I make mistakes. I make a lot of mistakes. Sometimes I'll write something mean about an ex-boyfriend, or an enemy, and it will come and bite me in the ass. Sometimes I'll say or do something that will hurt someone I love.
Sometimes, I apologize for these mistakes, and sometimes I don't. Sometimes, my stubborn pride prevents me from doing the right thing. I'm only human, and I am vulnerable to the pitfalls of being so.
Sometimes, even when I apologize for the bad things I've said and done, my guilt still eats at me, a cancer of the soul.
A wise woman named Snowy Owl, once told me "You mustn't hold on to anger". Throughout my life, I have had people tell me this. But something about the way she said it, touched my heart. She told me how to let go of angry feelings. I felt at peace when she told me these things.
Yet I still have issues letting go of old grudges. Ex boyfriends, friends who stabbed me in the back. I carry them all, each one, in my heart, remembering the humiliation, the hurt, the regret. I fear, that they'll come back to haunt me, tell people what a terrible person I am. That based of off their judgments, any new friends I make, will abandon me.
I am not a perfect person. I can be capricious, cruel, vain and selfish. I can be arrogant and conceited. Self-absorbed. Cowardly. An attention-whore.
But I know I am not an entirely bad person. I can be sweet, affectionate, and good. It's just easier to be a bitch. It's so easy to hold onto hatred and anger.
But anger, isn't always a bad thing. Anger, used properly can do a great many things. If not for anger, revolution would not happen. If not for anger, there would be no change.
And yet, anger creates so much destruction.
I must pick my battles. I can not rage against something that happened years ago. I must rage at what happens NOW. If someone invades my boundaries, instead of bottling it up, I should speak up. If I see injustice, I should be ready to defend. I must harness my anger, make it my weapon. But it's not easy. Sometimes when I'm angry, I end up hurting myself, mentally and physically. My arms bear the scars of years of frustration and rage. While I worked on the self-harm, through means of Zoloft and therapy, I still have a lot of work to do. How can I learn to control my feelings? Know when to hold 'em? Know when to fold 'em?
How old will I be, when I no longer hold petty grudges? When I can accept the past, and enjoy the present?
I can't write anymore. I've had my rant, and now my mind is started to freeze up. Thoughts are getting foggy. I wrote from the heart, which I had never intended to do on this blog. I didn't mean to get this personal, but alas, that is my nature.
Saturday, March 26, 2011
Friday, March 18, 2011
My foray into blood donation...
For reasons of confidentiality I'm editing this and any names I mention will be replaced by initials.
I've been wanting to donate blood for some time. No particular reason, just a desire to do some good. But I never knew when the Red Cross was coming to town until it was too late.
So today, when my mother and I were driving home from my therapy appointment I asked her to drop me off at the Mason Lodge so I could finally achieve my goal.
After she let me out of the car, I walked up the path to the big yellow and brown Victorian building and entered through the handicapped door, the one I take whenever I come here to vote. I went up to a table, where some volunteers in white coats were seated and told them that I wanted to donate, and that it was my first time doing so.
A young blond woman in her neat lab coat told me to come with her. Apparently I had needed to enter through the regular entrance, and register. I followed her through a dark hallway to a room near the front door, where some older women sat. I told them I wanted to donate, that I'd never done it before. They smiled, asked me to sign in, and then asked for my ID. I gave them my little identifying square of plastic, and they gave me a green sticker that proclaimed "I made a difference!" and a little booklet with all the information I would need. Then, they had me sit in the hall to read the booklet and wait to be interviewed. While I waited, they played Queen, and the woman sitting next to me danced in her chair. I realized I forgot to put my name on my green sticker. Oops.
Some of the book they gave me made sense, and some of it did not. It mostly told you the guidelines for donating blood, and gave you information about confidentiality, and other legal disclaimers. My turn to be interviewed came, but I hadn't finished reading the booklet yet. I rushed through the rest of it, eager to find out whether or not I could donate. I was worried about my iron level particularly. I only had coffee and a pastry to eat that day, and was concerned that this would make my levels too low to donate.
A kindly woman named L came to collect me. She led me to a room, and into a cubicle made up of flimsy white dividers. My breasts almost knocked them over.
L asked for my ID, put my information into a computer, making conversation with me all the while. Then, she took a lancet, pricked my finger (just like testing your blood sugar) and collected my blood in a little piece of plastic. She put the sample in a machine to test my iron level. My iron level was 12.5, just high enough to donate. Any lower, and I would have been turned away.
Then, she asked me some questions about my personal history. Did I have HIV or Hepatitis? Am I taking any antibiotics? There were at least 50 of them, and some of them she had to explain to me. A couple of times, when I asked whether my history of self-harm or the birth control I was using would get in the way of donating, she got up to ask a nearby nurse.
I liked her a lot. She put me at my ease, and was very friendly. She even told me that the Mason Lodge was haunted. At one point, she even let me take a break from the interview to use a bathroom.
In the end, I was approved for donation. We left the little cubicle, and I followed her into the big room where all the blood collecting was going down.
The room was filled with volunteers and donors, people giving and taking blood. Volunteers serving drinks and snacks. I showed a couple of women my papers, and they gave me a cup of tart cranberry juice to hydrate me. I sipped it as they lead me to a metal and plastic chair that put me in mind of a pool lounger. I sat down, and put my arm in a little metal cradle, and the lab tech, with his gray hair and Eastern European accent double checked my papers. I took out my Vermont Ghost Guide, so that I could read while I gave blood. I was anxious. I knew the needle would hurt, and I wanted to squeeze the little squishy blue ball that they hand on hand. Eventually I got to squeeze it, not to ease my nerves, but rather to make my veins stand out. I told the tech, that I had shy veins, he'd have trouble finding them. He did. He checked my right arm twice, then my left arm once, and finally he checked my right arm one more time, saying in his that if he couldn't get a vein, then we couldn't do anything today. No. I would not get to this point only to fail. I prayed, as hard as I could, and success! He found a vein, marked with a pen and swabbed me down with iodine. He told me to squeeze the ball every five to ten seconds. Then he inserted the needle. Mon Dieu!
It was painful, and he asked me how I was doing. I told him the needle hurt, that it felt weird, but I'd get used to it.
Suddenly, I started to feel dizzy. Faint. He asked again how I was doing, and I told him what was going on. Suddenly, there was a flurry of activity. He called over a tall bald man. His tone of voice frightened me, he sounded urgent, alarmed. I was afraid. Was there something terribly wrong? I asked: "Is this normal for the first time?".
He assured me, yes, yes it was. He and the other tech, adjusted the chair so I was flat on my back. It had already been adjusted to elevate my legs, a good position for a first time donor. They turned on a fan. Cold air hit my face. I felt strange, hyper aware of my body. I wondered how long it would take for them to fill a bag with my life fluid. I kept squeezing the ball. I started to feel something, an odd euphoria, almost transcendent, spiritual. I wondered if this was caused by the knowledge of the good I was doing, or if I was delirious from blood loss.
A new tech was by my side, a young blond woman with purple nail polish. Her name was K. She was friendly, and she talked to me, as we waited for me to finish up. When the bag was full, she told me I filled a pint in seven minutes and 43 seconds. She removed the needle, and bandaged me up. My original lab tech, who was finishing up with another donor turned around and told me that he was proud of me. I could not help but smile.
I had finished draining my blood for the good of humanity, but I was not allowed to get up for a few minutes. K sat with me, and we talked some more, about ghosts, about cemeteries. She was so nice. Every so often K would let me sit up a little, ask me how I felt. I was feeling fine. Less dizzy. She asked if I wanted water. Yes, please. So I sat, rehydrating, while she talked to me about how I would feel afterwards. I'd feel dizzy, tired. I was supposed to call if I woke up sick with a cold or a tummy bug the next morning. They couldn't use my blood if I did. She let me briefly hold the bag that contained my blood. It was a deep maroon color, and when my hand caressed the bag, I was surprised to find that it was warm, like a hot water bottle. It made me think of a water balloon filled with blood. Then she helped me get up. Another volunteer gathered my things. I walked slowly to a table decorated for Saint Patrick's day. I felt like a drunk, trying to prove to the cops that I was sober, just look at my steps! No wobbling here, officer! I made it to the chair, they asked me if I wanted to eat. I was starving. I ate some little ham salad sandwiches, sipped my water. Volunteers asked me how I was doing, patted my shoulders, told me to eat up. It was so pleasant, and I felt at ease. I talked to other donors, as we sat and recuperated. The older gentleman who sat near me while I was donating told me he was jealous that I'd finished filling a pint faster than he did. I smiled. I felt good about myself. I'd done something good, I was giving life. They told me the blood I gave could save up to three lives. Three lives. The idea that my blood would be running in the veins of a stranger, filled me with a sense of wonder. They'd never know my name, but they would be grateful to me.
