"Just A Campfire Story" Oct 6 Background

August 1980

Campion Toussaint was bored. He thought campfire ghost stories and legends were supposed to be scary or at least make you think. No, these told by older teens and others, were not eliciting any emotions from him and from what he could tell in the flickering light, not so much from others.

“I have one,” he said from his blanket. Sitting close to him was a cute girl, her long auburn hair in a ponytail. She had been holding his hand while listening, but he could tell she, too, was not scared by the tales that were told.

“Please, go ahead,” he heard a male sarcastically answer.

“Are you sure?” Francesca DiGiacomo asked him. She held onto his hand and leaned in. “I mean, do you have a ghost story?”

“I’m sure he does,” the two heard someone said. His older sister Ronnie was next to Francesca on her own blanket and overheard the exchange. “And it should be better than these.”

Francesca gave Campion’s hand a quick squeeze before releasing it. “Go for it,” she told him.

He stood and looked around. As far as he could tell, most eyes were on him. He cleared his throat softly and began.

“I call this story ‘The Crying Widow’,” and with that he as off.



In the days when the Dutch first settled this area, when the land still had some wilderness, Jakob Van Nester brought his young family up from what’s now Albany and cut out a large farm, first with corn then with wheat, rye, and chickens. Unlike most of the other farms in the region, his flourish and he made money.

Van Nester became rich – forts Orange and Nassau needed his wares - and was able to hire more hands. Most of his workers were other Dutch men, but a few were French trappers who became disillusioned with the trade and a few Indians who wanted to help their neighbors.

One of the Mohawks who came to help on the farm was a one-eyed elderly woman everyone called Mama Snow, mostly because none of the Dutch and other Europeans could pronounce her Kanien'kehá:ka name. She brought along several granddaughters, including one very beautiful girl she called Lovely Eyes.

Farmer Van Nester had five sons, the middle one the same age as Lovely Eyes. And, as it usually is when two teenagers meet, Johannes Van Nester and Lovely Eyes fell head over heels for one another. The attraction was noticeable, even to the farmer.

“You cannot be with the heathen,” were Jakob’s words to his son.

“I love her, father.”

“You cannot marry her. The church frowns upon such things.”

In anger the younger Van Nester spat, “Then we’ll leave the church.”



The season was late, and the harvests were brought in. Mama Snow and her fellow Mohawks paid handsomely and fairly, made ready to leave the farm and trek back to their longhouse at the Ossernenon, a day’s travel by foot from the Ska-nek-ta-de trading fort. She was the first to notice a granddaughter was missing.

“Lovely Eyes is missing,” she told Van Nester through a French interpreter.

“So is Johannes,” he angrily added. He called for the trappers, his sons, and other Europeans to get their guns and follow him. He had an idea of where they were headed.

They didn’t need to, for up from the small valley came the two, riding on horses. Katerina Van Nester, mother to the young man, ran from the house and to her son. She knew what they did, for she called Lovely Eyes daughter. Jakob was not so welcoming.

“This is an abomination! We have to annul this marriage, immediately!” He pulled his son off his horse and pushed him towards the house. He tried to make his way back to his bride, calling her Maria Elisabeth. The young woman, dressed in lace and colonial finery, was held back by more Europeans. The Mohawks, seeing their daughter crying, came to her defense.

No one knows where it came from or who did it, but a shot rang out. The bullet hit Johannes in the heart. Jakob saw the blood first and tried to keep his son from falling to the ground, but the weight, of his son and of his own guilt, made it impossible.

Maria Elisabeth rushed to her husband’s body and held it in her arms. She was inconsolable. Mama Snow and the other women could not remove her from Johannes, no words mattered, no actions could help.

Katerina and her daughters, along with Mama Snow and the Mohawk women, told the men to leave them be, alone, allow Maria Elisabeth to grieve. They would watch over the two.

For three days and nights, Maria Elisabeth cried and held onto her Johannes, never moving, not accepting water or food. Mama Snow sent two of her best men back to the longhouse, to prepare them for the young woman’s death.

Katerina did not understand. “How do you know?”

Mama, in her best Dutch, told her, “I feel her heart is broken, the spirit not wanting to be alone.”

Tears flowed from the mother-in-law, as with her own daughters. They, too, felt the grief.

And it was as the elderly woman said. Lovely Eyes/Maria Elisabeth passed on, joined her Johannes in the next world.

She was brought back to Ossernenon, where she was mourned. He was buried on the farm, away from the lake the two loved so much and spent time secretly, in a place only Jakob and the gravedigger knew. The farmer did not want her people to unbury him and take him away.



On summer nights when the crescent moon reflects off the water, it is said Maria Elisabeth’s ghost walks, searching for her husband, Lovely Eyes wants her Johannes.

Now legends have it that if a young woman hears the mournful wailing of Lovely Eyes, her heart will be broken. If a young man hears her, he will have an accident. But if a young couple see her, they were meant to be.



Campion sighed and looked around the fire, wanted to see what reaction he received from this part of the story. He knew his sister would be holding back tears; she was that emotional. He looked at the girl he met a few days ago. Francesca, too, had tears falling.

“That’s a nice story,” a male voice said from the darkness. “But that’s not scary, not at all.” Campion knew this teenager as Harrison, a volleyball player who had been trying to flirt with Francesca the day the two met. He also told one of the terrible ghost stories earlier.

