Remembering Tony Costanza and Ozzfest

So, it's like the anniversary of the night when Tony would have gone to sleep and just not woken up.  People might try to think it was something more glamorous than that, but truth be told, he had sleep apnea.  That's when you stop breathing in your sleep, and it causes your heart to simply stop beating.

It's something I know about, as my dad has it.  When I was born, I had Sudden Infant Death Syndrome, known as SIDS, and I was like the lucky one percent that lived, was dusky when they found me.  Some say there is a link between sleep apnea and SIDS, so when I heard the tell-tale signs of sleep apnea when Tony was sleeping at my house in Florida, you can be sure I was the one who sent him to the doctor in Vegas for it when he got back, bitching that he had all the signs, and while he went, it wasn't enough.

It eventually killed him.  I think about him everyday.  He was one of my best friends, truly.

He would be the one to call and check in on me.  He made sure I knew it.  We talked about it.

In our last heart to heart conversation, he made sure to bring it up.  "You know I'm the one who always calls to check in on you, always knows when you're sick, because I care.  I call, because I care about you."

It makes me want to cry just thinking about it.  *** Fighting back tears.  Composing myself. ***

Ok.  Deep breath.  Don't care what you think about it.

I'd be in the hospital, and he'd be the only one who'd know.  He'd know before family.  He called.

Nobody has filled that void since he died.  Some tried.  Nobody succeeded.

Don't cry.  It's ok.  I'm talking to me, not you.

Let's just cut to the audio.  Shall we?  Sounds good.

So, they have the Turbo Driver's Seat thing where you can send in a few songs to Sirius XM.  Since it was 20 years ago this month that I got pulled on stage, I decided to honor that with music.  Who knows if or when it will air, so I'm going to clue you in as to a few of my choices, as one is for Tony Costanza.

Well, I might not be able to upload the audio files, says not supported on here, I can for sure find some videos on Youtube and tell you why I picked each one in a little more detail than on the air at least.  The first one I picked was the song that I got pulled up on stage for 20 years ago, and I didn't even know that things would wind up turning out the way they would.  It led to me touring on Ozzfest 2002.

So, here I am that the DTE Energy Music Theatre, known as Pine Knob to old schoolers in Michigan, and maybe I should paint the picture as to how I got there in the first place, as it was only slightly planned.  First of all, there were two days of Ozzfest in Detroit, and I had press tickets to the first day to cover somebody on the second stage, but we'd luck into tickets for the second day from Drowing Pool's publicists over at Wind-Up Records at the time, Steve Karas and Brady Brock.  Before even that happened, I knew I had a plus one, so the night before the first show, I told a few of my friends, who began bickering as to who would go, and I simply said, "whoever's in my car in the morning goes."

Well, the Russian boxer thought he'd outsmart everyone by basically breaking into my car while I was sleeping, so when I went out to my car in the morning, he was already buckled in and ready.  That's fine, so as agreed, we started off on our journey, but as we began driving, our buddy was walking down the road, making his way to my house, as we both knew.  My friend in the car told me to stop, probably thinking that he would gloat in his face, so he rolled his window down, only to be grabbed by the throat and yanked out of the window, thrown onto the street, Mack opens the door and demands, "drive."

Ok, fast forward to us running into his sister at the end of the first night, Jen demanding we stay at the hotel with her and stay for the second night, so we decide why the heck not, and before crashing at the hotel, we decided to chill will all the buses camped out in the parking lot at DTE.  We didn't even really know who's bus belonged to who at the time, just chilling, seeing who we could run into and whatever.  That's why you have to forgive me for this blonde moment, as I had a crowd of people hovering around me, checking out the pictures I had taken on my digital camera, and I wasn't paying attention.

Somebody asks if I had any pictures of Down.  Yeah, no problem, let me find them on this camera, totally looking down, eyes glued to the screen, oh found Down right here.  Then I hear somebody else ask, "hey, do you have any pictures of that Pepper cat because I hear that he's like pretty good?"

