As I close my eyes and hold my breath, I catch a glimpse of the house. I remember worming under the falling fence. Crossing fences is a learned art. I remember tearing tender flesh as my arched back tries to follow my granddad's red hunting dog, Tennessee. Taking pity on me, I suppose, he offers to show me how to inch under the barbed wire. Placing his front paws out front just under the barbed wire, Tennessee spreads his lower body to the ground; he slithers inch by inch, gently rocking his body back and forth till he comes out the other side. The event takes about two minutes. Wear and tear on the underside of his fat belly has left Tennessee completely smoothed out, like newborn skin. I find myself racing down the well-beaten-down path with Tennessee barking ahead of me. He will go his way; I will journey another path.
The house is in full sun with beams of diffused light dancing in a bright, brilliant blue sky. The tin roof blinds me as I avert my attention to the lower level. Walking towards the side yard, I notice chickens scatter from underneath the porch as they hear my bare feet hitting hard, dry cracked earth. I kneel in the waist-high weeds and grasses, keeping from sight. Maybe if I squint hard enough, I will see Sweet Charity on the porch. She sits rocking on the rickety, unpainted wooden porch, swinging her bony legs from underneath the cotton print dress. She wears dull, faded, earthy colors to match the mud color of her skin with dark stockings tied up in generous knots around her knees. Her hair is that aged white-gray of old people, coarse and dull; the braids underneath a brightly colored scarf are wound around her head, tight. I approach the porch Indian-style, crouching and low, for fear of startling her. I hear her humming that same song she always moans through parched lips.
Sweet Charity turns her head towards me, stopping the hum in mid-note. "Who's out there?" she hisses in rough drawn breaths across the front porch. "I see you out there squatting down looking over at me. Come up here."
I walk carefully up crude wooden steps, watching my toes slip over cracks and avoiding boards missing from the pattern. I face her now. The cracks in her muddy-brown skin are deep and wrinkled although she tells me that she always wears protection in the sun. She crooks a long, bony witch finger at me, but not as if she will eat me. I calmly wait her inspection of me.
"Come on," she says spewing tobacco juice everywhere. "What you be wanting?"
"A banana," I finally squeak out.
"A banana?" she repeats. "Ain't you just finished dinner?"
"You always give me a banana," I say, touching my big toe to the tip of her rocker.
"Go on in the house." she mutters "Look under the cloth. Don't be bothering nothing else. I mean it. Wash your hands before you touch my food."
"The house is mostly dark inside except for the light outside light streaming through the open door and filtering through dust-smeared window panes. I find the white porcelain bowl filled with water on the wooden table next to the leftover, covered lunch. I wonder how often the water is changed as I notice bits of strange matter mingle with the grass seeds and mud off my hands. Flies swarm around the table and sweaty body as I reach under the green cotton cloth covering the food; the cloth used to belong to my grandmother. My tiny hands clutch at the banana as I bring it outside to her.
"Peel it," I motioned to her.
"Peel it!" she shrills. "Why should I peel bananas, White Child."
I shrug my bony shoulders under my cotton-print, flowered shirt, watching her peel the black, soft outer skin of the banana. I wait for her to hand it to me.
"Let me see your hands," she says, inspecting my palms.
"I did it right this time," I say to her.
"Wait a minute." she barks at me, reaching into her apron pocket. "Come here and let me wipe your runny, snotty nose. I told you about carrying a handkerchief in your pocket. Now, blow."
"How come they call you, Sweet Charity?" I ask her between bites of banana.
"I have a Bible name, White Child." she sighs. All my family got Bible names. My mama added "Sweet" later thinking it would be my nature."
"Are you for real married, Sweet Charity?" I ask, not looking up.
"Who says I ain't married?" she hisses between swollen, thick words. Me and Theodore Roosevelt Washington been together for nearly all our life. We was just a boy and girl when we come here to work. We raised seven children and buried three. I don't need White Child telling me about being real married. Me and Roosevelt knows where we belong."
