Ghost Writing the Hundredth Tale
Noel Laflin
3-15-15
Sometimes a story comes
about - sometimes not.
The ghosts hanging around this old place in Orange, the city of my birth and residence for the past three decades, don’t give a hoot either
way really as they are only here in an advisory capacity – or so they claim.
But with their help, ninety-nine tales of Scouts, rangers, camps and kids have seen new life. The boys of Flower Street meet up and launch their kites and rockets by day and sneak off in search of local haints residing within the old Anaheim Cemetery by night. Mr. Lincoln is lost, and then found multiple times (the ghosts claim mock innocence of course). Mules, monkeys, snakes, raccoons and even red-tailed roosters have also all found a long-forgotten voice thanks to spirited sprites. Other worldly, word-laden canvases have overflowed with cavernous canyons, roaring rapids, cascading cataracts, winding waterfalls, cunning crocodiles, stunning shows of shooting stars and massive meteorites menacing Earth. Friends, family, teachers, lovers, strangers and long dead pets have all made their debut with a maddeningly hallowed arrangement and rearrangement of an elusive word or two often whispered from beyond.
And so these survivors – the stories - jumped to life and strutted about - as other misaligned misses and messes recognized their shortcomings and slunk away - promising to reappear more fully formed another day – much like some of the shady specters themselves.
But this piece today, brought to life on the very Ides of March itself, is staying put and staking its brief claim to fame as the hundredth Ahwahnee Campfire Tale - or remembrance - or whatever you prefer to call these sequencing of words. Again, the ghosts are not particular when it comes to labels.
Regardless of the term, however, no one is less surprised by noting this minor milestone than the author himself – as he knows he has had eidolon help much of the way.
But since the middle-aged man in the mirror views EVERY day as an absolute extended gift of time - well, he is just happy to report that the original lonely first tale now has ninety-nine siblings - black sheep, every one. But by no means are any of them bastards, as he plainly knows who their phantom fathers really are.
If you ask him – the author, that is - he might tell you that the writing was begun because he had a fear of forgetting too much. The unearthing of so many memories rapidly became an addictive type of therapy, however. As word then spread throughout the haunted family tree that tales were being told, all sorts of misty, brain-addled spooks quickly knocked upon his door, offering their own vast store of memories - all free of charge of course. And like poor relations, they took up permanent residence.
So, by painstakingly placing one word after another - often times due to the whispering of a persistent, pesky spirit - a beginning, which sometimes becomes the end, and vice versa - is sometimes brought to light.
But with their help, ninety-nine tales of Scouts, rangers, camps and kids have seen new life. The boys of Flower Street meet up and launch their kites and rockets by day and sneak off in search of local haints residing within the old Anaheim Cemetery by night. Mr. Lincoln is lost, and then found multiple times (the ghosts claim mock innocence of course). Mules, monkeys, snakes, raccoons and even red-tailed roosters have also all found a long-forgotten voice thanks to spirited sprites. Other worldly, word-laden canvases have overflowed with cavernous canyons, roaring rapids, cascading cataracts, winding waterfalls, cunning crocodiles, stunning shows of shooting stars and massive meteorites menacing Earth. Friends, family, teachers, lovers, strangers and long dead pets have all made their debut with a maddeningly hallowed arrangement and rearrangement of an elusive word or two often whispered from beyond.
And so these survivors – the stories - jumped to life and strutted about - as other misaligned misses and messes recognized their shortcomings and slunk away - promising to reappear more fully formed another day – much like some of the shady specters themselves.
But this piece today, brought to life on the very Ides of March itself, is staying put and staking its brief claim to fame as the hundredth Ahwahnee Campfire Tale - or remembrance - or whatever you prefer to call these sequencing of words. Again, the ghosts are not particular when it comes to labels.
Regardless of the term, however, no one is less surprised by noting this minor milestone than the author himself – as he knows he has had eidolon help much of the way.
But since the middle-aged man in the mirror views EVERY day as an absolute extended gift of time - well, he is just happy to report that the original lonely first tale now has ninety-nine siblings - black sheep, every one. But by no means are any of them bastards, as he plainly knows who their phantom fathers really are.
If you ask him – the author, that is - he might tell you that the writing was begun because he had a fear of forgetting too much. The unearthing of so many memories rapidly became an addictive type of therapy, however. As word then spread throughout the haunted family tree that tales were being told, all sorts of misty, brain-addled spooks quickly knocked upon his door, offering their own vast store of memories - all free of charge of course. And like poor relations, they took up permanent residence.
So, by painstakingly placing one word after another - often times due to the whispering of a persistent, pesky spirit - a beginning, which sometimes becomes the end, and vice versa - is sometimes brought to light.
And, sometimes not.
But when it’s a keeper, the shades of his past all cheer.
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