Publishing 5 books in 3 days

 After publishing five books in three days, I am literally exhausted.  In the past week, I compiled three of the books from scratch, but the other two books, I had already been working on for a few months.  Three of the five books were bilingual, with one of those actually being trilingual in Spanish, English and Arabic, but they would not put the Arabic on the cover, as the computer wouldn't recognize the font.

Three of the books were about Gettysburg, and those were the three I started from scratch this past week when traveling to Gettysburg for a family reunion.  It's not like I planned those three, as I didn't even really have plans upon arriving in Pennsylvania, other than to try to see my family from across the country who had agreed upon the spot, feeling it was central for traveling and an educational destination.  Education I love, but the idea of hunting for ghosts was even more appealing to me, so as much as I loved learning about the battlefield and getting a lay for the land, I loved the connecting with spirits there, too.

The first book I published on what day is it today?  Saturday now?  So, I published it Thursday.

Thursday's book was Dead Soldier Nuts, which was about ghost hunting in Gettysburg, complete with not only a few tales of my experiences, but my questionable photos for people to judge for themselves.  Starting out at the Museum of Haunted Objects, which I learned was at Jenny Wade's childhood home, I wound up going on a bus tour to Sachs Covered Bridge and the Gettysburg College, then went on a midnight hunt over at the orphanage and the house where Jenny Wade was killed.  Not done yet, my best experiences were on Cemetery Hill, but my dad and I went on a walking tour of the Dobbin House and other haunted locations, with the cemeteries being visited on my own little solo mission so to speak.

Of course, I take way too many pictures.  That's why one book became three.  I did one just on the ghost stuff, one on the battlefield experiences driving around with mom called Graves of Gettysburg, and one photo book on my solo cemetery saunter called Gettysburg Cemetery Gates.

The last book was just a photo book.  I wanted to let the graves do the speaking.  Silence for respect.

So, on Friday, I published both Graves of Gettysburg and Gettysburg Cemetery Gates.  That was yesterday, and honestly, I was sick as a dog.  I had tried to convince myself that I was going to work on all these projects at my house, but when I was turning hot and cold, running back and forth to the bathroom, congested as could be, I thought maybe I'll just sit and the computer and knock out stuff.  

One book turned into two books yesterday.  So, why two more today?  I'm just crazy.

It's my week off from work, so I was just trying to cross projects off the list.  Since I had been working on a couple other books for the past few months in conjunction with work, I decided to bite the bullet.  Time to simply get one done, then it turned into just get both of them done and move onward and upward to the next project, as there's always more stuff that has to be finished and worked on.

First one I did today out of request from someone, sort of an off the radar project request.  Someone had come to me and request that I try to teach foreign men how to treat American women while in the United States, as some countries treat women a tad differently than here to say the least.  It's a fine line to walk, as I didn't want to simply state that men can only date women, as I wanted it to be gender neutral, so instead of saying boyfriend or girlfriend, I just tried to say partner, and not American either.

The idea really comes down to respect.  Don't leave bruises.  Be nice.

I tried to give my perspective, though I am not saying I am any sort of relationship expert by any means, and I'm not always the best at taking my own advice, especially when it comes to oversharing.  Of course, running my mouth too much has gotten me in trouble, so I wrote about that and other stuff.  Learn from my experiences with that book, which is called Sexual Respect Guide.

So, that's the book written in three languages: Arabic, Spanish and English.  The computer wouldn't recognize Arabic to put on the cover, so that part sucks.  The rest is pretty cool I think though.

The final one is in large print for those who don't like to wear their reading glasses.  That one is in Spanish and English, as is Graves of Gettysburg.  However, the final book I had been working on for months in conjunction with work, as I have been teaching, so it's an ESL book about baseball.

I mean, if you are trying to learn English, why not learn about baseball, too?  It's better than Jack ran up the hill, and Jill ran after.  Maybe I am simply biased to my own creation though.

Braving Baseball English covers not only a little bit about baseball, but also what people would want to know when transitioning to live in America, such as phrases about cooking and shopping.  It's not your typical grammar book.  It's more like translational phrases with some suggested activities.

