I Return...With The Musings Of A Sentimental Old Fool

Finally seeing Filter in concert, a band that I leaned on during some downright dark and terrible times, has made me sentimental. Made me think about how music has been the common thread of my life that kept me from unraveling like a cheap sweater. There are albums that have comforted me, grieved with me, shaped me and empowered me. I wanted to share that list and so, for the first time in about three years, I wrote a blog.

When I started this entry, I thought it would just be a simple list of albums that I've connected with over the years. But it became much more than that. It become a chronological reflection of the music I listened to during my struggle with religion. And why wouldn't it? Religion was a dominating force in my life, and not in any kind of good way. For those who don't know me so well, I'll keep this brief. I was raised in a fundamentalist Christian church where the Bible was taken as fact. A tool used to control and condemn, rather than comfort. As a nine year old, I learned if I didn't conform to the church's ways (because all other religions - including Catholicism, Lutheranism and any other isms -  were wrong), I would spend my entire afterlife weeping, gnashing my teeth and burning in the fiery pits of hell. Little Boo was imaginative. This image stuck.

It was...traumatizing. 

As such, Christianity is no friend of mine. Now, that doesn't mean I don't like you if you're a Christian. Or that I think less of you because you believe in God. If I don't like you, it's not your religion. It's only because you're a judgmental asshole.

Having said that, I give you the albums that saved my soul more than any god ever could.

Alice in Chains – Dirt. I was an 80's pop girl. Paula Abdul (Forever Your Girl, yo), Janet Jackson (Rhythm Nation, baby) and yes, New Kids on the Block. But as I rolled into ten, eleven and twelve, I flirted with the darker side of pop – Depeche Mode, The Cure. And then classic rock – Queen, Tom Petty. And then I burned my New Kids on the Block posters very ceremoniously in the back yard.

When I was 13, a friend played Dirt for me (on tape…old school) and my eyes couldn’t have bugged out of my head far enough. First off, this band had a song called Angry Chair. What the hell does that mean? I didn’t know, but that title spoke to my random sense of humor. And the music? Nothing short of mesmerizing. Layne Staley’s haunting voice, filled with all the rage and pain and frustration I had inside myself, but no way to express was exactly the salve I needed to soothe my pre-teen angst. 

Megadeth – Countdown to Extinction. First heavy metal album I bought. I was 13 or 14. Dave Mustaine’s angry snarl was amusing and the crunch of guitars empowering. This kind of music also nicely complimented my newfound utter distaste of anything involving my parents. When I showed my mom what I had bought, I took immense delight in the disgusted, yet concerned look on her face. “So this is what you’re into now?” Yes. Read it and weep, lady. I’m going to listen to this while I read books on witchcraft.

Ironic that these days, Dave Mustaine has come to represent everything I hate, so fuck him for that. But at least he put me on the heavy metal path before he turned traitor. 

Blind Melon – Blind Melon. When I was 15 my family took a road trip to visit my great grandma in Detroit. This was over Halloween weekend in 1993. I was lying awake in my great grandma’s guest room Halloween night listening to a local rock station when I learned River Phoenix died. But I digress.

Detroit. That meant fourteen hours in a car with my parents and little brother. Seriously, kill me. Thank god I had my Walkman. Oh, but I left all my tapes in a bag on my bed at home. Fuck. After a pouty temper tantrum about that (my options were shit radio or suffering through the company of my family – the temper tantrum was justified), my dad relented and stopped at Walmart. It was a shit music selection, but I’d heard a couple of Blind Melon tracks and figured, why not? While I preferred metal, it ain't like we were exclusive, you know. Little did I know the effect Shannon Hoon’s lyrics would have on me.

