from hallowed ground - a ghost story

You know how you can remember your exact location when you hear certain news? Like when I was  sitting at my desk in my 6th grade classroom in November of 1963 and the PA system crackled as our principal said, “Students, it is with great sorrow that I inform you that our president, John F. Kennedy, has been shot and pronounced dead...”

Years later, I remember, exactly mind you, standing in my living room, just steps from the very room by the way, where Karen had once tried to kiss me, except that I recoiled and then she acted like I’d been somehow mistaken about the whole matter. Anyway that’s where I was standing when our mutual friend, Larry, told me Karen had moved, "lock, stock and barrel" to Boulder, Colorado. Colorado seemed so far away. But, that was me, I was never much for traveling.

“Was it some amazing job offer?” I asked Larry.

“I don’t think so, Darlin'. I think this was all just a ‘spur of the moment’ thing.' “

“Yeah, well I can’t believe she didn’t stop by to say goodbye, or at least call me. Does she even know anyone in Colorado?”

“Not that I know of, Sweetie,” his voice buoying on "know of" and falling on "Sweetie". I’d never been good at identifying gays, but anyone could have recognized the signs in Larry.

Later I searched an old U. S. atlas we had in the apartment. You know, kind of  looked it up. I traced the route she’d probably have taken with my finger. Boulder is just over 1,000 miles from Chicago.

Karen and I had been friends since grammar school. She was in the same grade as me in school but a year and a half older in age. We were fast friends by the time I was 12. I came from a large family and Karen lived alone with her mother, who worked full time. We spent whole summers hanging out together at their usually empty home. This was right around the time I became interested in boys- Wait! Did I tell you that she was what they call drop-dead gorgeous? She was half Irish and half Native American. She had green eyes, long, thick straight brown hair, and those high, prominent cheekbones most people consider a beauty trait. My problem was that every boy I even remotely liked ended up smitten with Karen.

Even though she was plenty smart, Karen didn’t do well in school. Halfway through our junior year in high school, while I was prepping for college, Karen dropped out to take a job as a waitress. It was a career she stuck with for the rest of her life. And somehow she always managed to get hired at the swankiest “in” spots. She was serving alcohol to patrons long before she was of the legal age of 21. While I held down any old minimum wage part-time job I could manage to land, while still living at home and taking classes at a nearby campus, she’d be raking in hundreds of dollars per night in tips.

Though it was clear we were growing apart at this point, we’d still find the occasional night to sit up together chatting until dawn. It was then that she’d tell me about the pilot, lawyer, or local television personality she’d met at work and was currently dating, though she never seemed to stay very long with any particular one.

Finally I met a guy who didn’t immediately lose interest in me and fall for Karen, not only that, but my parents adored him. It was shortly after I introduced the two of them that Karen and I were sitting up having one of our now only occasional confabs late into the night. I think we were looking at a photo album. As I recall, we were sitting directly across from one another, with the album half on each of our touching knees, laughing aloud at some distant memory we’d shared, when Karen, out of the blue, reached over, took my face into her hands and put her slightly open mouth towards my face. I pulled back from her, just before our lips touched. I remember being thoroughly confused. She stammered at first, then laughed and dismissed the whole thing as a joke with “Aww, I was just fooling with you,” and “You should have seen your face!”

She sent me one a single letter from Boulder, the Christmas after the year she moved, to tell me she was now relocating to California. And then another letter the Christmas after that in California to tell me that she’d met some guy in a rock band. About that time I sent her an invitation to my wedding, begging her to phone me so I could ask her to be my maid of honor. She replied via a postcard stating that her mom, who’d moved out to California somewhere nearby Karen, was ill and that thus, Karen would need to stay near her mom.

She never answered my follow-up letter which included photos of my wedding, nor any letter or card I sent after that.

It had been years since I heard from our mutual friend, Larry, so I was surprised when he called me, asking me to meet him for lunch. We met near my workplace and there, he told me that Karen, who it turns out had never married anyone, including that rock musician, had died from cancer and that she’d asked to be cremated and buried at the Indian reservation in northern Wisconsin, where both she and her mom had been born.

