of me. I visited the village’s archive center housed in an old, white-clabbered church building. Besides the archivist, I was the only one there, which allowed me to speak candidly with the young woman about my existential experience.

She listened attentively to my story, nodding her head, seemingly believing every word I said. The young woman merely replied that she had never heard of a ghost in Hoover Auditorium.

“But,” she continued, “I’ve heard strange sounds while working alone here. And I have caught glimpses of what I thought were visitors, but no one had come in.” I felt heard and accepted.

The woman went on to tell of several sightings of ghosts in the old Lakeside Hotel. Guests had even reported them sitting on their bedsides. She sent me next door to where all of Lakeside’s records were kept.

I asked the village historian, an older woman, to review the architect’s plans for Hoover Auditorium. The employee led me to an architect’s metal cabinet, where the narrow, flat drawers pull straight out. I soon was reviewing the blueprints for the interior of the auditorium.

I found no structural beam that would have run across and above the stage where I saw the ghost. However, I did discover that the scaffolding used to build the inside of the auditorium reached approximately the same height as the metal frame where I saw the ghost. The woman, who also kindly listened to my story, said she had no record of anyone being injured or killed during the construction of Hoover.

So, I was back to where I started. Full of unanswered questions, and wondering why, out of an audience of 2,000 people, I was the only one to see this phantom. After fifteen years, the entire scene is still etched in my mind so keenly that I could still pick this guy out of a lineup.

I’m still baffled as to why I saw this ghost. But what it did do is open my eyes and my own spirit to a fuller understanding of life. Much to the contrary of today’s thinking and behaving, life isn’t simple black or white, or right or wrong.

This experience showed me that life is full of gray areas, questions without answers. Most of my life is now behind me. I strive to stay in each moment and embrace whatever comes my way, even if it is a ghost.

At the very least, I now know how I would respond if I saw a ghost. I just watched, wondered, and marveled at what I saw.

Hotel Lakeside. Photo by Bruce Stambaugh

Shining the Way to Halloween

Once again, our three-year-old grandson led the way. He loves Halloween, and while visiting him and his parents in Rochester, New York, we attended several trick-or-treat events in the greater Rochester area.

The one at the Tink Park in Henrietta, where this photo was taken, was a highlight. We had trouble keeping up with young Teddy, who was excited to see the trail of scores of candle-lit pumpkins that wound through the woods. Teddy wasn’t scared a bit.

As you can see, Teddy used his flashlight to beckon us onward. Based on his full Halloween bucket, Teddy hit several trick-or-treat stands before we walked the pumpkin gauntlet.

Little Teddy’s enthusiasm lit the way to Halloween before we had to return to Virginia.

Happy Halloween!

Cotton Candy Clouds

With kudos to my three-year-old grandson, we spotted these cotton candy clouds hovering over Lake Ontario near Rochester, New York.

A local apple orchard held a trick-or-treat night. We arrived right before sunset and were surprised to see the sun finally break through at the end of a rainy, cloudy day.

The setting sun reflected cotton candy pink off the roiling atmospheric rain-makers as we entered the orchard. Thousands of Halloween revelers traipsed over the soggy grounds, collecting candy here and there among the rows of trees still laden with deliciousness.

Down Over the Hill

An old barn stood down over the hill at the end of a recently harvested cornfield. The roof of this old barn peaked out from autumn’s warm palette that surrounded it. The lovely scene was near Friendsville, Maryland.

Fall Colors, Finally

It’s been a dry, dull fall here in Virginia’s Shenandoah Valley. The usual brilliant fall colors of trees and shrubs were only tinged with color, then mostly withered to brown and have fallen to the ground. Only patches of colors have shown brightly instead of entire neighborhoods or mountainsides.

In our recent coming and goings north and back south through the Appalachian Mountains in Virginia, West Virginia, Maryland, and Pennsylvania, much is the same. Dry fields and forest, and mere spots of color could be seen.

