Charyl Says


Then and Now

I’ve always found side-by-side comparisons of the past and the present intriguing. It sets the mind to contemplating time, history, and how we energetically imprint ourselves on our surroundings.  I could spend hours exploring sites like What Was There and have even attempted a few of my own “then and now” photographic representations.  Perhaps I’m biased, but this is one of my favorites: a house on the west side of Pana (Illinois) that has been in my family for over 100 years.  I spent my teenage years in this house and my parents still live there.  My grandfather is one of the boys sitting in the front; he was 94 when he passed away in 2010.  The picture on the left was taken in 1918 and the right in 2015 (click to enlarge):

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Surnames associated: Denbow, Johnson, Jones, Castle, Mack, Tarvin, Beebe, Wolf, and Todd.

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Old State Burial Ground (Illinois)
December 3, 2013, 12:28 am
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The small city of Vandalia in Central Illinois is one of the first capitols of the state.  It’s also one of the first places Abraham Lincoln practiced law and politics (before the capitol moved to the its current location in Springfield).  There are a handful of interesting and historic places to visit in Vandalia.  Probably the most well-known is that of the Old State Capitol building, as well as the Highway 40 monument and interpretive center; but another interesting spot that some may overlook is that of the Old State Burial Ground/Cemetery.

In 1823 a plot of land was set aside near the capitol to bury those who happened to die while serving in the legislature.   A handful of notable politicians, businessmen, and war heroes call this ground their final resting place (though most interred here are regular citizens).  For more detailed information about the burials here, visit: http://www.vandaliaillinois.com/statecemetery.html.

Recently, I visited Vandalia (as I had done many times in childhood) and took a leisurely walk through the Old Burial Ground, examining some of the old and interesting stones.  What I found most fascinating about this spot, is that Abraham Lincoln was known to have attended the funerals of some of his colleagues on the very grounds I was strolling.  Though living in two completely different centuries… mine and President Lincoln’s paths seem to be crossing often lately!

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Below are some pictures I took from the Old State Burial Ground, plus the nearby larger Vandalia community cemetery.  They are no where near representative of all the photos that could be taken of this spot, but I hope you enjoy them nonetheless.

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Another Day. Another Storm.
November 28, 2013, 8:30 pm
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(Please be sure to watch the video at the bottom of this post.)

Since childhood I’ve had a fascination with thunderstorms–especially those involving tornadic activity.  Growing up in the Midwest–and living for several years on the Atlantic Coast of Florida and in Texas (among other places)–I’ve experienced my fair share of these storms.  I know that a large thunderstorm in late Fall isn’t exactly what a person should expect to happen in this area of the country–but happen it did–on Sunday, November 17 of 2013.

It swept through a handful of states; Illinois being the hardest hit with the towns of Washington and Gifford experiencing devastating damage (to help, please visit this site: http://donate.mccormickfoundation.org/ILtornado ).  Though a small tornado was confirmed (see the Weather Service’s picture below)–thankfully, other than a row of downed power lines and some outlying damage to cars and roofs–the small town I’m currently living in (Pana) received mostly minor cosmetic and tree-related damage.

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Around noon the wind began to pick, kicking the Fall leaves upward into a frenzy.  The clouds raced by low overhead.  A scattering of rain fell from an ominously-dark sky.  There was word that a large tornado had flattened a town minutes before, just a couple of counties north.  Watches turned into warnings.  And then the eerie wail of the city’s tornado siren echoed off the houses and shot down the deserted streets.

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I sprinted across the backyard to the garage to retrieve my teenage son, grabbed my special needs daughter, my purse, and all the pets I could find and secured them safely in the basement.  But there is something about a storm… something that draws you in and dares you to stay and watch.  I decided to leave everyone underground and sneak back upstairs for a few moments.