Oh yeah, sure.  Let me look some more and dig.  Yup, here's Pepper.

I finally look up.  There's Pepper alright, big permagrin on his face, waiting to see how long it would take me to catch on that he was who he was.  I felt like a jackass, and they thought it was hilarious.

I met Chet and a few of the Down camp guys, as we found ourselves camped outside their bus.  I remember we made our way into a limo at one point, and all kinds of craziness before the hotel.  Next day, we ran around old school style to a library to get online to email a request to Karas and Brock.

First stage approval now, bitches!  Thanks.  I'm all excited.

Little did I know, people already knew who I was.  I mean, it's not like there were that many female photographers there in the first place, and considering that I was shooting from behind the barricade, every security guard and most of the musicians had spotted the blonde with a yellow crop top that barely covered the bottom of her titties, with the flared out denim skirt, especially second day in a row.  As a photographer, you kind of catch on when people pose for you on stage, and there was some of that for sure, but when Rob Zombie came on stage, he announced any females could come on stage.

I'm like cool.  This will make for great pictures.  I'm not catching on yet.

Second time, he stands in front of me, says a song and dance about how they usually have fire breathers and dancers, but couldn't because of the large tour, so any female close to the stage, come on.  Still not catching on, I'm standing there, and the photographer next to me is glaring at me.  Third time, Rob stares right down at me, "last chance, if you are a female close to the stage, come on up, but don't just stand there, be sure to move if you come up on the stage," and I'm still not catching on.

J.R. elbows me.  "He's talking to you.  Give me your camera."

I turn, and the security guard already has his hand extended, waiting for me to catch on and move.  "He's talking to you.  If you're coming up here, give me your hand, and step right here to come up."

Oh!  Ok!  On my way...

That's when I look down, and there's like I don't know maybe 40 chicks on the stage, but none of them seem to have been as blessed in the breast area.  They were cute little A and B cups.  I'm DD baby.

He said don't just stand there, right?  It's not like my shirt was covering much to begin with.  That was just enough to get me plastered on the big screen in front of like 45,000 people for most of the song.

I got off the stage after the song.  As a photographer, we only got to shoot the first three songs anyway.  I made my way back with the herd of photographers like usual, making my way to where Mack was.

We started walking like normal, and people started following.  "Were you just on stage?"  Nod and keep walking, but there's just more dudes that start following us like the Pied Piper.

You have to understand that we had not planned on two days at a festival a couple hours from home.  That meant, beyond lacking a change of clothing, we also lacked funds, not prepared for the long haul.  The more people that followed, the more it seemed like an opportunity, as some might see it.

We lucked upon Tommy, who had been following a random chick with a megaphone, screaming, "anal whore" at her, when he didn't even know here.  We knew that was our people.  It was like a sign.

Well, we saw a sign, too, and it said, "$1."  Mack asked Tommy if we could borrow his megaphone.  Tommy obliged, much to the relief of the girl he had been screaming at, so we worked our magic.

"Who wants to see more?  Show me the money!"  Grab handfuls.

Flash.  Cheer.  "But wait!"

"Don't you want to know what's going on downstairs?  Who thinks this is a normal, innocent girl?  Who thinks there might be a little more than what meets the eye with this here, and who wants to see?"

Put aways the dollars.  Break out the twenties.  Cough it up.

Grab fistfuls of money.  No more problems with cash.  Covered.

Lil bling bling downstairs always makes them scratch their heads and want to see more.  That's about the time that Tommy said, "you should really join the tour."  No problemo, "I'm serious," he said.

"I'm serious, too.  I'm a journalist.  Can I interview people?"

Mack chimes in.  He wants to come, too.  I send him to make sure it's legit before I go.

Come on down.  Some mafioso dudes sent me a driver and a laptop, picked me up, dropped me off at a hotel in Indianapolis, and the rest is history.  My job wasn't a journalist on tour, it was being a Harley girl, which was not selling shirts and keychains as I thought, but doing pictures on a motorcycle.

