This is another event that occurred within my old family home.

It was the summer of 2003, mid June, I believe. The days were longer and the sun plagued the world with its relenting heat. My house did not have air conditioning, as hundred plus year old homes rarely do. It was sticky and box fans were the only solace from the temperatures of the day, and they didn’t even work particularly well. These were the all too familiar conditions, having lived in this house for 5 years.

I began working at a farmers market with my grandfather this summer after school had let out. I had just graduated 8th grade. The farmers market was about 30-40 minutes away and I had to be there early in the morning so I decided to spend the night at my grandfather’s house. It was a welcomed event because I had always been very close with my grandfather and also his house had air conditioning. My brother being 3 years older, went to a friend’s house that day and decided to spend the night, leaving only my mom and step-father in the house.

My parents normally would get home between 5:30pm and 6pm on a daily basis. They would normally putter around a bit, unwinding from the day before they would even think about dinner. By the time their stomachs were about to consume themselves, they felt compelled to eat. My mom made her way to the kitchen to begin preparing dinner while my step-father relaxed a bit more watching tv. As my mom was getting her supplies out for cooking their meal, she began struggling with a baking sheet that was stored in our lower cabinet in the kitchen. The humidity in the air would often cause problems with baking sheets sticking together in my house. My mom was not having a particularly splendid day so this set her off in the wrong way. She began swearing up a storm at this baking sheet that would not come loose from its place of hibernation, no matter how hard she tugged and pulled, lifted and shook, and swore.

Amidst Hurricane Mom, Category: Swear Storm, she suddenly received an overwhelming feeling of being watched. As type of behavior was not uncommon from my mom on her more stressed days, the family paid no attention to it unless we were in the line of fire, so my step-father likewise paid no attention to her making a ruckus since his safety bunker was a room away embedded in an overstuffed couch. My mother stopped her rampage after getting the feeling and noticed an entity standing next to her. He was clearly visible and she was frozen in place from shock and terror. The entity was a tall, well-defined man with a farm-hand’s build to him. (My mother grew up on a farm so she knew the look very well) He was about five and a half feet tall wearing a white buttoned shirt and black trousers. His face displayed a full beard and a flat brimmed hat. This man before her looked as though he was plucked straight from the 19th century farming communities of the Amish.

As my mom was taking in this fantastic spectacle laid before her, she could clearly look through him. Her eyes met with the friendly image of my step-father sitting on the couch still watching tv, having not noticed the calamity in the kitchen suddenly ceasing. Her gaze slowly drifted to the face of this man standing before her and met his fixed gaze on her. His eyes were hardened and tired looking from the hours of labor he must have put into his days on the farm, but they were kind eyes. Gentle eyes that meant no harm. My mom was overcome with a sense of calm. As she sat their looking into the weary eyes of this traveler, he spoke to her. “Enough is enough”. In that instant, my mo awoke from her daze and whipped around quickly to find that he had disappeared and the baking sheet came neatly out of the cabinet.

After this event, my mother was panicked and immediately told my step-father about it. Well, anyone that know my step-father would know that she shouldn’t have. He laughed it off as her having a long day and her mind playing tricks on her. During the rest of the night he poked playful fun at her. At one point while she was cooking he grabbed the phone, enacting the setting for conferencing so that when you spoke into it, your voice was projected from the base, and began whispering “Enough is enough”. As you can imagine, he was putting himself in the dog house. A few months later, my mom was perusing a book we have on the history of the house because she was asked a question about what the property looked like when it was first built. She thumbed through the various pages searching for the correct page when she suddenly stopped. On the page in front of her was a picture of a man. A tall, well defined man. A man wearing a white buttoned shirt, black trousers sporting a full beard and flat brimmed hat. A man with hardened weary eyes. Gentle eyes that meant no harm. He was a farmer’s son. A farmer, himself, who built the house we lived in.