Us down a thundering sea—
My Spiritual Journey
A Mighty Wind
A mighty wind blows
Yet God is with us.
Who Am I?
Who Am I?*
by Dietrich Bonhoeffer
Who am
I? They often tell me
I would
step from my cell’s confinement
calmly,
cheerfully, firmly,
like a
squire from his country-house.
Who am
I? They often tell me
I would
talk to my warders
freely
and friendly and clearly,
as
though it were mine to command.
Who am
I? They also tell me
I would
bear the days of misfortune
equably,
smilingly, proudly,
like one
accustomed to win.
Am I
then really all that which other men tell of?
Or am I
only what I know of myself,
restless
and longing and sick, like a bird in a cage, struggling for breath, as though
hands were compressing my
throat,
yearning
for colours, for flowers, for the voices of birds,
thirsting
for words of kindness, for neighbourliness,
trembling
with anger at despotisms and petty humiliation,
tossing
in expectation of great events,
powerlessly
trembling for friends at an infinite distance,
weary
and empty at praying, at thinking, at making,
faint,
and ready to say farewell to it all?
Who am
I? This or the other?
Am I
one person today, and tomorrow another?
Am I
both at once? A hypocrite before others,
and
before myself a contemptibly woebegone weakling?
Or is
something within me still like a beaten army,
fleeing
in disorder from victory already achieved?
Who am
I? They mock me, these lonely questions of mine.
Whoever
I am, thou knowest, O God, I am thine.
* I
include this poem because it has had such a terrific impact on me.
A Belated Preface to Mystory
I am
not sure when this all got started, but I retired in 1991, and it all began
with Catherine’s request for the story of the “Great Blue Yoyo.” She moved to
Clayton State College in Atlanta in 1993, we both got computers in that year,
and began exchanging emails. One such exchange was the yoyo story request.
Quoting
from the Inroduction to Vol. I, 1st Ed., kindly provided by Catherine:
“I want
to give my daughter, Catherine, credit for getting me started on this project,
as yet unfinished. She, Lenore and Caroline and I are writing each other via
E-Mail frequently, and in her notes, Catherine urged me to write down the
family stories. I started to write a family history, quickly became bored with
that, and wrote several stories using America On Line (AOL) E-mail format, and
sent them to Catherine with copies to Lenore and Caroline, to Caroline with
copies to Lenore and Catherine, or to Lenore with copies to Caroline and
Catherine.
As I
got caught up in the project, it became very cumbersome to use AOL and E-Mail
consistently, and with a few exceptions, I began to write directly on my
computer using my word processor.
Why am
I doing this? I have no doubt that the first inspiration came from seeing the
response of Emily Jean and her brothers, (Doug and Joe) and the three of us
in-laws as we read Rubye Gilbert’s (Emily Jean’s Mother) “As I Remember.”
Patti, Doug’s wife, has an Apple MacIntosh computer, and does beautiful
desk-top publishing stuff. She took Rubye’s hand-written recollections of her
childhood, printed them, added pictures, and had it all bound into books of
about 70 pages.
I began
to think about how much it meant to all of them, and to me, to be taken back
into Rubye’s childhood, and to see her in such a beautiful light. It wasn’t far
from there to thinking about all the wonderful stories which we Joneses, Friths
and Cummingses, not to mention Roddeys et
al., love to share when we get together. I thought that maybe my children
and grandchildren would enjoy having these stories, and that, in the process,
they might enjoy getting to know me better. I have already come to understand
my mother better through the stories I have written. And, I have to admit,
myself. Know better? Yes. Understand better? Not yet.
So why
am I doing this? As above, but also because I am enjoying it, and I don’t want
this fantastic family heritage to be lost.”
Once
the writing process began, one story reminded me of another, until finally,
Vol. I was published in 1994, followed closely in 1995, by Vols. II and III. I
do not have copies of earlier editions of Vol. I, but the 4th edition came out
in September of 1995. Vol. IV, My
Spiritual Journey, did not come easily, taking me nearly 20 years to
complete. It was worth it; I learned a lot about myself, and where I came from.
At any
rate, from early in the process, I had a vision of a four-volume work, with an
appendix, the latter to be a collection of original documents which shed light
on our family history. Volume IV was already outlined in the back of Vol. I,
4th edition, and entitled My Spiritual
Journey. Harry made herculean efforts to get me to complete and publish the
Appendix quite a few years ago, but I was not ready, so he went ahead and put
one out. I now have two letters which more properly belong there, but I will include
them in the body of Vol. IV rather than attempt a revision of the Appendix,
though I may well do that. They are the letter of Benjamin Dunlap (Mama Joe’s
father) to Mama Joe written to her on her and Papa Joe’s honeymoon, four days
after they were married, on August 6, 1890 and a letter written on April 5,
1978, by Harry T. Jones (my father) during the year before his death in 1979,
and addressed to all his descendants, in which he set forth his philosophy of
life.
Volumes
I-III tell the stories of the family; this is who we are. It is who I am. It is
where I came from. The two letters are the cradle in which I was spiritually
rocked long before I was born. Pa Ben’s letter to his daughter, Perry, whom we
came to know as Mama Joe, is the earliest evidence of the beginning of my
spiritual journey. What an awesome and wonderful thought, that my spiritual
journey began long before I was born!
I am
grateful that I was able to complete Mystory before my death. I feared I would
not. I give it as a gift to myself, my wife, lover and friend, Emily Jean
Gilbert, and especially to my children and grandchildren. Others who are still
with us in the extended family have their own related stories, and may be
interested in mine.
Though
three of my four siblings passed on as I was putting this together, I am
grateful to them all for their earlier assistance on Vols. I – III. Again, I
want to thank my daughters, Lenore and Catherine for their help. Lenore’s
friend, Chistopher Hatton, has been of special help in putting together Vol.
IV.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Introduction to Vol. IV, My
Spiritual Journey
Some
may wonder, looking over these collected stories, what jokes and “dirty” stories
have to do with one’s spiritual journey. To me, it is self-evident, but perhaps
it would be helpful to explain.
My
childhood was tightly hemmed in. I learned certain expectations and
prohibitions early, and many of them are still in place, despite my
intellectual rejection of them. Telling jokes and stories which go against what
I was taught has helped me to move beyond them. It seems silly, perhaps, but
some stories are a crazy cry to all those imprisoned in Puritan
sexual values to laugh at themselves and perhaps get more comfortable with the
way things are, and, bluntly, with the way most of us are.
Here it
is April 30, 2012, and I am moving toward the end of my work. A number of
questions have occurred to me:
1)
For whom am I writing My Spiritual Journey?
2)
Why not just refer readers to Tolstoy’s
Levin (in Anna Karenina, Part IX)?
I am writing
it for me, first of all, but also for my family and close friends. Members of the
Gathering may recall hearing me say that I want to be known. I want you, my
loved ones to know who I think I am and have been. If I succeed in conveying
that, I am content.
I will
refer all to Levin. When I read his ruminations following Anna’s death, I
realized that he was Tolstoy’s alter ego.
I also realized that he was me.
If you
are short of time, read my poetry and skip the rest. You’ll find me there.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
HISTORY
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
(William Joseph Roddey married Mary Perry
Dunlap on August 6, 1890. She was 24, he was 30.)
Lancaster, S. C.
Aug. 10th, 1890
Dear Perry,
Your letter
from Hot Springs was received on yesterday, and we hope to hear from you at
each stopping point while on your trip.
My mind is
gradually becoming more and more reconciled to your marriage and if for no
other reason, Joe ought to appreciate you on account of the suffering undergone
by myself in giving you up.
While I
believed he truly and sincerely loved you: that his ability to provide for your
comfort and necessities was far greater than mine; that no objection could be
truthfully urged against him as a husband: yet the selfishness in my nature
persistently suggested the thoughts that my house would no longer be yours.
It was useless
for me to try to think that you would be near us; that you would be with us
often: that your own happiness would be assured and the loving kindnesses of
Lyle (Papa Joe’s father) and his family to you would add to your happiness—All
of these thoughts would be cried down by the selfish idea of my own sunshine
fading away from my home. This was the reflection that made me so miserably sad
and which, at times, although not near so intense, still recurs to my mind—So
you and Joe in all your travels may rest assured that at least one mind in your
old home is endeavoring to follow you in your route and praying for your
pleasure and safe return. While I will not be so selfish as to ask you to come
to us immediately on your return yet you must come over after resting a day in
Rock Hill….
Well Perry, my
poverty grinds me more, whenever I go among your nice bridal presents, than
ever before in all my life. Such nice mementos from others and yet not a single
thing from one who above all others should contribute to your happiness….
My pen is so
bad I must close hoping to hear from you often. All join me in wishing you both
a pleasant trip and safe return.
Your loving father,
W. B. Dunlap
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Letter from Dad to his “loved ones”
Rich Square, N. C. April 5, 1978
Mrs. John T. Cumming & Family
Dr. and Mrs. James R. Frith & Family
Mr. & Mrs. Harry T. Jones, Jr.,
& Family
Mr. & Mrs. Joseph Roddey Jones &
Family
Chaplain
Randolph L. Jones & Family
Dear Loved
Ones:
There are a few things that have been going through my
mind, since I wrote all those letters about our family. I want to pass along to
you these thoughts, for what they might be worth, because I love you so much.
Yes, we do have a wonderful family. There are many other
wonderful families, just as good as ours, but I do not think there are any
families any better than ours.
The Bible tells us that we ought not to think more highly
of ourselves than we ought to think!
One of our Methodist Bishops lived to be more than One
Hundred Years Old. I have forgotten his name. When he got to be One Hundred
Years Old, he wrote a book which he entitled, “My First One Hundred Years.” I
read a condensation of this book in The Reader’s Digest. The main thing I
remember about this book, - he went on to say that after living for One Hundred
Years, he was convinced that the greatest quality of character was,
HUMILITY! - I Think all of us should take
our blessings, in our stride, so to speak, and be thankful and HUMBLE.
I think a very
great quality of character is UNSELFISHNESS!
I have been told that HUMILITY includes UNSELFISHNESS. I hope so.
Harry, Jr. has made a very fine suggestion that all the
fifty-eight members of our family be furnished with all the addresses so that
all of us can keep in touch with all the others. So, I am enclosing a list of
all the addresses. I will appreciate it
if you will let me know if you move or change your address so that I can keep
the list of addresses up to date.
I do not wish
to put any member of our family under any pressure to do anything, but wouldn’t
it be wonderful for each one of us to try to gradually improve ourselves,
physically, mentally, morally and spiritually, so that each one of us might,
gradually and naturally become the very best Christian that it is possible for
that member of the family to become!
With fifty-eight of us becoming the best Christian
possible, how wonderful that would be!
The following are just a few of my thoughts about the philosophy
of living.
1. I think the two greatest things in the
world are, - Sincere Christian Love and Sincere Christian Living.
2. If you must be selfish, be Unselfish. I
think Unselfishness brings many more personal rewards than Selfishness brings.
In fact, I know it does. – I remember my Father telling me that he had never
given a donation to a worthy cause that it was not returned to him, many fold!
He was quick to tell me that he did not think we should give to a worthy cause
for the purpose of the profits that might come, but to make the gift sincerely!
I think my Father knew what he was talking about, because I have had the same
experience!
3. If you want to help yourself, then help
the other fellow! When we first came to Rich Square, I made up my mind to make
this rule the policy of our business. I did put this rule into effect with
great results for which I am so grateful!
4. Have you ever thought about the Human
Body as a Great Miracle? It seems to me
that the Human Body is a tremendous miracle!
A Brain that can Think, Plan and Reason! Eyes that can see, - Ears that
can hear, - Noses that can smell, - Hands that can feel and do innumerable and
wonderful things. – Ability to walk, ability to talk and converse with others.
It is really wonderful! Let’s each and every one of us do everything we can to
take good care of our miraculously wonderful bodies and improve each one in
every way we can.
5. With fifty-eight wonderful people doing
all they can to improve themselves and, in that way, improve the family, just
try to imagine the tremendous possibilities!
6. Remember! No pressure on anybody! Just
do everything gradually, naturally and in your stride, so to speak!
So, let's each
one of us keep in touch with each other, pray for each other, love each other,
help each other in any way we can and, in this way, make our family an even
better family!
With my
devoted love and every good wish for each and every one of you.
Sincerely,
Granddaddy
(signed) Harry T. Jones
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Growing up Youngest
When Catherine was much younger, she came to live with Emily Jean and me in Jersey City. She was with us for about a year, and it was during that time that an incident occurred that helped us all to appreciate what it means to grow up youngest in your family. All three of us were the youngest in our families.
Little Events That Marked Me
When I was very small, perhaps four or five, my mother was working in our backyard, pruning the roses. It looked to me like it was a shame that all those pieces of rose were being cut off and thrown away, so I asked her if I could have one of them. She gave me one, and I found an out-of-the-way spot, stuck it in the ground and forgot about it. A few weeks later, Mother called me and showed me the little piece of rose wood I had stuck in the ground. It had little green shoots growing out of it. What had seemed to be dead had come to life again. I think my love of gardening began that day.
It occured to me that I should look at my experience during the war, and try to understand the impact of those experiences on my spiritual development. I have alluded to it elsewhere, but not with this as the focus.
Jean McClarin and I were both from Norfolk VA, and members of the same church, Epworth Methodist. She was a couple of year younger than I, so that we were not in the same youth groups. I think I met her after the war upon my return. I know that my brother, Roddey, had dated her at some point before I did. I went off to Randolph-Macon College, transferring in as a Junior, and sometime during that first year, I think, we met and began dating. By the time I was a senior, we had decided to get married when we graduated. She wanted to be a missionary, and I didn’t know what I wanted to do, so we applied to Candler School of Theology and Duke. I think we could have gone to either, but chose Emory because it had better help in terms of housing.
I married Jean McClarin in 1948, and we divorced in 1966, 18 years later. Randy was 17, Caroline 15, Lenore 9, and Catherine 8 (approximately). So my recollection of their childhood is largely of our time in Japan. Randy was a very smart kid, afflicted with a younger sister who was blessed with just as much brain power, but also with a strong competitive streak. When he came home from kindergarten, she wanted to know immediately what he had learned that day. And within a few minutes, she was catching up. I have always suspected that Randy’s ambidextrousness developed from watching how incredibly well she did writing with her left hand. So he began writing with his left as well as his right. I still remember like it was yesterday attending a class when parents were invited to Canadian Academy (the school our kids attended in Japan). Naturally, he was sent to the blackboard, since I was there. The teacher dictated something for the three children who were at the board, and he began writing with his left hand. When he got to the middle of the board, he shifted to his right hand to write the rest of the sentence. What could be more efficient?
Lake Nojiri
When Jean McClarin and I arrived in Japan, we were assigned housing on a quadrangle in Tokyo for the year we would be in the Naganuma Language School. That was September, 1953. During the next few months, one of the other folks on the quadrangle (I’ve forgotten the last name, but his first was Les.) asked us if we would like to buy a half interest in their summer cottage at Lake Nojiri. That was the first time I had heard of Lake Nojiri. We learned that almost all the missionaries in Japan went to Lake Nojiri in the summer, usually for two months, July and August.
After Jean McClarin and I separated, and she finished her doctorate (I never finished mine.), she took the children with her to Georgia, where she became Associate Dean of Women at Brenau College (now University) in Gainesville, GA, then Associate Dean of Students at Pfeiffer College (now University) in Misenheimer, NC. I only saw them occasionally from that point on, when they could come up to New Jersey, where I had become Director of Pastoral Care at Overlook Hospital in Summit NJ.
Emily Jean Gilbert and I have had a very satisfying marriage. I came to this relationship feeling very much a failure as a husband and father. I had left my first wife and children out of a conviction that living in a destructive relationship was bad for all of us, including the kids. But I still felt a failure. Failing in a second marriage made it even worse. No amount of argument with myself, citing her drinking, her refusal to go for help, etc. availed. I had decided that I might have relationships, but they would not involve marriage, because I was not capable of sustaining a marriage relationship.
How strongly my mother influenced me! She was raised in a household where there were no pets of which I am aware, despite there being four boys among the six siblings, and I think she wanted her house to be free of pet hair and the smells of animals. But she gave in to pleas of her children twice.
I came to Judson the first time in the company of Emily Jean Gilbert, who later became my third wife. When Joan Dominick, my second wife, and I reached the breaking point, I separated from her, and moved into an apartment owned by Overlook Hospital, where I was the Director of Pastoral Care. I then moved in with Charlie Brackbill, a friend whom I had come to know when his wife was a patient at Overlook, and later when he was a patient. It was during this time that I dated Emily Jean once, then again during our ACPE Eastern Region Spring Conference, held that year (1977) in Puerto Rico. The time together in P.R. cemented our relationship, and we began to live together in June, 1977. We were both suspicious and careful, having been burned before, so were relieved to discover that we both wanted to have therapy together, and to go to church together. Since Emily Jean was already attending Judson, I went with her a few times during the summer of 1977, and we went on the Judson Fall Retreat that year.
Mother always loved gadgets. I think that was my first exposure to modern technology. The most memorable gadget she had I have never seen anywhere else than in our kitchen, and it probably no longer is made. She had a little dipper which would fit down inside a bottle of milk so that the cream could be lifted off the top, leaving skimmed milk. All the milk then came as it came out of the cow, skim on the bottom, heavier cream on the top. If a cook wanted to make whipped cream, this was where you got the cream. Now, of course, all is pasteurized, and you buy each separately.
When Catherine was much younger, she came to live with Emily Jean and me in Jersey City. She was with us for about a year, and it was during that time that an incident occurred that helped us all to appreciate what it means to grow up youngest in your family. All three of us were the youngest in our families.
One
morning, we were sitting in our kitchen, with its incredible view of the New
York skyline, preparing to have breakfast. Bowls had been filled with cereal,
and Catherine had the job of putting blueberries in each of the three bowls. We
were all sitting at the table, ready to eat, as soon as the blueberries had
been distributed. Suddenly, all three of us became aware that each of us was
counting the blueberries as they were put on the cereal. We roared with
laughter, enjoying the moment of realization. Being youngest had left its mark!
Clearly, the youngest is always afraid of being shorted.
It is
not that I cannot be a leader. I have become, I think, an effective supervisor
and a competent family therapist (retired from both now, of course). But what
an oldest or only child seems to do easily (it flows), I and other youngest
have to work at, to concentrate at, to keep in focus by an act of the will.
And, while I can’t speak for others, I know it is a relief when someone else
wants to take over the leadership. I am not inclined to fight for the right to
keep calling the shots. I am comfortable being a follower.
Emily
Jean and I realized a long time ago that we both prefer being follower to being
leader. And it does cause problems in the relationship. We decided on a title
for a book about our life together, if we ever got around to writing it: The Battle to be Baby.
I think
one of the assets of being youngest is a heightened sensitivity to the feelings
of the oppressed. Youngests do not expect to get a fair share; we expect to be
deprived of our fair share, and are therefore “on the lookout” to be sure to
take care of ourselves. Having formed this emotional habit as a way of being in
the world, we are able to carry it over into being “on the lookout” for all. I
wonder if there has been research into whether NGO’s have a significantly
larger percentage of youngests, just as politicians and leaders in the business
world are probably predominantly eldests and onlys.
Personally,
I have been most comfortable avoiding leadership in my professional
organization. I served on committees, did my job more or less responsibly (How
I functioned when depressed is another matter!), but never sought higher
office, either in our region or nationally. Had I run, I might never have been
elected, but I never tried. And I was relieved that no one put pressure on me
to do so. Eldests and onlys seem to react differently.
Little Events That Marked Me
When I was very small, perhaps four or five, my mother was working in our backyard, pruning the roses. It looked to me like it was a shame that all those pieces of rose were being cut off and thrown away, so I asked her if I could have one of them. She gave me one, and I found an out-of-the-way spot, stuck it in the ground and forgot about it. A few weeks later, Mother called me and showed me the little piece of rose wood I had stuck in the ground. It had little green shoots growing out of it. What had seemed to be dead had come to life again. I think my love of gardening began that day.
Another
early event when I was about ten or so probably has a great deal to do with my
lack of interest in hunting. I had a B B gun out in the back yard, and saw a
sparrow sitting on a telephone wire. Without thinking, I aimed the gun and
shot. It hit the sparrow, and he came tumbling to the ground, dead. I ran over
and looked at it and saw a spot of blood where the B B had hit it. The little
bird which had been full of life a moment before, was now dead, because of me.
I felt terrible. I have never forgotten it.
A third
learning stems from such an early time that I’m not sure how old I was. Through
a series of family outings which happened on Sundays, I took in very deeply the
lesson, the value, that it was OK to have fun on Sundays, but never OK to take
part in competitive sports. We could go crabbing, we could go swimming, or
sunbathe at the beach, even throw baseballs or footballs to each other, but
playing a game of baseball or football on Sunday was out.
Eventually
I arrived at Emory University’s Candler School of Theology. In one of my first
classes, the subject of recreation came up. The professor pronounced it not
“rec-reation” but “re-creation” and urged on us the spiritual value of having
fun, even on Sunday. This was tremendously liberating to me. I had become
somewhat of an avid golfer, and the idea that I could go to church on Sunday
morning and then play golf Sunday afternoon without breaking the rules was most
appealing. So the following Sunday, I found a golfing friend who was happy to
play with me (he had no such compunctions), and out we went to one of the
public courses in Atlanta. My sense of freedom was short-lived.
