My Ghost Max
I live in a haunted house on the Oregon coast. When my husband and I bought the 83-year-old Cape Cod last fall, we didn’t know it was haunted. Maybe we didn’t read the fine print close enough when we agreed to purchase the house “as is.” We’d assumed that meant old furnishings and worn out tea towels. We didn’t know we’d signed on to cohabitate with Maxine, the ghost of the previous owner.
Let me be clear; Max isn’t your typical chain-rattling apparition. We’ve never seen her ghostly form roaming our hallways, and we’ve yet to find any ectoplasmic goo stuck to the furniture, but her essence lingers just the same. Max is entwined in the history of the house, embedded in its DNA. She’s as much a part of it as the nails and foundation which support it.
We fell in love with Max’s storybook cottage the minute we laid eyes on it. Perched on a bluff above the Pacific Ocean, it was our dream home. Much to our surprise, we learned that after the previous owner died, the house sat vacant for almost three years. Why had no one bought this gem? Sure the house needed a lot of TLC, but the bones were good, we could fix everything else.
Our friends thought we were crazy. My husband and I had both just buried our mothers after a decade of caring for them through Alzheimer’s, heart, and lung disease. Over the years we’d downsized them, moved them numerous times, sat through countless doctor and ER visits, and held their hand up until their final breath. Lord knows we needed a vacation, not another project. However, we dove headfirst into the 83-year-old fixer. And our first task would be a familiar one; clearing yet another home of mementos and memories.
As we emptied the house of old furniture and personal items, we slowly pieced together a vivid picture of the previous owner. We found old photos of Max standing proudly in front of the house. Pictures of her kids and grandkids still sat on the bookshelves. As we cleaned, we learned about Max’s interests; her politics, hobbies, the places she’d traveled. We discovered which books and movies were her favorites. Which recipes she liked and even her musical tastes. It’s as if the house was slowly introducing us to Max, and the work became a labor of love.
Everyone in the small coastal community knew and adored Max. Every neighbor we met had a story to share about her, each more grand and exciting than the last. As Max’s lore grew, we became fascinated by the Irish spitfire who had lived life to its fullest and shared that love and passion with everyone she met. In life, Max had been an outspoken community leader, a galvanizer of people, and an achiever in every sense of the word. In death, Max was nothing short of legendary.
When Max died, the township was so devastated by the loss they held a Viking funeral for her, complete with a symbolic funeral pyre. Max wasn’t just a paragon of the community; she was a freaking Viking! Is it any wonder they still mourn her loss three years later?
Although we’ve never seen Max, we feel her presence in the house. Max has been a benevolent spirit, helpful even. At Thanksgiving, when we needed a meat thermometer, a brand new one appeared in the kitchen drawer. A gift from Max I told my husband. And if we needed a tool, a rake or shovel one would inevitably appear — all gifts from Max.
Our first gift from Max appeared the day we moved into the house. An old CD player had been left on the kitchen counter, along with several CDs by artists we loved. We filled the house with music again and spent the day happily cleaning to songs by Etta James and Bobby Darin and Arlo Guthrie. A perfect welcome to our new home. Thank you, Max!
We are all haunted to a degree. When loved ones die, their physical existence ceases, but much of who they were in life remains behind. We keep their memory alive by reminiscing about them. By sharing their stories, we keep our loved ones tethered to us. We allow them to linger, like ghosts.
In Max’s case, she was so beloved by her community they couldn’t bear to let her go. A love that fierce doesn’t simply disappear; it transforms into something new.
Our family didn’t buy any old beach house. We purchased the home of a beloved icon. The neighbors might have regarded us with suspicion as outsiders or interlopers. Instead, the town greeted us with open hearts and minds. Perhaps we’ve been accepted because of the good vibes associated with Max and the house. Another gift from Max.
Even in death, Max is still running the show. I’m convinced she’s the reason the house sat empty for three years — Max was waiting for the right buyer. For a family who would love her little cottage and respect its rich history. A family who would embrace her community and fill her home with laughter, music, and magic once more. Max waited for us.
Moving in with Max has proven to be a pivotal life choice. It came at the end of a tumultuous year. The two most influential women in my life, my mother Lucille and my mother-in-law Dorothy, had died within months of each other, and my job as caregiver had come to an abrupt end.
Maybe in finding the house, I found something to care for again, something to pour my love into. And of course, I found Max. A stranger destined to become another influential woman in my life. A woman who, even in death, has shown me how to make the most out of life’s transitions.
I like to imagine that somewhere in heaven Lucille, Dorothy and Max are together, kicking up their heels, sipping champagne and dancing as Frank Sinatra sings “Come Fly With Me.”
When we found Max’s house, we found our way home again. Of course, we know the house will never fully belong to us, we’ll always share it with Max. But we’re happy to do so and hope to continue her legacy of love and goodwill. I’ll always be grateful to Max; she helped me find my way through the darkness and brought me back into the light of my forever home.
Thank you, Max.
