Edinburgh Manor makes for paranormal weekend

In the daytime, the building seems out of place, dropped in a countryside that is all too peaceful. At night, the brick structure that’s seen better days is downright foreboding.

Justin Simonis, 31, of Fitchburg, Wis., walked into Edinburgh Manor on April 28 a skeptic. He left the former poor farm and insane asylum near Scotch Grove, Iowa, the next day, with a softened stance.

“I have heard things and seen things that I can’t explain,” Simonis said. “I wouldn’t say I’m a full believer, but I’m much less skeptical about it now.”

Simonis was one of 10 people who participated in a VIP experience on April 28 as part of an investigation by the Odyssey Paranormal Society (OPS), based in the Twin Cities. The next night, 13 other people joined the VIP group for another investigation at the property that touts a sign stating “Country living at its finest.”

Michael O’Neil never had a paranormal experience before joining a paranormal investigation team. The paranormal always intrigued him, and he read books about the topic. Then a mention to a friend and her chance encounter at a family reunion led to O’Neil’s first observation of an investigation at a cemetery.

“I recorded my first ever EVP (electronic voice phenomenon) on that investigation,” O’Neil said. “And at the end I had my name come out of the spirit box. When that happened, I was hooked.”

A few years and about $15,000 of equipment later, O’Neil formed Odyssey and is investigating all over Minnesota and Iowa, often three out of four weekends a month. The event at Edinburgh was O’Neil’s first foray into doing a group investigation. The site was a poor farm from 1850 to 1910, when the poor farm was demolished. Edinburgh Manor was built in its place, and operated from 1912 to 2010.

People from four states descended on Edinburgh. Each night started with an orientation followed by structured group investigations. Each night ended with the guests roaming all three floors, including the top floor, where the windows howled and the basement, where ceiling fans wilted.

Bekah Berger, 38, and her daughter, Maddessen Berger, 18, came from Gibbon, Minn., for the chance to capture evidence of the paranormal. Cool air caused sweatshirts to come out, but so did spirits.

“I heard and saw things I never dreamed I would,” Bekah Berger said. “I went in thinking it had to be active, halfway through I didn’t, but the things I saw, yeah, I think it is.”

The Bergers and nearly everyone else witnessed a question-and-answer session with spirits in the billiard room on the first floor near the end of the second night. A group of investigators who came with their own equipment, had a flashlight set up on the billiard table. For 45 minutes, they asked questions and the flashlight would turn on to answer yes, and then, when asked, go dim and turn off. In the same room a night earlier, O’Neil used a device called the spirit box, which rapidly scans radio frequencies, to allow spirits to talk, and a couple did.

That wasn’t the only experience of the weekend. Simonis and his sister, Kassie, 29, of Fitchburg, caught an EVP while they were the only ones in the building. O’Neil listened to it and agreed it was a legit EVP. Later that day, Justin and Kassie were part of a group investigating the kitchen in the basement. They heard a loud exhale from a part of the room no one was standing in.

“That loud exhale sent chills down my arms,” Justin said. “I didn’t feel it, but I definitely heard it.”

O’Neil heard things too. This was his second time at Edinburgh Manor. While leading a group investigation the first night in a far wing of the third floor, O’Neil asked if there was anyone on the other end of the floor who wanted to talk to the group. Instantly, an audible “Ummmmmmmm” entered the room. O’Neil was stunned. So were the other members of his group who heard it.

“I don’t remember having any personal experiences the last time here,” O’Neil said. “I definitely didn’t hear a disembodied voice like this time.”

Odyssey investigator Josie Brugman, 19, of Bloomington, Minn., was on her second investigation. She grew up in a family that watched paranormal TV shows, and unlike O’Neil, she did have paranormal experiences.

“When I was young, I would always see a dark mass at the foot of my bed,” Brugman said. “It would sit still before it crept up and I would feel all this static around me. It was creepy.”

Brugman and O’Neil led teams of novice investigators around Edinburgh, which was battered by rain and wind all weekend long, adding to the eerie ambiance. Paint peels downward, unable to escape gravity. Nearly everything was left behind when employees and patients left for good, from patients’ daily schedules to tools, from toys to kitchenware.