My head
was convinced, but values I had taken in so early were not to be idly discarded
because a seminary professor rejected them. I sliced the ball in the woods, I
hooked it into the water, I dubbed it fifteen yards instead of 220, I
three-putted. I had a terrible day, shot one of the worst scores I had had in
years. And I was miserable the entire time.
I have
tried more than once during my lifetime to leave those early values behind
because I don’t really hold them any more. I still can’t do it. I am no longer
upset about it, but really sort of proud of it. Maybe I’m also a little amused
at myself.
It occured to me that I should look at my experience during the war, and try to understand the impact of those experiences on my spiritual development. I have alluded to it elsewhere, but not with this as the focus.
I
graduated from Maury High School, in Norfolk VA, in May of 1942. I matriculated
at Virginia Military Institute in September of that year. I was the fourth of
my family to go there. It was by no means because I was dedicated to the
military as a way of life. It was more that I did not have an inkling of what I
wanted to do with my life, and that Dad could afford to send me there. I never
gave thought to what I wanted to do, nor did I have dreams of certain colleges
where I wanted to go. I was totally passive.
So,
with a Firstclassman (Senior) and a Thirdclassman (Sophomore) in the family
already at VMI, in Harry and Roddey, now there was also a “Rat.” I spent one
semester at VMI, almost all of it on crutches or with a cane (See under
“Sports”), and then the Enlisted Reserve was called up, and I was in the army.
I passed through an induction center (Fort Meade MD), and was sent to Georgia
for Infantry Heavy Weapons training. This was a 12-week program, with lots of
drill (I was still limping heavily.), and training in 81-mm mortar and
30-caliber water-cooled machine guns. All of our free time was spent
desperately trying to figure out how to get out of the infantry and into some branch
where chances of survival were better. We all felt anything would be
better—anything. So I tried West Point, the Naval Academy, the Coast Guard, the
Air Force. Every application came back “Denied.” Then I heard about the “Army
Specialized Training Program” or ASTP. Anyone who had an I. Q. on army tests of
115 or better could apply. I applied and was accepted.
After
completion of Basic Heavy Weapons Training, in June, 1943, I was ordered to the
ASTP program at Virginia Polytechnic Institute (VPI) in Blacksburg VA. The
irony for me was that I had spent one semester at VMI, and now, less than four
months later, found myself a student at VPI, the arch-rival school of VMI. The
Army’s plan was to give us speeded-up classes (a semester in the time of a quarter),
and graduate us as officers for the Ordnance Branch of the Army. But other
planners, anticipating heavy casualties at the invasion of Europe, put the
kibosh to the entire ASTP in April, 1944, and sent us to infantry regiments,
already stripped of all privates and sent to be replacements.
I went
to the 84th Infantry Division, at Camp Claiborne, near Baton Rouge
LA. I became a member of a platoon in Company C (I think it was.), 333rd
Infantry Regiment. So here we were, the intellectual cream of the privates of
the army, sent to be cannon fodder, commanded by the cadre of sergeants and
corporals who had been left in place when the 84th was stripped. And
they were all from Texas, New Mexico and other states in the southwest, and
many of them seemed a little thin on brains. It was a recipe for disaster. When
we finally got into combat in October, 1944, the cream rapidly rose to the top,
as the old cadre fell by the wayside due to wounds, death, or demotion.
By
December of 1944, just turned 20, I was commanding a platoon, as a three-stripe
sergeant, although there were only 18 left of the original 40 men in the
platoon. And we were in the Battle of the Bulge.
We
emerged from this onto the banks of the Roer River, which the Germans had
flooded by dynamiting the dams, so we came to a standstill a few hundred yards
from the Germans on the other side. All the men in my platoon were still
dedicated to finding a way out of the infantry, or at least, out of the
shooting, so they all (18 plus a few replacements) lined up to apply for
Officer Candidate School, which had just been announced. All were denied. They
came to me and urged me to apply, saying, “Somebody has got to get out of here,
Sarge—why don’t you apply?” So I did. And I was accepted.
I spent
two months at Fontainebleau, living in the stables where Napoleon kept his
horses (better than any four-star hotel). OCS began on April 1st,
ended on May 31st, with the awarding of commissions as 2nd
Lieutenants in the U. S. Army. But the war was over, and I had survived.
I spent
some time in the Constabulary Force, occupying Germany, then went home in
March, 1946, to attend Harry’s wedding, and was discharged.
How did
the war experience affect me?
1)
It taught me to suspect all authority.
2)
It stripped me of the veneer of the
southern gentleman.
3)
It taught me a new language of
four-letter words, without which nothing could be said.
4)
It enabled me to survive emotional pain
by not feeling anything.
5)
It bred in me the powerful beginnings of
cynicism in regard to all values.
6)
It taught me not to trust anyone.
7)
It taught me to be suspicious of
everyone.
8)
It taught me not to care.
I have
been able to overcome or get beyond many of these “learnings,” but some of them
persist. To understand the “me” that is inside, you have to know this part of
my history.
Jean McClarin and I were both from Norfolk VA, and members of the same church, Epworth Methodist. She was a couple of year younger than I, so that we were not in the same youth groups. I think I met her after the war upon my return. I know that my brother, Roddey, had dated her at some point before I did. I went off to Randolph-Macon College, transferring in as a Junior, and sometime during that first year, I think, we met and began dating. By the time I was a senior, we had decided to get married when we graduated. She wanted to be a missionary, and I didn’t know what I wanted to do, so we applied to Candler School of Theology and Duke. I think we could have gone to either, but chose Emory because it had better help in terms of housing.
We
married in 1948, a few days after graduation, she from Mary Washington College
in Fredericksburg, and I from RMC in Ashland, VA. We spent the summer of 1948 at
Lake Junaluska, where we were in charge of the recreation program. I remember
playing a lot of ping pong, and our struggling to arrange a dinner party on a
boat in the lake, and running into the argument: “We’ve never done it that way
before.”
That
fall, we went to Candler, living in a very old house down by the railroad tracks
our first year, moving into new apartments our second. Randy was born in 1949,
Caroline in 1951. Eurethroblastosis reared its ugly head after Randy was born.
Jean was Rh negative, and Randy Rh positive. This meant that any other children
would be affected. Caroline, fortunately, was Rh negative, so there was no
problem. But Jean became pregnant a third time, coming to term during the
summer of 1952, when I was back at Emory to complete a Masters in Education. I
had graduated from Candler with a B. D., in January, 1951, and took a number of
courses in education, knowing that we were going out as educational
missionaries. The baby, a boy, was born August 2, 1952, lived three days, and
died. This was pretty devastating to both of us, but especially to Jean. She
had wanted very much to have a son whom she could name for her brother, Donald.
(He died in a tragic accident at home, and Jean, alone at home with her
brother, who was home from college for the Christmas holidays, found his body.
He had been extremely important to her.)
In the
fall of 1952, the four of us went to Yale University’s School of Oriental
Languages, to study the language and culture of Japan. It was there that we met
Dave and Betty Swain, among others. We sailed for Japan on the S.S. President
Cleveland in August, 1953. Another year of language school in Tokyo followed,
where I paired with Dave in pursuing the language, including the famous trek to
Kyoto in the spring of 1954, and then to my assignment at Kwansei Gakuin and
Jean’s at Kobe JoGakuin.
Some
time in the mid 50ties, our mission Ob/Gyn doctor told Jean that there had been
a lot of research done which made it possible that she could successfully have
a third child. Lenore was born in 1957, had two blood exchanges right after
birth, lived in an incubator for about five weeks, then had two more
transfusions before coming home.
With
further encouragement, we decided to try one more time for a boy. After four
years at Kwansei Gakuin, where I worked as an English teacher in the high
school, we returned to the states for a year’s leave, choosing to spend it at
Duke. We timed her pregnancy so that she would deliver soon after we got to
Duke. We made our plans around being there for the help Duke Medical Center
could give us with another problem birth. Dr. Richard Diamond, of Boston
Children’s Hospital, had taken the lead in researching eurethroblastosis, and
developing treatment regimens, and one of the young hematologists he trained
was at Duke. Our plans worked out well, and Catherine was born on October 23,
1958, had ten blood exchange transfers in the first four days after birth, and
emerged from this terrible ordeal undamaged, and full of beans.
We
returned to Japan in 1959 for another five-year term, then went to Boston
University to work on doctorates.
Our
personal relationship had been a disappointment to me, though Jean always said
that she had no problem with it. With therapy, I was able to see the issues
between us and to push for change. Jean was unwilling to work on these with me,
and I gave up. It is still a painful memory for me, and I think, for all of us.
I married Jean McClarin in 1948, and we divorced in 1966, 18 years later. Randy was 17, Caroline 15, Lenore 9, and Catherine 8 (approximately). So my recollection of their childhood is largely of our time in Japan. Randy was a very smart kid, afflicted with a younger sister who was blessed with just as much brain power, but also with a strong competitive streak. When he came home from kindergarten, she wanted to know immediately what he had learned that day. And within a few minutes, she was catching up. I have always suspected that Randy’s ambidextrousness developed from watching how incredibly well she did writing with her left hand. So he began writing with his left as well as his right. I still remember like it was yesterday attending a class when parents were invited to Canadian Academy (the school our kids attended in Japan). Naturally, he was sent to the blackboard, since I was there. The teacher dictated something for the three children who were at the board, and he began writing with his left hand. When he got to the middle of the board, he shifted to his right hand to write the rest of the sentence. What could be more efficient?
Both
Randy and Caroline did well in school, and Randy was active in the Boy Scouts.
I went on a few hikes and overnights with them. I remember taking them to Kobe
Union Church one Sunday when their mother was away somewhere. I was preoccupied
about something or other, and went home without them. When I walked in the door
of our house at Kwansei Gakuin, I suddenly “woke up” and realized that they
should be with me. I called the church, and they assured me that the children
were fine, and would be OK until I could get back to pick them up. I drove back
to Kobe (30-45 minutes) and got them. I don’t know that they even noticed it.
Lenore
was born at Yodogawa Christian Hospital in Osaka, the subject of much worry and
joy. She finally come home after over a month, two blood exchanges and two
blood transfusions. 10 months later, while we were at Duke on furlough,
Catherine was born, had ten blood exchanges and sustained no damage. Both were
miracle babies, for their older brother, Donald, had died of eurethroblastosis
in 1952. They are alive because of the amazing progress of medical research and
practice.
Their
early years were spent playing with “Boya-chan,” the grandson of Yamada-san, our
housekeeper. He came to live with us when his father was killed in an accident,
and his mother had nowhere to go. For a while, in exchange for a place to live,
she helped her mother around the house, and the three children played together.
All communication was in Japanese, and our two became quite fluent. And Lenore
was incredibly adept with chopsticks (hashi). One of her favorite things to eat is
still Ramen, which they ate a lot of when she was little.
We
returned to the states in 1964, when Jean and I went to Boston University. I
don’t remember much about that time. I do recall that a favorite thing for the
three of us (Lenore, Catherine and I) to do was to go for a drive in the car.
Lenore and Catherine would sit in the front seat with me, and take turns
deciding which way we would go at each corner. We had a blast. We never knew
where we were going to wind up.
Another
thing I remember is Catherine trying to get Randy to play with her. He had a
room in the basement of our little house, and she would run down the stairs and
beg him to tickle her. She would then scream and go running back up the stairs.
This could go on for hours with many variations. She also begged him to tease
her, and when he did, she would run to her mother and scream that Randy was
teasing her. It was unending.
One
other thing I remember about Catherine (true in Japan, and after we returned to
the states) was that she was hyperactive all day long, until she fell asleep in
mid-stride in the evening, at which point, we would pick her up and put her in
her bed.
I
regret that my separation from Jean also meant separation from my children. We
have all gotten reacquainted since, but so much was lost. I saw Lenore and
Catherine from time to time when they came up to NJ, Caroline and Randy much
less. My overall feelings about it are a profound sadness.
Lake Nojiri
When Jean McClarin and I arrived in Japan, we were assigned housing on a quadrangle in Tokyo for the year we would be in the Naganuma Language School. That was September, 1953. During the next few months, one of the other folks on the quadrangle (I’ve forgotten the last name, but his first was Les.) asked us if we would like to buy a half interest in their summer cottage at Lake Nojiri. That was the first time I had heard of Lake Nojiri. We learned that almost all the missionaries in Japan went to Lake Nojiri in the summer, usually for two months, July and August.
Jean
and I talked it over and when we learned that the offer was for only $1,500 for
a half interest, we began to try to figure out how we could come up with the
money. We finally did, bought the half-interest, knowing that Les and his wife
were returning to the U. S. the next year, so that we would have the next two
summers at Lake Nojiri, with their getting a turn when they came back. And when
Les got his doctorate and was offered a teaching position at Oklahoma State, he
took it, and offered us the other half interest for another $1,500. We
scratched that up, too, and enjoyed Lake Nojiri for eight summers. We all loved
it almost all of that time.
On
Japanese university campuses, the school year begins in April, with the first
quarter ending early in July (as I recall). Since there were no classes during
the summer, and the Fall quarter did not begin until September, we headed for
Lake Nojiri after the last classes ended. Usually, we went by train, having to
change trains once or twice on the way, then taking a taxi from the train
station nearest to Lake Nojiri.
Our
house was small, but had four small bedrooms, a wonderful ofuro (Japanese
bath), a nice sized living room, a kitchen and a small study. There was
electricity, but at the time we owned the house, there was no running water.
Our house was better equipped than most in having a well with a hand pump on
the high ground behind the house, and a 55-gallon drum to pump water into, from
which it flowed by gravity into the house. We also had to adjust to the farmer
coming to empty the honey-bucket in our bathroom every morning at around 4:00
a.m. We got used to the sudden assault of the smell, even when the noise did
not wake us up. And taking hot baths in the ofuro beats any kind of bathing in
the west, bar none.
How did
we spend the time during the summer? I’m not sure how the kids and Jean spent
their summers, but I was incredibly involved in sailing, tennis and golf. There
were sailboat races daily (Monday through Friday) at 1:00 p.m., if there was a
racing wind, sometimes when there wasn’t. The first four summers (1954-57), I
fixed up an old Snipe hulk from prewar times, and raced it. It was made of oak,
weighed a ton, and was not very competitive, though I did win one race when I
was gambling on a wind shift, and got it. But it was a lot of fun. Jean
sometimes crewed with me the first summer, but I don’t recall that she did that
much after that. After we returned to the states in 1958, and returned to Japan
in 1959, I bought a new Snipe which was used only four days in the
International Yachting Olympics in Japan, then auctioned off. Peyton Palmore, a
good friend who lived in Nagoya, where the races were held, knew that the boats
would be auctioned off following the competition, and lined up those of us who
liked to race to put up the money so he could bid them in. A new Snipe, fully
equipped with the most modern sails, and made of the best marine materials at
the time, was bid in for $300. As I recall, there were about six of us who got
new boats, so the races were really interesting after that.
I’d
play golf in the morning, go home for lunch, then rush down to the lake and get
my boat (called “Yellow Jacket” after the RMC “mascot,” and painted black and
yellow, the RMC colors) into the water. We started at the main pier, the
starting line running from the end of the pier out to a boat anchored about 75
feet out in the lake, usually so that the line was perpendicular to a line
running from there out to the first buoy. The course included rounding a little
island on the far side of the lake, a nice little challenge because the island
blocked the wind and you had to creep around until you got out into the wind
again. I think we made two laps of the course, though I may be mistaken about
that. (I’ll have to ask Peyton!) Racing was strictly for fun, and a lot of fun
it was.
Golf
was fun, too. It was a little pitch and putt course of nine holes, none long
enough for a wood, and with sand greens, which had to be raked smooth after
each group putted out. I played well enough to be competitive in the
tournaments; I may have won once or twice. I taught Dave Swain to play up
there. He had never played before. He was an ungrateful friend; he soon began
to beat me.
There
were also times when we had friends over, or went to the homes of friends for
the evening. And there were activities like musicals, which Jean was interested
in, though I was not.
At any
rate, Lake Nojiri was important in my younger years. I’ll have to think about
what this had to do with my spiritual journey. It feels like those years were
pure activity, without any thought or inner development. Maybe that’s the key.
Second Marriage
After Jean McClarin and I separated, and she finished her doctorate (I never finished mine.), she took the children with her to Georgia, where she became Associate Dean of Women at Brenau College (now University) in Gainesville, GA, then Associate Dean of Students at Pfeiffer College (now University) in Misenheimer, NC. I only saw them occasionally from that point on, when they could come up to New Jersey, where I had become Director of Pastoral Care at Overlook Hospital in Summit NJ.
While I
was completing my residency at B. U., and my training as a supervisor in ACPE
(Association for Clinical Pastoral Education), I was living out at Boston State
Hospital. There I met Joan Dominick, an attractive nurse who was working on a
research project with Dr. Bernard Stotsky. I liked her, and we began dating.
Perhaps I was on the rebound, but I was quite taken with her, and eventually,
we lived together for a while, and then were married when I moved to Summit and
my new position.
It did
not take long for me to understand that I had married a person who had serious
problems with alcohol. At first, the physical side of our relationship was
good, until her need for alcohol, and my ineptness at understanding what was
going on created real problems. It was then that Joan taught me that I am
capable of murder. When drinking, she tended to follow me around, making terrible
accusations, none of which were true, but my patience would wear thin, and I’d
get very angry. One day, to my everlasting regret, I got so mad that I
destroyed several articles of furniture, including two beautiful landscapes
that Frank Wesley had made in Montreat years before. But I suppose it’s better
to destroy things, however wonderful and valuable, than to destroy a person,
however provocative.
After
Al-Anon for four years, and several years of therapy with an alcoholism
specialist, I decided to separate from Joan. I tried to get her to participate
in a confrontation meeting facilitated by my therapist, but Joan was a highly
skilled and very well-trained psychiatric nurse, and she knew immediately what
I had in mind, and said in no uncertain terms that she was going to have no
part of it. I recall that she said, “If that’s what you have in mind, you may
as well pack your clothes and get out, because I’m not going to do it.”
I
followed her advice and left.
A year
later, I ran into her on the street, and she looked terrific. I took heart when
I learned that she had spent the year in A. A., and was dry. I proposed that I
move back home and that we try again. She agreed, and I moved back. It lasted
three weeks. She was dry, but still unable to stop the unprovoked emotional
assaults on me. I felt I did not need to accept that sort of abuse, so I left
again. And ultimately, I filed for divorce, and with the help of a local
attorney suggested to me by Art Tingue, the new therapist I began to work with
after I began a relationship with Emily Jean, I qualified for a no-fault
divorce. This lawyer, whose name I have forgotten, helped me to be patient and
to motivate Joan to come to the table. As I recall, her passive resistance was
dealt with by working out a deal with the bank to put mortgage payments (which
I was making) into an escrow account, and get the bank to write her as if I
were not paying the mortgage, and threaten foreclosure. It feels mean, but I
was desperate, and it worked.
She
agreed to a clearly written legal agreement, and the divorce became final after
18 months.
Joan
had a son, Mark, from a previous relationship, who lived with us and went to
school nearby. Since I left, and the divorce became final, I have had no news
of either of them. This is because Joan wrote poison pen letters, and made
phone calls, accusing me of all sorts of terrible things, none of which were
true. She wrote or called my colleagues in ministry, my boss, Emily Jean’s
boss, the President of Presbyterian Hospital, after I became Director of
Pastoral Care there nearly ten years later. The worst was a “get well” card
sent to a patient at Overlook whom she had met in A. A., in which she accused
her of having an affair with me, and telling her to “drop dead.” She was really
disturbed.
It was
a great relief to have her out of my life, and I have done nothing to invite
her back in. Nor do I intend to.
Emily Jean Gilbert and I have had a very satisfying marriage. I came to this relationship feeling very much a failure as a husband and father. I had left my first wife and children out of a conviction that living in a destructive relationship was bad for all of us, including the kids. But I still felt a failure. Failing in a second marriage made it even worse. No amount of argument with myself, citing her drinking, her refusal to go for help, etc. availed. I had decided that I might have relationships, but they would not involve marriage, because I was not capable of sustaining a marriage relationship.
But
Emily Jean and I began to live together shortly after we fell in love with each
other, and immediately began working very hard with the help of Art Tingue*. We
used Art’s Equalog Contract, which
was a framework for thinking about your relationship which covered all the
bases. Each of us completed it independently, without sharing in advance of our
therapy session together. I remember that I was very lacking in trust, and
wanted a written agreement about what we expected of each other. I forget the
details, but they were very important to me at the time. After a few months, I
never gave it another thought.
One
thing we agreed to do, and still do, though not as consistently, was to have a
date every week. We used to hold Wednesdays for Our Night, but don’t do so formally any more. We do manage to go
out about once a week still.
We both
believe firmly in therapy, and have turned to professionals from time to time
when we felt we needed help. Emily Jean is more expressive of her feelings than
I am, perhaps because she is more in touch with them than I am with mine.
Our
physical relationship has been healthy, passionate, appropriate to our ages.
That is to say, I’m relieved that I do not have the drive I used to have. It’s
nice to have the pressure drop in that area.
We were
married in 1979, but since we count from our first kiss, at the Annual Conference
of the Eastern Region of ACPE, in May, 1977, standing in the warm waters on the
beach at Puerto Rico, we always celebrate Cinco
de Mayo. So we have been together 35 years as of May 5, 2012.
