Ghost In The Graveyard

Have you ever teetered on the edge of starting something new? Of stepping out of your comfort zone to try something that there was a good likelihood you would fail at? I was spending time pondering these thoughts recently when the game of ghosts in the graveyard came to mind. I wasn’t sure why at first. And even though I remembered playing it as a child, and that it was some type of tag game, I couldn’t remember the rules. 

Here’s a brief primer in case you can’t remember either: One person is the ghost (or it) and finds a hiding spot while all the other players cover their eyes and count to 50 while still at base. Then the group tries to find the ghost. The first person to find the ghost yells, “Ghost in the Graveyard!” At this point all the players try to race back to base, while the ghost tries to tag one of them. If a player gets tagged they become the next ghost. If the ghost fails to tag anyone they become the ghost again.

The reason behind my recollection of this childhood game was my impending visits to several local graveyards. Having grown up in the suburbs of Philadelphia I was surrounded by what can be categorized as ancient history by American standards. When I drive in the area there now I always enjoy seeing colonial-era homes that I ignored as a young person as simply the surroundings of my super-important life. I even grew up a stone's throw away from the site of a major Revolutionary War battle, the Battle of Brandywine. 

Now, having lived in Wisconsin for the past twenty or so years, I find it difficult to find historical meaning in a state that was not incorporated into the Union until 1848. However, for several years now I’ve had a literal passing interest in two sites that I drive by on a semi regular basis…both graveyards. 

The first is a graveyard which looks to be on the property of a nearby school. There is a small sign that faces directly towards the roadway and speaks about it marking the site of a Revolutionary War veteran. That is all I had been able to previously decipher while driving by at 35 miles per hour.

Below are a few pictures of this graveyard from when I visited the other day. It was reasonably well kept and even had new-ish American flags placed by some of the headstones. I tried in vain to find the grave of Nathan Hatch, the Revolutionary War veteran buried here. The oldest gravestones were weathered to the point of being illegible. 

The second graveyard is directly across the street from a restaurant we frequent. There is a large marker labeling it “Pioneer Cemetery of Brookfield.” Again, that is all I could ever make out from across the street. 

Upon visiting this site I immediately found it more interesting than the first cemetery. It encompassed a much larger tract of land and there were varying types of headstones placed haphazardly around a bumpy landscape. In my experience most cemeteries seem to be on at least somewhat flat ground. As with the first site many of the old headstones were unreadable. 

Like the previous cemetery this one had some fresh, small American flags placed by a few headstones. I was able to read a few…one was a World War 1 veteran. I also stumbled upon a family buried together. There was one large obelisk marking the father, then three much smaller (about a foot high) headstones marking “wife,” “son,” and “daughter.” Apparently those three weren’t important enough to merit having their names on their own graves.

The most interesting thing that happened to me as I walked around those graveyards was the epiphany I had towards the end of my visits. Those initially vague memories of playing the ghosts in the graveyard game as a boy crystallized. Gone were the hazy thoughts of running around scared in a dark graveyard. 

In its place came a different kind of fear. A fear of failure and humiliation. Then it dawned on me: I never found the ghost when I played as a boy. I was always afraid to be too far away from base when the words “ghost in the graveyard” were screamed out. Afraid that there would be too much space between me and base and that inevitably I would be tagged and become the new ghost. And then have to be the ghost over and over again because I was too slow to catch anyone else.

Another memory about this game is the people that seemed to invite becoming the ghost. It was almost as if they dared the ghost to tag them and relished in the opportunity to chase again. To test their mettle and see how they fared in battle. 

Of all of those perished souls in the cemeteries I visited I wondered how many were the chasers and how many were the chasees. And then it dawned on me that it doesn’t matter. They're all dead. They’ve been dead for decades and centuries. 

The symbolism in these remembrances for me is striking as it relates to me trying to make a go of this writing thing. If I stay close to base I can’t ever be the ghost. I.E., if I don’t ever try to get my work published I can’t ever fail at being a writer. I can’t ever be laughed at for being the fat kid that spent the entire night as ghost.

But also if I stay close to base I miss the thrill of the chase. The opportunity to truly be a part of something. I miss the satisfaction of seeing my hard work come to fruition. I miss the joy in working hard, failing, and trying again. In a hundred years no one will care either way so why not step into the fray? If I fail, so what. I’ve failed before. It’s not that scary after all.