Around this time, I was feeling immense pressure from my parents and other church folk to commit myself to God. Well, the International Churches of Christ's version of God. Except if I did, that meant no more swearing, kissing boys, smoking, and definitely no heavy metal music. Insert are-you-kidding-me face here. But if I didn’t do it, remember, I was going to burn in hell. At fifteen I was torn between the frustration of that inevitable and dissatisfying religious life and just wanting to be a normal fucking teenager. When I heard Blind Melon’s Holyman for the first time, I cried inside. “Holyman, you don't understand. The cuts on me they run much deeper.” 

Yeah, I understood. All too well. 

I put this poster on my wall...and my father cried a little.

Pantera – Far Beyond Driven. Also at 15, I discovered Pantera. The Far Beyond Driven album – also one of the first CD’s I ever owned – was given to me by a friend (who would later become my bother-in-law, actually). It was angry music. No coincidence that as my inevitable joining of The Church (trust me, it deserves ominous capitalization) loomed closer, my music tastes grew more extreme and more…angry. It was around this time that I flat out refused to go to The Church. In my mind, I’d soon be wasting away my days in that dull, mind numbing life. I just wanted to live it up a bit before I had to take that bitter pill. So I stopped going to The Church. My parents bristled at first, but it was futile. I was a headstrong teenager. And they eventually got tired of the fight. They decided to pick their battles. You know, like when I come home at 10:30 on a school night and announce I’m on acid. 

Garbage – Garbage. Welp, the tide finally turned. At 16 I drank that fucking Kool-Aid. The Church finally claimed me as one of its own. I thought I was doing it for the right reasons at the time, but in hindsight I know I just wanted the inner struggle I constantly felt to be over. I hadn’t completely abandoned my rock/metal music once I started going to The Church. Alice in Chains was forever in the rotation, for one. But bands like Pantera only made me yearn for the things I was convinced I couldn’t have. It was easier to not listen then be reminded of what a traitor I was to myself.

But thankfully I discovered Garbage. The blend of rock, pop and dance was energizing and emotional at a time when I mostly felt numb. And Shirley Manson has always been such a bad ass! A strong woman that dominates her audience and demands you listen to what she has to say. She was angry, but optimistic. Tough as nails, but vulnerable. And Garbage’s music reflected all of that. While I struggled with feeling I had to be one or the other, here she was walking that line with a ballerina’s grace. I envied and adored her.

That bitch was right. A mad man.

Ben Folds Five – Whatever and Ever Amen. First year of college I had a manager at Proex that was a complete bitch. Guys, you know me. I can get along with pretty much anybody. But this chick was a loose cannon. You never knew if she was going to smother you with kindness or smother you with a goddamn pillow. On one of her kindness days, she suggested a little album called Whatever and Ever Amen, because she knew I played piano. “You know that Brick song on the radio?” No. I rarely listened to the radio. And when I did it was KOOL108 (the oldies station). “Well, it doesn’t matter. That’s not even their best song. This guy plays piano like a mad man.” She insisted I borrow the CD and I went home that night and took a listen. It took me weeks to return that album to her. I probably came dangerously close to being smothered with a pillow.  

Whimsical. If I had one word to describe Ben Folds Five, that’s the word I’d use. I was eighteen going on nineteen. And at this point in my life I was so burdened. Burdened by The Church’s unrealistic expectations of me, burdened by my bitterness at living a life I hated (but was obligated to smile through like a Stepford Wife)…and mostly just burdened with the feeling that it would never change. The fear of hell became a sickness in me – a childhood Bible lesson that festered and grew, wrapped its barbed tentacles around my soul and shredded me slowly from the inside out. I desperately needed Ben Folds Five’s whimsy in my life, a bit of light to keep total darkness away. 

Filter – Title of Record. Filter and I had been friends for a while. I always liked the Short Bus record (had a dubbed tape of the album that I lost at some point in high school). He’d also done some songs for a couple of X-Files compilations that I owned. A coworker at Proex and I enjoyed Take a Picture whenever it came on the radio during work (the only time I listened to popular radio). And we laughed when we found out it was about him drunk on an airplane. That song was so different from Short Bus that I just had to buy the album and see what Mr. Richard Patrick was doing.  And I wasn't disappointed. Despite the radio friendly Take a Picture, Filter still had its metal edge. And I latched onto Richard's vocals, raw with emotion, edged with anger.  Dare I say...tormented. 

