Ghosts and goblins may have spent Monday tricking or treating Nebraska residents, hauling in jack-o-lantern shaped buckets full of sweet treats.

            But if you believe legends and tall tales or everything you read on the internet (because it’s all true, right?), spooky phantoms and imps inhabit an overwhelming number of buildings or parcels of ground in locations across the Cornhusker State.

            When I was competing in a debate tourney at Nebraska Wesleyan in 1981, one Wesleyan debater kept telling my debate partner and me that the Lincoln college was haunted.

            Supposedly, the apparition of Clara Mills, a former faculty member, was first viewed in 1963, 20 years after Mills suffered a heart attack at her desk in the C.C. White Building.

            When that structure was torn down for campus expansion, Mills’ ghost allegedly moved next door to Old Main.

            The tell-tale sign? Piano music drifting through the atmosphere at odd hours.

            We both chuckled. Our roommates were music majors and had small keyboards in our dorm rooms. We heard piano music at odd hours, too.

            About 20 miles southwest of where I grew up, the unincorporated village of Spring Ranch was apparently haunted.  A stagecoach stop along the Overland Trail, the community sat next to the Little Blue River. Homesteaders were ambushed by natives, and legends state that the cemetery is haunted.

            What piques my interest about Spring Ranch is the story of Elizabeth Taylor and her brother, Tom Jones.

            No, not the celebs.

            A feud developed between the siblings and their neighbors, who claimed the Jones/Taylor cattle were breaking down fences and destroying crops.

            While a group of men cut timber along the river bank, Taylor sent her hired help to scare them away. Soon, a shotgun blast permeated the air and one of the men was dead.

            Since the trial couldn’t be held until a judge was available, riled homesteaders rustled the brother and sister to the bridge, placed nooses around their necks and fired a shotgun into the night air.

            Even local historians say the bridge is haunted and if it’s a quiet night, you’ll hear the gunshot.

            In my hometown, legend – and even school employees and students – declared the halls of the elementary school haunted. A portrait of a former principal was displayed above the entrance to the gym, and people whispered that the eyes of the portrait would follow anyone who walked down the hall.

            Others spoke of seeing the principal’s ghost walking across the gymnasium, heading into the hallway, and disappearing into thin air.

            Figment of imagination? Paranormal activity? 

            Now, I’m pretty sure this sounds like a scene from a Saturday morning cartoon, and pretty soon, Fred, Daphne, Velma, Shaggy and Scooby are going to show up outside CCHS in the Mystery Machine and unmask the impersonator.

            “And I would’ve gotten away with it,” the school janitor would shout, shaking his fists in the air, “if it hadn’t been for you darn kids.”

            Whether or not you believe in the supernatural, Nebraska’s whimsical past creates a lot of present-day ghost stories.

                Monday morning, I encountered Cleopatra, poodle skirt-clad girls, a retro basketball player, and several freshmen who stepped out of a Jane Fonda exercise video.

                This blast from the past signals the beginning of Homecoming, a tradition in most Nebraska high schools, complete with dress-up days and pep rallies. Sometimes the bonfire features a dummy or mascot of the opposition tossed onto the flames, a sacrifice to the football gods to ensure victory. And who can forget about the hall decorations, parades, class competitions, coronation, and dance.

                My former classmate Charlie describes homecoming as the social event for the fall season where everyone was treated like royalty. It’s amazing to think that some crepe paper, balloons and Christmas lights could convince our minds that we were all in another world other than our own high school.

                Adolescent magic.

                Webster’s defines homecoming as a return: coming or returning home.  Some historians believe the popular fall event began in the 1870s, when both Harvard and Yale invited alumni to return to their annual scrimmage. Pop culture historians suggest that Baylor, Illinois or Missouri perfected the modern version of homecoming around 1910.

                The K-12, city-wide Homecoming parade conjured up memories with my fellow CCHS alums. Elementary students created costumes to either support the Wildcats or bruise the opponents.

                Melanie Schueler Knight reminded me of the time her brother dressed as an injured Blue Devil, slipped his arm in a sling and hobbled the parade route – around the courthouse square – on crutches, while carrying a sign pronouncing “Beat Kenesaw . . . Black and Blue.”

                If you played in band, you marched the route, dropped your instrument on the courthouse lawn, and sprinted back to school to be part of your class’s parade entry.

                Then you stood next to your parents, or grandparents, or the neighbor down the street and generated a whirl of school spirit floating toward the football field.

                As an educator, I observe the event differently. Some of the magical realism has faded into contrasting reality.

                If you consider the denotation of “homecoming” and the history behind the event, you may notice one key element seems M.I.A. from today’s weeklong festivities: alumni.

                If Homecoming is about returning home, shouldn’t schools do more to entice graduates to return on a crisp autumn evening and take in a football game, to share in and retain school spirit?             

                Shouldn’t  a graduate be more involved than a yearly alumni banquet where you eat a piece of rare roast beef or chicken and cold mashed potatoes, share silent conversations with classmates you had nothing in common with when you were in school, noting how the divide has widened remarkably in a year or ten?

