The second full day of the trip began on August 8, 2026 when Tom’s alarm rang at 6:00am. I knew both my photographer and his wife were exhausted from the previous day as each had struggled to get out of bed that morning at the Comfort Inn & Suites in Syracuse, New York.
Once my companions had everything stowed away in the Jeep and were back inside the hotel for breakfast, my camera guy promised Vicki that Saturday would be a lot more laid-back and relaxing than Friday was. In fact, Tom said we had only three sites on the agenda to visit – the first of which was only 95 short miles away.
The three of us were on the road at 8:15am, which was roughly fifteen minutes later than usual. The humidity was horrible, the sky was partly cloudy, and the temperature was already 75 degrees. But thankfully it wasn’t raining – for once.
As we left Syracuse and headed for our first site of the day, I heard Tom say to his wife, “How do you get to the Baseball Hall of Fame? Practice, baby, practice!”
For years, my photographer has boycotted what he calls the “Baseball Hall of Shame” for one reason – Barry Bonds, the all-time home run leader, has been blackballed by the Baseball Writers’ Association of America for his alleged use of performance enhancing drugs during his playing career. During his 22 seasons with the Pittsburgh Pirates and San Francisco Giants, Bonds broke the single season and career home run records, and Tom feels if anyone deserves to be honored in that baseball shrine, it’s the seven-time National League MVP Barry Bonds.
And what chaps my photographer’s butt cheeks the most is the fact he believes there are already a handful of “likely” steroid users who have plaques hanging in the Hall of Shame, including David ‘Big Papi’ Ortiz, Ivan ‘Pudge’ Rodriguez, Jeff Bagwell, and Mike Piazza. Tom also takes it a step further and believes, without a ton of evidence except for their size, power numbers, and excessive injuries, that five other very popular, Hall of Fame players “juiced” during their careers. Those five are Rickey Henderson, Ken Griffey, Jr., Frank Thomas, Jim Thome, and Albert Pujols – all of whom played during the height of the steroid era and each performed like a ‘Superman’. Those five were stronger than a locomotive, did superhuman things with a baseball bat, and they transformed into very large, muscular men late in their careers.
To take it a step further, the worst offender of the steroid era never picked up a bat nor threw a pitch, at least according to my photographer. The offender was the Commissioner of Baseball Bud Selig, who was in office from 1992 to 2015, and turned a blind eye to the obvious performance enhancing issues that became more prevalent during his tenure. In fact, Selig praised Mark McGwire and Sammy Sosa during their historic home run race in 1998 because it gave MLB renewed life following the strike four years earlier. Selig knew about the steroid issues, did nothing to stop it until Congress pressured him in 2005, and then was elected to the Hall of Fame a dozen years later in 2017 while Barry Bonds is still on the outside looking in.
The simple fact was, however, the three of us weren’t headed for Cooperstown to bash the pompous baseball writers for their discrimination against Bonds. Instead, Tom was taking us there because the Baseball Hall of Fame was a Presidential site. Say it isn’t so, Joe. It turns out President Barack Obama visited the Hall of Fame on May 22, 2014 where he toured the museum and delivered a speech to promote international and domestic travel and tourism.
It was a few minutes past ten o’clock as Vicki drove the Jeep down Main Street in search of the allusive parking place somewhat close to the Hall of Fame. We ended up getting lucky when my photographer’s wife found a lot next to Doubleday Field, which was about two blocks from the museum.
Forty years have passed since my two companions had last visited Cooperstown, and they were shocked to see how much the area around the Hall of Fame had changed for the worse over the years. Gone was the quaint, small-town vibe with the ambiance of a Norman Rockwell painting. That old time feel was replaced by a touristy atmosphere filled with a countless number of establishments hawking everything from tee-shirts to high-priced baseball related souvenirs, all with a goal of emptying the wallets of the thousands of visitors who packed the village’s sidewalks and streets.
While Tom had a definite chip on his shoulder when we arrived at the Baseball Hall of Fame, I kept an open mind; primarily due to my love of history – whether it was Presidential history, Titanic history, or MLB history. After I had posed for a few photos in front of the massive brick structure, the three of us entered the world of baseball in America and were immediately emersed into its incredible history.
Throughout our entire two-hour visit, my photographer kept his focus centered primarily on three separate areas of interest – players that he has admired over the years; the artifacts associated with MLB records; and the places within the museum where President Barack Obama was photographed.