O’Neil’s equipment aided investigators both nights. Among his items were the spirit box, K2 meters, SLS camera, thermal imaging camera, BooBuddy bear that senses temperature changes and a rover that measures temperature, takes video, pictures and is a full spectrum night vision camera.

“It was great that we were able to use all that high-tech equipment,” Madessen Berger said. “It was my first experience with the spirit box. I never quite believed spirits could communicate verbally with us, but now I do.”

For Kassie Simonis, the weekend was a chance to tick a few things off her wish list.

“Being an introvert who has struggled with social anxiety, I experienced a mix of excitement and nervousness at the prospect of this adventure,” she said. “I’m happy to say it was an absolutely wonderful weekend. I got to feed my love of old buildings (especially asylums), seek out new experiences in the paranormal and wound up making new friends.”

Signs from my mother

Since my mom died unexpectedly 18 months ago, there’s not a day that goes by that I don’t think of her. There have only been a couple times where I have felt her presence, or asked for a sign that was then delivered.

Other than today being two days before what would have been my mom’s 69th birthday, it was just another day. I woke up at the same time I do every weekday, went through my morning routine and left for work the same time I always do.

After I entered The Galena Territory I saw something I never had before, an owl, in the wild. I’ve been told it’s rare to see an owl in broad daylight. As I backed the car up and got my camera out, the owl stared at me, and stayed still long enough for me to take my first photo of an owl. As the owl flew away it hit me. My mom’s favorite animal? An owl. I have a stone owl figurine on my desk at work that I took after my mom passed. My dad’s house is still full of owl knick-knacks.

Later in the day, as I ventured elsewhere in the complex where I work, some women were playing mahjong. I normally don’t shoot photos of them playing, but felt a compelling need to do so. My mom would spend hours at a time on her computer playing mahjong online.

You could call it a coincidence that both of these things happened on the same day, but for me there was comfort in both events. I’ve been having some difficulties in my life lately, and the thought that my mom had something to do with these events was comforting.

I know you are watching over me mom. Please continue to give me strength as life goes on. I love you and miss you.

Remembering my mom

Today is the one-year anniversary of my mom’s passing. She died on Sept. 15, 2015 from complications from surgery.

Anniversary isn’t the right word, however, as that implies a special, often happy remembrance. Loss is never special, or happy.

Usually words come easy for me, hence why I was in journalism for 15 years, 12 professionally. But today, I’m at a loss for words. I’m lost. I’m remembering a loss that I cannot lose until the day I die.

That day one year ago ranks as one of the worst of my life, but all day today I have refused to dwell on it. Yes, I’ve thought about sitting in the hospital the whole day, getting mixed reports of how my mom was doing, wondering if she knew we were there, if she knew what was going on. I remember the moment the chaplain called us into a back room to wait some more for what at that point I knew was inevitable. I remember the moment the lead surgeon came in to share the horrible news none of us wanted to hear. I remember crying nonstop. I remember getting to see my mom, kissing her on the head and saying a postmortem goodbye. I remember the numbness I felt on the drive home, the shock and agony, all rolled into one. I remember breaking down that night when we got home, sobbing uncontrollably like I had done only one other time in my life.

Today, I remembered. But I haven’t dwelled. I’d rather focus on great memories of my mom.

Every Sunday, without fail, my mom would make a great family dinner. She cooked dinner every night, but Sundays were special, usually a roast of some sort. The food made the house smell so good. Mom would quietly go about preparing dinner as my brother, god rest his soul, and I would watch Fraggle Rock and Mutual of Omaha’s Wild Kingdom in the living room. She didn’t teach me how to cook directly, but by watching her, I learned. And now I, too, love to cook.

My mom had a way of keeping my dad in line, even in her silence, or with just a look. She was the calm to his impatience. They balanced each other perfectly. When I grow impatient, I ask myself if my mom would approve of why I’m impatient. Would I get that look from her to knock it off?

My mom was adventurous. Every time my parents came to visit me, she would want to go to a nearby town to stroll down Main Street and see the shops, or check out a museum or new restaurant. She planned ahead, had things mapped out, and I have inherited that quality from her.

My mom was such a supporter of me. She and my dad came to all my baseball games growing up. She even helped my dad coach when I was younger. And when I was a freshman in college, playing in Florida, my mom and dad drove all the way there just to see me play. My mom enjoyed a good baseball game.

