A Ghost I Never Met

“Ghosts in the photograph
Never lie'd to me.” 
― Mogwai ‘Take Me Somewhere Nice’

 

I love history. I guess, a lot of people say that when you talk to them, and like me, I’m sure you heard it far too much to care. But I mean it, I love history. I recommend you check out any of Dan Carlin’s podcasts, they are simply brilliant, and you’ll learn more than any class could teach you. As much as I love the history of the world, which turns out to be mostly wars, I enjoy my family history more. I love learning about my grandfathers and my great grandfathers and the stories that come along with them. I enjoy getting a peeked into my parent's lives when they were young adults or when they were teenagers. These tales are where my deep love for stories comes from, and I thought, as I wondered what my next blog should be about, to share some of these stories with everyone.

                (I find many writer blogs are about writing, which is great for people who want to be writers, but not so much for everyone else.)

                I never got to meet my Great Grandfather Solomon (Lucas James Solomon), on my mother side, he died long before she was born, but she did tell me a few unique things about the man. He worked as on the railroad, out of Charlotte, North Caroline, as a conductor. This job, as I’m sure you can guess, took him away from the family for quite some time, but he made good money.

                They lived in Charlotte, where I am not sure because I’m getting most of the story from my mother, but all the Solomon kids were born in the city. My great grandmother went to a church in Uptown, which is now the McColl Center before being brought by the city and changed into an artist residency. If you are ever in Charlotte, you should go check out it. The art and most of all the artist there are great. I have studied under a few of the artists who worked there during my time at college.

                After the church brunt down, I’m not sure where my great grandmother went then, but she still was a person of deep faith, along with her husband. They went to church every Sunday. They both loved God rising their children to be the same way. It’s how you rise children back then in South, church on Sunday, whiskey on Sunday nights. Although I can’t tell you if my Great Grandfather gave into the devil water. There is a part of me, and maybe, it's hopefully thinking here, that hopes he did not drink, but I’m sure he did.

                The man’s father, so my great, great grandfather, killed one of his sons for stealing something from them. It made me chuckle when I heard this story (a side note as my mother was telling me everything) because of how times have changed a lot since then. The death might have wounded my Great Grandfather, but there is no way of knowing, if anything, he might have accepted as a part of life, and moved on. Again, vastly different times back then. (I might dig into the story of my great, great grandfather at a later date.)

                But the death of one of his children, named Allen, touched the man deeply. It also touched my grandfather harder than the others. My grandfather Louie Mason Solomon, the youngest (I believe?) sharing a room with Allen. Now, Allen took care of my grandfather. He would go out of his way to spend times with him. May sure no one else picked up on him and would give him almost anything he wanted. My grandfather looked up to Allen a lot. They were best friends.

                Allen worked for Duke Power at the time as a power lineman. It would be the death of him. I’m not sure how it happened; neither is my mother, but Allen either touched an open line or hit by one. The result would be the same; he was brunt black from head to toe. He laid in the hospital for a few days where everyone in the family said their farewells, and then he gives into his wounds. He passed away, leaving the family grieving, most of all, Louie, my grandfather.

                My Great Grandfather worked at the time of Allen’s death and-

                This part is unclear to me

                Might have either been on his way home to see his son or had heard the news about Allen’s death but could do nothing about it. I think, still not sure that he got to see Allen before his death, but I like to think he did before the end. Somewhere, on that train ride home, he died of a heart attack. My mother believed, and I’m in the same boat as her, the grief of losing his son became far too much for him. His heart gave out from the weight of the pain.

                I wished; I met the man. I would love to have known him, but fate had a different plan for it. We met but only in the stories being told about him. I only know him through pictures and what people remember of him.

                The one thing, which I found odd is he was a railroad man, which meant he carried a pocket watch with all the time. In fact, he loved his watch more than any other object he owned. I too carry a pocket watch with me and love mine deeply. Maybe, somehow through the maze of time, a little part of him touched me only to hand off the appreciation of pocket watches. Maybe, right?

                I hoped you like this little story?

                This little part of my family history and if you did, then I plan on doing some more. I have a treasure trove of stories hidden in me from my family. I might as well start digging them out, cleaning them off to shine, and showing them to you.

 

Godspeed,

Chase