Thursday, August 25, 2011

The Day The Music Died

For a number of weeks/posts now, I have refrained from writing about my daily walks in, around and through my neighboring memorial gardens. You know, the cemetery. I was getting hints that you, my loyal followers, were contemplating calling the local authorities because of your concern with my almost addiction to the place. So, I backed off. Which limited my story lines. Cause this place is riddled with good material!

I cannot contain myself any more. I have to share my most recent "episode" with said funerary grounds!

The other evening, BK and I were taking our customary 6:00 PM stroll. That dog sure does show up in a lot of my churchyard stories. I'm beginning to think that crazy canine is the key to these orb, gray-haze filled occurrences. Hmm. I should look into fencing an acre or two and turn that nut job out by herself! Is there such a thing as a dog exorcism?

Anyway, as we approached the A.M.E. Zion structure, we heard music. She heard it, too. She told me so. Actually, it was a great rhythm of beating drums. Not like The Black Eyed Peas kind of beat. More along the lines of a Jamie Foxx slow jam. I bobbed my head. I adjusted my stride to the beat. And as we approached the parking area for the City of the Dead, there wasn't a car to be seen. Not a car. Not a moped. Not a Vespa. Not a riding lawn mower. Not a bicycle. Not a soul - at least not a living one.

For sure, you are chuckling. You've decided that, clearly, there is an easy explanation for this. And, perhaps you're correct. Except for this. One MUST pass my house to get to the sanctuary - and, of course, again when one leaves. I never saw anyone or anything come or go.

And I'll leave you with this to ponder, too. As B and I passed the driveway entrance, the music - the beating drums - stopped. No longer a sound. Not a beat. Not a tap. Not a dropping of a drum stick.

Foolishly, we lingered, waiting to see who'd leave the building. I'm still waiting to see someone come out of that I'm-never-setting-foot-in-that-place place of worship. Yep, still waiting. And I haven't heard the drums since.

But I have picked up a few dollars in change that just randomly appears on the rarely traveled road in front of the necropolis.

I like to refer to the found money as simply pennies from heaven.

I could share that little tidbit with you, too, but I don't look good in solid white with my arms tied behind my back.


Karen said...

so fitting...."If a man does not keep pace with his companions, perhaps it is because he hears a different drummer. Let him step to the music which he hears, however measured or far away." From Thoreau's Walden.

of course, maybe we SHOULD just lock you up in the looney bin......

Joyce Mineer said...

Bahahahahaha!!! What are you really trying to say, Karen? So what if I march to my own beat...and, more importantly, what's that say about you? You befriended me! Hahahahahahaha!!!! Looking forward to seeing you soon book/blog buddy :)

Ronalyn said...

I like the stories!

LMJS - when I went to the cemetery last weekend I left and said to my family - "I'll see you later & help me with the family tree!" I also took a picture of a REALLY cool headstone - it looks like a tree! I think it's a founding father of Hornell.

Brandi said...

I'm with Karen...