Check any of my five latest out on Amazon, Kindle and www.lulu.com/spotlight/thorisaz. Since I am the author of more than 100 books, there's plenty of other ones to choose from as well.  As I am exhausted, feeling as if part of my spirit has been ripped out of my body through my temple, resulting in a pounding headache, I will leave you with a couple silly videos I made the other day talking about another project I am working on, which is finishing up the trilogy that is pretty much done...

For more by Marisa, visit www.outlandishwriter.com, www.lulu.com/spotlight/thorisaz, follow on Twitter @Booksnbling, or on Instagram @Thorisaz

  

Gettysburg Makeshift Hospitals

 

The Makeshift Hospitals

During the Civil War, many places were turned into makeshift hospitals near where soldiers would be wounded.  Lots of places that were not designed to be hospitals were suddenly turned into a dropping point for bleeding carcasses.  No promises that too many would make it.

Picture a cannon loaded with a pound and a half to two pounds of gun powder aimed at you.  How much damage would that create if it hit your leg?  Head or chest, you’re going down.

Would you bleed out before someone could get to you?  Would you know enough to try to apply pressure, or would you be in la la land, thinking it’s a mere bee sting, no big problem?  Would you try to walk, as if your leg was still there, only to fall down and have to wiggle?

If you were lucky enough to be dragged over to one of these makeshift hospitals, if you had a hit to your arm or leg, you were likely going to receive an amputation.  It’s not like they had all these fun pills that people love to pop today, and even if they had some pain medicine, no guarantee that there’s enough to go around to all the ones would sorely desire even just a lil.  Saw off a limb on an amputation board designed with a series of holes for the blood to run through, or more likely, a board that was ripped off the door or even window of a house.

It's not like it’s easy to saw through bones, not like they were using diamond-tipped blades.  They have to put some muscle into it, and it takes a while to saw all the way through.  Surgeons were not exactly from Ivy League schools, as it was all hands on deck, and it might be someone’s first time even trying to do an amputation, someone not really schooled at all.

No nearby pain medicine meant soldiers bit down on pieces of wood, leather, and even bullets.  Gritting down with all the pain of someone hacking through your limb, teeth are busted out.  Going to be hard to smile and wave at loved ones with teeth and limbs missing, huh?

Not like most of them were going to make it in the first place.  Hacksaw off a limb, add it to the growing pile, and cast him aside for the next soldier that needs assistance.  Someone says they’ll be back to check on them, but with all the hurt continually pouring in, who is the one who prioritizes the care, when one needs an amputation and another is recovering from one?

If you’re hurt, it’s not like you’re the highest priority for food and water when there’s active soldiers that are starving and thirsty.  Who do you think will get fed first and fed best?  The one who might live to fight another day, or the one missing a limb that won’t be fighting soon?

How many are lying in a pile of other bleeding bodies, some of which may be dead, or simply a torso writhing on the ground?  Snipers might not be very gentlemanly, but there were snipers taking soldiers out.  One second, it’s a nice day, then zap, fall to the knees, then fall forward.

On Cemetery Hill, there was hand-to-hand combat, and if you’re concerned about being stabbed by some makeshift metal knife on the end of someone’s rifle, then are you going back to check on your buddy that fell if you’re trying to keep yourself from dying at the same time?  Looks like you’re going to have to wait until the danger clear, Buddy.  No telling how much blood you will lose, or if there will be any life left in you, by the time all the gun smoke clears.

Here's the Ohio guys, trying to hold down their position by the small stream and the hill, but the southern soldiers are thirsty, too.  They literally have to kill to be able to get to the water.  Some might not even know that it’s there, as it’s not like a tropical oasis, barely visible behind the treeline, so they are likely only fighting for their own lives, simply to stay alive a bit longer.

It’s not like the war was even supposed to happen there.  It wasn’t a well planned out battle.  It’s not like people had time to stake out the best strategic points necessarily, as it was kind of more like an ambush, one side knowing the other side would be stopping for supplies and voila.

Gettysburg was the turning point, as the south had been winning up to that point.  Had it not been for the rally of all the northern troops rushing in, history may have ended up differently.  Of course, by rushing in, it’s not like they had super fast race cars and jets to zoom in on, no problem, as it was more like hoofing it across the land, maybe a train if you’re really lucky.