I made arrangements to attend the service, going online to book a hotel room for my husband and I, but it turned out the only decent place nearby was the local casino resort on the reservation itself.

Larry had sent driving directions to the reservation burial ground which was nestled in a stand of jack pines just off the banks of the local river. I recalled her stories of swimming in the river as a young child as we drove through the area. The tiny beach adjacent to the saw mill she’d talked about looked so much smaller than her descriptions.

We parked our car and walked toward the group of about 25 or 30 people gathered near the burial site. Larry was there and introduced us around. Karen’s uncle, a full-blooded tribal elder, presided. He spoke both in English and in their tribal tongue, carefully explaining the rite. A tribal group danced to a drumbeat with ("or for," I wasn’t quite sure) Karen's spirit to encourage her on her journey to the next world.

Near the burial spot was a small pile of sage leaves, tree bark and tobacco. They would be burned, her uncle explained, to help us in the healing of our loss and to aid in Karen’s passage. The tobacco smoke would carry our prayers to the Great Spirit, the sage would purify her body and soul, I somehow missed the explanation of the tree bark, perhaps it was the part for our healing. Her uncle fanned the burning embers with an eagle feather and I watched as the smoke curled toward heaven. Another man sang in their native tongue.

After the ceremony, her uncle explained that we would all, individually, take some of the unburnt tobacco and place it on the open grave holding her urn of ashes and that, at this time, we could pause as long as necessary to say our final farewell to Karen. After we expressed our final wishes and dropped our tobacco offering we were to turn away immediately and leave. He spoke in a grave tone as he emphasized, “At this point whatever you do, do NOT turn and look back at the grave. Go to your car or walk out of the cemetery but DO NOT look back.” He was quiet for a moment, perhaps letting us absorb this information, then he continued, “This is a critical moment for Karen. She is in a state of confusion now, but we must not discourage her in anyway from taking her firsts steps on her journey to her new world. Remember, DO NOT look back.” Again he was momentarily silent, then he cautioned, "We also don't want to give her an opportunity to try to take any of us with her. This will be a temptation for her."

One by one we filed by the open grave, each pausing, paying our respects and dropping our tobacco offering on Karen’s urn. And each person that I saw dutifully turned and walked away. Did anyone look back? I don’t know. I only know that I took her uncle at his word and I did not look back.

We had dinner with Karen’s friends and family at the nearby Catholic church hall. It had been a long day, a long drive and my husband and I were both exhausted, so we said our goodbyes and left for our room at the casino resort, arranging to meet Larry there for a drink. We walked around the casino until Larry arrived, then sat with him in the bar and had some wine, discussing how we were all moved by the service.

We bid good-bye to Larry, as he was leaving pre-dawn, and retired to our room. My husband took a shower first and said he would “catch up on the news.” He was sound asleep when I stepped out of the shower. I turned the television off, turned out the lights, except for the lamp by my side of the king-size bed. It had a three-way bulb which I set at the dimmest light. I pulled out a novel from my overnight bag. Maybe it was the wine, but the overpowering fatigue I’d felt earlier was completely gone. I had a suspicion it would be a while before I’d be able to fall asleep.

I was reading my book when I felt a chill. I put the book down to pull the blanket and sheet up over my shoulders, when I noticed Karen sitting in the corner of the room, looking directly at me.

“Oh, I must be dreaming,” I thought, but when I looked around the room, everything was exactly the same, our bags were on the luggage rack, the lamp on my bedside was lit, my husband was fast asleep, my book was next to my pillow, just where I'd placed it moments ago… I felt a feeling of being halfway between alertly awake and just awakening, a strange drowsy feeling.

She said nothing, so I spoke up, “You’re not supposed to be here, Karen. So I’m going to close my eyes, turn my back to you. You need to go, Karen.” I shut my eyes. I rolled over and buried myself in the sheet and blanket. Yet, I could feel her noiselessly move across the room to my side of the bed.

