Commentary: A wrong is made right on the grave of Major Olmstead

Time Traveler: Last month, I was blessed by being able to make reparations for a reprehensible, disreputable act I performed nearly a quarter-century ago. While not the only deplorable act I've committed in my 75 years, it's one of the lesser ones. It was repairable, and I hope the statute of limitations has expired on most of the others, since murder was never involved. This story starts nearly 70 years ago, when mistakes were made. I spent my early youth wandering around the abandoned mining camps, old shacks and barns left over from the Gold Rush era. Unfortunately, my range of exploration was restricted somewhat when the state decided to replace a perfectly nice river with an ugly mud hole called Folsom Lake. One day, old man Darrington stopped by our place and said, "Jump in the truck, Johnnie. Let's take one last look before they fill it up." So we went down to take a last look at the river, but on the way back, he stopped on a hill that was above the proposed water line. He showed me the headstone of a military man who had lain in repose there since the mid-19th century. He made a mistake – he never should have shown me. Fast-forward 40 years. Folsom Lake was again very low because of whatever drought was fashionable that year, so I took my boys out to explore my old stompin' grounds, as I was intimately familiar with the area. On the way back, I told my kids about the old grave. I made a mistake – I never should have told them about the grave. We walked up the hill and found someone had removed the headstone, probably to use in their flower garden. Nobody knew he was there except me, and now my boys did, too. "Oh boy," they exclaimed. "Let's dig it up. Maybe he's buried with some gold or a sword or something." "No can do," I said. "We can't dig up a grave in the middle of the day on state property, dummies." Then I made my second mistake: "And besides," I said, "the only time you dig up a grave is at midnight on a full moon. That's what Tom Sawyer would do." Figured that would slow them down. As an aside, let me explain the dynamics of my family. As a single parent of four boys, I knew I would be a lousy parent. So I decided to be head kid and try to keep us out of jail or at least provide plausible deniability. So with that in mind, you will understand that two weeks after viewing the grave, we were walking down the old wagon road under a full moon, armed with picks, shovels and maybe a gun or two. It's a long walk and after a mile or two, one of the boys hoarsely whispered, "Dad, what if we run into some bad guys?" "What the hell you talking about, Jase, we are the bad guys!" I answered. I don't know how many of my readers have ever dug up a grave at midnight, but it takes a little effort. Along about 3 or 4 in the morning, we found bits and pieces of redwood, probably from the box top. That's when the whole scope of our adventure changed. We stood quietly around the hole for a minute, then did the sign of the cross a half-dozen times to make sure we were covered, then threw the dirt back in the hole and put a few rocks on top so we would know where it was. But only us. Truth was, we didn't really want to dig up the old boy. We just wanted to see if we could. Fast-forward a few more decades and I get a call from a gentleman who reads my column occasionally. Turns out he knows as much about my area of El Dorado Country as I do, if not more. To my surprise, he knew who was buried in our mystery grave. During our conversation, he asked how I knew where the grave was. "Cause I dug him up, that's how," I answered. But I reassured him the tenant was still in residence. The reason he called was he wanted to put a new headstone on the grave and wanted my help, as long as I didn't reveal who he was or the location of the gravesite. Why this grave, I don't know, and I didn't ask. But I had reparations to make so I jumped at the chance. A couple of weeks later, he and I installed a new bigger, heavier, headstone for Major Olmstead of Calais, Maine, who died in 1856. So now I've put things right; one less transgression to carry on to my own grave. If the state comes knocking on my door asking about tampering with state property, rest assured I made up this whole story. Anyway, nobody can prove nothing. And besides, I have plausible deniability. For more on the Time Traveler, tune into our Newcastle Television Show on AM-950 and FM-104.5 KAHI radio at noon each Saturday or listen online at www.kahi.com. To comment, call 530-320-6441.