The knot of trees blocked out the sun. Ominous stones stood among the bushes, each one holding a story. We crept quietly at first off the small path. It wasn’t meant to be a foot path, but a small road that belonged to whomever owned the property.
We were trespassing.
I didn’t know what trespassing was. Old Red Socks didn’t believe in the concept thus didn’t teach it to me.
It was a brisk fall day. I had on my little pink and gray checkered coat. The fence was barbed behind the house. My dad took off his members only jacket and threw it over one of the wire strands, pushing down.
“Go ahead Jennifah, we’re going to go exploring!”
I was by no means graceful, but I made through without snagging myself. We tromped through the field and headed toward the cluster of trees.
Now whether be previously had stumbled upon this place, or if this was his first discovery as well – I cannot say. The birds were quiet, and it was eerie beneath the canopy.
“Do you see that Jennifah? It’s an Indian grave yard!”
“Really?” I remember breathing. I bounded over to one of the headstones and he quickly called me back over.
“No, no, no… they’re haunted!” I froze and looked around. “In fact, this whole place is. We should get outah heeah.” I agreed quickly and we continued on to explore the fields between Beech Glenn and the gravel company.
Thinking back to that day – it occurs to me that the headstones wouldn’t have necessarily (or even most likely) Indian in nature. They are (or were as of nine years ago) still in the same place. The world grew up around them, but the person who bought the property put a little double wide mobile home just on the outside edge of the trees.
Next time we get a chance to visit, I’ll have to do a little sneaking on property and see if they’re still there. What? I learned from the best didn’t I?