“You need to go, Karen," I repeated. "You need to go to the next world.” I could feel her reach out to me. And then I felt her, still surprisingly warm, hand grab my arm. I shut my eyes even tighter and curled up in a fetal position. Roughly pushing her hand away from my arm, I said in a firm voice, “Don’t be afraid. Go on, Karen, go. You are not supposed to be here.”

I lie there for a long time, deliberately not moving, but aware that she was still present. I didn’t move and I didn’t speak. At some point I must have fallen asleep. I opened my eyes and the room was lightened from the morning sun. I could hear my husband rustling in the bathroom. He poked his head into the room and said, “Hey, I’m going downstairs to look for some coffee for us.”

When he left I got up and opened the shades, washed my face and laughed at my memory of Karen’s ghost. How silly of me, I thought. That was really some humdinger of a dream.

My husband came back with our coffee. He’d also managed to find some yogurt, an orange and a banana. He put the goods on the table, saying, “I slept great. How about you?”

I reached out for my coffee, smiling, eager to tell him of my realistic but crazy dream, when he stepped back and asked with some concern, “Whoa, what happened to you? How did you get those scratches on your arm?”

I looked down to see red abrasions and scratches that looked like I'd been grabbed by some wild animal.

A Walk in the Cemetery

I rose predawn for the 4 1/2 hour drive to visit an aging priest. He'd been "assigned" to finish out his priestly duties, which now mostly consisted of praying, at his religious order's retirement center. The grounds of this senior care home were nestled in a secluded rural area of Michigan with  beautiful gardens and pathways on the sprawling acreage. It was a breathtakingly beautiful mid-October day. We'd been talking about the approach of Halloween, or maybe it was All Saint's Day, I don't remember. I also don't remember who initiated the idea, was it me? or was it him? Either way, we decided to take a walk to the cemetery. It seemed fitting at the time.

We walked slowly. He was in his late 70s, as I recall, and not in the best of health, as he was slow in recovering from a surgery he'd had.

"Do you know any of these guys?" I asked as we passed the headstones of the male-only cemetery.

He snorted and replied, "Oh, do I!"

He pointed with his cane as we passed the gravestones, his face changing from smile to smirk to surly scowl, calling out the names of his now deceased brothers-in-faith.

If close enough, he would not-so-gently double tap the headstone, mutter the man's name followed by a proclamation, in this instance, "That sissy! Hah! They should have buried him in a dress."

"That thick-headed dimwit! Ha-ha!" each "ha" matching the double tap of his walking cane with the stone, "Aah, but a candidate for sainthood! He was venerable in his own mind and it was a miracle he made it through First Studies."

Tap-tap "This one was as arrogant as- as arrogant as- you know, I can't even think of a fitting analogy! Always late for class! He claimed he had trouble waking on time because he was a deep sleeper. Hah! He was weighed down with his own hubris. It was a wonder he could rise at all."

On it went. The name, the taps, the proclamation. "The drunk! For years we'd blamed the staff for the missing booze. When he died, they found empty bottles tucked all over his room."

There were a couple of more notable ones, but I'm at the point in my life where my aging memory cells fail me. Don't you wish you could record everything in life for posterity? Oh wait, I forgot, now we can. But, I had not a smartphone nor a selfie-stick at the time.

His pace slowed, almost to a standstill. He began to lift his cane, then stopped. His face softened to match his voice, as he gently pronounced the name. There was a pause as he gazed at the headstone, then uttered, "My Lord, but I miss that man." Abruptly, his face took on a curmudgeonly look as he did a 180 degree turn. I stood amazed his aging, still-mending body was capable of such a move. He barked in my direction, "It's cold. Let's go back."

Variations on a Theme...

St. John's Wort Blues, part two

It's coming up on three years since I started my blog. Blogger is an easy enough site to use, even for people as non-savvy about tech stuff as me. I don't have anyone to assist me with this. I also don't have a proof reader or any editorial advice and I like it that way. I think, though I'm not certain, that I once turned off the comments option, at least as far as the general public's ability to add a comment, as I didn't care to hear what they had to say. I do occasionally get a comment from a friend or family member, but these are also not available for the general audience to view- I think. 