Since a picture is worth a thousand words, I’ll let Tom’s images from our time at the National Baseball Hall of Fame in Cooperstown do the talking.
Once Tom had finished taking photos in the Plaque Gallery, he sat and relaxed on a bench while his wife browsed in the nearby gift shop. During that time, I knew something was wrong – I saw it on my photographer’s face. Out of nowhere, he stood up, walked over to a staff member, and axed the employee the whereabouts of a historic artifact that Tom hadn’t seen during our tour.
“Could you please tell me where I can find the baseball hit by Barry Bonds for his 756th homerun that broke Hank Aaron’s all-time record? You know, the ball with the asterisk lasered onto it.” The young man didn’t hesitate and said the ball wasn’t currently on display, and continued with, “Only fifteen percent of our entire collection is on display at any one time – we don’t have the room to display everything. Unfortunately, that Bonds ball is stored away in our archives.”
Tom was instantly infuriated and shot back with, “That baseball is one of the most important game balls in MLB history and ranks alongside Aaron’s 714th home run ball you have on display and Ruth’s 714th ball that’s also currently on display here. What I don’t understand is you currently have at least three Shohei Ohtani jerseys on display throughout the museum, yet you can’t find room for Bonds’ historic home run ball. And to top it off, this place also has an entire wing dedicated to the foreign-born players who played in Major League Baseball, yet the record-breaking home run ball hit by an American player is nowhere to be found. How much room can one baseball take up? Until this so-called Hall of Fame quits bowing to the DEI and politically correct pressure and quits kissing the asses of the pompous baseball writers, I’ll continue to call this place what it truly is – the Hall of Shame.” And with that, my photographer walked away and returned to his bench – still disgusted, although somewhat satisfied after letting off some of his pent-up steam.
As soon as Vicki walked out of the gift shop emptyhanded, the three of us left the Hall of Fame and were headed on foot along Main Street towards our parked Jeep. Every now and then during our two-block walk, I heard Tom as he complained about the Hall of Fame’s focus on foreign players and their seemingly lack of desire to showcase some of the American-born player’s record-breaking accomplishments – especially when a certain player’s name was Barry Bonds.
Back in the Jeep and with my photographer’s wife behind the wheel, we left the money-grubbing, tourist-trap known as Cooperstown in the rearview mirror as we headed towards our next scheduled stop – the Crow Cottage in Chatham, New York. Since that cottage was roughly 100 miles from the Hall of Fame and was somewhat off the beaten path from where Tom had planned for us to spend the night, I figured the place had to have an important Presidential or Titanic-related connection.
But that wasn’t the case. Instead, the only connection came when Tom’s favorite cousin, Joanne Ouellette, had mentioned the cottage to Vicki roughly one week before our trip began and my soft-hearted photographer wasn’t about to let either woman down. Joanne was well aware of Vicki’s passion to visit “girly places filled with crafts” and thought it would be a shop she might enjoy – provided, of course, the place was along our intended route through the Hudson Valley.
However, when our never-ending journey to Chatham had concluded at 2:50pm, and Vicki had the Jeep parked along the street near the entrance to the Crow Cottage, we had traveled roughly 60 miles off our intended route just so my photographer’s wife could browse through a store filled with Chinese-made knickknacks. In the grand scheme of things, Tom never batted an eye or complained once about the agonizing detour from his agenda – even when he carried me to a nearby park where I listened to him talk on the phone as he thanked his cousin back in Michigan for her well-intended suggestion.
The afternoon had become horribly humid and hot, and there was a definite threat of rain in the air just as we left Chatham and headed North towards Amsterdam, New York where my companions had reservations to spend the night in a castle. For the first time on the trip, we had a day where we didn’t experience any rain whatsoever – and I started to believe the ‘Curse of the Titanic’ was behind us.
But that belief was short-lived. As Vicki drove along I-87 just South of Albany, the sky opened up and we found ourselves in the midst of a terrible thunderstorm. There were times during that 15-minute deluge that I thought perhaps my photographer’s wife might accidentally drive off the road due to the lack of visibility. But even with the Jeep hydroplaning at times and the wipers’ inability to keep the windshield clear, Vicki did an amazing job as she kept us on the road until we finally made it out from beneath that horrible storm.
