Writing a column every few weeks isn’t as easy a proposition as it sounds. When I sit down at my computer to write my column, I always find myself thinking “what have I done that would translate well into a written story.” If you sit back and ask yourself that question, at first it would seem like you have an endless supply of things to write about, but after you’ve written a few, you find that you are running out of options.
I am one of those people that has to go into my “thinking place.” I have had a variety of those in my life, as I am sure you have. My current “thinking place” is in the shower, unfortunately, where paper notes are simply not an option. Unless I want a soggy wad of paper and ink, which I don’t. And, regrettably, by the time I have gotten out of the shower and turned my computer on, the inspiration has left me, and I find myself staring at the computer wondering what in the hell it was that I had thought of. I usually will get up, retrace my steps and try to repeat my train of thought, and occasionally find myself standing in the shower again, fully clothed and waiting for the idea to strike me again.
It rarely does. And so, I am again left wondering what on earth I am going to write about.
I find myself missing my original “thinking place.” That special place is NOT one that most people would find themselves turning to, but for me it was a safe haven. A place to think, calm myself, enjoy the sunny days, drawing or painting… it is a really special place, and even though most people would never find themselves simply lounging there for no real reason, EVERYONE will spend a great deal of time there at some point in time.
When I was growing up, my family and I lived at 1408A McHaney Road in Harrisburg, Illinois. If you chose to look that address up, you would find that you cant see this house very well. All you would see would be a few houses on McHaney Road, and a gravel road running toward that house (Leinenbach Drive), which is situated between a residential yard (which is 1408 McHaney Road), and a very large cemetery. That cemetery is Sunset Hill Cemetery, and that is where I spent countless hours of my youth.
Not crazy
Before you go thinking I’m completely insane, or otherwise lacking a few marbles, allow me to explain. That few acres of land that is on the North side of McHaney Road was always my family’s land. My grandparents bought the land, and my mother and uncle were raised there as well. I still have family living in most of those houses, including my great aunt and uncle, a second great uncle, and several cousins. That is simply where my family put down their roots, and that lead to generations of kids who grew up knowing that cemetery to be an expanse of peaceful land where you can simply slip away and find some reprieve from the outside world.
And so, that is how I came to the point of finding a cemetery as my favorite place in the world.
I would spend hours every day in that cemetery. In a way, I was a sort of unofficial caretaker for it, as I wouldn’t allow the hallowed ground to be disrupted by garbage, or by those who didn’t respect the quiet, peaceful place that I shared with those who had passed. I spent my afternoons in the sunny months walking each row, plucking weeds and garbage from the graves, and returning the flowers that had begun to deteriorate from exposure and had blown away back onto the graves from which they had come. I would often find stray flowers that had no clear home, and had probably been blowing around for a year or two, and with those I would arrange small bouquets, as sorry as they may have been, and would deliver those to graves that were easily a century old and long forgotten by everyone except for me. I viewed that as a small token of thanks from me to those who resided in that land, thanking them for sharing such a peaceful place with me.
The living soul in the cemetery
In the winter months, when the snow had fallen and the air was crisp and biting, I would be the first living soul to venture into that cemetery. Those were perhaps my favorite days, standing in the foot deep snow in the middle of the cemetery. With the snow muffling any noises from the outside world, I would find myself standing still, barely breathing, and listening to the beautiful sound of snow falling to the ground. If you’ve never been in a completely silent place during a snow, you are missing a huge part of the beauty of life. There is nothing like hearing nothing but your own heart, and the sound of snow landing softly on the flakes that have fallen before them. I would describe that as being the most life affirming experience I have ever had, as I always found myself appreciating the sounds of life and nature intermingling in the most beautiful music known in all of creation.
As I said before, I was a sort of unofficial caretaker of the cemetery. I would stand for nothing that disturbed my favorite place, and always put an end to anyone or anything that disrespected that hallowed place.
In October, there were always teenagers who would gather in the cemetery at night, always armed with beer or other booze, and always simply looking for a cheap Halloween scare. When I was around 11 years old, I got tired of throwing their discarded beer bottles in the trash for them, so I decided I would put an end to it. I waited on the front porch of my house, and sat staring, listening for the unwelcome mess makers. It was a Friday or Saturday night, so I was certain they would come. I was correct.
When I heard them, I turned to my mother, who had been sitting next to me, and issued a huge grin at her. She disliked the teens making a mess and disrespecting the cemetery as much as I did, since she had grown up doing exactly the same things as I did in that cemetery.
Disembodied screams
I took off my shoes and ran silently through the shadows, hiding behind the headstones that I cared for, promising each resident that I would restore their well-earned peace. After I had silently inched within 50 feet of the teens, I took in the scene. There were about six of them; a mixture of boys and girls, all drinking and carrying on. I took a look around, checking how far I could run and still be hidden in the shadows, and planned my course of action. I took in a deep, cool breath, and covered my ears. I opened my mouth as wide as I could, and let out a glass-shattering scream. About two seconds into the scream I heard the chatter stop, and began hearing my scream echoing off every headstone in the cemetery. It must have been clear to the teens that the sound had originated from a very nearby place, but the echo had a nice effect in making it sound like hundreds of screams that surrounded the teens and me.
