Ghosts: Aaron Burr, Patrick Swayze, etc. by Louis Brown

Aaron Burr’s mother was Esther Edwards (my great, great XXXX Aunt)

Aaron Burr Jr. (February 6, 1756 – September 14, 1836) was an American politician. He was the third vice president of the United States (1801–1805), serving during President Thomas Jefferson's first term. Burr served as a Continental Army officer in the Revolutionary War, after which he became a successful lawyer and politician. He was elected twice to the New York State Assembly (1784–1785, 1798–1799),[1] was appointed New York state attorney general (1789–1791), was chosen as a United States senator (1791–1797) from the state of New York, and reached the apex of his career as vice president.

Born Gore Vidal = Eugene Louis Vidal October 3, 1925 West Point, New York, U.S.
Died July 31, 2012 (aged 86) Hollywood Hills, California, U.S. Nationality American
Other names Eugene Luther Vidal, Jr.
Education Phillips Exeter Academy
Occupation Writer, novelist, essayist, playwright, screenwriter, actor
Known for The City and the Pillar (1948) Julian (1964) Myra Breckinridge (1968) Burr (1973) Lincoln (1984)
Political party Democratic

Movement Postmodernism Ghost is a 1990 American romantic fantasy thriller film starring Patrick Swayze, Demi Moore, Whoopi Goldberg, Tony Goldwyn, and Rick Aviles. It was written by Bruce Joel Rubin and directed by Jerry Zucker.[3] Of course, poor Patrick Swayze is dead.
Born Patrick Wayne Swayze August 18, 1952 Houston, Texas, U.S.
Died September 14, 2009 (aged 57) Los Angeles, California, U.S.
Cause of death Pancreatic cancer
Resting place Ashes scattered in New Mexico ranch
Nationality American
Alma mater Coastal Carolina University
Occupation * Actor * dancer * singer-songwriter
Years active 1979–2009
Spouse(s) Lisa Niemi (m. 1975; his death 2009)

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I, Louis L. Brown, qualify as being a ghost since, in a bicycle accident 3 years ago, after I was taken via ambulance to the ICU at Denver Health Center, technically I died, according to the woman doctor, Dr. Johnson, who described what happened to me since personally I do not recall any of the trauma I suffered. I was bicycling in Wheat Ridge, near 52nd Avenue and Chase Street, and to judge by the bending and denting of my bicycle chain guard, I must have been hit by a car or truck or some vehicle.

Dr. Johnson said she did not personally save me, it was a medical technician. While in the ICU, I did not have the energy to ask to meet and thank the medical technician. I was there 3 weeks then I was transferred to Presbyterian Medical

Center in Denver, and, from there, I was transferred to Briarwood Rehab Center for another three weeks. The second half of my stay at Briarwood was quite pleasant and the food was very good. During the first half of my stay there I was fed through a stomach tube. I did not really adjust to that, so I barfed a a lot. Boo!

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Another interesting “ghost” for me is my deceased brother Thomas D. Brown who, for 2 years while he was attending Queens College (in New York City), reacted to the War in Vietnam by applying for status as conscientious objector. At the end of the 2 years, the military denied his claim to be a conscientious objector but gave him a I-Y status (like I have). If necessary, I would have applied for status as a conscientious objector, but things did not go that way in my case. A lot of draft eligible men resettled in Canada. Eventually Thomas D. Brown died of lung cancer. He smoked too many cigarettes.

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Another interesting ghost for me is my other younger brother, Charles F. Brown who worked as a manager in the 42nd Street Library in Manhattan. Like both of my parents, he was also against the War in Vietnam. He had an exceptionally beautiful Italian boyfriend, Pat Marra; they lived in the Bronx. Pat looked like a DaVinci painting. His hands were a work of art. Charlie died from drinking too many whiskey sours and Manhattans and Martini’s, etc. Pat Marra died from an overdose of cocaine.

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My parents, DeWitt Brown and Elinor Brown were also interesting characters who are no longer alive, but I will save them for another prompt in the future.

© 24 April 2017

About the Author

I was born in 1944, I lived most of my life in New York City, Queens County. I still commute there. I worked for many years as a Caseworker for New York City Human Resources Administration, dealing with mentally impaired clients, then as a social work Supervisor dealing with homeless PWA's. I have an apartment in Wheat Ridge, CO. I retired in 2002. I have a few interesting stories to tell. My boyfriend Kevin lives in New York City. I graduated Queens College, CUNY, in 1967.

Bicycle Memories (Parts 1 & 2), by Lewis

                                                    Part 1

I have already covered a couple of my “bicycle memories” in past stories, including that of lying on the front lawn of my house waiting for Sears to deliver the bicycle that my grandfather had bought for me and having an allergic reaction to the tetanus shot I received after being unintentionally cut off by an older boy while I was still a novice and sailing head-first into a ditch.

