I love having breakfast at the Belmont Diner.  I sit at the horseshoe-shaped lunch counter and invariably there’s another human being across the way to talk to.  A couple of weeks ago, it was Eric.  He’s a farmer near Belmont and there’s a picture of his homestead on a wall in the Diner.  Green farm buildings and a tall red-brick home.

“Eric, how old is your house?”

“123 years.”

“Wow!  Do you have any ghosts?”  [I love the idea of ghosts.  I hope to meet one someday.]

“No, but my neighbour Larry does.”

“You’re kidding.  Do you think he’d be okay if I knocked on his door to talk about them?”

“He’d love it.”

And so ended breakie, me flushed with anticipation.  I’ll find Larry’s house and try for a chat.

A few days later, I drove by Eric’s home, thinking that it also had to have a ghost or two.  And I found Larry’s house.  It was a newer building, with cream-coloured siding.  Sure didn’t look like a spot for floating spirits.  No matter.  I’ll knock.  But not today.  I had to get to South Dorchester School for my volunteering.

Day after day, I was a mite too busy for ghost hunting.  And then I went back to the Diner for another breakfast.  There sat Eric and my friend Barry, who’s often referred to as “The Mayor of Belmont”.  (My village doesn’t have an official one.)

“I haven’t got inside Larry’s home yet, Eric.  Sure hope I see some ghosts when I do.”

“They’re not in his house.  They’re in the barn.”

“Oh.”  I thought middle-class ghosts would seek out more luxurious accommodations.

“Bruce …”  I looked around to see Barry sizing me up.  “Eric isn’t talking about ghosts.  His neighbour has goats.”

And so ensued a stunned silence, followed by three locals laughing their guts out.

Oh dearest supernatural beings, I’m still on the lookout for a sighting.  Someone please send me your ghosts and goblins.  I’m no good at milking.