I stood at the front door–video rolling–and waited.  I didn’t capture an actual tornado, but you can see from the drastic change in the wind and rain the moment a funnel either passed over or very close by.  It may not look like much–but according to the Weather Service these winds were around 110 mph–and were strong enough to snap and knock over a half-mile of power-lines poles a couple of blocks away:

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The winds were blowing parallel for most of the video, but at the end they suddenly shifted, coming directly at me.  It was enough to knock me backward into the house and slam the outside door in my face (no laughing at my reaction!).   I immediately shut the inside door and ran to the basement (nearly tripping over and yelling at one of the cats that had happened to sneak back upstairs).  This is partly because being suddenly thrown backward startled me—and partly over concern about the safety of the kids in the basement–but really, it was more than that.  This may sound like I’m a subscriber to animism, but every time I’ve experienced a storm–particularly hurricanes and those containing tornadic activity–there is a sense of an intelligent force; as if nature gathers its energy into an ominous, thinking beast capable of guiding itself across the landscape.  It felt like I had been watching a monster for several minutes–and at the moment the wind shifted, it turned and noticed me, charging with an almost supernatural ferocity.

For 25 years (since childhood) I’ve had variations of lucid dreams wherein I’m standing outside the house watching a storm.  Without warning, a funnel dips down from the sky directly across the street, heading right for me (and anyone else I happened to be with–which changes from dream to dream).  In the dreams, I always just barely make it underground before the swirling mass hits, destroying the house above me. In the video when the wind turned, there was an overwhelming sense that something was about to drop from the sky in front of me; that the monster from my dreams had noticed me.

Looking back I wish I had stood my ground, pushed off my instinct, and faced it.  The house was fine after all was said and done, and if I had continued to film, I may have captured the huge limb that snapped off the tree out front and covered the front lawn seconds after I shut the door.  But it is what it is.  Another day, another storm.

***As a side note… I got a call from my mother right as the storm was hitting that day.  My father was having chest pains and she had taken him to the hospital.  Most of the E.R. staff was in the basement!  They checked him out, but could find no explanation for what caused the pains.  Talk about an odd day!

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Coal Creek Cemetery

Recently my small brood and I decided to have a local mini-adventure.  There aren’t many truly adventure-worthy (and free) spots in this area of the state–but if one looks hard enough, places can be found; for us that place was Coal Creek Cemetery (AKA Mount Cemetery) a few miles outside of Pana, Illinois.  Only a couple of miles away from my deceased grandfather’s farm in rural Central Illinois, it had been childhood since I had last visited this cemetery.

A short, country drive toward the Rhodes-France Scout Reservation/Camp brought us to this cemetery.  (Click Here for a map.)  Once we arrived at the sign denoting the cemetery’s presence, we parked and began walking.  It was about a mile walk (one-way) on a grassy path between fields on a cool, but clear Fall afternoon.  The path gave way to woods which brought us to the cemetery, neatly tucked into a hidden treeline.  Even though the cemetery was overgrown with dried prairie grass, it was a beautiful place.  Old, discolored stones peeked up from the tufts of grass.  The late afternoon sun filtered through trees that were ablaze with orange and red leaves.  It wasn’t a huge cemetery–but fairly large as old rural cemeteries go.  Situated on a wooded bluff and hidden from the world, it gave off a magical feel.   I’m unsure if there are any paranormal stories associated with this graveyard (other than ones proliferated by nearby Boy Scouts sitting around campfires and teenagers out trying to find a secluded night-time spot)–but I sensed nothing untoward here.  In fact, it felt quite peaceful.   The last burial seems to have taken place in 1914, but most of the stones contain dates from throughout the 1800’s (including some war veterans).

While those buried here all seem to be ordinary folk and the stones are modest, a visit to this cemetery is a good way to get out and do something interesting, connect with the local past, get some exercise, and see some beautiful natural scenery.  Remember to be respectful of those buried here.  For more information about the burials and location visit:

http://www.findagrave.com/cgi-bin/fg.cgi?page=cr&CRid=2160511&CScnty=776&

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A Visit to the Lincoln Tomb

Even at nine in the morning the warm air bore down on me as I walked across the sun-baked cemetery lawn early in September.  Personal business had brought me to Springfield Illinois on a daily basis for several weeks, and always up for an historical jaunt (especially one involving the Civil War era), I decided to set aside some time to visit the tomb of Abraham Lincoln and family.  It’d been years since I’d last visited the site; just a child at the time.