One of the volunteers asked me if my mom would be giving me a ride home. No, I was walking. Was I sure I wanted to walk? Yes, I would be fine. I got up to leave.
I used the bathroom before I left, but the sink was broken. I asked for hand sanitizer. A man gave me a bottle, told me I could keep it, I told him I couldn't, I had some at home, but in the end I took it. Never look a gift horse in the mouth.
On my way out, I ran into K, the tech who'd sat with me. She gave me a hug, asked me if I'd donate again. Yes, yes I would.
I did get dizzy on the walk home. I sat down on a guardrail, drank some water, waited for it to pass. Then I got up and kept on going.
My family is proud of what I did. It seems like such a simple thing, giving blood. But it is more than that. I wasn't just giving away a solution of plasma and platelets, I was giving some of my life. I can not describe how this makes me feel. It makes me feel all at once proud and humble.
So this St. Patrick's Day, I did indeed celebrate with a pint, though not a pint a beer. A pint of blood.
I've been wanting to donate blood for some time. No particular reason, just a desire to do some good. But I never knew when the Red Cross was coming to town until it was too late.
So today, when my mother and I were driving home from my therapy appointment I asked her to drop me off at the Mason Lodge so I could finally achieve my goal.
After she let me out of the car, I walked up the path to the big yellow and brown Victorian building and entered through the handicapped door, the one I take whenever I come here to vote. I went up to a table, where some volunteers in white coats were seated and told them that I wanted to donate, and that it was my first time doing so.
A young blond woman in her neat lab coat told me to come with her. Apparently I had needed to enter through the regular entrance, and register. I followed her through a dark hallway to a room near the front door, where some older women sat. I told them I wanted to donate, that I'd never done it before. They smiled, asked me to sign in, and then asked for my ID. I gave them my little identifying square of plastic, and they gave me a green sticker that proclaimed "I made a difference!" and a little booklet with all the information I would need. Then, they had me sit in the hall to read the booklet and wait to be interviewed. While I waited, they played Queen, and the woman sitting next to me danced in her chair. I realized I forgot to put my name on my green sticker. Oops.
Some of the book they gave me made sense, and some of it did not. It mostly told you the guidelines for donating blood, and gave you information about confidentiality, and other legal disclaimers. My turn to be interviewed came, but I hadn't finished reading the booklet yet. I rushed through the rest of it, eager to find out whether or not I could donate. I was worried about my iron level particularly. I only had coffee and a pastry to eat that day, and was concerned that this would make my levels too low to donate.
A kindly woman named L came to collect me. She led me to a room, and into a cubicle made up of flimsy white dividers. My breasts almost knocked them over.
L asked for my ID, put my information into a computer, making conversation with me all the while. Then, she took a lancet, pricked my finger (just like testing your blood sugar) and collected my blood in a little piece of plastic. She put the sample in a machine to test my iron level. My iron level was 12.5, just high enough to donate. Any lower, and I would have been turned away.
Then, she asked me some questions about my personal history. Did I have HIV or Hepatitis? Am I taking any antibiotics? There were at least 50 of them, and some of them she had to explain to me. A couple of times, when I asked whether my history of self-harm or the birth control I was using would get in the way of donating, she got up to ask a nearby nurse.
I liked her a lot. She put me at my ease, and was very friendly. She even told me that the Mason Lodge was haunted. At one point, she even let me take a break from the interview to use a bathroom.
In the end, I was approved for donation. We left the little cubicle, and I followed her into the big room where all the blood collecting was going down.
The room was filled with volunteers and donors, people giving and taking blood. Volunteers serving drinks and snacks. I showed a couple of women my papers, and they gave me a cup of tart cranberry juice to hydrate me. I sipped it as they lead me to a metal and plastic chair that put me in mind of a pool lounger. I sat down, and put my arm in a little metal cradle, and the lab tech, with his gray hair and Eastern European accent double checked my papers. I took out my Vermont Ghost Guide, so that I could read while I gave blood. I was anxious. I knew the needle would hurt, and I wanted to squeeze the little squishy blue ball that they hand on hand. Eventually I got to squeeze it, not to ease my nerves, but rather to make my veins stand out. I told the tech, that I had shy veins, he'd have trouble finding them. He did. He checked my right arm twice, then my left arm once, and finally he checked my right arm one more time, saying in his that if he couldn't get a vein, then we couldn't do anything today. No. I would not get to this point only to fail. I prayed, as hard as I could, and success! He found a vein, marked with a pen and swabbed me down with iodine. He told me to squeeze the ball every five to ten seconds. Then he inserted the needle. Mon Dieu!
It was painful, and he asked me how I was doing. I told him the needle hurt, that it felt weird, but I'd get used to it.
Suddenly, I started to feel dizzy. Faint. He asked again how I was doing, and I told him what was going on. Suddenly, there was a flurry of activity. He called over a tall bald man. His tone of voice frightened me, he sounded urgent, alarmed. I was afraid. Was there something terribly wrong? I asked: "Is this normal for the first time?".
He assured me, yes, yes it was. He and the other tech, adjusted the chair so I was flat on my back. It had already been adjusted to elevate my legs, a good position for a first time donor. They turned on a fan. Cold air hit my face. I felt strange, hyper aware of my body. I wondered how long it would take for them to fill a bag with my life fluid. I kept squeezing the ball. I started to feel something, an odd euphoria, almost transcendent, spiritual. I wondered if this was caused by the knowledge of the good I was doing, or if I was delirious from blood loss.
A new tech was by my side, a young blond woman with purple nail polish. Her name was K. She was friendly, and she talked to me, as we waited for me to finish up. When the bag was full, she told me I filled a pint in seven minutes and 43 seconds. She removed the needle, and bandaged me up. My original lab tech, who was finishing up with another donor turned around and told me that he was proud of me. I could not help but smile.
I had finished draining my blood for the good of humanity, but I was not allowed to get up for a few minutes. K sat with me, and we talked some more, about ghosts, about cemeteries. She was so nice. Every so often K would let me sit up a little, ask me how I felt. I was feeling fine. Less dizzy. She asked if I wanted water. Yes, please. So I sat, rehydrating, while she talked to me about how I would feel afterwards. I'd feel dizzy, tired. I was supposed to call if I woke up sick with a cold or a tummy bug the next morning. They couldn't use my blood if I did. She let me briefly hold the bag that contained my blood. It was a deep maroon color, and when my hand caressed the bag, I was surprised to find that it was warm, like a hot water bottle. It made me think of a water balloon filled with blood. Then she helped me get up. Another volunteer gathered my things. I walked slowly to a table decorated for Saint Patrick's day. I felt like a drunk, trying to prove to the cops that I was sober, just look at my steps! No wobbling here, officer! I made it to the chair, they asked me if I wanted to eat. I was starving. I ate some little ham salad sandwiches, sipped my water. Volunteers asked me how I was doing, patted my shoulders, told me to eat up. It was so pleasant, and I felt at ease. I talked to other donors, as we sat and recuperated. The older gentleman who sat near me while I was donating told me he was jealous that I'd finished filling a pint faster than he did. I smiled. I felt good about myself. I'd done something good, I was giving life. They told me the blood I gave could save up to three lives. Three lives. The idea that my blood would be running in the veins of a stranger, filled me with a sense of wonder. They'd never know my name, but they would be grateful to me.
One of the volunteers asked me if my mom would be giving me a ride home. No, I was walking. Was I sure I wanted to walk? Yes, I would be fine. I got up to leave.
I used the bathroom before I left, but the sink was broken. I asked for hand sanitizer. A man gave me a bottle, told me I could keep it, I told him I couldn't, I had some at home, but in the end I took it. Never look a gift horse in the mouth.
On my way out, I ran into K, the tech who'd sat with me. She gave me a hug, asked me if I'd donate again. Yes, yes I would.
I did get dizzy on the walk home. I sat down on a guardrail, drank some water, waited for it to pass. Then I got up and kept on going.
My family is proud of what I did. It seems like such a simple thing, giving blood. But it is more than that. I wasn't just giving away a solution of plasma and platelets, I was giving some of my life. I can not describe how this makes me feel. It makes me feel all at once proud and humble.
So this St. Patrick's Day, I did indeed celebrate with a pint, though not a pint a beer. A pint of blood.
Friday, February 4, 2011
Cemetery Review #1
I've decided, that every so often, I'm going to do a review of three different cemeteries. I'll discuss the condition of the monuments and the grounds. I'll talk about notable graves, and share legends about each cemetery. I'll share my observations and opinions.
I'll start with the three cemeteries I visit the most. I know these three like the back of my hand and have a lot to say about them. Enjoy!