                Maybe homecoming suggests a sense of community, of building a rapport with every person invested in a particular school.

                Maybe it’s about participation, about drawing the shyest wallflower lurking in the shadows into the frenzy.

                Maybe the spirit of homecoming should be encouraged and embraced throughout the year, within every activity, developing and representing a school’s character and pride.

                As a kindergartener, I couldn’t wait for the first day of school. I assembled my school supplies: a box of eight fat Crayola crayons, a couple pencils, and a Big Chief writing tablet. I carefully selected my first day outfit – an orange, cap sleeve dress with a black ribbon that tied in the back. (School spirit! Go Wildcats!)

                It was fall 1966. Nancy Sinatra popularized “These Boots are Made for Walking.” Scenes from Vietnam played during the evening news.

                I was dressed for success and ready to learn. After taking photographs celebrating this milestone, I walked to class with my mom, who doubled as my Kindergarten teacher. Our class didn’t meet at school; instead, we met in a classroom at a local church.

                Here, we learned about Dick and Jane and their dog, Spot. We perfected writing the alphabet, counting to 100, and finger painting.

                At recess, we pretended we were superheroes – Batman, his sidekick Robin, and faithful Batgirl – and rid the playground of villains.

                It was the beginning of a 13-year adventure with classmates; some remain life-long friends; others, not so much.

                Entering grade seven, I was apprehensive and excited about school. I collected my supplies: a spiral notebook for each class and Flair felt-tip markers in a variety of colors. I despised the outfit required for first period PE class: ugly blue athletic shorts and a blue and white striped shirt.

                Fall 1973. Grand Funk Railroad professed “We’re an American Band.” President Nixon asserted “I am not a crook.”

                No pictures of that first day of junior high. It was a rush to gather my book bag and practice clothes.

                Junior high introduces the top dog – bottom dog conundrum. You no longer rule the elementary school. You’re on the bottom rung of high-school hierarchy.  

                We reviewed basic math, wrote five-paragraph essays, read what seemed like hundreds of pages each night, and discovered seven teachers each with a varied set of expectations.

                Yesterday’s friends excluded you today. Things may be different tomorrow.     

                1978, fall approaching. I grabbed what was left of last year’s notebooks and grabbed a pen from my dad’s desk. Comfy jeans and a T-shirt were good enough. Who are you trying to impress, anyway?

                John Paul I spent 33 days as Pope. The Bee Gees sang “Stayin’ Alive.”  Apropos.

                Polaroids are replaced with a professional photography session, with five clothing changes, that lasted all day on the hottest day of summer.

                I applied to colleges, completed scholarship applications, took difficult classes, spent time with a core group of friends, and graduated with honors.

                What did I learn?

                The world is a 24/7 education process.

                It doesn’t matter what you wear on the first day of school. Having the latest greatest school supplies isn’t important either.

                An African proverb says it takes a village to raise a child. School is the village that raises and challenges you, supplying chances for critical thought and guiding you toward full potential.

                What you do with those opportunities rests in your hands.

Frightened by things that go bump in the night? Visit Nebraska and you’re certain to find  multiple sites across the state that are reportedly haunted.

A visit to an internet site – The Shadowlands - lists 62 towns scattered across Nebraska that haunted tales to tell.  Interestingly, it does not list my home town, Clay Center, where the elementary building is haunted. Supposedly, the ghost of former principal, Mr. Allan, haunts the school building. His photo hung in the hallway, at an entryway to the former gymnasium. Walk down the hall, and the eyes of the portrait follow you. Creepy, yes, but it’s a often-told tale. I’ll preface this by saying my parents both taught at the school and were good friends with him and both felt the photo had a some type of strange vibe.

They weren’t the only school employees who felt some type of presence in the school. One of the former school cooks, who arrived early each morning, said she heard footsteps crossing the gym floor, yet when she looked out, nobody was in the gym.

Nebraska Wesleyan campus in Lincoln supposedly is home to several ghosts. A former professor reportedly haunts the old music building. But don’t worry. It’s not the only haunted campus in Lincoln. The Temple Building at UNL purportedly has a ghost.

The State Capitol possesses a ghost on the observation deck. I’ve visited here several times and honestly, I have never heard the sobs of a crying man. I’ve heard plenty of howling wind though.

In Crofton, Nebraska, the Argo Hotel - a beautifully remodeled restaurant and bed & breakfast – houses a ghost. Maybe more. One legend says a young girl died in the basement and her ghost walks around the hotel. Another story says that the building used to be a mental institution and ghost-like wailing can be heard from several rooms. And yet another story adds that when a worker was tearing down a wall in the present-day lounge, a skeleton of a baby was discovered. And if that’s not enough, pictures have been known to move on their own.

Whether or not you believe in the supernatural, legends and stories continue to report about strange happenings that occur across the state’s wide-open prairie.

We even have our own ghost-busting group, although I’ve seen some of their stories featured in the mainstream media and they seem legit. Check out Midwest Paranormal Investigators in Kearney.