I watch her droopy eyelids shut over dull, gray eyes. She is quiet and barely breathing. Shaking her, I call her name, low and soft. I know she is drifting off into that other world that I can't see or know about. I must wait.
"I needs to rest a minute, White Child" she says, reaching out to my pale, slender arm.
The quietness of the afternoon lulls me into a placid nothingness, waiting and watching for continued time alone on the porch. Stretching out across the splintery wooden boards, I am soon lulled to a peaceful doze. I do not know how long I have lain here, but I am marked with an imprint from the wooden boards on one side of my fair-skinned body. My head feels heavy and groggy as I try to raise to a sitting position. I notice that Sweet Charity is awake in her rocking chair, moving it back and forth ever so slightly.
"What you got behind your back, White Child?" she asks motioning with her crooked witch finger, again.
"Just a brush,"I say, moving toward the rocker and settling on the porch between the folds of her cotton print dress.
I feel her jerk the skinny green rubber band from my hair while brushing out yesterday's loosened braid. She uses long strokes, winding her long wrinkled fingers through fine blonde hair. The brush jerks, yanking knots of hair while strands cling to the brush. I watch as Sweet Charity rakes a small pile of blonde hair to the side of the rocking chair. I dare not move while her fingers entwine my hair, braiding it as carefully as if it were her own.
"Where are your children?" I ask, bending my head slightly as she moves her fingers further down the braid.
"Gone long time ago," she mutters,feeling the rubber band still between her small,sharp pieces of teeth. "How did you get so many rattails in such fine hair?"
"Gone where," I continued, swinging my skinny legs off to one side of the porch.
"Hold still!" she shrilled in my left ear. "Just gone. Maybe to St. Louis. Maybe Chicago."
"Don't you know?" I ask. "Don't they come to see you?"
"Ain't nothing for them here no more," she says, wrapping the band tightly around the braid.
"Don't you know not to ask so many questions, White Child? Come on and help me clean up this mess."
"Ever think about moving?" I ask, following her inside to the slowly, darkening house. "I've moved all I'm going to move in this life until Sweet Jesus moves me to His place," she says, shuffling her feet towards the broom.
I see her glance toward the outside path where Theodore Roosevelt walks up, ambling, slow and balanced. He focuses on Sweet Charity with a steady, fixed gaze, drawn to her as if she alone held him up, keeping him from falling forward. He sets two metal buckets filled with the night and morning's water on the edge of the porch. His shoulders remain bent forward from years of following behind a mule's plow. I notice the familiar fingerless hand, calloused over many times, that he lost while sawing logs. The hand is gentle as he touches Sweet Charity's face.
"Use the weeds," she tells him in a quiet voice,"before you come in for the night. Don't be too long. Light's about gone. Supper needs to be eat where we can lie down awhile."
I am still here watching and waiting as she suddenly remembers me. I want to stay and be a part of this, but I know that my welcome is up.
"Go on home." she mutters as she swats at me with the broom. "Your grandma will be looking for you. It's getting past dark."
I hit the grass running as Theodore Roosevelt shuffles into the house. I see Sweet Charity still standing on the front porch, watching and waiting. I turn around in the dark, moonless night and run quickly back up the steps. Putting my warm, sticky, white arms around her muddy, wrinkled neck, I whisper to her, "I'll be back tomorrow for my banana, Sweet Charity."
"Go on, White Child." she says, looking towards my feet. "Your feets bare. At least get you a stick to knock the weeds back. Theodore Roosevelt killed a snake last week just under the porch.
I hear Tennessee barking at the fence as I pick up a stick leaning against the house. I'll bring it back tomorrow. And the days after that, I'll remember endless summers on the porch with Sweet Charity.
"Now, which shades of blue were you thinking of, dear?"
Julie ran a hand through her long brown hair and sighed with impatience. "Royal blue," she answered. "My colors are simply royal blue and white."
The wedding consultant sat in stunned silence. She finally recovered enough to ask, "Only royal blue and white? But that's so plain . . . and . . . normal." Judging from her peacock blue, fuschia, and black dress, Mrs. Samson clearly favored bold (and rather tacky) color schemes.
