It was just after dinner on a warm late spring evening in Newfane, a small town in the far reaches of western New York State. It was the late 1960’s, and I had turned seven a few months before, just finishing the second grade.

Lazy clouds were floating across a blue sky, and the glow of long rays of the sun put a gauzy filter on the lush green leaves and grass. Too early in the early evening for the mosquitoes to take over, the neighborhood kids were all in our backyard playing one of my favorite games, spud.

The ball was tossed high into the air, and after scattering in all directions, my next-door neighbor Bobby Goodlander caught it and yelled “spud,” freezing us all in mid-step. He took three giant steps in my direction and flung the ball, just missing my shoulder as I ducked out of the way.

The ball scooted across the yard and was stopped at the edge by Sam Glenn. Sam was older, in the fifth grade, and was kind of the neighborhood enigma. She usually kept to herself and rarely played in our games. She seemed to always speak in riddles and asked uncomfortable questions, usually about things left to adults.

Sam picked up the ball and walked over to us. Everyone came near since it was rare to hear from her.

She dropped the ball, paused dramatically, and said, “To speak to the dead we need a séance. Who will speak to the dead with me?”

No one said anything but we all stared at her. She had a small shoulder bag and pulled out a candle, three sticks of incense, and a box of stick matches.

Bobby’s father was the town Funeral Director and he felt compelled to say, “You can’t talk to dead people. My Dad has never heard a dead person say anything.”

Sam slowly blinked her eyes several times but didn’t say anything for what seemed like an eternity. She stooped her shoulders and looked deeply from one face to another in the circle we made around her. When she got to me, she abruptly straightened up and thrust a stick of incense into my hand, and passed out the rest of the incense and the candle.

Looking from face to face, she quickly blurted without stopping for a breath, “Who’ll light the matches? Who’ll hold the candle? Who’ll light the incense? A séance is fun. A dog will be easier than a person. We can try talking to Dash. He got run over last fall. Let’s go out to the field across the street. Come on!”

Without looking back she headed toward the field.

None of us were allowed to play with matches and Sam was older so everyone followed her out deep into the field across from my house. Nobody knew what a séance was, but she sure made it sound fun. Everyone sat on the ground in a circle. We each got to light a match and helped get the incense burning.

“If Dash is to hear us, we all have to hold hands and be perfectly quiet,” Sam exclaimed.

Too young to care about holding hands, we clasped each other, and no one said a word. It was a very calm still night without a breath of wind. Only the steady sing-song chirping of the crickets could be heard.

Sam pulled a tie-dyed purple colored bandana out of her bag and wrapped it around her head. In a husky voice, she then began to chant.

“Dash, grrr, Dash, bark, Dash grrr, Dash howl, Dash, Dash, Dash,” Sam wailed, alternating barking and howling sounds between each time she said the dog’s name.

She chanted in this way for a few minutes, then abruptly stopped. In the silence, she lit the candle. Once again, we heard the field of crickets singing away, even louder than before as it got closer to dusk.

Using a lower, softer voice, Sam began chanting Dash’s name again, and an eerie feeling began to set in. The hair on the back of my neck felt like it was standing on end. After a few minutes, she stopped chanting and raised her head to the sky with her eyes closed. The trilling sound of the crickets singing seemed to grow louder in the silence.

Without warning, Sam opened her eyes and whispered, “Oh great spirit, show us a sign that Dash is here.”

At that precise moment, all the loud cricket chirping suddenly stopped.  There was total silence as a deathly hush settled over the field. Not a peep or a sound could be heard.

For several seconds, we stared at each other with a look of terror in our eyes. Then out of nowhere, a strong gust of wind rustled the leaves on the nearby trees, and the moment was interrupted by a screen door slamming about a block away.

We all started screaming at once. I jumped to my feet and sprinted out of the field as fast as my feet would take me. I didn’t stop running until I got inside our house. I slammed and locked the door. Panting, I leaned my back against it as if I was trying to keep an intruder from entering.

My older sister Kathy was across the room with her nose in a Monkees magazine. She was in high school and barely tolerated me as her youngest brother.

“What’s got into you?” she asked, without looking up in her typical annoying teenage manner.

Panting heavily, I explained about the séance between gasps for air, sharing how the crickets stopped chirping and a gust of wind swept through the field when Sam asked for a sign from the dead.