The mugginess of the day combined with the weekday morning hour made Oak Ridge Cemetery a solitary place.  Save for a couple of elderly tourists, the occasional maintenance crewman, the insects chirping in the trees, and the thousands of silent dead—I had the place to myself.  Odd to wander through this city of the dead, surrounded by a bustling living city just outside the gates where at one time most of these people had walked in a different era; but then that’s a large part of what makes the cemetery such a magical place.

The enormous stone monument situated on a hill and adorned by a soaring obelisk and several Civil War-related statues, towered over the sea of gravestones below.  A large bronze bust of Lincoln sat on a pedestal, guarding the entrance to the fort-like tomb—it’s nose bright and shiny from the millions who have rubbed it for luck over the years.  I was no different.  Not that Lincoln had had a lucky fate as it were—but if there was any supernatural favor to be derived from the likeness of such an historical giant, who was I to shun it?

I approached the main entrance to the granite tomb.  Standing before the locked thick, metal door, I placed my hand on its surface—mentally projecting myself through the dark interior corridors where Abraham, Mary, and three of their sons lay in final repose.  The energy that returned to me through my palm, down my arm, ensconcing my shoulder blades—was one I had seldom experienced.  It wasn’t that of death, sadness, or loss—but of a solemn reverence of touching on something much deeper than myself and the small time frame in which my life currently inhabits.

I slowly walked around the curves of the monument, gently touching the rough surface—until I came to the back of the tomb.  Iron gates displaying the wreath-enclosed Lincoln surname protected a lovely stained glass inner window on the back wall, behind which the remains of one of the greatest men in history lay only feet before me.  For a few surreal moments the realization that it was just Lincoln and I there together in the quiet cemetery morning hit me.  The sun had just reached the treetops, throwing dusty beams of light across the manicured lawn.  There was nothing to say, nothing to do, but stand there and feel—take it all in.

Lincoln’s spirit has been seen many times over the centuries in a variety of places (including his tomb).  I don’t doubt this.   Factoring out deception and imagination, some sightings may simply be residuals (energy patterns imprinted on time, playing themselves out over and over); others may be the actual intelligent spirit of President Lincoln, occasionally checking up on what he cared about the most in life.  But I think there are moments where we, as ordinary people, can reach out and tune into those from history who inspire us and draw them to us—even for just a moment—no matter their location in this world (or the next).  While usually private about his beliefs, evidence has been found that Abraham Lincoln was a man of spiritual (and possibly mystical) constitution.  I am certain this concept would have agreed with him—and indeed he may have experienced supernatural and inspirational connection with those who had gone before him when staring down the troubles and extraordinarily major decisions that marked his mission while on this earth.

After a few minutes I turned and walked down a flight of stairs to the to the base of the hill wherein sat the the temporary receiving vaults used to hold Lincoln’s body during construction of the permanent tomb.  In actuality, his body was moved several times over the years (even nearly kidnapped) before it was finally laid to rest in 1874.  The receiving vault was nothing but a small, plain mausoleum built into the hillside—gates protecting the rows of individual crypts, which were covered in rust and a mildewy-green substance.  The floor was littered with decades’ worth of pennies thrown in by the many visitors paying their respects. Standing before the gates, I pondered the amount of people since Lincoln’s death in 1865 that stood in that very spot weeping, praying, and contemplating.

As I left the cemetery that morning, I felt that I had experienced something significant (as likely many others had before me); something I’ll carry with me the rest of my life.

*It should be noted that Oak Ridge Cemetery in Springfield Illinois (where the Lincoln Tomb is located) is a large cemetery of tree-lined rolling hills and winding pathways.  There are many lesser-known historical figures buried within its gates, each with a roadside marker; and there are some impressive war memorials at this location.  A small informational center stands next to the Tomb (which happened to be closed during my visit) as well. It’s worth taking another hour or two to explore the rest of what this historic burial ground has to offer.

