Happy Friday!
I’ve got the red backpack stuffed. An old Amtrak tag with my information dangles off the cheap straps. If I lose it, they’ll send it to a stranger. I don’t live at that address anymore. It feels like a wearable metaphor, but I haven’t figured it out yet.
Granny’s 90th is today. We partied hardy last weekend, honoring my mother’s mother. This weekend will find me up to say hello to paternal origins and Grandma.
It’s a GRAMSTRAVAGANZA!
It’s northbound this morning - to turn the key, rumble down the gravel driveway, shout “I’m going out, Smudge!” at the indifferent stallion, hit the gas, climb over the fresh green mountains, to the freeway where the trucks roar about lost time, up through Pensy’s cornfields, past Scranton and a million billboards, past New York, up to New England where we say “aunt” properly, and Grandma lives.
There’s road signs out there waiting to meet me with practical advice concerning exits and routes, and others that lead to the questions like what would the ancestors think? Could I have survived that boat trip? What did the Statue of Liberty mean to them? and most important of all…
Are ghosts real?
I wrote a little piece for Grandma’s 97th birthday last October on all of these topics, and it seems like a fine Friday to share it with you.
I expect to find a few more stories along the highways and byways, lurking among the beer cans and pebbles on the shoulder, or ready to jump out at me from the crackly pages of her photo album.
But, while I’m off hunting down memories that aren’t mine and jotting down branches for the family tree research project, here’s the one already written.
Have a great weekend. I’ll have tales when I get back.
Old Saybrook
A Motivational Ghost Story
By Josh Urban
“Do you believe in ghosts?” the man in the flannel asked.
Gil's eyes widened, then narrowed at the unexpected question. He looked out the window at the gloomy day, pretending not to hear his seatmate. Travel was enough of a card game. Could he pass on his turn?
The train swayed, and surged forward, the salt marshes and waterside shacks blurring into a timeless New England October outside. It was a place haunted by memories not entirely his own.
“Old Saybrook next stop” cried the conductor, wearily surfing down the aisle with legs of an experienced trainman. The glint off his gold glasses brought Gil back to Earth, and the coach seat.
“Well? Do you believe in ghosts?” repeated his neighbor, a man in his late 30's, six feet or so
tall, brown hair undergoing the same autumn of the marshes outside, and faded denim eyes.
“That's a rather odd question, sir – do you?” countered Gil, with that slight edge of suspicion as necessary to any traveler as a small bottle of discount shampoo.
The stranger's answer was simple. “Yes.” A pause. Try as he might, Gil knew his own face – oddly mirrored by the man in the flannel – was much too open to stem the unsolicited philosophy bound to follow.
“Well?” he asked with a resigned sigh.
“What if time isn't linear? We always think of it as a straight line, but perhaps it's more...a road winding up a mountain pass. Loop upon loop, ever higher, but some parts of the past – and the future – visible from our point on the road. If a person gets in a real pickle, and they start to think, or pray, perhaps they light up like a bonfire.”
“A bonfire?” Gil tried to stay aloof, but the hooks of interest were setting in.
“Yes. God's a busy man. He must have built delegation into his creation. There's plenty of
smart folks in the world, and if you add in all of the people across time, why, most things could be solved “in house”, if you get my drift. It usually just takes a good listener, and a simple bit of encouragement. If a man in ancient Rome is conflicted and really starts to think hard, maybe his thoughts glow like a bonfire. Folks up or down the timeline might see this light and call it a ghost – you know how superstition can substitute for things we don't understand – and interact with it, helping him solve his problem. If you're halfway up a mountain in the present, you'd see a beacon in the valley of the past. If the thought is strong enough, the light might play tricks on the observer's eye, and they wouldn't even think there's anything strange about it, seeing the other person clearly across time, just as you and I might be talking, but be centuries apart.”
“Hmm...interesting” Gil replied, banking on the safety of ambivalence. Oh, here's my stop.”
“And here's my card. Nice talking with you.” The man in the flannel offered it with a peculiarly intent gaze. Gil stuffed it in his pocket, snatched up his suitcase, and fumbled off the train.
II.
He stood on the platform, blessing the still of the concrete. The red lights of the departing train seemed to wink at him. Gil shook his head to clear it. “Bonfires” he muttered. There was a strange
hush at the station, and no cab to be found. “I hate this job – they messed that up, too.” Lonely and spent from a day on the rails, he stomped his way towards civilization. The Connecticut evening was closing in, and an autumn rain threatened.
“Got change, buddy?” Gil looked up. The hobo had limped out of the alley suddenly, looking him directly in the eye. His army fatigues were cleaner than expected, and of a foreign print. Although an air of indescribable weariness hung about him, there was no smell – at all.
“Hate to ask ya, it hurts my pride as much as it does yours. I'm a veteran, and just trying to get back home.”
Gil surrendered to the absurdity of the day. “Thanks for your service. I'll put my money where my mouth is. Want dinner? I'm off to get some grub.”
A pizza and a few beers later found the two men deep in conversation. The veteran really was, and Gil found solace in talking with the fellow stranger in town. The man, affable, similar in age, seemed to share an unspoken commonality. Like the philosopher on the train, Gil thought something of his face was reflected in the veteran's. Maybe he was vaguely Lithuanian, too. His faded blue eyes could have passed for it.
