Welcome to my blog, where you’ll see ponderings not included in any of my books. This is my ‘thinking’ space where I try to express insights I’ve gleaned about life. At my age, you get to do that. 😉 My blog space, Scar(r)ed, is so-named, because I hope to include personal examples here of things that have scared (or scarred) me in some way–physically, spiritually, or otherwise–over the years. I’ve learned that our heaviest, most trying times facilitate our greatest opportunities for soul growth. Nothing is wasted here in the human experience–the ‘bad’ and the ugly are as necessary as the ‘good’ and the lovely. And you can quote me on that. I hope that my esoteric ramblings will remind you to look at your own inevitable struggles in a different light. That said, if you’re still game, by all means, read on…
My teenage years were ideal, filled with wonderful memories and all the usual “firsts”: first love, first kiss, first car, first job… The little girl who fought horrifying battles in her sleep each night (more on that later) had transformed into a young lady voted “First with a Smile” by her classmates, if you can believe it. In 1984, I graduated from college with an AAS in Secretarial Science, landed the perfect job at one of the best places to work in my community, and married my high school sweetheart, all within the same year. We had three beautiful daughters right off the bat, our family and friends were all healthy, and we settled happily into middle-class American life.
It was November 1992 when I found out I was expecting Baby Number Four. I struggled through the holiday season with the same debilitating morning sickness that had plagued me for each of my previous pregnancies, but I knew it would only last a few months, and it was always worth it in the end. I had just recently completed a comprehensive course to become a Certified Childbirth Educator—something I had hoped to do on the side, given my growing experience with the subject matter. I thought it would be perfect, being pregnant while teaching about pregnancy and childbirth. I could share my knowledge and my own personal expertise.
I’d had two miscarriages, a blighted ovum (in which an amniotic sac develops, but the baby never does), and three healthy babies by that point. These pregnancies were all considered high risk, because of the hyperemesis graviderum (severe vomiting during pregnancy leading to substantial weight loss) and an increasingly severe maternal-fetal blood incompatibility, caused by rare antibodies (Duffy, Kidd, and Kell) that I had acquired, effectively pitting my blood against that of my offspring.
In mid-March 1993, as I was experiencing my fourth baby’s first fleeting movements, there was an epidemic of Fifth Disease (also known as Parvovirus B19) going around in our local community. Fifth Disease is a common, generally mild childhood virus. My two oldest daughters were exposed to it in grade school at the time and experienced the tell-tale “slapped cheek” appearance, along with some of its other mild symptoms. Then I became exposed to it, and the faint rash spread ominously to my chest and extremities. I thought it was just a harmless virus with mild symptoms. I thought wrong.
At around 21 weeks of pregnancy, I noticed my baby’s movements had slowed down significantly. I brought it up at my next appointment, but my ob-gyn did not seem concerned. He said he could still hear her heart beating with the Doppler device, so my fears were dismissed. But she continued to move less and less, until around 24 weeks, when all movement seemed to have ceased altogether. For some time, I had been having recurring nightmares that my baby bump was completely gone and that I had lost the baby. Notes I jotted down from one of those nightmares follows:
Walking alone through busy store trying to push cart, but ridiculously-pregnant stomach in way. Arms too short to reach handle. Nobody noticed or offered to help as I struggled to push cart with belly. Someone announced over the PA “pregnant lady coming through.” At the checkout monochrome strangers were staring at me. Something didn’t feel right…everything was too gray, too slow-motion, too gloomy. By time I reached register, stomach had shrunk. Had really sick feeling. Next, I was in hospital, lying on gurney, belly completely back to pre-pregnant size, even though I was supposed to give birth that day. Kept patting it and patting it, hoping to make it big again. Doctor walked in to check on my labor status.
Each time I had such a dream, I woke in a panic and had a sick sense of foreboding. I began calling and stopping at the doctor’s office after work almost daily, annoying them to no end, I’m sure. Every day I told them the same thing—that there was definitely something wrong. Each day someone in the doctor’s office laid the Doppler on my stomach and insisted they could hear the baby’s heartbeat, along with my own. I was just as adamant that I could only hear one heartbeat…mine. This wasn’t my first rodeo. I knew what a fetal heartbeat should sound like. At 26 weeks, when I began swelling from head to toe and my blood pressure soared (signs of pre-eclampsia), the doctor finally told me, “To ease your mind, we will send you over [to the hospital] for an ultrasound.”
My husband was at work, so I hobbled over to the nearby radiology department in an adjacent building alone, bloated, uncomfortable, and nervous; and I climbed up onto the examining table so the ultrasound tech could begin her exam. We exchanged pleasantries, and then she went silent and still, as she held the Doppler over my distended abdomen. You could hear a pin drop. My heart sank, and I knew without her even saying it. There was no more smile on her face; no more idle chit-chat about her son and my husband, who were childhood friends. Instead, she grimly told me to wait there and returned a few minutes later with my doctor. It was his job to tell me, not hers. With genuine regret written all over his face, he stood at the foot of the exam table, took my swollen feet in his hands in a comforting manner and, with tears in his pale blue eyes, said he was so sorry, but the baby had died.
The next thing I remember, I was walking towards the exit. Do you know how it feels to walk through a busy waiting area by yourself, sobbing, clearly pregnant, face and ankles grossly swollen, with all eyes upon you, as you try to process that, not only has your baby died, but now you must return in a day to labor and give birth to a dead child? Nobody else could do it for me; nor would I wish it on anyone else. The responsibility to endure such a morbid and heart-wrenching affair is an expectant mother’s alone, at least in the physical sense. So, I shored up my inner strength and prepared to do what had to be done. I had no choice but to somehow put one foot in front of the other in the days ahead, as grim as I knew they would be.
The rest of that day is a blur. But I remember going home and collapsing in bed, sobbing. I must have called my husband. I must have swung by my parents’ house to tell them, since I had to go right past there to get home. And when my three young daughters (two, four, and six years old) arrived home that day, I must have explained the situation as best as I could. But I truly don’t remember much of that day or the next. It was all so surreal, like knowing you’re in a bad dream you can’t wake from. It felt so wrong, and I felt so guilty to be alive with my heart beating strongly, while our baby—whose waning heartbeat had been of such concern to me for weeks—was now dead inside of me. I mourned in bed, until it was time for us to head back to the hospital so that labor could be induced.
Once induction had begun and the doctor went home, a fresh-faced nurse peaked in on us occasionally. Finally, after several hours of labor, on April 30, 1993, “Baby Julie” was born, deceased, landing in the capable, loving hands of her father, because no doctors or nurses arrived in time to assist. The young nurse to whom I was assigned returned to my bedside, silent and stunned, like an innocent deer in the headlights. She was unable to say anything for a moment or two—the frozen expression on her face is etched into my memory. Maybe it was her first experience with a stillborn. Nevertheless, she regained her composure and, from that point on, she did all she could to help ease our pain.
Baby Julie was handed gently to me, and I remember looking from my husband to the nurse, asking over and over and over again—even though her skin was unnaturally darkened and beginning to slough off—“Are you sure she’s dead?” “Are you sure?” Nobody needed to respond. I knew the answer. The nurse sympathetically offered a Polaroid snapshot of Julie and pressed her tiny footprints carefully onto the certificate of birth—mementos that would go into a scrapbook I later created for her. Even at 26 weeks, and even with her skin clearly undergoing the unsightly process of desquamation, she was perfect. All two pounds and fourteen inches of her were otherwise perfect. I held her for the longest time, and then I was discharged, so that we could arrange for, and attend, her simple graveside service. Exhausted and with a heavy heart, we returned home, and I asked my girls to help me find a special blanket and cross.
