In one chapter of Ray Bradbury's magnificent "From the Dust Returned," the Elliott family, a collection of undefined spooks, ghouls, and ghosts who live in a big rambling farmhouse in northern Illinois, are wracked by an identity crisis. Who, or what, are they?
They are, they finally decide, in need of no better nomenclature than "The October People." "We are the October People!" they exclaim triumphantly, and, having laid that question to rest, move on to other matters.
And we've all got a bit of October People in us, don't we? Well, the baronial Palmers of Palmerwood sure as hell do.
I'm always somewhat inconvenienced when the Palmer Family Curse rolls around this time of year. Why, I've already had to decline invitations to three chic, swank, celebrity-studded soirees this week alone. And the Diddies, the -Z's, and the Albrights will be so disappointed.
However, our "October malady," as my grandmere delicately referred to our condition, is no reason not to indulge in a little father-son male bonding in the wild and far off reaches of the estate.
And then there's the Annual Halloween Pilgrimage to Palmer Gardens, the Palmerwood private family cemetery.
On that night, we wake the children at midnight and we all traipse merrily, still in our pj's, down to this rather unkempt and somewhat eerie corner of the estate to see the ghosts of the ancestral Palmers rise from their graves and walk freely through the wind-lashed October night.
Those passing through the grounds on that wicked night report strange sights and sounds. And if you listen carefully, you just might hear spectral voices complaining about politics, lying through their teeth about their exploits, telling raunchy jokes, and fighting about politics.
Death can but remove our carnal forms. It cannot excise our basic nature.
No comments:
Post a Comment