Ghosts.
One of my first friends that  I made at school was Crikit Prado. When we were very young, say about 8, I visited her house. It was at the corner of Blake and  Hames rd. The house was like ours in a way. It was old and remodeled to fit a growing family. The property went way back and her father had built a playground for the kids there. It was wonderful, complete with steel slides and a see-saw. We played for hours. One day she took me to the back of the property where her grandma had a little house.  She wasn't allowed in there I think. We went in quietly. The little house was very cool and clean. The furniture was  old fashioned and lace curtains blew softly with the breeze thru the open windows. We went to the back  bedroom. On the dresser laid out neatly were a comb, brush and some bobbie pins. Also three small intracatly woven round straw basket boxes with lids. She paused there and picked up the brush. It had soft very gray hair still in it. She said this is my grandma's . She's an Indian. But she died. We stood quietly in the dim room and looked closely at the fine hairs and woven baskets. Then her mom called dinner and we bolted thru the tiny house out into the sunshine, hopeing not to be seen.

In those days my idea of what an Indian was of course Cowboys and Indians. My only 8 year old reference was what I saw on my 1960s tv.  But this was different. It was real. A real person.  And It was spiritual. I felt that. I mean I felt Crikit's love of her Grandmother. It was very special to feel that. It was sweet and it was sad all at once.