Other Kinds of Ghosts

There was the day of the dead, and then a day of loneliness and mourning for other things, followed by a return to a more familiar state of body and mind. On the second day, hoping to escape the memory-heavy house, I walked down to the post office, along the same short route I've taken for all these decades but very rarely during the past three or four years.

Back in the late eighties, our little village was beset by many problems stemming from poverty, absentee landlords with rundown buildings, neglect by the local government, and a lack of basic amenities. I was a walker. As I still do in the city, I usually took an early-morning or mid-afternoon walk around the village, and that's when I saw and heard things. After a series of really bad incidents, including intimidation of the elderly and very young, and the suicide of a troubled village youth who'd been involved in some of those events -- and the mere wringing of hands by town government and police when accosted by very upset citizens -- my husband and I took the lead in forming a village association for the purpose of building up our sense of community and shared responsibility for the village's future, and for one another.

Because the timing was right, the effort succeeded in capturing the imagination and energy of a lot of local people. We had regular meetings followed by potluck suppers, we all got to know each other, and various projects took root, from the publication of a quarterly newspaper to community gardens to an annual summer picnic and parade. A multi-year project by a smaller committee analyzed our resources and needs, and wrote applications for state grants for improvement of the village's infrastructure. Those of us who served on that committee became close friends and worked very hard; we were the first grassroots organization (as opposed to town government) to win major grants from the State of Vermont; with that money we built a park and playground, improved sidewalks and lighting, and began tackling the much deeper problem of affordable housing, property upkeep, and changing zoning laws and the mix of property ownership to be more benevolent, interested, and local.  We also learned to be an effective squeaky wheel, skilled at packing selectmen's meetings and getting publicity that showed local citizens helping themselves against an ineffective, inattentive town government that deserved to be shaken up. It was fun, personally and socially rewarding, and, lo and behold, it actually worked.

And then, gradually, over five or six years, the association disbanded and the potlucks stopped...because they weren't needed any longer. People weren't afraid of their neighbors, and they didn't perceive an ongoing problem in the village. Everyone was putting more effort into keeping up their properties, the worst landlords had sold their buildings and moved on, not wanting the bad publicity - a couple of those multi-family units got converted to low-income co-ops. People used the playgrounds and the library, sat on the benches, and went out for walks at night, as if those things had always been part of normal life.

On my walk to the post office the other day, I looked around and saw the changes - how much the trees had grown, how much better the rental units looked. Young families - like the buyers of our house - are moving in and making friends here; the village has lost the stigma it once had. I greeted a woman sitting beside the street waiting for the Advance Transit bus, and said hi to some kids on their bikes. They were friendly but looked at me like I was a stranger -- which, of course, I was. Back then, we knew absolutely everybody. Now, I realized, I was like a ghost myself, walking the utterly familiar streets unseen and unrecognized. The revelation was that that was exactly as it should be. The sense of egolessness felt a little odd, but also natural. I now had another place, and this one was merely inhabited by others who had succeeded me. It was the way the world works; I was like one who was dead, and my works, such as they were, had become anonymous and simply a part of life as it now was. Instead of being upset by the realization of being forgotten, of being a part of the past -- which hit me with much greater force than such an idea ever had -- there was something about it that felt extremely liberating.

Close to the post office I saw a neighbor coming up the street toward me - he's a tall and taciturn guy who always wears a cowboy hat and walks in long, slow strides. We used to always have the same schedule, and met like this nearly every morning for years. I never knew his name and I don't think he knew mine -- he wasn't a joiner -- but we always greeted each other without speaking, exchanging a nod or a wave. Yesterday he looked up, from under the brim of his hat, and saw me coming down the hill. He was pretty far away, but I still saw the surprise and recognition, and it made me grin. His house lay in-between us, and before he turned in, he raised one hand in greeting just as I raised mine.

Hello, goodbye; no questions asked of ghosts.

Comments

[Dave]

Wow, Beth - you really do have a history there. And it sounds like you really paid your dues, too. I'm impressed you can leave.

[Kaycie]

"no questions asked of ghosts" -- I love that line, Beth.

[maria]

I didn't realize how deep and strong your roots were in that community -- and how much you contributed to the health of its soil! This must be a difficult process for you, Beth. As always, though, you write so beautifully about it that the pain takes on sheen that illuminates.

[Lorianne]

Ghosts haunt places where they have unfinished business. Once their job is done, they're free to move on. It sounds like it's time.

[Vivian]

Don't forget that the root of the word Ghost is Spirit (Geist). We still invoke the Holy Ghost as part of the continuous creation/blessing/ illuminating persona of the divine. And it is both inner and outer, I mean, it is experienced as springing from deep within and coming unexpectedly from without.

[Anna]

What interests me is how we move into new places behind all the people who are moving out and we have all these ideas on how to improve the quality of life there... and so it goes in an endless circle.

[Dick]

Community as a living organism. Who in hell wants to live in the city? A great post, Beth.

[beth]

Thanks for all these comments - I'm sorry I can't answer every one personally right now, it's crazy here.

Dick, I did want to add this thought to yours: Yes -- but the city is where I'm going..."community" there means different things, and you find it in different places. My strongest sense of community these days is not located physically at all - it's online, which brings its own set of advantages and challenges. People can find kindred spirits and connect with one another in very meaningful ways, but sometimes it's nice to just build a playground! The most satisfying type of "community" for me, wherever it occurs, includes shared goals, collaboration, working together creatively - which I find at qarrtsiluni, for instance, and also when planting street trees in real life.

[Pica]

(o)

[Mouse]

oh yes, I know only too well, the feeling of being a ghost, a remnant of a former resident, in my old home town.
But I am deeply impressed by your story which shows that people make a place and that it takes a village...

[dale]

(o)