SLEEPY HOLLOW: CHAPTER THREE – AND THEN THERE WAS THIS
DEAD GUY
The Legend of Sleepy Hollow, the tale of a hapless and somewhat evil-minded
Connecticut Yankee named Ichabod Crane versus the Dutch-descended New York bully
named Brom Bones, is considered a short story.
It is a story, that much is true, from a collection of works by author
Washington Irving, but it is a rather long story to be considered short.
Legends, in and of
themselves, are tales of greatness, often exaggerated but always based in some
remnant of fact or semi-factual information, and run the gamut from heroic to
infamous in nature. This particular
legend, the one about Sleepy Hollow, NY, is convoluted, but this blog isn’t in
the business of (nor does it desire to be in the business of) doing story
reviews. Suffice it to say that everyone
should make an effort to read this particularly long short story once during
your lifetime because once you do read it, you’ll want to visit the scene of
the crime.
Most of us know this story
as the tale of the Headless Horseman.
Let me just say that the
Hudson River Valley is nothing short of visually spectacular. I drive into the area via back roads to
sightsee (note yesterday’s Union Church of Pocantico blog entry), and the route
I choose takes me past horse farms and dairy farms and interlacing man-made
stone walls leftover from when the area was settled and new residents,
displacing the natives, claimed land.
Spring is on its way here in Tarrytown and Sleepy Hollow. Unlike still-snow-encrusted Massachusetts,
ground is actually visible here, and it is warm enough to drive with the heat
off and the windows partly open.
When I enter Sleep Hollow,
I am at the south gate of Irving’s cemetery of lore. There is supposed to be a museum shop here,
according to the intel, but I do not see it anywhere, so I park just inside the
open gates (that close precisely at 4:30, or so they claim). I back the car into a spot, careful not to
back up too far and plunge over the edge into the Gory River. I had intended to purchase a color map of the
graveyard and spend some time here, but I quickly see two drawbacks to my plan,
the first being there is no shop at which to purchase this map, and the second
being the roads inside the cemetery are a combination of tar and muddy
dirt.
I exit my car and start
snapping pictures of the Old Dutch Church and the sign that informs me that the
Headless Horseman Bridge no longer stands.
Of course it doesn’t. I drove
over two hundred miles to see it. Why on
earth would it actually still be here?
While I am outside of my car, a lone man in a Mercedes drives into the
cemetery. This freaks me out enough to
make me abandon any more unaccompanied walking tours here. I get into my car and drive it further into
the cemetery, securing the door locks as I go.
Many famous people are
interred here in the Sleepy Hollow Cemetery, and their headstones and tombs run
from simple to ostentatious. Between the
multiple small roads and muddy paths and the incredible pitch of the hillsides,
it is difficult to maneuver around the graveyard without that map. Another car pulls in behind me, and I find
the only way to stop for scenic pictures is to drive into mud and hope the
tourist isn’t trying to do the exact same thing I am lest I get blocked in.
After perusing around and
snapping a few random photos, I decide to hunt for the one grave for which I
came: Washington Irving.
I remember seeing the
small white sign with the arrow pointing toward an upper slope, but the dirt
road was too sharp an angle to maneuver with the car, so I stick to the tarred
street and attempt to work my way around the acres of dead people until I
possibly make a big enough circle to find the grave. I start to get confused as to where I am as I
get deeper into the semi-wooded plots and further away from the main street and
civilization.
I see a large stone
marker, about the size of my own vehicle, and make a mental note to turn back
onto the already-beaten track when I’m done finding Irving … if I find Irving. If I don’t, I’ll have to park my car back at
the entrance gates and walk in on foot. I
stop by the giant stone marker, the one I hope will be my Hansel and Gretel
breadcrumb. I decide to note the name on
the marker so I can tell myself, “It’s okay.
I’ll find my way out when I turn at the stone with the name …”
Here might be a good time
to admit that my three children all have relatively unusual names. They’re not made up names; they’re real names
in baby books and everything. However,
their names are uncommon. So I am
slightly shocked when the large family surname on the stone that will lead me
out of the cemetery labyrinth bears the first name of the kiddo I have driven
over two hundred miles to watch play lacrosse.
I take it as a sign (a creepy, weird, macabre sign, but a sign, just the
same). Of course, I snap a picture of
it.
I drive around and stop
and snap pictures a few more times until I come to a section of the old
cemetery near the street. There is a
memorial statue dedicated to the Civil War.
Once I pass it, I must decide to go right toward the street and be done
with the cemetery, or to go left and continue on along the unsure roadways of
semi-tar and muck.
I opt for the muck.
I drive about a hundred
feet when I stop at a dirt road that slopes steeply downward. There is a white placard to my right, and I
am hopeful that it will be the Irving grave site. I hop out of the car, checking around
carefully for creeps, freaks, and headless horsemen, and galumph over to the
wooden ordinance that turns out to be nothing more than some information in
general about the graveyard. The placard
is about as helpful, informative, and redundant as a “no smoking” sign in a
hospital oxygen ward. Dejected and
totally bullshit, I trudge back to my car, fold myself sadly into the front
seat, and slam my door. I put my hand on
the key, intending to start the car, and I look sideways.
There, right there, not
two feet from my face, next to my driver’s side door, completely in the open, absolutely
visible to anyone else but idiot me, is a black gate with the name Irving inscribed on it.
In this convoluted jumbled
acreage of criss-crossing pathways, I have randomly stopped my car exactly
where I need to be. The odds of this are
infinitesimal.
I hop back out of my car,
snap some photos with my camera and with my cell phone, and silently thank whatever
crazy stroke of luck or specter places me at this place at this moment. This kind of shit happens to me enough that I
just accept it when it comes along, but that doesn’t make it any less
freaky.
The only thing I have left
to do is get myself out of Sleepy Hollow Cemetery and back on the road toward
the lacrosse game in Dobbs Ferry. It is
this point when I realize the sharp turn and sloping hillside I balked at
initially when I entered the graveyard is in front of me, a steep descent with
an impossibly sharp right turn at the bottom which, if I miss, will plunge me
over the cliff and into the Gory River.
I go for it. It takes me several back-and-forth movements
and what results in a seven-point turn, but I make it down the hill and out to
the main road without becoming part of Sleepy Hollow’s legend.