Roughly an hour after the rainstorm was a distant memory, Vicki navigated the Jeep through the downtown streets of Amsterdam, New York until the Amsterdam Castle came into view at 4:20pm. As soon as my painted eyes saw the impressive brick structure situated at the crest of a small hill, I was instantly awestruck and couldn’t believe the three of us would be spending the night there.
Originally known as the Amsterdam Armory when the building was constructed in 1895 as a National Guard Armory for the 46th Separate Company of the New York Army National Guard, the brick structure now known as the Amsterdam Castle was decommissioned in 1994 and now serves as a private residence, hotel, and event venue. Today, there are 21 hotel rooms within the historic brick walls – one of which was where the three of us had reservations to stay the night.
For Tom and me, the Amsterdam Castle was far more than just the three of us experiencing the Lifestyles of the Rich and Famous – the castle was a Presidential site. On September 29, 1960, Senator John F. Kennedy stopped at the armory to deliver a campaign speech where he addressed urban renewal and the shared industrial maturity of cities like Amsterdam, New York and Boston.
During his speech inside the armory, which was followed by a luncheon, Senator Kennedy said in part, “I come here today and ask your help. I think we all should try to register and vote. Franklin Roosevelt said some years ago, “What good is the right of free speech for a man who does not say anything? What good is the right to go to church if you don’t practice a religion? What is the good of the right to vote if you don’t register and vote?”
Once we were registered and had our gear transported from the Jeep to our first-floor room, Tom, Vicki and I set out on foot to explore the historic Amsterdam Castle. While I posed for a handful of photos near the picturesque exterior, the piece de resistance came when my photographer carried me back inside where we visited the second floor ‘Kennedy Room’. That impressive tour was followed by a visit to the Main Dining Room, which occupied a good portion of the lower level and was “guarded” by numerous suits of armor.
The three of us returned to our room following our self-guided tour of the Amsterdam Castle and I was walking, or should I say, standing on air. That place was amazing, inside and out, and I couldn’t believe we were spending the night there. But would the darkness of night cause things to go bump in the “knight” in our room, even though the castle has had no known reports of paranormal activity in the past? I wouldn’t be surprised if I experienced something because ghosts, spirits, and the afterlife seem to be attracted to me wherever I go – whether I like it or not.
With a few more hours of daylight left, I heard Tom tell his wife he had one more surprise up his sleeve. “Since this castle isn’t haunted, I’m taking us to a place tonight that is. But first, we need to lay the groundwork. Let’s get in the Jeep and drive over to Green Hill Cemetery and find the grave of Susan DeGraff. Local legend has it that ‘Widow Susan’, dressed in white, walks along a road just outside of town as she searches for the long-lost grave of her husband, Harmonous. We’ll visit Susan’s grave during the daylight, because it’s illegal to enter the cemetery at night, and then we’ll see if we can find her wandering along that road after dark. Trust me, this is going to be really cool.”
When I saw Vicki roll her eyes, I knew the word “cool” wasn’t on top of her list, but she agreed to go along with my photographer’s shenanigans anyway. Since I’ve been around, Tom’s wife has always been a non-believer and a nay-sayer in UFOs, Sasquatch, Skinwalkers, and paranormal activity; that is until she photographed a possible ghost at the St. Augustine Lighthouse on the night of April 28, 2024. Although still somewhat skeptical, that unexplained phenomena she captured on her cell phone that night in Florida had changed Vicki’s perspective on ghosts – as long as they aren’t hanging around with a Squatch inside a flying saucer. That’s where she draws the line.
It was a short mile-and-a-half drive from the Amsterdam Castle, over the Mohawk River, until we arrived at Green Hill Cemetery. It was easy to find the burial ground, but locating the grave of Widow Susan would prove to be more of a challenge.
At 14-acres in size, Green Hill Cemetery was large, hilly, and played host to roughly 15,000 graves. To make matters worse, the driving paths inside the burial ground were grass-filled two-tracks that were wet and sometimes muddy because of the recent rainstorm that passed through the area. Several times during our search for Widow Susan’s grave, Vicki thought the Jeep might get stuck in the mud. I became concerned as well as that’s the last thing we needed was to get stranded in that cemetery after dark. Was the Curse of the Titanic about to rear its ugly head again?