Quite often, my mom played music on my dad’s nice stereo system. More often than not, it was Kenny Rogers. She loved his music, and had every album. Some years ago now, she bought me Kenny Rogers’ latest album, all because it had one song on it about baseball. And I have my mom to thank for knowing the words to and singing along to many of Rogers’ songs when I hear them.

My mom wasn’t one to give me unsolicited advice. She let me live my life without passing judgment. I loved that about her. She was there to talk to if I needed her, and I took her and my dad up on that offer many times, but she never pried or inserted herself into a situation. She let me come to her. And I did. Many times.

Most of all, I remember my mom for being the greatest mom in the world. There is not one thing I can think of that I would have changed about her, except not dying so soon, and unexpectedly, and suddenly. I never got to say goodbye, but more importantly, I never got to say thank you.

Mom, thank you for helping me be the man I am today. Thank you for instilling in me the desire to take care of others, to be kind, to stand up for what I believe in and take on everything with quiet resolve.

Thank you for being my mom, and blessing me with your presence for 40 years. There’s not a day that goes by that I don’t think of you. I miss you deeply and hope to see you again someday.

I love you mom, always and forever.

It’s time to live/love life again

It’s been nearly a year since I’ve written a blog. To be honest, the last year has probably been the worst year of my life. Last Sept. 15, my mom died unexpectedly when she didn’t make it out of surgery. In June, I lost my only brother, 39, way too soon.

Losing my mom careened me into a tailspin. The chasm I fell into enveloped my life in a way I could not expect. I have lost three grandparents, two while I was in college, but nothing prepared me for the pain caused by my mom’s death.

In June, I lost my brother Drew. His life was sometimes tumultuous, but his friends and loved ones marveled at his best quality – his big heart. He would help others before, or sometimes even at the expense, of himself. He always strove to make others feel welcome, needed and accepted.

I still haven’t come to terms with losing two members of my immediate family in the span of nine months. I don’t know if I ever will.

Yesterday, I took a personal journey, physically, to Starved Rock State Park just outside of LaSalle, Ill., and spiritually, into examining where I was at in my own life. I picked Starved Rock because my mom talked about going there often as a child, and her mom was born and raised in Peru, Ill., just down the Illinois River from Starved Rock.

I spent about four hours at the park, checking out Starved Rock and Lover’s Leap, but then I ventured away from the crowds into a remote part of the park, a trail that meanders through four canyons and dead-ends in the last of those four canyons, St. Louis Canyon. The farther I traveled on my path, the more remote it became, the less people I saw. When I finally arrived at St. Louis Canyon, I was awestruck by its natural beauty, the waterfall, the sandstone canyon I was in, looking up dozens of feet into the air. It was breathtaking.

I sat in the canyon for quite a while, watching the water cascade over the rocks and into a small pool below, watching people from all walks of life coming together to enjoy the natural splendor. And I reflected. Deeply.

I came to three revelations. First, my family is extremely important to me. My dad is all I have left of my original family, and I plan to cherish every moment he has left on this Earth. I couldn’t ask for a better extended family then my mother-in-law Ellen and my brothers-in-law Mark and Dustin and their children. My wife, Michelle and my children, Kalena, Michael and Eric, can be a daily source of strength, happiness and joy, if I let them be.

That leads me to my second revelation. I used to be a overwhelmingly optimistic person. I would always try to find the positive, or, if things weren’t going as well, try to find something positive coming up in my life to be happy about. When my mom died, my optimism went with her. I don’t know why, or how, but it did. I changed as a person, and not for the better. My brother’s death made this even more pronounced. I have not been an easy person to live with the past few months.

I’ve spent too much time in the past year focusing on the negative, pondering all the wrongs in my life and letting them consume me, rather than focusing on the rights and letting them fill me with happiness. It’s time to get back to that. The negatives, the stressors in my life will still be there, but they will be compartmentalized and handled productively again. I have to get back to the Jim Winter that was before my mom’s death.

That brings me to my third revelation. I need to live life. The deaths of my mom and brother were both too soon, sudden and completely unexpected. It has made me appreciate that if there’s something I want to do in life, I need to pursue it now, not 20 years down the road, or even 10. I need to live life now, when I can, with no regrets. I need to do what makes me happy. I don’t want to reflect 40 years from now and feel deep regret for something I didn’t do. I would rather do something now and feel happiness and satisfaction, or, at least say I tried.

