A ghost story?
Don Coldsmith, Syndicated Columnist
Monday, October 27, 2008
A WHILE BACK, I wrote about some of my experiences while working with young people in the YMCA. That stimulated some memories.
Especially, those of campfire stories, some of which must traditionally be scary. Especially, during some autumn campouts, with Halloween just around the corner, ghost stories seemed appropriate.
We had YMCA clubs in several of the Topeka elementary schools. Called “Grade Schools” then. Our clubs for boys were classified at grade school level as “Gra-Y” clubs as compared to Hi-Y and Junior Hi-Y clubs in high school and junior high.
One of our active Gra-Y clubs was in a school whose enrollment was predominantly of “Spanish” extraction. This was a geographical coincidence, with really no segregation involved. A great many families of Mexican origin had people who worked for the A.T. & S.F. (Santa fe Railroad, whose Eastern Division headquartered there). One of my best counselors was assigned to that Gra-Y club. He was Anglo, but had a broad range of interest and was beloved by the youngsters and their families. He picked up enough Spanish to do a lot of good work in that school situation. Though most of the kids had a fair command of English, they cherished an Anglo who would TRY to understand their ways.
Occasionally the Gra-Y clubs would plan an overnight excursion and this leader loved such occasions, especially when that particular club was involved. They loved stories and he was one of our best storytellers. I had driven out to see how they were getting along and to listen to some of the stories around the campfire. Ghost stories — everybody edged closer to the fire.
Part of the fun of a story fire is to involve anybody with a story to tell. So, when one of the 11-year-olds offered to tell a ghost story, the alert counselor encouraged him to do so. This had actually happened to his father, the kid said. He had heard his dad tell the story to some other men. It had happened in Mexico, long before the kid’s parents were married, the youngster related.
He was actually a pretty good storyteller for his age and described in detail the ceremony of the “promenade.” This custom is somewhat outmoded now, but was originally a semi-formalized method for teenagers and young adults to meet other singles of the opposite gender. It’s a back-country custom, which I once saw carried out in a small town in the Philippines. The girls and young women, in best dresses, circle the plaza casually in one direction, while the young men, also attired for the occasion, circle the opposite way. They exchange smiles, greetings, and the woman indicates by a glance or a nod whether she’s interested in meeting him. If so, the man may turn and walk with her or follow her to a place where they can get better acquainted.
In this case it was growing dark and the young man was having no luck in trolling for a date. Then he noticed a pretty white dress he hadn’t seen before. He didn’t get a very good look, but was quite impressed, as he turned to follow the inviting nod of the head. The boy relating the tale was eloquent in his second-hand description of the beauty of this girl’s hair and body and shapely legs, as told by his father. But, he related, she kept ahead of her suitor, down a dark street and into a small park away from traffic, still with enticing nods of the head. The tension mounted among the listeners —
“Then she turned — he saw her close up for the first time and she had — the face of a horse!”
There was a gasp of horror from his young listeners.
I was never quite certain how many of those kids, if any, really understood that story, I do recall that the Gra-Y counselor and I were sore from laughing the next day. I’m sure that youngster could be a real storyteller by this time. His father surely was.
See you down the road.
Author and columnist Don Coldsmith lives in Emporia.