That was the scene that played out week after week at my grandmother’s house. “The Holy” was short for Holy Ghost. As kids, we could not come up with anything spookier sounding. I knew all about God and Jesus, but the thought of there being such a thing as a Holy Ghost ranked up there with my personal childhood monsters: Gravel Face and the Cucumber people.
My oldest brother filled the bill of The Holy. He earned the moniker because of the skill with which he could scare the bejeebers out of my other brother, two cousins, and me. His method was simple, but effective – sneak around the house after dark with a flashlight, waiting for the opportune moment to toggle its switch, as he held it under his chin, for a chilling effect. Anticipation was the seasoning sprinkled on the event to make it much more frightening. We knew what was coming. In fact, we had formed a club, The Brave Club, to train for these exact occasions.
Though some might consider our methods unconventional, we worked hard to become stealthy and bold, figuring that by so doing - courage would prevail. We had nerve all right. We had mastered the art of running and diving through the window and onto the bed of the “closed in” back porch – with only one casualty (which happened to be a pair of glasses). Thankfully, we suffered from periodic amnesia that kept us from remembering exactly what had happened to the glasses. Our best recollection was that they simply fell off her face and broke.
We further sharpened our skills by boldly walking amidst the adults to snitch the unprotected “Kool” brand cigarettes, steal away to the bathroom, and with surgical precision-remove a portion of the tobacco to replace it with a broken match head. Re-packing the tobacco, we then, walked unassumingly back to return the pack to its rightful place. I am almost certain the theme song to “Mission Impossible” could be heard. That was our brand of action and certainly our parents would be none the wiser. Looking back now, we probably did give ourselves away as we nervously awaited the fateful draw on the “doctored” cigarette that would bring a shocking end to a new family member’s nasty habit…our version of the Anti-Smoking Campaign.
Our talents were furthered stretched as we crawled underneath the house to a position directly under our recently widowed great aunt. There we tried, in our best ghostly voices, to convince her that her recently deceased husband was speaking to her from beyond the grave…”Luuuuuucy this is Meeeelllvvviiinn”… What can I say? We were proficient. We were professionals. We…were…charter members of The Brave Club. And yet, The Holy always horrified us…
