Every community has their ghost stories. Dorchester county is no different. The most famous ghost story of Dorchester County is the one of Big Liz. Back during the Civil War times, a local farmer here supported the Confederate States by funneling money to the Confederate army. Lincoln, of course, had an extremely strong grip on Maryland because, if Maryland were to become a Confederate state, Washington DC would be surrounded by the Confederacy. Even though, back in those times, the Eastern Shore of Maryland was geographically isolated, the importance of keeping Maryland, including the Eastern Shore, with the Union was paramount.
The Union Army figured out what this farmer over on the Eastern Shore in Dorchester County was doing and set out to put an end to his finacing of the Confederate Army. The farmer caught wind of the impending Union invasion and acted on hiding his endeavors.
In the middle of the night, he took all of his wealth and silver and gold and hauled it out to Green Briar Swamp. He took with him his trusted slave, Big Liz. Big Liz was a well-built, huge woman with a heart of gold. She was the only person the farmer trusted and he needed a trusted person to bury his silver and gold. Big Liz dug a deep hole for the treaure and as she began to climb out of the hole, the farmer whacked her head off with a machete. No one but he could know where the treasure lay.
Legend has it that the farmer never did retrieve his gold and it still lays buried somewhere in Green Briar Swamp. Many have searched for it, but it has never been found. No one, however, searches for it after sunset. Big Liz guards the treasure and her headless body can be seen tromping through the swamp carrying her head by her side.
At night, if you park your truck on Decoursey Bridge, turn off the engine, and say "Big Liz" three times, your truck won't start until sunrise. If Big liz is in a testy mood that night, you won't stay in your truck, either. When you see her coming towards you carrying her head like a pocketbook, you'll be out of that truck and miles down the road faster than a race horse running from a swarm of hornets. And you won't dare go back for your truck until sunrise anyways.
I'll get back to Big Liz, but first I need to tell you about our own ghost right here in Toddville. The night Keith and I moved in, unknown to me, Keith had broken down on the other side of the bridge. I knew he was ok because he had his sister with him and his mom following him. I figured something happened and he would get here when he got here.
Night fell and I was tired. I decided to lay down on the floor in the living room to catch a nap. I was very tired from the long day and needed to rest before heading back to Baltimore if Keith still hadn't shown up. As I lay on the floor, the old house creaked and groaned like old houses do. I don't know why, but I suddenly got the impression that a young girl had died in the house many years ago and she was wandering around the house making all the creaks and groans. After fifteen minutes, I knew I wasn't going to sleep so I got up and headed out to look for Keith.
It's too late to make a long story short, but to make it shorter, I never told anyone about the creaks and groans and how my imagination conjured up a child ghost. No point in telling anyone, really. Anyone's imagination can run wild when they are alone, at night, in a strange house. That's all it was - my imagination getting the best of me.
Two years later, Keith woke up and told me of the ghost that visited him in the night. She was a young girl dressed in old garb like maybe from around 1900 or so. She stood by the side of the bed and stared at him. He tried to wake me up, but he couldn't move and when he tried to call my name, no sound except a slight gasping sound came out. I slept through it all.
Over the course of the year, the ghost appeared to Keith several more times, usually around three in the morning. Each time, he got braver and fought hard to yell my name so I could see her. I slept through it all. A couple of times he mustered the strength to grab her, but she'd fade away before he could reach her. Once he did feel the coat like garment she wore. It was rough to the feel, like wool.
One night, she came right for him. Fear paralyzed him. She stopped inches from him and he caught a glimpse of her face. She was sullen and ghastly. She lurched forward to him and through him. His body twitched with the contact and then he was awake staring at the ceiling. I slept through that, too.
On her next visit, Keith was determined to grab and hold onto her and then wake me up so I could see her myself. I always said he dreamed this ghost and he wanted to prove to me she was real. He even felt her lay in bed next to him one night when I was at work. He couldn't possibly be dreaming something so real.
One night she appeared beside his bed. He grabbed her by the arm and held on tight with both hands. He called for me to wake up, but she looked at him sad, yet scared, and faded away. I still didn't wake up until the next morning and he had to tell me what happened.
