Hello. I hope you enjoy these stories. Both are true and
are about deceased relatives of mine. The first, Wavy
Alice was told to my sisters and I, years ago by my
cousin. The second, is of a first hand experience.
Although, these may not be terribly frightening, I hope
after you read the first, you will have a deeper
appreciation for modern day science and medicine that I
think we take for granted. And as for the second story,
it's one that touches me deeply and is just about love.
Wavy Alice
My mother's family lived out in the mountains of West
Virginia and Virginia...very beautiful, rural areas. My
Grandmother grew up on a farm, of course and was one child
out of eight. They had no electricity, no indoor
plumbing. Everything they ate, they grew themselves with
the exception of coffee and sugar of course, which they'd
have to cross a mountain to acquire. Every time the kids
went out to play, they were warned of snakes and there
were bears and wild cats everywhere.
The children were
born in their homes and the doctor would have to travel
quite far to get to them. They didn't have toothpaste or
tooth brushes. They used twigs to "brush" their teeth.
They made their own soap and "moon shine" and they didn't
even have toilet paper. Can you imagine going about your
childhood without toilet paper? I won't even go into
detail about what they used.
Ailments that we have simple
remedies for now, killed back then. So, with all this
said, I'm sure you can see that during my Grandmother's
youth, things were quite un-modernized. So, you can only
imagine how life was for her parents. I'm sure by now,
you can visualize what sort of medicinal and scientific
knowledge those country people had back then...not much.
And so, here is where this story really begins.
My Grandmother's father, was also raised out in a "hollar"
and he had many siblings. He had a sister named Allison,
or Alice...they called her Wavy Alice. My sisters and I
were so interested in this Great Great Aunt of ours
because my youngest sister resembles her so much. So, we
were quite intent on hearing about her life and we also
learned about her death.
At a very young age, Alice grew violently ill and
supposedly died. The family was distraught, naturally.
But my Great Grandfather was especially disturbed by her
death.
During that time, it was custom to "sit" with the dead
prior to burial. Think about it. Your sister dies and
the open casket sits in your family room for a night or
possibly days if the weather is bad. There were no
autopsies out in the country at that time. I couldn't
believe it. I had to confirm that fact with my
Grandmother. When their loved ones died, they prepared
the casket, made the arrangements and buried them,
normally in back of a church. In those parts, it's quite
common, in any particular "hollar" to find a church
graveyard with a whole generation or two of people from
the same family buried together. I've visited my kins'.
I've seen the graves. It's fascinating, as it's part of
my history but at the same time, it's always unsettling.
It was concluded in later years that Alice most likely
fell into a coma. A coma that she may or may not have
come out of. We of course, will never know what the
outcome could have been because she was buried, in the
same little cemetery that the rest of the family is buried
in. And sadly, she was probably buried alive.
Years after her death, my Great Grandfather revealed the
reasons why her death was so disturbing to him. As a
child, he of course, dismissed his fears as mere
imagination. However, as an adult, he had second
thoughts. When he said his goodbyes to his sister, he
noticed that her cheeks were still a bit pink and he
didn't feel that she was as rigid as she should be. But
those two things could again be written off as a sorrowful
mind's tricks. The sad and horrifying image, forever
engraved in my Great Grandfather's heart, is the image of
his sister's head, rolling slightly from side to side...as
if in eternal protest.
Aunt June
My Aunt June was my hero. I have not one single foul
memory of her. She was my Nana's sister...beautiful,
vivacious and she loved me as if I was one of her own
grandchildren. And so, I think that's why I adored her
so. I always sensed her adoration for me, even at four
years old.
The sisters lived on the same street. My Nana's house was
in the center of the street, my Aunt June had the corner
house. Their little chihuahuas were even siblings. My
Nana kept me when I was very young and we'd go visit Aunt
June every day.
My most vivid memories of her are kind of silly, but
still...they're my memories. Remember those terry cloth
short/jumpers from the eighties? She had so many of
those. I remember she wore those in the summer and she
smoked so she had this slight rasp to her voice but I
thought it was beautiful. She'd get down on her knees
when she saw me coming down the side walk and she'd
embrace me, saying "Well, hi there." each and every time
I saw her. I even remember her perfume. I loved her so
much. For so many reasons.
She died when I was five years old. And I although I
didn't understand death, I felt such a sense of loss and
pain because I knew that Aunt June would never be on the
corner to meet me again.
At five, I didn't know about all the uglies in this
world...alcohol addiction, depression...sibling rivalry.
Her death was pronounced as either a suicide or an
accidental suicide. I don't know which because to this
day, no one will really talk about it. I've always hoped
that it was accidental as the thought of her deliberately
killing herself haunts me.
I lived in an apartment for five years before my husband
and I moved into our first house and ironically, she's
buried off of the same road that I lived on. I've visited
her grave many times.
There were a few occasions in the apartment where my cats
would stare at the corner. And it would get really cold.
And after not thinking about her for years, I'd
think...it's her. It's really her. This happened quite a
bit in that apartment.
One summer night, while my husband and I were sleeping, I
woke up out the blue feeling cold. I looked over at the
window beside my bed and the blinds moved...as if someone
took their fingers and moved up and down the blinds. I sat
up in bed and just watched. I wasn't afraid, just
intrigued.
I called out "Hi Aunt June" into my bedroom and then I was
kissed goodnight by cold, invisible lips.
I haven't experienced anything like that since. I've named
my daughter after her in tribute. Even in death, I don't
think we stop loving. And I think she knows that I love
her still.
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