"Yes, Julie," Mrs. Farmer, Julie's mother, agreed, "and we do so want this to be a sophisticated wedding. Remember how nice Amy Cunningham's wedding was last year."
Julie almost laughed. She would have, if she thought her mother was joking. Unfortunately, Emma Farmer meant everything she said. And competing with the Cunninghams was one of her top priorities. Julie knew her mother would go to any lengths, up to and including using the same wedding consultant, to stay even with or ahead of her life-long rival, Myra Cunningham.
"Mama," she called on every shred of courtesy she'd ever possessed. "Mama, you know I just want a simple wedding. Matt and I want to exchange our vows, eat some cake, and leave. We don't care about anything else."
"Well, I do," Emma stated in her usual autocratic way. "And since you're my only daughter and I'm paying for this wedding, I should have some say in the matter."
"Mama," Julie said with false sweetness, "may I speak to you in the hall for a minute, please?"
Emma looked surprised but complied with the request. She had clashed with her headstrong daughter too many times to ignore her thinly veiled frustration. Once they were in the hall, Julie turned flashing blue eyes on her mother.
"I can't believe you're acting like this," she hissed. "Mama, we've been through this a hundred times. We want a simple wedding. Only royal blue and white. Only one attendants each. Simple."
"But, Julie," Mrs. Farmer protested with her usual one-track mind, "you know we have to maintain appearances. Remember Amy."
"I don't care about Amy Cunningham's society wedding," Julie declared. "I don't care if she had a dramatic color scheme, fourteen attendants, and a horse-drawn carriage. Matt and I want royal blue and white. Only."
"Julie, plain just isn't done any more," her mother insisted. "Besides, you only get married once. I want to make sure that we do it right. I want you to remember everything about your wedding day. My own wedding memories are some of the only ones I have of your father before he died. I wouldn't trade them for anything. I want your memories to be just as precious."
The mention of her father, who had been killed in a car accident shortly after his and Emma's wedding, served to melt a little of Julie's anger. "Fine," she said, still irritated but with a little less hostility. "Do whatever you want. You will anyway."
"If that's the way you want it," Mrs. Farmer said, satisfied. As she drifted back into the living room, her mind was already rushing ahead to the elaborate cake they would have. Three tiers, a champagne fountain . . .
Julie sighed because she knew there would be no going back now. She was terrified that things would get way out of hand. They had a tendency to do that when her mother was in charge.
She stood in the doorway to the living room and watcher her mother in action. It was an amazing sight. Julie ruefully admitted that Emma and Mrs. Samson were a perfect pair. Perched on the antique sofa, their two graying heads close together over a bridal catalogue and their brightly colored dresses clashing in perfect harmony, the two women were in wedding heaven. Realizing that her presence was not required, indeed was not wanted, she wandered outside to sit on the front porch swing. She used her foot to propel the white wooden swing as she surveyed what had been the center of her world for twenty-one years.
The Farmers' large, ante-bellum house sat on a quiet street filled with similar homes mixed with smaller, newer dwellings. Regardless of age, each house had a common feature - the front porch swing. Julie never stopped to wonder why every house had one. They just did. It was a common thing during the summer for every swing to be filled with families and friends, talking, sharing refreshments, or just absorbing the sounds of the town.
"I'm going to miss this old swing," Julie said aloud. The swing had been present at some of the most important events of her life - her first rebellion against her mother, her biggest childhood fight with Matt, Matt's proposal just one month ago. Her mother had been even been sitting on the swing when she realized she was in labor. When she thought about all the things that had been constant in her life, the swing, her mother, and Matt were the only things that really fit the picture.
As she glided gently back and forth, she looked at the house next door - Matt's house - and let the memories enfold her.
"Julie Marie Farmer, you get back here this instant!" Mrs. Farmer stood on the front porch, one hand holding open the screen door and the other planted firmly on her hip. Five-year-old Julie stopped dead in her tracks; she knew that tone well.
"But, Mama, I'm going to Matt's!" she called from half-way across the yard. "We're going to play baseball with Joey. I promised." She slowly began to make her way back to the porch.
