It was one of those soft April days, windless blue skies without a trace of haze or clouds, when I took a break from writing and stepped across Main Street into the sunshine.
An Asian couple pushing a baby in a stroller passed me. Across the street a man in his 30s, arms etched with tattoos, ambled along talking on his phone. About half of the other pedestrians stared into the palm of one hand, entranced by whatever they were reading on their phones. In a nearby parked car a man sat listening to a radio talk show.
It was just another usual morning in our town.
And then suddenly, dropping out of nowhere, an unbidden thought popped to mind: “You know, I really don’t belong here anymore.”
The words startled me. For one, the idea was new and unique, a single sentence that had never before entered my mind. For another – and this was even stranger – the remark was completely neutral. It contained no hint of the macabre or even mortality, no desire to embrace the grave, no contempt for life. It was neither comforting nor off-putting. It was weightless, without apparent consequence, like saying, “Have a nice day,” to a store clerk.
But each time I mentioned this episode to my children or friends, the reaction was the same. There was a pause and a flash of fear in their eyes and face, as if I were about to hitch myself to an oak with a piece of rope. Each time I had to explain that the thought arrived only as a statement of fact, mystifying, yes, but not morbid. Despite my explanation, those I told were alarmed.
With one exception.
My good friend Anne, who has also advanced past the biblical three-score-and-ten years, said: “I know exactly what you’re talking about. I’ve felt that way, too.” We chatted a few more minutes, and then Anne said with a little laugh, “You know, sometimes I feel like a ghost.”
This remark floored me. I knew exactly what she was talking about. I had last experienced feeling like a ghost just two days earlier while visiting with my oldest son and his family. Feeling ghostlike is difficult to explain, but it’s essentially the sensation that everyone’s staring right through you without hearing a word you’re saying.
Later, when I mentioned my conversation with Anne about ghosts to a couple of my kids, their reaction was even stronger than to my Main Street revelation. My daughter was silent, but on saying goodbye that afternoon to begin her drive home, she said, “Don’t become a ghost.”
Clearly, these supernatural musings are best avoided around those younger people who love us, yet I bring them up for the benefit of readers who are younger and will inevitably grow old. Here are some good things to remember about aging and becoming a ghost.
First, old age can add zest to life’s pleasures. In my case, the mundane has taken on a richness sweetened by gratitude. I’m thankful for each new day. I relish everything from my first cup of morning coffee to the unexpected appearance at my door of a tribe of grandchildren. All but the worst of bad news – the illness of a friend, a divorce – is offset by the long view old age provides, the knowledge that “this too shall pass.”
Next, the world has undergone a tremendous transformation since my childhood. We’ve flown men to the moon, beaten back any number of diseases, and can now carry the world’s largest library in our pocket. I remember the days when some farmers were still using mules for cropping tobacco and hot summers meant ice water and fans rather than air-conditioners. The frenzied torrent of technology nowadays makes my childhood seem a page from ancient history. Hence, the disconnect with the present.
Growing older also raises up more acutely the company of other ghosts. Many elderly men and women talk to deceased mothers, fathers, spouses, and friends. In Mark Helprin’s new novel, “Elegy in Blue,” the nameless narrator notes, “Now, in my eighty-second year, my allegiance is to ghosts.” Some of us who are old understand and approve that allegiance. As we become ghosts, we find ourselves in good company.
Moreover, Scripture teaches, “[H]ere we have no lasting city, but we seek the city which is to come,” a sentiment more commonly rendered, “Our home is not of this world.” As the passing years walk us closer to death, to feel more detached from the world seems only natural. Many of us keep abreast of the news, as do I, but more and more I feel removed, like an anthropologist studying the culture of some newly discovered tribe.
A final note: When I’m writing, my thoughts and intentions are more about my children and grandchildren, and young people in general, than of myself. That stance precludes the pessimism which has infected some of my friends, the gloom-and-doomers who believe America is going down the drain. Lots of us oldsters fight that defeatist attitude by helping raise grandchildren, volunteering for good causes, and encouraging others in the war for our culture.
So there you are. Even ghosts, it turns out, can do battle for life, liberty, and the pursuit of happiness. Just ask George Washington, Abraham Lincoln, and the millions of others who built this country and still speak to us from beyond the grave.
Jeff Minick is a father of four and grandfather to many. A former history, literature, and Latin teacher, Jeff now writes prolifically for The Epoch Times, American Essence Magazine, and his Substack.
This culture article was made possible by The Fred & Rheta Skelton Center for Cultural Renewal, a project of 1819 News. To comment on this article, please email [email protected]. The views and opinions expressed here are those of the author and do not necessarily reflect the policy or position of 1819 News.
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