It's gonna kill you...unless you get a pair of these kick ass shades.

This was 1999. I was twenty years old and my sanity was fraying at the edges. I didn’t know how much longer I could do it. Do The Church thing, slap the stupid grin on my face and talk about how much I loved God when I really thought he was just a sadistic asshole that enjoyed my misery. I hated it. I hated every minute of it. I hated God. I hated The Church. I hated myself for being a part of it, and I hated myself even more for not being strong enough to leave it.

On a cold, dark December night after a long night of studying for finals I left Concordia and, desperate to do something that was just for me and me alone, I bought a pack of cigarettes from the gas station across the street. I then went to my car, sat there parked and blasted Title of Record on my Discman while I chain smoked. I’d been listening to the album pretty much nonstop for months, but this night, It’s Gonna Kill Me came on…and it hit me how appropriate that song title was.

I cried my goddamn eyes out. 

Incubus – Make Yourself. I bought the album when it first came out in 1999 (and played it ad nauseam, according to a couple of coworkers), but it wasn’t until mid-2000 when it became a defining album for me. I was a different person in 1999 – brimming with the denial of my unhappiness, I couldn’t be bothered to think too deeply about anything. But by 2000 I had to start thinking deeply or, as Richard Patrick reminded me, it’s gonna kill me.

I revisited Make Yourself and this time I paid attention to some of the lyrics. It was summer 2000. I’d been secretly smoking for months and playing hooky from The Church and its gatherings more often than I went. And the lyrics from the song Make Yourself kept rolling through my head: “If you let them make you, they’ll make you paper mache. At a distance you’re strong, until the wind comes, then you crumble and blow away.” I was paper mache. And I was starting to crumble. If I didn’t want to blow away, it was time to suck it up and make myself.

In August of 2000 I gave The Church my middle finger. And never once looked back. 

Tool – Aenima. Fall 2000 was a weird one. I’ve never felt so simultaneously free and yet crushed with depression. It was a dark time. I was grieving. Grieving the loss of the only kind of life I’d never known and the ambiguity of where the hell I go from here. So yeah, it was a scary time, but it was also a really, fucking fun time. I lost a good 30 pounds (shed some serious deadweight called The Church), put the first genuine smile on my face in a long while, and was ready to start my life over. And this time do it MY way.

All in the shades, yo.

Somebody suggested I check out Tool. I immediately recognized the band name, because a friend from high school (who would eventually become my husband) had talked about them and their Undertow album back in the day. So while Aenima had been around for several years, in 2000 it was new to me. I picked it up at Best Buy and it was the perfect album to put me back in touch with my metal roots, and thus, my true self. Maynard's voice. That bass. Need I say more? And is anybody surprised my favorite song on that album is Eulogy? It was my anthem during that time. I grieved, I said goodbye, and then I started to put the pieces of my broken self together. And God? Well, he had a lot of nothing to say.  

My Little Jaunt Into Bovine Poetry Past...

Have any of you written poetry? I mean, I wouldn't be surprised if you said yes. After all, it's like a requirement for those between the ages of twelve and eighteen to write poetry. A necessary outlet for all that teenage angst.

So, what did you write about? Love? Your lack of love? Your fruitless search for love? Yeah, that's what most teenagers write about.

Except for me. Oh sure, I wrote poetry. Lots of it, actually. And yeah, there's a few love ones in there, but really, the majority of my poetry inspiration came from...

COWS.

Maybe it's because I was born in Wisconsin? 

Since my little jaunt into bovine poetry past has been so hilarious, naturally I want to share the laugh with you all.