Having saved the best for last, I will now relate the tale of my “near-death” bicycle memory.  I was about nine-years-old.  I don’t remember whether I was riding home from school or just out for a “cruise”.  I was at the corner of Washington Street and 26^th Avenue in Hutchinson, Kansas, riding south.  The intersection was not regulated by stop or yield signs.  Unseen by me, a panel delivery truck was approaching the intersection from my right.  We collided.  I have no memory of being struck.  When I came to, several strangers, including the truck’s driver, were bending over me looking quite concerned.  Apparently, I had struck my forehead on the curb.

To say I was lucky would be an understatement.  The driver must have slammed on his brakes in time to slow to a great degree.  I was able to ride my bike home.  I have no memory of seeing a doctor or even informing my parents, although I believe they did receive a phone call from the police.  I’m sure my mother was relieved to know that I required no care from her.

© 30 May 2016 

Part 2 

[Because the chosen topic for today, “Public Places”, carries very little resonance with me and my story from last week on the subject of “Bicycle Memories”, while focusing on my “near death experience” on a two-wheeled conveyance, omitted two other two-wheeled adventures that, while less serious, are nevertheless forever emblazoned in my memory.  Taken together, they offer a clue to as why I have not sat astride a bicycle for nearly ten years now.]

The first misadventure took place in August of 2001.  My late husband, Laurin, and I were fond of taking bike rides around our neighborhood in Dearborn, MI.  On this occasion, we were heading back to our apartment building on a public sidewalk when I took a spill.  I can’t remember the exact cause.  I only had a slight scrape but it shook me up enough that I walked my bike the last three blocks home.

Within a few days, we were on our way to Montreal for the Gay Pride Day Parade.  We hung our new bike rack on the decklid of our car crossing our fingers that everything would remain secured for the entire journey.  Having arrived without incident, we thought it would be fun to drive our car to the top of Mt. Royale and ride our bikes down the long, steep hill.  It wasn’t long before we had attained a high enough speed that I noticed that all was not right with my front wheel.  It had a noticeable wobble.  I nearly lost control.  I had no choice but to walk my bike to the bottom of the incline.  The street there was lined with shops and I was lucky to find a bicycle shop nearby.  Within a couple of hours, all was fixed but the seed of doubt had been planted once again that perhaps bikes and I just don’t get along.  (Some of you may remember the story I told a year or so ago about being cut off by another boy as a novice bike rider and sailing head-over-handle bars into a ditch where I cut my forehead on a rock and ended up with an allergic reaction to the old horse-derived tetanus serum.)

But the “Bicycle Memory” to top them all occurred ten years ago almost to the day.  Laurin and I were simply going out for a nice, easy pleasant ride around Capitol Hill.  We needed to air our tires, as they had gotten rather low in storage.  We stopped at the Conoco station at 8^th Ave. and Downing.  They must have had two air hoses because I remember both of us filling our tires simultaneously.  I had just completed the job when I heard a loud “BLAM”.  Laurin had over-inflated one of his tires and it had blown out.  So, we took turns riding my bike and walking his to Turin Bicycles at 7^th Ave. and Lincoln St.  The blow-out had bent the rim on his bike and they needed a day to make the repairs.  We headed toward home with just my bike.  I rode a few blocks down 7^th Ave. and then offered my bike to Laurin.  In those days, 7^th Ave. sidewalk crossings were not graded for the handicapped.  For some reason--perhaps related to his incipient but undiagnosed Parkinson’s--Laurin did not stop in time and ran into the rather high curb.  He ended up flying over the handlebars and now my bike, too, had a bent rim.  My visions of what the guys at the bike shop would say or think haunted my every step on the return trip.

Well, they were very diplomatic about showing any disbelief or contempt (after all, we were now repeat customers).  The walk home was very long but we both saw the funny side of the entire affair.  I was extremely relieved that Laurin was hardly scratched from his fall.  Later, with both repairs having been completed, we immediately set about finding a buyer for the bikes from Hell.  From then on, we would trust our lives to walking shoes, which are guaranteed never to blow out or get bent.

© 5 Jun 2016 

About the Author 

I came to the beautiful state of Colorado out of my native Kansas by way of Michigan, the state where I married and I came to the beautiful state of Colorado out of my native Kansas by way of Michigan, the state where I married and had two children while working as an engineer for the Ford Motor Company. I was married to a wonderful woman for 26 happy years and suddenly realized that life was passing me by. I figured that I should make a change, as our offspring were basically on their own and I wasn't getting any younger. Luckily, a very attractive and personable man just happened to be crossing my path at that time, so the change-over was both fortuitous and smooth.

Soon after, I retired and we moved to Denver, my husband's home town. He passed away after 13 blissful years together in October of 2012. I am left to find a new path to fulfillment. One possibility is through writing. Thank goodness, the SAGE Creative Writing Group was there to light the way.