1. St. Immanuel Episcopal Cemetery, Bellow's Falls, VT-
When I moved to Bellows Falls nearly six years ago, this is the first cemetery I visited. It's located next to the St. Immanuel Episcopal church and behind Bellows Falls Middle School. The oldest graves date from the late 18th or early 19th century and are near the the cemetery's main entrances. The newer graves sit at the back entrance along Cherry Hill Rd. There are also a bunch of new graves and a memorial garden on a hill overlooking the main part of the the cemetery. There are plenty of oak trees, and as a result the cemetery has an abundant squirrel population. The grounds are well kept, the grass is mowed. Once in awhile, there will be unraked leaves, or fallen branches that the caretaker hasn't picked up yet. In the winter, the pathways, are not plowed, presumably because the cemetery is supposed to be closed from October to May. The newer section has some trash in the bushes as a result of local kids going up there to hang out, but otherwise, it's very clean.
The gravestones are in decent condition. A few of the older ones are broken, and eroded, but some of them are repaired. I'm not sure whether the damage is caused by vandalism or natural causes. One particular stone, close to the church wall, gets buried by snow that falls off the roof every year. As a result it is completely unreadable.
While nature does attribute to a lot of the damage, vandalism is also a moderate problem. It usually comes in the form of kicked over and broken gravestones, I have yet to see any monuments damaged by spray paint or other artistic mediums. St. Immanuel's is located behind a middle school, and close to downtown BF, and as a result is prone to young people and drunks coming in and creating trouble. It's fairy easy to get into the cemetery, because not all the entrances are locked, and it's easy to hop over railings and squeeze between the gate and the fence, if you're thin enough.
At least one notable person is buried here. Hetty Green, known as "The Wicked Witch of Wall Street" and in her day, the richest woman in the world, is buried here with her husband, children and in-laws. Her gravestone is a fairly simple family obelisk made of granite, with names, and dates of birth and death. I like to leave pennies for her.
The cemetery is over all a very pretty cemetery. There aren't any statues (except for the odd urn now and then), but there are lots of very interesting carvings, and some beautiful Celtic crosses. It looks a bit spooky at night, and during the daytime one gets an uncomfortable feeling near the cold-storage crypt. The cemetery isn't outright haunted, but there is a feeling of being watched now and then. A friend of mine claims a witch is buried there, and when he sat on her table tomb, he says he felt something grab his leg. Another friend of mine told me she looked into the cold storage crypt through a crack in the doors and saw a figure moving around.
I definitely recommend visiting St. Immanuel's Episcopal Cemetery, if you like small, old cemeteries or if you're interested in Vermont history or Hetty Green.
2. Restland Cemetery, Bellows Falls Vermont
I first saw this cemetery while we were searching for an apartment in BF. I first visited this cemetery in late winter of 2006, several months after I moved in. The earliest known graves date from the mid-19th century and the most recent graves are from the late 20th century. Part of the cemetery is one flat ground, but it is also on a rather steep hill.
The grounds are very well-kept, with the grass being mowed, but there's a bit of trash in some places, due to people using the cemetery as a dumping ground or a party location. A lot of the gravestones are in fairly good condition, some of them are broken, some are weathered and very few are totally missing. I suspect there is a small amount of vandalism in this cemetery, despite being in the middle of a neighborhood. There are two entrances into Restland, a gate, and a staircase.
I have recently found out that "the last Abenaki Chief at Bellows Falls" is buried in Restland in an unknown location. Apparently, it used to be called the Rockingham Town Burying Ground. I find this very interesting, being Abenaki, myself.
The majority of cemetery occupants appear to be Irish, Italian and French. This makes a lot of sense, seeing as Bellows Falls used to be a mill town. A lot of the Irish and the Italian graves state that the people buried there emigrated.
I haven't heard any legends about the cemetery being haunted, though I have often felt like I am being watched when I am in there. There are some weird vibes in a certain corner of the cemetery where there are a lot of damaged graves. A friend of mine did a Ouija session in Restland, but did not communicate with any Restland occupants, but rather a spirit that was merely passing by.
Restland does not have any statues, but it has quite a few crosses and urns. There are a few pretty carvings. It's still definitely worth a look though, especially if you like little cemeteries. It is adjacent to Oak Hill Cemetery.
3. Oak Hill Cemetery, Bellows Falls/Westminster, Vermont
Oak Hill Cemetery is on a hill above Restland Cemetery. Half of it is technically, in Westminster VT. I first noticed this cemetery while visiting Restland, and visited the same day, but didn't stay long, for reasons I'll explain later.
The cemetery is terraced, with graves on different tiers. There is one large tier, where the majority of graves sit, and two smaller tiers filled with recent graves. The earliest graves seem to be from the mid to late 19th century. It is still very active.
The grounds are immaculately kept. I hardly ever see any trash there either. Very few of the gravestones are broken or damaged. There is some vandalism, but the town repairs most broken monuments.
Oak Hill is haunted. I have personally seen shapes, heard screams, and seen statues change their expressions. Almost everyone I have talked to has told me Oak Hill is haunted. There are a few legends surrounding the cemetery. One being that, a murderer would hide behind one of the benches and whoever sat at that bench would be brutally killed. There is however no proof that this actually happened. A friend informed me a dead girl was found in this cemetery during the 1960's, but like the legend of the murderer, there isn't any solid proof besides word of mouth.
All creepiness aside, Oak Hill is gorgeous. It's got a gazebo, a Veterans memorial, and plenty of beautiful statues and carvings. I certainly recommend this cemetery to anyone who loves cemeteries and to anyone who loves paranormal investigation.
I'll start with the three cemeteries I visit the most. I know these three like the back of my hand and have a lot to say about them. Enjoy!
1. St. Immanuel Episcopal Cemetery, Bellow's Falls, VT-
When I moved to Bellows Falls nearly six years ago, this is the first cemetery I visited. It's located next to the St. Immanuel Episcopal church and behind Bellows Falls Middle School. The oldest graves date from the late 18th or early 19th century and are near the the cemetery's main entrances. The newer graves sit at the back entrance along Cherry Hill Rd. There are also a bunch of new graves and a memorial garden on a hill overlooking the main part of the the cemetery. There are plenty of oak trees, and as a result the cemetery has an abundant squirrel population. The grounds are well kept, the grass is mowed. Once in awhile, there will be unraked leaves, or fallen branches that the caretaker hasn't picked up yet. In the winter, the pathways, are not plowed, presumably because the cemetery is supposed to be closed from October to May. The newer section has some trash in the bushes as a result of local kids going up there to hang out, but otherwise, it's very clean.
The gravestones are in decent condition. A few of the older ones are broken, and eroded, but some of them are repaired. I'm not sure whether the damage is caused by vandalism or natural causes. One particular stone, close to the church wall, gets buried by snow that falls off the roof every year. As a result it is completely unreadable.
While nature does attribute to a lot of the damage, vandalism is also a moderate problem. It usually comes in the form of kicked over and broken gravestones, I have yet to see any monuments damaged by spray paint or other artistic mediums. St. Immanuel's is located behind a middle school, and close to downtown BF, and as a result is prone to young people and drunks coming in and creating trouble. It's fairy easy to get into the cemetery, because not all the entrances are locked, and it's easy to hop over railings and squeeze between the gate and the fence, if you're thin enough.
At least one notable person is buried here. Hetty Green, known as "The Wicked Witch of Wall Street" and in her day, the richest woman in the world, is buried here with her husband, children and in-laws. Her gravestone is a fairly simple family obelisk made of granite, with names, and dates of birth and death. I like to leave pennies for her.
The cemetery is over all a very pretty cemetery. There aren't any statues (except for the odd urn now and then), but there are lots of very interesting carvings, and some beautiful Celtic crosses. It looks a bit spooky at night, and during the daytime one gets an uncomfortable feeling near the cold-storage crypt. The cemetery isn't outright haunted, but there is a feeling of being watched now and then. A friend of mine claims a witch is buried there, and when he sat on her table tomb, he says he felt something grab his leg. Another friend of mine told me she looked into the cold storage crypt through a crack in the doors and saw a figure moving around.
I definitely recommend visiting St. Immanuel's Episcopal Cemetery, if you like small, old cemeteries or if you're interested in Vermont history or Hetty Green.
2. Restland Cemetery, Bellows Falls Vermont
I first saw this cemetery while we were searching for an apartment in BF. I first visited this cemetery in late winter of 2006, several months after I moved in. The earliest known graves date from the mid-19th century and the most recent graves are from the late 20th century. Part of the cemetery is one flat ground, but it is also on a rather steep hill.
The grounds are very well-kept, with the grass being mowed, but there's a bit of trash in some places, due to people using the cemetery as a dumping ground or a party location. A lot of the gravestones are in fairly good condition, some of them are broken, some are weathered and very few are totally missing. I suspect there is a small amount of vandalism in this cemetery, despite being in the middle of a neighborhood. There are two entrances into Restland, a gate, and a staircase.
