When I take the commuter bus to Seattle from Stanwood, I literally catch it at the end of the line. It is the longest bus route; anything longer would require Greyhound. And the stop I use is at the most desolate, isolated, lonely park-and-ride lot I have ever seen.

Waiting for the bus in December and January was cold, damp, dark, and surreal. A single streetlight did little to dispel the gloom, and across the road, there was only a bleak, empty farmer’s field.

At 6:25 am, I huddled at the bus shelter, my teeth chattering from the unstoppable wind. I wished I had a car to wait in, like that other lady. She was sitting in the driver’s seat, using the rear-view mirror to apply her makeup.

When she got out and joined me, she was friendly and chatty.

“I hope the river doesn’t flood today!” she said, cheerfully.

On the other side of the bleak farm field was the Stillaguamish river, known locally as the Stilly. I knew there was a flood watch in effect, but I didn’t realize it applied to the bus stop.

“At least, I hope I don’t come back and find my car under water,” she added.

I’d originally been a bit jealous when I noticed her sitting in her warm, toasty car. But now I felt a bit smug — after all, my car was safely back at home with Barry. I’d heard that cars at this lot were often broken into, but I didn’t realize they might flood as well. I began to wonder about this woman, whose choice to ride the bus meant not only hassle, but serious risk to her personal property.

I saw her whenever I rode the bus, and each time, I became a little less reticent. Her presence made the bus stop seem less surreal. We’d have a brief conversation, but when the bus came, I went to the back. As the first person aboard, she always sat in the front row.

I took about a month off, and when I returned to the bus stop, the days had lengthened. It was light enough that I could actually see her, a middle-aged lady, nicely dressed in a leather coat and low-heeled pumps.

“Hello!” she said. “You haven’t been riding the bus lately.”

I was surprised that she remembered me. “We went down to stay in Seattle for a bit,” I admitted, “and next week, we’re going to start house-sitting in Fremont for nine weeks. I can’t wait to live in town again, in the Center of the Universe. This commute is awful, and I only do it one day a week.” I smiled at her, sympathetically. I was fairly certain she did the grueling bus ride five days a week.

“Oh, I know what you mean,” she replied. “I used to live in Greenwood, and I really loved it, being right in town, where you can get to everything.”

I wondered, out loud, how she ended up out here at the end of the bus line.

“We were raising kids, you know, and so we moved to Mill Creek.”

It made sense, a logical step. I could imagine a couple living in Seattle with a couple of kids. They might have concerns about city schools, might want a bigger house. So they’d move to the suburbs, to a place where you can get a big new house on a big lot for not very much money. Mill Creek is like that, with reasonably good schools and lots of conveniences, if you don’t mind driving everywhere. To me, it’s sub-urban, but a lot of people like that kind of lifestyle.

“After we were about done with the kids, my in-laws offered us their place on Camano Island,” she continued. “They said we could have it for pretty much what they paid for it, 25 years ago.”

It sounded like too good a deal to pass up. Except that it had another price.

“My mother-in-law loves the place. She hated to leave it, and she wanted to write something into the contract to say that if we ever sold it, they would have first rights to buy it back at the price we paid them for it.” She laughed. “My friend, who’s a lawyer, told her that was ridiculous, that once they sold the house, they couldn’t say what was to be done with it.”

Perhaps, from a legal perspective, that’s true. But not from a family perspective.

Moving into her mother-in-law’s dream home was a trap. She never said so outright, but I could tell. To sell the home would be unthinkable; they don’t dare upset the family: As long as her in-laws are alive, she cannot move. She’s stuck, indefinitely, living on Camano Island, over 60 miles from the city where she’d like to be.

As other people board the bus, I look at their faces. The daily commute of over four hours makes many of them look like zombies. How many do it because they want a good-paying job, lots of money and nice things? Or is the story more complex? Perhaps, like the lady at my bus stop, the reason involves other people’s lives and feelings.

