"I Have Felt a Presence in the Cemetery"

Julie Esty

This week on The Cemetery Traveler I present a guest writer, my good friend Julie Esty. Julie heads up the annual theatrical production The Dunmore [Pennsylvania] Cemetery Tour and is herself one of the Dearly Departed Players who brings the tour to life. With Halloween just around the corner, I think you’ll enjoy this!

 (I’ve added my photos to her text, which were taken in the Dunmore Cemetery.)

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In the spirit of the approaching holiday, your host and fellow taphophile Ed Snyder has asked me to share with his readers my “otherworldly” experiences.  As a historian I have spent the better part of my life in cemeteries, as well as handling funerary ephemera and memorabilia.  For this reason I am constantly questioned about the existence of ghosts.  Unfortunately, I have no tales to relay that will strike fear in your hearts or send chills down your spine. My story is one of comfort, solace and hope.

For me the word “ghost” summons images of Dan Ackroyd in full ghostbusting regalia chasing ectoplasmic blobs.  In cemeteries I have seen no such thing, no ectoplasm, no ghosts and certainly no Dan Ackroyd.

From funerary objects there has been nothing.  No flashes, haunts, spirits of the dead or glimpses of an afterlife.  Perhaps this is because many of the objects were held by the skillful hands of an undertaker, a man or woman who took pride in their task of aiding the mortal remains of the deceased to their eternal rest.

Have I gotten a glimpse of what lies beyond the veil that separates this life from the next?  I would like to think that I have not only seen it but felt, heard and smelled it.  The experiences have come without the aid of microphones, meters or modern technology.  All encounters have taken place not under the cover of darkness but in the bright light of day.

Yes, on more than one occasion I have been in a cemetery in the “dead” of winter and gotten the scent of perfume from a spirit unseen.  Yes, I have heard the frantic cries of a woman perhaps seeking her lost child as I rested on a tombstone in the “Potter’s Field” section of a cemetery.  Yes, I have seen the flashes of a Union blue uniform peek from behind a tree as I tended to my research.  And yes I have felt a presence in a cemetery and received its wonderful message.

My encounter with a presence began one day as I looked up a hill in a cemetery.  There was something fixed squarely at the hill’s apex.  Initially I thought it was the sun reflecting off a tombstone but realized whatever it was it was definitely not a reflection.  Whatever “IT” was, was strong, powerful and male.  “IT” wanted something.  For more than a year I avoided that section of the cemetery and refrained from looking in its direction.  Curiosity always got the better of me.  Eventually I would look and the presence was there, silently occupying its position on the hill.  When it became obvious that the presence was not going to go away I resolved to find out exactly what it was and wanted. 

I spent the next year and a half on that hill.  There was something “IT” wanted me to know, I just had to figure out what that was.  In the autumn I watched the leaves cover the hill.  In the winter I sat in the car and gazed at snow.  In the spring I watched the trees bud and flowers bloom.  No closer to an answer with the coming of summer, finally I trudged up the hill and stood silently staring off into the cemetery damning myself for not be able to figure it out.  And then – someone tapped me on the shoulder.  I turned around expecting to see a cemetery visitor seeking the grave of an ancestor but there was no one there.  It was then that all became very clear.  I had been looking in the wrong direction and needed to turn around.  Within days of the shoulder tap, the story and message “IT” wanted me to know unfolded.

While the tale is much to lengthy to relay here, I will tell you it involved a group of men, strong, strong powerful men who formed a bond of loyalty, friendship and love well over one hundred years ago.  The placement of their eartly remains created a symbol and coincided with the rising and setting of the sun and cycles of the moon.  In life the men had met regularly by the light of a full moon, not for any supernatural reason, but for strengthening their bonds of friendship.  In death, they still meet by that lunar light.  The position of their final resting places leaves a tangible message that in life these men were united and in death their bond would remain unbroken.

What I learned from this group of men from years gone by is that as surely as the autumn leaves flit to the cold ground in their dance of death, life will again flourish as it does every Spring - and go on in this life and the hereafter.  No ectoplasmic masses, orbs or strange mists have crossed my path in a cemetery.  I have seen only goodness, love and light shining brightly through the veil that separates this life from the next.  

Further reading and reference: 

The Dunmore Cemetery Tour on Facebook
The Dearly Departed Players on Facebook
Julie Esty's first book, "Stories in Stone," is shown below. Her latest, “Murder in Scranton: A Trilogy,” details four murders in three stories. It is available by contacting Julie at elzbththrn@aol.com.

Order Julie Esty's book, Stories in Stone

Cemetery Exploring: Scranton PA and its Environs

It seems I’ll be allowed to go on being Ed Snyder for a while longer. Just got home from having surgery on my inner ear and am waiting for the power headaches to kick in. Pass the Darvocet, please. As I write this, I’m flying higher than angels.

When you go under general anesthesia, you’re never a hundred percent sure you’ll wake up, you know? (That is, unless you checked the appropriate box on the “Advanced Directive” form.) But hey, aren’t these the best conditions under which to write a cemetery blog? I certainly can’t go exploring in a local graveyard– my equilibrium is off and I might fall over a cliff or something. Boneyards around here are like that. Of the literally scores of them in the Philadelphia area, many are not kept up that well. There are the ones with sunken graves, open crypts, tombstones spilling into the river, the ones with dealers and hookers and burned out cars, voodoo offerings and long rusty saws and knives hidden in weeds. As for this last one, I’m not referring to the self-defense weaponry with which I typically arm myself when I explore such places. I’m referring to the giant carving knife I found stuck inside a child’s grave monument (shown above) in an abandoned Philadelphia cemetery. Intertwined with the memorial ’s faded and soggy stuffed animals was a melon vine. So I’m sure some homeless guy was using the knife only for good. The only thing worse than abandoned cemeteries is abandoned people.

