A cold, gentle breeze blew across the barren landscape, creating little dust creatures and playing with them. They rolled and tumbled and died down. They looked like the spirits of tumbleweed but even tumbleweed did not seem to grow in that desolate place. It was 1970 and we were on our way to Candleria, a ghost town in Arizona. Perhaps I've watched too many movies over the years, because in my mind I pictured a ghost town as a place with empty, decrepit buildings and boardwalks. Although it might not be safe to venture into the buildings, if we peered inside we'd find pieces of furniture toppled and dusty with cobwebs holding everything together. There should be a few ancient brown bottles still on the floor of the saloon . . . left behind when the last owner threw in the towel and moved away to make a better life somewhere else. Of course if his dreams had died there he wouldn't have taken the time to sweep the floor or tidy up. We would probably find his apron still on the counter where he tossed it in defeat.

      I was sure I'd feel the spirits of the people who once lived there but Candleria isn't a fantasy ghost town or a movie ghost town. It's a real place. A place where people lived and loved. Where they mined silver hoping against hope that their claim would catapult them from a life of poverty and empty dreams. Where the promises of the New World could come true. Where, ultimately, they were disappointed and died or moved on. It existed originally as a canvas tent town since there are no trees at Candleria and any wood used for building had to be carried in. No furniture remains, no mementos of the people or who they were. No boardwalks, no buildings, not even bars left from the tellers window at the bank or the jail. Perhaps the town itself had died too soon to establish any roots, aspirations not dramatically dashed against any rocks, but simply shriveling away. Dust to dust.

     We wandered around what did survive: small rectangles outlined with rows of rocks that were perhaps once the foundations of whatever few buildings the town boasted. Perhaps the Arizona Tourism Commission had placed the rocks there when they set out the small signs that identified each rectangle: blacksmith, hotel, bank, saloon, post office, etc. I heard only the wind and felt only the sand and dust it blew against my skin. It was in the late spring and though the sun itself was warm, the air was still cold. Nothing green seemed to grow there. The last twisted pieces of the silver sluice slanted downward from a cliff but ended too short and much too high. It was hard to even imagine life in such a place, let alone a thriving center of commerce however short-lived. I shivered not from the presence of spirits, but from the utter bleakness of the place. The people who lived there arrived dreaming of wealth. I wondered how many fantasies, how many more hopes and dreams died in that place.

     As we passed the rectangle of rocks labeled "Hotel," I marveled at how small the space was. Probably not more than 16 x 20. How many rooms did it have and how big were they? Was a hotel room in Candleria just big enough for a bed and a place to put your boots? Was it just a place to sleep on your way somewhere else . . . anywhere else? Could people in the throws of silver/gold fever look at such surroundings and change their minds, catching the first stage out of town for greener pastures? Probably not.

     At the edge of the town, some 100 feet from the center, was an old cemetery. It seemed appropriate to call it a graveyard. There were small piles of what looked like basalt stacked up to remember long-forgotten people. There were a few rock crosses still standing and several real grave markers with epitaphs etched in the stone: "Matthew, killed by Indians 1878," "John, arrived by stagecoach, 1879, shot the next day," "Old Man Preston." I listened with my heart as well as my ears but even the spirits had long since fled. I made two crayon rubbings of stones and we, too, left. Even dead, Candleria was still capable of smothering fantasies.

