Ghost Stories: A special visit to Dr. Roush’s ‘office’
Lead Summary
By
Steve Roush-
Ladies and gentlemen, as I stroll through the old Barnes Cemetery in Fairview, Ohio on this unseasonably warm late September evening, I gaze idly into the distance.
As a light breeze blows, I see trees of green beginning to show early signs of autumn hues and soybean fields that are nearly ready for harvest. It makes me feel a bit funereal as I realize that summertime – my favorite season – has reached its ineluctable finale this year.
Ah, that word, ineluctable, meaning inescapable or incapable of being evaded. A word I learned from Dr. Sigel Roush, arguably my favorite relative I’ve never met.
As I tarry in that familiar cemetery, I survey the grave marker and final earthly resting place of my Great-Great-Great Uncle Sigel Roush, who was born just a few miles away in the year of our Lord 1862 and passed away more than 92 years later just a few miles away in 1954.
In between those years, Sigel Roush became a doctor, dentist, author, world traveler, educator, author and writer. His many editorial offerings have been published in many newspapers, and his words have appeared in Highland County’s only locally owned and operated newspaper more than six decades after his death.
Uncle Sigel was a brilliant man who had a tremendous perspective of life and a wonderful way with words. As I look upon his granite monument, my mind begins to wander and I think, “Wouldn’t it be nice to step back in time and visit the Doc? Perchance that would be the precise elixir to cure my melancholy.”
At that moment, the old cemetery fades away and I’m standing at the door of an eerily familiar cottage on Anderson Road, an abode that was just torn down earlier this summer but now looks new.
As I admire a classic, 1930s-era DeSoto parked in the driveway, I knock on the cottage door. A distinguished looking, slender gentleman with a full head of silvery gray hair opens the door to greet me.
“Doctor Roush,” I say somewhat nervously, “my name is Steve Roush…”
“Roush,” he interjects, “are we related?”
“I am certainly certain we are,” I reply, “Could we chat for a few moments?”
He smiles. “Come in, sit down and have a cup of coffee young man,” the Doc says. “What’s on your mind?”
“Well, I always get a little down in the dumps when summer comes to its conclusion,” I tell Uncle Sigel. “I was hoping you’d give me a prescription of sorts to cure what ails me.”
As I sit down, in true fashion of many Roushes of yore, he tells me a story.
“The Japanese observe a ‘Feast of Flowering Leaves,’” he begins. “Of all their many floral feasts, the festival of the autumn leaves is one of the most cherished. When the October fairies with their magic pigments and paints transform the autumn foliage into all the colors of the rainbow, whole villages empty themselves into nearby groves where decked in raiment scarcely less gorgeous than the colorful robes of the oaks, maples and cryptomerias, they feast and make merry, sing and dance, indite poems to the flowering leaves, visit and chatter the livelong day. It is a beautiful custom, and I have watched these grown-ups mingle with their elders and infants during these festivals dedicated to colorful nature with no little pleasure.
“I concluded that this is one of the values of life and pleasures of living we have largely missed. We do not properly enjoy the masterpieces of nature proffered at our very doorstep.”
“Good point,” I say.
“And if we are located in the suburbs or rural districts, we do not have to even leave our domicile to revel in the riot of color on display in autumn,” the Doc continues. “I recall a time where I could sit in front of my window on a perfect autumn morning and behold a scene that spreads out before me and lengthen into the distance that no painter in pigments or words can reproduce…
“But better far from viewing these masterpieces from one’s window is to go out among them, to breathe the tang of the autumn air, to drink in draught after draught of the elixir of the hills; to ravish one’s eyes with the incomparable beauty that presents itself on every side. No Louvre of Luxembourg, no Uffizi or Pitti Palace, no miles of man-made pictures collected through the ages can compare to the magnificent masterpieces that nature overnight paints for the delectation of her sometimes sorely harassed children.
“If you fail to visit this exhibition that will all too soon close its doors, you will have shut out one of the annual joys of life. And it requires no special equipment or expense. As a matter of fact, to ramble for a day among the glories of autumn possesses advantages and joys that are unsurpassed. It is a pleasant treatment for dyspepsia, grouchiness and a dozen other maladjustments both social and political. Even for the depression, for come what will no system of economic or politics that has been able thus far to take from us the glorious Feast of the Flowering Leaves.”
“Doctor Roush, I feel so much better now,” I say with a smile. “Many thanks, and I may have to call on you again one of these days – maybe even next week.”
“Anytime,” he graciously replies. “Glad to be of service.”
As the old cottage ineluctably fades away and I return to the quiet cemetery where the ol’ Doc is left to repose until the resurrection morn, let’s pause for now, and we’ll continue next week.
