Practice Makes Perfect

 There was a man whose name was Frank. The last few years of his life he lived in a place called Serenity Acres. It was a nice place really, with soft white walls and soothing music playing 12 hours each and every day and the little pink pill the nurse gave Frank every evening let him sleep the other 12 hours. Sometimes he didn't even have the nightmare more than 3 or 4 times while he slept. This is the story of how he came to be a resident at Serenity Acres.

Dah-dah-dum-dah-plink. Dah-dah-dum-dah-plink. Frank was getting so tired of his wife hitting the wrong key on the piano. All day and late into the night his wife kept practicing the same song and kept hitting the wrong key at the exact same place. Over and over and over.

Frank and his wife Jean made their home on a tiny speck of an island just off the coast of Florida. He was the lighthouse keeper and he took his job very seriously. Without his continual cleaning and maintenance and repair work to keep the light shining, a ship would surely sail into the rocks submerged just off the end of the island. That wasn't going to happen, not while Frank was the keeper. They lived in the lighthouse and Jean kept the rooms clean and cooked Frank's meals and helped him walk the beach to keep it clean of debris.

Frank and Jean had been married for 13 years now. The first 10 years they had been happy except for the 2 miscarriages Jean had suffered. They had both wanted children, but after the second miscarriage, the doctor had advised them it would be best if Jean did not get pregnant again. And so Jean had begun to turn down Frank's advances. He wasn't happy about this, but he understood and he spent even more time working to keep the lighthouse in tip-top condition. 

About a year later, Jean decided she wanted to learn to play the piano. Frank supposed it was her way of filling in the time she now had since he was so devoted to his work. He had argued against it, knowing she didn't have a musical bone in her body, plus they couldn't really afford one, but Jean was adamant. Eventually, Frank gave up arguing about it and before he changed his mind, Jean bought a cheap, used model and had it brought to the lighthouse in a boat. The thing weighed a ton and even though the 2 strong men who brought it over lent a hand, Frank thought he was going to have a heart attack before getting it through the lighthouse door and into the living room. 

Before Frank had paid the 2 men and they had departed, Jean was already sitting at the piano practicing. She practiced and she practiced and she practiced. Always the same tune because, she said, she wanted to perfect that song before moving on to something else. At first, every note Jean played sounded off, but Frank ignored the awful sounds, hoping and sometimes even praying that with time and practice, she would get better.

It took months, but finally Frank was able to make out a melody - at least in most parts of the song she had been butchering for so long. But there was always that one passage she just couldn't get - dah-dah-dum-dah-plink. Every time, over and over, hour after hour - Dah-dah-dum-dah-plink. He begged her to start playing a different song, but Jean refused. "I'm going to practice until I get this one perfect," she said. "Remember, practice makes perfect!" Dah-dah-dum-dah-plink, dah-dah-dum-dah-plink.

Frank's job kept him in the lighthouse most of the time of course, and Frank felt trapped; no way to escape that infernal sour note! He tried putting wax in his ears, but he could still hear it. He went walking on the beach, but the island was so small he could still hear it even at the farthest end of land. Every night Jean stayed up into the wee hours practicing and she awoke early in the mornings to practice more. Frank went to bed hearing dah-dah-dum-dah-plink, dah-dah-dum-dah-plink. He woke up hearing dah-dah-dum-dah-plink, dah-dah-dum-dah-plink. He dreamed dah-dah-dum-dah-plink, dah-dah-dum-dah-plink. Hour after interminable hour, dah-dah-dum-dah-plink, dah-dah-dum-dah-plink.

One day a storm was coming in. The sky was dark, the wind began to blow and the waves began to grow. Frank asked Jean to stop playing until the storm passed as he had to concentrate to ensure the light was lit and bright so no ships would be in danger from the rocks. Jean said she couldn't stop now as she felt in her bones that she would soon get it right if she just kept practicing. She sat back down and started playing again. That's when Frank lost it.

A while later, Frank was sorry he had chopped up the piano with his ax. He could have sold it and gotten at least most of his money back for it. He wasn't sorry at all about Jean though. As soon as the storm had abated, Frank put on his rubber rain gear and dug a big hole behind the tool shed. He buried the pieces of Jean with the pieces of the piano because he figured that's what she would have wanted. After filling in the grave and stacking fireplace logs on top, Frank went to bed and had the best sleep he'd had in months. When he woke in the morning, he was refreshed and had so much energy! He spent most of the day cleaning away the blood from the floor and walls. When the water in his bucket turned red, he ambled down to the ocean where he exchanged it for another bucket of clean salt water. He whistled while he worked and he even took several breaks to leisurely walk the beach and listen to nothing but the waves washing ashore and the seagulls chattering as they rode the wind overhead. The seagulls didn't have a care in the world, and neither did Frank. 

When he finished the cleaning chore, he made a note in the lighthouse log book about the tragedy that had befallen Jean. Poor, poor Jean had been swept out to sea by a huge wave during the storm while she bravely walked on the beach with a lantern to ensure no ships came to harm. It was a terrible tragedy.