“Sure squirt and a UFO landed in the field too,” she said with a sarcastic, mocking laugh.

Without looking up from her magazine, she walked over to the nearest open window and lowered her ear toward it.

“Are the crickets I hear chirping through the window different from your crickets? Maybe what I’m hearing is just a cricket recording or something, huh?” she smirked.

With a wave of her hand, she dismissed me and sat back down with her eyes still glued to Davy Jones’ picture in the magazine.

I found my Mom upstairs doing laundry and told her about the séance. Ignoring my agitation, she listened without comment to the whole story while she focused on folding clothes (a family of seven makes a ton of laundry).

When I finished telling her, she continued folding the clothes and said, “That’s fine son, now time to get ready for bed.”

As I brushed my teeth, I tried to tell my other brothers about Dash, the crickets, and the gust of wind, but no one seemed to care. I was convinced there was nothing that could have made that field go eerily quiet like that. I was so spooked I kept a flashlight on under the covers all night.

None of us kids in that circle ever mentioned what happened that night, and Sam moved away soon thereafter.

Of all the cloudy memories from my early years, I remember this one incident vividly.

It was the first of many reminders in my life that the world doesn’t always seem as it appears. There are things that happen that are hard to explain and even harder to sometimes believe. Even if you’re the one who experiences them.

No one in my family ever believed my story.

If you ever ask a veteran to describe their wartime experiences, usually there is not much shared. The scars may be too harsh to reopen, and the memories need to stay locked deep inside. It was the same with my father. A member of the “greatest generation” who lived through World War II, my Dad was 17 when Pearl Harbor was attacked. He lived in far upstate NY, just south of the Adirondack Mountains in South Glens Falls. It was a small town with lumber and paper mills the main business of the town. It was a small city much like the fictional Bedford Falls of “It’s a Wonderful Life” fame. Not much happened there, and as a young guy in such a place, their imagination could run wild. Thinking about being shipped out to London, or Hawaii, or some other exotic place was breathtaking. In addition, with the Japanese surprise attack, patriotic fervor was rampant.

My Dad couldn’t wait to join, but as a 17 year old, he had to wait until he turned 18 and it drove him crazy. He told me once that he found out that the Navy sometimes looked the other way when it came to age limits. This turned out to be untrue, but while exploring this Navy option, he discovered that there was a big need for men to join the Seabees and that he would be shipped out quickest if he joined them after turning 18. There was a reason for this as the Seabees were a Naval Construction Battalion. These were the guys who went in first on the beachheads to build barriers for the troops before the main attack. They were sent into jungles to carve out airstrips for planes to land. The logo for this group of warriors is men carrying a shovel in one hand and a gun in the other. It was possibly one of the most dangerous parts of the armed services to join, but it was exactly what my Dad was looking for, and he decided to join the Navy Seabees. In early 1942, he found himself in the South Pacific in Pearl Harbor as the U.S. began their island hopping campaign on their way toward Japan.

As a young boy in the 1960s, I asked my Dad what WWII was like, but he never told me much. Later in life, as I grew older, he did share a few tidbits. One of the memories he shared was later in his Navy journey. After being part of the island hopping campaign, he was a SeaBee trying to complete a landing strip on a nameless South Pacific island.  Japanese bullets were strafing the bulldozers and men building it. Three Corsair fighter planes running out of fuel appeared in the sky and had to land or fall into the sea. He told me how they landed on the half-finished runway, and as the pilots jumped out of their planes they yelled to my Dad to be careful not to touch their scorching hot machine guns, as they had just come out of a dogfight with Japanese Zeros and had shot down the plane carrying Admiral Yamamoto who was the architect of the attack on Pearl Harbor.  These were the type of stories he would share.

Without a doubt, he was in a number of blazing “hot zones” and he was less open about these stories. One of the most critical WWII battles in the South Pacific was on Guadalcanal. It was a lengthy battle lasting five months from late 1942 into February of 1943. Incredibly, only 1,600 U.S servicemen lost their lives, but over 20,000 Japanese were killed.  My father was there and it was one of the few direct actions he shared with me where he participated...it’s a bit chilling.

It was a Sunday, and in Navy parlance, it was a "make and mend" day for the sailors. By Navy tradition, a day to clean up your uniform, polish your shoes, and make yourself shipshape. At Guadalcanal, after weeks of hard combat, it was basically a day to chill out, have a beer, and relax.