“He’s not finished,” Ronnie said in defense.

“How do you know?” the teen boy questioned quickly.

“My brother can tell good stories, and I feel he’s not done.”

Campion nodded then realized no one could see him. “I’m not done.” He took a deep breath and exhaled. He looked at his new close friend and smiled uncomfortably.





It was 1921 and the area was still farmland. A farmer’s son, Garrick Thompson, walked by the lake on a summer’s night. He heard of the “Crying Widow” but always laughed it off. He didn’t care: he was engaged to his long-time love, Laurel Beekman.

He walked by the water and noticed the crescent reflected off the lake. He laughed and shook his head. The warm summer air suddenly turned cold. He shook it off, just the weather was changing. He walked a few more steps before he heard someone crying. He shrugged it off as an echo coming from one of the summer cabins the rich had built in the last five years.

Garrick was tired, decided to rest on a flat rock. The temperature become colder: he could see his breath. The crying returned, and it was louder.

He turned his head and saw a young “Indian” woman walking on the lake shore, appeared to be looking for something or someone. Goose-fleshed and scared, he ran back to his home.

In the morning, he went over to Laurel’s, to tell her what happened. As he approached her house, he saw a strange car parked. He exited his own Ford. He heard his fiancée laughing, telling someone to stop his actions, that she was engaged.

“What he doesn’t know won’t hurt him,” a male voice said.

Angered, Garrick walked towards the voice sources to confront the two. He saw Laurel in the arms of another man, one he did not know, but from the man’s attire, Garrick surmised the man was rich. He rushed to the two.

He had intentions to fight, wanting Laurel to see that he was not going to give her up easily. He made three strides before he tripped on a rock, sending him forward and out of control. Garrick Thompson’s head struck the bottom step of the Beekman’s back porch stairs. His neck snapped. He died instantly.



“That’s awful,” Campion heard several teenagers say, male and female.

“That can’t be true,” another added.

“It’s just a story,” Harrison said.

“But it’s true,” a deep male voice everyone recognized chimed in. “Garrick Thompson’s grave is about 100 yards from our rangers’ station.” Nathaniel Langston was from the town of Rainham and had always wanted to be a New York state park ranger. And for the last 10 years, he had been assigned to the Rainham Lake campgrounds, keeping the peace and removing the occasional troublesome camper and animal. “If you want, we can go visit it in the morning.”

Campion sat and took Francesca’s hand. He had a gift: he could feel the emotions of people, whether they knew he was doing it, or they liked it. He didn’t want to feel hers, but she had empathy for all those in the story he had just told. She leaned into him and kissed his cheek.

“That was good.”

No one spoke, many of the teens sat quietly staring at the fire, trying to understand what they just heard. Campion heard a few sniffles before Francesca took his hand and stood.

“I need to get back to my site. Walk me back, please.”

Hand in hand, the two enjoyed their new-found attraction, whether it was love could wait. They liked being in each other’s company. They were half way back when they noticed the temperature began to fall, the humidity as well.

“Hold me, please,” she whispered. Campion put his arms around her body and held her tight. “Thank you.”

“Where did you hear the first part of the story?” she asked.

He could not be honest with her. He was told the story by his paternal grandmother, St. Regis storyteller, when he was ten, up at the reservation. It was a family story: Maria Elisabeth was an actual ancestor and had lost her love to a shooting. He couldn’t tell her that the story was true, that the ghost was real. If he told her that, then he’d have to explain more stories that he shared with her over the last two days.

He was not ready to tell her that ghosts are real, and that there’s a veil separating this reality from the one of magic. He was 16 and wanted to be a teenager before he returned to the school in the north, one that lead “across the veil.” No, he wanted to spend time with her this summer like he as a normal teenager.

He chuckled. “It’s a play on one story Schenectady kids have heard all the time. There’s a ghost of a Mohawk woman on Union College’s grounds looking for her lover.”

“Wow. And you pieced it together with an actual person?”

He nodded. “Sure did. I know how Garrick Thompson died, the rangers told some of us last year when we found his grave stone on a nature hike.”

She looked at him, her dark brown eyes wide with amazement. “You should write that story down, make some money.”

Campion stifled a laugh. He was already a teenage writer: The teachers at Glenvale allowed him to share some of his nightmares of witches, warlocks, and wizards with the reality of man, under the pseudonym “Julian Mack.” He looked into her eyes and smiled.

“Maybe I will.”

“That’s wonderful.”

“What’s that?” she asked. They stopped and listened again. Nothing but the laughter coming from several sites.

“What did you hear?” he asked.

“I thought I heard someone crying.”

He shook his head, “You probably heard a kid not wanting to go to bed. That’s all.”

“Yeah, that’s it.” She believed him, but in case it was Maria Elisabeth, she pulled him closer. Francesca was afraid of ghosts.

They arrived at her campsite. In the flicking campfire, they say her parents sitting and roasting marshmallows. She stopped him and thanked him for an enjoyable night.

“Seriously Campion, think about writing,” Francesca said before pulling him down to her lips. The goodnight kiss made him forget about the falling temperatures.

“Sleep well,” he called out as she joined her parents.

Campion turned and headed back to the site he shared with his aunt, his sister Ronnie, and Ronnie’s friend Kathy. The temperature was still lower than it should have been, but he didn’t mind.

If it was Lovely Eyes who was about, and it was her who cried – he did hear it – then he was with his true love.