As soon as the first scream had ended, I began sobbing, saying “Please, someone! Help me…!” I then dashed to the next stone, running silently in the shadows, and began the same. After about 30 seconds had passed, filled with screams and sobbing pleas issued by me, the teens panicked. The girls began crying, begging the boys to get the hell out of there. The boys were yelling, accusing one of the girls of having made the noises. I slowly moved in towards them, remaining in the shadows and continuing the noises. The teens quickly realized that no person within their party was responsible for the noises, at which time they tossed aside their beers, got in the car, fleeing as fast as possible, throwing gravel as they burned out. After their taillights had faded away, I stood up, gathered their garbage, tossing it in a nearby bin, and returned home with a huge smile on my face. My mother and father were awaiting my return, having heard all of the chaos a short distance away, and were laughing heartily. They both attempted to reprimand me for behaving so cruelly, and for ruining my socks, but in truth they were both proud of the display.
The teens never returned.
No good deed…
Imagine, if you will, that a kid out with good intentions and doing good deeds with no hope of any thanks might get accused of wrongdoing. It’s an unthinkable prospect, right? No.
In my seventh grade year, one cold and snowy winter day, I was sitting in my History class, taking notes. My teacher went to the door to answer a knock, and I took to doodling on the side of my page of notes. It was only a moment later that I heard the teacher say with a loaded voice, “Lyndi, you need to go with these men to the principal’s office.” I looked up, stunned. I had never gotten in trouble in school before, aside from getting detention for failing to do my homework in elementary school. Beside my teacher were two police officers, Harrisburg’s late-Mayor Ron Crank, and Harrisburg Officer Terry Sisky. I stood up, stunned, and followed the officers, wondering what I could possibly have done. Did I poop in someone’s shoe while I was sleepwalking or something?
When we arrived in the principal’s office, Officer Crank sat me down and asked me why I had been knocking over tombstones. My first reaction was shock. I would never have done any such thing, but I immediately knew why they would assume I had. Most of the City of Harrisburg workers knew I spent my days in that cemetery, so it was no large jump in thought that I might have done it. However, that week we had been hit with the largest snow I have ever seen, which was around two feet deep. Since it was so deep, I had walked only one path, which I myself had cut through the snow. That path brought me to a road which had been plowed, and where I would exit the cemetery in order to walk anywhere else I wanted to go. It also went directly to my front door.
The officers wouldn’t believe I hadn’t done it until I provided some insight, saying “Why would I commit a crime in a place where I am known to be, and leave a path directly to my front door?” That brought a look to Officer Crank’s face; a look which said “Oh, duh.” I was promptly released after telling them the names of other kids in the area, one of which confessed to committing the crime.
Thankless no more
I walked away from that one wondering just how thankless the world could be, and wondering just how stupid most criminals must be. Here I had been cleaning that cemetery for years, and the thanks I got was to be pulled out of class by police. At least I walked away with a better story than “I got called to the principal’s office the first time for shooting spit balls.”
I would like to note I never got called to the principal’s office again.
A year later, however, the City DID decide to thank me for helping to solve that crime (and probably to apologize so I wouldn’t grow up to be a journalist who would write bad things about them. They made a good call, huh?).
On autumn afternoons, I would often make the trek through the cemetery to the old mausoleum. I would curl up with my sketchbook and pencils, leaning back against the cold stone, and would choose a subject in the distance to draw. As I sat there one evening, a City of Harrisburg vehicle pulled up, and a man got out. I immediately wondered if I was about to be accused of a crime again.
However, I got a wonderful surprise.
Countless times I had peered through the crack between the front doors of the historic structure, wondering what the inside must look like. The building had been chained shut for so long, most of the locals couldn’t even remember what the interior looked like. I had always been in love with the building’s architecture, however, and had hoped to go inside someday.
That day, the City opened the building for me, and allowed me to go inside. I looked in wonder, seeing the architectural beauty of the domed ceiling, the stained glass, most of which had been broken, and the carved marble and sandstone. Many of the graves in the building had been emptied as the building deteriorated, though some were still occupied. I was transfixed by the silent, gothic beauty of the place where I had spent so many hours, drawing and picking up litter, having no idea what was inside. It is extremely likely that I am one of the last living souls who have entered that building, and to me, that was incredible.
The next year my parents split up, and I moved away from my childhood home, and the cemetery where I had spent so many hours simply enjoying life. However, when I need to clear my mind, I can still close my eyes and see the snow falling, and hear the sounds that are only revealed to those who have experienced complete silence.