Tales from the beat II

Ghosts of the Susquehanna

Apparitions appearing and vanishing in a dew-heavy, fog, white-robed, hooded and masked members of the True Knights of the Ku Klux Klan, brandishing red axe handles emblazoned by the KKK symbol, went about their mysterious pre-rally chores.

Some carried coffee mugs sporting the crimson logo, resembling spectral businessmen on a break from their dull daily routines. The mugs, axe handles and assorted accoutrements were available from a kiosk vendor, also dressed in full regalia. Lighters and other memorabilia, along with KKK publications, were being purchased by the scores.

Crickets quickened their songs, as shadows gathered in deep pools under the nearby copse of trees. A man dressed in a royal purple robe, classic conical hat, mask undone revealing his face, (the Grand Dragon), brought the meeting to order and introduced the Chaplian to give the benediction. The next man to take the podium, dressed in blood-red, was a well-known orator and political activist from a southern Klavern of the order. For the first hour of the meeting, the visiting Dragon lambasted the Jewish-controlled press. As he continued his tirade about journalists, I stood in front of the stage, camera at my side, taking notes -- occasionally waving to other Klan members (I was the only reporter there -- so I got all the attention -- my assignment only to be there is case violence broke out). During a break in the festivites, when the carnival-like spirit returned to the event, the living, moving fog darkened, enveloping all who entered the melody of the wheeping, sloughing trees mixed with the raucous sounds of the splashing, rushing river. Laughter, vendors hawking their wares and conversation created discordance, an unnatural anthem that activated the frissom mechanism of my back. With no where else to go, I waited patiently for the cross-burning. While being inundated by image, sound, smell and the cooling wet embrace of the thickening miasma, an attractive, young lady sidled up beside me and began a conversation. It was apparent that she was flirting -- then it hit me. "I'm a real idiot." Somewhere in the morass of flowing robes and swinging axe handles was her significant other -- boyfriend, fiance, husband. The question quickly became: (a.) Should I be rude and walk away? (b.) Be cool and continue innocent conversation? (c.) Fein a sudden illness or need to hit the "Porta-PottyTM?" While pondering the likelihood of my survival into the not so far future, my cheek was kissed by warmth and light was born out of the fog.As in Genesis, I felt the hand of creation providing Offering my apologies for having to continue with my job, I sauntered off to take pictures -- find my way up the steep, slippery, uneven path in an ink-black night, praying that I soon find the hard road and my car. At subsequent rallies of this type, I tried to limit my conversations to males and to topics, such as snakehunting -- and other good ole' country boy pastimes.