I have recently found out that "the last Abenaki Chief at Bellows Falls" is buried in Restland in an unknown location. Apparently, it used to be called the Rockingham Town Burying Ground. I find this very interesting, being Abenaki, myself.
The majority of cemetery occupants appear to be Irish, Italian and French. This makes a lot of sense, seeing as Bellows Falls used to be a mill town. A lot of the Irish and the Italian graves state that the people buried there emigrated.
I haven't heard any legends about the cemetery being haunted, though I have often felt like I am being watched when I am in there. There are some weird vibes in a certain corner of the cemetery where there are a lot of damaged graves. A friend of mine did a Ouija session in Restland, but did not communicate with any Restland occupants, but rather a spirit that was merely passing by.
Restland does not have any statues, but it has quite a few crosses and urns. There are a few pretty carvings. It's still definitely worth a look though, especially if you like little cemeteries. It is adjacent to Oak Hill Cemetery.
3. Oak Hill Cemetery, Bellows Falls/Westminster, Vermont
Oak Hill Cemetery is on a hill above Restland Cemetery. Half of it is technically, in Westminster VT. I first noticed this cemetery while visiting Restland, and visited the same day, but didn't stay long, for reasons I'll explain later.
The cemetery is terraced, with graves on different tiers. There is one large tier, where the majority of graves sit, and two smaller tiers filled with recent graves. The earliest graves seem to be from the mid to late 19th century. It is still very active.
The grounds are immaculately kept. I hardly ever see any trash there either. Very few of the gravestones are broken or damaged. There is some vandalism, but the town repairs most broken monuments.
Oak Hill is haunted. I have personally seen shapes, heard screams, and seen statues change their expressions. Almost everyone I have talked to has told me Oak Hill is haunted. There are a few legends surrounding the cemetery. One being that, a murderer would hide behind one of the benches and whoever sat at that bench would be brutally killed. There is however no proof that this actually happened. A friend informed me a dead girl was found in this cemetery during the 1960's, but like the legend of the murderer, there isn't any solid proof besides word of mouth.
All creepiness aside, Oak Hill is gorgeous. It's got a gazebo, a Veterans memorial, and plenty of beautiful statues and carvings. I certainly recommend this cemetery to anyone who loves cemeteries and to anyone who loves paranormal investigation.
Why I Love Taking People To Cemeteries
It's already been established that I love cemeteries. And while I usually visit them by myself, I do enjoy bringing people along for my cemetery safaris. Friends, family, romantic interests, I've dragged them all to cemeteries.
A cemetery is a great place to hang out with someone, once you get around the fact that you've got several hundred dead bodies under your feet. Provided your companion(s) don't have a phobia of burial grounds, and are open-minded, you're bound to have a good time, and here's a few reasons why:
1. Cemeteries are Peaceful
Cemeteries are generally quiet and calm places, especially if they're small, rural cemeteries. Unless a very famous person is buried there, or the cemetery has some kind of reputation, you're not going to find a lot of people there. Unfortunately, because most cemeteries are so isolated, a lot of teenagers and other young people use them as a place to party. This leads to vandalism and littering most of the time. I DO NOT condone partying or vandalism in cemeteries, I find such behavior deplorable.
When I take my loved ones to cemeteries, I find that the quietness makes it easier for us to enjoy each other's company. Surrounded by tombstones, I've had deep, meaningful conversations with my companions. There aren't any distractions in a cemetery, even if it's near a busy road or in the middle of civilization. Entering a cemetery can be a lot like entering another realm. Once inside, nothing matters but you and whoever you're with. You can discuss a lot of things, be honest, be yourself. A cemetery isn't like a club, you're not going to find pretentious hipsters judging your every move, just a lot of silent dead people and maybe a caretaker.
2. Cemeteries Can Be Interesting
Most people assume that cemeteries are boring places, but more often than not, I'll take someone to a cemetery, and they'll find themselves utterly fascinated by the monuments and their, epitaphs, carvings and statues. They'll comment on names, dates, and the items people leave on gravestones. They ask questions, questions I love answering. And while they may not become full-blown taphophiles like myself, my cemetery companions are at least briefly interested in a passion that is so near and dear to me.
3. You Can See Interesting Wildlife
Animals can adapt to pretty much any environment. We see birds nesting in buildings, squirrels climbing telephone wires and skunks raiding dumpsters. And as I've often seen, animals live quite comfortably in cemeteries, especially the park style of cemetery made popular in the 19th century. It's a lot of fun taking friends to a graveyard and admiring all the different types of animals that inhabit the area. I've seen squirrels leaping around, climbing trees and sitting on gravestones. I've seen plenty of birds, especially crows, perched on monuments. Once my boyfriend and I saw a little frog in Oak Hill cemetery. He's from New Jersey, and that frog was the first live frog he'd ever seen.
Domestic animals also get in on the game. I can't tell you how many times I've strolled through a cemetery just to find a house cat, sauntering between the headstones, or napping on the flat monuments. These cemetery cats always have this look, like they own the place, and they're patrolling the grounds, making sure nothing, supernatural or otherwise is disturbing the peace. It makes sense. Cats used to be considered guardians of the Afterlife.
4. Great Dog Walking
This is a touchy subject, seeing as most cemeteries forbid dogs. This is because dogs have a tendency to poop, and their owners have a tendency to not pick up after them.
But, if you're a responsible dog walker, who follows the laws regarding leashes and plastic baggies, then cemeteries, especially large ones are great places to take Rover for a jaunt. My Aunt Michelle and I take her charming Goldendoodle, Izzy to plenty of cemeteries, and it's down right pleasant. Izzy loves it. There's lots of new things to sniff, room to run around, and if your dog gets thirsty, you can just turn on one of the spigots used to water flowers. I wouldn't recommend going on a cemetery doggy walk however, if your pooch doesn't follow commands really well, since there's nothing worse than a loose dog in a cemetery. Except maybe loose teenagers in a cemetery.
5. Cemeteries Are Just Awesome
Let's face it. Cemeteries are actually really cool places. You can learn a lot about society, culture and history just by looking at a cemetery. While yes, sometimes they can be spooky, they can be fun too, and sometimes that spookiness is part of the fun, especially around Halloween. Don't hesitate. Grab some friends, some family, and explore your local cemetery! You'll be surprised about how much you'll enjoy yourselves.
But on a somber note, if you do go to a cemetery, PLEASE treat the place with respect. That means no drinking, littering, vandalism. This is sacred ground. How would you feel if a bunch of assholes destroyed the graves of your loved ones, for no reason other than that they were bored or drunk? You'd feel like shit, wouldn't you? You'd be hurt, and angry. So before you kick over that gravestone, or tag it with graffiti, think about the person buried there, and the people they left behind who loved them. It doesn't matter if it's an old slate stone from the 18th century, a faded marble stone from the 19th century or a brand new shiny granite monument. That grave still belongs to a person. A person just like you. So have a heart.
And if that speech didn't dissuade you from your path of destruction, then maybe this will. Vandalism is illegal. It is illegal, and you will most likely be caught.
A cemetery is a great place to hang out with someone, once you get around the fact that you've got several hundred dead bodies under your feet. Provided your companion(s) don't have a phobia of burial grounds, and are open-minded, you're bound to have a good time, and here's a few reasons why:
1. Cemeteries are Peaceful
Cemeteries are generally quiet and calm places, especially if they're small, rural cemeteries. Unless a very famous person is buried there, or the cemetery has some kind of reputation, you're not going to find a lot of people there. Unfortunately, because most cemeteries are so isolated, a lot of teenagers and other young people use them as a place to party. This leads to vandalism and littering most of the time. I DO NOT condone partying or vandalism in cemeteries, I find such behavior deplorable.
When I take my loved ones to cemeteries, I find that the quietness makes it easier for us to enjoy each other's company. Surrounded by tombstones, I've had deep, meaningful conversations with my companions. There aren't any distractions in a cemetery, even if it's near a busy road or in the middle of civilization. Entering a cemetery can be a lot like entering another realm. Once inside, nothing matters but you and whoever you're with. You can discuss a lot of things, be honest, be yourself. A cemetery isn't like a club, you're not going to find pretentious hipsters judging your every move, just a lot of silent dead people and maybe a caretaker.
2. Cemeteries Can Be Interesting
Most people assume that cemeteries are boring places, but more often than not, I'll take someone to a cemetery, and they'll find themselves utterly fascinated by the monuments and their, epitaphs, carvings and statues. They'll comment on names, dates, and the items people leave on gravestones. They ask questions, questions I love answering. And while they may not become full-blown taphophiles like myself, my cemetery companions are at least briefly interested in a passion that is so near and dear to me.
