Here Is A Cute Article I'd Like To Share Today

Tweet

This article is written by my favorite columnist in our local newspaper, and he is also on Fox News. His name is John Gray. I really enjoy reading his weekly column. The Title is: There is no such thing as ghost. By John Gray The Record I’d tell myself that over and over again on the 214 paces from the top of Mann Avenue to the gates of St. Joseph’s cemetery in South Troy. It was 1975, I was 12 years old and the caretaker’s house was the last one on my paper route. A normal kid would be afraid to go near a bone yard alone but growing up on the hill that led to the cemetery I knew every inch of the old place. My grandfather would take us up there on walks when we were little and say the same thing every time, “Nothing in here will hurt ya. It’s the living to watch out for not the dead.” Still when you’re alone and it’s dark by supper time it’s a different story. There’s nothing frightening about cemeteries in the daylight. At night everything changes. Those big iron gates look like they are just waiting to slam tight behind you the minute you are too far in and can’t get back in time. Still it was the last house on my route and Mr. Hayes would call The Record and raise holy hell if he didn’t get his paper. “I was scared” wasn’t an acceptable answer to the boss so you took those 214 paces (I counted once) and pretended to be brave. One night right before Halloween I had a very uneasy feeling. Something was different today, unsafe. The trees had dropped their leaves so the branches looked like boney hands reaching out for you as the wind pushed them back and forth. The caretaker’s light was out, in fact the whole house looked black as a witches cat. Logic would tell you the man was just out but imagination told you something was wrong. As I got to the gate I paused. There was a noise; a clanging kind of sound. Then quiet. “Just go you scaredy-cat,” I told myself. I walked quickly but the house seemed to be moving farther away with each step. Come on already; get there, drop the paper and go. I swung open the rusted screen door, tossed the paper and turned to leave. Then it was back, louder this time. “Clang, clang, clang,” What was that? “You know what it is,” my mind spoke. That’s the sound a chisel makes when someone is carving a name into a grave stone. Hmm, I wonder what name it could be. J O H … I ran for the gate now, my feet feeling heavy like when you’ve gotten your sneakers wet. I thought the gate would close but it waited for me and suddenly I was clear. Safe. Breathing heavy, my palms clammy, I looked up and saw the source of my dread. It was the metal clasp at the top of the flag pole banging in the wind. Silly-boy. There’s no such things as ghosts. Do you believe in them? I don’t. Not the spooky, rattling chains, howling into the night kind of apparition. What would be the point? It’s hard to imagine a soul would want to return to earth to bang pots in someone’s kitchen or move around canned peas in the cupboard. I do believe in spirits though. I believe those who have passed on drop in on us now and then just to see how we are doing, perhaps find some small way to give comfort. Maybe they help us to dream something nice, perhaps they nudge us into changing the radio station at just the right moment so we hear a song that makes us smile. Have you every just felt a warm peaceful feeling come over you and had no clue why? I think that’s them. I also believe if you want to talk to those spirits you need only open your mouth or mind. I doubt they are hanging out at the cemetery waiting for a visit. A housewife named Mary Elizabeth Frye got it right when in 1932 she penned this simple verse — “Do not stand at my grave and weep, I am not there; I do not sleep. Do not stand at my grave and cry, I am not there; I did not die.” Mary was right I think. Of course just to be safe I’d stay out of cemeteries at midnight. You never know what might reach up and grab your ankle.