HUMANLY

Summer 1992

I see the human cows

Roaming the human pastures.

I see the human bodies

Lying on the human roads

With the human sky above

And the hot, human sun.

It gives off human rays

That fry the human bodies

On those human roads.

Now all the human bodies are gone

And all that's left

Are the human cows

Roaming the human pastures.

"I UNDERSTAND"

October 20, 1993

A friend of mine once came to me and said,

"I'm frustrated, because my dad doesn't get it."

"I understand," I said.

"I'm annoyed with the blankness of the world."

"I understand," I said.

"I'm confused, because I feel so different."

"I understand," I said.

"I'm sad, because nothing makes any sense."

"I understand," I said.

"But," my friend looked at me, "At the same time I'm happy."

I nodded to my friend and said, "Cow."

POT ES BUENO

Fall 1994

Twisting and turning

Feelings and yearnings.

Life is so insane.

Do I really have a brain?

Call to the cows.

Give them the knowhow.

Teach them of life

And its unsteady strife.

Chicken feathers float

Above the water in a boat.

Can my shoes be new?

Or must I form a crew?

Minnesota is so very cold

So grab a coat with a tight hold.

Use the pen to succeed.

Eat a liver and smoke some weed.

I now say good bye

And wither away to die.

So long to you

My Mr. Moo.

Care for my cows well

And life will be swell.

CRAZY

November 15, 1994

Let me tell you something completely

Crazy.

This world is so very

Hazy.

I see absolutely nothing

Now.

But soon before me will stand a

Cow.

It will tell a secret message,

Why?

'Cause soon I will be taken to

Die.

Now wouldn't you say that's

Crazy?

Or don't you want to think, 'cause you're too

Lazy?

All my friends want me to

Leave.

But the cows say, "Stay, stay...

Please?"

Yes, yes, that is so very

Crazy. 

It's Saturday And This Is What I Have To Say...

Absolutely nothing. I just needed 15 more hits on my page before I hit 1,000. Thanks, guys!

My Photographic Obsession With Tioga...Thank You All For Indulging Me Yet Again.

Okay, folks. I'm a woman of my word. Mostly. So, as promised, here are some photos, old and new, of Tioga.

I stumbled across this photo while pilfering my grandma's stash. Photo stash, that is. The back of the photo simply says " Tioga Depot 1920." Would be interesting to know who these people were. I like their dog. I imagine his name was Frank. Seems like a solid doggy name. He's looking like, "Eh, what you want from me?"

My favorite part of this photograph, though, is the cameraman's shadow...

The date on the next picture says 1966. I suspect this is either when my grandma bought Tioga or shortly thereafter. I could easily call somebody in my family and get an answer within minutes. But I'll be honest. I'm lazy. And I could have cleaned up this photo and made it look untorn and pretty. But again, I'm lazy.

And here is the store, abandoned and unloved. Little did it know the years of activity and memories that waited for it at the hands of its new coffee-addicted chain-smoking mayor.

And here is the old depot. This photo must have been late 70's, if I had to guess by the other photographs I found with it. It's weird to see barren land, ruts in the mud, the photo taken long before my grandma's grassy lawn reached the depot.

This last pic is of the depot, the creepy shed I talked about in my previous blog post, and the little playhouse. And, too small to really see, my grandma and one of the many, many dogs she's had over the years. Actually, they usually belong to the trucker across the road, but any dog that guy owns usually half becomes my grandma's, because she feeds them...a lot.

Speaking of the creepy shed, I'll use that as a segue into my photos from the ghost hunt. Keep in most, most of these are nothing more than my photographic fascination with Tioga.

While searching the depot for something paranormal, I discovered this name painted on the wall. Surprisingly, I don't remember ever seeing this before. Did an internet search (love Google!) and learned that Rae D. Ingham ran Tioga in the early 1920's. He was post master, store owner, and clerk of the depot's ticket counter. A jack of all trades. And his painted signature has lasted almost 100 years. Amazing.

