The Ghost and the Skunk Ape

I didn’t realize this until recently but ghosts of Native Americans really have a peculiar sense of humor. Throw in what a skunk ape thinks is funny, and what you end up with is absolutely bizarre.
My wife and I live in the woods about a mile—as the crow flies—from the ground where all the tribes up and down the Florida peninsula met in the early 1800s and decided it would be better for all concerned if they united as one tribe with one name—Seminole, which means “let’s get together, yeah, yeah, yeah.”
A couple of miles in another direction is the location of a tribal war village. It was on a swamp. One can only assume the peace village was at a much more pleasant location. The name of the war village was Chocachatti. We have been solemnly schooled that the name does not translate to Choke a Chicken.
I have credible evidence that this long-held legend is true because of what happened right outside my patio door a couple of months ago. My wife and I were watching some nonsense or other on television one night when the dog barked at the patio door. Evidently he wanted outdoors to do his business.
When I got to the door and was about to open it, I looked through the glass to see a fully materialized Seminole all dressed up to go to war. His craggy face looked none too happy.
“Honey,” I whispered to my wife, “you need to look at the patio door right now.”
“Huh?” Not only was she watching a television documentary about Vikings in America, she was also looking at a genealogy website to figure out how she was related to both Pocahontas and Attila the Hun.
“Look at the patio door,” I repeated as firmly as possible.
The dog barked again.
“For God’s sake, let he damn dog out,” she said.
When I opened the door, the dog let out a yelp and ran back to the sofa, where he whimpered until my wife leaned over to pick him up.
“Damn dog,” my wife growled. “Doesn’t know what he wants.”
“Please,” I said as softly and as calmly as possible.
The Seminole warrior was looking menacing as each moment passed.
“Oh, all right.”
Just as she sighed in exasperation and looked up the Seminole disappeared into the darkness of the night.
“Okay. I looked out the door. I saw black nothingness. Are you satisfied?” she muttered before returning her attention to the television and the computer.
Of course there was no appropriate answer to that question so I kept my mouth shut.
The next night while the television beamed a show about has-been celebrities trying to keep up with professional ballroom dancers on the floor, I intermittently glanced out the patio door to see if the Seminole reappeared. Just as they announced which two-left-footed famous person was going home, the Seminole appeared, this time with a chicken in his hands. I gasped as he began to choke the poor feathered thing.
“Honey! Look out the patio door!”
“No,” she replied, staring intently at her computer screen. “I just figured out I’m related to Vlad the Impaler.”
“But there’s a Seminole about to choke a chicken on our patio!”
“Tell him to leave it, and we’ll have fried chicken tomorrow night.”
Then the Seminole smiled, petted the chicken and kissed it on the head.
“Now he’s kissing it,” I said in amazement.
“A Seminole kissing a chicken? Now this I gotta see.” By the time she turned around to look, both the Seminole and the chicken disappeared. “I’m beginning to worry about you,” she said before returning her attention to the computer.
I dreaded sunset at our little house in the woods. Sure enough, as darkness enveloped the neighborhood, an image materialized at my patio door. I was so astonished at what I saw that my mouth flew open.
My wife looked up to see my expression.
“Don’t tell me you see the Seminole with the chicken again.”
“No.” I could hardly find my voice. “It’s a skunk ape this time.”
You see, about five miles—as the crow flies—in the other direction from our house is the Green Swamp which supposedly is inhabited by the Florida version of big foot called the skunk ape, thus named because he never bathes and stinks to high heaven.
“Oh really?” my wife said, her eyes never lifting from the computer screen.
Right then the skunk ape pulled a chicken out from behind its back and hugged it and kissed it and presumably called its name George.
“It’s—it’s hugging and kissing a chicken.”
“So the skunk ape scared the Seminole and took his chicken away.” My wife can be so sarcastic when she wants to be.
I was about to agree with her when the Seminole jumped from the shadows to wrestle the chicken from the grasp of the skunk ape. A moan escaped my trembling lips.
“Now what’s happening? She asked wearily.
“Nothing.”
“You’re lying. I can tell by your eyes.”
I sighed. The skunk ape and the Seminole are fighting over the chicken. They both want to cuddle with it.”
“I’m going to look out that patio door, and if I don’t see anything I’m going to box your ears.”
All three of them—the Seminole, the skunk ape and the chicken—disappeared into the darkness. Of course, my wife didn’t see them and marched toward me, her hands in fists ready to box my ears.
She would have done it too, if I hadn’t pulled out my best weapon of self-defense. I began crying. My tears aggravated my wife so much she retreated to the bedroom and slammed the door. When I looked back out the patio door, the Seminole and the skunk ape had returned, and they were tossing that chicken back and forth like a ball. And the chicken acted like he enjoyed it.
I marched right over to that patio door, threw it open and wagged my finger at the Seminole and the skunk ape.
“Now listen here,” I began, “I don’t know if you think you’re being funny, but I want you to cut it out!”
My outburst must have caught them by surprise because they stopped in mid toss. With great dexterity the Seminole caught the chicken before it hit the ground. They looked so sad that I thought they were going to cry.
My first reaction was to tell them everything was okay and they could come and play on my patio any time they wanted to. But I reminded myself that, after all, they were a ghost and a big foot, and my wife didn’t approve of such things. After forty-four years of marriage I had learned she made all the rules.
The Seminole and the skunk ape shrugged and, with chicken in tow, turned to disappear into the night, never to return. At that very moment, my wife came back from the bedroom.
”Look, if you want to pretend you see ghosts and yetis, that’s all right with—“She stopped in mid-sentence and her mouth flew open. “Oh my God! There are a Seminole and a skunk ape on the patio! And they have a chicken!”
The ghost and the big foot also stopped in their tracks and looked back. Evidently her yelling scared them.
My wife walked to the door, slid it open and extended her arms to hug them. They immediately vanished.
“They are shy, aren’t they?”
“Yes, they are.”
“I hope they come back.”
“They always do.”
She kissed me. “Forgive me. I love you, even if you do have weird friends.”
Weird. Yes, and she’s the best weird friend of all.
(Author’s Note: I wrote this last year with the wife demanding the husband quit making up stories about ghosts and skunk apes. My wife Janet didn’t like it very much because she thought the wife was based on her and it made her sound like a bitch. She died of cancer last January. I’ve been thinking about it and decided to make the wife character as nice as Janet was.)

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