Armed with only a photograph of the area near DeGraff’s final resting place, we rode around blindly for nearly a half hour – it felt as though we were looking for a needle in a haystack. Then suddenly, out of nowhere, the three of us saw something move in-between the trees and grave markers just as my photographer’s wife drove the Jeep over a slight incline. No, it wasn’t Widow Susan. It turned out to be a pair of young fawns frolicking amongst the headstones. As we sat in the quietness and enjoyed the serene moment, we saw the mother doe as she slowly walked up the hillside towards her babies – she looked in our direction the entire time. Then, the most incredible event unfolded before our eyes. As soon as the fawns saw her, they ran towards their mother and dove beneath her belly – it was dinner time.
As quietly as she could, Vicki started the Jeep’s engine, and we continued our search for the gravesite of Susan DeGraff. Five or six minutes after leaving the deer behind, I heard my photographer shout out, “I think I see it. That large monument over there looks similar to the one in the picture. Our search is over!”
After Vicki parked the Jeep about fifty feet from the DeGraff gravesite, Tom carried me up a slight grass and weed-filled incline to the final resting place of Widow Susan, which appeared to be mostly devoured by the surrounding soil and vegetation. Once my photographer had set me down on the dirty, weather-worn marble slab where I posed for a handful of pictures, an eerie feeling filled my entire resin body. Even though it was still daylight, I kept my eyes peeled for a woman in white.
That woman in white was 18 years old when Susan Thomas married Harmonous DeGraff in Amsterdam, New York. The young couple lived on a farm on the East end of town. A decade after Susan and Harmonous married in 1838, he died at the age of 43 – leaving his wife responsible for their farm and two small children. Because she ran the farm alone for the rest of her life, the townspeople began calling her “Widow Susan,” and the path near her property became known as Widow Susan Road.
Following his death, Harmonous DeGraff was allegedly laid to rest in the private DeGraff family plot near his farm, but over the years, that small burial ground fell into complete ruin and vanished over time.
On May 22, 1892, just two days shy of her 73rd birthday, Susan DeGraff died at her daughter’s home in Jackson, Michigan from neuralgia of the heart. Susan’s remains were brought back to Amsterdam by her son, Alfonzo, and they were interred in Green Hill Cemetery rather than alongside her husband in the DeGraff family plot.
According to legend, Susan’s ghost appears on the road that came to be called “Widow Susan Road,” in an old-fashioned white dress and crying while searching for something. It is believed Susan would be extremely confused to find herself interred at Green Hill Cemetery rather than the family plot and that her ghost is desperately searching for her husband’s grave.
While I posed on Widow Susan DeGraff’s tombstone, my photographer used his cell phone to record a video message for his granddaughter Reese Fiscelli, who is absolutely fascinated by ghost stories. At the same time, Vicki had returned to the Jeep and began to search her phone for information about Susan DeGraff’s life. I listened as Tom narrated the story of Susan’s plight to find her husband’s grave, and he ended the video by calling out her name three times in an effort to summon the ghost for Reese to see.
With bated breath and a chill running up and down my stainless-steel spine, I listened as Tom shouted out, “Widow Susan. Widow Susan. Widow Susan.” I looked around for any signs of a woman dressed in white, or perhaps the sound of a woman crying in the distance – but there was nothing but the sounds of silence.
Then suddenly, the stillness was broken when I heard Vicki shout out from the nearby Jeep, “Oh my God, my purse just fell over on its own at exactly the same time you said ‘Widow Susan’ the third time. That’s really weird.”
It was hard for me to fathom what had just happened, and I agreed with Vicki – that was very weird indeed. A coincidence? I doubt it; and Tom was also convinced Widow Susan DeGraff was there with us in that cemetery. My photographer also figured there was a great chance we would see her wandering along Widow Susan Road after sunset – all we had to do was make the effort to be there after dark. I was all in for the experience – but getting Vicki to buy-in to a ghost hunting expedition would be another challenge. Tom needed an angle to motivate his wife – and perhaps that angle would be in the form of Reese Fiscelli, my photographer’s favorite grandchild.
When Tom and I returned to the Jeep, the three of us sat there for a moment and discussed the potential paranormal activity that Vicki had just experienced. Even though she’s not a huge believer in ghosts, my photographer’s wife was convinced her purse didn’t fall over on its own or that gravity had affected it. In her mind, she was convinced something had pushed it over – and it happened exactly at the moment when Tom called out Widow Susan’s name.