How strongly my mother influenced me! She was raised in a household where there were no pets of which I am aware, despite there being four boys among the six siblings, and I think she wanted her house to be free of pet hair and the smells of animals. But she gave in to pleas of her children twice.
Smiley
was a collie whom we all loved. He came to be a part of our family when I was
very small, probably only a few months old. I am told that Smiley “herded” me.
I was put outside in the back yard and Smiley would walk along with me as I
crawled around. When I went down the driveway toward the street, he went with
me until we got to the front yard, when he put his body between me and the
street, gently encouraging me to go into the front yard. Mother insisted that
he should not be allowed in the house, and he had a place to sleep in the
garage. During the winter, it got very cold, Smiley caught pneumonia, and died.
I’m guessing that Mother must have been devastated (along with the rest of the
family), because soon we had another dog, “Skipper,” a wire-haired fox terrier,
and Skipper lived in the house.
But
there were no cats! Mother disliked cats, said they were sneaky. (I’m
interested to note that none of my siblings ever had cats! Harry had hunting
dogs, but they were not allowed in the house. And I don’t think Perry Lee,
Kitty and Roddey ever had any pets, except Roddey’s goldfish, and they were in
a pond outside.)
When
Jean McClarin and I were in Japan, we got a wire-haired fox terrier, whom we
named Belle. We all loved Belle, and it was very sad when we left Japan in
1964. We had intended to go back after a few years of doctoral studies, so we
had arranged for someone to take care of Belle until we got back. But on the
day before we were to leave Japan, Belle suddenly got sick and died. It was
quite a shock.
Anyway,
cats were not a part of my growing-up experience. My introduction to cats came
when I began to live with Emily Jean, and met her “Butterscotch,” now known as
“Butterscotch I.” At that time, since Butterscotch was her cat, it seemed
appropriate to me that she should take complete care of her, and my contact
with the cat was limited to providing an occasional lap, or petting her. Then
we were married, and moved to Jersey City in 1979 and our own house. Soon we
added Miss Priss and Beau, and I agreed to share the job of cleaning the litter
and feeding them. This arrangement has continued with cats we adopted after
coming to Allentown PA in 1991. We added Ollie and a second Butterscotch
(Butterscotch I had died before we moved here.) at that time. Our high-water
mark with cats came a few years after that when Donna Cieply’s mother, Edna,
and aunt, Edie, moved to Bethlehem from Massachusetts, and stayed with Nancy
Adams and Donna until they were able to find their own house. Until then, they
had no place for their two cats, Charlie and Cocoa, so we boarded them with our
four for a period of several weeks. Butterscotch II was the only one of the six
who had been declawed (before we got her—she was elderly even then), but she
was top cat and woe betide any challengers. She fought both Charlie and Cocoa
to a standstill. She was fearless. And stalked them until she got them
cornered, then attacked with her clawless footpads, receiving without
hesitation their clawed counterpunches. Finally, Charlie showed his mettle and
bit her leg. It got infected and we had to take her to the vet. As I recall,
both Edie and Edna were terribly upset that one of their cats had been an
improper guest, and wanted to pay the vet. We felt that it was Butterscotch’s fault,
and refused.
Charlie
and Cocoa went to their new home, and seemed happy there. Butterscotch had died,
Miss Priss and Beau both had passed on, and we were down to two: Ollie and
Neko-chan, a Pastel Calico that we adopted from a dairy farm in New Jersey,
with the help of a former Presbyterian Hospital resident, Marcia Krause.
(“Neko” means “cat” in Japanese, and the “chan” is a suffix reserved for
children, meaning “Little Miss” or “Little Master.”) One day, Emily Jean came
home saying that a colleague at work had a litter of kittens to place, and she
wanted to adopt one. I said, “No,” we should get two, a male and a female. This
was a great move, and they have been inseparable ever since. Their names
reflect the fact that both are orange. I am somewhat smitten with Amber, the
female, but Kaki (Japanese for persimmon) is also a formidable lap cat, despite
or perhaps because of his 20 pounds. Kaki is like his mother, in having short
hair and an Alaskan malemute-type tail, curling back over his body. Amber is
like her father, with very long, beautiful hair. Both their parents were feral
cats, and the kittens were trapped when their mother brought them to the porch
to get food. Emily Jean’s friend did a great job of socializing them, kept one
of the litter and the mother, and has them still.
We like
having them about. In the cold of Winter, there will come a particularly bitter
night, which we have come to speak of as a “four-cat night.” All six of us will
squeeze into our one bed, all snuggled up together.
We had
one other boarder, after Charlie and Cocoa had moved on to their new home (God
rest their cat souls—they’ve both gone on to a better life.). Catherine, my
daughter, called to say that her company was sending her from Phoenix to New
Jersey, but she could not get in to the apartment she had found there for about
a month, and needed us to take care of her “Joe,” until then. We were glad to
have Joe, and agreed immediately. Joe came and had been here about a month when
Catherine called, somewhat upset, to say that she had not read the fine print
on her lease, and that they did not permit pets. Joe never showed his stuff
with me—gender discrimination, perhaps—but he has a way of putting his arms
around your neck and laying his head alongside yours, while drooling down your
neck, which is said to be memorable. I forget how long Joe was with us, but it
was maybe a year or so. When Catherine moved back to Phoenix, she came by and
got Joe. Now they are in Atlanta together.
Since
then, we added Sully, a young but well-socialized stray who came via Betty, one
of my work-out buddies at the Y, and Charlie. Charlie belonged to Madge, a
volunteer in Emily Jean’s office for many years, whose health had failed, and
Charlie had to be placed. We took him, but had him for less than a month. Madge
died, and less than a week later, Charlie showed extreme neurological problems
and had to be put down.
I came to Judson the first time in the company of Emily Jean Gilbert, who later became my third wife. When Joan Dominick, my second wife, and I reached the breaking point, I separated from her, and moved into an apartment owned by Overlook Hospital, where I was the Director of Pastoral Care. I then moved in with Charlie Brackbill, a friend whom I had come to know when his wife was a patient at Overlook, and later when he was a patient. It was during this time that I dated Emily Jean once, then again during our ACPE Eastern Region Spring Conference, held that year (1977) in Puerto Rico. The time together in P.R. cemented our relationship, and we began to live together in June, 1977. We were both suspicious and careful, having been burned before, so were relieved to discover that we both wanted to have therapy together, and to go to church together. Since Emily Jean was already attending Judson, I went with her a few times during the summer of 1977, and we went on the Judson Fall Retreat that year.
How
shall I describe Judson? How can I capture the uniqueness of Judson? It’s not
easy. I just know that I have searched far and wide for a church like it, and
have not found one. I guess, first and foremost, Judson is a community which
lives justice. We have a “Peace and Justice Team” at Hope UCC, where we go now,
but at Judson, everyone was engaged in work for peace and justice. To
illustrate, the new pastor, who became Senior Pastor a few years ago, preached
a sermon recently in which she spoke about her feelings about Judson by telling
about the interview process to hire a church administrator. One man came in who
was very well suited, with the necessary background and training. Donna Schaper
asked him how he felt about homosexuals. He responded that he was comfortable
with them being a part of the church. Donna said she thanked him for coming,
and sent him on his way. She was looking for someone who would be joyful and
excited about the prospect of living and working in a church community where
half of the members were gay.
There
are plenty of arguments, lots of times when members are upset with each other,
but on the whole, people are caring of each other, and try to be fair. It is
also a group which is very well educated, quite far to the left politically
(with one or two exceptions), and often involved in the political scene.
The
level of sophistication is also remarkable. Not a few have artistic careers,
several have been or are on Broadway. Interestingly enough, though there are
truly superb voices in the congregation, there is no formal choir. From time to
time, a plan to perform a particular number is announced and people who want to
sing will gather to practice before church a few times. And they sing wonderful
and difficult music. I remember Faure’s Requiem
in particular. Emily Jean, who sang (I did not.), recalls also Vivaldi’s Gloria.
There
is a long tradition of high-quality music at Judson, which dates back at least
as far as Al Carmines, who was Associate Pastor when Howard Moody was Senior
Pastor in the 60ties and 70ties, maybe earlier. Al, encouraged by Howard and
the congregation, played for services, but did much more as time went on. He
wrote numerous hymns (one of which is in the UCC hymnal, and one in the
Methodist hymnal), several oratorios, and several musicals. I was deeply moved when
Al wrote special “birth” songs to welcome new babies into the congregation.
These were sung at the morning worship. It is indeed a very special
congregation.
Another
thing about it that sets it apart, particularly in this day and age, is its
insistent practice of laissez-faire doctrine. Members include Roman Catholics
and Jews, probably by this time, a few Muslims. They are welcome to join the
church on their own terms. I was able to function as a member under a special
rubric which had been created before I came, called “non-member.” The church
constitution provides that the Administrative Board can have two non-members on
it. As a Methodist clergyman, I was not allowed by UMC to be a member of any
church, even Methodist, but had to belong to a conference with all the other
Methodist clergy.
To sum
up, Judson puts relationships and people ahead of all other values. The church
fulfils its obligations to the American Baptist Church and to the United Church
of Christ, with both of which it is affiliated, but tends to downplay doctrine
across the board.
Mother always loved gadgets. I think that was my first exposure to modern technology. The most memorable gadget she had I have never seen anywhere else than in our kitchen, and it probably no longer is made. She had a little dipper which would fit down inside a bottle of milk so that the cream could be lifted off the top, leaving skimmed milk. All the milk then came as it came out of the cow, skim on the bottom, heavier cream on the top. If a cook wanted to make whipped cream, this was where you got the cream. Now, of course, all is pasteurized, and you buy each separately.
Mother’s
gadgets were hi-tech for that time. I was the youngest still at home
when all the others were off at school so I’m sure I had a different exposure to
Mother in the home than my siblings. I alone was there to watch her with any new gadget. Somehow, I
imagine this experience began a comfort internally with looking for new ways of
doing things. Such comforts lead to curiosity which can develop into passions!
When I
came out of the army in March, 1946, I signed up to transfer to Randolph-Macon
College in the fall. I decided to do something with the time before I went to
RMC in September, something which would make it easier and more efficient in
college. I went to a business school near our house in Norfolk, and studied
typing and shorthand during the summer of 1946. I got my typing speed up to 100
wpm on the electric typewriter there, and took shorthand at about the same
speed or better. I guess this was my first venture into modern technology.
I
recall listening with great interest when Randy, Jr. and Caroline told me of
using the campus computer to write their term papers, of punching cards, making
middle-of-the-night appointments to go to the computer, run their cards and
walk away with a completed paper. And I had thought carbon paper was a great
advance!
So when
I was treasurer at Judson Memorial Church, during the early 80ties, they were
given an old computer which used 8-inch floppy discs. I was intrigued, but
never got to work it. Then Lenore and John, or was it just John then, talked of
computers practically non-stop. I spoke to John and asked him what he would
advise for a beginner. I recall that he suggested an IBM clone which I bought,
and sat down to work at, with him looking over my shoulder.
I said, “What do I do?”
He responded: “Just type something.”
“What?”
“Anything.”
So I typed my name. The computer put up a message on the screen: “Bad message” or something to that effect. I looked up at John as if to say, “I still don’t get it.”
John said: “You just learned an important first lesson.”
I said, “What?”
“You can’t break it. It can take care of itself.” He was right. He was a good teacher.
I said, “What do I do?”
He responded: “Just type something.”
“What?”
“Anything.”
So I typed my name. The computer put up a message on the screen: “Bad message” or something to that effect. I looked up at John as if to say, “I still don’t get it.”
John said: “You just learned an important first lesson.”
I said, “What?”
“You can’t break it. It can take care of itself.” He was right. He was a good teacher.
I
weathered the “dos” years, using all kinds of “freeware,” including my first
word-processor, the name of which I don’t recall, and had a wonderful time
relearning to type, writing many more letters than I had in past years.
And
finally, I switched to Windows, which I had looked down my nose at because I
had learned to use “dos.” Life was much simpler.
And
then came Email and Instant Messaging and smart phones with GPS. Unbelievable.
Now I
am content to stay with what I’ve got—my brain doesn’t happily take in much new
stuff.
And I
have my own smart phone! Incredible. It makes me sad to think how much Mother
would have loved all these gadgets. She knew no fear of the “new.” And I think
that’s part of what I got from her which has made this easier for me.
As a small boy, I followed my mother as she gardened, interested in what would grow, wanting my own garden. I finally got my garden out behind the garage, and would plant beets and carrots, none of which came to maturity before we left for Montreat and our summer vacation early in June. But I planted year after year.
I have learned from others, including my wives, none of whom enjoyed playing games, that it is something learned very early in life or not at all. I took it for granted that everyone loved games, and it came as a great disappointment and shock to see that many people responded negatively to games, for many reasons. Some come from families where money was scarce, everybody had to work hard, and there was no time for play. Playing any kind of game seemed frivolous. Very religious people, in some instances, put games in the category of sins or temptations, and ruled them out. Indeed, my grandfather’s church (Presbyterian) stipulated that there would be no games played in Montreat NC, where the Southern Presbyterian Conference grounds were located. But this was also vacation time, and Papa Joe, as we called him, paid no attention, and bridge was played all day six days out of the week. Papa Joe would not violate the Sabbath.
Reading
I retired in 1991. I had felt for a long time (probably since I graduated from college) that I was not really educated. In my rush to get a degree following WWII, I took the minimum number of courses at Randolph-Macon College in order to add their credit hours to those I brought with me from VMI and the Army Specialized Training Program (at VPI) and graduate. As a result, I was overloaded with science and mathematics, with almost no humanities.
Sports
From the earliest time I can remember, I loved playing games in our back field. We were fortunate in being on a block in West Ghent, Norfolk VA, where there were 22 kids of high school age or less. Most of us tended to get involved in the baseball, football and other games we played. When there were enough kids gathered, it was “choose up sides” and play, either baseball or football. When only a few were around, we played “buck-up, buck-up, how many fingers do I hold up?” The “it” person from the previous game hid his face against a tree, all the others stood around watching, and one person held up a number of fingers where everybody but the “it” guy could see. If the “it” guy guessed the right number (between 1 and 10), then he was no longer “it” and the one who held up the fingers was “it.” We would all run instantly and hide. The “it” person caught people by seeing them and running back to touch the base tree before the player could. If the player got there first, he was “in free,” and all who had been caught were also freed. At the start, if five fingers were held up, and the “it” guy guessed three, the difference was two and he had to run and touch two trees before returning to base and beginning to try to catch players. We also played “kick the can” with similar rules. “Old Dead Mule” was a more challenging game, since most of the older boys played as well, and could run faster than small fry, but all were allowed to play. There were two “it” guys, who cooperated in chasing down and capturing players. Capture could only be made by touching, so players who were adventurous would climb up on top of a garage and stand there in plain sight, daring the two who were “it” to try to catch them. One would have to climb up onto the garage roof while the other waited on the ground hoping he could tag the player when he jumped and ran. And as each player was captured, he became part of the “it” team, and assisted in capturing those who were still free. It was a great game.
Cooking, Eating and Dieting
I was the youngest in my family, and a boy, at that. That meant that, while I spent a lot of time at home with Mother after everyone else was off to school, I was the wrong sex to be in the kitchen. I don’t recall that I ever asked to be in there with her, but neither do I remember her encouraging me to join her there.
I have never been a dancer. I think I got inoculated against dancing when my mother sent me to dancing school when I was about 12. I may have imagined this, but I have a hazy memory of standing over at the side, trying to avoid both getting out on the floor, and catching the eye of the teacher (matron?) who was assiduously endeavoring to get us all out there in pairs. I have a feeling of dread when I think of it.
Music
Music was a part of my life from an early age. When I was still unable to walk, Mother used to put me down for a nap every afternoon, and take advantage of the fact that she was somewhat free, by getting out the latest issue of Etude, a magazine, as I recall, for piano players. She would spend about an hour playing piano, relaxing and enjoying herself. To this day, when I go to concerts, especially if it involves piano, I begin to nod at the first note. It’s not that I don’t enjoy it, but the early conditioning is just too strong.
Money
I did not experience money as important in my childhood. I thought all fathers had holes in their underwear, and that all mothers had just one dress, which they had knitted themselves. I got a quarter for lunch every day, and saved a dime. I don’t recall ever wishing for anything I didn’t have. If I asked for a quarter for the monthly meeting of the Hi-Y, I was mildly puzzled at the hesitancy my mother showed when she gave it to me. When very young, we were given ten cents at the end of the week if we had done all of our chores. Failure to make up the bed cost one cent. Failure to brush your teeth, or take a bath led to similar fines. The six or seven cents at the end of the week went into the piggy bank.
John Cumming’s Death
Perry Lee, my oldest sister, died a couple of years ago.. She was 8 years older than I. I have always had a soft spot in my heart for her. I don’t know why. It’s probably because she took care of me when I was little, even though I have zero recollection of that.
Death of My Father
Leaving My Card with Mother
Toward the end of her life, Mother could no longer live at her house in Rich Square NC alone, and arrangements were made for her to move into a Residential Facility in Rich Square where she could be cared for. My brothers and sisters and I visited her in Rich Square when we could (Kitty was very good about going down, and was there more frequently than I was, I know, and probably more than the rest of the connection.)
"What Do You Think I Want?"
When Emily Jean and I went down to visit Mother, we took her out to dinner. (All of us did that when we went, believing that it was good for her to get out as much as possible.) We drove down to the Quaker House, but, for some reason, it was closed. So we went on to Murphreesboro, I think it was, to a place where the food was OK, but where they did not know Mother as well. In Scotland Neck, they would probably have known exactly what she wanted and told me what to order for her.
Helping Mother Dress
On one occasion, I went to see Mother alone, driving down from New York, and spending a week-end with her. She had moved to the Rich Square Residency Center by that time, but had retained the home she and Dad had lived in, because she liked to go back home when one of us came to visit her. So the Saturday I arrived, I drove to the Center, told the nurse that I was going to take her home for the week-end, and got her to pack a suitcase for Mother to take with her. We walked out to the car, and drove to her house.
Lee Guides Me on a Trip to the Underworld
Back in the 1980’s, when I was working with Emily Jean at Presbyterian Hospital in New York City, I did several years of therapy, and then decided that I would try to find someone who was able to help me with my spiritual journey. I approached a number of people with credentials as spiritual directors, but did not find anyone who “clicked” with me. Finally, I went down to Judson Memorial Church, where Emily Jean and I were then active, determined to assess whether Howard Moody, Senior Pastor, or Lee Hancock, Associate Pastor, might be the right one for me. I went into Howard’s office, and listened as he talked. Howard is one of the greatest church leaders ever, but I knew within three minutes that he was not the spiritual director I needed.
Mother’s Death
I forget now where Mother was in the hospital. I got a call at Presbyterian Hospital (This was May, 1990), and flew down immediately. I was the last of my siblings to arrive, I think. Several of Kitty’s family were also there. Mother was approaching her 99th birthday, and it seemed clear to me that she was nearing the end.
Perry Lee’s Death
I so regret not going to see Perry Lee during the period following our July 4th celebration of the Roddey Family’s 100 years in Montreat. She was there, and we five siblings were together for the last time. She had been growing increasingly frail in the last years, and I wondered if this would be the last time I saw her alive. But then, I had wondered that before.
Kitty’s Death
I determined that I was not going to deprive myself of a chance to be with Kitty, and have quality time, so early in 2007, I called her and arranged to go down to Charlottesville to be with her for a few days. I stayed in her little apartment at the residential facility where she lived, and we shared meals, both in the dining room of the facility, and at various restaurants in town. We ate lunch and dinner out for both the days I was there, and it was so much fun. We also took short walks together, and talked and talked. How delightful!
Roddey’s Death
I realize now that Roddey looked better than he was, when we were together in Montreat, for Kitty’s Memorial Service on July 3rd. I forget now how I learned that he had been diagnosed as CHF (Congestive Heart Failure), probably from Sissi, but Emily Jean and I spent many years in hospital work as chaplains, and we knew this meant his time was very limited. So we called Sissi immediately and arranged to go down to see him. We stayed overnight and returned home the next day. He was already on oxygen 24/7, and was very weak and limited. It was a sad and beautiful time. We all knew he was dying, but none of us spoke of it. He clearly did not want to talk about it. Sissi had tried to get him to plan his funeral, but she never got beyond that he wanted lots of jokes told.
Sissi’s Remarriage
Roddey and Anneliese Nitsch were married in February of 1991, about a year after the death of his first wife, Betsy King Jones. Sissi and Betsy had met when Betsy went to work part time at Hohner in Richmond. Legend has it that Betsy asked Sissi to look after Roddey. Sissi knew how to take advice.
John Peterson’s Death
Lenore married John Peterson in 1994 after they had been together for quite a few years, loved and supported by the Hobbits (graduates of Michigan State University Tolkien Fellowship) who had migrated to the NYC area. They continue to be a most important community for all who shared the experience at MSU. In June of 2008, John was diagnosed with prostate cancer of a most virulent kind. With wonderful care from Sloan-Kettering in NYC, John lived nearly two years, dying in February of 2010. He was blessed to be able to live at home until his death, and with the support of his employer, Ab Initio Software, continued to work throughout that time.
