By Hannah Nordhaus
“A haunting tale concerning the lengthy succeed in of the past.”—Maureen Corrigan, NPR’S Fresh Air
“In this exciting publication, [Nordhaus] stocks her trip to find who her immigrant ancestor particularly was—and what unusual alchemy made the assumption of her linger lengthy after she used to be gone.” —People
La Posada—“place of rest”—was as soon as a grand Santa Fe mansion. It belonged to Abraham and Julia Staab, who emigrated from Germany within the mid-nineteenth century. once they died, the home turned a inn. And within the Nineteen Seventies, the inn got a resident ghost—a unhappy, dark-eyed lady in an extended dress. unusual issues started to ensue there: vases moved, glasses flew, blankets have been ripped from beds. Julia Staab died in 1896—but her ghost, they are saying, lives on.
In American Ghost, Julia’s great-great-granddaughter, Hannah Nordhaus, strains her ancestor’s transfiguration from nineteenth-century Jewish bride to fashionable phantom. relatives diaries, photos, and newspaper clippings take her on a riveting trip via 300 years of German background and the yankee immigrant adventure. With the aid of historians, genealogists, kin, and ghost hunters, she weaves a masterful, relocating tale of fin-de-siècle Europe and pioneer lifestyles, villains and visionaries, medication and spiritualism, mind's eye and fact, exploring how lives turn into legends, and what these legends let us know approximately who we're.
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Extra resources for American Ghost: A Family's Extraordinary History on the Desert Frontier
Her usually elegantly styled hair was plastered to her head from walking in the rain. She had a bottle of wine under her arm, only half-full. What could I do but invite her for dinner? It must have been fall, because I had a basket of fresh tomatoes in my kitchen. I decided to make pasta sauce. I sat Claire down with a glass of her raunchy Italian wine, some tomatoes, and a chopping board. I busied myself with the other ingredients: onions, garlic, artichoke hearts, fresh basil and parsley. I put spaghetti on the boil.
In the days and weeks that followed, we ran into one another other at various demonstrations and meetings and candlelight vigils. The sky by then was a daily smudge of grey, the mountains a faint blue watercolour wash behind them. The new anti-terrorist bill and Canada’s pledging of troops to aid in the bombing of Afghanistan were keeping us busy; our email inboxes overﬂowed with announcements, petitions, and protests. Rita said, “It was so good just to talk”; Penny commented, in her wry way, that I really should undercook a turkey more often.
She used to say that getting her Bachelor’s degree in French literature was more important to her than getting married and I puzzled over that then, but of course I don’t, now. I met Anh while completing my Master’s degree in Toronto at the turn of the twenty-ﬁrst century. We were taking the same class, a seminar on theories of sexuality. I found her beautiful, with her shoulder-length black hair and a ready, 53 dazzling smile. She was giggly, and deeply intelligent. She was shy too, so it took some time, but ﬁnally, we become friends.