Our Lady of the Hill

There are many in town that believe the property where I live is haunted. It once was the secluded grounds of a state-run mental hospital built in the late 19th Century atop a picturesque hill overlooking the crossroads of local and interstate highways and byways. It was, at a time, when not much could be done about people with a mental illness. Located at the edge of town it was a big employer of locals in this farming community. The grounds were cultivated like a park with blooming trees, flower beds, and a circular entry and roadway flanked by majestic oak trees. It was built in a red-brick, Gothic style in stark contrast to the modest homes of the town. An underground tunnel system moved people and goods from building to building to the outside world. The patients were the 'free' laborers.

Once upon a time the hospital was its own self-sustaining community. Back in the day when the state had acquired the property, the hill and surrounding farmlands, stretched along the borders of two small towns. (There must be a story to this but its history has not reached me yet.) Ours is not the rich farmlands of the mid-west, but favored staples such as potatoes, corn, onions and other rooted vegetables. In fact, Danvers (a.k.a. Salem Village) was known for it's onions and adopted the name Onion Town. Once the town was also noted for its unique brick color and for the fact the small shoemaker shops made shoes for the slaves of southerners. So yes, the whole town and its history is spooky to me.

The state closed the facility and the decay of its many buildings set in as it waited at least a decade for a new purpose. The property is registered as a National Historic site given its unique architecture and setting. There are several small cemeteries scattered about the once expansive and under-utilized state land. Much of the area remains under the auspices of the state and is deemed open space so future development is unlikely.

People still whisper about the cemeteries here. I've taken many people down the curving overgrown path leading to the original cemetery. It leads down a hill to a secluded glen that only in the last decade has been "rediscovered." At the time, residents who died as paupers, were buried with a number marking their resting place. Due to the activism of Marie Balter and a host of former patients, they were able, with the town's help, to identify the names of people who lie at rest here. This cemetery begins with the number 1.

So is it "haunted"? I'll let you be the judge of that but I hear tell, the local police have lots of pictures of apparitions. As one of my former students firmly spoke, "The spirits are everywhere." Here it is no different.

My own connectedness to the property came early in life. My grandfather told us that his father, an Irish immigrant from Clarinbridge in County Galway, came to the States alone as a teenager. He was a big man, a hard drinker and a bricklayer. He walked the 5-7 miles from Lynn for this opportunity to work. He had a family to support not unlike this new wave of immigration. That Maggie, his wife, was at least 6 years older than him, brings out the cougar in me. I just love the fact that she shaved 10 years off her life as she reported in the 1900 census. Age is just a number. It makes no difference in the connectedness of souls.

Eventually, the Archdiocese of Boston built a chapel upon the hill. It's first priest, Father Joe Gately, married father and mother. His family and father's family were next door neighbors. How weird is that? The name of the chapel was Our Lady of the Hill. His ministry was to address the unique spiritual needs of the hospital caretakers and the patients. That was quite a calling, for it's well accepted that those with mental illness have some unique spiritual gifts. Something about the frontal cortex is what science is discovering. It takes a very strong spirit to survive any disease, never mind a mental illness.

As we head into Easter week, a holy time for Christians and pagans alike, I am reminded of the year(s) my brothers were called to serve during "Holy Week". There are a lot of Masses and rituals associated with the triumph and crucifixion and rebirth of Jesus of Nazareth. All my brothers were altar boys. That shouldn't surprise anyone and so they were called to serve at Our Lady of the Hill during the Easter vigil. I, being the good girl that I was, accompanied mother and my brothers to the chapel. It was a beautiful, petite structure with gorgeous stained glass windows and a ceiling in that familiar yet unique color known as Mary's or robin's egg blue. What I recall was its simplicity and an energy I had never experienced before. It no longer exists.

I also remember the patients. Everyone smoked. The tobacco companies made a lot of money off the addiction to tobacco. I suspect they still do. Right after Mass, mother and I were approached by a couple of patients requesting cigarettes. I took out the pack in my pocketbook and handed them out. It was the charitable thing to do. They knew enough to ask us. I was a hard-core smoker for a long time myself.

There was one young woman that I can recall that evening. She was an age contemporary of mine. She was easily spotted given her appearance dressed in an expensive coat and rocking herself to and fro for comfort. I would later adopt this method myself in order to comfort myself in distress. She sat alone along the far right hand aisle rocking herself all through Mass. My heart ached for her not knowing what troubled her so. She disappeared quickly at the end of Mass. She probably already had a pack of cigarettes in her pocket. Why this scene is indelibly marked in my mind is curious. Perhaps she wanted to be remembered or recognized by someone. I am the one who remembers.

Sometimes, patients came for "a rest" for days or weeks or years or a lifetime. Depression is serious stuff but so isn't mania.  People lived here, worked here and died here. The horror stories be damned. There was a lot of mistreatment and stigma associated with mental illness even more so in those days. Is it improving? As more of us speak out or write-out, it does.

As for the chapel, Our Lady of the Hill, when the state closed the institution, the Archdiocese came in and "decommissioned" the chapel or whatever it's called. The stained glass windows were removed and stored where ever they store glass art. The altar and other religious artifacts were removed. So weren't the pews. She was stripped of her beauty in other words. It would have made Father Joe cry had he lived long enough to see it. Alas, he died as a young man of cancer.

Today I live here in a luxury apartment subsidized by the state and federal governments. I have become "Our Lady of the Hill" personified. Life is such a mysterious journey and I have come full circle. 

So is the property haunted? I have a few more stories to share before you can be the judge of that. If it is, it is delightfully so.

Remember: Love Always Wins!