href="#fb3_img_img_f0171700-b02d-5490-89ce-afba3a88e032.jpg"/>
The Garden District lives up to its beautiful name, as depicted in this artist’s rendering painted on an antique wood chair.
During my travels through the Garden District, I met a ghost when I least expected it, riding on the St. Charles streetcar with me. The streetcar is my favorite way to travel through New Orleans, and I have to ride this line every time I’m in the city. The St. Charles streetcar runs for 13 miles along a crescent shape, from Carondelet at Canal Street through the majestic areas of the Garden District to Carrollton Avenue. It’s the oldest continually running streetcar line in the world, and the cars are in beautiful condition, with mahogany seats and brass fittings. It’s a comfy ride as you lower the windows and feel the breeze blowing in as you rush along the tracks. I’ve ridden this line many times, and it’s a great way to view the homes and take pictures. I especially enjoy looking up at the trees as I roll by to see how many trees I can spot with Mardi Gras beads hanging from their branches.
There’s always a mixture of people riding the cars. Locals ride on their way home from work, some heading downtown to be dropped off on Canal Street and others switching streetcar lines from Canal to head over to the French Market. I love hopping from line to line to ride the cars. I’ve had some of the best conversations while riding the streetcars, chatting about the city and catching up on local stories and gossip.
During the streetcar ride when the ghost appeared to me, I didn’t recognize him as a ghost at first. He was an elderly man sitting several seats ahead of me, and I didn’t pay him much attention. He wore a hat and was dressed in a suit like some elderly men still do. While I thought it was charming, my attention had been drawn into a wonderful conversation with a delightful African-American woman sitting next to me. She had been sharing stories with me about her life and her ancestors who had lived here, along with stories about her children, who she prayed would be safe while they lived and worked elsewhere. Her deepest prayer was that they would return to New Orleans to live here again. While we didn’t delve into the topic of the supernatural in our conversation, I could sense that she had intuitive abilities and saw that many of her ancestors were around her in spirit, watching over her as we chatted.
As we approached her stop, she wished me a good afternoon and then stood up and walked to the exit door. As she did, she briefly stopped next to where the elderly man was seated and paused for a moment as if she was confused. She stood still and looked around, and on this very warm day, she shivered. Clutching her purse tightly to her chest, she looked around once again and then quickly departed the car. I waved to her from the window, but she didn’t look back and was walking very quickly away from the car. I turned my attention back inside to see what might have frightened her and why she paused so suddenly. The car was almost empty now, with only a few people still on the car with me. The elderly gentleman was still sitting in the same seat up ahead, and as I looked in his direction, I saw him momentarily disappear and then appear again. I then realized that I had missed this earlier. Because he was a ghost, the lady I had been chatting with couldn’t see him, but she felt his energy as she passed by the seat, which gave her a fright. While it sounds astonishing that I wouldn’t immediately notice a ghost on the streetcar, it’s not as surprising as it sounds in New Orleans. Ghosts are literally everywhere in the city, on the streets, in the bars and restaurants, at the hotels, and attending the parades. You’ll be hard-pressed to find a place without some type of haunting in the area. Also, the streetcar had been packed with people throughout the ride, and I had been more interested in the conversation I was having with the woman (along with taking in the sights of the homes, as I swoon over the architecture every time I’m in the city).
Now that there were just a few of us in the streetcar, I turned my attention to him to see what he was up to riding in the streetcar. Not long after my attention was directed his way, he turned around, and discerning that I could see him, he stood up and moved closer to me, sitting in the seat directly in front of me, where he could turn to the side and chat with me, like any other passenger in the car. I was relieved that I was alone in this part of the car at the time, for should I want to speak aloud to him, it wouldn’t be the first time that people have looked at me with great concern as they saw me whispering to myself and the thin air around me.
He introduced himself to me as Mr. Charles, stating that he was of no relation to the streetcar being on St. Charles; indeed, he said with a smile, he was no saint. He went on to tell me that he was of Italian descent but that he had gone by the name of Mr. Charles to make it easier for people to pronounce his name, rather than his longer Italian name. He also shared with me that unlike other ghosts, he knew that he was dead and knew where he was buried. On rare occasions, he would visit his grave—not so much to see where his bones lay, but rather, he enjoyed going when it was a holiday and groups of people came out to decorate the tombs and spend time there honoring their families. He enjoyed milling about the crowds and taking part of the activity in the cemetery. He said that he had had a good enough life while alive, though he had experienced his share of sadness, including the loss of his wife, who was the love of his life and had died during childbirth. He had mourned her for the rest of his life, choosing never to marry again. She and the child had died during the birth, but they had already had a daughter, who his family helped raise after his wife’s death. He has continued to watch over his descendants who still lived in the city, though he sadly bemoaned that many of them had moved away and were now living in New York.
He then told me the story of being at his cemetery during one of these holiday occasions. As he was standing near where his wife was buried, he saw a little girl who became interested in his wife’s tomb. He watched her closely, interested in what she was going to do. The young girl, whom he described as wearing a white dress and having long blond hair and blue eyes, was clutching a bouquet of yellow flowers that her mother had given her to hold. As she began to wander over to his wife’s burial place, the young girl’s mother called to her and instructed her to come back to where the rest of the family were placing their flowers on a family tomb. The young girl replied to her mother that no, she wanted to put her pretty flowers on this lady’s tomb, and as the mother watched, the young girl placed the bouquet of yellow flowers in front of his wife’s tomb.
Mr. Charles, in his ghostly form, was so touched by this act, one that he had wished he could do that very day. He said that had he been physically able to weep with joy and gratitude, he most certainly would have. Intrigued, he followed the family around for the rest of the day and accompanied them to their home to see where the young girl lived. He decided to check in on this girl on a frequent basis, becoming a guardian for her throughout her life. He assured me that he never got near enough to her to cause her any concern or fright, but many times he had accompanied her in her daily and nightly activities as she grew up, to protect her in any way that he could. As she grew up into womanhood, he said he visited her less and eventually lost touch with her, though he still visits the cemetery and would love to see her there again one day.
It was one of the most poignant, touching, and yet completely normal conversations that I have ever had with a ghost. He was not confused on any level about his current state; he knew he was dead and had chosen to remain here on the earth plane and not cross over. He was aware that time had passed and observed the passing through watching generations of his family and others grow up and move on. He was at peace and happy with his state of being in this half life as a ghost. I asked him why he stayed here in this twilight life, and he said, “This is what I know. What is there in heaven? Beautiful music, sweet smells, laughter, and lush gardens? Why, I have this every day here in New Orleans. This is my heaven. Why would I not stay right here?” I gently suggested that perhaps if he did move on, he could be reunited with his wife whom he missed so dearly. He replied to me that his wife was an angel and that he knew that when he did move on to the other side, that where he would be living in heaven would be no place near where she was allowed to reside.
He spoke fleetingly at this point and became guarded, even looking around to see if anyone could overhear his conversation to me, as he now spoke to me in a whisper. He shared that while he had