"I don't care," her mother said implacably. "You, young lady, still have chores to do."
"Mama," Julie pleaded as she slumped onto the swing. "Please. I'll set the table for a week, honest."
"I'm sure Joey and his friends don't want two little kindergarten kids playing baseball with them," Mrs. Farmer said. She sat beside Julie and playfully tugged her hair. "But I'll tell you what. If you set the table and promise to take a bath every day without complaint, and let me braid your hair, you can go."
Julie jumped off the swing with a whoop. After a quick hug of thanks, she ran across the yard, her long, unbound hair streaming behind her like a banner proclaiming her freedom. On the porch, Emma laughed softly and set the swing in motion.
Julie smiled at the memory. She and her mother had been affectionately arguing for a long time. That was their first major clash, though. Before that day she had always blindly obeyed her mother's orders. That bright spring morning, however, she had decided that Matt was her best friend and more important than her mother's wishes. Even though Mrs. Farmer often relented, she still seemed to be on one side while Matt and Julie faced her from another. The two youngsters would soon learn that they rarely agreed with Emma's strict view on life.
"Hey." Matt plopped onto the swing with all the grace of a typical ten-year-old. The swing rocked violently in protest. When it settled down, he noticed Julie's dirty, tear-streaked face. "What's wrong?"
"Sam's dead." The bald statement floored him. The mutt puppy they'd shared for years was their constant companion. He was lively and devoted and fiercely protective. Only yesterday he'd scared away some older boys who were teasing Julie.
"What happened?" he asked over the unfamiliar lump in his throat.
"He got run over this morning," she said, obviously fighting tears again. "Mama said it was sad but probably for the best because he ate too much anyway."
"That's not true!" Matt nearly screamed in defense. "He was the best. The best." His tears finally got the best of him and he leaned on Julie for support while they both grieved for their friend.
They learned a valuable lesson that day. Mrs. Farmer, though she loved the children, did not fully understand them - nor did she particularly want to. Others, like Sam, might leave them. But they would always be there for each other.
Julie brushed away a few tears when she thought of Sam. It had been a long time since she had thought about the faithful dog. She missed him. What really brought on her tears, though, was the memory of the way Matt had clung to her in their shared grief. It had marked a new beginning in their relationship. That day they had vowed to never let anything tear them apart. No matter what Emma Farmer or the rest of the world did, they would present a united front and fight off any adversity. With a smile, Julie remembered that they forgot to include fights between themselves.
"I hate you!" Julie screamed.
Matt stood on the sidewalk, preparing to leave on his first date. They were fifteen and eager as most teenagers to experience love. Julie's problem was that her mother refused to let her date until she was at least sixteen. Now, even though they had done everything else at the same time, Matt was leaving her behind. Julie blamed him instead of her mother. She didn't realize that Matt was only doing what she herself would do if only she could. She only that her best friend was choosing Renee Simmons over her.
"I'm sorry, Julie," Matt said, coming onto the porch to give her a comforting hug. She allowed it for only a moment before she stiffened and moved away. As had become her custom, she took refuge in the swing. He sat down with her despite the evil look she sent him.
"We were supposed to have a movie marathon tonight," she said. "It's the first night of summer vacation. I thought we would celebrate. We planned it a month ago."
"I'm sorry," he said again, with equal success. "I forgot."
"Well, you can forget anything we'd planned for the rest of the summer. You'll probably be busy with Renee, anyway." She stormed into the house without a backward glance.
The entire time Matt was on his date, Julie stayed locked in her room. She didn't come down for dinner and refused to open the door the first few times her mother came to check on her.
"Young lady, open this door," Mrs. Farmer finally demanded on her fourth visit to Julie's room. Slowly Julie unlocked the door then ran back to her bed to bury her face in the pillow. Her mother sat beside her and stroked her long hair.
"I can't believe he's doing this," Julie sobbed. "I can't believe he's leaving me behind and he doesn't even care!"
"He's entirely too young to be dating," Mrs. Farmer insisted. "If he were my son, he'd stay at home until he's sixteen at the very least. Just like you."