This farmstead south of Friendsville, Maryland, was the exception. Autumn’s warm hues of the deciduous tree leaves surrounded all the buildings, with a splash of green thrown in by the evergreen.

I was grateful the morning sunshine highlighted this lovely scene.

Anatomy of a Sunset

I enjoy the progression of a sunset as much as the finale itself. I usually try to arrive well ahead of time, but I occasionally slip up. Like last Saturday, which was a busy one for us, I had settled in to watch a college football game.

I glanced out the front window, which faces north, and noticed a pinkish tinge in the broken clouds to the north. I grabbed my cameras and headed for one of my favorite sunset spots, Silver Lake in the burg of Dayton, Virginia.

A layer of clouds was slowly moving southeast, opening the western sky to the setting sun. The chances for a decent sunset seemed bright. The sun had already dropped below the rippling horizon of the Allegheny Mountains that mark the western boundary of Virginia and West Virginia.

Still, the sky was bright where the sun had disappeared. Areas north and south of that spot showed warmer colors. The shallow lake was its usual calm self, broken only by a few patches of lily pads, seaweed, and miscellaneous debris.

The reflections on the water doubled the beauty. At the south end is the old mill, which now houses a lovely quilt museum. Across the narrow country road stands an old white-washed farmstead, its barn duplicated on the quiet water.

The road turns west around an Old Order Mennonite family’s red brick home, and continues up the hill to another farm, where it bends due north across the ridge. The staggared trees along its edge provide a perspective of depth to each photo.

The road disappears over the hill and behind the old white farmhouse at the lake’s northwest corner. The house and outbuildings, all mirrored on the water, serve as icons in scores of photographs of the landmark lake.

As minutes pass, the tones of the sky grow deeper orange and red as they tint the underbellies of the clouds and brighten the water’s surface. The western sky turns golden with ruby crowns, all reflected on Silver Lake.

Every hilltop object, animate and inanimate, becomes a row of silhouettes against the blazing background. As if brushed by an artist, the clouds display an autumn color palette of browns, grays, and oranges with patches of reds and pinks, their twins staring back at them.

As if on cue, three mallards take flight, their calls seemingly celebrating the day’s glorious ending. Silver Lake never looked prettier.

The Old Oak Tree

Imagine yourself standing on a ridge on a beautiful, temperate fall day. Scattered soft clouds float eastward in a pale blue sky. A gentle east wind mellows the strong afternoon sunshine.

The grass is lush after some long-overdue rain. And a lone, giant red oak, its leaves just now turning to their rusty color, looms over the landscape like it has for a century or more. Battered by winds and lightning strikes, the rugged oak stands as a centennial for all who care to notice.

Miles away, the southern slope of Massanutten Mountain glides to the floor of Virginia’s magnificent Shenandoah Valley. Miles farther southeast, the southern section of Shenandoah National Park marks the horizon.

Fortunately for me, imagination became reality a few days ago. I enhaled the entirety of the precious landscape, not wanting to leave. Of course, I had to. Still, even as I view this photo, nature’s glory fills my soul.

Pumpkins With a View

You must stay alert while driving the winding, undulating secondary roads in Rockingham County, Virginia, situated at the geographic center of the Shenandoah Valley.

You wind around through forests, past agricultural fields, hilltop homes, abandoned buildings, in valleys with steep hillsides, and suddenly find yourself cruising along a straight stretch of roadway along a ridgeline. There’s always something to see.

On a recent outing with a friend, we emerged from a small valley onto a ridge with farm fields on either side that quickly sloped away from the road. I slowed when I spotted the orange of the pumpkins waiting to be harvested. Then I noticed the view.

The southern section of the town of Broadway peeked out above the treeline beyond the farmstead. In the distance, the Massenutten Mountain range stood steadfast against the cloud-studded cerulean sky.

I had to stop and capture that October moment.