How many miles could you walk in a day without stopping?  How long can you walk without a drink of water or a bite of food?  How exhausted would you be doing that everyday repeatedly, then you have people shooting at you, after being so tired, hungry, and it’s fight or die, because if you don’t spring to action, you will be taken down, so can you handle pressure?

Oh yeah, and if you don’t like the conditions, and you think you’re going to desert the military, just take a look at those soldiers hanging in Sachs Covered Bridge, dangling from the still green wood trusses of the bridge for all to see, leather strap indenting the wood permanently for all.  So, you basically have the choice to fight and be killed, or you can try to run away and be killed for being a coward, choice is up to you, so you want to be remembered as a hero or as a coward?  Kinda like they’d tell the WWII kamikaze pilots: they can either fly the plane, be killed and remembered as a hero, or you can be forever shamed, if you’re not simply killed anyway.

Civil War didn’t have that kind of technology.  It’s more like lucky if you get a horse days.  Early July heat and humidity, fog rolling in at night, mountainous terrain to maneuver.

Don’t trip.  Don’t twist an ankle.  Might get an amputation if you do that.

Walk around Devil’s Den, not having a clue who is lurking between the rocks, watching you, waiting for that perfect shot.  They might simply lunge out at you.  Close combat style.

You never know who is waiting in those tall weeds.  Are they on their belly watching you?  Would you be able to tell where they were, before they could get a shot fired off at you?

Get injured, and it’s off to a makeshift hospital, which might be in a field, or it might be in a building that was never meant to see that kind of carnage and bloodshed, such as the college.  Clear out the way, because bleeding soldiers are being carried in, and there’s so many more to grab, that it’s more like a dump and go, as opposed to lounging in a hospital waiting room.  Having the option of a bathroom or a drinking fountain were luxuries you were likely not going to find at most of these field hospitals, as there were literally tents set up in fields.

Having a building at the college must have seemed like the luxury option in comparison to a tent in the middle of a field that had zipping bullets constantly whirring at people’s heads.  Imagine all the blood that smeared down the hallways of the college building, soldiers bleeding out while waiting for care, staff frantic, trying to help as many as possible, overwhelmed.  How many gut-wrenching screams were heard as people were getting their limbs sawed?

That’s a history that is blood-soaked through the halls, no matter how many times people cleaned it over the course of more than a century.  Did it surprise me to see the most swarming bats in one place that I think I’d ever seen, zipping around the chimney on campus?  I was not expecting to see it, but after learning the history, I guess oddities can be the norm at times.

Imagine the woozy sways.  Was that a mosquito or a bullet taking a bite of your clavicle?  God forbid you ate some rancid meat, roadkill or whatever you could find, only to result in the brown rains, with no indoor plumbing or toilet paper.  Scootch your butt on the grass, I guess.

One minute, you’re marching just fine, then you feel that twinge in your stomach that makes you think you got shot, but it’s just your guts telling you that they’re ready to explode.  Imagine being all nervous, getting the shits, and not being able to stop, as people are launching canons at you, trying to spear you up close and there are bullets zipping past your head.  Whatever you last ate comes out in whole chunks, and the sight makes you want to barf.

It's not like you can hold it down once it wants to come out.  Mouth starts to water as a tell-tale sign that puking is about to occur.  It’s not like you can hop in a hot bath, curl up in bed, or call to mommy to come take care of you when you’re out in a field hundreds of miles from home, where the only people you know are getting sniped down, one by one, and you watch.

How much carnage could you endure?  How many heads can you see get blown off?  One minute, a soldier is marching, the next his head explodes like a watermelon from a canon.

Plop.  Flop to the ground.  Twitch and still.

How many times can you see that happen?  Would the sight of blood alone make you want to puke, let alone the splatter of brains that follow, sprinkling on you if you’re too close by?  Would you even be able to spare enough water to puke or shit after being dehydrated?

When people die, they lose their bowels.  How much of that would you like to walk through?  Step over the bodies the best you can, as they keep mounding up in bloody puddles all around.

How many bodies can you carry back and forth to a makeshift hospital, before you get shot?  You might have the best of intentions on saving as many as possible, but the healer can become the patient, now having to endure the same saw used on so many others for another amputation.  From sawing through bones to having a saw used to hack through your flesh, watching the unschooled doctor sweating, trying their best to make it through your limb.