That was her last visit a little over a year ago and she hasn't been back since. Keith began to accept the fact that he had been, indeed, dreaming. The first night he dreamed of the ghost, the experience was so real to him, his mind latched onto the idea of the dream being a real ghost and recreated the visits several times over the course of the year. The ghost was nothing more than his mind playing tricks on him.
Which brings us back to Big Liz. We drove over Decoursey Bridge many times and I told him of the legend of Big Liz. When we were in Barnes and Noble, I even pulled out a book about ghosts in Maryland and showed him the legend in print.
"It's a story these dumbass rednecks concocted to entertain themselves, " he scoffed. "There is no such thing as ghosts."
Deep down, he didn't really believe that. One night coming home, out of the blue he said, "Let's take a little detour to that bridge to see Big Liz. Everyone else has seen a ghost and I want to see a real ghost for a change."
Reluctantly, I agreed. It's not that I believe there are ghosts out there, but I firmly believe we shouldn't tempt the unknown and one can't get more unknown than death. "If the car don't start, though," I said, "I'm booking it on down the road and I'm not waiting for Big Liz to get my feet a running."
It was a dark, moonless night in the middle of Greenbriar Swamp, but, of course, all good ghost stories take place on dark, moonless nights. We stopped the car, turned off the lights, and shut down the engine. "Ok, Keith, say it three times."
Keith looked at me nervously. "No. You say it."
"Hell no. If Big Liz is going to get mad at anyone, it's not going to be me. You want her; you say it."
There was an awkward moment of silence. Finally, Keith mustered his courage. "Big Liz. Big Liz. Big Liz."
"Ok, let's see if the car starts and get ready to run if it doesn't," I said. With one hand on the door latch, I turned the key with the other hand. The engine started right up.
"Well, so much for that legend," I said nonchalantly.
I drove to the other side of the bridge, turned around, and headed home.
"Go slow over the bridge. I want to see Big Liz." Keith poked his head out the window eagerly looking for any sign of Big Liz.
Half way over the bridge, Keith shouted out the window, "Why don't you bring your fat Black ass out here, Big Liz?"
"Keith! What are you doing? Don't tempt her."
"I want to see a ghost, damn it and if I piss her off, maybe she'll come." He poked his head back out the window and shouted, "Your fat ass ain't so tough now, is it Scaredy Cat Liz. C'mon, I dare you to bring that ugly head of yours around."
I stepped on the gas. "That's it. I've had enough. There is no Big Liz and no ghosts."
"I told you it was a dumbass legend made up by dumbass rednecks to entertain themselves," Keith said with a bit of disappointment in his voice.
"Of course it's a legend, but tell you what. I'm sleeping downstairs on the couch because if you pissed Big Liz off enough and she follows us home, she's taking your skinny White ass and leaving me alone."
The night came and went without incidence and many more nights came and went without incidence. About four or five months of nights have come and gone without incidence. I think it's safe to say that Big Liz didn't follow us home.
The other night I asked Keith if the young girl ghost has ever been back. He said no because there is no such thing as ghosts.
"No, there is, but you scared them away. You grabbed the one in our bedroom and then cussed the other one out in the swamp. Ghosts are supposed to scare us, but somehow, you've managed to scare them. They're not used to that. I reckon we won't be seeing any ghosts for a long, long time because word is out in the spook world, 'don't mess with that Keith guy in Toddville. He's a scary dude.'"
"If she does come back, I'm going to hold onto her as tight as I can and, damn it, this time you will wake up and see her."
If that day ever comes, I will have to finish this story. Until then, I reckon there really aren't any ghosts running around to scare us. Only our wild imaginations do that.
© 2008
Mark Darien
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Please include this copyright notice if you share this article
Thursday, December 30, 2010
Tuesday, December 7, 2010
We're in the middle of the fun time of the year
Around the middle to end of September, the sika deer announce the beginning of the fun time of year down here. September is the beginning of the rutting season and the male sikas bleat a woefully sad song to the females. If there were words to his song, they would be something along the lines of "I'm so lonely. Where are you, my love?"
