Humans always seem to be “hunting” for something. I don”t mean just the literal hunt for game. Southerners may “hunt” for our lost keys, or a great parking spot or a new job.
Sometimes those quests take on the importance of (almost) epic proportions; an odyssey that turns into a passionate mission.
I have some friends who are on a search for the perfect banana split. They travel together, and sample one in every city they visit. I have been longing for the perfect oatmeal cookie. My mission may be impossible, because what I am really craving is a cookie made by my mother many, many years ago. Alas, Mrs. Fields or Famous Amos, no matter how good, are just not the same.
The hunt alone can be rewarding, even if nothing tangible is discovered. Archeologists may toil for years with meager results. That is backbreaking work. I cannot imagine how hard it must be to crouch in a desolate tract, dusting the sand with brushes. For most scientists the results are few. The investigation motivates them.
Recently, Chris, Miss Moonpie and I went on a ghost hunt in Friendship Cemetery. A small group of very serious hunters was led by Monica Adams. She is the founder of GEMS (Ghostly Encounters of Mississippi), and the most professional in our area.
We had received special permission from the Columbus Police Department and were loaned a key to the gates. We met late on a full moon night in mid-July. There was an unexpected coolness in the air, and excitement swirled around us.
We all knew the rules: wear dark colors, no flashy jewelry (because it may interfere with the photography), bring a flashlight and an open mind. We were instructed to show respect for the spirits. This was no group of silly teens trying to scare each other.
I expected to be more anxious or fearful. But, entering the cemetery with three men and four women, all adults, was quite comforting. We had all had some experience with the paranormal and were believers.
Our mission that evening was to investigate the grave site of a particular family. We had been contacted by the current owners of a home to see if we could learn anything about the long-dead owners.
Monica began by speaking softly into a tape recorder, asking questions such as, “Is anyone here?” The moon was brilliant. It splashed bright slashes of light across our faces and the tombstones” angels and columns. I turned off my flashlight and moved deeper into the shadows of an ancient magnolia.
Some of the men had wandered from the group on their own personal expeditions. Perhaps the ghosts were more comfortable with the women. We soon smelled the aroma of pipe tobacco. It had the distinct fragrance of cherries.
As the men of our group returned, one by one, they asked, “Is anyone smoking?” We all described the same scent.
As it turns out, one of the home”s original owners was known to smoke a cherry-flavored tobacco in his pipe. We feel sure he was greeting us.
Later, Monica and another woman in our team stood quietly among the graves of Civil War soldiers. “Adele, Cherri, come here,” they called. Looking down the bluff, where the land slips into the river, silhouettes shifted slowly between the trees.
Soon the pipe tobacco surrounded us again, although we were far from the grave we had gone to investigate. “He followed us,” Monica explained. “He does not want us near the soldiers.” Was he trying to protect us? Perhaps he was jealous that the attention was no longer on him.
That night we were in the cemetery for only a few hours. We got some amazing photos of orbs, especially around the head of one of the women. I regret that we did not stay longer. There”s always a next time. This was a hunt that, even though not to all tastes, was fascinating to our GEMS group.
I wish all my readers much success on their searches, whether for big game, employment, or just an oatmeal cookie.
“Focus on the journey, not the destination. Joy is found not in finishing an activity but in doing it.” — Greg Anderson
Adele Elliott, a New Orleans native, moved to Columbus after Hurricane Katrina.
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