I'd never noticed this before, but beneath the ticket counter are faint pencil marks. I could make out "Fairchild," which is a nearby town. Fairchild was actually where Nathanial Foster, founder of Tioga, made his home and raised his family. I believe he his buried in a Fairchild cemetery, as well.

I'd love to say the orange flare is paranormal, but I'm pretty sure it's just flash flare.

And back to Tioga. Here is the store as it stands today. It's a little old and saggy. But still lovable. 

A picture from the side window of one of the front bedrooms. During the ghost hunt, it was unanimous that everybody felt the most welcome in this bedroom. There's just this warm, homey vibe that beckons to the soul. We mentioned this to my mom who said this room was always my grandma's favorite room in the store. Coincidence?

This is one of the back bedrooms. It's long and narrow and doesn't have the same vibe as the front bedroom in the picture above. But still, like all of Tioga, special in its own way...

I'm not only in love with this building, but the all of the things my grandma has stashed in it. New and old, it doesn't matter. It just adds to the charm of the place, endearing me to it further.

 

 

 This, however, creeps this shit out of me. 

PBR me ASAP. It helps curb the fear of the creepy doll.

Peeling paint from the ceiling of the porch. Just looked cool to me.

Real ghost hunting equipment.

Gah! A ghost! Oh, wait, that's just my mom.

 

And here is one of my favorite pictures. Tioga in twilight. At a glance, the photo looks like a reject, something taken by accident or before the flash could recharge. But no, it was all intentional. This photo embodies everything I love about Tioga. It's darkened core, nothing scary about this darkness. Filled with mystery, intrigue, and a gentle calm.  

Thank you, readers, for indulging my obsession of Tioga. I hope you have enjoyed it. And if not, well, then, eff you.

Friendly reminder, these photos are all property of Brenda Boo. I do not mind my work being shared on the internet, but if you're using them for profit, then you are very undude. Be respectful. Get my permission.

The Tioga Ghost Hunt...And Why I Carry Extra Panties In My Purse.

Finally! I have the time and mental capacity to share with all my lovely readers (yes, all three of you) my first ghost hunting experience. I know it’s been several weeks since I went on the hunt, but time has been short. I’d say I want more hours in a day, but it just means more hours of demands and obligations vying for my time. But if I could get more hours in a day with a guarantee that those extra hours would only be available for reading or blogging, then consider me in.

Kind of off topic, but not really – considering the band name – you all (yes, again, all three of you) should stop and take a listen to a new band my husband discovered. They are called Ghost and I pee a little every time I take a listen to their album, Opus Eponymous. Which is usually more than once a day, so I now carry an extra pair of panties in my purse.

Is that kind hot? Or just incredibly disturbing? I’ll let you be the judge.

Anyway, you can find Ghost on twitter: @thebandGHOST. Check it.

So, we step away from the band Ghost and move into the hunting of ghosts. I had no idea what to expect in this new venture, especially since I have never felt any true ghostly presence at Tioga. Just the usual ambiance that comes with being in a building rich with history. Would I hear voices? See some apparitions? As much as I knew I wanted to hear and see these things, I kept my expectations at a minimum, not wanting to taint the investigation with an overly eager approach.

I’ve spent a lot of time talking about Tioga the ghost-town. For a little background, check out my entry entitled And So I Give You…Tioga. I mainly talk about the old depot and the store, but there is also a storage shed that is on the property. The shed used to sit behind the store, but my grandma had it moved several years ago to sit closer to the old depot.

The majority of the ghost hunting team’s time was spent in the store, but we did spend a little time in the depot. I also brought a few team members back to the old shed. As kids my cousin and I ventured into the shed, but it only had one window and was surrounded by high weeds that were taller than us, which made the shed a very dark place, even in the daytime. Prime territory for spiders and bugs, things of which little Boo is not a fan. The second level, accessible by narrow, wooden steps, is creepier than the first, though I remember it being cleaner than the lower level. My cousin and I spent some time up there once. We mutually agreed to never go back.