     I hadn't thought about Candleria in years until last Tuesday. On Tuesdays I drive to work along Barlow Rd. in rural Clackamas County, Oregon. Every week the stop sign at the intersection with Lone Elder Road slows my journey. On the northwest corner of that intersection there is an old Cemetery. It has always been there, unremarkable and unnoticed. It sits in the corner of a field of some crop that is just now breaking the ground with grass-like green blades. There is no sign to name the Cemetery or who is responsible for it. There are four short, fat fir trees and a small metal shed along the western boundary that weren't there years ago. The remaining perimeter has an assortment of wooden fence posts at haphazard angles and dissimilar design with a cable strung between them. There is no parking area, and no walkways. One dirt lane intrudes a short distance into it with tire tracks in the mud. It seem heavily populated by moles or gophers, their dirt mounds having long since turned the grasses into clumps. It simply exists, having remained almost changeless for the over thirty years that I have driven past it. I used to be curious about it there in the field but even my curiosity waned over the years. We have spent several Memorial Days "grave hopping" with our children, visiting old cemeteries and learning what we can of the people who came here and prepared the way for us. We have a fondness for the personal histories they tell and keep a collection of crayon rubbings from the markers of the 1800s, old in the relatively young history of Oregon. There are young men lost in World War I; whole families of children whose lives were claimed by scarlet fever or other now-conquered diseases. World War II, the Korean Conflict, Viet Nam, drunk drivers all leave their mark on the graves of the men and women they claimed. On through the years one can trace the history of families right up to people you know. There's a sense of belonging and ties to the land and its history found in such places and a certain peace. Like getting to know a place before you move there.

     The cemetery at Barlow and Lone Elder, though, is different. I have never stopped to wander among its few residents because it lacks a place to park my car in order to indulge my curiosity. Thus thwarted, I had ceased to be curious. Although I have never seen anyone at the task, the grass among the stones is mowed. The visible ones are very old and most seem to be made of cast concrete rather than a more permanent substance. A closer inspection may prove them to simply be of a more porous stone. One marker in particular stands at a slight angle and is weathered by antiquity. Its grey surface is pocked with blotches of black that seem to be moss or some other darkly growing thing and erosion has taken away all evidence of who it once remembered. The cemetery has remained so immutable over the years that it exists more on the periphery of my consciousness than anywhere else and a few times I have been startled to see a bouquet of flowers gracing some particular place, an anomalous speck of color.

     On Tuesday, though, it was different. On Tuesday there was a freshly dug grave. A green awning covered the gaping hole and a tarp protected the mound of dirt beside it from anticipated rain. Three green, canvas folding chairs were folded but still upright on a strip of artificial turf under the awning. There was not a single person in sight, no canvas runners to walk across the wet ground to the awning and no flowers. Other than the three chairs, there were no provisions for any other people. I almost stopped the car and turned around. It was as if the dead themselves, unseen, were preparing to welcome a companion to a cemetery that only seemed to have been abandoned and I very much wanted to be there when they did. I wanted to unfold one of those chairs, sit down and wait to give honor, when the time came, to the newly departed. What would happen when exactly three people arrived and found one chair already occupied?

     But instead of turning around, I continued to work and unexpectedly thought of Candleria as I drove. I wondered about the people and their courage way back then: pack your belongings and follow a dream to unknown consequences. Was life so hard that even Candleria seemed to be paradise? And what happened to them when their hopes died? Is that why there were no souls to speak to me in Candleria? Is real death when dreams and fantasies, too, are carried to oblivion? I think that without dreams, without fantasy, there is no real life at all.

     I want to take a day off and visit with the souls at the Barlow/Lone Elder cemetery. If it still receives bodies, than it is still awake and there are stories to be learned. Two days later when I drove past, the awning and chairs were gone. There seemed to be no bent blade of grass to remark what had transpired, but over the now-filled-in hole, there was a stand with a few bouquets of wilted flowers and a large white styrofoam heart. It was, after all, a week before Valentine's Day. I want to go knock at the fresh grave and ask if only three people did, indeed come or if one of those chairs had been for me. I think I shall apologize for not staying and hope they will understand about work. I will take crayons and paper. I'll take a note pad and a purple pen. I'll visit with whatever spirits there speak to me. I'll ask about Candleria. I'll ask about dreams and fantasies. I'll ask how real reality is and see if there is some ratio to fantasy that makes life better. I'll find out how to keep dreams alive to the end. I'll try to get to know the neighborhood so that when I move on, I'll be among friends. I'll ask them to save me a chair.