That served to turn the tide of Julie's anger from Matt to her mother. She turned and glared at Emma.
"Mother, Matt was right," she said in a relatively calm voice. "It's your fault."
Mrs. Farmer looked shocked, then resigned. This she could handle. She was used to Julie's anger at her, but Julie mad at Matt was a different story. At least now she was on familiar ground.
"Julie, she explained, "I know you don't often approve of the way I've raised you. But I'm doing the best I know how. Since your father died, I've had to be everything for you. It's not easy. But you are just going to have to accept my methods and perhaps even learn a few things. Don't hate Matt because his parents see things differently than I do. Just accept the way things are. When you turn sixteen, you'll find that it was well worth waiting for. I'll have to stand at the door with a rifle to keep all the boys away."
Despite herself, Julie laughed. The image of her sophisticated mother toting a gun and threatening teenage boys was hilarious. From that night on, even though she didn't like sitting home while Matt dated and she still didn't agree with her mother's position, she waited not-so-patiently for her sixteenth birthday. It was the only choice she had. Years later, she realized that her mother was right - it had been worth waiting for.
"The bridesmaids' dresses must be silk, of course," Mrs. Farmer's voice wafted out onto the porch from an open window. "Can you bring some fabric samples tomorrow to choose from?"
Julie groaned. Her mother was at it again. She absolutely loved dresses and dressing up. In that respect, she was worse than a little girl. She had tried for years to treat Julie like her own personal Barbie doll to dress and pamper. It didn't work until the Senior Prom rolled around.
"It's hideous," Julie complained.
"No, dear, it's beautiful," Mrs. Farmer said from her perch on the swing.
"I look like a Barbie doll," the girl protested. She was modeling the prom dress her grandmother had sent from New York. It was peach tea-length with a form-fitting top and flaring skirt. The strapless gown left little to the imagination. Because she was more at home in jeans and extremely self-conscious about her seventeen-year-old body, she wanted to forget the dress had ever arrived. What she really wanted to do was pretend that the prom wasn't tomorrow night.
"You look wonderful, and you know it," her mother said sternly, but her glow of pride in her daughter was obvious. "Now, pirouette slowly and let me check that the top will stay in place when you move."
"Honestly, Mother," Julie sighed. She only called her "mother" when she was extremely exasperated. She closed her eyes and turned as ordered.
"Wow." The surprising comment came from the steps. Julie's eyes flew open to find Matt gawking at her as if he'd never seen her before.
"Don't look at me like that," she commanded. "I'm not some exhibit at the museum."
"I was just thinking that I'm going to have the most beautiful date at the prom," he said with a grin.
With surprising tact and sensitivity, Julie's mother slipped silently into the house. Julie barely noticed that she was gone.
"It's not a date," she said, sitting gingerly on the vacant swing so she wouldn't harm the dress. "It's just me and you, going to this silly dance together because we promised when we were children that we would."
"Is that really all it is?" Matt asked gently.
Julie shifted uncomfortably. "Of course. We wouldn't even be going together if we had other dates."
"I didn't ask anyone else. And I know for a fact that Jon Sellers asked you, and you turned him down. Why?"
"We had a promise," Julie said. "That's all."
"Is that all?" Matt repeated.
She stared at him for a long moment. They had been friends forever; she knew him better than she knew herself. She understood exactly what he was asking - and her answer terrified her.
"I - I don't know, Matt," she stammered uncertainly. "Is it?"
"I don't think so."
As she listened to the quiet sound of crickets and the squeak of the swing, she looked at her friend. Suddenly, she didn't think it was either.
"Julie?" Her mother said gently, pulling her from her reverie. She sat on the swing and put an arm around her daughter's shoulders. "Dear, are you ok?"
"Yes," she said. She discovered that her anger was almost gone. She and Emma fought often, but they rarely held grudges. This time, Julie decided that the actual wedding ceremony, not the superficial things that went with it, was the important thing. The occasion was too special to ruin with petty arguments. She felt ready to tackle the wedding preparations - and her mother - again. She gave her mother an impulsive hug. "I just came out here to think. I was remembering everything that has happened on this old swing."