3. You Can See Interesting Wildlife
Animals can adapt to pretty much any environment. We see birds nesting in buildings, squirrels climbing telephone wires and skunks raiding dumpsters. And as I've often seen, animals live quite comfortably in cemeteries, especially the park style of cemetery made popular in the 19th century. It's a lot of fun taking friends to a graveyard and admiring all the different types of animals that inhabit the area. I've seen squirrels leaping around, climbing trees and sitting on gravestones. I've seen plenty of birds, especially crows, perched on monuments. Once my boyfriend and I saw a little frog in Oak Hill cemetery. He's from New Jersey, and that frog was the first live frog he'd ever seen.
Domestic animals also get in on the game. I can't tell you how many times I've strolled through a cemetery just to find a house cat, sauntering between the headstones, or napping on the flat monuments. These cemetery cats always have this look, like they own the place, and they're patrolling the grounds, making sure nothing, supernatural or otherwise is disturbing the peace. It makes sense. Cats used to be considered guardians of the Afterlife.
4. Great Dog Walking
This is a touchy subject, seeing as most cemeteries forbid dogs. This is because dogs have a tendency to poop, and their owners have a tendency to not pick up after them.
But, if you're a responsible dog walker, who follows the laws regarding leashes and plastic baggies, then cemeteries, especially large ones are great places to take Rover for a jaunt. My Aunt Michelle and I take her charming Goldendoodle, Izzy to plenty of cemeteries, and it's down right pleasant. Izzy loves it. There's lots of new things to sniff, room to run around, and if your dog gets thirsty, you can just turn on one of the spigots used to water flowers. I wouldn't recommend going on a cemetery doggy walk however, if your pooch doesn't follow commands really well, since there's nothing worse than a loose dog in a cemetery. Except maybe loose teenagers in a cemetery.
5. Cemeteries Are Just Awesome
Let's face it. Cemeteries are actually really cool places. You can learn a lot about society, culture and history just by looking at a cemetery. While yes, sometimes they can be spooky, they can be fun too, and sometimes that spookiness is part of the fun, especially around Halloween. Don't hesitate. Grab some friends, some family, and explore your local cemetery! You'll be surprised about how much you'll enjoy yourselves.
But on a somber note, if you do go to a cemetery, PLEASE treat the place with respect. That means no drinking, littering, vandalism. This is sacred ground. How would you feel if a bunch of assholes destroyed the graves of your loved ones, for no reason other than that they were bored or drunk? You'd feel like shit, wouldn't you? You'd be hurt, and angry. So before you kick over that gravestone, or tag it with graffiti, think about the person buried there, and the people they left behind who loved them. It doesn't matter if it's an old slate stone from the 18th century, a faded marble stone from the 19th century or a brand new shiny granite monument. That grave still belongs to a person. A person just like you. So have a heart.
And if that speech didn't dissuade you from your path of destruction, then maybe this will. Vandalism is illegal. It is illegal, and you will most likely be caught.
Monday, January 24, 2011
Fear, Fascination and Love- How I became a Taphophile
I am a taphophile. That is, I love cemeteries, tombs, gravestones etc. Don't let the suffix, -phile mislead you, for my passion is of a non-sexual nature. I am, however, often reluctant to use the term 'taphophile', for fear of misinterpretation of its meaning, by those who may not understand the term. When discussing my hobby, I just say "I am a cemetery enthusiast".
A lot of people don't understand my attraction to cemeteries, and frankly I don't understand why I love them, either. For you see, when I was a child, I was terrified of graveyards.
One of my earliest memories involves my mother taking me to a cemetery in Bristol, VT. I must have been two or three. I wasn't afraid, being too young to know what a cemetery was. It didn't occur to me that there were dead people under my feet. As far as I was concerned, those big stone things were for climbing. I recall attempting to scale an obelisk, only to have Mom pluck me off the monument.
As I got older, and I learned what cemeteries were, I developed a mild phobia of cemeteries, mixed with fascination. When one of my older sisters made me take a shortcut through a cemetery I was terrified, not because I was afraid of ghosts (the idea that a cemetery could be haunted never even crossed my mind), but because I was walking on dead people. I remember being disturbed by the sight of a baby's gravestone, shaped like a teddy bear.
When my sisters told me to hold my breath whenever we passed a cemetery, and keep holding my breath until we saw a white house, I complied, even though they never told me why I should hold my breath.
But it wasn't all fright and superstition. There were laughs, too. For as long as I can remember, every time we'd drive past a graveyard my Dad would point and say, "Hey kids, people are dying to get in there,". No matter how old the joke got, I always insisted on hearing it.
In the fifth grade, the special Civil War class I was taking (the school I was attending did elective classes, such as drama, or French. You signed up on a first come first serve basis) took a trip to a cemetery in Burlington. We were looking for the graves of Union generals and soldiers and I took the entire adventure very seriously. I prayed at the graves we visited and even scolded the ear off of a classmate who broke a child's gravestone by sitting on it. I remember the grave that he had broken had a lamb statue on it, and was in the segregated African American section of the cemetery. I remember our teacher (who was also the school sheriff) explaining to us that this part of the cemetery was in bad shape, because of racism.
Around the age of 10, while reading up on ghosts, I finally figured out that cemeteries could be haunted. I reacted to this idea with fear and curiosity. I wanted to go to a cemetery and conjure up some ghosts. As I grew up, my fear of cemeteries turned into a fascination. When my 7th grade social studies class went on a field trip to a local cemetery too look for the graves of notable historical citizens, I was so excited I didn't even bother doing our assignment, I just wandered around in a state of joy.
For a long time, cemetery visits were a rarity. I vaguely recall visiting a small 19th century cemetery in Willsboro, NY one humid July 4th, but other than that, my curiosity went unsatisfied.
It wasn't until I moved to Bellows Falls VT, that I started to become a full blown taphophile. I loved going to cemeteries now, dragging friends along with me. When I couldn't find anyone to join me, I'd go by myself, though I felt uncomfortable doing so, due to a slight fear of ghosts.
One day, in fall of 2007, I happened upon a website named Grave Addiction. It was like the heavens had opened up and shone down upon me. Not only could I enjoy cemeteries from all over the country without having to leave my house, but I had gleaned some very important knowledge. I was not alone. There were others like me out there. Other people who shared a deep passion for cemeteries, funerals and the fine art of mourning. Beth's website inspired me to fully embrace my love for graveyards and, what started as a fascination became a part of my identity. When I go on long road trips, I count how many cemeteries we drive by. I walk long distances just to visit a favorite graveyard.
And yet, the old fears never left me. I still won't go into cemeteries at night, at least not by myself. I don't know where this particular phobia came from, but it seems to stem more from a primeval fear of the dark, of the unknown, than the cemetery itself. There could be anything hiding in the gloom- ghosts, monsters, psycho murderers, Snooki.
I also can't go into certain cemeteries by myself, even in the daytime. For instance, I've had so many paranormal experiences in Oak Hill cemetery in Bellows Falls VT, that I just won't go in there alone (though I've still had some eerie experiences even with a companion). I'm working on this fear, by daring myself to go into creepy cemeteries on my own. I've even developed a mantra to help me "The dead can't hurt me. It's the living I've got to fear".
How did I go from being afraid of cemeteries, to loving them? How can I both fear and love something? I've gone over this again and again. Why do I love cemeteries? Why am I so fascinated by the macabre? Why am I so drawn to death, despite my fears? Is it my fear that attracts me? There aren't any simple answers, I'm afraid. Nothing that I can interpret from my brain to the keyboard (curse you, Non-verbal Learning Disorder! Curse you!), at least. I think the best I can do, is stop thinking about the why of things, and just enjoy being a taphophile.
A lot of people don't understand my attraction to cemeteries, and frankly I don't understand why I love them, either. For you see, when I was a child, I was terrified of graveyards.
One of my earliest memories involves my mother taking me to a cemetery in Bristol, VT. I must have been two or three. I wasn't afraid, being too young to know what a cemetery was. It didn't occur to me that there were dead people under my feet. As far as I was concerned, those big stone things were for climbing. I recall attempting to scale an obelisk, only to have Mom pluck me off the monument.
As I got older, and I learned what cemeteries were, I developed a mild phobia of cemeteries, mixed with fascination. When one of my older sisters made me take a shortcut through a cemetery I was terrified, not because I was afraid of ghosts (the idea that a cemetery could be haunted never even crossed my mind), but because I was walking on dead people. I remember being disturbed by the sight of a baby's gravestone, shaped like a teddy bear.
When my sisters told me to hold my breath whenever we passed a cemetery, and keep holding my breath until we saw a white house, I complied, even though they never told me why I should hold my breath.
But it wasn't all fright and superstition. There were laughs, too. For as long as I can remember, every time we'd drive past a graveyard my Dad would point and say, "Hey kids, people are dying to get in there,". No matter how old the joke got, I always insisted on hearing it.