The gentleman we let hunt on our land came down to fill his deer feeder up and he was telling me how the sikas proudly announce their terrotory to the other sikas. The sika's song is a defiant warning to other male sikas to stay away - the does in his territory are his and that's that. When we told him how we interpretted the song, he laughed. "I never heard it that way, but I guess it can sound sad and lonely. But trust me. it's a warning song, not a lonely pleading."
People who have never heard the song have been known to call the police to report a woman crying for help somewhere in the marsh. Even when they are told it's a sika's mating call, they still believe a woman is in trouble somewhere. No deer could sound that desperate and in so much pain.
No matter what the song really means in sika language, it does announce the beginning of the hunting season and the beginning of a season's worth of fun antics the city boys bring to the marsh. The fun antic that occurs every year without fail is the city hunter's underestimation of the dangers of our roads. There is little room for error when driving on our roads. One miscalculation of the bend in the road can catapult one into the marsh. Even if you miss the marsh and end up in the ditch, you're stuck. And the solid shoulder to park your truck on usually isn't all that solid. The embankment can give way and you slide right on into the ditch.
So far, it's been a quiet season for the truck-stuck-in-the-marsh event. I've only seen one stuck truck. Of course, it has been a relatively dry fall so the shoulders and other off-the-road parking spots are relatively stable.
Going to Carolyn's Stonehouse where the hunters gather for a beer is a lot of fun. If you thought fishermen told fish tales, you should listen to the hunters' tales. Apparently, we have the biggest bucks in the country and they all get away because the hunter didn't have a clear shot. I've never seen these prized, 10- and 12-point bucks, but every hunter has seen at least one.
You can tell who the real hunters are, though. They're the ones who come in all muddy from head to toe. We're in a marsh. If you're hunting, you're going to get muddy. One hunter boasting of the big buck that got away looked as if he were the centerfold for the GQ edition of Field & Stream. Brand smacking new camoflage hunting outfit neatly pressed, creased, and starched. I could comb my hair in the reflection on his boots. I'm sure this city boy thought he was "it", but for us locals, we had a good laugh at the hunter wannabe.
As I headed out to work the other night, up in the high country, a hunter parked his SUV alongside the road. No doubt he was in the adjoining woods sitting in a deer stand waiting for one of those many prized bucks every hunter boasts about seeing. On the other side of the road, two fully mature whitetail does galloped across the field away from the woods where the hunter lay waiting. Herding the does away was a proud, 8-point buck. I reckon you don't become an 8-point buck by hanging out in the woods where the hunter lay waiting.
No doubt the hunter later showed up at Carolyn's Stonehouse and boasted about the 12-point buck that got away. I know, and the 8-point buck and his two does know, that he probably never even seen a deer the whole time he sat in his stand. Otherwise, he would've boasted about the real 8-point buck that outsmarted him.
The hunting season is only half over. I'm sure more entertaining events are in the making. I can't wait to see the next episode....
© 2008
Mark Darien
All rights reserved
Please include this copyright notice if you share this article
The gentleman we let hunt on our land came down to fill his deer feeder up and he was telling me how the sikas proudly announce their terrotory to the other sikas. The sika's song is a defiant warning to other male sikas to stay away - the does in his territory are his and that's that. When we told him how we interpretted the song, he laughed. "I never heard it that way, but I guess it can sound sad and lonely. But trust me. it's a warning song, not a lonely pleading."
People who have never heard the song have been known to call the police to report a woman crying for help somewhere in the marsh. Even when they are told it's a sika's mating call, they still believe a woman is in trouble somewhere. No deer could sound that desperate and in so much pain.
No matter what the song really means in sika language, it does announce the beginning of the hunting season and the beginning of a season's worth of fun antics the city boys bring to the marsh. The fun antic that occurs every year without fail is the city hunter's underestimation of the dangers of our roads. There is little room for error when driving on our roads. One miscalculation of the bend in the road can catapult one into the marsh. Even if you miss the marsh and end up in the ditch, you're stuck. And the solid shoulder to park your truck on usually isn't all that solid. The embankment can give way and you slide right on into the ditch.
