'Harold: The Ghost of the Gravenstein Inn' (the script I wrote and performed at the 2009 Barbara Bull Memorial Cemetery Walk)

HAROLD: THE GHOST OF THE GRAVENSTEIN INN

(Script written and performed by Jean F. at the 7th Annual, Barbara Bull Memorial Cemetery Walk sponsored by the Western Sonoma County Historical Society, Oct. 1-3, 2009)

Have you ever been to some location where you just seemed to "sense" the history of the place even though you knew nothing about it and had never been there before? If you have, then you know it's more than just a simple feeling of déjà vu. It's as though the walls that surround you and the ground under your feet are "speaking" to you, telling you all about the human history that's taken place on that spot.

I was looking for a project when I stumbled across the Hicks House in the nearby town of Graton -- and, boy, was it! A couple or three decades of renters in and out had worn the old girl down so that, by the time I first laid eyes on her, she didn't much resemble either the simple farmhouse the pioneer Hicks family had built in 1872 OR the fine manor house the Grays had made out of her.

The town was named for the Grays. Did you know that? I'm not sure I like the shortened version: "Graton". It's lost all traces of its roots.

James and Jeanette Gray were entrepreneurs (probably before there was such a word in common usage) who came out west to speculate in real estate but, it was the Grays and a man named Jacob Brush (who was President of the then Santa Rosa "National" Bank -- Now, THAT'S optimism for you!) and another Green Valley ranching family who, more than anyone else, were responsible for putting the "there" in "Graytown".

Like James Gray said in one of his '07 Oakland Tribune ads:

…the very best fruit and berry district in California… plenty of work in the nearby creameries and packing houses -- fruit or hops. Write for a description or come by Sundays, if you want to…

But, I digress…

Well, I knew this was just the project I'd been looking for and I took a lot of photos at first, thinking I'd make a "before and after" photo album of the restoration work were planning.

I showed the photos to a neighbor of mine back at our old stomping grounds who had a reputation for having "the gift" or "the sight" -- whatever you want to call it.

She scrutinized them, carefully, one by one, and looked up at me with puzzled look on her face.

"Who's 'Harold'?" she demanded.

"I dunno," I replied, "I've already told you all I know about the place."

"That's okay," she assured me, waving her hand in the air, "You'll find him when you get there."

Sure enough, many weeks later as we were moving the first load in, my son ran up to me with something under his arm.

"Look what I found," he said -- holding out a little wooden box that looked like some kid's woodshop project.

Etched in the lid, there it was: "H-A-R-O-L-D".

I guess we found him, alright…

During the ensuing almost two years of long, exhausting days spent restoring the place, we began to notice strange, almost inconsequential, things… There were "hot spots" in the house, rapping and tapping noises -- even the occasional loud thud that couldn’t readily be explained. Lights flickered on and off for no reason so we came to jokingly refer to all of these things collectively as "Harold" doing something or other.

And that's when I noticed the gate…

It was an old, wooden garden gate that led into the side yard. It only had one hinge so it wasn't easily opened or closed, even by human hands but, it began to dawn on me that, whenever something inside the house was amiss -- well, like the time the owl busted through the second story window or the time we found "squatters" inside partaking in some "imbibements", shall we say, I'd find that gate open -- even when I KNEW for FACT that I'd shut it.

And, after all the work was completed and we opened the doors to the bed and breakfast trade, I can't TELL you how many times a lodger checking out in the morning would lean over to me and say in hushed tones: "Do you know you have a ghost in this house?"

"Oh, yes," I would reply, "It's okay…It's just Harold. He's perfectly harmless."

But all of these things made me extremely curious about the place and the people who had lived there. So, in my spare time, I dug through all the old, dusty, yellowing files in library basements and assessors' offices I could lay my hands on.

And that's when I found the photograph of Harold…

Taken right there on the grounds when he was about 15 or 16. Born in 1897, Harold was the youngest child and only boy of the ranching family who bought the house from the Grays in 1913.

But, it's the expression on Harold's face in that photograph that really gets to me. There's a vulnerable, sensitive, almost "lost", quality about it seemingly devoid of the cockiness of most teenage boys.

It's the kind of look that makes you want to reach out, give him a big hug and reassure him everything will be okay.

(Above: The photograph of Harold -- taken on the property that was later to become "The Gravenstein Inn Bed and Breakfast".)

And I think I know why Harold was still there after all that time. Actually, it's a matter of public record:

In 1926, in the looming shadow of the impending Stock Market Crash, Harold declared bankruptcy. At that time was the youngest person in Sonoma County ever to do so. The bank then repossessed the family home, forever robbing Harold of his rightful inheritance.

In their infinite generosity, however, the bank DID allow Harold stay on for awhile after that to act as a sort of "caretaker" of the property...

But, can you imagine what it must have been like for him being confronted every hour of every day, face-to-face, with all he'd lost -- not only for himself but, for the rest of the family and even subsequent generations?

It must have been truly heartbreaking! No wonder Harold never left.

Well, actually, he DID leave one day...

A couple of years after the restoration was complete, I woke up one morning to find the feel of the house had completely changed. Harold was GONE! Try as I might, I couldn't detect him -- as I had every moment since we first moved in -- anywhere! For the first time we felt alone in the house.

It was as though this presence we'd called "Harold", that had been such a definitive and almost tangible part of of the house, had simply disappeared overnight...

That afternoon the phone rang. It was one of Harold's nephews (whom I'd met in the course of my research) informing me that Harold's wife (a dear, sweet, elderly woman in her 90s whom I'd also briefly met) had passed away in the night.

And you can believe whatever you WANT to believe but, as for ME, I'm convinced that, on her way to wherever it is that spirits go when they depart this earthly plane of existence, she came by and picked up Harold…

-- End --

Author's Note: The incidents cited above are taken directly from my interview notes with the person who actually lived them, the female half of the couple who purchased and renovated the Gravenstein Inn. After composing the script, I submitted it to her and she was given final approval and and revision privileges. Minor changes were made at that time and were included after which her complete approval of the material was obtained. -- jean