Emma laughed. She was obviously glad to see that Julie's good humor had been restored. "You haven't been out here long enough for that. It seems that everything important in the last twenty-one years has happened right here."
"This swing has seen everything from our first fight to Matt proposing to me. We were even sitting here when we realized we were in love."
"You do love him, don't you?" Emma asked seriously. She already knew the answer. She had known even when they were children that they would end up together. She just wanted to make sure that her little girl was happy. Of course, it helped that Matt was from a good family.
"Yes," Julie said with certainty. "I love him."
"Good." Emma smiled then stood up. "Now, come back in the house and help me pick out the flowers. We can't decide between roses or carnations for the boutonnieres."
Julie smiled wryly. Some things would never change. "I'll be there in a minute." She sat for a few minutes more and absorbed the memories that surrounded her. An owl hooted and she recalled the sweetest memory of all.
"Julie," Matt said in an unusually hesitant voice. "I need to talk to you."
They were sitting in their usual place on the swing, enjoying a night of solitude as they had so often in years past. The familiar sound of owls and insects and families on nearby porches filled the evening air. They had just completed their second year of college at separate schools. Julie was never sure how she survived without his presence every day, but somehow they had both managed. Now, she leaned into him and smelled his cologne. It was one of the hundreds of things she had missed about him.
"Julie, I love you,"
"I love you, too," she said with a contented sigh.
"I've missed you," he continued, trying unsuccessfully to reach a meaningful point. Enjoying his discomfort, Julie pretended to be half-asleep.
"I've missed you, too," she mumbled.
"Julie . . ." He hesitated as he took her arms and pushed her far enough that he could watch her face. "Julie, will you marry me?"
There was no hesitation in her answer.
"Julie!" Mrs. Farmer called pointedly from the living room. "The flowers."
"Coming, Mama." With one last glide of the swing, Julie smiled and went inside. She had a wedding to plan.
My immediate family environment could basically be described as a "single child" environment. I have a sister, but she is seventeen years older than me. According to the computerized, polish and shine generic idea of a family, I should have grown up as a lonely child. However, a public opinion poll couldn't have possibly guessed the amount of "childhood bonding" that I have absorbed in my lifetime.
My mother has four brothers and sisters who have a lot of children and grandchildren of their own. These children and grandchildren became familiar faces to me. From birthday parties where the older cousins took all of the cool toys, Christmas at Grandma's-- "I don't know how the balls fell off the tree, but I didn't do it! It was him, I swear!" to the family reunion where the cousins we didn't associate with and the ones we did associate with declared Civil War as soon as the old folks turned their backs; we stuck together. No matter what the occasion, no matter what the weather, no matter what the adults said, Ghost in the Graveyard was the game that became the main event of the gathering. Actually, Ghost in the Graveyard was more than a game; it was a survival skill.
For those who don't know, Ghost in the Graveyard is a game played at night whose rules are basically the same as hide and go seek. Ghost in the Graveyard in my family was more like a cross between professional football without the pads, and commando.There are many different ways to play this game. You can have one person hide and everyone else go find them, everyone hide and one or two people find them all, or you can break off in teams and basically play war. You can use a base--moving or still target--that everyone gets a sporting chance to tag before being tackled, of you can play "if found you're it."
When my cousins and I got together to play, the rules were fairly simple. One potato, two potato decided who went first. Count to one hundred, and no fair getting the smaller children to watch where everyone else hides. And finally, no running to base for at least ten seconds after the searcher moves away, or in some cases until the moving target has a sporting chance to run.
The age of the participants was really not a set year. The main rule for participating was, if you are old enough to get the mess knocked out of you and not tell your folks, then you can play.
Ghost in the Graveyard really was a dog eat dog sport in my family. After playing for a few years and getting accepted as one of the older kids, you begin to pick up a few survival skills and tactics to help you win the game.