We went to the funeral home, where Baby Julie had been taken, and we selected a little white casket, which seemed appropriate for a pure, angelic soul. It reminded me of a medium-size picnic cooler. Then the mortician took the blanket and cross we brought with us and went into another room to prepare Baby Julie for our own private viewing. When he returned, he told us to take as long as we needed to say our prayers and goodbyes and to view her one last time. She was wrapped snuggly in a small, colorful homemade quilt made by her great-grandma, and resting across her belly was a Precious Moments ceramic cross with a baby girl on it.
From the funeral home, a small contingent of vehicles (immediate family and the funeral director) proceeded to the cemetery, where Baby Julie was buried next to her uncle. I remember holding my youngest daughter’s hand especially tight, as we stood at the grave site. At only two years old, it looked like she would remain the baby of the family for a while. With all the maternal hormones still rushing through my veins, I needed a baby to rock and cuddle, and she still fit the bill. I had three precious, healthy little girls who needed me, regardless of what else was happening. And I needed them, now more than ever. It would have been unspeakably hard to go home empty-handed, with no child to hold. A week or so later, we selected a marble slab with an angel etched into it to mark Baby Julie’s grave.
Naturally, I spent a lot of time in the following days, wondering if there was something I had done to cause it. But ultimately, I learned that Baby Julie had died because of Fifth Disease, not because of anything I had done wrong. Fifth Disease is not harmful to the general population, but those who become infected during the first or second trimester can miscarry or have a stillborn child, depending on how far along they are in their pregnancy. When my diagnosis was confirmed, I wrote a long and carefully-worded letter to a local doctor who hosted the weekly “Ask the Doctor” radio show. I asked him to give a heads-up to other pregnant women in our community, especially the teachers, so they would understand the risk of exposure. I was grateful when he read it on the air, handling the topic with the appropriate amount of concern.
Losing an infant, changed me in profound ways, good and bad. It took the heart out of any desire to teach childbirth classes. At the time, all I could think was, “If I can’t even get it right, how can I expect to teach others how to give birth?” I lost any desire to teach a class of pregnant women. I didn’t want to be the old me anymore—the me that couldn’t carry a baby to term; the me that couldn’t rescue my own child, when I knew in my gut that she was dying. I wanted that ‘me’ gone and replaced with somebody totally different. So, I cut my hair off in a choppy, poufy eighties style, lost all the baby weight and then some, and tried to pretend that this new me was perfectly fine.
I was mistaken to think that I could run away from myself as easily as that. There would be no sweeping this under the rug. I had to face it and work my way through it. Twice, while I was out and about with my daughters after the loss, I saw people who knew I had been pregnant and, because I no longer looked pregnant, they asked when I’d had the baby. I tried to hold back tears as I told them I had lost her, but I could see how awkward and sorry it made them feel, which made me feel even worse for causing their discomfort. It was also difficult when I first returned to work, because everyone felt bad but didn’t know what to say. They couldn’t say the usual things like, “Well, she lived a full life,” or, “She was such a beautiful person, well loved by everyone,” or “She’s not suffering anymore.” None of that would have been appropriate. Only those three words we all say during times of loss—I’m so sorry—were appropriate. Those three simple words and a hug were enough.
I got through the difficult days following the loss by listening to music that seemed to express how I was feeling, like Michael Bolton’s “When I’m Back on My Feet Again” and “Lean on Me.” I played them over and over again. Besides my Michael Bolton music therapy, as I like to call it, I started taking my girls on day trips to fun places, trying to squeeze a different adventure in almost every weekend. I’d load them and sometimes their friends into the car, and off we’d go on a whim, to the mountains, to the beach, to random playgrounds and “magical places” we’d discovered on our travels, and to zoos, etc. A child’s energy and happiness are contagious—and that is exactly what I needed that summer. They probably thought I was the coolest mom doing all of that for them, but it was as much for me as it was for them.
I also did a lot of reading. A lot. Because of Baby Julie, I became interested in all things spiritual and metaphysical—substantially more so than I had at any other time in my life. I’d always been interested in these things, ever since reading Erich von Däniken’s books, like Chariots of the Gods, and several Ruth Montgomery books from the Seventies that were lying around the house when I was in grade school. But Baby Julie’s passing led to a much deeper, more driven search about the mysteries of life and death. I was determined to understand what happens after we die? What happens to the soul of a stillborn? What did it teach me? Was it a lesson I needed to experience, or was it for someone else’s soul growth? What is the point of it all? I devoured book after book about near-death experiences, Heaven, life between lives, universal and divine energies, the Hall of Records, reincarnation, old souls, the Masters, you name it—Conversations with God, Seth Speaks, the Book of Prophecies, the Celestine Prophecy, Emmanuel’s Book; other books by Lee Carroll, Jane Roberts, Dolores Cannon, Michael Newtown, Brian Weiss,Gregg Braden, Echo Bodine, George Anderson, Edgar Cayce, and Raymond Moodie, and on and on and exhaustedly on. I began to understand that, in losing Baby Julie, we had forged a different kind of connection—not a physical mother/daughter relationship this time around—but an inseparable spiritual link. A bridge between here in the physical and there on the Other Side had been created, and it was mine to navigate, if I chose to do so. Most importantly, the loss of my baby girl was the key to my awakening.
There was something else I learned during this difficult time. There is a tenderness to the male gender that I had scarcely witnessed until I lost baby Julie. I saw sincere tears in my doctor’s eyes, my husband’s eyes, my father’s eyes, and my father-in-law’s eyes—all of the men that a girl looks to, to keep her safe from harm. But this was something they couldn’t prevent me from experiencing; and seeing how it hurt them made my heart ache for all of them. I was used to men being strong and silent and holding their emotions in check. I had never seen this vulnerable, softer, more empathetic side to the extent that I saw it then. And I needed to see it so badly; to know that they grasped the gravity of the situation—that they cared enough to not hold back and hide it, even if just that one time.
I hope and believe that the doctor walked away from my case a more attentive professional who listened to his patients when they told him they knew something wasn’t right. I would like to think my loss made him a better doctor until his recent retirement. For everything, there is a reason… Sometimes we figure it out before the end of our time here; sometimes we won’t find the answers until our time here is over. Like Dan Fogelberg advises in “Part of the Plan,” Await your arrival, with simple survival. And one day we’ll all understand.
Many women have suffered the devastation of miscarriage and stillbirth. No matter what point a pregnancy ends prematurely at, there will be grief and sorrow for a child you never had a chance to know. From the moment you first learn of the desired conception, you have hopes and dreams and plans for your child’s future and your own future with them. You have visions of what your child will look like and what he or she will be like. They are the last thing you think about as you fall asleep and the first thing you think about upon waking. But all of that is stolen from you when your child is stillborn or miscarried. You may feel like you let that little soul down; like somehow you did not protect them enough. You may feel like you let your spouse and your loved ones down. For me, it wasn’t until some time later, after an intense period of soul searching, that I begin to pull myself out of that mindset and accept that it was destined; regardless of what I could have done differently. And it was not my fault.
My mother had a dream a week before I lost Baby Julie which has brought me great comfort over the years, as I believe it was a true visitation from my grandfather, who passed away just a month before I lost Baby Julie. In his later years, we could always find Grandpa sitting in his rocking chair in their cozy, little living room, contentedly watching his grandchildren and great grandchildren buzz around him. We (the many grandchildren) were always eager to present him with a new great-grandchild, and he’d always quietly chuckle and say, “Well, I’ll be,” as we set the latest swaddled, pink or blue bundle into his frail, thinning arms. He was a gentle man of few words, but the pride and love he had for his ever-expanding family was obvious in those kind, ancient eyes that took it all in. He always had such a tender spot for the littlest ones—a trait he passed on to my father; and my father to my brother.
In Mom’s dream, which was brief but compelling, Grandpa stood out radiantly against an entirely black backdrop, looking younger and healthier than ever, as he smiled and cradled a newborn in his arms. That’s all; that was it. Short and sweet. Mom didn’t tell me about this dream until after I lost Baby Julie. I’m sure she didn’t want to frighten me. But when she finally did tell me, we both agreed that it was a visit from Grandpa showing us that he would be with Baby Julie—that he was aware she would be joining him soon, and he just wanted us to know she wouldn’t be alone.