Harry’s 91st Birthday Party
Two summers ago, when I was in Montreat, I went to see Harry at his and Lella’s Pineapple Place on North Carolina Terrace. We sat together on the porch, but were not able to share a great deal. I know that I am not a great conversationalist, but something seemed different. Later, I asked Lella about the likelihood of their being in Montreat the following summer. She said that she did not think Harry would ever go to Montreat again.
Chuck and Erica’s Wedding
In August of 2010, we flew out to Seattle to be present and help celebrate the wedding of Caroline and Marv’s son, Chuck to Erica. The wedding was held in a state park south of Seattle, presided over by Chuck’s father, Marv Vose. A goodly collection of their friends had come for the occasion, and we could see their tents below the area where the service was held. Friends provided music, they said their own vows, with Chuck, appropriately, readiing his from his I-Pad (He works for Apple!). What was it he promised? To do the litter?
Genevieve’s and Molly’s Wedding (Planned for 2013)
At the time of writing (May of 2012), this has not yet happened, but we have been informed by telephone that it is coming up soon, probably next year. This will be an epic occasion for our family, and we look forward to it with great joy. It has been only a matter of months since Washington state voted to allow same-sex marriage, so their decision to get married followed closely on the decision of the state legislature.
Faith and Doubt
I still flounder, though, as you will see, Tolstoy has helped me to make some progress.
Prayer
I have read many a book on prayer. My parents, and I believe, my maternal grandparents, and possibly all of my siblings, pray and believe in prayer. It is easier for me to say what I do not believe about prayer than it is to say what I believe about it.
I was totally deaf to words like “feminism” and expressions such as “inclusive language” until around 1970 when one of my CPE students told me after chapel that she had been able to worship until I announced that we would pray the Lord’s Prayer together. It was as if she had been speaking a foreign language. I asked her to say more, and she did. She explained that she felt shut out by the male language. I concluded she was unhinged, and thought no more about it. But over time, the same nail was struck again and again. When I began to have Emily Jean in my life, I was better prepared and able to hear better. I was by no means a feminist, but I could hear. I joined her in attending Judson Memorial Church in Greenwich Village, NYC, where inclusive language was a way of religious life, and where there were no women, and few men, who were not feminist.
My Cynicism
I suppose I am a cynic. It doesn’t feel that way to me; it’s just that I tend to see the bad as well as the good in all of us. It seems to me that folks who look at the world through rose-colored glasses don’t want anyone to see it any other way. I know what I am capable of, and I suspect all of us are just as capable of evil as I am.
Clinical Pastoral Education (CPE)
After my first year of residency in the doctoral program at Boston University was completed, I sat down with Dr. Bill Douglas, my advisor, for a routine conference. He asked me what I was going to do that summer (1965). I replied that I had no special plans, but would probably take a couple of courses. He encouraged me to consider taking a unit of CPE (Clinical Pastoral Education). It was already May, and the program was to start in early June, so I thought my chances were poor. But I called out to Boston State Hospital, and that program still had openings. It was a big program, with slots for 25 students. I got in. And thus my life was changed.
A Philosophy of Clinical Pastoral Education
I wrote the following, remembering my thoughts about Chuck Hall's, Allison Stokes' and Glenn Asquith's addresses at the ACPE Conference in Philadelphia years ago.
Family Therapy and Supervision of CPE
During my training and work as a family therapist, I learned that a great deal of research has been done into the impact of sibling position on the behavior of individuals. While these are not “laws,” they do have predictive value in looking at individuals and families.
Poise in the Pulpit
I don’t remember any more who I first heard this story from, but it was probably back in my seminary days at Emory’s Candler School of Theology (1948-1951).
Bi-Lingual Stories (English-Japanese)
One of the great losses I experienced on leaving Japan was an audience of people who understand enough of both Japanese and English to “get it” when a joke was told which required both languages. Of course, if you have to explain, the lightning flash that makes a joke funny is not there. I can think of several examples, one of which is the title story.
Let Me off at the Next Stop
A Westerner was new to Japan with just a beginner’s smattering of Japanese. Nevertheless, he had large ambitions of being able to manage for himself in Japanese. One day, he got on a streetcar. Before he got to the stop where he wanted to get off, he called to the conductor from the back of the car: “Please let me off at the next stop.” He got the “please” right, and he got the “next stop” right, but he made a slight mistake in his choice of a verb for “let me off” (orosu). Instead, he used the verb korosu, which means “kill.”
The Speech
A man was asked to be an after dinner speaker. [speech = hanashi] It happened that he had false teeth. [teeth = ha, none = nashi] As he got into his speech, he made an effort to speak in a louder voice, and his teeth fell out on the table. Before he could pick them up and put them back in his mouth, one of the guests shouted out: Honto no [real] ha nashi [no teeth, speech] desu ne” [is].
Sukiyaki
I also heard a report of a missionary who went into a grocery store needing some bean sprouts in order to cook sukiyaki, a dish made of thinly sliced beef and a number of vegetables, flavored with soy sauce, broth and a little sugar. Unfortunately, when he asked for bean sprouts, he used the Japanese word which means “night soil,” which produced much astonishment at the store. The Westerner insisted that he always put “night soil” in this dish, and that without it, it just would not be as good.
The New Missionary's "Lord's Prayer"
A new missionary, having been out in Japan for a term, returned home, and was invited to the church which had supported him there. The pastor thought it was wonderful that he and his family had gone to Japan, and wanted them to know how much the church respected and admired them for that. So not only was the missionary asked to preach, but after the service ended, the pastor announced that, in lieu of a benediction, the missionary would say the Lord’s Prayer, in Japanese.
Other Stories
Championship Golf
[This story and the other golf stories are a legacy of a hot, summer day at Waynesville NC with David Swain many, many years ago. A sudden rainstorm struck the course, and everyone rushed for shelter, many squeezing in under the same open-sided work hut we crowded into. I expect there were 20 or more golfers there, and each one had several stories or jokes.]
The Minister Played Golf on Sunday Morning
A minister had a moral struggle between his call to ministry and his love of golf. Thinking he could handle it, he accepted the call, and served a number of churches with distinction. After a number of years, when he had become the senior pastor of a rather large church, he felt a powerful yearning for golf one Sunday morning early. The sky was blue, the sun was shining, and it promised to be a beautiful day. He could stand it no longer.
Religious’ Golf
A priest who loved to play golf persuaded a sister who worked at the same parish to caddy for him when he played a round of golf. He was not having a good day to start with, and after he hit a couple in the woods, and another in the water, he began to swear. The sister was a very pious type and remonstrated with him. “Father, if you are going to use filthy language, I’m not going to continue caddying for you.” The priest promised to do better.
The Bengal Tiger
A man had read a great deal about India, and was very much interested in going there on a safari for a Bengal tiger. He learned of a man who had been to India and had even hunted tigers, so he arranged to see him and get his advice.
A Pope with Polish
[I heard this joke on the morning that Pope John Paul II was elected, when I was a chaplain at Bergen Pines County Hospital. I was there from 1977 to 1982. We had a multifaith department, with three Roman Catholic priests, three Protestant ministers and two rabbis.One of the priests, with classic Irish humor, came in and gave this report of what had happened in Rome.]
The Toilet Seat*
[Jean Evans was a wonderful Jewish woman who appeared at Judson Memorial Church in Greenwich Village, New York City, one Sunday morning and sat next to me and Emily Jean. We talked after the service and over time got to be good friends. Jean was a retired writer, having had articles appear in New Yorker and other magazines, and had published a book of case studies of psychiatric patients thought by psychologists to be really solid. Jean had an interesting background. Her great grandfather had been a rabbi in Russia, her mother had grown up there, and had brought Jean and her brother to this country when very young. They were raised in Hollywood, where Jean’s brother made connections and became a director of note. She knew a bunch of people out there, who were aware that she liked dirty jokes, and would periodically telephone her in New York to tell her a new one that was going around. When we got acquainted at Judson, she soon learned that Emily Jean and I appreciated good dirty jokes, and when one came from Hollywood via the phone, we were among the first friends she called to share it. “The Toilet Seat” and “Bad Breath and Smelly Socks” stories came from Jean.]
Bad Breath and Smelly Feet
There was once a young couple who were blessed with a son. They doted on him, but as he got older, they noticed that his feet smelled unbelievably bad. At first they thought it was just the way boys were, but others noticed, and finally they took him to see a specialist in smelly feet. This doctor acknowledged that their son’s ailment was so far beyond his training that they would have to consult the world’s top smelly feet expert. After numerous tests, and much money being spent, the great man admitted defeat, and told them their son would just have to live with the problem.
The Cherry Tree*
Jean Evans swore that the following was a true story of her mother’s childhood in Russia. At the time, pogroms against Jews were not unusual, and Jews lived very carefully among their Russian neighbors.
The Mother Superior*
[I heard this story told in mixed company by a Jesuit priest!]
The Sisters of Mercy House of Prostitution*
A traveling salesman was driving along the highway, when he saw a huge billboard, proclaiming that only ten miles ahead, he would come to the Sisters of Mercy House of Prostitution. He could not believe his eyes. Thinking it a joke, he drove on and forgot about it. But in a few more miles, he was another billboard: “Sisters of Mercy House of Prostitution, only 5 miles.” Now he was curious. As a good Catholic, this went against everything he believed in. He thought about stopping out of a sense of duty.
The Organ-Grinder’s Monkey*
A man wanted to have a baby. He consulted friends. All told him, just have sex with a woman. But he responded that he did not want to be a father by having sex with a woman. He wanted to feel his baby inside himself, just as a woman does, and to give birth to it himself. All his friends told him he was crazy. Finally, someone he talked to told him about a gypsy who might be able to help him.
Dad and the Turkey
When Dad was about five years old, being the youngest of nine children, he was the only one home after the other eight went off to school in the morning. One day, his mother said: “Harry, let’s walk over to the Parsonage. It’s not far, and I want to take the minister’s family a turkey for Thanksgiving.”
Favorite Quotations
In October 2006, a friend at the YMCA quoted Albert Einstein, ‘the wisest man ever,’ as saying that the way to be happy is to get up early and stay up late. My rejoinder was to cite Somerset Maugham with the quote below.
"Gifts” Received from Others
I had turned 50, I think, before I realized that my father had given me the great gift of tenderness. As I have put it, I came to see that my father was my Mother, and my mother was my Father. He was a very sentimental man, for all his manliness. He was kind, thoughtful, and most generous. I like to think that I am a lot like him.
Friendships
As I look back over my life, I see very few friendships. Perhaps that’s because I define friendship very narrowly. Maybe it’s because I do not easily reveal myself. Odd, I always thought of myself as someone who was out there, transparent, but the longer I live, the more I feel like a fraud in this respect.
Health/Fitness
I have always been on the small side, 5’ 9” or less, probably 5’7” now. But I have always been active, well-coordinated, so that I was above average in the sort of pick-up games we used to play. I was never the last one chosen, that painful fate of some children. And I was pretty healthy all my life until recently.
Therapy
My first experience of therapy was with Dr. Paul Johnson, retired professor of Pastoral Counseling at Boston University. Dr. Johnson, after retirement, came to Japan under the auspices of the Board of World Missions of the United Methodist Church for a year to assess the needs of Japan for services in this field. He spent six months living and working in the Tokyo area, and six months in the Kansai (western Honshu), near Osaka. He was housed on our campus, at Kwansei Gakuin, and I was requested to manage his itinerary. In addition to doing this, I talked with him a great deal about personal matters, and I asked if he would give me counseling. He agreed, and I asked Jean, my wife, to go with me. She agreed, reluctantly, to go, but was unwilling to continue.
Aging
I know what aging is now. When you are young and you get hurt or have an ache, you know that in a short time, it will be history. When you get old, you know that it is not going to go away. With such a simple change of expectation, you know you have become old!
Haiku and other Poetry Through the Years
1952
I looked but did not see—
Dec. 21, 1954
Poor flowers! Still bravely blooming
Undated
Threatening thoughts, voices intruding—
Undated
Nightmare of soul-raft, roaring river.
May 8, 1966
Wellesley, MA
Such a loveliness:
Brown and yellow umbrellas
Undated
The eerie stillness
Undated
Windblown, buffeted,
Undated
Tiny shoot agreening—
Undated
That sweet smell in the night air
Fifties or Sixties
Storm’s terror and
Dark clouds pressed
Tiny piper flit-flirting
1964-67
Boston area
Time turns strength to rubble,
Yes! All bones and skulls, weathering.
December 23, 1965
“Empathy with Schizophrenia”
Foaming sand, crashing waves—
February 1, 1976
Ten thousand starlings
Oh, for a bird song
Prairie tumbleweed
Pain behind my eyes—
February 7, 1976
Wintry ungreen hills,
May, 1976
Heart and leaden sky—
June 29, 1976
Montreat, NC
I heard a bird sing
March, 1977
A long, cold winter—
March 22, 1977
Overlook Hospital Chapel
Inconvenient
A rose blooming midst
The dogwood, they say,
Where can I find joy?
Doing a new thing!
May 8, 1977
Suspended in blue
May, 1977
Red clay, Kelly woods
July 3, 1977
Feigning interest
July 24, 1977
I tried to enter
How can I open
October 1, 1977
Raining then and now—
November 17, 1977
Orange persimmons—
February 5, 1978
Judson
Behind massive walls
But in that great wall
April 26, 1978
I can’t remember,
The mimosa, too,
June 7, 1978
I was ready when
July 7, 1978
Far off in the sky,
Sometime in 1978
visiting Bergen County Jail
A star fell on me!
June 22, 1980
Oh, my Father, oh—
July 28, 1981
CPE Retreat, Darlington
Under a rose leaf
April 21, 1987
Busy buzzy bee!
April 27, 1988
Our crocus are gone,
Summer, 1989
Rainy, then clearing,
Date uncertain
Chill soul-wind blowing,
Dick Schaffer’s Birthday
October 5, 2005
In the autumn of life,
Emily Jean’s Birthday
October 19, 2005
The days come and go,
Catherine’s Birthday
October 23, 2005
Such a tiny seed.
2006 Haiku Diary Selections
Sunday, January 1st
2. I see a blue light—
Friday, January 6th
9. Where is God today?
Thursday, January 12th
19. Growing old – the pits.
20. It ain’t right. It ain’t
Sunday, January 15th
25. Hypocritical
Thursday, January 19th
33. “Walk on him! Wake him!
Saturday, January 21st
35. How much time is left?
Saturday, January 28th
47. Sitting here alone,
Friday, February 3rd
62. Joe, cheese and water
Sunday, February 5th
65. The wind is blowing.
67. I won a race once
68. Yet I know nothing
Tuesday, February 7th
71. How I want to be
Sunday, February 12th
82. All snowed in today—
Tuesday, February 14th
87. Drive the speed limit.
Wednesday, February 15th
89. I celebrate Joe
Thursday, February 16th
92 We’re in the middle
Friday, February 17th
96. And what’s this music,
Saturday, February 18th
97. Lying in your arms
Sunday, February 19th
99. Apples and honey!
[Ten of us—our Gathering―meet every other Sunday for “check-in,” discussion and worship. One Sunday afternoon, when we were meeting at our house at 5:30, we saw three bluebirds on a limb of our walnut tree over the holly bushes, red with fruit which they like to eat.]
100. Just at four today,
Friday, February 24th
110. Catherine and Joe
Tuesday, February 28th
115. Blue sky and white snow.
Sunday, March 5th
130. The rainbow tells us
132. Look! Red oak-flowers
Wednesday, March 8th
143. Son and granddaughter
Thursday, March 9th
147. Reading Canaan’s Edge.
Sunday, March 12th
160. In the wilderness,
161. Rainy, gloomy day—
Wednesday, March 15th
169. Caroline’s birthday!
Monday, March 20th
181. “Headed for the Y.”
182. The sky is all blue.
183. Patriotism.
185. “Swords into plowshares”—
Thursday, March 23rd
194. I am alone now.
Friday, March 31st
209. A beautiful day
Tuesday, April 4th
218. I am a slow dirge
[I am aware of the feelings of the members of the congregation.]
220. Our pain’s palpable.
Wednesday, April 5th
223. I can always choose
Sunday, April 9th
227. Snow fell yesterday.
Monday, April 10th
229. We went for a drive
Friday, April 14th
236. I like Mother's smiles
Sunday, April 16th
239. Jimmy, it’s Easter!
240. Sister Perry Lee
Thursday, April 20th
246. I have decided
Saturday, April 22nd
249. Looking at money,
Sunday, April 23rd
250. Finished body scan
[The Gathering created a worship service in which each of us wrote a haiku for the part of the service assigned to us.]
251. It feels very good
252. May the Holy One
253. Go forth, you people,
Tuesday, April 25th
255. I tilled the meadow
Friday, April 28th
259. I’m not sure I want
Wednesday, May 3rd
266. Asparagus—Yes!
Friday, May 5th
268. Cinco de Mayo!
Sunday, May 7th
272. The Best Shepherd trains
273. We begin the month
Monday, May 8th
274. Bill and I made calls
Tuesday, May 9th
277. I don’t understand
278. I just know it’s so.
Sunday, May 14th
Mother’s Day
286. This tear in my eye
Monday, May 15th
287. Rainy day today—
Monday, May 22nd
298. Entering Men’s Room,
Sunday, May 28th
304. Iris are blooming.
[I have a visceral negative response to the use of patriotism to manipulate our people.]
306. Let’s salute the flag
Tuesday, May 30th
308. Maybe we’re addicts
[My cousin, Gatewood Kistler, was a fine painter. This exchange took place shortly before her death.]
312. Who is an artist?
Saturday, June 3rd
315. Let us not fear fear!
Sunday, June 4th
317. Pentecost today!
Monday, June 12th
331. Five! We’re off, Lillie
Tuesday, June 13th
333. Why, hello there, Sam!
Thursday, June 15th
335. Sun shining today.
Wednesday, June 21st
342. Inexorably
Friday, June 23rd
344. Three more days, and then
[Joan Hemenway, our dear friend and then President of ACPE, lived until the end of January, 2007.]
347. I can’t believe it.
348. Driving through the rain
Sunday, June 25th
349. It doesn’t seem fair
Wednesday, June 28th
354. Your love’s wonderful.
Thursday, June 29th
355. I’d rather believe
[About Joan.]
356. God’s heart is breaking
[Sense of helplessness at Joan’s dying, along with expression of faith.]
357. A mighty wind blows
Friday, June 30th
358. Tomorrow I fly
Tuesday, July 4th
366. You shoulda been here!
Thursday, July 6th
369. Been away too long.
Friday, July 7th
371. Thank you, my dear ones,
Tuesday, July 11th
377. Can it be my heart—
Wednesday, July 12th
380. The message is clear—
Thursday, July 13th
381. I feel so empty.
382. My emptiness fills
Saturday, July 15th
385. Tell me about love,
Sunday, July 16th
386. O God, be with me.
387. Thank you, Holy One,
Saturday, July 29th
404. To take a moment
Saturday, August 5th
414. Saturdays are great!
Sunday, August 6th
415. Gathering today.
Saturday, August 12th
423. Slender and stately,
Sunday, August 13th
425. Another cool night,
[Another Gathering friend is not well.]
426. We’re worried for Em.
Friday, August 18th
431. How much shall I tell?
[On this date, I suddenly was ready to finish my Spiritual Journey.]
432. Time for Volume Four!
Monday, August 21st
437. Hello, Virginia!
Tuesday, August 22nd
439. We’re finally here!
[Some call them “surprise lilies,” but most Southerners know them as “Naked Ladies.” They send up leaves in Spring, much like daffodils, but no bloom. Then suddenly, in August, after the leaves are gone, up comes a long stalk (30”) with a pink flower on it. Beautiful.]
440. Near the house, we were
Thursday, August 24th
442. Magnificent sky—
443. Wild Meadows whispers:
444. Green and blue intense
Sunday, August 27th
449. Trees are whispering
Monday, August 28th
453. Three deer came and stood—
[Emily Jean’s]
457. Rumbling o’er the hills
Wednesday, August 30th
460. It’s Randy’s birthday
Thursday, August 31st
461. Rain. It’s raining. Rain
Saturday, September 2nd
466. The Gilberts gathered—
Sunday, September 3rd
472. Walking through the woods—
Saturday, September 9th
481 Breakfast with Diane
Monday, September 11th
485. What did I lose then?
487. Teach us love, O Lord.
Sunday, September 17th
495. What’s community
Wednesday, September 20th
498. Cedar waxwings crowd
499. Is this how life ends?
Tuesday, September 26th
510. Donna’s Mom, Edna,
Thursday, September 28th
514. I’ve started writing
Saturday, September 30th
517. Through the cloudy veil
518. Special day today!
Sunday, October 1st
520. Good month, October!
[Thinking of Edna and Cocoa]
521. Edna: “Cocoa!
[Recalling our first trip together back in 1977]
522. That double rainbow
Wednesday, October 4th
525. Listen to Amber,
Thursday, October 5th
526. 82 today.
Sunday, October 8th
532. The Fall air is cool.
Monday, October 9th
533. Nice warm day today—
Wednesday, October 11th
535. Looks like rain today—
Sunday, October 15th
540. Where do I find God?
541. What to do when sad?
542. And what else to do?
543. Agape is love—
Monday, October 16th
544. Speaking wordless words,
546. What’s a wordless word?
547. Listen to silence,
Tuesday, October 17th
Thursday, October 19th
551. Today’s her birthday.
Friday, October 20th
552. “Good-bye, dear Edna.