Life is never easy, and some stretches are more difficult than others. I get that. But life isn’t much of a life if you don’t see your daily blessings, focus on the positive and live the way you want to. I have to get back to that life. The journey continues.

 

A eulogy for my mother

On Sept. 15, 2015, my mom died unexpectedly of heart complications. She was 67. Her death was sudden, and came too soon. As the surgeon shared with me and my family in the hospital waiting room that they couldn’t save her, I felt an urgent need to write her eulogy. I was the last family member to speak with my mom before her death, and I felt sharing some words about her would have been what she wanted. Here is my eulogy, read at her funeral on Sept. 19, 2015.

A eulogy for my mother

The night before my mom died, I called her at St. John’s Hospital in Springfield, where she had been transferred early that morning for observation. I felt an urgent need to talk with her, to hear her voice, to make sure she was OK.

It was a wonderfully typical conversation. We talked a bit about the food at the hospital, about our family and about what life was throwing at us at that moment. My mom was an amazing, strong woman who spoke through her actions and how she lived her life. She has had a profound impact on me. She taught me to cook, to always be compassionate and to chill out when life swerves from the normal path.

My mom enjoyed cooking. Dad, you make a mean breakfast, and I love your cheese omelets, but mom was the lead cook of our family growing up. Behind the old cookie jar in our kitchen, she kept a small notebook in which she wrote down dinners for each day of the week, usually four to five days out. She had to do this to make sure there was enough food in the house. My brother Andrew and I, only 17 months apart, devoured food at an alarming rate during our teen years, but mom always made sure there was food for us to eat.

I learned how to cook by watching my mom. I didn’t ask a lot of questions. I have many fond memories of Sunday family meals, when we would have Dad’s mother over to eat. While mom made pork roast or beef roast with all the fixings, I would study her preparation. At the time I’m sure she thought I was just hovering around the food hoping to get a sample. I was taking in more than scraps. I was absorbing her knowledge.

My mom had a knack of knowing when other people needed attention. Sure, that’s a trait of every mother, but my mom took it many steps further. The compassion she showed others is what I admire most about her.

While we were waiting to hear about my mom’s condition on Tuesday, my dad said my mom went to the store once a month to purchase cards for people. In a world where most messages are sent electronically, my mom still had the desire to mail messages to people. In the mail. She often sent cards and goodies to Kalena, Ryan, Kayla and Peyton, and more recently, Eric and Michael, just because.

I was still in college when I started receiving those cards. My mom groaned when her mother passed along articles to her she found in the paper, so I gave my mom the same flack for doing it to me, but as I continued to get them, I realized, my mom wasn’t consciously trying to be like her mom. She was doing it because she cared about others and when they were happy, she was happy.

On Sept. 14, one day before she passed, I received the last card from my mom. It read: “Hi Jim and Michelle, I figured you could use some of these coupons. Some are for baking, school supplies, and other items. How did Eric do when he started on Tuesday, Sept. 8? Did they win their football game? See you on Oct. 15!” We won’t see you then, mom, but rest assured, we will see each other someday.

For as much as my mom had on her plate, she was the most chilled-out person I ever knew. Regardless of what life was throwing at her at the moment, she had an amazing ability to not let it get to her.

In our last conversation, I wanted desperately to make sure she was OK. I asked about her ordeal, and, like mom does, she was at ease about it all. She talked about the helicopter ride from Decatur to Springfield. It was her first time in a helicopter, and she said it was neat, and all the city lights below were so beautiful. Here’s a woman being transferred to another hospital to face a possible life-threatening situation, and she was taking pleasure in the simplest of things, her mode of transportation.

That was the last example of my mom’s ability to be cool, calm and collected in the face of adversity. Her life during the 40 years I had the honor of being a part of weren’t always easy, or perfect, but I never once saw my mom buckle under the pressure, or not put life’s greatest challenges into perspective with a laugh, smile or funny story about a completely unrelated topic. Nothing got to her. She didn’t let it. She once told me life is too short to worry about things that aren’t for you to fix.

Throughout my life, my mom was my coach, literally and figuratively. With my dad, she helped coach many of the T-ball teams I played on. She didn’t know a whole lot about baseball, but she knew she wanted to give her sons the best experience they could have, and she did that with flying colors.