These are the types of memories that the Gettysburg College holds, which is why it is home to so many ghost tours.  Walking the streets of Gettysburg, imagine how many dead bodies were cast aside on those very streets, how many spirits are being walked over.  It’s no wonder there’s so many ghost tours and metaphysical shops, as you just might need to clear the air after a while.

Sure, there’s tons of history books about the battle and the location, but no matter how many books you read or shows you watch, it’s not quite the same as walking in the same steps as these fallen soldiers.  Looking around, watching fog set in, seeing the high weeds were people would hide, put yourself in the shoes of a soldier camped out in a tent in the woods, hoping that they don’t get killed while they are sleeping.  When you open yourself up to trying to experience what they went through, they will be all too glad to show you, as they relive it.

The time loops are there.  They can be felt.  Some scenery has not changed over the years.

What will you feel?  What will you experience?  It’s not like it’s the same for everyone.

Only way to know for sure is to go check it out for yourself.  Meet Jenny Wade and her fallen soldier friends.  Stop by to say hi to the kids at the orphanage, as you never know who might be sitting next to or walking right alongside of you when you’re walking through Gettysburg.

For more by Marisa, visit www.outlandishwriter.com and www.lulu.com/spotlight/thorisaz

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Gettysburg Ghost Photos

  

            With ghost hunting becoming popular, and some evidence being questionable at best, I submit to you my questionable photos whilst ghost hunting in Gettysburg for you to judge.  Not saying any of this is evidence of anything, but when I was looking over my pictures, these were the ones that made me stop and pause a bit longer than the rest, like hmm, is it anything?  If it made me pause, maybe you will pause as well, or maybe you will simply call my crazy.

            Without further ado, let’s start with one of the creepiest first.  This was taken in the basement of the orphanage, and I have no idea what I was actually focusing on when I took this picture, but the result captures exactly what I had felt when I went into the hole.  Very specifically, I felt as if a child had been curled up in a corner by the opening, not sure if there was any life left in the body, as it felt as if the child has passed away whilst locked away.

It reminded me of the Tool video.  Not saying it is or it’s not, but it’s creepy.  I paused.

This next one is questionable at best.  It was also taken in the basement of the orphanage, and it came out blurry as could be.  The darkness in the blurs kind of looked like hands to me.

Another creepy one. Not saying it’s ghosts.  It’s the Sachs Covered Bridge at night:

Also taken from the bridge this little white reminded me of a doll with black eye makeup.  It’s just kind of strange looking.  Not sure where I was aiming, but the result is simply odd I’d say.

 

From the cemetery, the photos have reflections, but all of them have an odd white mist around the third bar.  It was enough to cause me to say, “hmm…  Isn’t that just a little off there?

This next one requires a bit of explaining, as I had been continually called back to Cemetery Hill throughout my entire visit to Gettysburg.  This first started around sunset, while I was waiting for the bus for the ghost tour with the family, and while my relatives kibitzed, I ran over there at dusk, feeling pulled to go check it out.  As I stood on top of the hill, looking at the treeline to my left, I could have sworn I saw a soldier in a tan uniform peek out at me.

Before I could question it, my phone rang, startling me.  Mom said the bus was loading.  I had to hustle to join the others, not wanting to be left behind for the action, though I knew I had to come back to properly check it out a bit more when I had more time sometime later on.

Apparently, the ghosts knew I would be back, too.  This next photo represents that.  However, it represents a bit more mischief than what I just tried to explain, as this connects to the following night, when I went to go on a lantern-lit ghost tour with my father.

See, the Mustang has start to stop, so you don’t put the keys into the ignition.  I knew when I got into the car, I had put the keys into the cupholder in the center of the car.  However, when we parked and went to turn the car off, the keys had mysteriously disappeared by themselves.

For 20 minutes, in a steadily building panic, my father and I searched the small convertible, wondering where the keys could have gone to in such a small car.  Turning the car off, I pressed the start button, just to make sure the keys had to be close by, and the car started just fine.  Knowing the keys were close, how many places could they have gone to on their own?

The obvious answer is that they fell.  Look on the ground.  Feel underneath the seats.

Not good enough.  Move the seats forward.  Tip all the way forward and feel.

Now, move the seats all the way back.  Reach under both.  Do it again to be sure.

Tear everything off the seats.  Look inside all pockets.  Open the glove box.