The Eagle and the Dove
I woke up one night in the mid-1990s, and the words were right there in my head, as if divinely inspired. So, I sat in the dim light of the den, writing it all down as quickly and quietly as I could. Then I shuffled back to bed. It was effortless to write this little ditty I called The Eagle and the Dove, and it didn’t make a lot of sense at the time; but I truly understand it more and more with each passing year. It’s a tale about overcoming what knocks us down, frightens us, and silences us; and picking ourselves up, pushing through the fears and struggles—sometimes with a little help, sometimes alone—and discovering the lessons and the beauty that our own scares and scars, in whatever form they take, present to us.
The Eagle and the Dove
A small, white Dove lay silent, and a tear was in her eye.
“Excuse me,” said the Eagle, “but why is it that you cry.”
“Oh, I’ve been stranded here alone; and it has been so long.
My spirit has been quieted; I cannot sing my song.
Afraid to fly into the storm, the snow piled up on me.
The burden on my wings made me tumble from the tree.
And now I fear I cannot fly. I feel so very small,
Lying on this frozen ground, beneath the trees so tall.”
“Come with me to where I roam, and I will help you heal.”
With that the Eagle lifted her upon his wings of steel.
He took her far away from there to places in her dreams,
Across the snowy countryside and crystal mountain streams.
They saw the wonders of the world and castles in the sky
And gently as he soared with her, she learned again to fly.
And then he took her to a place that man was banished from,
And suddenly she understood the reason they had come.
“There’s beauty all around us, and beauty from within.
And when you start believing it, the healing will begin.”
“Your spirit is so tender, your eyes so full of love.
You fill me with such joy and peace; I thank you, little dove.”
“And you have taken me so high, much higher than I’ve been.
You brought my spirit back alive, my dearest Eagle friend.”
The Eagle saw a glimpse of Heaven in the white Dove’s eyes.
And he, in turn, had shown her a place called Paradise.
Call me whatever you like; I am who I must be. ~ Friedrich Nietzsche
I’ve never been a perfect writer. Far from it. I’ve never had legitimate training in the field. But I knew I loved the craft, and I loved being graded on essays in school. Even after my ninth-grade English teacher pointed out an embarrassing mistake I’d made in my essay about a jellyfish encounter, where I said I’d been stung by a dozen testicles, instead of tentacles, I still didn’t throw in the towel! I would write a book one day. I was sure of that. I just didn’t know when or in what genre. The answers came in 2000, when I decided to write about true local ghost stories, after stumbling upon some old newspaper articles regarding haunted places at my local museum. It was like an epiphany! Who knew that in my early thirties—with a full-time ‘traditional’ job and four children from six months old to fourteen—I would suddenly be reminded of my calling? I left the museum that day, like a hypnosis subject prompted into action by a trigger phrase.
Writing regional non-fiction allowed me to research local history, crimes, and all things strange and unusual. I was in my glory! I had been primed from the time I was a toddler to believe in, and even experience, the unseen. It’s part of who I am. It’s why I prefer to think outside of the box, where possibilities are endless. Oh, I had doubters about that first book, believe me. Some didn’t think anyone would want to read such nonsense. This was 2000, after all. Hit shows like Ghost Hunters, Paranormal State, and Supernatural had not yet been created. But for once in my life, I didn’t care what anyone else thought about the idea. I set my mind to it, and nothing could dissuade me; not even the naysayers. Especially not them. Doubters only encouraged me to prove them wrong. I would go so far as to say that the world needs more doubters, so we can fire up all the “provers.”
I was able to demonstrate to my daughters that they could also accomplish anything they desired, no matter who told them otherwise or what stood in their way. I wanted them, while they were still young and impressionable, to see their mom kicking a** and accomplishing something many doubted I could. And I did it with gusto. Yet, while writing seemed like a perfect pastime for an introvert like me, I hadn’t considered that part of the package involved putting myself out there for public consumption, which could, at times, be intimidating, frightening, funny, surreal, and just plain bizarre.
There was the time, for example, when my daughter’s friend was waiting on a table at a restaurant and overheard some girls discussing my Haunted Northern New York series. Then one of the girls in the same grade as my daughter told her friends that I was her real mother and that I had given her up for adoption in 1988. Wait, what? I’m pretty sure I would have remembered having two babies that year!
There are times when you just have to bite the bullet and swallow your pride. In 2004 or 2005, I had to do just that. I was hired to speak at a large annual convention of sorority sisters in Saratoga Springs. I had done similar events, but on a smaller scale. This one was unique, however, because I was to speak before a room of 300 women in their pajamas, sipping cocktails at midnight. And I was to wear my own PJs at the podium. So, there I was, standing in the only light of an otherwise darkened room, rocking my Tweety Bird flannels my mother had given me and doing my best ghost-stories-around-the-campfire impression. With all those eyes focused on me expectantly, I read several of my scariest bedtime ghost stories through the microphone, showed some chilling ghost photographs on the screen behind me, answered questions, signed books, and called it just another day in my life.
Writing about true crime had its lighter moments, as well; certainly not about the horrible crimes themselves–but some of the awkward moments I found myself in were rather amusing in hindsight.
There was the time I had a very large poster created to use at a book signing for Murder & Mayhem in St. Lawrence County. It was about 36 x 48 inches in size and showed the front cover of the book, along with a quote on the back cover in huge letters that said, “You can come in now. I have killed her.” This was something an Ogdensburg man said over a hundred years ago, after murdering his wife and then inviting the constable into the house to arrest him. The poster was mounted on corrugated cardboard and was lying in the back seat of my car, which my husband had to take to work one day. As fate would have it, the one day he needed my car was the day a random roadblock was set up by State Police to check registrations, tires, etc. My husband pulled up, and a trooper came to the car, looked in the back seat, and read the poster out loud, very slowly and seriously:
Then he looked back at my husband, who said, “I know this looks bad, but it’s for my wife’s signing!” As policemen do so well, the officer kept a straight face and motioned for him to go on.
Another time I was at a book signing in the Rochester area for my book, Alphabet Killer: The True Story of the Double Initial Murders, and a state police investigator was undercover, lurking behind the ends of aisles within eye-shot of me, pretending to be flipping through books. A combative and suspicious character had approached and questioned me at a previous book signing in the area, and the investigator thought it would be prudent to keep an eye on the next couple signings in case the guy showed up again. He didn’t, but a lady approached and had some information she thought might be helpful to the unsolved cases, and I inadvertently looked over toward the trooper and started pointing him out to her but stopped short when I saw him shaking his head, as if he was dealing with a newbie (indicating I wasn’t supposed to give him away).
There’s so much more I could say about writing and the unexpected things that happen along the way, but I’ll leave any aspiring authors with this thought for now: When you believe in what you are saying, and you feel that you have a message to convey that may be useful to someone, be prepared to step outside of your comfort zone and into the limelight, if only for a moment. The more you face your fear, the less its grip on you. And before you know it, you’re confident enough to speak before an audience of 300 in your Tweety Bird pajamas or to sign books under the watchful eye of criminal investigators on a stakeout!
Hello, Darkness, my old friend…
Paul Simon began writing his iconic classic hit, The Sounds of Silence, the same year I was born, which is prophetically fitting. The opening lyric foreshadowed a theme I would experience throughout my life; indeed, a theme we all experience in various ways throughout our lives: Darkness, as a familiar presence and occasional accomplice. After all, how can we appreciate what’s good, if we never have to face what’s bad? Darkness is as necessary to the human experience as the air we breathe. I’ve been blessed with much good in my life, but it’s the not-so-good things that have taught me the most. With every rendezvous I’ve had with my “old friend,” I’ve walked away stronger, wiser, and more humbled. It’s funny how something as cruel as Darkness can bestow such honorable traits on us. But he’s dependable; I’ll give him that. I know he will always be waiting to assist—frothing at the mouth—in the painful, heartless, fearsome way that only Darkness can, when it’s time for me to understand and experience the next life lesson on my journey. Like a ruthless trainer, he will push me—spent and breathless—to my limits, as he has so many times in the past. But in the end, it’s for my own good. Because of Darkness, I am strong.
