OCR Text |
Show Volume II, Issue XX THE OGDEN VALLEY NEWS Page 3 October 15, 2000 My Own Ghost Stories By Lorine Murtagh When I was a young girl growing up in the high, mountain desert country of western Utah, my father and mother filled my sisters’ and my mind with “spirit” stories—how the dead could come back and talk about old times, pass out warnings, give advice, or just let their loved ones and friends know they were “doing just fine.” When a person is young and impressionable, “spirit” stories aren’t what one wants to hear just before going to sleep. Together with my twin sister and older sister, I slept in a creaky old double bed. I seemed to be the most easily spooked of the three of us and opted to sleep in the middle each night. As soon as my father shut our bedroom door and turned off the light, we’d all agree that the religious picture on the wall opposite our bed would mysteriously transform from a shepherd sitting on a hillside tending his flock to some figure who had the exact likeness of the devil—horns, beady, wicked-looking eyes, pitch fork in hand, a perfectly trimmed beard and mustache, singed black clothing. You get the picture, a less than reputable televangelist type. We lost a lot of sleep as we lay in our bed frozen by fright. I don’t know how I stayed awake in school each day. We told our mother about this nightly occurrence. “It’s your conscience,” she said, “telling you you’ve done something wrong.” We wracked our brains trying to come up with a sin that would justify the signal from above . . . remember, we were young. We decid- ed, ingeniously, to take the picture off the wall, and the devil no longer came back for his nightly visit. Our sleepless nights ended–that is, until grandma came to stay with us after grandpa died. On her first night as she was retiring, grandma informed all of us she didn’t want to sleep alone. She also mentioned that her beloved husband usually came to see her each night and tell her of their beautiful brick home in heaven, with its lovely flowers and white picket fence. Need I tell you the sisterly trio immediately went out on the porch and drew straws to see who would be sleeping with grandma. None of us cared to snuggle with her and be forced to witness the heavenly visitation. After much scratching and hair pulling, the short straw loser was wished a good night. On the nights I lost, grandma would have me say long prayers with her as she beckoned a visit from grandpa. I’d rise from the prayer position with shaking knees and chattering teeth—so scared I could hardly breathe. I asked her, “What time does grandpa usually show up?” She thought I was making fun of her and gave me a light smack on the head. Despite long nights of ragged, cold sweat anxiousness, grandpa never did appear. Maybe the kind soul knew his presence would absolutely undo his granddaughters’ sanity. Another childhood “scare the pants off me” story I’ve carried into my adult years was recited by my Uncle Bud from Idaho. He was jerked awake early one morning and saw the devil standing at the foot of his bed. His wife was slumbering peacefully next to him, unaware of this demonic presence intruding in their bedroom. Uncle Bud was about to take a position of extreme importance in the community and the devil came to deliver a threatening message: “If you take the position, dire consequences will follow!” Satan departed, but not before he’d turned down the bedding of all eight of uncle’s sleeping children. At the foot of each bed the archfiend had made a perfect bedroll, leaving each child exposed to the cold morning air. The message in this incident and numerous others was surely that something would happen to his children should he accept the new post. Uncle Bud finally took the prestigious job (though not without some sleepless nights, I imagine), never to see the devil again. In my innocence, I asked him how the devil’s horns looked, the length of his tail, and to describe every detail of his dress and manner to me. To my child’s mind, Uncle Bud was “Zoro,” to have so nobly dueled the devil and put him in his place. Does anyone remember “outhouses” and the vital function they served, pre-indoor plumbing? Our family used one until I was eight years old. Our outhouse was located about fifty yards from the house, next to a large creek closely resembling the Ogden River. Each night our parents would send us “one last time before going to bed” to the outdoor cranny. From Halloween on, it was especially frightening because it was dark by the time we went to bed, not to mention cold, and wild animals followed the creek on their nightly prowls. The three “sistyuglers,” as we called ourselves in fun (you remember the ugly sisters from Cinderella), began a nightly routine of singing very loudly up the path to the outhouse to scare off whatever was out there. Two of us would stand guard outside the door of the outhouse like small sentries while each took their turn on the “one holder.” The two guards provided security and felt they were being very brave in protecting their beloved sister on the throne. They had no weapon to use, but they had each other. The throne sitter, meanwhile, felt a sense of safety from the elements and the perils outside. One night during a winter snowstorm the wind blew snow and ice in and froze the door of the palace. There I was, last to be on the throne, and I could hear my siblings’ teeth chattering, their howling that the wind was blowing their robes off them. I hurriedly jumped off and tried to exit the ice-encrusted door, to no avail. This was my darkest hour. I could be brave no longer. The darkness contributed to my terror; there was no electricity, and my subjects were too weak to open the door and too loyal to leave me and run the fifty yards to the house for help. The noise coming from me began with a sigh, elevated to a whimper, and ended up being a jumping-up-anddown continual loud scream! My sisters were also afraid to go to the house because they knew better than to wake up father after he was already asleep, because, “Someone’s got to go to work in this family!” Also, town rumors GHOST cont’d on page 4 ACTIVE REPRESENTATION IS —————-Making a difference... Grant Protzman served 10 years in the Utah House of Representatives and was honored to be elected (not appointed) by his fellow Legislators to House Leadership positions for 6 years. As a Legislator Grant developed many important pieces of legislation rather than just sponsoring committee bills where others do most of the work. Grant is a moderate who works well with both parties, illustrated by his work with Governor Leavitt in 1995 developing and successfully sponsoring one of the most extensive government reorganizations in Utah history. This legislation changed the focus of traditional welfare programs into job preparation programs. His experience on the Executive Appropriations Committee provided unique insight into Utah finances. Grant received recognition as “Outstanding Legislator” or “Legislator of the Year by 12 different organizations. In 1995 he shared the “Taxpayer Advocate Award” given by the Utah Tax Payers Association (which rarely honors Democrats) but his most cherished legislative honor was the “Statesmanship Legacy Award” given by the Utah Schools for the Deaf and Blind. Put Grant’s superior experience to work for you. Bring your family for refreshments and an informal citizenship discussion with Grant Protzman at the Ogden Valley Library on October 17th at 7:30 p.m. and on October 18th & 20th at Old Firehouse Child Care located at 5554 East 2200 North in Eden at 7:30 p.m. |