Ghost Towns

                                                                     Out of the Box

                                                                            Part II

Out on the high plains of the American West, there is a peculiar quality of light that throws everything into stark relief.

It is a starkness that has played across the minds of writers and artists of all ilks and abilities; a starkness that is inseparable from both the paintings of Georgia O’Keeffe and the cinematography of Western melodramas.

It is a place of sharp contrasts.

Unfamiliar to those of us who come from more temperate climes, that place out west,  where the low humidity and the thinness of the atmosphere is bested only by a lunar landscape.

Unfamiliar to those of us who come from more temperate climes, that place out west, where a few years of exposure to extreme desiccation and massive doses of ultraviolet light will begin the process of reducing the skin to living leather.

It is a place of stark relief, out there, that shows no mercy in presenting, for our eyes, their lost ghost towns.

*

Unfamiliar to those of us who come from more temperate climes, where abandoned dwellings are quickly swallowed by lush growth, where the mildew and the mushrooms and the other decomposers quickly do their task.

In that place of stark relief, all remains are dried and baked into skeletal frameworks, while less-hardy materials are turned to a powder that is dispersed by the wind.

So it is with these ghost towns, where the present testament may be, simply, an empty frame; a rudimentary sketch of a cube or a rectangle, devoid of walls, roof, furniture or any of the accoutrements of daily living save, perhaps, a set of stairs that lead to nowhere.

Houses, perhaps, and a string of storefronts, a bank, a church…

Stripped of everything save clearly established boundaries and lines of demarcation.

Clear in outline yet spare in substance.

Ghosts of buildings, one might say.

Populated, one might say, by ghosts of people.

Ghosts.

Those great respecters of frames, howsoever empty, that mark the lines of their former and present haunts.

Those great respecters of frames, howsoever empty, who are loathe to leave those places where the angles meet neatly.

Those great respecters of frames, howsoever empty, who can fathom no dimension beyond the limits of the three-dimensional cells of their own devising.

Ghosts.

Clear in outline yet spare in substance.

Out on the high plains of the American West, they resemble the barren towns in which they reside.

*

A resemblance that was apparent even in life.

That is not a nice reflection.

But the American West was not nice, and all of the warm and fuzzy romance about the place cannot withstand the direct glance of it’s elements.

For a simple reading of those elements will tell you that this is a harsh place, where only a rare confluence of resources can make life or community sustainable for any significant length of time.

A reading that was overlooked by those who bought into the lies of those who speculated in real estate and precious metal mines.

A reading that was overlooked by those who bought into the airy fabrication that they would do so much better.

A reading that was overlooked by those who became suddenly and completely consumed by their place, their claim, their stake.

A reading that was overlooked by those who became as insubstantial as the airy fabrications that they had swallowed…

…hanging onto what was theirs, even past death…

…or, when the water or metals dried up, flitting elsewhere, like the living shades that they had become, to a new place, a new claim, a new stake…

…fairing little better, perhaps, than those undead shades that were left behind; condemned to repeat the past, fit only to breed a succession of ghost towns until such time as they, themselves, devolved into shades, haunting the one small box that they had worked so mightily to re-create in so many places.

There were few real communities here, in spite of their semblance, in spite of their neatly ordered streets and thoughtfully laid out designs.

They were ghost towns, even in life; built on sand, and haunted by the thinnest of shades.

*

There is a conventional piece of wisdom about horror stories that is easily forgotten, as we shiver in fear at the specters that jump out at us from the page or the screen.

This wisdom pertains to stories of ghosts, vampires, werewolves, patched-together monsters and other things.

The most horrifying realization is that we, the readers, are those creatures.

We are the vampires; we are the werewolves; we are the patched-together monsters.

We are the ghosts.

Beneath the shiver of fear lies the shock of recognition.

For we know those ways of being; we know those ways of getting.