Shortly after I initiated my blog, I opted to choose a word for a theme and follow it for two or three blogs. For the month of October I'm going to return to a form of that method. On I will parse about my St. John's Wort Blues.

***

This is a beautiful, unusually warm October, so far, out here in Privatopia, actually in all of northern Illinois, including big broad-shouldered Chicago. Lots of reasons to be joyous and I am, but there remains a nagging bit of melancholy that I can't shake, you know the way a cough can sometimes linger long after you've recovered from the cold?

So, Reliable Husband sends me a link earlier this week. We have a digital news subscriptions to the Washington Post and the NY Times. He also reads the WSJ, USA Today, and such. He will often share with me interesting articles he thinks I might have missed. Anyway this particular link says, "End of the World on Wednesday, Says Religious Group"- "Have any plans for Wednesday, Oct. 7? You better cancel them… " begins the article. It turns out those same bible-thumpers from Pennsylvania who predicted back in May of 2011 that the world was ending, have now corrected their calculations and come up with October 7 of 2015 as the new date of the complete annihilation of good old planet Earth.

Now, I'll give Reliable Husband (RH) the benefit of the doubt that he sent the article not knowing I was malingering in my melancholy. But, it does set me to thinking again about the short sweetness of life. "Hey," I ask RH, "If the world was to end today would you do anything different?" Being of the male species, RH pauses a second and quickly mentions sex, the shed we were planning to have built and a red pickup truck he's been thinking about buying. He notices the dismay on my face, laughs, and says, "What? Wrong answer?"

"Well, it's just that I was thinking along the lines of completing a halloween project with our youngest grandchild and making a last visit out to see the older two grandkids in Virginia. But, along with you, RH, my regrets are few. I am completely happy with my lot in life." He smiles contentedly and returns to his coffee.

There are many blessings to aging and retirement.  "Oh yeah, like what?" you ask. Well, such as being free to do things that interest you, but that you never had time to pursue. I bought myself a guitar at a local flea market, which I am now trying to teach my arthritic fingers to play. And RH and I no longer have to worry about food, shelter and college tuition for our now grown children. But, now that I think about it, these sorts of benefits may be offset by the the new problem of worrying about every ailment that comes up. I was never really much of a hypochondriac, but I do give pause now, when I feel a pang or a sensation of general malaise. Is this it? The beginning of the end? RH confesses that he does the same. But, we continue to eat our veritable "apple a day" by exercising, eating healthy and using safe driving practices.

I make my usual super-duper breakfast smoothie, the base of which is 4 ounces of Naked Juice's Kale Blazer to which I add some plain yogurt, any fresh fruit I have at hand and a large handful of additional raw kale or spinach, when I spot the date on the container, "Enjoy by October 7, 2015," that date again! Would we live our lives differently if we knew our own expiration dates?

What if we came with expiration dates?

***

This week we were joyfully playing with our youngest grandchild in Chicago. I'm not allowed to post any photos of him on "social media." But, I don't think they'd mind this pic of his back. Isn't he cute?

Walking the same beach as Reliable Husband and I did as children

The daytime temps are still in the 70's in the city, so we grab a chance to enjoy the beach before the cold sets in. There are a few people who have the same idea. A couple of young mothers with toddlers in tow, a man in his 60s who is continually swimming lengths of the beach, a stand-up-paddle boarder way out past the beach buoys, a young couple, nestled together and sipping takeout coffee as they gaze out at the water, and a homeless man who is doing various physical exercises as his just hand-washed bedding, slung over the railing adjacent to the beach house, dries in the sun. Don't believe all those stereotypes about the homeless, I remind myself.

Flower added to keep homeless guy anonymous

Older man doing beach laps

This is Chicago's Foster Beach. RH and I grew up within walking distance to this very beach. And now we watch in awe as our young grandson frolics in careless innocence on those same sands. Okay, poetically the same sands, as I've seen the Chicago Park District refresh the sand every few years or so.

***

Well, the world did not end on October 7, 2015, at least not the world in the parallel universe in which I currently reside. Yup, life sure is sweet and I wouldn't change a thing.