With our “spirit senses” on high alert, it was time to leave the cemetery behind and find some dinner before sunset. After all, Tom and Vick can’t go ghost hunting on empty stomachs. But first, my photographer wanted the three of us to scout-out the area he planned for us to visit after dark – Widow Susan Road, the alleged area where Susan DeGraff, dressed in white and crying, roams at night in search of her husband’s long-lost grave.
It took less than ten minutes for Vicki to navigate the back roads of Amsterdam before we arrived at Tom’s designated spot – the corner of Widow Susan Road and Cemetery Road where my photographer found a historical marker that depicted the legend of Widow Susan DeGraff. Even though there was still a couple of hours of daylight left, and a great chance we would not see a woman dressed in white walking around, there was a distinctive eerie ambiance that filled the air all around us. Perhaps the feeling came from the two burial grounds located within a few hundred yards to the East along Cemetery Road; or from a third cemetery, which was located about a half mile to the North along Widow Susan Road. Or maybe it was the fact the DeGraff Family Farm was once situated only a quarter-mile South of our location.
One thing was for certain – when Tom hung me on the historical marker by my ponytail and called out “Widow Susan” three times, I anticipated something bad to happen. I figured for sure the surgically transplanted Abraham Lincoln spring in my neck would snap; or perhaps my ponytail would break off and I’d fall to my death. After all, we were boldly staring directly in the face of two different entities – the ghost of Widow Susan and the Curse of the Titanic. Tom was daring something to happen, but nothing out of the ordinary occurred. I was relieved, and somewhat disappointed at the same time. But that could all change after dark along Widow Susan Road.
We had finished our ghost hunting expedition by 6:15pm and it was time to hunt down a place for dinner. My companions’ first choice was a place called the Rustic Loft Pub & Grill, which was located roughly three miles North of downtown Amsterdam. But when Vicki pulled the Jeep into that establishment’s parking lot nearly ten minutes later, the restaurant appeared packed with customers as people were lined up at the door to get inside.
Our second choice for a place to eat was a restaurant we had passed on the way to the Rustic Loft, which turned out to be less crowded. Once the three of us got inside the RSG Sports Grill, it soon became obvious as to why there weren’t many patrons there – the food and service left much to be desired.
I watched as my photographer choked down a handful of overcooked chicken tenders and fries, while Vicki did her best to devour two beef tacos. I couldn’t help but laugh when I heard Tom say to his wife, “Now I know what the RSG stands for – Really Shitty Grub.”
The clock on the Jeep’s console read 7:35pm when we returned to the Amsterdam Castle. Once we were in our room, my photographer placed me alongside the TV set, and then he set the alarm on his phone to ring at 8:30pm. Tom suggested to his wife they should take an hour or so power nap before they headed back out to Widow Susan Road, even though the sun was scheduled to set at 8:09pm. It had been a long day, and Tom figured a short respite would help sharpen his senses for any potential paranormal activity we might encounter.
It seemed as though my two companions had no more began to snore when Tom’s alarm went off. I watched as my photographer crawled out of bed, although there seemed to be a slight hesitation in his enthusiasm. Tom was obviously still very exhausted, but he didn’t want to disappoint his granddaughter by not shooting his promised video footage of their nighttime ghost hunt.
I laughed to myself because Vicki was even more reluctant to get out of friendly confines of her comfortable bed, especially when Tom mentioned it was time to go out into the darkness of night to search for a ghost.
I heard Tom say, “Up and at ’em, it’s time to find Widow Susan.” Vicki simply groaned and replied, “Oh, do we have to? I’m really tired.”
My photographer had one last secret weapon up his sleeve, and he didn’t hesitate to use it. “Oh, come on, let’s go. Don’t forget, I promised Reese I’d send her some nighttime video of our ghost hunt at Widow Susan Road. You don’t want us to disappoint our granddaughter, do you?”
It was at that moment when a scene from the movie ‘The Exorcist‘ came to life before my painted eyes. Vicki sat up in bed, and although her head didn’t spin around and green crap didn’t fly out of her mouth, she looked directly at her husband and growled, “Are you trying to effing kill me?”
And with that, the second full day of our trip had come to an end. The Curse of the Titanic was still alive and going strong!