My mom was a vital part of my life for 40 years. Baseball has been for 35.

I would like to leave you today with the words I wrote on this baseball, a baseball I gave my mother on May 11, 1997, the day I graduated from college and began a new journey as a man ready to go out into the world. As my mom begins her new journey, I think these words written more than 18 years ago are still perfect today:

“Mom, For 17 years you have been my fan, my coach in baseball. For 22 years, you have been all this off the field, too, but more. Whenever I needed someone to talk to, you were there. I don’t know if I would have succeeded on the field or in life without you there waving me into home … I was safe at home because you were always there for me. Thank you mom, and I love you.”

Trying to ride out the storm

Thunder claps around me. Large rain drops hit the aluminum roof of the three-season room. Lightning illuminates the sky with nature’s electricity.

As I sit here, birds sing. The grass grows. The sun eventually comes back out.

It’s amazing how much life is like weather.

About 16 months ago, I was a dark cloud. Depressing. Sometimes ominous. Floating here and there with no real purpose. I was ready to float out of Dubuque, to go where the wind took me, hoping a new environment meant sunnier skies. I wasn’t looking for rainbows. I just wanted warmth.

And then I met Michelle. A woman who, like me, was looking, looking for warmth and sunnier skies. It couldn’t have been a more perfect weather pattern. The forecast was looking up, and in the span of a few months, I moved into a beautiful new house, landed an awesome job that was more family friendly, and got married to the love of my life.

But even as blue skies prevailed, off in the distance, it thundered. The storm was so far away, I figured I wouldn’t get caught in the downpour. But my past became a prevailing wind, and before I knew it, it turned into a cold Alberta clipper, the kind that penetrates your flesh and leaves you cold inside.

For the most part, I’ve worn enough layers to get through the storms, and Michelle has been my unbelievably awesome and strong umbrella. I love her more than any umbrella I’ve ever had.

I know that eventually, sunny skies will return. Storms don’t last forever.

A second chance at happily ever after

I have been divorced for three years, and for almost two months, I’ve been happily married.

When the divorce happened in early September 2011, many of my friends sent me their heartfelt apologies. If the topic of marriage ever came up in a conversation with acquaintances or strangers, and I mentioned I was divorced, conversation quickly steered in another direction or stopped altogether.

Despite the divorce rate being more than 50 percent for first-time marriages, there’s still often a stigma attached to divorcees. We can’t get relationships right. We must have done something wrong. We are damaged goods. We will always have baggage. We will never be happy.

They’re only partly right. We didn’t get one relationship right. We certainly made mistakes. There’s damage with divorce, and with it, baggage, but the opportunity to be happy will come calling again. Life is what you make of it.

I feel blessed to have been divorced. Yes, read that again. I was married to my first wife for 12 years, and was with her for five years before that. That relationship taught me many things, about myself, about being with someone, living with someone. It taught me what I wanted in a relationship, and what I didn’t.

My first marriage also gave me a very special gift, my daughter, Kalena, who I wouldn’t trade for anything in the world.

I told myself I was never getting married again. But then I met Michelle in early February 2014, and that feeling started melting away. By May, I knew I wanted to spend the rest of my life with her. And now we are married.

That first divorce taught me to be more patient, to not sweat the small stuff, to be optimistic and to remember I am part of something larger. If it weren’t for my divorce, I may not be the husband I am today.

This time, I’m going to get it right. She’s my opportunity to be happy again. And this time, I’m so much more ready to live happily ever.

Father’s Day reflection: A father helping out a father

St. Joseph

Today is Father’s Day, a day dedicated to all dads.

I’m proud to say I’m a dad, to the greatest daughter in the world, Kalena. I’m also happy to say I’m engaged to a wonderful woman, Michelle Gukeisen.

In three short days, I will be moving into our new family home on Dubuque’s south side. The new house may not have happened without the help of another father.

My current house is a split foyer. There are hundreds, maybe thousands of split foyer homes in Dubuque. It seems to be the most popular style. So, when I put my house on the market in March, I knew there was competition out there.

I take care of my living space, and I was assured given some of the amenities my house had, a remodeled downstairs bathroom, a four-season room, a nice yard, it would sell with no problem. We had a record number of showings, but after one week, no offers. After two weeks, no offers. After three weeks, still no offers.