The first thing you need to know is don't get fooled into being "it" first. Do not volunteer and when playing one potato, two potato try to avoid letting the older kid talented on math do the counting. The first person to be it will usually stay it for a long time. This is especially true if nobody else wants the job. Everyone will gang up on you or leave you out in the woods going "Ghost in the Graveyard!" while they watch form the top of a nearby oak tree. However, there is usually always that one person in the group who likes being it all the time. This is usually the kid wearing the camouflaged hunting jacket, and orange hunter's cap who brags on the new shotgun they got for Christmas. These people will sniff you out no matter where you hide. You can be under a bush, "Gotcha," they'll whisper as they pop you hard on the head and go out in search of another victim. You can slip off to the bathroom at your grandma's house during the game and this person will knock on the window and point to let you know he's found you. And this person is not satisfied with getting one person tagged to be it; he's going to have the entire group of two dozen kids tagged and bewildered before his turn is up.
These camouflaged graveyard veterans can come in pretty handy at times. Especially if you can get one to let you hide with them. These people can make the stealth bomber look obvious. They know where nooks and crannies are at your own house that you've never noticed before. Your parents will still be looking for you the next morning if you decide to stay there, or in some cases if your buddy doesn't let you out of this crafty hiding place. For example, I had a friend who let someone talk him into hiding in the trunk of a car. "Sure, we'll let you out." Thirty minutes later and five miles down the road, I hear a kicking sound in the trunk of my car--not a good hiding place people. Also, never hide with the person who can not stop laughing the entire time you are hiding. This is most definitely the easiest way for even the biggest dud to find your hiding place.
Another good ally to have while playing Ghost in the Graveyard is the kid who loves to run. He'll let you chase him all night long. This is the person who jumps out in front of the person looking for everyone and taunts them into chasing after them while everyone else skips on over to base. They don't even worry about a hiding place, they just stand out in the middle of the yard shaking with all of the hyper energy stored up in their body. Definitely not the person who needs to eat a lot of sugar before playing, he might self-combust.
Of course let us not forget to mention the kid who always wants to play, but is usually too sick to be it or hide. This is where the phrase "moving base" comes in to play. The poor child with this job usually ends up standing in the middle of the yard clenching his sides waiting for the earth shattering thud of Bubba the soon-to-be-professional-football-player kid's footsteps as he runs unchecked towards him yelling "Boy you better not run from me or I'm going to sack you right here." If you are faced with this predicament as the moving base, then run. Bubba is going to lay you out on the ground no matter what you do, so you might as well go down trying.
As a veteran of the game, I've seen all kinds of people and positions when it comes to Ghost in the Graveyard. As for myself, I'm usually the kid who finds the dark corner hiding places near enough to the base so I can slip around and tag it while the person doing the looking is still debating on chasing Speedy Gonzales bouncing up and down in the front yard with the sucker hanging out of his mouth. Moving targets love me because I tend to get there just in time to help peel them off of the ground after the Bubba Express has come through. When I'm it, I can usually see the camouflaged kid swinging through the trees because of my good night vision. However, catching Rambo child is a whole other story. I'm quite the turtle, so I tend to stick to chasing the gigglers, and the kid too scared to hide too far away from a light. As moving base, I try to avoid getting cornered into this position, but when it so happens that the sick kid is knocked out for the evening leaving me to be the ice cube in hell, I take it like a woman--I tackle back.
Just a few last tidbits of advice for the survival of Deep South Ghost in the Graveyard. First, when racing madly to a hiding place, watch out for the barbed wire fences and clothes lines. Discovering these items while running full speed is the fastest way to test the laws of gravity. Avoid climbing into places that you can not jump down and run away from easily. You could end up being treed for hours by a stubborn person who hasn't tagged anyone yet and is determined that he's going to get you. Or even worse, someone can find you who decides that they can knock you loose from your hiding position. Chances are very strong that they are not going to try to catch you either. And finally, the last thing to remember in playing this sport; it's just a game, be a good sport about roughhousing, and roughhouse back. Besides, if things get too bad, you can just sit back and observe your fellow opponents--they have to sleep sometime.