Friday, July 21, 2006

The Ghost of Castro Valley (1968-69)

By Dennis L. Siluk
July 10, 2004

I left Minnesota for one of the most memorable journeys of my life, in the summer of l968, plus it was the time of the new movement, the birth of Aquarius or so it was cultivated for the youth, and the record companies did their share in promoting the era. I was but twenty-years old at the time, now fifty-six, how time does fly: as I've heard said: life is but a vapor, we are here a few moments and lo and behold, vanished into the memories of others. On the other side of the coin, I never knew my experience traveling to San Francisco in the late l960's would be one I'd treasure to this very day. I have traveled the world over several times, since then, and never wanting to return to the city by the bay: possible I want to have them old memories remain as they are (see the book: "Romancing San Francisco"). Prior to leaving San Francisco, I received a notice to return to Minnesota, to be drafted into the Army, or remain where I was and be drafted through California, what a choice; nonetheless, I had lived in San Francisco going on a year before I'd leave; although I would go back to Minnesota, and into the US Army, and on to other adventures.

The Story:

I have written two short stories concerning this time period, and one book concerning San Francisco. All mostly concerning the of meeting Gogan Yamaguchi in l968, and his son, along with the "Ghosts of Collingswood-dojo l969," a short story, and again the book. This is the really an addition to the other two, and final sketch, although I want to say follow up, the other two published in other books, etc, really tell the same story, but in a different way. This will be a short sketch, never published prior, and the third part of the story, that being: "The Ghost of Castro Valley-1968-69."

I seem to have repeated myself a little too much in the past two stories, both being similar, and therefore not getting the true story of the ghost, but more of the Yamaguchi family, which seemed at the time the motivation to do the story. And so by request, I am doing the follow up, but leaving the prelude out, and the other two stores, since it will distract from the premise. It takes place in the same surrounds though, at the dojo in San Francisco, California, in the district of Castro, with the same people, but at this juncture, the karate tournament [l968, at the Cow Palace, of which I was present] was over, that I talk about in both the other stories. I wasn't sure why the karate men from around North America were so afraid of sleeping in the dojo - I did for three months sleep there, although I thought it was maybe a little haunted at times, and surely haunted after I met the ghost - and they (black belts and all) feared it, feared it was all too much, too, way too haunted for them; yes, Black Belts from all over the United States would not sleep there, but I did, I slept on the davenport facing the gym part, where the arch was going into the dojo, until one day I came face to face, and foot to foot with the ghost. And that is the difference of this story and the other two.

Meeting of the Ghost

I was like any other youth back in those far off days, of the roaring, or daisy-flying days, of the mid to late-60's in America: chasing the wishes and desires of my heart which was becoming adventure and travel. Wanting to see all, and touch all and smell all, become part of it all. San Francisco was where it all seemed to start, had you been there during this time, you would not had missed an unequaled era, you would have been part of it, to an unaccountable freedom, a celebration of life, such as not been seen since the Jazz Age, or that of Pompeii. But to be honest, I had gone for other reasons, and ended up with all these other undertones to life. My objective was to study karate under the world famous guidance of Goesi Yamaguchi (at that time, 6th degree Black Belt). And so I got more than I bargained for, and my first ghost story - I looked at my dreams back then and wondered if I could catch them, and ever since been chasing them, and catching more than I thought was possible.

And so in the city of St. Paul, Minnesota (a Midwestern boy), I studied GoJo Ryu karate. And all I ever heard at the dojo there, was the name Yamaguchi, Yamaguchi or the "Cat," or Goesi, or Gogan. I would find out later on, during my journey to San Francisco, more about the famous, "Cat," which was a name given to Gogan because of the "Cat Stance," he created in the martial arts area. And I'd get to know him slightly, but his son Goesi, quite well.

In the dojo in San Francisco, in l968, as I went through the different karate movements, I became quick with my hands in a defensive style, able to block most incoming kicks or punches. Matter-of-fact, to an extreme skill, and to an arrogance, that became extreme when I was fighting others, and harming them; but one day Buck, a 4th Degree (a close friend back then), by the orders of Goesi, took me out to spar with him, and he taught me a lesson, and still we remained friends, going to Japanese movies, and so on and so forth.

But it was in the first three months of my stay at the dojo I met the ghost. I was sleeping one night on the sofa, as I mentioned before, by the archway leading into the dojo. I had no other place to live so Goesi allowed me to live there for a little over three months, until I found a place of my own. All of a sudden, about 10:30 PM one evening I was just about to go to sleep, I heard tapping on the twenty or so windows that circled the dojo, and the chairs being moved about, and on stage, which was used for observations and other purposes, more chairs being moved, and furniture being pushed. I got up and grabbed a long fighting stick, and stood in the archway and yelled:

"Come over here, I'm not afraid of you," not thinking it's what it would turn out to be. Again I braved it by saying: "I said, come out, whoever you are, and fight me like a man, coward-" I said a few other words I can't put in the sketch, but you get the picture. Everything stopped, it was quiet, silent (and we must remember it was the end of summer, and the outside weather was warm but no wind that night, no rain, no anything). Then I heard foot steps, but I looked about, into the shadowy dojo, the lights on in the archway hall lit up some of, if not most of, the dojo to a dim glitter.

I looked to and fro, here and there, everyplace, and the foot steps were coming louder and closer, but where was the man? louder, and louder they came: meaning I could hear the wooden floor crack as the foot steps made their moments, one to the next, to the next, in sequence, and slow. Like something heavy was coming towards me. Then for some odd reason, I looked down - still holding my long stick, and my breath a little bit, and there on the floor, right one the shinny waked floor, I noticed the wood bending, could see the curvature of the wood twist, extract with the weight on it, change inwardly, with each and every foot step: four times I seen the wood absorb the foot steps, and I knew then I had no control in this matter, I remember saying one thing, for at that moment the windows started shaking, and the chairs started making noise, and the foot steps were in front of me, I said with a calm (but jittering insides), "Lord, help me."

At that moment, everything stopped, and the footsteps disappeared. I was never so relieved. It's funny, I still lived there in the dojo, and it was like, like I wasn't going to let "it" make me move. So we both respected each others situation. I had no place to go, and "it," had no place to go, I suppose I did move out a month later, but that was because someone told the authorities I was living there (a jealous black belt), and it was not suppose to be used as a residence. But what an experience.

0 Comments:

Post a Comment

<< Home