Let’s move the seats back and forth again.  Feel back as far as you can.  Don’t get stuck.

No luck.  Trunk?  Middle section is clear, so throw all odds and ends into it.

Clear the premises.  Anything stuck between the seats?  Dig deeper!

Heart rate increases.  Panic sets in.  Try to stay calm and not scream.

Down past your elbow between the seats, picture an amputation.  Pull your arm out quickly.  You’re sure you’re going to sever your arm if you dig down much deeper, so panic about that.

Think about all the soldiers who got amputations during the war.  Makeshift surgeons didn’t know any better.  Don’t have time to deal with it, so cut it off to ward off infection.

Sure, you might bleed out.  They might not be able to stop the blood fast enough.  That’s one risk, and just don’t ask about the others, such as when the gangrene sets in a little too fast.

Get the maggots.  They’ll keep that down.  They dine off the dead flesh.

Mind reels, thinking of all the poor soldiers that died and suffered in the area, adding to the panic of not being able to find the keys.  They had to have fallen.  Move the seats again.

After about a half dozen times of fishing beneath both seats, I went upside-down, sticking my head as far under as I could for a visual inspections.  Driver’s side is clear.  Nothing to report.

That passenger side though, the tricky buggers, that’s what holds the key.  You never know who might be riding next to you when you think you’re rolling in the convertible alone.  Sure as heck, after reaching and fishing, at least a half dozen seat moves, there’s the keys underneath.

I tilt my head up, looking at dad.  He scoffs.  “I know I checked underneath there!”

“I guess the ghosts thought this would be more fun than standing in line.”  I glance at the time.  We barely have enough time to check in and make it before the tour starts, after suggested their suggested time, but with enough of a buffer to be able to not miss anything as feared in panic.

So, the next day, I go back to Cemetery Hill on the battlefield, and I’m looking for something.  I’m thinking it’s under the passenger seat, and when I look, I pull out this card, which was not mine.  That definitely made me pause, like hello to you, too, and thanks for welcoming me back.

Of course, this happened just as I was going to find more than I bargained for, seeing if that ring finger through the bullet hole in the door that killed Jenny Wade comes true.  They say if an unmarried woman sticks her ring finger through that bullet hole that she will be engaged or married within the year, so we shall see if that comes to fruition.  Stay tuned for updates.

When I know that someone is trying to get my attention, I am more than willing to check out the situation.  Thus, when I thought I saw a soldier in butternut peeking behind a tree at me, I saw the hello again card and beelined over to where I thought I had seen him atop of the hill.  I mean, why not be willing to explore the other side for possible prospects when over age 40?

I heard him calling for me to look at this rock wall built along the tree line, and I followed it down to the point where I could catch on to the fact that water was flowing downhill.  The rocks gave a barrier for the water to travel the path of least resistance down the hillside.  Though it might not have looked like a proper creek from afar, the water flowed enough to be considered a water source, so I could understand why soldiers would be near there, parched.

It's like he wanted me to understand why he was positioned there in the first place.  Looking up on the hill, I could see the horses like he may have been able to, but the trees and brush covered the lines of cannons that I knew were positioned up there, creating a dangerous illusion that it might be safe enough to try to sneak up, only to get taken down when trying.  I got the impression that he had fallen near there, and though I did not notice until I got home, the picture I took of the fallen tree, kind of reminds me of a fallen soldier in the field.

It's like the trunk is the body.  The limbs are arms and legs.  They’re blown or sawed off.

Maybe I’m reading too much into it, but a cardinal and a blue jay kept calling my attention to the fallen tree, demanding that I take a picture of it.  I didn’t think much of the picture when I took it, but when I saw it, the scene just startled me for a moment.  Like that’s a fallen soldier, as the tree grew and was nourished by the blood of the soldiers, so when the tree they gave life to dies, it’s like a part of them dies again along with it, a yogi moment I’d say.

Around this time, I had been getting a memo to look along the rock wall that was like a break wall for the creek that would rush more after a rainfall.  Not sure what I would find, as I knew this place had been combed through a million times by people hoping to find some Civil War memorabilia, I was open to searching for stray bullets, shrapnel or whatever types of old grimy things I could find, but instead, I found something beautiful.  Not covered in blood, it was made from blood, as I would be schooled, as I did not realize what was being offered.