The song that led to all that?  Living Dead Girl by Rob Zombie.  That and more started it all:

Being a journalist before joining the tour, I had been scheduled to interview Drowning Pool before joining Ozzfest, but I wound up being late in traffic and missing the scheduled time.  Instead, I was able to interview Dez of Coal Chamber about how he found a crow and nursed it back to health.  I still met the Drowning Pool guys that night regardless, got to see them play, and I surely did not imagine then that I would soon be on tour with these guys on the Ozzfest tour, so the whole thing is surreal.

Bottom line is like three stops in, we were going to check into the hotel room, the other Harley girls and I, at this place in Virginia.  We demanded nicer hotels than some of the other Village of the Damned, so they dropped us to go check in, taking everyone else to wherever else they stayed.  As we were walking up, lugging lots of bags, as you can imagine, this guy brushes past us, running up to the front desk, and as we opened the door to the lobby, we heard him scream, "we need an ambulance to the gold bus out back," which made us super curious as to what was going on at that point.

Tina and I rush into bikinis, heading to the pool to see if we can find anything out.  We heard the news from the guy who found him.  A massive guy covered in tattoos was shaken, "I touched him..."

While artwork might have been planned, that did not take place.  Instead, 20 minutes later, a helicopter was landing at the hotel.  We were a little too close to D.C., so all the media flooded us that day.

That's when I learned what type of journalist that I do not want to be.  Invasion of privacy is not cool.  Everyone was dressing up, trying to act all casual and cool, get the scoop, like ants swarming the hotel, forcing us to leave, and while Tina and I had a salad at Wendy's with Grape, a tech for Rob Zombie, when we left, we were called to join Bruce the attorney and many others camped out at a restaurant.

"It's the Harley girls!  Call them over here!  Come join us!"

"No thanks, we just ate.  We're not hungry.  Thank you."

"Let us buy you drinks!  Come on!  You don't want to go back to the hotel..."

Twist our arms.  We joined the group.  It was a pretty fun night.

Drowning Pool left the tour after that.  I'd see them again years later.  In New Orleans that is.

I had gone to cover Damage Plan at the Howlin' Wolf I think it was, and I know it was the first time covering the brothers.  I remember running into Pepper there.  I wound up getting my last four vaginal piercings later that night from a girl's piercer boyfriend from the Atone Pain Tribe, another story.

This story specifically has to do with talking with C.J. and Stevie that night, as they had called it then, asked me to write it into the record, and years later, I still remember, clear as a bell that they called it.  They had said they had a bad feeling, similar to what they felt before the Ozzfest tour, like they knew something bad was going to happen, like someone was going to die, only this time, it would not be them.  Not knowing who or what, they just called it that someone would die, like their lead singer did.

They were right.  Someone did die on that tour.  Dimebag.

They called it.  Even though the origins of this song I think have been taken out of context over the years since it was released on Wind-Up Records, which was the same label that Creed was on I think, known as more of a Christian label when they were first coming out.  Interesting to think about still.

 Never got the chance to ask if we were related.  We just had the same last name.  Not sure.

Did get the chance to ask Hank III.  We were not sure.  He doesn't know grandpa's family tree.

Anywhoodles, the third song harkens back not to Superjoint Ritual with Hank III, but to Down.  Years after touring with them on Ozzfest, I remember that Norris Comeaux had invited me to watch them play with his new toy, which was basically like a traveling recording studio.  The band had been asked to record an acoustic version of "Stone the Crow" for a radio station, and I watched them record it.

That's probably where I realized how good of a musician Pepper is, as he was watching and commenting on a television show, holding a conversation with someone else completely and still playing this mind-blowingly beautify melodies on the guitar that was just like what???  Who is this guy, and why did I not realize how talented he was before?  I mean, I always liked Pepper, always was a fan of Corrosion of Conformity, saw them before Ozzfest and all that good stuff, but seeing him just so effortlessly playing, while others were all nervous because I was there, just blew my mind really.