We are all stronger, because of Darkness. It’s the most jarring moments in our lives—those dreaded events that throw us the curveballs and scare and scar us more than any other—that also provide the greatest opportunities for growth: for gaining more spiritual wisdom, clarity, empathy, strength, forgiveness, compassion and acceptance, or whatever else our soul might hunger for; and for attaining the closer connection to the Other Side that we naturally crave. At least I do. How many times, when the going gets tough, have I thrown my head back, instinctively looking skyward, asking why, as if the answer and the solution is out there in the ethers—in Heaven, the Universe, the Other Side? We all do it. But they won’t give up the answers that readily.
I look toward the heavens again, and I shake my head in resignation, because I know that, no matter how much I plead, beg and pray, they can’t interfere in a soul’s learning. They can’t interfere with free will. It’s the universal law, says every metaphysical book ever written. It’s like Star Trek’s prime directive. Instead, those “out there” watching over us—God, the Great Spirit, the angels, the guides, the masters, our deceased loved ones, etc.—will bear witness to our struggles, and they’ll send us “love and light” and positive energy and perhaps whisper a few words of wisdom in our ears. But then they’ll simply watch on that big screen in the sky as we step into the darkness (and out) once more.
I imagine them sitting on the edge of their tufted white and gold wingback chairs, passing the buttered popcorn and angel-soft tissue, as they watch us work through particularly soul-sapping lessons. As we step triumphantly out of the dark and into the light again and again, ad infinitum, they’ll leap from their seats and applaud like proud parents, high fiving in raucous celebration. I appreciate that we are never ‘alone,’ per se. I do. I appreciate the hands-off support from afar. But let’s not kid ourselves. We are on our own down here in tangible, sometimes-painful ways that only those in finite physical form can truly appreciate. And we must seek the answers to the most difficult questions ourselves, in order to further our souls’ growth. That’s an important part of our earthly task, I believe—to remember what we came here to learn or to accomplish and to recognize that the things we experience along the way may be opportunities toward that end.
In the past few years, I’ve grown stronger. Much stronger. Sometimes this inner strength almost scares me. I find myself choosing to reflect on what can be learned in certain situations and how I will react to obstacles, rather than playing the role of the perpetual victim of painful circumstances. I’m more inclined now to simply “let it be,” as they say; let certain events, as disagreeable as they may seem at the time, play out as they will and try to understand the bigger picture and the grander scheme at hand. Everything that happens is part of a master plan for each of us. I’m certain of that. Yet, I’m also certain that I’m not the architect of anyone’s master plan but my own, and it’s not my place to interfere as if I were. The last thing I want is to interfere with another’s opportunity to grow and throw them off track, especially if they were on the brink of a breakthrough and about to learn a lesson their soul needed to experience.
I have learned from my own difficulties that when bad things happen, there are almost always opportunities for someone (whether ourselves or those around us) to grow, to conquer, and to shine—to bring out the best in ourselves at the worst of all possible times. It’s during those times that we are challenged to find the positives within the negatives—the silver lining in the clouds of life, as it were. And it’s during such times that we are challenged to face Darkness square on, recognizing it not as some kind of punishment or just our “usual bad luck,” but rather as a sometimes-necessary partner in crime which offers an opportunity for growth or an impetus for action. As they say, He works in mysterious ways… Later, when we are ready to reflect on the reasons and ramifications of our individual ordeals, we may find that these tribulations served a purpose, after all. We just couldn’t see it at the time.
Wicked Northern New York – September 8, 2011
by Cheri L. Farnsworth
From Wicked Northern New York – A complimentary sample chapter:
“The Invasion of the Body Snatchers”
To rob a grave of jewels and personal effects is bad enough. But to dig up freshly-buried bodies, unbeknownst to grieving family members who thought their loved ones were resting in peace, and sell the stolen corpses like a hot commodity is beyond wicked. Back in the day, body snatchers sought fresh graves, because the soil was still loose and moist and, therefore, easier to dig up. They would lay out a tarp to shovel the soil onto. Once they reached the coffin, six feet under, they pried open the lid and grabbed the corpse, sometimes removing the clothing and throwing it back into the casket. Then they would flip the tarp back over onto the grave when their task was complete; thereby keeping the area tidier and less suspicious. After securing the body, they would package it up (with a little ingenuity) or hand-deliver it to facilities in need of fresh, lifeless bodies for medical research, such as dissection; as a tool for learning the medical profession; and for anatomy lectures. Although the criminal practice of body snatching was considered unethical by most physicians—and they could never openly admit to their participation in such activities—it nevertheless thrived throughout the eighteenth and nineteenth centuries, as medical schools began to flourish. And finding acceptable cadavers from traditional means (bodies donated to science for dissection, bodies unclaimed by family, and bodies of felons who agreed prior to their execution to sell their corpse to the highest bidder) was did not offer enough supply to meet the growing demand.
In the 1800s, there were sporadic reports of body snatching from every corner of Northern New York. In Clinton County, we had Dr. Erwin of Centerville, near Mooers, who caused quite a stir when it was reported that the body he was seen dissecting (with the assistance of a fourteen-year-old French boy, no less) had been snatched from a local grave. The villagers were in a panic, wondering if the deceased was someone they knew, according to the Plattsburgh Sentinel of April 23, 1869.
“This produced great excitement through all the west part of the town, and everyone who had recently buried friends were alarmed by fears that they were being subjected to the gross indignity of dissection in an old blacksmith shop…The Doctor replied that he had obtained the body lawfully and had a right to proceed with its dissection…[so] a complaint was made before F. P. Allen, Esq., against the Doctor and his student for robbing a grave. They were arrested and a lengthy examination held by Esquire Allen. Able counsel were employed in behalf of the People and the accused. Graves in which dear ones had recently been interred were re-opened by anxious friends to ascertain that their bodies had not been stolen.
The result reached by the court was that no proof had been found to convict the accused of the charge, and they were discharged. The question, whose body was it?, is still unanswered, and the course of the Doctor in having a human body dissected by a French boy of 14, in so public a place as an old blacksmith shop by the grist mill and at the end of the bridge in the middle of the village is as mysterious as ever.”
From Jefferson County, we have the story of Terry Connell’s postmortem excitement. Old man Connell was buried on February 21, 1898 in the cemetery connected to St. John’s Episcopal Church in Cape Vincent; and two days later, body snatchers nearly got him. Edward Murray, who lived near the cemetery where the 91-year-old man was interred, was heading off to work early at four a.m. on February 23 when he noticed two men in the back part of the cemetery with a horse and sleigh nearby. When the strangers looked up and saw Murray watching them, they immediately jumped into their cutter and sped off. Further inspection by Murray and others he notified revealed the disinterred body of Mr. Connell lying by the side of the road “where they had dropped it in their fright,” according to the St. Lawrence Republican. The Watertown Re-Union added further detail, saying:
“There were evidences that the vandals had dragged the body to the fence, then thrown it over the fence and dragged it to the road and were about to put it into the sleigh when Mr. Murray’s timely appearance scared the scoundrels away.
The grave robbers left their shovel and left the grave open. It is supposed the body snatchers came from Canada, crossing the river on the ice, and that the body was to be used for the purposes of dissection in the medical college at Kingston [Ontario]…About two rods from where the body was found, tracks were seen where a sleigh, drawn by one horse, was turned. A new shovel of Canadian make was found near the open grave.”
