CONVERSATIONS WITH A DEAD MAN

I have many memories of being confused as a child, but few exceeded my bewilderment at watching my father calmly carry on a conversation with a dead man. I was six years old.

The whole thing started in the winter of 1952 when word reached the Corcoran household that Sam Hope was dead. I didn't know exactly what that meant, but it caused the important people in my life to be upset, so it must be big. When my father took a day off from work, whatever that was, it took on gigantic proportions. Still not sure what dead meant, I consulted the fountain of all knowledge, my 9 year old brother. He was always happy to fill in the gaps in my learning. I still didn't quite get it, but I knew being dead was not something to work towards. Especially the parts about underground and rotting.

So imagine my surprise the following summer, when something like the following conversation took place around my Uncle's farmhouse table during one of our visits.

Uncle Pete: “ Hen, why don't you stop and visit Sam Hope on your way home. He'd love to meet the boys ( indicating Mike and I).”

My father: “ Well, I could go back through Laceville and do that. Good Idea.”

Uncle Pete: “ He always asks about you, and since the horse kicked him, he doesn't get out much. The kids will get a kick out of meeting him.”

Well, I can't speak for the other boy, but this one was not the slightest bit interested in meeting Mr. Hope. And exactly how did you arrange a meeting in the first place? Could it involve a shovel?

Deeply troubled by the whole idea, I did exactly what generations of males in my family have always done. Said not a single word. Not then, not ever.

So we arrived at a normal looking farmhouse, knocked our way into the living room and spent an hour or so having a very pleasant conversation with Mr. Sam Hope. Sam was not nearly as pale as I expected, and close observation showed very little decay. He seemed genuinely happy to see us, but I suppose it broke up the boredom of being dead.

It took another 6 years to fully understand the story. My father and I were in the family cemetery and as so often happened each grave site invoked another story.

Now long before the place I call “ down home” and the world calls Stowell, Pennsylvania existed, there was a young Irish immigrant named Peter Hope – henceforward and for reasons soon to be clear called “Old Peter.” Now how “Old Peter” came to be working for the Hattfields of Scottsville is a tale of great interest, but for another time. Suffice it to say he worked, he fell in love with the youngest Hattfield and being Irish and Catholic, two persuasions not shared by the Hattfields, he moved on - quickly because as it tuned out, the youngest Hattfield moved on with him to what would become Stowell.

All things work out in good time and it seems the young”Old” Peter and his bride lived happily ever after, producing any number of children with good Irish names, like Samuel, born sometime around 1860. Now hang onto that name because you will soon see why such happy events of the 1860's could cause such confusion to a child of six in 1952.

Into the area now officially called Stowell came another Peter Hope, henceforward known as Peter F. This Peter's great claim to fame , other than being my Great Grandfather, was that in 1849 he parked his plow and walked to California, not to mine the earth, but to mine the miners. He opened a store in the gold fields and became quite wealthy. By 1852, he walked back to Stowell and settled down, producing a number of children with good Irish names like – Samuel, born around 1880. A 6 year old's confusion clearer?