During the ghost hunt, we walked into the shed and I told the team members I never played in here. It always gave me a creepy vibe. When a member of the team climbed the narrow stairs to the upper level he said, “I just got the chills.” Said there was a creepy vibe, “a strong feeling of dread.”

When we told my mom about this experience she said, “Oh, that shed is super creepy. I always expect to see some guy hanging from a noose in there.”

Yeah. That would qualify as creepy. But even with its creepy vibe, the shed didn’t give us any tortured moans or unexplained shadows. Is it bad, though, that I kind of wanted to see the ghostly remains of some hanging dead guy? Really, I’m just being honest.

I made a few observations while ghost hunting. Some related to the actual activity of ghost hunting, some not. Firstly, I learned that watching the ghost hunters on television asking potential paranormal entities questions is really cool, but when it’s me doing it, it just feels really stupid. Even so, I ventured to ask the ghosts of Tioga a few questions. Did they remember me playing there as a child? Did they like when I played there? Did they know my name?  How is Elvis and have they seen him lately?

Okay, I didn’t really ask that question.

Alright, I lied. I really did ask that question. Just when nobody was around to hear it. Unfortunately, though, no response.

Secondly, I learned that ghost hunting involves a lot of sitting around and waiting. And waiting. And waiting some more, surrounded by nothing but silence, only to realize that there really is no such thing as silence. If it’s not the unavoidable rustle of clothing or the white noise of insectile buzzing, it’s the sound of your own beating heart. A sound that no matter what you do, will never stop. Always there. And the harder you try to ignore it, the louder it becomes. A persistent drumbeat, the soundtrack of your life on an endless loop, and it’d be annoying if you didn’t need it so badly. After all, you want to avoid becoming one of the things with what you’re trying to initiate contact.

Lastly, I learned that my mom actually has a few pleasant memories from her childhood. Well, if not completely pleasant, at least not completely soured. My mom doesn’t talk about her childhood much. And when she does, any memory or story is bookended with sad reminders that she never really had a childhood. I feel for anybody that doesn’t get a childhood. Even more so when it’s my own mom. But to hear her share the more ordinary memories, memories that could come from anybody’s childhood, puts a warmth in my heart. Memories as mundane as little Mom and her three siblings sitting on the bed eating macaroni and cheese together are enough to put a smile on my face.

At the end of the night, when all the equipment was packed away and I was back in my grandma’s house, crawling into my bed, beneath a comforter that has the sweet, unmistakable smell of Tioga, I realized I may not have heard the ghosts of Tioga whisper my name, or may not have seen its otherworldly residents, or felt the ethereal chill of their presence, but I didn’t leave Tioga empty handed. Clutched in one was the new experience of ghost hunting, to engage in something that most only talk about, but never actually do. Clutched in the other, comforting warmth. A feeling of closeness to my mom and her family. My family. People in this world I love dearly, for better or worse, flaws and all.

Epilogue

This past weekend my mom met with the ghost hunting team to listen to the digital recordings. Apparently there were several! I haven’t heard them for myself yet, so I don’t want to expand on that. But it seems safe to say Tioga has more going on the meets the eye.

There are tentative plans to head back in September for another ghost hunting session. I can’t wait! And I’ll be sure to share that experience with you all (yes, of course all three of you!).

A couple of weeks ago I pilfered my grandma’s photo album collection. They are rich with wonderful photographs of my family and of Tioga. Tioga from back in the 1960’s when it first purchased. I even stumbled across some photo of the depot in 1920, complete with a few passengers on the platform waiting for their train. Be sure to check back in a day or two, because I will be posting a blog entirely devoted to the highlights of this photographic treasure trove.

Wisconsin Rednecks, Vampires With Birthday Cake, And I Hope The Walking Dead Devour Lori Grimes’ Face.