He then made himself a supper of lamb stew, his favorite meal and afterwards, he enjoyed a glass of brandy while smoking a fat brown cigar. He went to bed very contented, thoroughly enjoying the silence. 

In the middle of the dark night though, Frank was awakened by an all too familiar sound - dah-dah-dum-dah-plink, dah-dah-dum-dah-plink. I must be dreaming Frank thought, because hearing that particular sound is now impossible. She's buried behind the tool shed! He jumped out of bed reaching for his ax. Damn! He must have left it in the tool shed yesterday. He grabbed a stick of firewood and slowly, carefully, crept into the living room.

He staggered when he saw the odd glowing green piano which stood again in it's old place. His mind began to crack when he noticed he could see through the piano to the table and chair directly behind it. The phantom piano was playing all by itself - dah-dah-dum-dah-plink, dah-dah-dum-dah-plink. Over and over it played. Suddenly, above that god-awful sound, Frank heard the strong, clear, unmistakable voice of Jean behind him. "Frank, I told you," it said, "I'm not going to quit until I've mastered this one. You should have listened to me."

Frightened though he was, Frank turned around and there on the stairs he saw the translucent white figure of his dead wife. And in her hands, she held his ax.

He began to scream as he ran out of the lighthouse. He ran to the pier and jumped in the island's boat and made it to the mainland, screaming all the way. The early morning beach walkers found him sitting there, facing toward the light house, unblinking eyes wide open, mouth grotesquely twisted in fear. And as the nice men in white coats led him into the back of the Serenity Acres van, he screamed and screamed.

Haunting In Yellowstone

The historic Roosevelt Arch, the north entrance to Yellowstone 
National Park. It was dedicated on April 24, 1903.

Yellowstone National Park was established in 1872, but in a short-sighted budget move, the government allocated no funds for the upkeep, protection and management of the park. For the first 14 years of its existence, the park was seriously threatened by poachers killing the animals, people throwing rocks and broken tree limbs into the geysers and hot springs in a misguided attempt to stop them up, souvenir hunters broke off large pieces of the geysers and unauthorized developers set up camps for tourists next to hot springs where they built bath and laundry facilities along with toilet facilities located directly over the streams. 

Finally, Congress hired civilian superintendents to protect the land, but there were only a handful to oversee more than 2 million acres of park. In 1886, the park looked to the U.S. Army for help. The cavalry soldiers who came to Yellowstone made their headquarters at the foot of the Mammoth Hot Springs Terraces. Their campground was called Camp Sheridan, but after enduring 5 harsh winters in poorly constructed "temporary" buildings, a permanent post was built and named Fort Yellowstone. 

Simple headstones and wooden markers still stand over the graves
of civilian workers and family members of the soldiers.

By 1910, there were 324 soldiers stationed at Fort Yellowstone. In addition to the soldiers, there were officer's families (marriage was discouraged for enlisted men) and many civilian employees living in the fort. Most of the soldiers considered the assignment to be a good duty station as the work was varied and the scenery couldn't be beat. However, with the very hard winters, encounters with wild animals and the general hazardous duty of army life, deaths inevitably occurred.  Soldiers, wives, children and civilian employees alike were all buried in the nicely tended Fort Yellowstone Army Cemetery.

Congress eventually appropriated sufficient funds for civilian operation of the park and at sunset on July 4, 1916, an Army cannon located at the top of Capitol Hill was fired for the last time. The next day, the army left behind Yellowstone and their dearly departed friends and loved ones. The cemetery was left unattended and for the next year, the grass and weeds grew over the graves and the headstones and wooden markers faded in the winds and snows of winter. The dead didn't seem to mind. 

Even today, coffin-shaped sunken indention's in the ground can 
be found where the soldiers remains were removed.

The very next summer, however, some government official made the decision to move the army dead from Fort Yellowstone Cemetery to  the military cemetery at Custer's Battlefield in Montana. All remains of the soldiers were dug up, but the wives and children were left where they lay. 

An obviously very loved 5 year-old boy's grave. The inscription reads -
"Tis a little grave, but oh take care. Fond hopes are buried there."

That fall, reports started coming in; reports of something strange happening around the old Army Cemetery. Visitors who happened to find themselves  near the cemetery after the sun went down were hearing voices and the sounds of children crying, always coming from the direction of the fenced-in graveyard. Too many reports from too many strangers to dismiss out of hand and all of them saying basically the same thing - children crying, the sound of footsteps in the high grass when nobody could be seen and a feeling of deep sorrow and sadness overcoming those few brave enough to approach near the graves. It's been so for almost a hundred years now. 

The Park Service eventually began maintaining the cemetery; the weeds are kept cut back and an iron post fence was erected a few years ago. But sometimes, after the sun has set, people have reported the children are still crying and the voices are still calling out, calling for their fathers and husbands and friends who were taken away from them.

So many children and all destined to spend eternity without
a  daddy beside them.