Three weeks is a small amount of time in the realty world, but to me, it seemed like an agonizing forever. I felt the need to do something more. On the morning of May 16, I buried a small St. Joseph statue in my front yard, per the instructions, and recited the daily prayer. Seven hours later, I had an offer on my house from someone who wasn’t even on the interested party radar. Coincidence?

I don’t consider myself overly religious, but if spending $5 to put a small statue of St. Joseph in my yard was an option to sell my house faster, I wasn’t going to pass it up.

When you sell your home, the statue is supposed to come with you. St. Joseph is to be displayed prominently in your new home. A few days ago, I dug him up to pack him away for the trip. His head had broken off. A couple days later, a couple hiccups arose that stood in the way of selling my home. Coincidence?

Those issues were resolved, and this dad will be closing on his new house later this week. Happy Father’s Day to me. And thank you to another father, St. Joseph. Appreciate it.

Yes, I’m a snob … a beer snob

Vanilla Java Porter from Atwater Brewery is amazing, and easily in my top three favorite craft brews.

I don’t know how it happened, but it’s true. I’ve become a snob, of the beer variety.

I didn’t drink in high school; I wasn’t part of the “cool” crowd that did that. In college, we weren’t allowed to have kegs on campus, but otherwise, we could drink openly regardless of our age, as long as we were responsible.

I took advantage of that arrangement, as did many other college students on campus. And when we did imbibe, it was the cheap beer, Milwaukee’s Best, PBR, Busch Light, Blatz, because we were poor college students who had no refined palate when it came to fermented beverages.

After college, whenever I did have a couple drinks, and chose beer, my selections were a bit better — Miller Light, Bud Light, Coors Light. Notice a pattern here? All light beer American ales. Nothing really fancy or different about them.

There came a point where I was no longer interested in how much I could drink, but how the beer tasted. I wanted to enjoy my beer. I didn’t want to chug four in an hour and I didn’t want to be intoxicated. That’s when I discovered wheat beers, Blue Moon, 312 and Leinenkugel’s Sunset Wheat were the go tos, and that became my standard. To this day, I still enjoy a good wheat bear. It’s my standard.

But even straight wheat bears get tiresome. I have ventured further into the unique beer universe. Most recently, I came across a beer from the Atwater Brewery in Detroit, Mich., called Vanilla Java Porter. I’m usually not a fan of real heavy beers, but this one is the real deal. It’s got hints of vanilla and sweetness overrun by coffee. Perfect.

Here’s a list of other unique beers I really enjoy:

1. Samuel Adams Cherry Wheat

2. Schlafly Pumpkin Ale

3. New Belgium Mothership Wit

4. Schlafly Coffee Stout

5. Potosi Brewing Co. Wee Stout Wit

So, yes, I have turned into a beer snob. I’d much rather pick up a six-pack of these craft beers than a 12-pack of Miller Light. They’re about the same price, but if drinking higher-end, better-tasting beer makes me a snob, so be it. It’s worth it.

I know it’s fake, but it’s still fun

Tonight I round out three days of social gatherings with a small group of friends coming to my house to watch the Royal Rumble.

To the uneducated, the Royal Rumble is the second-best pay per view put on by World Wrestling Entertainment. Yep, that’s right. I am having some friends come over tonight to watch grown men and women pretend to pound each other into submission.

And here comes the question that always pops up: “You know it’s fake, right?” Of course I know it’s fake. It’s called sports entertaiment. I know matches are scripted. I know most of the moves pulled off are harmless. But I also know I’ve been a fan of professional wrestling for a long time.

I grew up watching greats like “Macho Man” Randy Savage, Jake “The Snake” Roberts and Ricky “The Dragon” Steamboat battle their enemies. Saturday Night’s Main Event was a wonderful show.

My interest in wrestling waned as I went to college and then started adult life, but it did come back. I can’t quite say exactly when, but it’s of interest again.

My brother and I used to have wrestling matches in the house, and sometimes outside, growing up. There were bruises, cuts and scratches, but no one was ever seriously hurt.

Now that I’m older, and wiser, I equate wrestling to being a soap opera for men. It has conflict, multiple story lines and action, and of course, the fighting. And yes, I know it’s fake.