In the fifth grade, the special Civil War class I was taking (the school I was attending did elective classes, such as drama, or French. You signed up on a first come first serve basis) took a trip to a cemetery in Burlington. We were looking for the graves of Union generals and soldiers and I took the entire adventure very seriously. I prayed at the graves we visited and even scolded the ear off of a classmate who broke a child's gravestone by sitting on it. I remember the grave that he had broken had a lamb statue on it, and was in the segregated African American section of the cemetery. I remember our teacher (who was also the school sheriff) explaining to us that this part of the cemetery was in bad shape, because of racism.
Around the age of 10, while reading up on ghosts, I finally figured out that cemeteries could be haunted. I reacted to this idea with fear and curiosity. I wanted to go to a cemetery and conjure up some ghosts. As I grew up, my fear of cemeteries turned into a fascination. When my 7th grade social studies class went on a field trip to a local cemetery too look for the graves of notable historical citizens, I was so excited I didn't even bother doing our assignment, I just wandered around in a state of joy.
For a long time, cemetery visits were a rarity. I vaguely recall visiting a small 19th century cemetery in Willsboro, NY one humid July 4th, but other than that, my curiosity went unsatisfied.
It wasn't until I moved to Bellows Falls VT, that I started to become a full blown taphophile. I loved going to cemeteries now, dragging friends along with me. When I couldn't find anyone to join me, I'd go by myself, though I felt uncomfortable doing so, due to a slight fear of ghosts.
One day, in fall of 2007, I happened upon a website named Grave Addiction. It was like the heavens had opened up and shone down upon me. Not only could I enjoy cemeteries from all over the country without having to leave my house, but I had gleaned some very important knowledge. I was not alone. There were others like me out there. Other people who shared a deep passion for cemeteries, funerals and the fine art of mourning. Beth's website inspired me to fully embrace my love for graveyards and, what started as a fascination became a part of my identity. When I go on long road trips, I count how many cemeteries we drive by. I walk long distances just to visit a favorite graveyard.
And yet, the old fears never left me. I still won't go into cemeteries at night, at least not by myself. I don't know where this particular phobia came from, but it seems to stem more from a primeval fear of the dark, of the unknown, than the cemetery itself. There could be anything hiding in the gloom- ghosts, monsters, psycho murderers, Snooki.
I also can't go into certain cemeteries by myself, even in the daytime. For instance, I've had so many paranormal experiences in Oak Hill cemetery in Bellows Falls VT, that I just won't go in there alone (though I've still had some eerie experiences even with a companion). I'm working on this fear, by daring myself to go into creepy cemeteries on my own. I've even developed a mantra to help me "The dead can't hurt me. It's the living I've got to fear".
How did I go from being afraid of cemeteries, to loving them? How can I both fear and love something? I've gone over this again and again. Why do I love cemeteries? Why am I so fascinated by the macabre? Why am I so drawn to death, despite my fears? Is it my fear that attracts me? There aren't any simple answers, I'm afraid. Nothing that I can interpret from my brain to the keyboard (curse you, Non-verbal Learning Disorder! Curse you!), at least. I think the best I can do, is stop thinking about the why of things, and just enjoy being a taphophile.
Tuesday, January 18, 2011
My Weirdest Cemetery Experiences
I love cemeteries. Really, I do. During spring, summer and fall, I visit them as often as I can. Most of these visits are pleasant, relaxing even. I see interesting gravestones, and sometimes spot wildlife. But every so often, while I'm taking in the tombs, something completely bizarre will happen.
In this blog, I will describe the six weirdest things that have ever happened me in a cemetery. I've probably got more than six, but these are the ones I remember. Each one will be given a rating of 1-10, 1 being "A Little Odd" and ten being "Completely Fucking Bizarre". Enjoy...
1. The Peacocks
One day, in the summer 0f 2007, I was walking through Restland Cemetery, in Bellows Falls, VT. By the fence on the far side of the cemetery, I saw a large white shape. The first thought that came to my mind was that I was seeing a ghost. So I started to move towards it, to get a better look.
It wasn't a ghost. It was an albino peacock! Behind it, was another, smaller peacock, a female, though not albino. I know what you're thinking. Peacocks? In a Vermont cemetery? Astounded, I ran out of the cemetery and down the street to my friends Lauren's house. I needed a second witness, to prove that I wasn't hallucinating. Lauren wasn't home, but her Uncle was and he went out to the cemetery with me, to take a look. We stood at the fence near the gate, and I pointed out the two birds. No, I wasn't hallucinating. Yes, those were peacocks. Probably somebody's pets, he reasoned. I thanked him, and went back into the cemetery. I continued to watch the peacocks, hiding behind a large monument so as not to startle them. At some point, a man and a woman about my age took a shortcut through the graveyard, walking right past the peacocks. They didn't seem to notice the two exotic birds that were less than ten feet away from them. They were oblivious, much to my surprise. In the 4 years since, I never saw those peacocks again, though I've been to Restland hundreds of times. On a scale of 1 to 10 in the Weirdness, this experience was a 10. Completely Fucking Bizarre.
2. The Impromptu Concert
Another summer day, this time in 2008. I was taking a walk, when I noticed I was being followed by two girls who I had had some problems with in high school. Paranoid, I tried to evade them. I turned onto the street that led to St. Immanuel Episcopal cemetery, also in Bellows Falls, VT. They continued to follow me. Starting to feel a little bit nervous (understatement of the century), I entered the cemetery, hoping they wouldn't follow me in there. But just being in the little churchyard wasn't good enough. They'd still see me in the older section, so I started to climb the steep hill up into the more hidden new section of St. Immanuel's, which has a scattering of new headstones and a memorial garden. I could have taken the asphalt path that led up there, but I was panicking, and not thinking so clearly as a result. Once I reached the top of the hill, I was treated to the site of two men playing drums and the didgeridoo. I was surprised, but not frightened. These were just two men playing music, not two teenage girls with a grudge. So I plopped down onto the grass and listened to the impromptu concert. When they finished playing, I talked to the two gentleman for a little bit. They proved to be very polite and pleasant company.
On a scale of 1-10 this little episode was about a 6. It was weird, but considering the fact that I live in VT, not terribly uncommon.
3. The Crow Wing
I was in Old South Church Cemetery, in Windsor, VT, in April of 2010 when I stumbled across a rather grisly sight. At the base of an early 19th century gravestone, lay a dismembered bird wing. A large one. I suspected it was a crow. It had been torn off at the joint, probably by a predator. I looked around for other bird parts, but only the wing remained. Curious, I took a stick and flipped the wing over, to check the feathers for markings. Glossy black feathers, but no markings. It probably belonged to a crow or a raven. I assumed it was a crow, because there were a whole bunch of them in the trees above me. And that's where it gets weird (as if finding a dismembered crow wing wasn't weird enough). As soon as I had moved the wing, the living birds above my head began to squawk angrily at me, as if scolding me for disturbing that wing. I apologized, and moved the wing back into the position I found it (using the stick, I never touch a wild animal carcass with my bare hands). When I went to the cemetery the next day, the wing was gone, probably carried off by a scavenger.
I give this one about a 5. It was sinister, it was creepy, but bits of dead animals are a part of nature.
4. The Cemetery Gnome
In either late summer or early fall of 2010, I was wandering Restland Cemetery when I stumbled across a garden gnome. A garden gnome. It looked like a vintage one too, sitting at the base of a 19th century headstone. Where the hell did it come from? Amused, I snapped a picture of it on my camera. A few weeks later, I showed the picture to some acquaintances. When I went to the cemetery again, the gnome was gone. Was it stolen? Did it just get up and walk away? My guess is the former, but I'll never know. All in all the experience was about an 8. It was just weird.
5. Robert Frost's Tupperware.
On the eve of my twentieth birthday, my mother and I were driving to my aunt's house in NY. We passed through Bennington, VT, and as a treat, my mom stopped to take me to the Old Bennington Cemetery. Robert Frost is buried there, and the first thing we did, was find his grave. As we paid our respects, I noticed an empty Tupperware container sitting next to his grave. Where did it come from? Did somebody have a picnic and just leave it behind? Odd. I'm giving this one a 1. It's weird, but not as weird as the gnome.
6. Squirrel Attack
Once again, we find ourselves in Old South Church Cemetery. So here I am, walking under some pine trees by the cold storage crypt when I hear a loud thump behind me. Assuming it's a ghost, I scream and jump about a foot in the air. But there were no ghosts here. Just a pine cone. A pine cone had fallen and nearly hit me. I look up, and sitting in the tree is a squirrel, screaming indignantly at me. Had the squirrel thrown the pine cone at me? Probably not. But the thought's a funny one. I give it a 1. It's really not so much weird, as it was hilarious.
In this blog, I will describe the six weirdest things that have ever happened me in a cemetery. I've probably got more than six, but these are the ones I remember. Each one will be given a rating of 1-10, 1 being "A Little Odd" and ten being "Completely Fucking Bizarre". Enjoy...