That afternoon everyone was out in a clearing playing baseball, drinking beer, and horsing around. Spread out on the field, there were about 300 Sailors, Marines, and SeaBees. It was a beautiful South Pacific day with a light warm breeze, brilliant sun, and not a cloud in a picture perfect blue sky. My father was one of these guys, and although he usually would have been playing ball, he had been bitten by so many mosquitos that he was lounging in the grass trying to ignore the itching.

Suddenly out of nowhere, flying extremely low, a lone Japanese dive bomber appeared just above the palm trees. My Dad told me it seemed so unexpected on what was a casual day that it took everyone by surprise. The Jap bomber dove toward the center of the clearing.  The Japanese loaded their bombs with anything they could find to increase the lethality (shrapnel, rusty nails, etc.).  The pilot released the bomb so low that by the time the Marines and Seabees heard the bomb screaming toward them, they didn't even have a chance to hit the dirt.

The bomb exploded.

My Dad told me that by the time he got up on his knees after the blast and looked around him, it seemed that everyone was untouched as if nothing had happened. Then he started hearing groans and cries for help. The bomb had drawn a straight line down the center of the field, cutting it half. The angle of the way the bomb landed caused the shrapnel to spread 180 degrees - and luckily my Dad was on the right side of the explosion. All the sailors on my Dad's side were fine, but the other half of the field was completely wiped out as if the ordnance knew which side of the field to obliterate. He said it was like a knife cutting everyone on the other side of the field in half.  Dozens were killed, blood, arms, and legs were strewn everywhere with scores wounded, but in a world war and especially at Guadalcanal, scenes like this played out somewhere every day.

The way Dad told me this story you could tell it contained a memory of incredible sadness, a memory he didn't want, but he also worded it in a matter of fact sort of way as something that wasn't totally an unusual occurrence. Dad only told me that story once and never mentioned it again. I always wondered what other memories he had that he didn't share...

When I fall asleep at night, my thoughts and dreams are about my family, reliving past exploits, or future vacations, and the like. Yet someone with memories of action from WWII (or any war) fall asleep with something far different.  After hearing this story, it was hard to think about what my Dad must have dreamed about before falling asleep...or how often these memories and experiences seeped in. I never found out, but have never wavered in appreciating the sacrifices guys like my Dad made to ensure our world is better because of what they did.

Olivia lay on her bed with her chin resting on a pillow.  From where she lay she could see out the double slider window overlooking the entire back yard and the pond in the distance beyond.  Being left behind with only her small very aloof brother for company always seemed to unnerve her.  As she watched out the back windows, every little creaking noise the house made seemed like cymbals crashing together.  While keeping her chin glued to the pillow, she jerked her head from side to side every time she noticed a squirrel or chipmunk jump out from behind the stone wall that bordered the property.  When a duck landed in the pond below, her eyes darted in that direction.  She was very jittery and nervous.  Occasionally, she would raise her head and cock it in the direction of a sound – real or imagined – to try to hear it better.  She was always searching for a sign that they were coming home. Any movement or noise could be them returning – and she didn’t want to miss any possible signals.  In the back of her mind, she wasn’t always sure that they would return at all.  It had happened before – even though this was a different home and a different family – she just never knew for certain that they would come back.

She often wondered why they usually left her behind.  She sensed that it was something that she was being punished for – but never really understood what it was.  She couldn’t tell if it was worse being left home alone or being left home alone with her brother.  As she pondered this as if on cue, her brother came slinking around the corner.  She could never figure out the hostility he constantly exhibited toward her.  From the very first time they met, he had always made nasty hissing noises in her direction and frequently tried to whack her anytime she came within reach.  She couldn’t completely blame him.  Being adopted, Olivia had been brought home well after her brother had gotten used to getting all of the attention.  After all these years she thought that he might at least be civil, but he only acted that way when he thought that it would be noticed, earning him a little extra attention or some kind of treat – otherwise he was always a little pest to her.

He came over to where she was laying and stopped to glare at her.  He made an offensive sarcastic scowl and without making a sound turned his back on her in a very condescending manner, disappearing into the kitchen.  She could hear him munching away on a bowl of something that had been left for him.  She knew that he was crunching extra loud to distract her from hearing any signs of them approaching.  Her sunny disposition defined who she was, and as annoying as he could be (regardless of his size) he was still her brother and she would tolerate him regardless of his boorish behavior.