For more information:

http://www.illinoishistory.gov/hs/lincoln_tomb.htm

http://www.oakridgecemetery.org/tour.html

Springfield is full of historic sites mostly centering around Abraham Lincoln.  For more information on those visit:

http://www.visit-springfieldillinois.com/Things-To-Do/Attractions/Historic-Sites.aspx

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The Joy of Cemeteries: visiting the Graves of Annie Oakley, Edgar Lee Masters, and Ann Rutledge

There’s something profound about visiting the grave of a legend–no matter what kind of legend he or she may be.  It’s incredible to consider that the remains of what used to be his or her body–the flesh and blood body that breathed life into and lived through what inspired historic events–lies just below your feet.  Those closest to that individual (and the many others who came after) stood where you stand; touching the stone that you touch.  Recently I made two such trips–one to the gravesite of Annie Oakley (“Little Sureshot”) and the other to the final resting place of Ann Rutledge (said to be Abraham Lincoln’s first sweetheart).

Phoebe Moses–or Annie Oakley, as she was known to the public– is buried in a small, country graveyard called Brock Cemetery just north of Greenville Ohio–the area where she lived much of her life.  Born in 1860, she died in 1926 of complications from anemia.  (Note: If you are unfamiliar with Annie’s notoriety, visit this link: http://www.annieoakleyfoundation.org/life.html )

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It was a beautiful May afternoon when I pulled into the cemetery and parked alongside her gravestone, flanked by a State of Ohio historical marker.  Surrounded by fields dotted by the occasional farmhouse and patch of woods, the brilliant blue of the sky gave way to the greens and browns of the earth below.  I stood alone in the graveyard taking in the scenery, watching the leaves and grass sway gently in the breeze.  Closing my eyes for  a moment, I listened to the birds and breathed in the heady air.  In its simplicity it was as beautiful of a resting place (if not more) as any dark and extravagant mausoleum.

Approaching her gravestone, I slowly placed my hand on its rocky, mottled surface.  For a moment, I talked to her out loud–speaking in general pleasantries, introducing myself.  Concentrating a little more deeply I reached back in time, ferreting out Annie’s personality–her soul–feeling it quicken with life inside me.  Suddenly, it was as if that energy–that essence of her spirit–existed outside of myself, standing behind my left shoulder, observing.  The only communication between us was that of emotion; imparting her wisdom and expressing to me more than words could ever say.

After a few minutes, I wished Annie well and calmly (almost begrudgingly)  walked away from her resting place.  Yet she didn’t seem quite ready to let me go, as I felt her following me closely as I browsed her neighbor’s gravestones.  Thankfully,  as I headed back to my car I sensed whatever piece of her that had joined me dissolve back into the web of time and space.  I felt a pang of regret as I pulled away, wishing I had the time to whip out my lawn chair and sit a spell with “Little Sureshot.”  Alas, the day was drawing to a close and loved ones waited for my arrival home–so I tipped my metaphorical hat to Annie and went on my way.

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Not long after my visit with Annie, I decided to look into the gravesite of another historic woman who intrigues me–that of Ann Rutledge, the alleged first real sweetheart of Abraham Lincoln.  (More info about her here: http://www.mrlincolnandfriends.org/inside.asp?pageID=107&subjectID=11).  Some scholars disagree about the seriousness of their relationship and how much truth there is to the story.  A few things are certain: She lived in New Salem Illinois the same time Lincoln did, she was the daughter of a prominent inn-keeper in the town, the locals claim to have frequently seen them together, and Lincoln fell into a deep depression when she died (possibly of typhoid) in 1835 at the age of 22.  A reaction like that doesn’t happen with just any fellow townsperson.  I like to imagine that the grief caused by her death, helped propel him to change his life–spurring him on to Springfield and Vandalia as a lawyer/politician and eventually onto the presidency.  Who knows if this is the truth, but it’s certainly an intriguing thought.

After an afternoon of visiting the historic New Salem village, I set out to hunt down Ann’s grave in nearby Petersburg Illinois in the Oakland Cemetery.  Oddly enough, I first ran across the grave of poet/author, Edgar Lee Masters (http://www.english.illinois.edu/maps/poets/m_r/masters/life.htm)–who I soon realized had written the epitaph on Ann’s stone.