So it is with us, as we artfully dwell in communities that serve our purposes first, while paying lip-service to love and neighborhood; so it is with us, as we invest a considerable chunk of ourselves in a place as an investment, expecting full and complete pay-back; so it is with us, whether we depart lightly like fly-boys or remain behind in our lies, living, in either case, like ghosts who will not leave the limits of their own design.

We are the ghosts.

So it is with us, as we cling tenaciously to any framed perspective that somebody has said was true or important; so it is even for those of us who cling tenaciously to any framed perspective about Jesus Christ that somebody has said was true or important, while professing astonishment at the prospect of any “lost soul”, whether in life or in the realm of the undead, that has refused to “move toward the light“.

We are the ghosts.

*

Out on the high plains of the American West, there is a peculiar quality of light that throws everything into stark relief.

It is a starkness that plays across the minds of all who view it; a starkness that draws attention to itself and to all that is illuminated by it; a starkness that suggests that there is something important to be seen here.

Viewing a ghost town, some may reflect on the temporality of human endeavors; some may reflect on the passion of those who came there; some may reflect on the endless

outpouring of the American Spirit.

Yet, regardless of the specific reflection, most come away with a sense of vague melancholy.

But the American West was not nice, and all of the warm and fuzzy romance about the place cannot withstand the direct glance of it’s elements.

I regret to say that my reflections are not nearly so sentimental.

In pondering those scenes, I am lead to a rather more stark conclusion.

A conclusion that comes from the experience of my family, for I count among my ancestors those who thrived in successful towns on the frontier, those who died in gold-rush ghost towns on the frontier and those who died in towns of no particular renown on the frontier.

And, like most of us, I count among my ancestors those whose gullibility and prejudice is rivaled only by my own.

My conclusion?

What a price to pay to wind up like that.

*

What a price to pay to wind up like that.

To buy into a line of garbage and find oneself reduced to an insatiable fly-boy or a perpetual undead, locked inside a set of limits that one has claimed for one’s self.

I think that our biblical parents might have better advise to offer to us.

Be careful what you swallow.

For Adam and Eve were quite content to be who they were until someone suggested something that was said to be important, couched in an apparently delicious yet truly nasty set of alternatives.

Forget the fruit.

That may have been the first successfully-framed debate in human history.

What a price to pay to wind up like that.

*

I regret to say that my reflections are not nearly so sentimental.

In pondering those scenes, I am lead to a rather more stark conclusion.

Oh, for heaven’s sake.

If you seek fame and fortune, then seek it.

But don’t leave a mockery of a town in your wake.

If you seek Jesus Christ, then seek him.

But don’t leave a mockery of a community in your wake.

Much less a mockery of a church.

In either case, travel lightly; spare the next generation their rightly-felt pathos when they stumble across your leavings.

And go easy with those walls.

Go easy with those frameworks.

For they will partition some from others.

And they will partition you from others.

They don’t need to be a part of your legacy, for whether you seek fame, fortune or Jesus Christ, your legacy should be among the living and not among the dead.

In life, those walls will mark the confines of your perspective.

In death, those walls will mark, as the ghost hunters may say, the confines of your haunt.

Wherein you may dwell in the house of yourself forever.

*

I post new articles twice-monthly in “Author’s Corner”.

If you live in or near the Lakes Region of New Hampshire, and you would be interested in meeting with others for discussion and/or prayer, please contact me at rob@towarddawn.org.  All are welcome, regardless of identity or personal choices.  Please understand that I do not have the resources to guarantee that I will be able to read or respond to all other correspondence.

Toward Dawn is a privately-funded outreach, and it neither solicits nor accepts contributions.

                                                                                                                                                              Rob Wright

Rob Wright holds advanced degrees in education and performing arts, and he has been a professional teacher for over sixteen years.  In his home denomination, he has served as a lay minister in liturgical, educational and ecumenical activities.  He lives in the Lakes Region of New Hampshire with his spouse of twenty years and their daughter.