“Do you ever wonder about the point?” Gil blurted out suddenly. “I mean, they sent me up on this stupid sales call on this godawful train, and didn't even have a cab waiting. I go and I go, but for what? I never set out to sell industrial plastics. Come on – it sounds like I'm a hitman or CIA agent.”
“Try aircraft engine gauges” chuckled a new voice from the next table. “Betcha didn't even know they existed.” A man rose, and sat down suddenly next to them. “They use 'em in manufacturing. Tony's the name. No sir, if I were you, I'd rather be sailing. Or a writer. I always thought it would be cool to write short stories. But – I'm lucky enough that I found something I'm good at.
My old Lieutenant taught me a few things: 1. Find something you're good at. 2. Keep doing it. 3. Keep going.”
“Keep going – I like that” rejoined the veteran. “You have no idea how long I've been walking.
I've got a little bible in my knapsack. Know that part where God tells Abraham he'll make of him a great nation someday? Sounds crazy, but I...I feel like that sometimes, and I hope it's true. Even a little nation would be good. That war sure scrambled things. When I was a kid, everything seemed on track...then one average day, there was the knock at the door. I can't hardly remember what life was like before that. I lost touch with everyone and anyone that mattered...they probably think I'm dead by now. Some days I feel like it, to be honest. I don't know if I should even keep trying. Like you said, Gil, what's the point? This limp is getting worse, and the adventure is wearing a bit thin, lads.”
“Ha, you wanna talk adventure, buddy – try traveling coach with a few cousins from the home country to come here.” A teenage waiter barged in with a beer pitcher. The men at the table looked up in unison. “Oh yeah” he continued, in the armor of youthful confidence matched by the tuft of brown hair. Even his thick European accent was bowled over by the force of his delivery.
“Ma sent us over here. Things was getting eh, a bit too hot back home, ya see.” His aim, unlike his gusto, was lacking. Only half of the beer reached Gil's mug, the rest splashing onto his hand.
“Hey, buddy!”
The waiter's face cracked, his armor pierced, and Gil immediately regretted snapping.
“Sorry, sir” the waiter gushed. “It's just all so new to me.”
“No worries, man, no worries.” The beer had started to ferment Gil's logic, and he felt uncharacteristically bold. “Gents, if I may offer all of us some words of advice, it would be this: you remind me of my family. My great great grandfather was drafted by the Russians, fought in the Crimean war, lost, and had to walk a thousand miles to get home. A thousand miles! Can you believe that? His eventual son fled Lithuania and a similar fate when WWI was boiling on the horizon. They sent him away, not wanting a repeat of his father's lot. He came to America, and never returned. His son-in-law fought in WWII and raised a family, not too far from here. That son had a knack for philosophy, and eventually had me. If I could sit and have a beer with any of them, I'd echo Tony's advice of 'Keep going!' In fact, I propose, gentlemen, in their memory and fine example, that we found, right here and now, the League of Gentlemen who Persist, motto: Keep Going!” There must be a fine way to put that in Latin if we wanted.
As he finished his tipsy sermon, a flush crept over his face. He had said too much, again. The men at the table, and even the waiter, all seemed to have a twinkle in their eye for a fleeting moment.
There was a nearly unbearable pause – the space in time which all great questions of life - love, marriage, forgiveness, and acceptance - hang, unresolved.
The veteran coughed, and raised a mug. “Aye aye! I'm in! Keep going, lads, keep going!”
They all joined in the toast, and founding. Gil was moved, although still a bit sheepish. He was thankful for once at the persistence of beer, and excused himself for the men's room.
The table was astonishingly empty upon his return. If an echo had taken human form, sat in the chair, and insisted that the dinner had never happened, Gil would have believed it. Even the young waiter had vanished. Only an indifferent bartender remained in the tavern, quietly cleaning glasses at the end of the shabby room. Gil stared, crushed that his new comrades would have bolted.
Suddenly, he noticed the bills and change left for payment. Wonderingly, he picked up a strange coin that was unnaturally cold.
It was a ruble from 1850.
III.
Dazed, he wandered out into the chilly October evening, oblivious to the drizzle. Why had they left? And the coin? Overhead, a train rumbled on the elevated track, the mournful whistle beckoning him north, a mysterious, timeless call to adventure. For once in his life, he answered the unexpected summons of the train. Dismal lights slicked the rainy platform. A lone teller sold him a ticket, and soon he was warm aboard the next welcome zephyr.
An old conductor surfed the aisle. “Tickets please. Well, you look a long way from home, young man. Where are you headed?”
“Boston, I think. I'm not sure after that.”
“Well, I guess all that matters is that you just keep going.” The conductor handed the ticket back. Was that a wink? Gil wasn't sure. The old man surfed up the aisle, and Gil noticed a slight limp.
Looking down, he saw, next to his ticket, the business card from Flannel Man of the afternoon journey.
It was set in an old style, with only a name mimeographed on the front.
“Larry.”
Gil started. That was his father's name. On the back, the simple question:
Do you believe in ghosts?
Photo by Noah Urban
PS. Here’s a musical gem fitting of the trip and the day. Can you dig it?