Most importantly though, Olivia wanted to be tuned in and alert for any sign of their return.  That was real excitement.  It wasn’t too long before she heard the sound of the garage door opening.  It creaked very loudly and was unmistakable.  It also meant that they were home!  It was by far Olivia’s favorite thing in the world to welcome them back after they had been gone for a while.  Every time they returned and opened the door she would always jump up to greet them and see if they had brought any presents for her.  This time was no different and she smiled from ear to ear and jumped up and down, making a huge fuss.  She would mix her exuberant welcome with a chance to stick her nose in as many of their packages as she could to see if anything was brought for her.  There was always a chance that there might be a special food treat hidden in one of the bags that she could snatch up.  She didn’t find anything to eat, but she was so content to have them back home.  They were back!  Once she calmed down a bit she climbed into her bed and fell fast asleep with dreams of freshly grilled chunks of steak, slow-footed squirrels, and constant pats on the head.

He Speaks

I led a perfect life before she arrived.  I didn’t have a care in the world.  I spent my days eating and sleeping and watching the world go by as I pleased.  I could do what I wanted when I wanted, and the best part was that I had them wrapped around my finger ready to jump at the sound of my voice.  It was sweet!

I can’t stand her.  They had felt sorry for her and brought her into my life to ruin everything.  She is always so upbeat and bubbly and does everything she is told.  They ask her to go to her bed and she can’t get there fast enough. They call her into another room and she always comes running with a huge smile on her face.  I can’t understand her.  To me ignoring them until I can’t get away with it any longer is pure satisfaction.  If I’m asked to go somewhere, I’ll act as if I haven’t heard them and go in the opposite direction on purpose. Being a foolish obedient slob is the antithesis of “cool.”  No matter how many times I try to tell her to chill out she never gets it.  In fact, after years of living trapped in the same house, the only way I can tolerate her is by acting as if she doesn’t exist.

I can’t help it if she’s my sister – she gets me so frustrated that I have to lash out on occasion – especially if she’s in my way (and she’s so darn big she always seems to be) – I’ll whack her two or three times or hiss and screech at her until she cowers out of the way.  I know I should feel bad about doing this, but it makes me feel so good I can’t help it.  Usually, I’ll preen and prance into the next room to show how cool I am.  It’s no big deal – she was adopted anyway (alright, I know that’s a low blow – especially since I was adopted too – but I was here FIRST!).

Besides my sister’s obsequiousness, there are other areas that bug me to no end.  One of my biggest problems with her is that she can’t relax, especially when we’re left home alone.  I simply don’t get it.  It makes no sense – this is when you get nothing for your troubles since there is no one around to notice you anyway.  Why waste energy when they’re not around.  I see her get so anxious for them to return that she fidgets and runs from one end of the house to the other.  Every time she thinks she hears something – she expects it to be them.  It drives me crazy.  When you’re home alone, this is the best time to stretch your nails on the curtains or pick at the tassels on the sofa cushions – not all the noisy theatrics she continually dishes out.

If she were a little more laid back like me, my guess is that she’d get more out of life.  For instance, when it comes time for dinner she attacks her food and gobbles it up as if it were her last meal.  Now if she took a cue from her more experienced bro, she’d ignore her food and cozy up to the others who have better stuff and purr sweet notes into their ear until they gave up some of their awesome grub.  It never fails – and my typical mush will still be waiting for me when I’m good and ready for it.  Instead, she’ll wolf down her chow and then come over and sit and stare patiently at everybody else eating – as if hoping that a morsel will fall out of their mouths and into hers.  The obvious begging and groveling are disgusting.  She doesn’t get the nuance of a creative mealtime approach like I do (its why I am obviously so superior).

She’ll never get the essence of “cool.”  It gets worse when they return home (they always do by the way) and she goes berserk jumping all over the place bumping into things and making a general nuisance of herself.  The worst part is that they think this is great, and lavish presents and treats and all sorts of attention on her.  Before she was here things were so much more civilized.  We hung out, listened to tunes, tasted the good life, and now – well, I’ll have to just hang out over here on the windowsill and wait for them to take her for a walk.