Monday, October 23rd
555. Catherine’s birthday!
556. My dear Catherine!
Sunday, October 29th
563. Harriet Tubman
Monday, October 30th
564. The snow was falling
Wednesday, November 1st
566. Planning the retreat:
Thursday, November 2nd
568. The sun is shining
570. The sun shines brightly,
Thursday, November 2nd
572. I’m writing for Joan.
Saturday, November 4th
576. Repetitiousness
Sunday, November 5th
577. I am excited
Tuesday, November 14th
586. Washing clothes today—
587. You’re a terrific
Friday, November 17th
591. Now is all we’ve got!
Saturday, November 18th
592. Look at the bricks—
593. The Gathering’s here
Sunday, November 19th
595. My dear Perry Lee
596. I missed seeing her,
597. I give her over
Tuesday, November 21st
599. I am sad today.
Wednesday, November 22nd
600. It’s hard to feel joy
Thursday, November 23rd
602. Great Thanksgiving meal—
Saturday, November 25th
604. Driving home again,
Monday, November 27th
606. Dearest Perry Lee,
Wednesday, November 29th
609. End of an era!
610. Yesterday was rich—
Friday, December 1st
612. It’s almost Advent—
Saturday, December 2nd
613. Cantigas singers—
Sunday, December 3rd
614. Sitting at Judson,
Wednesday, December 6th
617. Who’d have believed it?
Friday, December 8th
620. On my lap again,
621. May our good neighbors
622. What dear friends you are!
Saturday, December 9th
624. Kitty’s birthday’s soon.
Sunday, December 10th
625. Missed Harry’s, Roddey’s
626. Tomorrow’s Kitty’s
Monday, December 11th
629. Kitty’s 88,
Tuesday, December 12th
631. May your life be whole—
Thursday, December 14th
633. New Year’s Day Party—
Friday, December 15th
637. Bought myself a gift,
Saturday, December 16th
638. It’s Lenore’s birthday.
Sunday, December 17th
639. Our choice: to rejoice
Monday, December 18th
642. Do I want to write?
Wednesday, December 20th
644. We leave Christmas Day
Friday, December 22nd
646. Today, Jalousie
Saturday, December 23rd
648. Eight more days to go
649. What shall I promise
650. I know! I’ll finish
Monday, December 25th
652. We’re on the way South.
Tuesday, December 26th
653. Wild Meadows loves rain—
Thursday, December 28th
656. We’re on the way home.
Friday, December 29th
657. How I love dear Em!
Saturday, December 30th
658. It’s been a great year—
Sunday, December 31st, 2006
659. This is the last day
Haiku Since 2006
June, 2007
We knew and loved you,
And knew that you loved us, too.
November, 2007
Two Thousand Seven
Ah, me, Jacob’s gone.
Thursday, January 17, 2008
Stubborn persistence—
Saturday, January 19, 2008
If she was the block
Sunday, February 10, 2008
Someone's after me!
God’s out to get me—
Monday, February 11, 2008
Genes and orange juice
Thursday, February 14th, 2008
That beautiful tune
Friday, February 15th’2008
Cold – cloistered within
Saturday, March 8th, 2008
Thunder, lightning, hail—
Sunday, March 9th, 2008
Blue skies and bluebirds
Saturday, April 19th, 2008
April the Nineteenth—
Tuesday, April 22nd, 2008
Spring is wonderful!
[We gave her a bunch of asparagus!]
Happy Birthday, Em!
Thursday, April 24th, 2008
My Daddy loved ‘em—
March 21st , 2008
Wonderful woman!
Thursday, May 22nd,2008
Losing your mother—
Wednesday, Aug.13th, 2008
George and Vivian
Sunday, Sept. 14th, 2008
Sitting here alone
Thursday, October 2nd, 2008
Summer’s gone, Fall’s here,
Wednesday, Dec. 31st, 2008
Hugs, bugs and snow, too.
[We played Mexican Dominoes, and Rummi-Kub, and we all played to win. But nobody was more into it than Lillie’s friend, Beedee.]
Stones, tiles and blood flowed.
Sunday, February 28, 2010
Awesome! Wonderful!
O bright Maple Leaf!
April 2012
I’m eating breakfast,
Sunday, May 13th, 2012
Mother’s Day
White roses for us,
We start life anew
[Musing about writing haiku, and thinking about our Book/Movie group having a poetry night:]
Writing haiku
Look! Snow on the ground
Dreams
In the first dream (and the only one I remember), I went on a fishing trip. I caught nothing, and was walking home with my pole over my shoulder. The path I took was into the mountains, and led through a rhododendron thicket. As I walked along, the hook on the end of my line caught on a branch of the rhodies, and the line reeled all the way out without my being aware of it. I was brought up short when the end of the line came, and only then, realized what had happened. I looked back, and was chagrined to see that the line had become hopelessly entangled in the thicket. Still, I was determined to get it untangled so that I should not lose my line. I was making slow progress, when an old man came along the path and offered his help. I was glad to have his help and together, we slowly got it all untangled and rewound on the reel. I thanked him and we parted. He went on down the path I had come up, and I continued on my way.
The Rocket full of Eggs
The journal in which I recorded this dream was stolen from the trunk of our car when we were visiting a friend in Manhattan. We parked the car on the street, and discovered the theft when we came out after dinner. There was a “Rocket full of Eggs” dream and a third, in which God, a woman, drove me in a car.
Reflecting/Hoping
The Meaning of My Life
Still, I am not content to turn my life solely inward. For me to live is to live for others. To love myself is to reach out to others. I can find meaning for my life only as I can help others to find it for themselves.
Self-Assessment and Goals
Words at Retirement
When have I felt most me?
I look back to those magical days of my childhood in Montreat when I carved roads and tunnels in the clay banks and played cars, or went out in the rain to fight desperately to dam up the water as it came running down the mountain by our house as times when I felt most myself. I lost myself in play, and was purely me. Sometimes when playing bridge, I have also lost myself. I was still trying to win, but I was beyond trying to impress anybody.
The Gathering
New Year’s Day (2006) Meeting of the Gathering
What follows is what I prepared for our Gathering meeting of Jan. 1, 2006. Each of us had agreed to prepare something about our past year, and the year to come.
The Seekers
About four or five years ago, several men friends began meeting together to discuss a book once a month. We soon realized that this was more than a book-discussion group. We were asking and answering important personal spiritual questions. We decided our group was The Seekers. There is no titular leader, but Dick Schaffer got us together and keeps us reminded of times and places.
Devotional Journal
Feb. 16, 2012
April 7, 2012
April 9th, Easter Monday
Let the world slow down—
O you holy cats—
Tuesday, April 17th, 2012
I hear a faint voice
Thursday, April 19th
O, Wisteria—
Friday, April 20, 2012
[Written during devotional. The poem reflects the daily struggle to be present without “leaving” in my thoughts.]
From words set me free—
Catherine visited for a couple of days before she moved from Eagleville PA to Atlanta in February 2012. While here, she crocheted me a throw.
Dozing ‘neath my throw,
Devoting
More than two years ago, Emily Jean and I decided that we wanted to have a devotional time in the morning. With both of us retired, it seemed that it would be possible. We began to start our day in the living room, lighting candles, and using A Guide to Prayer for All God’s People, by Job and Shawchuck, and Rubye’s (her mother’s) Bible. Lillie had given me a head lamp to help me in dim lighting situations, and I got it out. Our three cats, Kaki, Amber and Sully, join us almost every morning, Kaki being the most faithful. Our devotional time is occasionally spiced by a battle between Sully and Amber, who, after several years together, still have little use for each other.
This volume has been written over a period of at least 20 years, maybe longer. I have not succeeded in putting it together in such a way that the seams do not show. Nor have I sought to stick to chronological arrangement. Perhaps it’s just as well. It will be a little like a biopsy being taken every year or so on my spiritual life. Is it any wonder that there has been change? I know that I do not experience myself as the same person. When I read over some of the older stuff, I am surprised and often pleased.
Jisei
Many Japanese offer jisei from their death-beds. I particularly liked one by Saruo that James Hillman quoted in The Force of Character:
Life—eternal fog—
Jisei kept coming to me during devotions; clearly they belong here, but removing them from that Journal didn’t feel right.
June 16th, 2012
Waiting patiently,
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Development
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Nature
As a small boy, I followed my mother as she gardened, interested in what would grow, wanting my own garden. I finally got my garden out behind the garage, and would plant beets and carrots, none of which came to maturity before we left for Montreat and our summer vacation early in June. But I planted year after year.
I can’t
remember if I had gardens in Japan. We went to Lake Nojiri when classes were
suspended for the summer around July 1st, so probably not. And it was not
possible to have a garden at Lake Nojiri. You got there too late to plant, and
left too early to harvest, and there were too many trees, anyway.
I
joined the Boy Scouts when I was eligible (age 11, I think), and was in Boy
Scouts until I was 14 when I joined the Sea Scouts. I never got very far in
rank, Star, I think, definitely not Eagle. I loved Sea Scouts. With Forsberg as
our Sea Scout Scoutmaster, as he had been of our Boy Scout troop, we had a
wonderful time fitting out and then sailing a brigantine-rigged ship around
Chesapeake Bay.
When in
Montreat, I was in the Club System. The Intermediate group, which included boys
of around 10 – 12, was advised by Boo Walker, a “famous” cross-country runner
at North Carolina State, who later became a doctor. We worshipped Boo, and he
seemed to enjoy leading us in all sorts of games during the early weeks of the
summer, then hardening us up gradually by short hikes up small mountains, until
toward the end of the summer, we could make the trek to the top of Greybeard,
second only to Mt. Mitchell (6,711 feet in elevation).
By the
time I was 13 or 14, I had a lot of confidence in myself. I took a group of
cousins and friends (six of us in all) on an all-day hike up Greybeard, with
the intent of returning the way we had come. When we got to the top, somebody
(maybe it was me, I can’t recall) asked if we could go back by way of the ridge
line of the “Seven Sisters,” as the seven peaks down from Greybeard were
called. I was game, and we started out. I had told all to bring sweaters, but
one of the little boys had not. Ages were maybe nine to eleven for three of
them, and two others my age. It began to get dark, it was raining, and we were
lost. I stopped us, and directed the others as we made a bed of evergreen
branches under a big evergreen. I knew from Scouting that when you are lost and
the sun goes down, you stay put until someone finds you, or until you figure
out where you are.
We
slept under the tree, in two piles of three boys, rotating the top kids to the
bottom every fifteen minutes or so until the sun came up. I sent a cousin who
was known as a great tree-climber (Frank Dowd—we referred to him as “Squirrel
Blood.”) up a tall tree to see if he could spot the tower on Mt. Mitchell. He
was able to find it and point out the direction, so now I knew where we were.
We gave up on the Seven Sisters, and struck out across the slope of the
mountain until we hit the main path down Greybeard. We were met by a party of
relatives and rangers who had been looking for us all night. I, personally, was
very proud of the fact that we had been disciplined, had taken care of
ourselves, and found our way back without help. Of course, my Aunt Jean, mother
of one of my cousins, had gotten pretty upset. But she got over it, and used to
brag about how much cereal I had eaten when we got back that morning.
When
Joan and I were married, living in Meyersville NJ, I had a huge garden, and
kept bantam chickens. I read in Organic Gardening that chickens have special
eyes with which they are superbly equipped to spot bugs in all of their stages.
OG recommended keeping the chickens out of the garden until the little plants
got big enough that the chickens wouldn’t destroy them, then letting the
chickens into the garden where they could eat up all the bugs at the same time
that they fertilized the garden. It was one of the best gardens I ever had.
When
Emily Jean and I lived in Jersey City, we had a tiny yard, with room only for a
few flowers, so I didn’t grow vegetables, my main interest. But when we moved
out to Allentown, we bought an old farmhouse (where we still live) on 1.6 acres of land. I had two huge gardens, with a Troy-Bilt rototiller. I made raised
beds in one area and had a 80’ by 40’ plot in another part of the yard. We also
planted a wildflower garden which was so stunning that it made the papers.
A few
years after we came to Allentown, I heard about bluebirds somehow, and decided
to put up a bluebird house. Though we had been here for five or six years, we
had never seen one. Within three days after the house was up, there were
bluebirds nesting in our box. I don’t think I have ever been as excited. I got
totally caught up in bluebirding, adding box after box in our yard and in the
yards of neighbors, until finally, I had 28 bluebird houses on my trail. I
became the County Coordinator for Lehigh County of the Bluebird Society of
Pennsylvania, which I enjoyed for several years, until I fell and broke my
heel, and could no longer get around.
I read
extensively about bluebirds, corresponded with other bluebirders on the
internet, raised mealworms in our basement to feed our bluebirds, and was
quoted in a bluebird book which was published during that time. Now, the houses
are gradually coming down, and my interest has waned as my inability to take
care of proper monitoring has been made clear.
When a
neighbor called and said he was taking down two houses from his yard, I said I
would like to have them. I contacted my brother-in-law, Joe Gilbert (Emily
Jean’s twin brother) and his wife, Lillie, and asked if they would like a
couple of bluebird houses on their property in the mountains of Virginia near
Warm Springs. They said yes, so we took them up there and Joe and I put them
up. Joe and Lillie had bluebirds their first year, and were able to watch them
caring for their little ones.
Games
I have learned from others, including my wives, none of whom enjoyed playing games, that it is something learned very early in life or not at all. I took it for granted that everyone loved games, and it came as a great disappointment and shock to see that many people responded negatively to games, for many reasons. Some come from families where money was scarce, everybody had to work hard, and there was no time for play. Playing any kind of game seemed frivolous. Very religious people, in some instances, put games in the category of sins or temptations, and ruled them out. Indeed, my grandfather’s church (Presbyterian) stipulated that there would be no games played in Montreat NC, where the Southern Presbyterian Conference grounds were located. But this was also vacation time, and Papa Joe, as we called him, paid no attention, and bridge was played all day six days out of the week. Papa Joe would not violate the Sabbath.
I want
to distinguish between learning games, and learning to enjoy playing games.
Anyone who has brains can learn the rules of games; not everyone can learn to
enjoy games. I think it has to be learned very early in life, or it’s pretty
hopeless. I think it’s like learning a language.
I was
fortunate in having a grandfather who was a little nuts about bridge. Papa Joe
had made a lot of money and had lost it in the depression, along with his
health. But he was still comfortably situated, owning this nice place in
Montreat, and close family owned six other homes nearby. He had plenty of time
after he retired, and there were summers when our family stayed in the same
house with my grandparents. One day, when I was around six, I was walking by
the card table in the living room of the “big house” in Montreat, when Papa Joe
grabbed my arm as I passed, and told me to sit down, that they needed a fourth.
I swear I remember holding 13 cards in my tiny hands, learning to sort them by
suit, and making bids (someone looked over my shoulder and told me what to
say.). So I learned the suits, how to count points, how to bid, and eventually,
how to play. When the bidding was over, I always became the dummy, but I stayed
to watch, and I took in the fascination and the enjoyment. Being included in
the fun time of the big folks was also quite attractive.
Papa
Joe died before I was old enough to play with him as a responsible adult. If
I’m not mistaken, he died in 1945, when I was still in Europe during WWII. But
I played with my parents, and with my brothers and sisters. I don’t recall
playing in college, but I played with other GI’s when we were in rest areas
before we went into the line again, and I played after the war ended until I
left to return to the states, to be discharged.
I
recall three bridge incidents which “marked” me. Around Einhoven, Holland, we
were pulled back from the front lines for a few days, and a friend, Jim Gillis,
desperate for a fourth, asked me if I played bridge. I said “yes,” and a game
began. He proposed, somewhat offhandedly, that we play for a tenth of a cent a
point. I had never played for money in my life, because I had been taught that
gambling was a sin. But I said nothing, and play began. We played for an hour
or two, and before we quit, I owed Jim $10. I told him I would pay him as soon
as we were paid. We returned to the line (around Aachen, Germany, and the Seigfried
Line), and Jim was hit by a sniper’s bullet. He might not have survived anyway,
having been struck in the groin, but as four stretcher-bearers were carrying
him to the rear, an 88-mm shell struck right in the middle of them and killed
all five. This was a real dilemma for me. On the one hand, I had gambled.
Second, I had lost and owed money. Third, I could keep my mouth shut and do
nothing and no one would ever know. Fourth, I would have the burden of a bad
conscience. So I dumped it on Jim’s parents. I wrote them, explaining that he
was killed, for which I was sorry, but enclosed was the $10 I owed him. In a
few weeks, back came an envelope from his parents, empty except for the $10
bill. It still bothers me.
The
second memory is of playing with three other young officers in the company I
was assigned to after I got my commission. The war was over, and our duties
were minimal. I was Mess Officer, which involved going to the Mess Hall daily
at 10:00 A.M. to consult with the Mess Sergeant. I went down, had a cup of
coffee, and left. The others had similar duties in other areas. One was Morale
Officer, and had access to Coca Colas and cigarettes, as I recall. At any rate,
our practice was to have brunch together about 12:00 noon, then gather around
three to start playing bridge. This was the best bridge I ever played. I
suppose that it takes playing a lot to sharpen one’s memory. At any rate, I
recall that days after big hands were played, I could remember not only what
cards I had held, but all the cards played from the other hands, and when they
had been played. I recall the surprise I felt after playing seven no-trump
doubled (and making it), at seeing five lit cigarettes lined up on the edge of
the table, all burning. I had been so into the game that I was unaware that I
was lighting them one after the other, taking one puff, and then lighting
another. We were there together about seven months, until I went home for my
brother, Harry’s, wedding in February, 1946.
The
third time I recall came the summer after I got out of the army in 1946. I had
known Margaret Cochran in Montreat. Her family had owned a cottage just down
the hill from ours, and she and I had known each other through the clubs,
playing tennis, etc. I don’t know if we ever dated. During the war, I wrote to
every girl I could get an address for, because getting mail was a very big
deal, and helped enormously. She and I exchanged many letters, and the feelings
got warmer as time passed. When I got out, I arranged to see her when I went to
Montreat, and we dated frequently. One evening, she came up to our cottage and
she and I played bridge with my parents. We were paired, and Mother and Dad
were paired against us. We were defending a hand, and Margaret trumped my ace,
something of an unforgivable sin in bridge. I swept all the cards on the table
up and threw them into the fire. I then stormed out of the house. Just out of
the infantry, my anger was formidable, and it didn’t take much to bring it out.
I came back later and apologized, and I think, was forgiven. But I didn’t
forget, and was reluctant to play bridge for a while, thinking that if I could
lose control that easily over a simple card game, maybe it was best that I
avoid it.
That
was sixty years ago, and I have played very little since then. One summer when
I was in Montreat for a few days, my sister, Perry Lee, who played regularly in
a Duplicate Club in Cleveland at the time, asked me if I would replace her
partner for a duplicate event being held in Black Mountain. I protested that I
had never played duplicate, and had played very little bridge at all in the
last few years, but she persisted, and I agreed. I was surprised that it all
came back to me, and at the end of the evening, we learned that we had won the
top score. It was even printed in the Black Mountain newspaper, which Perry Lee
clipped and mailed to me after I had left and gone back home.
Between
my grandmother, Mama Joe, and friends in the army, I learned an astounding
number of solitaire games. I still play them, abetted by friends like Carole
Kobayashi, who put me on to Spider, a totally addictive solitaire game provided
by Microsoft. It’s good I’m retired, because I probably play several games each
of three kinds of solitaire during any given day. In addition to the ones on
the computer, I know about five additional kinds.
Mama
Joe also loved to play canasta, and I was always glad to play with her and
whoever else wanted to play. Papa Joe, frustrated when he could not find people
who wanted to play bridge, took a children’s game called “Setback,” and adapted
it to a game he called “Bridge Setback.” He was always involving his
grandchildren in games of Setback, and I guess this was one way he educated us
for bridge-playing, because the bidding was the same. I recall the points being
Hi, Low, Jick, Jack, Joker and Game. Trumps were set by bidding, and the
highest trump and lowest trump taken in a game won a point. Jick was the same
color jack as the trump jack, and Game was determined by counting who had taken
tricks containing the most points with Ace = 4, King = 3, Queen =2, Jack = 1,
and Ten = ten. Except for the Ten, the point counting is the same used to help
one determine how to bid a hand in bridge. Interesting.
Every
Christmas, although there was not much money for presents during the
depression, Santa Claus brought a new board game to us all together. I remember
Monopoly, Bulls and Bears, Caroms, and many others. Neighborhood children
opened their presents on Christmas morning, then headed for our house to see what
new game Santa had brought. We all loved to play games.
Reading
I retired in 1991. I had felt for a long time (probably since I graduated from college) that I was not really educated. In my rush to get a degree following WWII, I took the minimum number of courses at Randolph-Macon College in order to add their credit hours to those I brought with me from VMI and the Army Specialized Training Program (at VPI) and graduate. As a result, I was overloaded with science and mathematics, with almost no humanities.
So in
1995, I decided to read. I began by reading all I could find of some authors. I
did this with William Faulkner, Ernest Hemingway, Charles Dickens, John Hersey,
Willa Cather, Ferrol Sams, Patrick O’Brian, and Will Durant’s 12-volume History
of Civilization (each volume around 1,000 pages) and began working my way
through Shakespeare (I am still slowly doing this.). In 1997, I created a
reading list, and adopted a plan to read from three books at a time, a minimum
of 25 pages from each per day. In addition to a reading list, I began a “Books
Read” file, with a month by month listing of books read, a “Reading Journal,”
which included a brief note on each book completed, together with a response to
each book.