Looking down, along the rocks, as instructed, I found a nut that was perfectly cut in half somehow, and the center of this hollowed out nut was a perfect heart.  I knew it was what I was supposed to find, but I wasn’t sure why I had found this, as opposed to some old soldier’s uniform or whatever it was I thought I was going to find.  The spirits scolded me, laughing.

Gifts do not have to high dollar items.  It’s tokens that mean something.  It’s the meaning behind it that makes a gift special, not the dollar amount that it may or may not be worth.

When a dead spirit can offer you up something sweeter than the guy you are dating, there’s your sign.  The gift is sentimental, something only I might appreciate, as it was something I found while rummaging through a Civil War Battlefield.  The spirits pointed out that it was fruit born from the blood of dead soldiers, men who might have thought they wanted to return home and have kids, but were never able to, as they died, and could only produce chestnuts.

They offered up a heart for sharing some love.  Put the pen on the page.  Let’s write.

Guess it’s more like type away.  Get it down.  It’s at least a story, and here’s the picture of when I found this blood fed nutshell.

As if that little gesture was not enough, I saw just a tiny pop of red poking out of the lush greenery.  It’s not like there were a whole lot of other flowers around, but it just so happened that out of the whole field, there were blood red trumpet vines that seemed to bloom only there.  It’s like the ghosts were trying to show they still were able to produce life, just in other forms.

Again, maybe you can think that I read too much into things, and that’s why I took a few photos for you to be able to judge for yourself.  Just a few feet away from the fallen tree and blooming trumpet vine was another tree that just made me stop and stare at it for a while.  I didn’t know if I was seeing what I thought that I might have been seeing, so I just decided to take a picture of it to see if you think you see what I thought that I saw that day, too.

This particular tree somehow drew my attention as I was looking at the blood red trumpet vine flower, as there was a dark color on the trunk of the tree that just looked a little off.  It did not look like the typical color of any tree bark that I could recall, as it simply appeared to be stained with blood that never washed off it, as if it grew into it and became one with it.  Was it like this was another soldier that had been standing in front of or against that tree when he was simply blown away by a cannon from the hill, or punctured, like the tree’s damaged, too?

Making my way back up to the top of the hill later, after meandering through the cemetery, I go back towards this tree that had been calling out to me, positioned on top of the hill like it had witnessed most of the carnage.  Something about it just made me feel tired and told me to sit down.  Giving into the urge, I sat and meditated about how it would have been to be shot up by the tree, and how I would have simply fallen, too tired to stand anymore all of a sudden.

Noticing some nasty looking huge yellow jackets that did not seem too friendly, I felt the fear of attack, and I knew I could not simply stay there.  Getting up, I looked down and thought, “did I just sit on a bullet hole?”  The rock looked punctured, indented, as if by a bullet.

When I saw a mother with her son approaching, I asked them if they thought these rocks had been here during battle.  The mother answered that these rocks served a purpose going down the hillside, and they were likely there during the war.  When she asked why I asked, I pointed out the hole that I had found in the rocks, and they agreed it looked oddly suspicious, like a bullet.

Not only was the rock oddly punctured, as if by an old bullet, but the rock itself had bit of rusty coloration, like old blood.  Not like it was soaked, but like the splatter discolored the rock over time.  Maybe I’m reading too much into it, so you look for yourself and be the judge.

Could that blackened color of the indent be from old gun powder?  Is the rusty color old blood?  The rock cannot tell us for sure, so it’s really a guessing game at this point if you care to play.

This next picture I love from my old days of working at Cedar Point.  I always think of the one they have in the Cedar Point museum when I see one of these, and I am always drawn towards them, even if I regret not putting money into this one.  I did take a picture of it though, and up by Zoltan’s feather in his hat, it just looked a little oddly suspicious, like what’s going on up there, or am I just catching some sort of fog that happened to be in air at that moment?

On the lantern-lit tour where we went back to the Dobbin House at night, this picture just looked a little strange in the windows.  Don’t get overly excited.  It’s just a little strange.

The finally questionable location was the Servant’s Old Tyme Photos, and though it was the small jutted area off the back that drew my attention with dread heaviness as soon as I walked near it, this photo was of a different area.  It just came out looking weird.  Not sure there’s anything amazing in it, but it reminded me of a creepy nurse doll looking at you in shadows.

