A group of friends and I were sitting around talking one evening. I took some artistic liberty with the subject matter – it made the perfect alphabet story. Please, give it a read and let me know what you think.
Sitting around the dining room table, we pondered what might be hidden in the old farmhouse’s original well.
The Civil War bullets and buttons we found earlier in the day had us all speculating.
Unearthing artifacts from the 1800s farm property had become a summer Saturday afternoon ritual.
Visions of ourselves as the modern day Indiana Jones finding valuable historical treasure served to motivate us.
Well, until our discussion drifted to skeletons and remains…and oh, how they would smell!
Xeroxing deeds and old documents at our local library, we returned home to study, which morphed into sleeping on the couch.
“Yikes, w-was that a ghost?” I shrieked, startling my snoozing friends.
Zoned, disbelieving looks were all that greeted me.
“A faded woman in a hoop skirt,” I explained, “She floated to the window and pointed to the well.”
Bleary eyes transformed into inquisitive ones as everyone guessed at what the ghost was trying to convey.
Clearly a plan was needed to remove the hideously heavy slab of concrete covering the well.
Daybreak was barely upon us as we once again gathered at the dining room table.
Everyone cleaned their plates of pancakes and bacon, knowing a long, labor-intensive day lay ahead.
Filled to the brim with coffee and carbs, we sprinted down the hill to the well.
Groaning and gasping we tried with all our might to move that stubborn slab.
Heaving one last time without success, we retrieved our cell phones to recruit volunteers.
Idle chatter became animated as our curiosity infected our friends and neighbors.
Just before all hope was lost, our army of volunteers arrived, ready to add their collective strength to our own.
Kids and adults, who were attired in jeans, boots, and work gloves, took their places to await the countdown.
Little by little, inch by precious inch, the slab gave way, revealing nothing but darkness and cobwebs.
Murmurs of speculation flew through the group like wildfire as we hunted for a working flashlight.
Needing space to work, I shooed away our helpers as I bent over the damp opening, LED flashlight at the ready.
“Oh my,” I whispered reverently as tears formed in my eyes and my throat became clogged with emotion.
Puddled awkwardly at the bottom of the well were the decomposed remains of a Civil War soldier, his rusted rifle and accoutrements the giveaway.
Quietly and respectfully we schemed how to best retrieve the solider and give him a proper burial.
Relief filled me as a voice whispered on the wind, “Thank you for taking care of my Grant.”