Steve Roush is a vice president of an international media company and a columnist and contributing writer for The Highland County Press. He can be reached by email at roush_steve@msn.com.
As a light breeze blows, I see trees of green beginning to show early signs of autumn hues and soybean fields that are nearly ready for harvest. It makes me feel a bit funereal as I realize that summertime – my favorite season – has reached its ineluctable finale this year.
Ah, that word, ineluctable, meaning inescapable or incapable of being evaded. A word I learned from Dr. Sigel Roush, arguably my favorite relative I’ve never met.
As I tarry in that familiar cemetery, I survey the grave marker and final earthly resting place of my Great-Great-Great Uncle Sigel Roush, who was born just a few miles away in the year of our Lord 1862 and passed away more than 92 years later just a few miles away in 1954.
In between those years, Sigel Roush became a doctor, dentist, author, world traveler, educator, author and writer. His many editorial offerings have been published in many newspapers, and his words have appeared in Highland County’s only locally owned and operated newspaper more than six decades after his death.
Uncle Sigel was a brilliant man who had a tremendous perspective of life and a wonderful way with words. As I look upon his granite monument, my mind begins to wander and I think, “Wouldn’t it be nice to step back in time and visit the Doc? Perchance that would be the precise elixir to cure my melancholy.”
At that moment, the old cemetery fades away and I’m standing at the door of an eerily familiar cottage on Anderson Road, an abode that was just torn down earlier this summer but now looks new.
As I admire a classic, 1930s-era DeSoto parked in the driveway, I knock on the cottage door. A distinguished looking, slender gentleman with a full head of silvery gray hair opens the door to greet me.
“Doctor Roush,” I say somewhat nervously, “my name is Steve Roush…”
“Roush,” he interjects, “are we related?”
“I am certainly certain we are,” I reply, “Could we chat for a few moments?”
He smiles. “Come in, sit down and have a cup of coffee young man,” the Doc says. “What’s on your mind?”
“Well, I always get a little down in the dumps when summer comes to its conclusion,” I tell Uncle Sigel. “I was hoping you’d give me a prescription of sorts to cure what ails me.”
As I sit down, in true fashion of many Roushes of yore, he tells me a story.
“The Japanese observe a ‘Feast of Flowering Leaves,’” he begins. “Of all their many floral feasts, the festival of the autumn leaves is one of the most cherished. When the October fairies with their magic pigments and paints transform the autumn foliage into all the colors of the rainbow, whole villages empty themselves into nearby groves where decked in raiment scarcely less gorgeous than the colorful robes of the oaks, maples and cryptomerias, they feast and make merry, sing and dance, indite poems to the flowering leaves, visit and chatter the livelong day. It is a beautiful custom, and I have watched these grown-ups mingle with their elders and infants during these festivals dedicated to colorful nature with no little pleasure.
“I concluded that this is one of the values of life and pleasures of living we have largely missed. We do not properly enjoy the masterpieces of nature proffered at our very doorstep.”
“Good point,” I say.
“And if we are located in the suburbs or rural districts, we do not have to even leave our domicile to revel in the riot of color on display in autumn,” the Doc continues. “I recall a time where I could sit in front of my window on a perfect autumn morning and behold a scene that spreads out before me and lengthen into the distance that no painter in pigments or words can reproduce…
“But better far from viewing these masterpieces from one’s window is to go out among them, to breathe the tang of the autumn air, to drink in draught after draught of the elixir of the hills; to ravish one’s eyes with the incomparable beauty that presents itself on every side. No Louvre of Luxembourg, no Uffizi or Pitti Palace, no miles of man-made pictures collected through the ages can compare to the magnificent masterpieces that nature overnight paints for the delectation of her sometimes sorely harassed children.
“If you fail to visit this exhibition that will all too soon close its doors, you will have shut out one of the annual joys of life. And it requires no special equipment or expense. As a matter of fact, to ramble for a day among the glories of autumn possesses advantages and joys that are unsurpassed. It is a pleasant treatment for dyspepsia, grouchiness and a dozen other maladjustments both social and political. Even for the depression, for come what will no system of economic or politics that has been able thus far to take from us the glorious Feast of the Flowering Leaves.”
“Doctor Roush, I feel so much better now,” I say with a smile. “Many thanks, and I may have to call on you again one of these days – maybe even next week.”
“Anytime,” he graciously replies. “Glad to be of service.”
As the old cottage ineluctably fades away and I return to the quiet cemetery where the ol’ Doc is left to repose until the resurrection morn, let’s pause for now, and we’ll continue next week.
Steve Roush is a vice president of an international media company and a columnist and contributing writer for The Highland County Press. He can be reached by email at roush_steve@msn.com.