  Oh, wait! Bonus round! Back at the Dobbin House is a shadow that looks like Lincoln.

You be the judge.  See for yourself.  Is it all just some hogwash?

Go visit Gettysburg. Go see Jenny. Leave her a Penny.

 

For more by Marisa, visit www.outlandishwriter.com or www.lulu.com/spotlight/thorisaz

Dead Soldier Fruit

 The ghosts in Gettysburg taught me that you do not have to have money, or even a body, to be generous. You simply have to be open to acknowledging when someone tries to reach you. It might not be pricey or as elaborate as feeding camels from your Lamborghini, but free can hold far much more worth than things people pay for.

Starting out the day at the childhood home of Jenny Wade, which is now the Museum Haunted Objects, I had some fun experiences there, from feeling cool air in a chest and feeling as if my back was hurting from constant coughing, to setting my hand on a board, feeling my wrist tingle, then my elbow, then shoulder from touching the amputation board, then there was the kidney pain, feeling as if I could put my thumb into a bullet hole in my back, but it was the dolls that got me. The little blonde one’s pupils kept shifting, getting slightly bigger and smaller as I stared at it, while the crackled doll they just got kept demanding my attention, but it was that damned covered one positioned in front of the covered oculus that keeps magnifying it that made me question reality when I saw her eyes glow red for an instant. They had warned me not to look at the cursed doll, had even said that people wind up having traffic issues after looking at the doll, such as expensive tickets and even car accidents, but I looked anyways, because I’m stupid, and of course, I came out to a ticket on my car.

Cassie, the tour hostess, pulled out a spirit box, and there were many chatters, clear answers to questions. When I went to leave, we both clearly heard them say, “thank you for coming,” and as Cassie seemed shocked, claiming they had never said that to anyone before, another voice piped up. This one was smaller, like a feminine child.

“Yeah, thank you.” I told them I would write about them. The book will come out before too long if I keep going…

Though I was scheduled for the midnight tour, I also joined the bus tour members from the family reunion were going on, which loads just across the parking lot from the Jenny Wade house. While waiting for the bus, I wandered away from the group to Cemetery Hill. With the air of dusk settling in, amplifying the scene, I stood over the hill, looked left to the tree line, and could have sworn I saw a soldier peeking out at me wearing like a tan colored outfit, which I knew was not black, navy, but I called it grey, as I knew it was lighter, not dark, more tan.

My phone rang. Bus is loading. Hustle back.

Hot hoof it over to the others. Try to explain to a cousin what happened, but only a few words come out. It takes a minute for words to form, as she stares at me like spit it out, so I point: “that place is fuct.”

Not exactly what I was trying to explain to her, but those are the words that slipped out anyways. She just kind of tilted her head at me like I was crazy, and we got on the bus. We heard all kinds of tales about the servants old time photos and other places around town, before making our way to the covered bridge to watch Tennessee smoke a cigarette.

The same cousin that I was trying to explain the Cemetery Hill to, she picked up the cigarette after Tennessee discarded it, and continued to smoke it. My aunts joined in for a puff, just to hit the ghost cigarette. Not sure if that’s how it’s supposed to go, but that’s how it went.

I would go back to the covered bridge alone, after doing the midnight tour through the Jenny Wade house and the orphanage, just to be able to meditate underneath where the dead soldiers hung, to do my own Spirit Box session, as there were a few people at the other end of the bridge offering up cigarettes for the spirit box. If I thought the voices were clear from The Museum Haunted Objects, this was even clearer still, “I want to talk to you,” followed by, “shhhhh!” Then I heard the spirit box at the other end of the bridge go off, like the spirit was trying to talk to both of us, going back and forth between boxes.

The orphanage was equally interesting, as I positioned myself towards the very end of the dining table, towards the darkest corner of the room. Located by the back door, through the darkness, I was watching the reflection in the mirror, which changed oddly into a small red box that I tried to capture in pictures, though it does not do it justice. Through the darkness, I noted a black shadow that was darker than the rest of the shadows that seem to come from the back door and into a corner, directly behind the tour guide.