1. The Peacocks
One day, in the summer 0f 2007, I was walking through Restland Cemetery, in Bellows Falls, VT. By the fence on the far side of the cemetery, I saw a large white shape. The first thought that came to my mind was that I was seeing a ghost. So I started to move towards it, to get a better look.
It wasn't a ghost. It was an albino peacock! Behind it, was another, smaller peacock, a female, though not albino. I know what you're thinking. Peacocks? In a Vermont cemetery? Astounded, I ran out of the cemetery and down the street to my friends Lauren's house. I needed a second witness, to prove that I wasn't hallucinating. Lauren wasn't home, but her Uncle was and he went out to the cemetery with me, to take a look. We stood at the fence near the gate, and I pointed out the two birds. No, I wasn't hallucinating. Yes, those were peacocks. Probably somebody's pets, he reasoned. I thanked him, and went back into the cemetery. I continued to watch the peacocks, hiding behind a large monument so as not to startle them. At some point, a man and a woman about my age took a shortcut through the graveyard, walking right past the peacocks. They didn't seem to notice the two exotic birds that were less than ten feet away from them. They were oblivious, much to my surprise. In the 4 years since, I never saw those peacocks again, though I've been to Restland hundreds of times. On a scale of 1 to 10 in the Weirdness, this experience was a 10. Completely Fucking Bizarre.
2. The Impromptu Concert
Another summer day, this time in 2008. I was taking a walk, when I noticed I was being followed by two girls who I had had some problems with in high school. Paranoid, I tried to evade them. I turned onto the street that led to St. Immanuel Episcopal cemetery, also in Bellows Falls, VT. They continued to follow me. Starting to feel a little bit nervous (understatement of the century), I entered the cemetery, hoping they wouldn't follow me in there. But just being in the little churchyard wasn't good enough. They'd still see me in the older section, so I started to climb the steep hill up into the more hidden new section of St. Immanuel's, which has a scattering of new headstones and a memorial garden. I could have taken the asphalt path that led up there, but I was panicking, and not thinking so clearly as a result. Once I reached the top of the hill, I was treated to the site of two men playing drums and the didgeridoo. I was surprised, but not frightened. These were just two men playing music, not two teenage girls with a grudge. So I plopped down onto the grass and listened to the impromptu concert. When they finished playing, I talked to the two gentleman for a little bit. They proved to be very polite and pleasant company.
On a scale of 1-10 this little episode was about a 6. It was weird, but considering the fact that I live in VT, not terribly uncommon.
3. The Crow Wing
I was in Old South Church Cemetery, in Windsor, VT, in April of 2010 when I stumbled across a rather grisly sight. At the base of an early 19th century gravestone, lay a dismembered bird wing. A large one. I suspected it was a crow. It had been torn off at the joint, probably by a predator. I looked around for other bird parts, but only the wing remained. Curious, I took a stick and flipped the wing over, to check the feathers for markings. Glossy black feathers, but no markings. It probably belonged to a crow or a raven. I assumed it was a crow, because there were a whole bunch of them in the trees above me. And that's where it gets weird (as if finding a dismembered crow wing wasn't weird enough). As soon as I had moved the wing, the living birds above my head began to squawk angrily at me, as if scolding me for disturbing that wing. I apologized, and moved the wing back into the position I found it (using the stick, I never touch a wild animal carcass with my bare hands). When I went to the cemetery the next day, the wing was gone, probably carried off by a scavenger.
I give this one about a 5. It was sinister, it was creepy, but bits of dead animals are a part of nature.
4. The Cemetery Gnome
In either late summer or early fall of 2010, I was wandering Restland Cemetery when I stumbled across a garden gnome. A garden gnome. It looked like a vintage one too, sitting at the base of a 19th century headstone. Where the hell did it come from? Amused, I snapped a picture of it on my camera. A few weeks later, I showed the picture to some acquaintances. When I went to the cemetery again, the gnome was gone. Was it stolen? Did it just get up and walk away? My guess is the former, but I'll never know. All in all the experience was about an 8. It was just weird.
5. Robert Frost's Tupperware.
On the eve of my twentieth birthday, my mother and I were driving to my aunt's house in NY. We passed through Bennington, VT, and as a treat, my mom stopped to take me to the Old Bennington Cemetery. Robert Frost is buried there, and the first thing we did, was find his grave. As we paid our respects, I noticed an empty Tupperware container sitting next to his grave. Where did it come from? Did somebody have a picnic and just leave it behind? Odd. I'm giving this one a 1. It's weird, but not as weird as the gnome.
6. Squirrel Attack
Once again, we find ourselves in Old South Church Cemetery. So here I am, walking under some pine trees by the cold storage crypt when I hear a loud thump behind me. Assuming it's a ghost, I scream and jump about a foot in the air. But there were no ghosts here. Just a pine cone. A pine cone had fallen and nearly hit me. I look up, and sitting in the tree is a squirrel, screaming indignantly at me. Had the squirrel thrown the pine cone at me? Probably not. But the thought's a funny one. I give it a 1. It's really not so much weird, as it was hilarious.
Saturday, December 11, 2010
Saturday Part 5
Sorry part 4 was ridiculously long. I always add too many details. *sighs* Maybe I can finish this now that I've had a break.
Part 5: Life's Simple Joys
My Uncle Russ and I took the walk from the Mega Wedgie, to the lawn chairs where we had left our towels and drink cups. It should have been a fairly quick stroll, but as we were walking over a little bridge, we ended up behind some fat rednecks who were moving slower than snails. I could see our stuff from where we were, and had the irrational paranoia that someone would steal our belongings within my line of sight, and I wouldn't be unable to do anything, all because some lardy asshats couldn't be buggered to ambulate a little more briskly. My fears went unfounded.
After we collected our things, my uncle and I walked back to our locker so we could change out of our soggy bathing suits and enjoy the rest of the park. First I went into the ladies' room to change, while my uncle stood by our locker. When I was finished, my uncle went to change and I waited by the locker. During this wait, my mother called me on my cell. I can't remember why she called, but I do remember that I had a lot of trouble hearing her, as the area where the rows of lockers stood was very crowded. She wanted to talk to my uncle. When my uncle stepped out of the men's room, I handed him the phone. He'd call her back later.
We walked away from the changing rooms. I left my damp bathing suit and towel in the locker, so I wouldn't have to carry them around. Anyway, I paid ten bucks for that rental, I might as well get my money's worth.
I needed more coke. I got in line at a Funnel Cake Stand, to get my free refill. The wait was unbearably long, seeing as the redneck family (rednecks, it always has to be rednecks) in front of me was taking their sweet time just to order some ice cream. Precious time was being wasted, and I was about to give up, when I saw a soda refill station right behind me. A refill station! I had stood in that line for nothing! Relieved, I hurried over to the station, showed the girl behind the counter my wristband and got more soda. Ah, Coca Cola. On a hot summer day, nothing beats a cold coke with ice, it is one of life's simple joys.
Afterwards, my uncle and I were wandering along, when my mother called. She wanted to know when we'd be leaving the park and going to Schroon Lake, where she and my sister were visiting with my aunt and grandmother. As they negotiated, I stuck my plastic straw in it's little holder and tried to see if I could drink my coke that way. I could, but it was a bad idea. Since the straw was pointing down, soda began to dribble out at an alarming rate. I am such an idiot.
I pulled the straw out of it's holder and stopped the spill. Then, my uncle and I stopped at a trashcan. Lickety-split, I whipped out my wet naps, cleaned up my soda sticky hands, and wiped off the cup. I knew those things would come in handy. I'd gotten the idea to bring wet naps, after last year, when Acacia and I had made a mess of ourselves while eating funnel cake during our trip to the Great Escape. So I had gotten a large pack of Wet Ones, in little individual packages.
I never ended up getting a funnel cake that day, but those towelettes still became indispensable to me during that long weekend.
We had until five o' clock. At five, much to our chagrin, we would have to leave The Great Escape, and go to Schroon Lake. Determined to have fun, we made our way to The Comet, which is my very favorite Roller Coaster at the Great Escape.
We waited in line behind some very loud teenage girls. Well, at least one of them, an obnoxious, hulking she-walrus, was being very loud. At one point she was so loud that she hurt my ears. I made a comment about my ear drum being punctured, and she sheepishly apologized. But she still didn't shut the fuck up.
Each car holds four people, with two rows of seats. Uncle Russ and I had the ill luck of sharing a car with Yappy Lardass and her comparatively silent companion. They sat in front of us, Yappy chattering away, telling her friend that she better put both her arms up (or something equally asinine) when the roller coaster camera takes their picture, and that they were going to ride this coaster again and again until their picture was just right. I rolled my eyes.