The
reading list initially was made up of the Harvard Bookshelf (50 volumes in the
original “shelf” plus 20 volumes of fiction), and the Pulitzer Prizewinning
novels and plays from the inception of those awards. Later I added several
lists of 100 best novels I found, until I had a list of over 500 books. Since
then, I have added books I heard about, read about, or found references to in
my reading to a file called “Complete Line Up,” a list of such books. From time
to time, I will select a book from that list to read.
I have now completed reading the Harvard Classics and Harvard Fiction Shelf, and all
of the Pulizer novels and plays. I have also added the Pulitzer prizewinning
books of history, biography and non-fiction.
And I
continue to pursue writers I like. A recent example: Iris Murdoch. We heard of
the DVD “Iris” and after watching it, I wanted to read from her. I have now
read several of her books, and will probably read more, though it is work. And
William Styron. I saw an obituary yesterday for him. Sad. I wish I had written
him a letter letting him know that as a Virginian from Norfolk (He was from
Newport News.) and the same age, a lot of bells rang when I read his stuff. I
especially enjoyed reading Tidewater Morning, particularly the story about the
newspaper boy (obviously Bill Styron, but also me.). What joy I felt as he
threw those papers in the water!
But I
enjoy digressing, too. In 2010, I joined Dave Swain on his Underground
Railroad (UGRR) excursion to New York State, and read two books which were
written during the period leading up to the Civil War, though compiled after
it. I learned to know William Still (escaped slave) and Levi Coffin (Quaker),
two abolitionists who helped a lot of slaves to escape their chains. I also enjoyed Reminiscences of Levi Coffin. Reading these stories of the
suffering of the Negro people, and thinking that some of them were the property
of my ancestors up there in Emporia, Virginia, is uncomfortable, to say the
least. And I wonder how many of the blacks in that area of Virginia are kin to
me. (I have now subscribed to 23andme,
a DNA research firm, which will help me to find out some of the answers to my
many questions about my heritage. I look forward to getting that information in
the near future.)
I find
that not only am I beginning to feel like I’m better educated, but I have seen
an additional benefit to being a senior citizen. Because my memory is so poor,
I can reread books without missing a beat, often getting well into them before
being struck by something familiar.
And I
will continue to read and enjoy my reading. As long as my eyes last! (I have
been diagnosed with Macular Degeneration, and am in continuing treatment for
it. Both of my sisters and my mother had it, and Mother and Kitty went blind
with it. I think about it a lot. Removal of cataracts and implantation of new
lens in both eyes has helped some.)
For
Christmas 2011, Emily Jean and my three daughters got me a Kindle Touch. I have been
quite enchanted with it. Among others, I read War and Peace, and Anna
Karenina. I tend to think of the present as my “Tolstoy phase.”
Sports
From the earliest time I can remember, I loved playing games in our back field. We were fortunate in being on a block in West Ghent, Norfolk VA, where there were 22 kids of high school age or less. Most of us tended to get involved in the baseball, football and other games we played. When there were enough kids gathered, it was “choose up sides” and play, either baseball or football. When only a few were around, we played “buck-up, buck-up, how many fingers do I hold up?” The “it” person from the previous game hid his face against a tree, all the others stood around watching, and one person held up a number of fingers where everybody but the “it” guy could see. If the “it” guy guessed the right number (between 1 and 10), then he was no longer “it” and the one who held up the fingers was “it.” We would all run instantly and hide. The “it” person caught people by seeing them and running back to touch the base tree before the player could. If the player got there first, he was “in free,” and all who had been caught were also freed. At the start, if five fingers were held up, and the “it” guy guessed three, the difference was two and he had to run and touch two trees before returning to base and beginning to try to catch players. We also played “kick the can” with similar rules. “Old Dead Mule” was a more challenging game, since most of the older boys played as well, and could run faster than small fry, but all were allowed to play. There were two “it” guys, who cooperated in chasing down and capturing players. Capture could only be made by touching, so players who were adventurous would climb up on top of a garage and stand there in plain sight, daring the two who were “it” to try to catch them. One would have to climb up onto the garage roof while the other waited on the ground hoping he could tag the player when he jumped and ran. And as each player was captured, he became part of the “it” team, and assisted in capturing those who were still free. It was a great game.
I guess
I learned teamwork, especially with the latter game, but also with baseball and
football, although we did not have the continuity organized sports did. We
never played Little League (Did they have it then?), and I never thought I was
good enough to try out for American Legion teams. We did have a Six-man
Football League we played in. Three in the backfield, three on the line, it was
a fast game. I don’t remember what kind of protection we wore, but I do
remember the game when I sustained a concussion, went amnesiac for the last
half of the game and only came to on the way home. I looked around in
astonishment, and asked Roddey where we were and what we were doing. He told me
that we had won the game, and that I had thrown the pass for the winning
touchdown. I remember that I begged him not to tell Mother, because I knew that
would be the end of my football career.
I also
remember a game that Collins Hill, the “bad boy” of the neighborhood, got up
with the Navy. We fielded a team down at the Naval Base against a team of
sailors. I was on our team, which included kids of all ages. I think I was
about 12. I don’t recall who won, probably the Navy, but I do remember being
sent out to receive a pass, because they thought the Navy would not expect a
little kid to catch a pass. I went way down the field and they threw it to me.
I caught it, but was immediately picked up by a sailor and set down on the
ground. He was not rough, but amazed at my catching the ball.
The
only sport I tried out for in school was track. I remember going out to the
stadium and telling a coach I wanted to be on the track team. He inquired as to
my event. I told him “Pole Vault.” He wanted to know how much I could do. I
told him “eight feet.” He sent me home, saying he had a kid who could do
twelve. I knew I was too small for the football team, and wasn’t that good a
baseball player. And I didn’t swim very well.
After
the war, when I got to Randolph-Macon College, transferring in as a junior, I
went out for track again, and they told me to try out for the Cross-Country
team in the fall. I did and made it. When spring came and the time for the
regular track season, I was in good shape and ran the two-mile, I think. I had
some success at Cross-Country, but don’t recall how I did at the two-mile.
Whenever I was the best on our cross-country team, there were two or three of
the other team ahead of me, except for one race, at our home-coming my senior
year. I have written this up elsewhere, but it’s a painful memory, and I’ll
tell it again. We ran about a five-mile course, timed so that we would arrive
back at the stadium at half-time of the football game between RMC and
Hampton-Sydney, our arch-rivals. I was feeling pretty good and running very
well, and was delighted to see that I was the first one back to the stadium. I
had about a 200-yard lead on my teammate, Emory Evans. It was clear that he
would come in second, because I could see no one beyond him when I looked back
around the track. I had seen on the sports page that week a picture of the four
runners of the North Carolina State cross-country team, one of the best in the
country, crossing the finsh line of a meet, hand in hand, in a contrived “tie”
for first place. I was impressed, and thought that would make a great picture
if I waited for Emory and we crossed the line together. So I marked time at the
finish line, waiting for Emory, but this had not been planned in advance, and
he was bushed. He just went by me and won the race. I was crushed. My only
chance for a win during my career, and I let it get away from me!
Being a
spectator has never appealed to me very much, except that I enjoyed listening
to the Rose Bowl game on the radio with Dad on New Year’s Day. That was
special. But going out to stadia and being a fan never appealed very much.
There was a time when we were working in NYC that Emily Jean and I both got
interested in the New York Mets, a relatively new team in the 1980’s. We got a
crowd of Judsonites together and over a period of two years or so, we’d go out
to Shea Stadium to watch from two to eight games every year. It was a lot of
fun. And we were quite excited to see the Mets win the World Series against the
Red Sox in 1986 (I think it was.).
Nowadays,
I enjoy watching golf, if Tiger Woods is playing, and especially if he is “in
the hunt,” as he calls it. I never played competitive golf in school, but
entered tournaments at Lake Nojiri, and won one or two. I enjoyed playing for
fun over the years, but never played enough to get really good. My top score
was when I was playing at an army course in Japan, when I put together two
nines for a total of 76. We actually played 27 holes, but forget about the
first nine! And I played with Mother and Dad down at Ahoskie NC, where they had
a membership. Dad had a wonderful way of giving support on the course. I
remember one time, I hit a drive which went straight down the fairway and
stopped just short of the green on a par four hole. Dad said, “That one’ll
bring you out again!” I stopped playing quite a few years ago when arthritis
settled in my thumbs. I hit a ball one day and it felt like I had been
electrocuted, as intense pain ran up both arms from my wrists. I tried again
from time to time, thinking it was temporary, but it wasn’t.
Tennis
was a sport I enjoyed when I was younger, especially at Montreat, but I was
never very good. And walking to Candler School of Theology one morning, I
passed through the woods, picked up a small rock and threw it at a tree.
Something tore in my shoulder, and I’ve never been able to play tennis since.
Whenever I raised my arm to hit a serve, severe pain would hit me there. I
suppose I tore a rotator cuff, but never had it looked at.
So, I
would say that I had a natural ability for sports, but never enough to be on a
competitive team. I even taught myself to bat left-handed, because there was a
hedge out there which marked the line of the field. Soon I could hit it over the
hedge. If I was batting right-handed, left field went on all the way to St.
Andrews, the Episcopal Church just across the street from our field, and nobody
could hit one that far. I tired of hitting long outs, and began shooting for
the hedge.
When we
were in Montreat, we were organized into clubs by age, and we used to have a
volleyball game, followed by a softball game every day. After the softball
game, some of us went up to the lake and went swimming to cool off. Since five
minutes in the water of Lake Susan would turn your lips blue, it was a quick
cool. I remember one of the guys, who at the time, was on the Davidson
basketball team, saying after a rigorous volleyball game and a closely
contested softball game on a hot summer day, say, as we all walked up toward
the lake: “Let’s choose up sides and smell armpits!”
We
played a lot of horse shoes, too, though I don’t recall any enthusiasm for
shuffleboard.
When in
Norfolk, we played badminton in the back yard, and Chinese baseball in the
front. Our front steps at 936 Graydon, were granite, without overhang, and made
to order for Chinese baseball. In this game, you had two players on a side, and
the batters took turns throwing a tennis ball against the steps, hitting a
horizontal surface first, then a vertical one, and sending the ball up in the
air. The two squares of the walk next to the steps were divided down the
middle, the next three went across all the way, and then came the sidewalk
which connected our house with the neighbors, and a square which went to the
street. So we had the first two small ones as “foul ball,” the next three as
“First,” “Second,” “Third,” and the last three as a “Home Run.” The two pin
oaks growing just to either side of the last square next to the street just
made long balls more interesting, as the ball hit up in one of the trees, and
trickled down. If it fell on the grass, it was a foul ball. If it fell in, it
was a base hit, probably a home run out that far from the house. We loved to
play Chinese baseball after supper in the evening, and hated to go in when time
was called by Mother. We’d have played until we couldn’t see the ball any more,
if we had had our “druthers.”
Cooking, Eating and Dieting
I was the youngest in my family, and a boy, at that. That meant that, while I spent a lot of time at home with Mother after everyone else was off to school, I was the wrong sex to be in the kitchen. I don’t recall that I ever asked to be in there with her, but neither do I remember her encouraging me to join her there.
Mother
was raised in a family where they had servants, including a cook, so young
ladies did not need to know how to cook whole meals. They needed to learn to
plan meals, and to cook cakes or pies. When I was growing up, we had our own
cook until the depression. I was born in 1924, and the depression really hit us
when price supports were established on cotton in 1933 or 1934 and Dad’s cotton
export business went belly up. I was nine or ten then. That was when Mother
began to cook other than cakes. She was a trooper. She did what she had to do,
but she was no gourmet cook, nor did she want to be.
I wish
I could remember what she cooked for us. I know that, on Sunday, we always had
a baked chicken with rice and gravy and some kind of vegetable. What we ate
other times, I can’t recall. She made custard too, which was delicious. And I
remember her peeling grapefruit on Sunday evenings and offering the sections to
us, waiting like little birds with beaks open. And I think I remember her
making candy: fudge, and on one occasion, taffy. That was fun, pulling taffy. I
see Perry Lee’s face in the kitchen for that.
But
that was exceptional. The pattern was not one that had me in the kitchen, so I
never learned either to cook or to enjoy cooking. I don’t remember ever cooking
anything, even an egg, except in the Boy Scouts, and that was cook or starve. I
remember that Fosberg, our scoutmaster said that you passed the cooking test
for 2nd Class Scout if you would eat what you cooked. At that age, most of us
were pretty good at eating what we cooked, if we were hungry enough.
I think
I also stayed out of the kitchen during my marriage to Jean McClarin. We had
Yamada-san living in and cooking for us out in Japan, and she was an excellent
cook, and Jean did a good job of planning, I guess. I don’t recall that there
were problems. I didn’t pay much attention. I did learn to make sukiyaki, but
in Japan, that is a very male thing, and it was expected that when you had
friends over for sukiyaki, the male head of household would do the cooking.
Sukiyaki is a dish of thinly sliced beef, chopped cabbage, sliced onion, rice
noodles, mushrooms, etc., all cooked in a fry pan at the table, so that, when
the first part was ready, guests could dip into the fry pan and take some right
onto the rice in their bowls, or, if they preferred, into the raw egg they had
beat up in a bowl. I like the egg, myself. It was a wonderful custom, and I did
OK.
Other
than that, I did not do any cooking except maybe bacon and eggs on a Saturday
morning, and I don’t really remember that—I’m just guessing.
The
first cooking I remember was when I was married to Joan Dominick, and living in
Meyersville NJ. I decided out of the blue that I would learn to bake bread. I
went into it in a big way. I was doing a lot of experimenting, baking all kinds
of bread. I remember a communion service at Overlook Hospital when I brought in
and served five different kinds of bread. I really enjoyed baking. A friend I
got to know in Al-Anon heard me talking about remodeling the kitchen, and
helped me to find a whole kitchen in the ads in the newspaper. We went and
looked and he measured it out, finding that we could use all the cabinets, as
they were, with it being necessary to build only one extra one for one corner.
And there was a nice electric oven at eye level, and gas burners for a stove
top. Best kitchen I ever had.
When
Emily Jean and I lived in Jersey City, I baked almost all the bread we ate. I
found a recipe in Organic Gardening that made five loaves of whole wheat bread
at a time, and following the instructions in the article, I saved up # 10
tomato juice cans until I had five. The dough was put in the cans to rise, then
baked standing up, so that the loaves came out looking like chef’s hats. We
saved money by cooking five loaves at a time—standing up they’d all go in the
oven together. And however funny the loaves looked, the bread was delicious.
Sadly,
we became concerned about our weight, went first on the Fiber, then Scarsdale
and bread became a no-no, so I stopped baking. When we lived in Jersey City,
Emily Jean and I used the “Fiber Diet.” I think primarily it had to do with our
breakfast, but it helped us to control our weight, temporarily. Here in
Allentown, we have both gotten fatter than we want to be, and used the Atkins
and the South Beach diets to bring our weight down. It’s down for me still,
though I have gained a lot back. What happens to the dedication and discipline
after a while? Suddenly I can’t say “No” to what I’ve been saying “no” to for a
long, long time. And the weight comes back. Does it have to do with being
depressed? Or do I get depressed because I can’t say “no?” I don’t really know.
Right
now, I’m not dieting, and I do enjoy bread and butter, candy, and sweets in
general. Ice cream is so good. I don’t think my chances of losing weight are
any good now, nor will they be for a while.
Now
that we’re both fat and happy, only occasionally counting a calorie or two, I
should start baking again. I think I will!
I have
gone to school a few times to learn new ways. The first was to a French Cooking
Class, where I learned to make puff pastry and white sauces, among other
things. I still do both, though the puff pastry is a very big deal and reserved
for very special occasions. White sauces I can whip up any time easily.
Then I
saw that an Italian Cooking Class was being offered at the High School as a
part of Adult Continuing Education through the local school district, so Ron
Henderson and I signed up for it. Ron and I had gotten to know each other, and
bonded while working out at St. Luke’s. He and I went and took the course once,
and I went back alone and took it a second time. Carmelina DiCarlo taught it,
and it was a gas. She did all the cooking while we sat at the tables and
listened to her Italian-flavored patter. She never stopped talking while she
was cooking. And after the 1 ½ hour session, we got to eat everything she
cooked! I still enjoy making Tiramisu, and Rigatoni Vodka. Elizabeth Hudgins
said it was the best food she ever ate. I still feel supremely complimented!
As a
child, my favorite foods were baked chicken with stuffing, rice and gravy,
sweet potato casserole, lima beans, brains and eggs, and pork tenderloin. Dad
moved his business to NC in order to survive and feed us all, and when he went
out to the farms to talk to the farmers about their cotton, he often would
bring back a pork tenderloin. Boy, was that good!
This
reminds me of something that I may have written up in an earlier volume of
Mystory. When I was Chaplain at Overlook Hospital in Summit NJ back in the
70ties, I was making routine calls one day, and happened into the room of a man
who said he was from Manhattan. We got to talking, and were sharing about our
backgrounds, education, etc., and it came out that my mother was from Rock Hill
SC. He was immediately interested, said that his college roommate at Princeton
had been from Rock Hill. A little more talk, and we established that Mother’s
brother, Joe, had gone to Princeton, and had been this man’s roommate! There
were more visits, and all sorts of stuff was gone into, including the pork
tenderloin that Dad brought home, and how good it was.
He
improved, and was discharged from the hospital. I thought no more about it, and
several months went by. Then one day, there was a note on my desk from the
volunteer in our office saying that “I don’t want to see any God damned
chaplain, but I would like to see my friend, Randy Jones.” I went down to his
room, and he handed me a package which was suspiciously soft, and wrapped in
butcher’s paper. It was a huge pork tenderloin.
That
was about thirty years ago, and my Uncle Joe is dead, my mother is gone, and I
imagine Uncle Joe’s roommate is gone, too. I never heard from him again.
We ate
pretty simply, because Mother was a beginner of a cook. I remember a lot of
rice and gravy, but never an Irish potato. I loved lima beans and snap beans,
but don’t remember eating the coles: Brussels Sprouts, cauliflower, and
broccoli. She was, as I said, a great maker of cakes, and we always had one at
Sunday dinner. It wasn’t until quite late in her life that she allowed us to
cut that cake on Saturday night, though we would all try to get her to do it.
No, it was part of the Sunday ritual. Sunday School, Church, Sunday dinner of
baked chicken, stuffing, snaps, and finally, the cake.
When
Dad was home, he always got up early to squeeze orange juice for all seven of
us. And he squeezed a 6-ounce tumbler for each, too. He and Mother believed
that if you drank orange juice every day, you would have good teeth. I think
they were right. I know that when I saw a dentist when I was in the army, he
was astounded that I had not a filling in my head. By the time I came out, I
had plenty.
In
Japan, I learned to love Japanese food: sukiyaki, tempura, chawan mushi, sushi, sashimi.
But I rarely attempt any of it. When we go out to a Japanese restaurant, I
like to get sushi and speak Japanese to a waitress or waiter. But most staff in
these places are Korean or Chinese. Only once in a blue moon do I find someone
who is Japanese. I also now have a taste for Thai, Indian, and Mexican food.
But, again, I do not cook it very much.
Dancing
I have never been a dancer. I think I got inoculated against dancing when my mother sent me to dancing school when I was about 12. I may have imagined this, but I have a hazy memory of standing over at the side, trying to avoid both getting out on the floor, and catching the eye of the teacher (matron?) who was assiduously endeavoring to get us all out there in pairs. I have a feeling of dread when I think of it.
I
enjoyed square dancing at Black Mountain when I was a kid. They put up police
barriers at the end of a street in downtown Black Mountain, rerouted Route 40
traffic around by the railroad station, scattered corn meal generously on the
pavement, and off we went. The locals, including many mountaineers, mixed with
the summer crowd, and all had a great time dancing to square dance music made
by a local combo. I enjoyed it immensely, so much so, that after my first year
in seminary, and after taking a course in recreation leadership given by the
folks in Nashville, I offered my services to local churches in Atlanta, calling
square dances and leading folk games. I charged the (then) enormous sum of $25
for a three-hour evening of dancing. It paid for a lot of meals while we were
in seminary. After I got to Japan, I was all burned out on it, and kept my
talent a closely guarded secret. I’ve never done it since.
But
ballroom dancing was another story. I’ve never liked dancing much, and have
evaded it as much as possible. I recall going to dancing school with Emily Jean
when we lived in Jersey City. We went down to a studio in Hoboken, as I recall,
once a week for a number of weeks, and worked on the fox trot, the samba and
the cha cha. I felt like a block of wood, but she seemed to enjoy it. I expect
if I had not been so resistant, we would have been dancing a lot. Emily Jean
recalls that we had to quit because of the strike at PH, when we had to work 12
hours a day, seven days a week for several weeks.
Music
Music was a part of my life from an early age. When I was still unable to walk, Mother used to put me down for a nap every afternoon, and take advantage of the fact that she was somewhat free, by getting out the latest issue of Etude, a magazine, as I recall, for piano players. She would spend about an hour playing piano, relaxing and enjoying herself. To this day, when I go to concerts, especially if it involves piano, I begin to nod at the first note. It’s not that I don’t enjoy it, but the early conditioning is just too strong.