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After paying my respects to Edgar, I discovered Ann’s grave only a few feet away, right on the corner. A large, chiseled  stone surrounded by an old metal enclosure bore Edgar’s words:

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A much smaller and older stone–barely more than a smooth river rock–had been placed inside the enclosure.  Assuming it to be her original grave marker, I ran my fingertips over the engraved name and dates–picturing generations of others (perhaps even Lincoln) doing the same.  A stranger had placed a bouquet of flowers on her grave.

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I decided to walk for a bit and explore some nearby markers.  The cemetery was of a moderate size, with new and older stones.  Rolling hills were dotted with towering oaks (the largest of which had been named in Ann’s honor) that nicely shaded the grassy burial grounds. For whatever reason I kept being pulled back to the peacefulness of Ann’s resting place.  I took in the beauty for a moment more then returned to my car to briefly sit and rest.  I closed my eyes and listened to the insects chirping in the trees and the leaves rustling all around me.  The sound of tractor hummed in a distant field.  A gentle breeze moved the warm summer air.

I lost myself as (eyes still closed) I daydreamed back in time–picturing Ann’s family dressed in black mourning attire and gathered around her stone.  I pictured a young and tousled Abraham Lincoln weeping over her buried remains–his energy becoming one with the very grass, trees, and air around him.  I saw him bent over, kneeling.  I heard his voice lilting, alone–speaking to her in an urgent and mournful tone.

Opening my eyes I was back in present day, sitting in my car.  I reached down to pick up my camera phone to take a picture of the site before heading home.  To my shock, in that few moments of meditation, my phone had gone from 80% charged to 0, and had completely turned itself off–something that this particular phone has never done before.  Battery drainage is typical of paranormal phenomena and investigation.  It made me wonder if I had unwittingly drained my own battery, using its energy to mentally (or perhaps astrally) transcend time; or if I had been joined by another soul using that energy in an attempt to manifest.  Maybe it was just a coincidence.  In any case, it struck me as odd.

It occurred to me that somewhere in my research I had read that Ann’s body had been exhumed from her original resting place and re-interred in this cemetery decades ago.  A quick search revealed her original grave to be in a small, old cemetery called Old Concord burial grounds outside of town in the middle of farmland.  I felt drawn to the area–feeling strongly I needed to explore it and wanting so badly to soak up the residual energy that may still exist on a spot where Lincoln wept over the grave of his beloved (that is, before Mary came along).

I located it on my GPS and headed out, only to find myself parked in the drive of a farmhouse where no one seemed to be home and two large dogs barked at me from the yard.  I looked out over the fields marked off with fences, where in the distance I could see a patch of land that clearly indicated an old cemetery.  One could almost see a young Lincoln standing tall on that hillside–but unless I was willing to trespass on this farmer’s land–navigating the rough field, climbing the fences, while being mauled by a couple of dogs–it didn’t look as if I’d be having my sought-after experience anytime soon.  Like so many other things in my life… it was within sight, but just out of reach.

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Some scouting along an old road called the Lincoln Trail revealed that a long, overgrown grassy swath between the fields might have provided a back way into the cemetery.  Unfortunately being alone, without the proper attire, and knowing the day was coming to an end soon (especially since I was over an hour’s drive away from where I was staying in Illinois at the time)–I thought it best to not attempt the trek until conditions were more favorable, I had more time, and a possible partner could be rounded up to accompany me.  You can be sure that once I experience it, I will post an update.

Regardless of my ability to see everything that I set out to on my daytrip, I left the Petersburg area that day with a sense that I had indeed touched the past–and that another adventure awaited me in the near future.  A good day, by any means.

And now you know one of the (many) reasons why I enjoy visiting cemeteries, burial grounds, and historic sites.  Far from being morbid places of death, sadness, and monotony (that is, if you can get over the fact that there are hundreds, maybe thousands, of skeletons and decaying corpses mere feet below you)–cemeteries are alive with energy, history, beauty, and adventure, free for anyone to experience…  if only you’re willing to look just a little deeper!

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