As the ride attendants checked seatbelts and lap bars, they high fived passengers. I vaguely recall my uncle expressing distaste for this practice. I'm not sure I like it either. I understand that being cheerful is just part of their job, but sometimes it can be a bit obnoxious.
The ride was delightful, but with one exception. Yappy Lardass and her friend were ridiculously obnoxious, squealing and squawking like retarded seagulls. At one point, one of their ponytails whacked me (though that wasn't their fault). I was sorely tempted to pull Yappy's hair in retaliation for her dumbassery.
But despite this, I enjoyed the steep hills, the intense speed, the sharp turns. When the ride was over, Yappy was still squawking about riding the Comet again, so she and her chum could get their picture just right. But fate intervened, for as we disembarked, we were informed that The Comet was having mechanical problems and was being closed down until further notice. Cruel irony! I took some sadistic joy in knowing Yappy Lardass' plans were foiled.
But the walrus had the last laugh, for when my Uncle and I went to view our roller coaster picture I was dismayed to find that my entire face had been obscured by Yappy's fleshy white arm! The skank! I dearly love seeing the expressions I make on rides (ah, I am so vain, I know) and I was disappointed and irritated. But there was no point in dwelling upon it, so my uncle and I set off to do something else.
Next, we rode The Pirate Ship. It's one of my favorites, but I remember very little of this ride. I don't think we got one of those prime back-row seats, but I still had a fine time. I always enjoy riding one of these, despite being very afraid of them as a young girl.
My memory gets very hazy right about now. I know we rode The Sasquatch a few times. At one point on the Launch Tower, I noticed the Velcro strap of my sneaker had come undone. When I was younger, this would have made me panic. But now I merely laughed, and lifted my foot up to fix, while I was 192 feet in the air! I also remember marveling over the view from the launch tower, for the sun was going down, the sky was lavender, and the moon was a gorgeous pearl in the sky. I don't remember the exactly when this happened, only how gorgeous the sky was. My memory is like that. I can't tell you where my socks are, but I can tell you how beautiful the moon was, on an early summer evening, nearly a year ago.
We also rode The Boomerang for a second time. My uncle wanted to sit in the last car, but I refused, because that car goes to the very top of the coaster. While I now enjoyed the Boomerang, I still dreaded the part of the ride where it sits still, over 50 feet in the air. As it was, I was really surprising myself by riding this coaster twice in one day. I remember thinking that 10 years ago, I wouldn't have even imagined having fun on this coaster, willingly riding it more than once. I felt impressed with myself. After my second time on the Boomerang, I noticed I'd begun to develop a headache. But I shrugged it off, and went to ride some more rides with my uncle.
Next chapter...Our adventure at the Great Escape ends, but the day still isn't over!
Part 5: Life's Simple Joys
My Uncle Russ and I took the walk from the Mega Wedgie, to the lawn chairs where we had left our towels and drink cups. It should have been a fairly quick stroll, but as we were walking over a little bridge, we ended up behind some fat rednecks who were moving slower than snails. I could see our stuff from where we were, and had the irrational paranoia that someone would steal our belongings within my line of sight, and I wouldn't be unable to do anything, all because some lardy asshats couldn't be buggered to ambulate a little more briskly. My fears went unfounded.
After we collected our things, my uncle and I walked back to our locker so we could change out of our soggy bathing suits and enjoy the rest of the park. First I went into the ladies' room to change, while my uncle stood by our locker. When I was finished, my uncle went to change and I waited by the locker. During this wait, my mother called me on my cell. I can't remember why she called, but I do remember that I had a lot of trouble hearing her, as the area where the rows of lockers stood was very crowded. She wanted to talk to my uncle. When my uncle stepped out of the men's room, I handed him the phone. He'd call her back later.
We walked away from the changing rooms. I left my damp bathing suit and towel in the locker, so I wouldn't have to carry them around. Anyway, I paid ten bucks for that rental, I might as well get my money's worth.
I needed more coke. I got in line at a Funnel Cake Stand, to get my free refill. The wait was unbearably long, seeing as the redneck family (rednecks, it always has to be rednecks) in front of me was taking their sweet time just to order some ice cream. Precious time was being wasted, and I was about to give up, when I saw a soda refill station right behind me. A refill station! I had stood in that line for nothing! Relieved, I hurried over to the station, showed the girl behind the counter my wristband and got more soda. Ah, Coca Cola. On a hot summer day, nothing beats a cold coke with ice, it is one of life's simple joys.
Afterwards, my uncle and I were wandering along, when my mother called. She wanted to know when we'd be leaving the park and going to Schroon Lake, where she and my sister were visiting with my aunt and grandmother. As they negotiated, I stuck my plastic straw in it's little holder and tried to see if I could drink my coke that way. I could, but it was a bad idea. Since the straw was pointing down, soda began to dribble out at an alarming rate. I am such an idiot.
I pulled the straw out of it's holder and stopped the spill. Then, my uncle and I stopped at a trashcan. Lickety-split, I whipped out my wet naps, cleaned up my soda sticky hands, and wiped off the cup. I knew those things would come in handy. I'd gotten the idea to bring wet naps, after last year, when Acacia and I had made a mess of ourselves while eating funnel cake during our trip to the Great Escape. So I had gotten a large pack of Wet Ones, in little individual packages.
I never ended up getting a funnel cake that day, but those towelettes still became indispensable to me during that long weekend.
We had until five o' clock. At five, much to our chagrin, we would have to leave The Great Escape, and go to Schroon Lake. Determined to have fun, we made our way to The Comet, which is my very favorite Roller Coaster at the Great Escape.
We waited in line behind some very loud teenage girls. Well, at least one of them, an obnoxious, hulking she-walrus, was being very loud. At one point she was so loud that she hurt my ears. I made a comment about my ear drum being punctured, and she sheepishly apologized. But she still didn't shut the fuck up.
Each car holds four people, with two rows of seats. Uncle Russ and I had the ill luck of sharing a car with Yappy Lardass and her comparatively silent companion. They sat in front of us, Yappy chattering away, telling her friend that she better put both her arms up (or something equally asinine) when the roller coaster camera takes their picture, and that they were going to ride this coaster again and again until their picture was just right. I rolled my eyes.
As the ride attendants checked seatbelts and lap bars, they high fived passengers. I vaguely recall my uncle expressing distaste for this practice. I'm not sure I like it either. I understand that being cheerful is just part of their job, but sometimes it can be a bit obnoxious.
The ride was delightful, but with one exception. Yappy Lardass and her friend were ridiculously obnoxious, squealing and squawking like retarded seagulls. At one point, one of their ponytails whacked me (though that wasn't their fault). I was sorely tempted to pull Yappy's hair in retaliation for her dumbassery.
But despite this, I enjoyed the steep hills, the intense speed, the sharp turns. When the ride was over, Yappy was still squawking about riding the Comet again, so she and her chum could get their picture just right. But fate intervened, for as we disembarked, we were informed that The Comet was having mechanical problems and was being closed down until further notice. Cruel irony! I took some sadistic joy in knowing Yappy Lardass' plans were foiled.
But the walrus had the last laugh, for when my Uncle and I went to view our roller coaster picture I was dismayed to find that my entire face had been obscured by Yappy's fleshy white arm! The skank! I dearly love seeing the expressions I make on rides (ah, I am so vain, I know) and I was disappointed and irritated. But there was no point in dwelling upon it, so my uncle and I set off to do something else.
Next, we rode The Pirate Ship. It's one of my favorites, but I remember very little of this ride. I don't think we got one of those prime back-row seats, but I still had a fine time. I always enjoy riding one of these, despite being very afraid of them as a young girl.
My memory gets very hazy right about now. I know we rode The Sasquatch a few times. At one point on the Launch Tower, I noticed the Velcro strap of my sneaker had come undone. When I was younger, this would have made me panic. But now I merely laughed, and lifted my foot up to fix, while I was 192 feet in the air! I also remember marveling over the view from the launch tower, for the sun was going down, the sky was lavender, and the moon was a gorgeous pearl in the sky. I don't remember the exactly when this happened, only how gorgeous the sky was. My memory is like that. I can't tell you where my socks are, but I can tell you how beautiful the moon was, on an early summer evening, nearly a year ago.
We also rode The Boomerang for a second time. My uncle wanted to sit in the last car, but I refused, because that car goes to the very top of the coaster. While I now enjoyed the Boomerang, I still dreaded the part of the ride where it sits still, over 50 feet in the air. As it was, I was really surprising myself by riding this coaster twice in one day. I remember thinking that 10 years ago, I wouldn't have even imagined having fun on this coaster, willingly riding it more than once. I felt impressed with myself. After my second time on the Boomerang, I noticed I'd begun to develop a headache. But I shrugged it off, and went to ride some more rides with my uncle.
Next chapter...Our adventure at the Great Escape ends, but the day still isn't over!
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