We also
took piano lessons early on. My first exposure was to the class of Mrs. Crosby
Adams in Montreat. She was a famous teacher, valued for her ability to take
very young children (pre-school), and help them enjoy music through the
enjoyment of movement exercises to music.
Further
lessons were taken in Norfolk. I don’t remember who the teacher was, only that
I was not wild about it, nor particularly good at it. It was probably these
lessons that led to my being able to read music. Very early on, our family
began singing hymns around the piano on Sunday evenings, and we routinely sang
in harmony. Dad’s job was to stay out of it, because he could not carry a tune
in a bucket. I became quite good at singing my own part from sitting next to
him in church, because I was able, after a while, to ignore the droning of his
one note, while singing along with the congregation, or even to sing in
harmony. As we grew older, and began dating, it became equally routine to
invite dates home on Sunday evenings to sing with the family. Jim Frith’s
wonderful bass was a terrific addition to our chorus.
In
Montreat, there was a Sunday night hymn sing over at the Assembly Inn. They
were still doing this when I was up there last summer over the July 4th
week-end. We used to sit on the rug in the lobby and shout suggestions to the
leader as to the next hymn. We even took canoes and rowboats out into the lake
and sang out there a time or two.
At
Taylor School (elementary), we used to sing songs from the old yellow book of
songs. I recall Old Black Joe, Dixie, and a favorite of my 7th grade teacher,
Miss Watkins, We All Went Down to Amsterdam. She divided the auditorium into
two halves, with one half singing the first part of the chorus line, Amster,
Amster, and the other half getting the response. It was quite titillating to
hear one or two new kids slip up and say Dam, Dam, Dam instead of the
prescribed Shhh, Shhh, Shhh.
At
Blair Junior High School, I was given a clarinet, and played in the band from
then through Maury High School. Roddey got an oboe. I recall that the clarinet
teacher used to charge 10 cents for one reed, two for a quarter. I think he
might have been better at music than at math. We quickly learned to buy them
one at a time. Maybe he was putting me on!
During
this time, a friend, Eddie Smith, got a bunch of us together in hopes of
forming a combo. We went over to his house with our instruments. I was a little
shy, but interested. All went well until I sat down on a day bed, not noticing
the pile of 78 rpms, and shattered the entire pile. I don’t remember being
invited again.
Maury
had a Symphony Orchestra, a Concert Band, and a Marching Band. I played first
chair First Clarinet in all three, because the best clarinet player, Norman
Olitzky, good enough to be playing already in the Norfolk Symphony Orchestra,
was a smartass, and the director of the bands, Mr. Ma, couldn’t stand him. So
he punished him by promoting me over him. I played pretty well, but couldn’t
compete with Olitzky, who was a real pro.
I tried
to play every now and then after high school, but with the three year layoff of
the war, and lack of a band or orchestra at Randolph-Macon College (I sang in
the Glee Club.), I went for many years without touching my clarinet, with the
result that now my lip is gone and I can’t play at all without pain.
I heard
a friend play an alto recorder at the Judson Retreat last September, and it was
so lovely, I determined to take it up. I searched the internet, going on EBay
and checking prices, and was about to make an offer when I noticed that many of
the recorders being offered were made by Hohner. Right away, I thought of
Sissi, Roddey’s wife, who then worked for Hohner. I contacted her, thinking she
might be able to get me a good price on one. She did better than that and sent
me a brand-new one, with slight color defects, as a present for my birthday.
And she followed that with a book or two about how to play.
I
haven’t gotten into it as yet, being engaged in writing this Spiritual Journey, but I will.
Mostly,
music is singing hymns in church until my voice gives out (that comes pretty
quickly, which is why I don’t sing in the choir), and listening to an
occasional jazz record, which I enjoy very much.
Money
I did not experience money as important in my childhood. I thought all fathers had holes in their underwear, and that all mothers had just one dress, which they had knitted themselves. I got a quarter for lunch every day, and saved a dime. I don’t recall ever wishing for anything I didn’t have. If I asked for a quarter for the monthly meeting of the Hi-Y, I was mildly puzzled at the hesitancy my mother showed when she gave it to me. When very young, we were given ten cents at the end of the week if we had done all of our chores. Failure to make up the bed cost one cent. Failure to brush your teeth, or take a bath led to similar fines. The six or seven cents at the end of the week went into the piggy bank.
When I
went to grammar school, I went home to lunch sometimes, sometimes ate at the
school. In junior high, I got a quarter for lunch. Having a dime left after
buying a sandwich and two buns at the bakery, with which I got a rootbeer
float.
Mother
came from a wealthy family, but when the depression hit, she pitched in with
Dad without a complaint. Dad was a man of impeccable integrity, with money as
well as everything else. He believed in paying as you go, hated being in debt,
tried very hard to avoid it. The only advice he ever gave me about money was
never to co-sign a note for anyone for any reason. Yet he loaned me money when
I was studying to become a missionary, and when I was unable to pay it back
after many years, he wrote me to say that he was forgiving the loan. I know
that he gave an equal amount to each of my four siblings, in order to be fair.
Money
did not charm me. I didn’t feel poor, but neither did I feel rich. Visiting in
my grandparents’ home (an incredible mansion) even after my grandfather lost
everything during the depression, seemed “normal” and I never thought anything
about it. It was fun to go to the 3rd floor and play pool, it was fun to go out
in the pecan orchard and shoot jays and squirrels, and I happily collected five
cents each. But I don’t recall having dreams of what I would do with the money.
I did not worry about money.
As a
teenager, I carried papers and earned a little money. I also earned ten cents a
week for carrying out the ashes from the furnace, and the garbage, and when I
(the youngest) was the only one left at home, fired the furnace and was paid 25
cents a week. I don’t recall worrying about money or longing for more.
As a
young adult, I was in service in WWII. I went in at 18, got out three years
later, went on to college, dated, then married when I graduated. I had the GI
Bill, and we managed OK.
After
seminary (we had two children by the time I finished), we went to Japan as
missionaries. Our salary was $2,800 base pay plus increments for each child and
the Board of Missions of our church was self-insured, so that we had unlimited
medical coverage. The most we were ever paid (we were given housing without
charge) was $8,000 per year.
I
returned from Japan at age 40, separated from and then divorced my wife, and
remarried. I was living on a shoe-string, but was used to it. When I began my
work as a hospital chaplain and CPE supervisor (1968), I was paid $12,000, plus
benefits. This gradually increased, but the most I was ever paid was about
$44,000. My youngest daughter now makes more than twice that.
We have
enough, and are trying to simplify our life-style. We have our pensions and
social security, and Emily Jean does consultation with supervisory students
from time to time. We own a house and have equity in it, plus a Prius. We both
have TDAs, though mine is considerably reduced after the required quarterly
distributions since I retired. We have a mortgage on the house, which will be
paid off next year. We have no other debts, pay our charge cards monthly.
I am 87,
Emily Jean is 66. My parents did leave me a small trust. I have the income from
it, about $2,000 per year. At my death, the deed of trust provides that the
principal will be divided among my four children.
Am I
generous or stingy? Probably stingy, but it feels like I just don’t think about
it that much. We believe in tithing, and carefully plan each year how we will
distribute that tithe among two churches, and other causes and agencies. I
don’t spend very much on myself. It used to be very hard to go out to dinner,
but I’m better at it now.
Guilty
about the money I have? A little. I’d like to give more of it, and will, if we
can simplify successfully. But I’m not ready really to sacrifice.
I have
spurts when I count my money, but haven’t lately.
We do
not take risks with our money. We do not gamble, nor do we throw it away.
When we
eat out, I don’t grab at the check, but I pay my share, including tax &
tip.
I think
I’m more on the giving than on the receiving end.
If I
lacked money, it would be exceedingly difficult to accept charity.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Losses and Gains
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
John Cumming’s Death
Perry Lee, my oldest sister, died a couple of years ago.. She was 8 years older than I. I have always had a soft spot in my heart for her. I don’t know why. It’s probably because she took care of me when I was little, even though I have zero recollection of that.
During
World War II, I was in high school, and Perry Lee was still living at home,
working in a Chemistry Lab. There she met John Cumming, and they began to date.
She brought John home for visits from time to time, and they would go into our
back living room at 936 Graydon Avenue in Norfolk so they could have some
privacy. Naturally, I was curious as to what they might be doing in there on
the sofa, so I glanced in from time to time. As often as not, they were both so
tired from working long hours at the lab, that they had both fallen asleep,
sitting side by side, their heads lolling back on the back of the sofa, leaning
against each other. They were a classy couple!
They
were married in 1942, the year I went off to VMI (Virginia Military Institute)
to join my two older brothers, Harry and Roddey, already following in our
father’s footsteps. Dad graduated from VMI in the class of ’08, and considered
it a “character-building institution.” His father had wanted him to go there,
and he wanted his sons to go there, too.
John
and Perry Lee had three children, Betty, John Randolph., and Mary. John and
Perry Lee were equally bright, but very different in other ways. John went on
to take his Ph. D. In Chemical Engineering, and ultimately headed that
department at Case Western, later known as Cleveland State University.
He was
a fitness buff, racking up some 25,000 miles jogging in the fitness program
sponsored by the Kennedy White House. He was also interested in parachute
jumping, making 13 jumps, but quit when Perry Lee asked him to, saying that her
ulcer acted up every jump he made.
The
sport of greatest interest to him, and in which he invested the most time and
energy, was scuba diving, in which he became quite skilled, and was well
respected as a diver and a leader. He dove for more than 25 years.
One day
in February, in the late 50ties, I had a phone call (I forget now whether it
was from Perry Lee or someone else in the family—probably Perry Lee.) telling
me that John had drowned in a scuba diving accident. I went immediately to
Cleveland to be with her, and spent several days there. He was in the flower of
his life, professionally and personally, and it was a very sad and difficult
time for Perry Lee. John and Perry Lee were both in their young 50ties at this
time. Their children were all grown, but rallied around, I’m sure. I don’t
recall too much, but remember that I was at Perry Lee’s side throughout.
She
told me that John had gone scuba diving with his club. He was dive leader. They
were diving under the ice (I think it was February) in an old quarry near
Akron, Ohio. John dove with several younger divers, giving them explicit
instructions for their own safety. There were old railroad tracks at the bottom
of the quarry, used for moving stone many years before. They ran from the point
where the divers entered the water further into the quarry and terminated
there. John emphasized to the inexperienced divers that this was the point at
which they had to turn back because their supply of air was such that they
would not have enough to get back in safety if they continued.
After
the tragedy, in which John and one of the young divers drowned, an inspection
of the bottom of the quarry was made in the effort to determine just what had
happened. It appeared that one of the other divers did not follow instructions,
but continued into the quarry beyond the end of the tracks. It looked like John
went after him, and tried to save his life by getting him to turn back. But
they both died when they ran out of air.
It was
a terrible, terrible tragedy. I will never forget that time with Perry Lee. I
think that, in a way, I came of age spiritually as I walked with my dear sister
through that awful time.
Death of My Father
At the
time of Dad’s last illness, Emily Jean Gilbert and I had announced our wedding
date (September 30, 1979) , which was just a few weeks away. I got word that
Dad was in a hospital in Asheville NC with a diagnosis of stomach cancer. I
rushed down to Asheville and joined other family members who had gathered to
care for him and for Mother, who was there with him.
I
recall with gratitude the way in which the staff of this small Roman Catholic
hospital did so much to enable us to be with Dad, and were responsive to our
concern that he not have to suffer unnecessarily. I knew that the odds of
recovery from stomach cancer were only about 3%, and we focused our efforts,
after a few days, on encouraging the doctors to keep him comfortable while he
lived out his remaining days.
The
sister who was in charge of “hospice” for the hospital understood immediately
our concern that Dad not be put through a whole lot of needless suffering at
age (nearly) 92, and helped us to put a stop to the seemingly endless tests,
which in at least one instance, kept him waiting in excruciating pain for more
than a hour even before the test began. At any rate, we finally got on the same
page with the physician who was taking care of him, and tests ended. The sister
(wish I could recall her name) arranged for a large waiting room near Dad’s
room to be set aside for our family’s use, and had a cot brought into his room
so that Mother could be there with him day and night.
I don’t
remember who made this happen, but there was a steady flow of family members
going into Dad’s room to see him and to talk with him. I forget how long this
went on, but it must have been about three weeks or more. I was not there for
that entire time, as I had to return to New York. When he took a turn for the
worse, they called me and I went back down.
My most
powerful experience during this time was the Sunday before his death. Mother
and all five of us siblings were in his room together. Harry suggested that I
lead us all in a Communion Service. He had brought Dad a bottle of white grape
juice, and there was a pancake left on Dad’s plate from breakfast. I got some
paper medicine cups, filled them with grape juice, then cut the pancake into
bite-sized portions. I consecrated the pancake and the grape juice, and we all
received. I asked Harry to pray.
When we
had all received, and Harry had prayed, there was a silence. We all looked at
Dad, who, by this time, only a day or two before his death, was no longer able
to talk. He spread his arms wide as though to take us all in, and looking each
one of us in the eye in turn, he folded his arms to his chest, giving us all a
“group hug.” It was one of the most beautiful, and one of the most powerful
spiritual experiences of my life. We were all in tears. (Catherine says she was
there, too.)
A few
days later, he lapsed into unconsciousness, and again, Mother and the five of
us brothers and sisters gathered in his room to be with him at the moment of
his death. I took up a position at the head of his bed, beside Mother, from
which I could put my hand on his heart, as his breathing came to a stop. His
heart continued to beat for a few minutes, until it stopped. I turned to Mother
and said, “He’s gone, Mother.”
I don’t
remember what happened after that, but suppose we all hugged Mother and each
other, and the rest of the family who were out in the waiting room.
It was
a sacred time.
Leaving My Card with Mother
Toward the end of her life, Mother could no longer live at her house in Rich Square NC alone, and arrangements were made for her to move into a Residential Facility in Rich Square where she could be cared for. My brothers and sisters and I visited her in Rich Square when we could (Kitty was very good about going down, and was there more frequently than I was, I know, and probably more than the rest of the connection.)
I recall
a visit that Emily Jean and I made to Rich Square to see Mother. We stopped at
the desk inside the home, and were directed to her room. We went in together,
and Mother seemed to know me right away. She had lost her sight by this time,
and was a bit deaf, but the really disturbing development for her was her loss
of memory.
We had
a nice visit, and after an appropriate length of time, I told Mother that we
would have to go. She teared up, and said, “Randolph, I’m so glad you came. It
was wonderful to see you and Emily Jean. But I know that as soon as you go out
the door, I’ll forget that you’ve been here."
I took
out one of my cards (I was working at Presbyterian Hospital in NYC at the
time.), turned it over and wrote on the back, “Mother, I was really here!” I
told her that I was putting it on her bedside table. Later, she or her nurse
would see it, pick it up and read my note on the back and would know I’d been
there. Mother said: “Oh, that’s a good idea!”
"What Do You Think I Want?"
When Emily Jean and I went down to visit Mother, we took her out to dinner. (All of us did that when we went, believing that it was good for her to get out as much as possible.) We drove down to the Quaker House, but, for some reason, it was closed. So we went on to Murphreesboro, I think it was, to a place where the food was OK, but where they did not know Mother as well. In Scotland Neck, they would probably have known exactly what she wanted and told me what to order for her.
At any
rate, we sat down at the table, and, since she could not see to read, I went
over the menu with her. There were only a few choices of entrees, so she
settled on chicken right away. But this was a Southern place, and the list of
vegetables was awesome. I think there must have been 15 or 20 choices. I read
the list to Mother. She had a pained look on her face, and asked me to read it
again. I knew that the problem was that she could not remember the long list I
read, and I felt for her, but dutifully read the list again. She looked blank
again, and finally said: “What do you think I want?” I was really hacked now. I
felt terrible for her that she was suffering like this, and somehow needed to
help her find some solace. On the spur of the moment, I decided on a joke.
“Mother, I’ve been trying to figure that out for 65 years.” She knew I was
teasing her, and, always a good sport, said, “Oh, that’s a good one!” We
finally settled on vegetables for her, and had a nice meal together, before we
took her back to the home and said good-bye.
Clearly
our relationship was a mix of bitter and sweet. I loved her dearly, and she
loved me dearly, but I know I brought her a lot of pain.
Helping Mother Dress
On one occasion, I went to see Mother alone, driving down from New York, and spending a week-end with her. She had moved to the Rich Square Residency Center by that time, but had retained the home she and Dad had lived in, because she liked to go back home when one of us came to visit her. So the Saturday I arrived, I drove to the Center, told the nurse that I was going to take her home for the week-end, and got her to pack a suitcase for Mother to take with her. We walked out to the car, and drove to her house.
We went
out to dinner, came home and went to bed. The next morning, we were going to
the Rich Square Methodist Church, so we were up in time to have breakfast, and
I was getting dressed when Mother called me from her room. I went in there, and
she asked me for help getting dressed. I had not realized how helpless Mother
had become. She had forgotten which article of clothing went on first, and this
was something I had never in my life known. Needless to say, we had an
interesting time before we were ready to go to church.
I
decided that this much intimacy between mother and son was a bit more than I
could handle. Mother did not seem to be uncomfortable in the least, though I
have rarely been more embarrassed or felt so helpless.
Lee Guides Me on a Trip to the Underworld
Back in the 1980’s, when I was working with Emily Jean at Presbyterian Hospital in New York City, I did several years of therapy, and then decided that I would try to find someone who was able to help me with my spiritual journey. I approached a number of people with credentials as spiritual directors, but did not find anyone who “clicked” with me. Finally, I went down to Judson Memorial Church, where Emily Jean and I were then active, determined to assess whether Howard Moody, Senior Pastor, or Lee Hancock, Associate Pastor, might be the right one for me. I went into Howard’s office, and listened as he talked. Howard is one of the greatest church leaders ever, but I knew within three minutes that he was not the spiritual director I needed.
So I
went into Lee Hancock’s office and we spoke for a few minutes. There was a
quality of presence, warmth and caring which made me feel that she would be
able to let me be myself with her. So I brought up spiritual direction, and she
said immediately that she would be willing to meet with me on a regular basis
for a period of time. I think we met weekly for an hour for quite a while. This
was most meaningful to me.
We
talked a lot about my dreams. I remember one in particular which turned out in
spiritual direction to be quite spectacular. I was changed by it.
My
dream was that I met a beautiful woman who walked with me though a field of
blue flowers. We stopped there to make love, but I woke up before we did. I was
really disappointed, so when I next met Lee, I told her about it, and she said
we could go into a guided meditation and finish the dream. She took me into a
meditation, then asked me what I saw. I met the beautiful woman, we made love,
and then I was alone in the field of blue flowers. Lee asked what else I saw,
and I looked around and on the far side of the field, I noticed a cave in the
side of the mountain. With Lee’s encouragement, I entered the cave to explore
it. Continuing down the slope of the cave as it went underground, I suddenly
met my grandparents (who had died quite a few years before). I spoke to Mama
Joe and Papa Joe (Mother’s parents), and told them how worried I was about
Mother, who was quite sick at the time. I believe she was about 90 or a little
older, and was in a hospital near Rich Square. The doctors did not know what
was wrong with her. Both Papa Joe and Mama Joe reassured me that I did not need
to worry, that Mother was going to be fine. I went further down into the cave,
and met Dad. (He had died in 1979, just a few years before this.) I told him
also how worried I was about Mother, and he said the same thing Mama Joe and
Papa Joe had said, that I should not worry, because Mother was going to be fine.
[Now,
many years later, I am wondering if what they meant by “Fine” is the same thing
I thought it meant, that she was going to get well and live many more years. I
suspect that what they were saying was that being dead is not something to be
feared, and that whether she lived or died, she would be all right!]
A few
days later, I flew to Greenville NC and drove directly to the Regional Hospital
there, to which Mother was being transferred for further testing in hopes of
getting an accurate diagnosis so she could be treated. We were all in fear she
would die. I arrived at the place where Mother was being taken out of the
ambulance which had brought her from Roanoke Rapids Hospital, to be admitted to
the Regional Hospital. I had a moment to speak with her as she lay on the
gurney.
I said:
“Mother, I was talking with Dad the other day.” She responded with complete
aplomb. “I talk with him almost every day. What did he say?” So I told her that
he had assured me she would be OK and that Mama Joe and Papa Joe said the same.
She was entirely unfazed by this, but glad to hear it.
They
took her on in to the hospital, and she was fine. (Kitty said she made the
diagnosis of cystitis, suggested it to the doctor, who then treated her for
it.) She got well, and was reasonably healthy until her death at 99.
Mother’s Death
I forget now where Mother was in the hospital. I got a call at Presbyterian Hospital (This was May, 1990), and flew down immediately. I was the last of my siblings to arrive, I think. Several of Kitty’s family were also there. Mother was approaching her 99th birthday, and it seemed clear to me that she was nearing the end.
I thought all of
us had come to terms with the fact of her impending death,
but I was wrong. She did not die, and it took me a while to figure out why. She
was bleeding internally, and they were giving her blood on a continuing basis.
I approached the doctor who was caring for her, and asked her why she was
giving Mother blood. The doctor told me that without the blood, because she was
bleeding internally, Mother would die. I asked if she did not think that it was
appropriate now, at age 99. She said that she agreed, but that not all of our
family agreed, and until they did, she had no alternative.