The funny part about that night, being the local girl with a car, while the guys only had the bus to get around down, they had me drive them around to a few clubs to go check out the night scene.  I just remember Rex just wanting nothing to do with the situation, because Pepper kept insisting to anyone who would ask that he was a different 80's hair metal musician to each person who would question.  To top that off, each time, he would wind up by pointing at Rex, "yeah, that guy there's my roadie."

Rex would shake his head.  Another shot down the hatch.  Who believes this guy?

If it wouldn't have been for the guys in Down and Superjoint Ritual, I would have never met Tony when he was working with Crowbar in New Orleans.  I guess I have to paint the picture as to why Tony meant so much to me, even upon that first meeting.  It has to do with basic respect for me.

At the time, I had been living with a guy who led me on as a way to get signed onto Phil's label, which worked for him, congrats, but whatever.  Let's go back to us living together as a sham, just after he confessed his real motivation to me, but I didn't have a car and was dependent on him for rides.  It was this awkward in between phase, where we were not really dating anymore, but still lived together.

I'm not going to say this dude's name, but let's just say he was not trying to hide the fact that he had basically been whoring around with other women at the club, while I was holding down front row.  I focused my eyes on the stage, not wanting to know who he was kissing behind my back, but the guys on stage could see exactly what he was up to and knew exactly who he was, that we lived together still.  At the end of the night, the guys saw that he was going to make his way towards me to tell me it was time to leave, but he was still low man on the musical totem pole and knew when to keep quiet.

Before my roommate could call out to me, Tommy approached me to chat and Tony saw the scenario.  My roommate stood back and watched as I chatted with the musicians who had been on the stage.  They were not ready for me to leave, now that they finally had a chance to talk to the blonde chick.

They knew that he would wait.  They knew he knew better.  They were rubbing it in his face.

Tommy purposely asked for my number to call me, and Tony chimed in at that point.  "Hey, I think I lost your number, so I'm going to need it again, too.  Be sure to call me," just to make him jealous.

While my roommate might have been sucking face with skanky coke whores, these guys acknowledged that I was not just the average girl.  Anyone can fall down with their legs spread.  They preferred to holler at the chick that was not known to simply hook up with just anyone, and that's me.

Tony met me at a time when I was in a less than ideal situation, forced to live with someone who had led me on, simply because I did not have a car, a choice, and he agreed to take care of me in return.  I had never been a kept woman before, and we had our arrangement, though it was less than ideal.  Really, I think Tony could simply tell by my face how grateful I was to be acknowledged at that time.

He and I bonded because of doubt.  That's why some of his last words to me still make me cry.  "My biggest regret in life was thinking that I was never good enough," and as much as I try not to...

That was our second to the last conversation.  Truth be told, our last conversation, he hung up on me, one of the first times that he ever did that.  I was sick, and he couldn't understand me, and he was frustrated, "you know I hate it when I cannot understand you, so call me when you're not sick."

He hung up.  When I called him back when I was better, he didn't answer.  He didn't call me back.

I didn't get it.  I was still recovering.  His mom asked why I was being so silent.

As I texted Denise, explaining how I had been sick and in the hospital, she told me how she came out into the living room and found her son dead on the sofa.  I don't want to rehash the drama after that.  Let's just say that while some people remember Tony Costanza from being the first drummer in Machine Head, since I was not a fan of Rob's memorial of Tony, I prefer to think of him how I met him, working with Crowbar, but some people might remember that he was first the lead singer for Papsmear, being able to hold down just about any position on the stage, being so under estimated.

For the last song, I chose the theme song for Strangeland, when Tony was working with Crisis.  Was that the first time I recall seeing him in music magazines?  From back then, with his tattooed tummy?