She saves the seat beside her for a friend, and the two of them catch up on the day’s news before turning to their respective magazines. She’s always smiling, always cheerful. Starting at the end of the bus line, she has the longest commute, but she doesn’t look like a zombie. That’s what comes of making the best of it.

Mention the phrase “haunted house,” and immediately, people start thinking of an old, deserted place with rotten floors and boarded-up windows. Then, just add a resident ghost to rattle the window panes and rearrange the dust covers.

If the ghost is fond of actually disturbing people, though, he or she would probably prefer a huge, funky old mansion, like a B&B where we once stayed. The owner of the place was really proud of her ghost. “I’d like some more coffee” was likely to get a response of, “Did I tell you about the ghost?” If you asked, “May I have an extra towel?” she’d say, “Did I tell you about the ghost?” The woman not only obsessed on the existence of the ghost, she thought that every person who came to her inn was fascinated by it. We were not.

In this life, most people have a penchant for getting ahead, having the nicer things in life. So why not ghosts, too? Why stick with abandoned houses or inns run by crazy ladies, when you could have satellite TV and high-speed internet?

That’s the kind of place where Barry and I are house-sitting right now. The house is in a very suburban neighborhood, a cul-de-sac kind of place. I was afraid to take a walk in the neighborhood yesterday without a trail of bread crumbs, or at least, my pet GPS, because the streets are not laid out in a logical grid. I thought I might get lost, return to the wrong house, and be mistaken for a burglar. I can picture the headline: “Seattle burglar mauled by 200-pound Redmond mastiff.”

Most of the houses around here date back to the 1980’s or 90’s, They have two-car attached garages, soaring ceilings, at least three bedrooms, and many bathrooms. The interiors are beautiful; through the windows I see leather sofas, antique end tables, and breakfronts full of sparkling glassware and china.

Walking along, I found myself wondering: How many of these houses are haunted? Or at least, how many others, besides the one where we’re staying?

We were having dinner the other night with Geoff, the high-school senior who lives here, and he brought it up. He told us the front door opens spontaneously, when it’s tightly locked. There have been unexplained footsteps, cold chills, and strange shadows. Things fall over when nobody is touching them.

I was politely incredulous. Why would a ghost bother haunting such a normal, average suburban house? And if it really was true, why hadn’t Geoff’s parents mentioned it when they gave us the key? A simple warning would have sufficed, something like, “Trash pickup is Thursdays, and don’t mind the ghost.”

Two nights ago, I was getting ready to go to bed around 1 am, but I could hear water running. It was awfully late for Geoff to be awake on a school night, but Barry was sitting next to me, so it had to be Geoff. Barry thought maybe a toilet was stuck running, so he went downstairs to see.

He walked into the half-bath and found the hot water tap on, full blast. It had been on for long enough to steam up the mirror. I asked the logical question: “Was there a message written on the mirror?” Barry shook his head. “I did not see one. I, uh, did not look carefully.” By which I think he means he was freaked out by his first encounter with the supernatural, and he turned off the water and came upstairs as fast as his little feet would carry him.

It could only have been the ghost. I know this family is famous for their humor and their practical jokes — things like putting Kool-aid in the showerhead so the water comes out green. But turning the hot water tap on at 1 am isn’t particularly scary, or funny. It’s just weird, and that’s the kind of stuff ghosts do.

Since I don’t know what weird things the ghost will do next, I’ve been a little less keen on walking around this house in the dark. I don’t know what I’m scared of. I just don’t want to bump into something I can’t see. Not that I could see the ghost if the light was on, either!

I finally had a chance to ask Pat, Geoff’s mother, about the ghost. She ticked off a number of things they’d attributed to it — mostly things her son had mentioned, but also a creepy incident that happened in the bed Barry and I are sleeping in. Still, she added, “It doesn’t freak out the cat or the dog, so I’m sure it’s OK.”