As that happened, I heard his voice falter just a little bit, and he recalled the story of this one time, a tour guide had broken down in tears in a corner from a dark spirit that had come in and left out the back door. I could not help but think to myself, “buddy, that spirit is right behind you right now.” I kept quiet though.

Down in the basement is the not so fun place. That creepy corridor is nothing compared to the hole. Compelled to simply walk inside of it, I could feel my hands raw, as if I had been clawing, trying to get the mortar out from in between the rocks of the wall.

 The dread heaviness in my chest let me know that if someone had not died, people had experience near death experiences there, and I could picture a child curled up in the corner closest to the opening, though I got the impression the child had died in that spot. It’s that feeling in the chest, as if exhausted from crying and coughing.

The creepy toys in the back had lingered there too long. They had an energy of their own. It’s the time loop.

At the house where Jenny Wade was killed making bread for soldiers, the cabinet door had opened up after an emf reader spiked. The body laid out in the basement of the house was an interesting addition. I did have to put my ring finger through the bullet hole of the door, the bullet that killed Jenny, just to see if the rumors come true.

The next day, we visited the Dobbin house, and got to learn about the underground railroad action that happen there, seeing the slave hideout. The upstairs had a dizziness factor, which could be the uneven floors, but it could just be a weird thing with where the beds were. My aunt smelled tobacco smoke in there and pipe smoke at the covered bridge.

Convinced that I was going to leave the Dobbin house and go to the national cemetery, I wound up taking a wrong turn into a different cemetery next-door. Somehow, that wrong turn led me straight to Jenny Wade‘s grave. When I noticed that people had left pennies for her, I did not have a penny, so I left her a dime.

I did wind up finding my way to the national cemetery, but of course, I had to find my way back to Cemetery Hill. As if pull to the location where I had last scene that goes to the image pop out from behind the tree at me, I walk down to the tree line, to where I saw him. Something told me to look down at the rock lined wall.

Not sure what I was expecting to find, may be a stray bullet lodged in a rock, or some kind of weird memorabilia from the war, I was pleasantly surprised to find a nut that was cut perfectly in half. Laying in a position where I would see it, the inside of the nut was the perfect shape of a heart. I knew this was what he wanted me to find, but I questioned why.

Why was this better than a stray bullet? Why was this better than some shrapnel? Why was this better than some bloody object from the war?

He seemed to laugh at me. Didn’t I understand that this was the fruit born from the blood of dead soldiers? This was the only life that they could give from the fruit of their loins, as they had been unable to produce as many heirs as they would have hoped, dying so young and early.

The trees were left to produce their babies. These are the nuts dead soldiers can give. This is their living legacy.

Perspective. Sometimes, you have to be open to a new perspective. That’s when the soldier explained a person does not have to be rich to be generous and give what they can, pointing out the budding flowers of the trumpet vine, proof that life continues after death.

Upon booking one final ghost tour at night, I learned about the butter nut. When the tour guys showed up were in the exact color that I had seen from the tree line, I questioned what troop he was representing. Thinking that there was only gray and navy, I felt a little stupid to realize that there was butternut and many troops that simply wore whatever clothes they could find.

Questioning him, asking what states were likely to have worn this butternut color, especially around the Cemetery Hill area, he explained that it was probably some of the poor southern states, places such as Georgia or Louisiana. Both states I have ties to, so that’s kind of interesting. When I told him what had happened, he said it was very likely that I could have reminded them of a former loved one.

He took us back to the Dobbin House, explained a lot more of the history there, and pointed out the shadow that looks like Abraham Lincoln. Having a spring inside the house is one way to have kept groceries cold back in the day. Also, a great way to actually have running water.

Overall, I would say that the ghosts are very much still active in the area. To put it in perspective, they say that whenever people build, they often turn up remains, including the high school, where they exposed a mass grave of like 200. When you think of these poor guys that got these amputations, because that was a procedure for handling a bullet wound back in the day, here they are lying in the ground, starving, dying of thirst, trying to convince people to shoot them because they have no limbs to shoot themselves, and then comes the Fourth of July flood that just drowns them like a mercy killing.

There’s tales of couples falling side-by-side in battle. There’s accounts of “male” soldiers giving birth. The women paid prices just as high as the men.

Go visit Gettysburg. Go see Jenny. Leave her a Penny.

More by Marisa: www.lulu.com/spotlight/Thorisaz