Just a reminder that he was not afraid to work with a female.  Lots of guys in entertainment are, believe it or not.  At least, that has been my experience over the years, but Tony did not fall into that lump.

Not that that's my favorite song that he ever did, but I know he cherished the experience of being involved with that song for the movie, going to see the premiere and all that fun stuff.  Most people forget all the people that he has worked with over the years, as there's tons more people, from some dance pop stuff that I was like are you serious, to some salsa-esq stuff, as Tony was bilingual.  He had so much talent, was so overlooked and under appreciated, not only for his music, but for his food.

Yummy.  Thank you for feeding me, Tony.  Thanks for the black depression glass, Denise.

Yeah, there's a book of our text messages.  That's the fucked up part.  Denise called it.

When I had first started talking with Tony on the regular, it was because Jimmy Bowers had suggested writing a book about New Orleans musicians, and of all of them, Tony was the only one who sat down and agreed to talk with me about the book.  Once I interviewed, he said, "we should do this every night."  That's how it started, that simply, and we just started talking on the phone every night after.

I went out to Cali and Vegas for my 29th birthday with one of my best friends, and she knew that I was seriously talking to this guy, thinking of moving out to Vegas to be with him, talking marriage and all.  Unfortunately, I think I was more serious than he was, or he didn't understand my jealous issues really.  Some might say it was him having his head between my friend's legs on my bed in the hotel that did it, but when we flew out, and he texted her, instead of me, that was enough for me to call it all off totally.

I'm a taurus.  I'm hard-headed.  I wasn't budging.

He took the hint.  He went off and married someone else.  We never stopped talking.

Even while he was married, my postcards for my books were on his fridge.  He sent me pictures of them, as he wanted to prove to me that his wife knew who I was when they were married.  We didn't talk a whole lot when he was married, but as soon as it was ending, before she left, we were talking.

We'd talk until he died.  He kept trying to prove to me that he really cared.  He kept fighting.

Ultimately, I didn't think I was good enough.  He knew it.  That's why he said that to me.

He didn't want me to regret like he did.  I'm crying now.  I try not to.

He left me with his book.  His mom called it.  She told me sometime back by my 29th birthday that a psychic had told her about me; she knew I was the one the psychic meant: I'd write her son's book.  

She said the psychic had told her that a girl would write her son's book before she died.  She specifically told me back then that, "nobody would know who you were," and we both meant that it was to mean like I was not famous, like I was an unknown author, and I was, I still am, but it means more.  See, when he died, it's not like people knew we talked every night, as only his mother knew.

It's like we had some Hollywood showboat relationship.  We were not in the tabloids.  We were not even with each other most of the time, as we lived on opposite sides of the country from each other.

When he died, nobody knew who I was all right, nobody but his mother.  None of his friends knew me.  I had heard plenty of tales about them, but I didn't need to meet them, as I didn't live nearby.

I guess he did not tell them tales about me.  They all kinda looked at me like who is this chick?  Nobody knew who I was, except for one fan of Tony's who suggested I put together a book of whatever text messages I could find from him through the years, and I did that, compiling An Unknown Love.

That's not even the book he left me with.  That's just our extra blubberings.  The real book I'm holding.

I've been holding onto it for more than a decade.  I will continue to do so, until I'm ready.  The one thing I learned when I was earning my Master's in Writing from the Johns Hopkins University is that if it hurts to write, if it brings you to tears to write it, you know that's when you've tapped into the good.

No, it's not about Machine Head.  Sorry, but I told on Rob on Twitter that he wrote himself out of the book, and I meant it.  It's more about tony growing up with the likes of Mitch Harris and Ahrue Luster.

You'll see it one day.  The book's been done.  I might just need to write it as a movie one of these days.

Until then, check out the latest on www.outlandishwriter.com.  Follow me on Twitter @Booksnbling or on Instagram @Thorisaz.  You can also visit www.lulu.com/spotlight/thorisaz

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