The cat’s sleeping on our bed as I write this. He’s purring loudly, either oblivious to the ghost, or merely unperturbed by it. I’ll take a page out of his book, and not let it bother me. And if I see any signs of the ghost, I’ll let him know he’s welcome to surf the internet on my computer. That’s as long as he — or she, or it — waits until I’m done writing this article. In the meantime, he can sit in the comfy leather chair, put up his feet, and watch some satellite TV.

Once upon a time, Barry and I threw a party and nobody came. Actually, two people showed up, but we had invited over fifty. It was a crushing blow. For weeks, we ate the leftover food and drank coconut-rum punch and wondered what went wrong.

Part of the problem is that parties have become so casual, with huge blind-copied e-mail invitations, that nobody takes them seriously. Most parties we’re invited to are potlucks or barbecues, with the food served buffet-style. More people? More paper plates and plastic forks. Fewer? Save the plates and forks for the next party.

And then there’s E-vite. It’s sort of nice to be able to see the whole party list — who’s invited, who’s responded. But by the same token, it engenders a kind of rudeness. Instead of taking the invitation at face value, as a gift from the hosts, you analyze the list to see if it’s worth your while to attend. You respond with a “maybe,” then change your mind based on other people’s responses. Maybe I’m old-fashioned, but I think that’s impolite.

The truth is, even a casual party requires setup and planning. That’s a real nightmare if none of your guests will commit.

Thinking back on memorable parties, the smaller, more intimate ones come to mind. A going-away party for our friend Doug was especially memorable — Michelle cooked a beautiful multi-course meal and served it on matching china to twelve lucky guests, all seated at the same table. Invitations to special parties like that come by telephone or handwritten note, not by e-mail. Such invitations are highly prized, and you wouldn’t think of blowing them off, or failing to RSVP.

When we started entertaining in Seattle, we started small. At our first dinner party, we invited two friends to share some Maine lobsters that we’d ordered. When the lobsters failed to materialize, we made homemade pizza, then rescheduled and had a second party, with lobster, two weeks later. Later, we tried having a generic party, but it was blah. We needed a fun activity to give it some pizzazz.

That’s how the White Elephant parties began, and they ran for many years. Each year, they got crazier and bigger. Barry discovered how easy it was to throw a turkey on the barbecue grill, so that became the central menu item. He’d take it off the grill as the party was getting in full swing and plop it on a platter in the middle of the table, next to a carving fork and knife. Then he’d walk away.

The guests would stand around, looking puzzled. “Who’s going to carve the turkey?” they’d ask. Finally, someone who couldn’t stand to wait any longer would just pick up the knife and start carving away. And Barry and I would give each other a high-five, since we knew how to cook a turkey, but didn’t want to admit that carving it was beyond us.

We don’t have our huge party space any more, but we still love to entertain. That’s where the smaller gatherings come in. Barry’s parents cohosted several gatherings with us at their house, which is the perfect place for parties, with an open living room, dining room, and kitchen. We even hosted a tiny party in our 30-foot trailer. (It works fine, as long as all the guests stay seated and don’t move.) When the weather gets nice, I’m looking forward to hosting a picnic at some pretty park. We even have friends who will let us co-host a party at their Seattle home.

The key, for me, it to make each gathering small and unique. Let people know that they are the special invitees for this party. I won’t ask them to bring anything — I like to cook for my friends. It’s not even a time issue: I once got home from work at 5:30, threw the ingredients for minestrone into the pressure cooker, and served dinner to eight people an hour later.

There are lots of wonderful big parties with huge crowds and groaning tables covered with potluck dishes. I hope my friends continue to invite me to them! But for now, I will return their generosity with invitations to smaller, more intimate gatherings. I hope we all have a good time. And I sincerely hope to never again throw a party where nobody comes.

For ideas on what to feed your friends, read Tips for Feeding Your Friends, in Meps’ Foodie Gazette.