Mr. Connell’s body was cleaned, returned to the casket and placed in the vault, where it would be safe from vandals. As newsworthy as the Connell case was, St. Lawrence County harbored the most famous grave robbers in the area. The notorious Dudley Gilman and his son John A. Gilman lived beside Trout Brook in Stockholm in a settlement called Old Forge. They both worked in a mill that manufactured barrels, tubs, and even crutches for Civil War casualties. The two were notorious body snatchers whose nefarious skills were in high demand throughout New York State. They dug up random fresh bodies, setting aside anything of value that they could pocket or sell in another town (so the stolen objects were less likely be recognized); and they stuffed the bodies into barrels from the mill they worked at and shipped them off, via horse and wagon, to medical schools around the state, reportedly receiving up to $100 per body (nearly $3,000 today). They also dug up skeletal remains to sell to physicians and medical students for demonstration purposes and teaching, or simply as novelty items.
One Courier & Freeman article from 1938 said that neighbors became so fearful of the thought of body snatchers among them that they began to bury their loved ones beneath their bedroom windows, to prevent or interrupt grave robbers from carrying out their nocturnal activities. They suspected the Gilmans. Realizing they were under suspicion by an angry populace, the father and son gave family members very specific instructions about how and where to bury them, when the time came. They wanted their bodies placed in pine coffins and buried four feet below the surface in the middle of a field, far away from civilization, with alternating layers of straw and earth that they felt (through personal experience) would make it more difficult for other body snatchers, or even an angry mob, to find them.
Their wishes were granted in 1850, when the Gilmans were literally caught in the act of digging up a corpse. They were stopped in their tracks by neighbors who had long suspected, but never proven, what the men were up to, until then; and they were allegedly shot where they stood. As instructed, family members buried their kin in a lonely field about 250 yards across the road from their house on Trout Brook, in an area early news articles described as “near the Four Corners” and “only a stone’s throw” from an old starch factory foundation. The stone slabs the family later set over the graves to mark them were laid flat, making them difficult to find by anyone but family members who knew they were there. The grave markers read as follows:
Almighty God, the ruler of all
Gods by thy just and mighty hand that I did fall
If at thy right hand, I fail of a seat
I then would pray at Jesus feet
John A. Gilman
In his 27[th] yr
We can’t but hope that he’s gone to rest
We trust in God who knows him best
We hope he’s reached that happy shore
We here on earth shall meet no more.
Murder & Mayhem in Jefferson County – April 29, 2011
by Cheri Farnsworth
Following is a chapter from Cheri Farnsworth’s Murder & Mayhem in Jefferson County (History Press 2011). The book is a compilation of ten of the most sensational, historical murder cases from that Northern New York region. You may purchase the book online at amazon.com and barnesandnoble.com or directly from the publisher at www.historypress.net. For more information about Farnsworth’s other titles, like Alphabet Killer, Adirondack Enigma, and The Big Book of New York Ghost Stories (history as you’ve never seen it), visit www.cherifarnsworth.com.
The Gruesome “Watertown Trunk Murder” – Hounsfield, 1908
Jammed within the narrow confines of a trunk, with her head mashed to jelly, one ear gone and her body mutilated until recognition was almost impossible, the body of Mrs. Sarah Brennan, wife of Patrick Brennan, of Brownville, was found Monday afternoon in a back kitchen at the home of Mr. and Mrs. James Farmer of that village. ~ Watertown Re-Union, 29 Apr. 1908
In October of 1907, Mary Farmer hatched an elaborate plan to criminally acquire the property of her neighbors so that her young babe, Peter, would one day have something of value that she believed she and James Farmer could never provide otherwise. (Heaven forbid that they should have to work for their material possessions like the rest of us.) The fact that a cold-blooded murder might become necessary for her to meet her objective was but a trivial detail the soon-to-be murderess would worry about when the time came. That time was the morning of April 23 when Sarah Brennan paid a visit to Mary Farmer. Neighbors heard the women arguing, and it was the last anyone ever heard from, or saw, Mrs. Brennan alive. One can only surmise that the victim had finally learned of the plot to steal her house and home right out from under them. For that, she had to be silenced…now.
While some later said that 24-year-old Mary “had never fully recovered her mentality” after the birth of her only child, countless others testified that her bizarre behavior spanned years, culminating in the singular unspeakable act—when she raised the hatchet over the skull of Sarah Brennan—that sealed her fate. Though there was never any doubt about Mary Farmer’s guilt, her mental state at the time of the gruesome murder would ultimately determine whether the young mother should live or became the second woman sent to the electric chair in New York State. Hence, much time at the inquest and later trials would be devoted to determining if Mary Farmer was sane when she slaughtered her so-called friend and neighbor. And even more time would be spent determining what role, if any, her husband had played in the whole affair.
It began when Mary Farmer forged a deed to the Brennan residence that was recorded in the county clerk’s office. Somehow, she had managed to steal the deed from the Brennan house on one of her many visits to call on Sarah Brennan. The property, located on Paddy Hill on the Hounsfield side of the river in Brownville, was adjacent to the Farmer property, and Mary visited Sarah often. Although the Brennans were not wealthy, by any standards, they enjoyed life’s simple pleasures and seemed content. For Mary Farmer, living right next door must have become increasingly difficult to swallow, because she was reminded daily of what others had that she wanted. The Farmers had lost the previous home they owned near Ontario Mill when they were unable to make payments, and Mr. Farmer had not held a job for some time. Thus, with a false sense of entitlement, Mary Farmer made a conscious decision to turn her growing irritation into an opportunity for herself and her family. On October 31, 1907, she went before Attorney Francis Burns at the Jefferson County clerk’s office impersonating Sarah Brennan. There, she transferred the deed to the Brennan home to the Farmers for the sum of $2,100 (roughly $50,000 in today’s dollar) and forged 55-year-old Sarah Brennan’s signature. This first step accomplished, Mary Farmer foolishly started telling locals that she had purchased the property from the Brennans; and, while the Brennans heard occasional rumors in the village that they had sold their property, they denied them and couldn’t imagine how they had started. On January 7, 1908, the Farmers deeded the property they had acquired illegally over to their son, who was then ten months old; and they transferred the insurance on the house from the Brennans to themselves. The plan was nearly complete. All that was left was to remove the oblivious couple from the premises; but for reasons unknown, Sarah Farmer waited four months to complete her plan. Some speculated that the delay was due to “timidity to commit the deed and the presence of relatives.”
Thursday, April 23, started out like a normal day for the Brennans, other than the fact that Sarah had dressed in black in memory of a daughter who had died some time before. But she was fine when she paid a visit to the Brennans’ home that morning. Pat Brennan went to work at the mill where he ran a boiler. Neither could have ever imagined the events that were about to transpire when they set out in their respective ways that day. According to the Watertown Re-Union of April 29, 1908, Mr. Brennan came home to find the door locked and the key missing from its agreed-upon hiding spot:
All was happy when Mrs. Brennan left him for his work at the C. R. Remington mill that morning. When he returned that afternoon, he found the front door locked. He felt behind the blind for the key; and, not finding it, went to the barn, which was also locked. With a hammer, he pulled the hasp, secured a ladder and entered a window. He thought that perhaps his wife was out calling, but wondered that she failed to leave the key.
Ten minutes later, Brennan was at work tearing down the stormhouse. He had almost finished when Farmer, who had not been working for some time past, came to the fence.
“Don’t you know that I own that place now,” said Farmer. Brennan turned in amazement and replied that he did not. “Yes, the place is mine, all right [sic],” continued Farmer. “I bought it last October, and you can see the deed at the county clerk’s office. I paid $2,100 for it.”
“That’s funny,” commented Brennan. “My wife never said anything about it, and you neither have said anything about it all these months.” Farmer replied that he didn’t think there was need of it, inasmuch as Mrs. Brennan had been paying him $2 a week rent for it, but that now he had decided that he would move in and enjoy his own.
