Letter from the Editor: Here's my (not-so-scary!) ghost story

I'm officially on vacation this week, doing such exciting things as taking naps, catching up on new “Supernatural” episodes and organizing closets.

I'll be sure to send you guys a postcard from the lovely Laundry Island, where I'm doing lots of folding. It's OK, but for a vacation spot? I don't recommend it. My Yelp review will not be kind.

But it's also just a few days from Halloween, my favorite holiday — and my wedding anniversary! What's Halloween without a good ghost story?

Well, I've got one for you that's more cute than scary — and (very) tangentially involves actor Nick Offerman.

I'm going to start by telling you I'm actually quite a skeptic. I'm a journalist, and until just a few years ago, I've had the City News Bureau of Chicago sign hanging on a wall everywhere I've lived: “If your mother says she loves you, check it out.”

I don't believe anything I can't confirm with cold, hard facts from privileged sources. Preferably more than one, thanks.

But there are those rare things I waffle over. Like ghosts. I'm not saying I believe — I'm only saying I've experienced some weird things I can't explain. And one of those weird things was Grandpa Joe.

When I was 3, my brother, cousins and I were spending the night at my grandparents' farm. The next morning, I trotted downstairs, regaling my grandparents and parents with a story about talking to “Grandpa Joe” the night before.

It was very animated and oddly detailed for a kid my age, my mom always told me. Everybody thought it was adorable. Because I was adorable, of course, and because I was a precocious little kid with an active imagination.

They didn't know anybody named Grandpa Joe — my grandpa's name was Clifford — and it was just us kids upstairs.

But my dad's name is Joe, so I'd clearly found an imaginary friend and named him after my dad. Precious!

We stayed over at my grandparents' house regularly. And every time, I had a story about a visit from Grandpa Joe.

Oh, Lindy. You and your pretend friend are so cute, they'd tell me.

Just after I turned 5, my grandparents sold their farm — it's important to note at this point that it was the same farm where my grandfather grew up. After his parents passed, he inherited it. (Fun fact: The farm, which is still there, is in far Southwest suburban Minooka. You may know Minooka as the hometown of actor Nick Offerman, who played Ron Swanson on “Parks & Rec.” In fact, his dad, Ric, and my dad were best friends growing up. Nick and I are the same age, and my dad claims we played together growing up. There is no photographic evidence of this. Cue my inner skeptic)

BACK TO THE STORY: About that same time, my mom decided to go back to school for her bachelor's degree, and early on had a history class that included a genealogy assignment. She didn't know a lot about her own family's past, so she did her project about the Findlay family and their journey from Scotland to Canada to Illinois.

While she was working on it one afternoon, 5-year-old me started shuffling through the hundreds of pictures of my dad's family that were scattered over the kitchen table.

My mom was pretty shocked by what happened next, and she talked about it often for years after: I picked one up, smiled and said “Look, mom, it's Grandpa Joe! Where is he? I don't see him now.”

“Grandpa Joe” was my great-grandfather, Joseph Findlay, after whom my dad was named. But nobody ever called him “Grandpa Joe.” He died when my dad was pretty young, and he and my aunt didn't know him really well.

This is where the story gets a little more weird.

My mom and dad called my grandparents, who called my aunt — my dad's sister. Everyone was surprised that my aunt wasn't at all surprised by my stories of “Grandpa Joe.”

“Do you remember when I wouldn't sleep in my room for a month when I was 8?” she said. “It was because Grandpa Joe came to visit, and I was confused, because we'd just been to his funeral.”

The room I'd been sleeping in when I claimed he'd come to visit me was my aunt's old bedroom.

We've chatted about it a few times over the years — none of it was scary, it was just odd. And as she explained to me, she was confused because she'd been to his funeral, but then he seemed to be sitting at the foot of her bed.

So was Grandpa Joe a ghost? I guess I can't really say no, because there are certainly things we can't explain.

I'd love to think it was the ghost of my great-grandfather visiting, and I'll keep telling myself it was.

But more likely, my aunt missed her grandfather and hoped to see him again. Then I heard my aunt tell her story, had a dream or just made up something. I started reading when I was 2, and from an early age, I loved telling stories or making them up and having my mom write them down. Deciding a random grandpa came to visit me? Not a stretch. And like I said, my dad's name is Joe.

I once interviewed an author who writes about ghost stories in Chicago and the suburbs, and she sees them as a way of chronicling folklore and local history.

I think that's exactly why this story is so special to me: Whether or not there was a ghost doesn't matter. It's a fun, engaging way to connect to family I never got the chance to know. And that's all that matters.

• Melynda has worked at the Daily Herald for 21 years. You should definitely ask her about the hot sauce-stealing, neighbor-waking ghost.