Too bad you don’t dream under anesthesia. You have no brain capacity for that − they basically kill you, while keeping you alive. Thanks to Tommy for that comforting thought, and for driving me to the hospital this morn − Whoops – I was listing to port for a moment there, felt a bit of my brains leaking out my ear. Better right myself and prop up with some pillows. There. Any “Distance Reiki” practitioners out there willing to send some positive energy my way?

I need to recuperate well, you see, and not lose any white matter. The Cemetery Traveler will be heading up to Scranton, PA in a few weeks and he needs all his faculties. He also plans to stop talking in the third person, as it gets on his nerves. I was offered a spot at St. Luke’s Church as an exhibitor during Scranton’s First Friday Art Walk for November. I will be showing my photography (prints framed and unframed), greeting cards, and books – all for sale. As it will be in a church, I may need to go easy with my usual tongue-in-cheek banner ads, like “Death Images – Just in Time for Xmas!”

I don’t have a lot of work from the Scranton area (even though I grew up around there), but I do intend to show some of the images sprinkled throughout this article from the nearby towns of Wilkes-Barre and associated environs. In fact, my signature image, “Folded Hands” (which you see at the beginning of this article, on my Facebook page, business cards, and the cover of my “Stone Angels” book) was made in the Exeter Cemetery, across the Susquehanna River from Wilkes-Barre. I shot it some years ago around seven o’clock one misty morning, roughly twenty minutes after I left a sleeping woman in bed to zip back to Philadelphia. As I closed her locked front door behind me, I realized I left four pounds of fresh Polish kielbasa in her freezer. Damn!

Slovak Cemetery, Exeter, PA

Occasionally I post images on the Facebook page, “Cemetery Iron,” like this gate from the Exeter cemetery. (“Cintorin” is Slovak for ‘cemetery.’) The wrought iron fencing reminds me that for the next few months, all my food will have a metallic taste. Side-effect of the stapedctomy (ear surgery). My doting wife Jill just allowed me to devour a hot dog, which tasted much like one would expect a piece of cemetery iron to taste, were it served up on a bun. Maybe later, I’ll try a metallic Nutella sandwich.

Oww! Sorry − just tore off an errant ECG electrode they left on my right leg. Funny how when they were monitoring my vital signs, they complimented me on how “normal” I was! Hah! Me! Normal! If only they were to read this blog! Anyway, I’m glad I had the bionic ear installed (my hearing acuity will be so amazing I’ll be able to hear what people are thinking! Imagine that.). A benefit of hearing well is that when I do shows now and meet people face-to-face, I’ll actually be able to hear what you’re saying (instead of faking it, as I’ve been doing.  No that’s not true – I’ve learned to read lips. Again, not true. I can kind of hear, but I do sometimes allow my imagination to fill in the gaps. Much like how I write, since my memory is less than perfect. I’ve had considerable hearing loss since I was twenty years old, when I spent way too much time next to the PA speakers at several KISS concerts. I’ve also come to suspect that my parents may have dropped me on the head as a small child.

So anyway, while in Scranton for the Art Event, I intend to spend some time in the nearby Dunmore Cemetery, as recommended by my Facebook Friend,Wendy Conrad Belaski, who is a member of  The Dearly Departed Players (who give tours of the cemetery while reenacting the personalities buried there).

Angel, Hollenback Cemetery

Another favorite graveyard of mine in the area is the Hollenback Cemetery, which is across the street from the Wilkes-Barre General Hospital (click here for a view of its rather unique entryway). My Dad died there in 2004 (the hospital, not the cemetery). Hollenback is a quaint old hilly Victorian cemetery along the river, which is where I shot this angel. As for the cemetery where my Dad‘s ashes reside, that’s an unassuming little back-mountain graveyard in an area north of Wilkes-Barre that is so “out there” it’s just called the “Back Mountain.” I don’t believe there’s even a town associated with it, just a sand pit.

"Damaged Woman with Dog"

Here’s a photo a little statue near my Dad’s grave. Looks like the woman had some surgery done to her head. Which prompts me to break here and apologize since I, your favorite content provider, seem to be jumping around a bit, ah, content-wise. It’s the drugs. But hey, if it worked for Hunter Thompson (Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas, etc.), should work for me, right? Gee, I wonder if Microsoft Word has a plug-in for correcting dyslexic text? (Try to say that quickly three times! .. or just ONCE, actually…) It’s taking me much longer than usual to type this article since the effector neurons sending impulses from my brain to my fingers seem to be regularly misfiring. Have to keep going back to make corrections. Maybe I’ll lighten up on the next load of painnkilerz.

"Old Man"

You look at pictures like this “Old Man”  (double-exposed and cross-processed Ektachrome) from the Hollenback Cemetery, and you wonder if this guy had anything to live for when he reached the stage in his life when the sculpture was made.  Me, I certainly do have a lot to live for and to be thankful for – a wonderful wife, four lovely children. Oh, and the ability to go on being Ed Snyder for a while longer, until my peep-hole into the world is finally closed, as Kurt Vonnegut would say (or said, rather, as he’s dead). Vonnugut’s work, by the way, is one of the few things you can read when you’re drugged up and loopy, and still have it all make sense! This last image is for him:

Epitaph, Hollenback Cemetery, Wilkes-Barre, Pennsylvania