Over the next few, surreal days, Brennan could not get a straight answer from the Farmers on the whereabouts of his wife, which made him wonder if they were somehow involved in her disappearance. The day after she went missing, the Farmers went to Watertown to obtain the following notice from Field & Swan to be served on Brennan, telling him to vacate his property and informing him that they had a bill of sale for all the personal property in the house.
To Patrick Brennan:
Dear Sir—Take notice, that by virtue of a deed dated October 31, 1907, and recorded in the Jefferson county clerk’s office November 9, 1907, in the book of deeds 325, page 93, your wife, Sarah Brennan, sold and conveyed to me, the undersigned, the house and premises in the town of Hounsfield, Jefferson county, N.Y., near the village of Brownville, in which you and she then resided and have since resided; and that I thereupon became and now am the owner of said property; and that your wife has recently delivered to me the keys and possession of said house and property; that I am now in the sole and exclusive possession thereof and of all the household furniture and personal property in the house, which was sold to me by her by bill of sale and delivered to me, for which personal property I paid her, and I am now in possession thereof, in said house.
That I hereby notify and require you to stay away, remain away, and keep out of this house and off said premises from now on, except to come to said house and get and take away your wearing apparel and personal belongings, which I hereby require that you do before April 27, 1908, and in case of your failure so to remove your wearing apparel and personal belongings, I will leave them with Daniel Woodard at his residence in said town, subject to your order, and I hereby forbid you to come on said premises as and for the purpose stated above.
Dated April 24, 1908
(Signed) JAMES D. FARMER
FIELD & SWAN, Attorneys for J. D. Farmer
Not only would he soon learn that they had killed his wife; but they booted him out of his own house and stole all of his material belongings, except his clothing. This went beyond coldblooded. But the property was the least of Brennan’s concerns at the moment. All he really wanted to know was what happened to his wife. The Re-Union said:
Worried almost to desperation, Brennan came that night to the home of James Rattray in Griffin Street, this city, and anxiously inquired if anything had been seen of his wife. It is alleged that the Farmers had told Brennan many stories of his wife’s absence, saying first that she had been selling her property and buying expensive clothing and had left for Duluth. Later, it is alleged, they said that she had gone to Watertown and said she wanted her goods sent to Rattray’s.
Every story was followed by the anxious husband. No one had seen her leave at the station, no trace of her was obtainable at Rattray’s. She had an appointment at Dr. Huntington’s for dental work and this she had failed to keep. Brennan investigated and found all her clothing in the closets.
Two days after being kicked out of his home and told that his wife had left him, Brennan consulted Attorney Floyd Carlisle. The lawyer soon discovered that a woman resembling Mrs. Farmer was the one who had transferred the property at Attorney Burns’ office, not Mrs. Brennan. Things were beginning to look very suspicious for the Farmers. Nevertheless, the scheming couple proceeded unashamedly to take full possession of the Brennan property, even as an investigation into their dealings was about to commence, unbeknownst to them. Enter….the trunk, which was among the effects carried from the Farmer house to the Brennan residence. That trunk represented everything—Mrs. Farmer’s guilt; Mrs. Brennan’s untimely demise; Mr. Farmer’s innocence; and Mr. Brennan’s worst fear.
After learning from Attorney Carlisle that something wasn’t right in the handling of the real estate transactions, Pat Brennan alerted District Attorney Pitcher; and, on Monday, four days after the nightmare had begun, Sheriff Bellinger and his assistants were dispatched to the Brennan residence to question Mary Farmer. At first, Mrs. Farmer denied any knowledge of her neighbor’s disappearance; although, she did turn pale at the start of the questioning. Bellinger then proceeded to search the home. He wasn’t leaving without some answers. According to the Re-Union, it wasn’t long before he had them.
In the back kitchen, the sheriff found the trunk. An odor came from it, and the sheriff suspected that the body was within. When asked for the keys, the Farmers claimed to have lost them, and with a hammer, the lock was forced. A horrible sight met the officer’s eyes—a battered countenance, blood and hair intermingling, the body forced and jammed until it filled the space, skirts partly covering the limbs. When the discovery was made, Brennan and Farmer sat together. “My God, did you do this?” moaned Brennan. “As God is my witness, I did not,” replied Farmer.
A moment’s consultation and Mrs. Farmer was given a chance to look upon the ghastly spectacle. It was too much, and a moment more a confession was had from her. She said that she had felled the woman with the axe and then washed the instrument and the blood spots from the floor. Later she claimed that, as Mrs. Brennan stepped to the parlor window, Farmer stepped behind her and drove the ax against her head with the exclamation, “There, damn you, I have done with you.”
Beneath a mattress, a blood-stained coat that appeared to have been recently washed was found; and, although the floor had been freshly washed, the blotches from blood stains were still apparent. In the trunk with the body was found a button from a man’s coat, a comb, and a torn pocket. The murder weapon, an axe, was found several days later tucked well-hidden from view in a nook in the barn. The body was examined by Coroner Charles E. Pierce, along with several physicians, and they found that the left ear had been hacked off, there were three defense wounds on the left wrist, both lips had been cut straight through, and a long gash was made on the forehead over both eyes where the axe had broken through the skull. The left jaw had been broken, and it appeared that the victim had been struck from the side first and then “blows had been rained upon the face to finish the job,” according to an article called “Cruel Murder” in the Watertown Re-Union of April 29, 1908. This finding contradicted Mrs. Farmer’s version of having snuck up behind the woman and struck her with the axe.
After the initial shock of being found out wore off and a smidgeon of reasoning (disturbed as it was) returned, Mrs. Farmer attempted to lay blame for the murder on her husband. Then, she quickly recanted that version and again admitted that it was she who was responsible. Nevertheless, both husband and wife were taken to the county jail as suspects in the murder of Sarah Brennan. Mr. Farmer, perhaps still absorbing the shock of the grim discovery and the ramifications of such, wisely said nothing on the way to the county jail. However, Mrs. Farmer, baby at her breast, smiled when asked by the deputy if her dreams were disturbed, sleeping in the same house as a corpse. She replied smugly that her dreams were no worse than usual—proof of a mind with no conscience…and an impending insanity defense. On Friday, May 1, warrants were issued for the arrest of James and Mary Farmer.
A disheveled, weary James Farmer arrived at the arraignment in shackles, led by Undersheriff Charles Hosmer; and Mary Farmer, wearing a blue skirt, heavy plush coat, and a shawl over her head, was accompanied into the courtroom by Sheriff Ezra D. Bellinger. The Re-Union said, “As far as expression goes, she was as immobile as a statue and looked straight ahead, never shifting her glance. During the time she sat there, not a muscle moved, and she was motionless. Her face was neither flushed nor pale, but it was easily seen that a terrific struggle was going on in her mind.” After the charges of murder were read to them by City Judge Reeves, Brayton A. Field entered a plea of not guilty for Mr. Farmer. Attorney E. Robert Wilcox was assigned to Mrs. Farmer, and the date for examinations of the couple was set for May 6, with Mr. Farmer being questioned first at 9 a.m. and Mrs. Farmer at 2 p.m. As a result of the damning evidence produced at that examination, the couple was brought before the Grand Jury and indicted on charges of first-degree murder. It was initially thought that perhaps James Farmer was unaware of his wife’s plan, especially after she accepted full blame, but evidence produced during the May 6 examination raised considerable doubt that could not be ignored. According to the Re-Union:
Damaging evidence implicating James Farmer more strongly as being at least an accessory to the deed developed at Wednesday morning’s examination of Farmer before Judge Reeves, when the district attorney produced in court and read the paper signed by Farmer which…became a notice to dispossess Patrick Brennan of the home in which he and his wife had resided for many years, and which even that day sheltered [a] mutilated body…The dispossession notice, signed the day after the murder had been committed, states that Farmer bought the property, had the keys, and warned Brennan to get off and stay away from the home of which forgery had robbed him and which cost the life of his wife.