I had some really messed up dreams this weekend. However, I only remember vague bits and pieces. I’m always disappointed when I don’t remember my dreams in full. Such a loss. They give me this legitimate outlet for all of the fantasy roiling in my brain. Little mini-stories that seek attention, wanting nothing more than the chance to have their stories told. And then I go and wake up and forget them all.

I’m a bad creator.

But I am looking for something new to write about. Maybe an idea will be sparked by these little snippets of dreams. I’ll share them, read them, read them again after a day or, and see if there’s that little spark in my mind that says, “Yes, this is a story.”

I make no guarantees that they will be good stories, but they will be stories. You tell me which one seems worthwhile.

I’m living at my Grandma’s, in Tioga, with a dear friend of mine. We’re bored. I ask what she thinks we should do and somehow the prospect of finding some “Wisconsin redneck dick” sounds like a game plan. I wake up confused, horrified, and laughing my ass off.

A vampire bought me a birthday cake. I don’t remember what they looked like, whether they were male or female, only that they were holding a birthday cake with lit candles. Maybe it wasn’t even my birthday. Who knows?

With The Walking Dead fresh in my mind, since we just watched the first season again a week or so ago, Tony finds a loaded crossbow under my bed and accuses me of having an affair with Daryl Dixon, the redneck hunter turned zombie killer. While I don’t remember anything else about that dream, I’m pretty confident the loaded crossbow had nothing to do with Daryl and everything to do with the fact that I want Rick Grimes’ wife, Lori, dead in the worst way. The day a zombie eats her face, I will throw a fucking party. She thinks her husband is dead and she can’t even wait more than a month before jumping into the sack with his best friend. And they're surrounded by zombies! Is this really the time and place to think about your libido? Sickening. So, lady, this crossbow is for you…

But for the entertainment value of the show, I hope a zombie gets to her first.

What? Too much? Well, what do you want from me? It’s Monday morning. Not exactly my finest hour. Ever.

Ever Wonder Where Jason Voorhees Sharpens His Machete? Probably Tioga.

Well folks, tomorrow is the big day. I'm going to be lurking around the grounds of Tioga in hopes of making contact with some otherworldly spirits. Or maybe I'll just get drunk and fall down the stairs. Wait, Mom's going to be there. She wouldn't approve of the drinking. Okay, fine, we'll stick with attempting to make contact with the spirits of Tioga. 

In preparation for my big night, I thought I'd post some of my favorite photo moments from my favorite place on Earth. And so I give you...more Tioga.

Photo by Boo, circa 1997.

 Tioga porch. Window looks into the old general store. 

Photo by Boo, circa 1997.

Tioga staircase. Room beyond is the general store. That window in the background is the same window as in the first photograph.

Photo by Boo, circa 1997.

Top of Tioga's staircase. The window is about six inches off the ground. A tall guy would have to duck while upstairs. I swear people were shorter back in the day.

Photo by Boo, circa 1997.

There's this beautiful wooden hutch that separates the kitchen from the dining room. I believe it's original to the house. I used to dig through its drawers for "treasures." A few fun antiques, but mostly just mouse poop.

Photo by Boo, 2010.

This is where Jason Voorhees would sharpen his machete if he lived in Tioga. Then again, maybe he's unknowingly stopped by...

Photo by Boo, 2010.

This is the original wood burning stove. Not sure if it's still there, maybe hiding under the junk, but there was one of those old school irons sitting on the stove top. The kind you set on the burner to get hot so you could iron your clothes. It's heavy as hell. I know, because I dropped it on my toe once as a kid.

Photo by Boo, 2010.

This is the cool kind of stuff that is all over Tioga. I should get Antiques Roadshow to visit.

Photo by Boo, 2010.

I think I'm going to steal this and put it on my wall. Right next to my framed photograph of the Maytag repair man. Just kidding. I don't have one of those...yet.