So far, it's been a quiet season for the truck-stuck-in-the-marsh event. I've only seen one stuck truck. Of course, it has been a relatively dry fall so the shoulders and other off-the-road parking spots are relatively stable.
Going to Carolyn's Stonehouse where the hunters gather for a beer is a lot of fun. If you thought fishermen told fish tales, you should listen to the hunters' tales. Apparently, we have the biggest bucks in the country and they all get away because the hunter didn't have a clear shot. I've never seen these prized, 10- and 12-point bucks, but every hunter has seen at least one.
You can tell who the real hunters are, though. They're the ones who come in all muddy from head to toe. We're in a marsh. If you're hunting, you're going to get muddy. One hunter boasting of the big buck that got away looked as if he were the centerfold for the GQ edition of Field & Stream. Brand smacking new camoflage hunting outfit neatly pressed, creased, and starched. I could comb my hair in the reflection on his boots. I'm sure this city boy thought he was "it", but for us locals, we had a good laugh at the hunter wannabe.
As I headed out to work the other night, up in the high country, a hunter parked his SUV alongside the road. No doubt he was in the adjoining woods sitting in a deer stand waiting for one of those many prized bucks every hunter boasts about seeing. On the other side of the road, two fully mature whitetail does galloped across the field away from the woods where the hunter lay waiting. Herding the does away was a proud, 8-point buck. I reckon you don't become an 8-point buck by hanging out in the woods where the hunter lay waiting.
No doubt the hunter later showed up at Carolyn's Stonehouse and boasted about the 12-point buck that got away. I know, and the 8-point buck and his two does know, that he probably never even seen a deer the whole time he sat in his stand. Otherwise, he would've boasted about the real 8-point buck that outsmarted him.
The hunting season is only half over. I'm sure more entertaining events are in the making. I can't wait to see the next episode....
© 2008
Mark Darien
All rights reserved
Please include this copyright notice if you share this article
Friday, December 3, 2010
When it rains, it pours - Part II
Wow! I can't believe over two years have past since my last post. So much time and so much has happened, I couldn't possibly get it all down with the detail I would want. My apologies, but here's the condensed version:
The rain did stop and the flood tide poured in. The car was fine, but our house wasn't. Our flood insurance was a blessing. The next month, Minnow died. The summer came and ended and I was still unemployed save for a part time job. In September, our friends down the road gave us Kiwi, our only bright spot since I was laid off in Dec 07.
Fast forward to the present: I'm still unemployed save for a part time job, but not the one I had two years ago. Somehow, we have managed to hold onto our house and I keep looking for a new career. It will come, I'm sure. In the mean time, I have created a website, http://www.shoplocaldelmarva.com/. Because of my lapse in a meaningful career, I made the site for three reasons. First, I truly believe our locally owned businesses need our support or we'll lose our rural identity. Second, by creating the site, I can show potential employers my real abilities. And thirdly, if my efforts are well-received, we could use the little extra money the site may generate.
Well, that's a fast recap of the last two years. My promise for the new year is to post on this blog at least once a month and not let my stories get old and stale. Please stay tuned....
© 2008
Mark Darien
All rights reserved
Please include this copyright notice if you share this article
The rain did stop and the flood tide poured in. The car was fine, but our house wasn't. Our flood insurance was a blessing. The next month, Minnow died. The summer came and ended and I was still unemployed save for a part time job. In September, our friends down the road gave us Kiwi, our only bright spot since I was laid off in Dec 07.
Fast forward to the present: I'm still unemployed save for a part time job, but not the one I had two years ago. Somehow, we have managed to hold onto our house and I keep looking for a new career. It will come, I'm sure. In the mean time, I have created a website, http://www.shoplocaldelmarva.com/. Because of my lapse in a meaningful career, I made the site for three reasons. First, I truly believe our locally owned businesses need our support or we'll lose our rural identity. Second, by creating the site, I can show potential employers my real abilities. And thirdly, if my efforts are well-received, we could use the little extra money the site may generate.
Well, that's a fast recap of the last two years. My promise for the new year is to post on this blog at least once a month and not let my stories get old and stale. Please stay tuned....
© 2008
Mark Darien
All rights reserved
Please include this copyright notice if you share this article
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