Farmer had to be aware of his wife’s plot. He enforced it by having the notice drawn up and asking Constable Sherman to serve it upon Brennan at once! He had bragged to others about having bought the property long before that fateful day. But had Mary Farmer convinced him that she had truly bought the property with money she had saved from what little he made and turned over to her? Had she convinced him that Sarah Brennan was aware of the property transaction and had left town? Did she leave out the part where the brutally murdered the poor woman in cold blood? James Farmer seemed genuine enough when he asked Brennan, three days after the murder, if he had heard anything on where his wife went. And when the trunk containing the body was found by the sheriff, it was James Farmer who had suggested breaking the lock to open it when the key couldn’t be found. Would a guilty man who knew what the trunk held have made such a recommendation? Was he truly unaware that his own wife had murdered Sarah Brennan? Perhaps his only role was enforcing the property transaction to take possession of what he believed was rightfully his. Perhaps he had no knowledge whatsoever of the full-scope of the crime. He would have his day in court; but first Mary Farmer, the mastermind of one of Jefferson County’s most shocking murders, had to be dealt with.
Mary Farmer’s sister-in-law, Mrs. Michael Doran, had a hunch something wasn’t right from the time she arrived at the Farmer residence at the behest of her brother, James, to pick up a deed that he asked her to take to Watertown to have recorded. Mary came to the door and handed her the deed, and Mrs. Doran took one look at it and recognized the signature as that of Mary Farmer, not Sarah Brennan. She asked Mary how much she had paid for the property and was told $1,200. “The woman must have been crazy [to ask for so little],” said Mrs. Doran, according to the Watertown Re-Union of May 9, 1908. “Crazy or not, I have the property,” was Mary Farmer’s response. Mrs. Doran also told the court that Mrs. Farmer appeared at her home on the day of the murder, around 2 p.m., to speak with James, who was helping out there that day. Doran testified that Mary Farmer handed her husband a bunch of keys and said, “There are your keys. Go and see Patsy Brennan and tell him his wife has gone and he has no home.” She said her brother’s obvious apprehension over his wife’s demand was very upsetting to her.
Many individuals living nearby testified as to the comings and goings of Mary Farmer and Sarah Brennan on the day of the murder. All agreed that they had seen Mrs. Brennan enter the Farmer home around nine-ish that morning but never saw her leave; although, they did see Mary Farmer buzzing around all day. Mrs. Charles Baker, for example, swore that she saw Mrs. Farmer “running back and forth from her house to the Brennan’s a dozen times,” beginning around 9:20 a.m. Nothing, however, was more incriminating than the testimony of a young girl named Edith Blake and that of Philip Smith, a man who helped carry the trunk from one house to the next. The Watertown Re-Union best summed up Edith’s testimony in its June 17, 1908 paper:
Little 12-year-old Edith Blake told how she had gone to the Farmers’ and cared for the baby Thursday. The girl’s answers were clear and concise, sticking to the same in spite of any cross-examination. The witness told how Farmer swore and took some keys from his pocket and passed them to his wife, saying he did not want them. Witness said Mrs. Farmer said, “To hell. You won’t get a d— [sic]cent of money.” The testimony gave the impression that the Farmers quarreled at the noon hour.
The girl told how Mrs. Farmer had gone to Doran’s and returned, getting some paper from a drawer and again returning to Doran’s, where her husband was at work. Once at home again, Mrs. Farmer told the witness to tend the baby while she cleaned the back room, taking some clothes from the bedroom. The witness said that Mrs. Farmer had sent her to a store for some camphorated oil.
It developed during the questioning that Mrs. Farmer was very careful to shut the door to the room which she was cleaning, so that witness was unable to see what was going on. The cross-examination tended to show that about the noon hour, Mr. and Mrs. Farmer had many talks, occasionally going into one of the rooms and closing the door, leaving the child minding the baby.
Philip Smith’s testimony regarding the black trunk sealed the deal. The Re-Union said the that Smith, who lived one house to the east of the Brennan house, agreed to help the Farmers move their belongings into the Brennan house on the morning of April 25.
Witness told of getting a clothesline to tie the trunk, at the request of Mrs. Farmer, and with her assistance of tying the trunk around twice with the rope, and…tying the trunk around the third time. Witness also testified to getting a gallon jug replenished with ale three times while the moving was going on, the defendant furnishing the money for the beverage. All partook of the ale, but witness could not say that defendant drank any. [Author’s note: The old get-‘em-drunk-until-they’re-oblivious-trick.] The defendant told the witness that she would ask Mr. Tierney to help him carry the trunk, because her husband and Mr. Callahan were drunk, and there was something in the trunk she wanted to be very careful with.
The trunk was heavy enough to require two men to carry it, and while it was being moved from one house to the other, the defendant followed close after it. No discoloration was noticed under the trunk, and a smaller one was placed on its top…It also developed that Mrs. Farmer was in the Barton house [the Farmer’s rented property] most of the time before the trunk was moved, but after it was moved, she spent most of her time in the Brennan house.
In other words, Mary Farmer didn’t take her eyes off the trunk and made sure that it wasn’t unduly disturbed for fear of someone opening it. William Tierney corroborated Smith’s testimony “of how the trunk was carried and followed in close succession by Mrs. Farmer.” Tierney said Mary Farmer told him there was something breakable in the trunk and to be careful while carrying it. The testimony affected the jury as much as seeing a photograph of Sarah Brennan’s post-mortem head which was brought in as evidence. There was no doubt in anyone’s mind that the signatures of Sarah Brennan had been forged on the deed and bill of sale, for the real Sarah Brennan was not the woman who had gone before the attorney and notary public the year before; and there was now no doubt that Mary Farmer was well aware of the contents of the black trunk—contents that Mr. Farmer seemed oblivious of when he suggested that the authorities break the trunk open. Mary Farmer was thus found guilty of murdering Sarah Brennan and sentenced to die at Auburn the first week of August.
With that, Patrick Brennan commenced legal action to have the forged deeds declared null and void, so he could regain possession of his property. The Farmers’ infant son was put in the care of John Conboy, a member of the Farmer family; and ultimately, he was sent to the Ogdensburg orphanage in St. Lawrence County. The trial of James Farmer, who had been in the Jefferson County lockup since April, was the next item on the agenda. Six months of incarceration-induced sobriety had done much to improve his appearance. The Watertown Herald said, “In court, dressed neatly and soberly, clean and sober, and much lighter in weight after six months imprisonment,” he looked nothing like the man dressed in working clothes the day of his arrest. But as ‘clean’ as he now appeared, there was nothing clean about the crime for which he was being tried. District Attorney Pitcher said, “Never in the history of Jefferson County has there been a crime which could measure to this in cold deliberation and in a cruel and relentless pursuit of a criminal purpose.” Still, the defense insisted that their client knew nothing of the murder until the trunk was opened, and the sheriff said, “I have found her.”
Patrick Brennan testified at James Farmer’s trial, much as he had at the trial of Mary Farmer, repeating as he had so many times the story of how he came home from work to find his wife missing, of the surreal experience of being kicked out of his own house by his neighbor who claimed he had bought it, and of the search and discovery of his wife’s body in the trunk. Alice Doran, Farmer’s sister, again testified that she was asked by Mary Farmer to take the deed to Watertown and have it recorded. After calling the office where attorney Francis P. Burns had drawn and executed the deed for someone proclaiming to be Sarah Brennan, Mrs. Doran became very concerned that something shady was going on. She said she asked her brother several times if he had ever spoken to Sarah Brennan about transferring the deed, and he admitted he hadn’t—he had only spoken to Patrick about it when he evicted the man from his own property. Many of the witnesses called to the stand in Mary Farmer’s trial returned to the stand in the James Farmer murder trial. And when all was said and done, when attorneys for the people and attorneys for the defendant had pulled out all the stops and put the best spin they possibly could on the now-familiar testimony, the jury reached a verdict of guilty. Then, just as Justice DeAngelis was about to pronounce the sentence, a motion for a new trial was made, when Attorney Kellogg announced his belief that a sermon preached at the All Souls Church the previous Sunday had prejudiced some members of the jury who were in attendance at that mass. The pastor was brought in and asked to read the entire text of his sermon to see if it was, in fact, something that might sway the jury; but the judge saw nothing in it that he thought should delay his pronouncement of sentencing. Thus, a full year after the deed that started the whole mess was forged, James Farmer was sentenced to die in the electric chair, like his wife, between eight weeks and four months of the date of his conviction.
