It was Christmas Eve, my mother was waiting for her brother to arrive, who was going to spend Christmas with us. It was getting late; he was supposed to be taking the bus that ran from Huntington to somewhere above Wayne. It had already passed the house and he did not get off when it stopped. Mom was really getting worried.
Then all of the sudden we heard someone pounding on the front door and yelling. Dad answered the door, there was my uncle, white as a sheet, out of breath, and sweating like it was the middle of summer.
He sat down on the couch to catch his breath; mom gave him a glass of water to drink as he started to explain. He told us that he had worked all day and was very tired; he fell asleep on the bus. When he awoke, the bus was already in Wayne. He got off there and started hitchhiking back to Lavalette. No one would pick him up so he had walked all the way to Dixon. It is there that it happened, in Dixon there is a little family cemetery. A friend of my uncles had been buried there about three days prior to this; my uncle swore that he could hear his voice calling for him. He had run the remaining three miles or so to our house, scared senseless.