Years ago, my husband Lloyd and I and our three kids Jay, Holly, and Darby (Jay, the eldest, was in kindergarten), lived for a few years in Deadwood, South Dakota. One of the houses we rented - they were all very old - was at the foot of Mount Moriah Cemetery, where old-timers such as Wild Bill Hickok and Calamity Jane are buried. In our backyard were rickety old wooden "steps" made from spindly tree trunks that led up the hill to the cemetery.
One day I sat in a chair watching the kids play with toy trucks on the floor of the living room, when suddenly they all stopped playing and looked up. Together, their heads turned as their eyes seemed to follow something moving across the room. A minute or so later, two-year-old Darby, the youngest, waved one his little hands at whatever it was and said, "Bye-bye." Then they all resumed playing with their toy trucks. I asked them what they'd been looking at, and I think it was Holly, then three-and-a-half, who said something like, "A cowboy. He went out the kitchen door and is gone now."
I told Lloyd about it when he came home from work, and he chuckled and said, "They're messing with you." I explained that they'd acted in unison and didn't seem to be pulling a prank, but then I shrugged and put it aside.
About a week later when the kids and I returned home from the grocery store, Lloyd was in the driveway, loading furniture into his pickup. I asked him what was going on, and he said, "We're moving." I asked him why, and he replied, "I saw him."
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