While Farmer’s defense attorneys set to work on his appeal, Farmer was placed in a cell in death row at Auburn Prison. Mary Farmer was nearby, in the Auburn women’s prison, her execution having been temporarily stayed by a futile appeal. The couple was permitted to see each other twice, briefly, before Mary Farmer’s execution on March 31, 1909; but they were not allowed to touch or to speak in private. And James Farmer was moved to another part of the prison on execution day to spare him from hearing his wife being led to the execution chamber. She would only be accompanied by Father Hickey, her spiritual advisor who had prayed with her in the days leading up to this final one, and the two female attendants who had remained constantly at her side since she first arrived at Auburn. The Watertown Re-Union of March 31, 1909, said, “…the Farmer woman walked unfalteringly to the death chair. Her eyes were half closed, and she saw nothing of the death chair and rows of witnesses. In her hands, she clasped a crucifix, and as she was being strapped in the chair, Father Hickey stood at her side and offered prayers for the dying.” The prison physician acknowledged that Farmer was dead with the first shock, but to quell the residual muscle tremors quickly, two more contacts were made—each with 1,840 volts of electricity shooting through her body. After the physicians pronounced her dead, her body was removed for autopsy and then, as directed by her husband, it was laid to rest in St. Joseph’s Cemetery near Watertown.
Previously, Father Hickey had said, “Mrs. Farmer will die a good Catholic and will go to her death bravely. It may be, though I cannot say positively, that some statement may be made by Mrs. Farmer to the public. If so it will not be given out until after the execution.” The time had now come to release the statement Mrs. Farmer wrote and addressed to Father Hickey the Sunday before. It was in response to telling her that, if she could truthfully exonerate her husband, she should before it was too late. This, she had done, and she signed her hand-written statement before a notary on March 28. It said:
To Rev. J. J. Hickey:
My husband, James D. Farmer, never had any hand in Sarah Brennan’s death, nor never knew anything about it till the trunk was opened. I never told him anything what had happened. I feel he has been terribly wronged. James D. Farmer was not at home the day the affair happened, neither did James D. Farmer ever put a hand on Sarah Brennan after her death. Again, I wish to say as strongly as I can that my husband, James D. Farmer, is entirely innocent of the death of Sarah Brennan, that he knowingly had no part in any plans that led to it and that he knew nothing whatever about it.
(Signed) MARY H. FARMER.
Subscribed and sworn to before me this 28th day of March, 1909.
B. F. WINEGAR
Notary Public, Cayuga County.
James Farmer’s second trial began on February 22, 1910. The same witnesses who had been called for Mary Farmer’s trial and James Farmer’s first trial were brought in again. And the same attorneys who had represented him at his first trial would represent him at the second, along with E. R. Wilcox, who had defended Farmer’s wife. District Attorney Fred B. Pitcher, assisted by Floyd S. Carlisle, tried the case for the people. As the Watertown Herald said, “The evidence was about the same as in his first trial. The prosecution tried to show his presence in the house at the time the killing took place and tried to s how that he knew of it then or immediately afterwards. The defense offered evidence to show that he was not at the house at the time, and that his actions afterwards showed a man free from any guilty knowledge.” (That evidence included his suggestion that the sheriff should break the trunk open when the keys couldn’t be found.) With the first vote of the jury at 7:15 p.m., all twelve men voted, “Not guilty.” Farmer would leave the courthouse that day a free man. The Herald said:
Shortly after 9 o’clock, Judge Emerson put in an appearance. The jury filed in a moment later. The courtroom was in absolute silence, but no sooner had the foreman uttered the words, “not guilty,” than the courtroom resounded with hand clapping. One woman jumped up and shouted, “Good, good, good.” Judge Emerson rapped loudly for order, commanding the court attendants to bring anyone forward that had been seen taking part in the demonstration. As the jurymen left the enclosure, Farmer shook hands and thanked each. Later on, men and women pressed forward and shook Farmer’s hand. Farmer was visibly affected by his good fortune.
The True Story of the Double Initial Murders – August 13, 2010
by Cheri Farnsworth
Between 1971 and 1973, three young girls, ages ten to eleven, were found sexually assaulted and slain near Rochester, New York. The girls all had double initials for their first and last names and were found dead in suburbs with names in which the first letter coordinated with the girls’ initials. Two prime suspects later committed suicide. A third suspect, Kenneth Bianchi, went to California where he went on to become one of the infamous Hillside Stranglers, but to this day he insists he had nothing to do with the so-called Double Initial, or Alphabet, murders. The crimes remain unsolved, but interest in the case was re-energized with the release of a fictionalized motion picture loosely based on the murders. This factual account, the first book fully devoted to the case, explores the crime and the ongoing investigation.
The Double Initial Murders of Rochester, NY, have always been newsworthy; but when Joseph Naso was caught in 2011 for a similar string of murders in California, a renewed push for inside information swiftly developed, reaching fever pitch. You can sense the urgency in the following requests. Below is a sampling of the emails I received from various news media, starting within a day or two of the story breaking.
Haunted Hudson Valley: Ghosts and Strange Phenomena of New York’s Sleepy Hollow Country – January 29, 2010
“Haunted New York is utterly fascinating, fact filled, and so well written it’s hard to put down. I devoured every page!” ~ Maggie Shayne, New York Times best-selling author of Darker than Midnight and Blue Twilight
Haunted New York: Ghosts and Strange Phenomena of the Empire State – August 30, 2005
An entertaining look at supernatural phenomena in New York, including the ghost of a British soldier at Fort Ontario, Champ the Lake Champlain monster, the haunted castle of Captain Beardslee, spirits in Manhattan’s oldest house, the alien abduction at the Brooklyn Bridge, and many more.
Haunted Massachusetts: Ghosts and Strange Phenomena of the Bay State – July 21, 2005
New and updated release coming out in July 2020!
“Good, old-fashioned ghost stories told with historical accuracy and respect, proving the truth is far more frightening than fiction.” ~ John Stimpson, writer/director of The Legend of Lucy Keyes
Haunted Massachusetts: Ghosts and Strange Phenomena of the Bay State
A fun look at unexplained phenomena in Massachusetts, including the wandering spirit of lost child Lucy Keyes, the monkey-like Dover Demon, the ghost that leaves tips at Stone’s Public Tavern, hauntings in Lizzie Borden’s house, the Black Flash phantom in Provincetown, and many more.
“EXCELLENT!!! Well researched and cleverly organized. More Haunted Northern New York by Cheri Revai is a must-read for anyone with an interest in the paranormal or North Country history and legends; brimming with examples to frighten, amuse, and sadden the reader.” ~ Leland Farnsworth, Reviewer for BOOK Magazine
More Haunted Northern New York – January 1, 2003
Another fascinating compilation of true ghost stories and spirit encounters from around the North Country region. Cheri Farnsworth has done it again, weaving unbelievable bits of Northern New York history into these new chilling accounts of ghostly encounters and deftly illustrating the very personal nature of encounters with the spirits of deceased loved ones in this admirable follow-up to her best-selling book, “Haunted Northern New York.”