I
inquired around, and talked with everyone until we all came, however
reluctantly, to an agreement to ask the doctor to stop giving Mother blood and
to let her go.
She
died within a few hours.
Mother
was not reluctant at all. I recall speaking with her on several occasions about
this, and feeling very guilty once. At Dad’s funeral, I was strongly of the
opinion that Dad was dead, and that the undertaker should not be permitted to
use cosmetics to make his body appear to be fresh and alive. Without discussing
it with anyone, especially not with Mother, because she was in her grief, and
it seemed inappropriate, I told the undertaker to leave off the cosmetics.
When
Mother came in and saw Dad looking really dead, she was quite upset, and said,
“Oh, I wish I had died with him!” I felt like I had really done a bad thing.
Another
time, she told me she wished she had not outlived Dad, and that she looked
forward to the time when she could be with him. She was not afraid of death,
but was sure that she would be joining the man she loved, and the family she
loved.
Perry Lee’s Death
I so regret not going to see Perry Lee during the period following our July 4th celebration of the Roddey Family’s 100 years in Montreat. She was there, and we five siblings were together for the last time. She had been growing increasingly frail in the last years, and I wondered if this would be the last time I saw her alive. But then, I had wondered that before.
Bob
Edwards called me on November 12th (Sunday), to say that she was in the
hospital, and John, Mary and Betty were to meet with the doctor to decide
whether to have emergency surgery. The decision was made, and she was left with
a colostomy. My heart was very heavy when I heard this, for Perry Lee had been
showing increasing signs of dementia, and was quite disoriented prior to
surgery. A colostomy is a tough adjustment for anyone, but at age 90, to cope
with this is beyond my powers of belief. I really feared for her and for all
the family.
I
wanted to see her, but decided to wait a few days for her to recover a bit.
This was not a good choice. I wish now I had gone immediately to see her, as
Kitty did. But I didn’t.
Our
Gathering went on retreat on Saturday the 18th, to end on Sunday afternoon.
Roddey and I had planned to go on Monday to Cleveland. They were to drive up to
our house on Sunday afternoon, spend the night and we would drive up together
on Monday. She took a turn for the worse, and we decided to move it up a day. I
got a plane reservation for Sunday afternoon and they planned to drive up from
Ashland early Sunday morning.
Bob
called about 9:30 a.m. to say that Perry Lee had died. Roddey and Sissie were
already on the road, and could not be reached. So they went on up to Cleveland,
directly to the hospital, joining Mary and Betty in the hospital room where
Perry Lee’s body still lay. I’m sure it was a great comfort to them to have
their Uncle Roddey and Sissie with them.
After
much discussion, Perry Lee’s children decided to wait until after Thanksgiving,
and have a funeral in Willoughby, Ohio, at Perry Lee’s and their church on
Saturday following Thanksgiving, and a second service and interment in Norfolk
on the Tuesday after that.
Bob
Edwards wrote: “The funeral service in Ohio was held at Davis Funeral Home, in
Willoughby. The minister presiding at the service on Saturday was John Sykes,
former minister of First United Church of Christ, Eastlake, Ohio. He had
performed the service for Dad as well. Mom was active in service and support
for that church before moving to the assisted-living facility in Austinburg,
near us. Bettie married me in that Eastlake church. Reverend Sykes was minister
then.”
Emily
Jean and I had decided not to go to Willowick, and drove down to Norfolk the
morning of the funeral there. Katie Moffett arranged for motel space for all
who wanted it, and we had a block of rooms in the same section of the Founders’
Inn in Virginia Beach.
Joe and
Lillie Gilbert and Ron Henderson were there, as were old Norfolk friends, Bud
Truitt and Nancy and Web Chandler. Nancy, Web and I were part of a small social
set in high school which we called the Eta Bita Pi. I dated Nancy a few times
during high school. Web and I went on to room together at VMI, and Buddy was in
Roddey’s class there. Buddy was good to me. I remember it well. Web and Nancy
married after the war.
I wish
now I had counted the Jones clan as it gathered; Emily Jean guessed more than
20. (Counting afterwards from memory, she put it at 32, including Joe and
Lillie Gilbert.) All five families were represented. It was a nice service
presided over by a clergywoman from Epworth, our home church growing up. John
Randolph Cumming had talked with her and arranged that there would be time for
anyone who wished to speak about Perry Lee. He spoke from his heart, saying
what a wonderful person his mother had been. Mary spoke, then read several
passages from Thomas Merton. Harry, Roddey and I, Katie Moffett, and Bob
Edwards, and finally Cathi Edwards, Perry Lee’s granddaughter shared. Bob told
of moving Perry Lee from the home where she and John had raised their children
to the assisted living place. Perry Lee was saying good-bye to a neighbor, and
addressed her as “Mrs. Wolfe,” whereupon, Bob reported, the lady responded:
“Perry, after 50 years of being neighbors, you can call me by my first name.”
As someone remarked of their mother, it was always very important to Perry Lee
to be proper. And Cathi told of an occasion when, at the square dance in Black
Mountain, though in a wheel-chair, Perry Lee agreed to dance with Cathi, and
they wheeled around the floor, having a glorious time. It was a mix of sad and
funny, the best for grieving.
We
drove out to the cemetery, had an interment service, stood and talked and took
pictures. We also went to Grandmama and Granddaddy's graves which are a short
walk from the Cummings plot where Aunt Perry Lee and Uncle John are buried. Some
of us then drove to 936 Graydon Avenue to see our old home where we grew up.
The current owners were very welcoming and gracious, and about 15 of the family
went in and looked around. I also checked out my pecan tree in the back yard,
which is now more than 75 years old. The owners have had to cut it back to
protect the house, and it is only a shadow of what it might have been, but it
is still alive, and bears nuts every year, they told me.
Roddey
and Sissi had arranged for and hosted dinner at the Norfolk Yacht and Country
Club, and we had three very large tables of family and friends there. More
stories were told, and there was much laughter. Harry and his family had flown
up from Thomasville, and had planned to fly on back right after the interment,
but changed their minds and stayed for dinner. It was a time for healing.
Lenore and John were there, sitting, as Lenore said, at the table for the
younger set. Stories were told about Perry Lee’s love of nature, and her
wonderful knowledge of all things botanical. Her love of card-playing was
talked about. I confessed to being a spy on her when I was a teen-ager, first
in Montreat, when I hid behind the door to Mama-Joe’s dining room and peeked
out, listening to Perry Lee and a young German man rattling away in an
incredibly strange language (to a 12-year-old who had never heard it before).
Then, a year or two later, peeking into the back living-room at Graydon Avenue
to see what she and John were doing, and finding that they had both dropped off
to sleep, sitting straight up on the sofa, their heads leaning in against each
other.
Perhaps
the most poignant moment came after I told how Perry Lee had used her hard-won
German language skills to translate letters from the German family which I had
put out of their house in order to use it for our troops following the war.
They found Mother’s address on the wrapping paper from a package she had sent
me, wrote her, telling them of their dire privation, lacking food and clothing
for their children, and begging her to help. Mother sent clothing and shoes,
and Kitty told how she used to have the responsibility of scuffing the soles
and sides of the shoes so the German family would not have to pay duty. And
Perry Lee translated Mother’s letters back to them.
After
this story was told, Bob Edwards’ brother-in-law, who had come with Bob’s
mother and sister, stood and identified himself as one of those Germans, who,
following the war, had suffered the same way, and had been helped by others
from our country. This was truly an amazing moment. "Walter" said he
now knew why he had accompanied his wife, Beth, for the funeral. He basically
thanked the family for this humanitarian effort of 60 years ago. He said
"I was that child." He also said he never knew this of Perry Lee but
now feels that much more connected! It was moving.
This is
the list of family that were at the funeral: (Thank you, Becky.)
Betty,
Bob and Cathie Edwards
Mary Pearson
John and Sylvia Cumming
Kitty Frith
Katie, Larry and Catherine Moffett
Becky, Hannah and Jimmy Garrity
Harry and Lella Jones
Harry T. Jones III
Powell Jones
Nancy and John Fox
Ranny Jones and Emily Jean Gilbert
Lenore Jones and John Peterson
Roddey and Sissie Jones
Jason and Ashley Fetty
Mrs. Edwards (Bob's mom)
Beth Edwards and husband, Walter (Bob's sister and brother-in-law)
Mary Pearson
John and Sylvia Cumming
Kitty Frith
Katie, Larry and Catherine Moffett
Becky, Hannah and Jimmy Garrity
Harry and Lella Jones
Harry T. Jones III
Powell Jones
Nancy and John Fox
Ranny Jones and Emily Jean Gilbert
Lenore Jones and John Peterson
Roddey and Sissie Jones
Jason and Ashley Fetty
Mrs. Edwards (Bob's mom)
Beth Edwards and husband, Walter (Bob's sister and brother-in-law)
Joe and
Lillie Gilbert (Emily Jean’s twin brother and his wife)
After
dinner, we all returned to the motel, and by twos and threes, gathered in the
little bar to have beer and wine, and several gnoshes, pizza, crab dip, and a
few other things. And more stories. At breakfast next day, all who were still
there (Lenore and John had to catch an early flight) met to eat and talk some
more.
When we
hugged and parted, I think we all felt that it had been a holy and healing
time.
Kitty’s Death
I determined that I was not going to deprive myself of a chance to be with Kitty, and have quality time, so early in 2007, I called her and arranged to go down to Charlottesville to be with her for a few days. I stayed in her little apartment at the residential facility where she lived, and we shared meals, both in the dining room of the facility, and at various restaurants in town. We ate lunch and dinner out for both the days I was there, and it was so much fun. We also took short walks together, and talked and talked. How delightful!
Not too
long after I returned home, I learned that she had gotten a diagnosis of cancer
and had only a limited life expectancy. Emily Jean and I went down again to see
her in late April or early June. She was already much less able to get around,
and needed help from the family constantly. She died a few days later.
Two
services were also planned for Kitty, one in Montreat (a memorial service) when
the family would gather for the July 4th weekend, and a funeral at
their church in Front Royal, with interment of her ashes out at the farm. I
decided to go to the service in Montreat. The memorial service was held at the
picnic grounds. Roddey and Harry and I were all there with our families, as
many as could come, and all the Friths, as well as many other friends and
members of the extended family. Becky and I both spoke briefly about Kitty, and
we had a picnic.
My
remarks were as follows:
Kitty’s
Memorial Service Reflections
Deep
inside, secret. Despite her joy of the moment, her infinite capacity for
“being” present, for being with me, I never felt confident that I knew her in
her depths. And I regret that I never asked her what was in there. We shared
many losses, yet she did not go there. Not with me, anyway. All that pain must
have been a banked fire.
I
wonder if the stuff of her art didn’t well up like lava from a volcanic vent.
Not
like an earthquake, but a bubbling pool, like at Yellowstone.
There
was a part of her which was mystery: non-threatening, trusting, non-judging.
She was
caring, but space-making. She did not expend great energy in the effort to
control people. You somehow knew her values, for she lived them. But she did
not “work on you” to get you to join her where she was.
Anger?
Yes, but I don’t recall a specific event. She could speak her mind.
She was
laid back.
She was
at home in her body, lived her life with enjoyment, seemed to have few regrets.
Her
laugh was unforgettable; she pealed like a bell. She rewarded me with that
joyful hoot when I shared something we had both appreciated. Did she give you
such gifts, too? I know she did.
There
were lots of losses, but she was never broken. Even when she lost her sight, so
crucial for an artist, she never seemed to feel sorry for herself.
The
older she got, the more she was like our mother; but definitely a new edition.
My dear
Kitty, how we shall miss you!
We knew and loved you,
And knew that you loved us, too.
Go with God, Dearest.
Roddey’s Death
I realize now that Roddey looked better than he was, when we were together in Montreat, for Kitty’s Memorial Service on July 3rd. I forget now how I learned that he had been diagnosed as CHF (Congestive Heart Failure), probably from Sissi, but Emily Jean and I spent many years in hospital work as chaplains, and we knew this meant his time was very limited. So we called Sissi immediately and arranged to go down to see him. We stayed overnight and returned home the next day. He was already on oxygen 24/7, and was very weak and limited. It was a sad and beautiful time. We all knew he was dying, but none of us spoke of it. He clearly did not want to talk about it. Sissi had tried to get him to plan his funeral, but she never got beyond that he wanted lots of jokes told.
We got
up the next morning, and he insisted on disengaging from the oxygen, going to
the stove and making our eggs, which were incredibly delicious. We said
goodbye, knowing we would not see him alive again, though I did call him and
tell him over the phone that I loved him a few hours before he died.
Three
weeks after we visited, he was gone.
Sissi
asked me to speak at his funeral, and to write some haiku to be attached to
packages of his daffodil bulbs which Susan suggested they give to his friends
and loved ones to take home and plant in their gardens as a memorial to him. I
was gratified to help in this way.
The
Celebration of Roddey’s Life
Joseph
Roddey Jones was a central figure in Ashland, Virginia, for many years. It was
evident from the crowds at the “gathering” of family and friends Friday
evening, November 9th, and at the Memorial Service the following morning,
Saturday, November 10th, that he was greatly loved and appreciated by the
people of Ashland.
At the
gathering in the lounge of Duncan Memorial United Methodist Church, a wonderful
display of pictures of Roddey, together with a scrapbook of more pictures were
displayed. A basket of individually wrapped daffodil bulbs grown by Roddey,
each with a picture of Roddey and two haiku
about Roddey and daffodils on the back (by me and Sissi), were offered to all
who came.
Daffodils are smiles
Of such joy and happiness
They make us happy.
We cannot look at
Daffodils and not think of
Dear Grampa Roddey.
We all
sat and stood around and chatted, while eating from the lovely refreshments
provided by the ladies of the church.
Saturday
morning the church was packed. The Memorial Service was held at Duncan Memorial
United Methodist Church, where Roddey and his family have attended for many
years.
Bob
Blinn, the new pastor, despite being at the church for only a few months (since
June), had clearly gotten to know Roddey, and spoke about him with great
appreciation, including sharing two jokes Roddey told him when he visited him
in the hospital prior to his death. I have to share them; they are “so Roddey.”
Two
elderly men were sitting on a park bench feeding the pigeons and talking, as
was their habit of many years, about baseball. One said: “Do you think there
will be baseball in heaven?” The other replied: “I sure hope so, but I just
don’t know. We’ll have to wait to find out.” A few weeks later, one of them
died. Next day, the other man was back in the park feeding the pigeons, alone.
His friend appeared, a ghost. The first man said: “Well, is there baseball in
heaven?” The ghost said, “I have good news and bad news.” “Tell me the good
news first.” “There is baseball in heaven.” “What’s the bad news?” “You’re
pitching next Friday.”
A bear
went into a bar, stood up and put his paws on the bar. “Give me a bourbon [and
after a long pause] and a coke.” Bartender: “What’s with the big pause?” Bear:
“Oh, I’ve had them all my life.” (Going by sound, this goes better in the
telling!)
Following
the pastor, I spoke, then Luther White, an old friend of Roddey’s from Norfolk,
our home town, who also was in Roddey’s class at Randolph-Macon, and later was
President of R-M C. He clearly loved Roddey, and appreciated him greatly.
It was
a lovely service.
Following
the Memorial Service, the ladies of the church again laid out a beautiful
spread to which we did not do justice. The family was well represented. Harry
and Lella flew up from Thomasville, accompanied by Powell, Randy and Margaret.
Perry Lee’s family was well represented with Bob and Betty Edwards and Mary Pearson.
Kitty’s side of the family had Katie, Nancy and her husband, Becky Garrity
on Friday evening, then Bob and Hannah and her husband Richard on Saturday. Lenore
and John joined Emily Jean and me. I think all of Roddey’s family, without
exception, of all generations, were there at one or both gatherings, as well as
the interment. Emily Jean’s brothers, Doug and Joe, and Doug’s wife, Patti,
were there for the Memorial Service.
Various
members of the family told the old stories, some at the Friday evening gathering,
some on Saturday following the service. Powell noted that three of Roddey’s
grandchildren spoke of his faith and how he lived it out in his daily life.
Friends from the church and/or college spoke about Roddey’s wonderful
contributions to the church and community.
That
afternoon, the family gathered at the cemetery. The interment was simple, yet
moving. The pastor opened with scripture and prayer, closed with a prayer and benediction.
During the simple service, the military folded a flag, presented it to Joe, and
a bugler blew taps.
Then
Roddey’s ashes, in a beautiful urn made by Susan, were interred alongside
Betsy’s in a crypt, as his family gathered there to say good-bye. Lots of tears
were shed by all of us. It was very moving.
Though
I did not personally list and count us all, more than 40 were present at the
“Smoky Pig” for an early dinner following the interment. Naturally, more
stories were told.
Many of
Roddey’s daffodil bulbs which Sissi had dug up, were descendants of Mother’s
Rich Square King Alfreds. I asked for extra, made off with eight, which are
planted around our birdbath in Allentown PA. It’s a sunny spot, and Roddey
smiles at me in early Spring. Further down the yard, Mother smiles with her own
King Alfred’s in a much larger collection. Roddey sent me 300 bulbs nearly ten
years ago, and they are busily dividing each year.
My
beloved brother continues to be an important part of my life.
Sissi’s Remarriage
Roddey and Anneliese Nitsch were married in February of 1991, about a year after the death of his first wife, Betsy King Jones. Sissi and Betsy had met when Betsy went to work part time at Hohner in Richmond. Legend has it that Betsy asked Sissi to look after Roddey. Sissi knew how to take advice.
Anneliese
met Bob Augustine some time after Roddey’s death. She and Bob joined us in
Montreat for the July 4th week-end on at least one occasion, maybe two. And
they had also visited us in Allentown, which happened to coincide with the
annual picnic of Emily Jean’s Women’s Faith Study Group. All of the WFSG come
to our back yard with significant others, every year on a Saturday in June.
They so much enjoyed Bob’s playing and singing that they complained the
following year that Bob had not come again. Anneliese wrote Emily Jean and me
to invite us to their wedding down in Maryland. We drove down and joined them
for the celebration. It was at Bob’s church, out in the country, in May of
2010.
Following
the service there was a reception. All had been invited to bring their
instruments. Bob and Sissi are both exceptional musicians (She had been a key
figure at Hohner in Richmond for years, responsible for repairs on harmonicas).
Professionals from all over the world called in a multiplicity of languages asking
for “Sissi” in troubled and broken words. She reassured them that she could
have their harmonicas fixed and back to them in time for the next concert, or
supply them with a substitute instrument. When we attended a concert near Hot
Springs, VA one summer, I spoke to a veteran harmonica player who had
performed. “Of course I know Sissi. You are her brother-in-law? Very pleased to
meet you. Please say 'hello' for me.”
Guests
at the Reception performed in turn. We were among the few who had brought no instruments
and did not perform. It was great. And in lieu of a big wedding cake, after the
wedding dinner, there were little cupcakes for each guest.
It was
a great occasion. Sissi and Bob are wonderful additions to our extended family.
John Peterson’s Death
Lenore married John Peterson in 1994 after they had been together for quite a few years, loved and supported by the Hobbits (graduates of Michigan State University Tolkien Fellowship) who had migrated to the NYC area. They continue to be a most important community for all who shared the experience at MSU. In June of 2008, John was diagnosed with prostate cancer of a most virulent kind. With wonderful care from Sloan-Kettering in NYC, John lived nearly two years, dying in February of 2010. He was blessed to be able to live at home until his death, and with the support of his employer, Ab Initio Software, continued to work throughout that time.
He was
a wonderful man, a churchman of the first order, who was quite biblical in
doing good without calling attention to himself. We learned only at the funeral
that he had had a private arrangement with April Harris, the Director of In
Jesus’ Name Ministries, the food pantry in Hoboken, to contact him whenever
someone had a need which April heard of for which she did not have funds. At
one time he and Lenore, with other church and community members, made
sandwiches for the homeless and distributed them Saturdays. I heard a wonderful
story of a stranger pulling up at the park where people came to get sandwiches.
He got out of a very expensive car and handed over a box of sandwiches, saying,
“Someone left a message on my answering machine telling me not to forget to
bring sandwiches for the homeless. I know they had a wrong number, but it’s a
good cause and I didn’t want there not to be enough.” That was one of John’s
favorite stories about abundance.
John’s
ashes were interred in the little garden of their church, All Saints Episcopal,
in Hoboken NJ. It’s a lovely spot, and Lenore has had a stone marker put over
where John’s ashes lie. It says “In Memory of / John D. Peterson / 1958-2010 / ‘Life
is a parable of God’s abundance.’” That’s a paraphrase a friend of theirs
suggested of something John used to say, especially after he was diagnosed. He
said he really had no excuse for not knowing about the abundance of God’s love,
but he kept forgetting, and when he got sick God finally hit him over the head
with it.
Tim
Lenz, son of Mike and Laura, dear friends of Lenore’s and John’s, wrote an
essay about John as part of his application for a Merit Scholarship. Tim grew
up knowing John through the “Hobbits.” With his permission, I have excerpted a
short portion.
"John Peterson
was a great man. Charitable to a fault, he devoted his life to helping those
less fortunate than he, and he only redoubled his efforts when he was diagnosed
with prostate cancer. [He] was incredibly smart, though he would be the last to
point it out... The memory of John, this man that I hope to emulate, is the
heart of my drive to live, love, and be a better human being."
Harry’s 91st Birthday Party
Two summers ago, when I was in Montreat, I went to see Harry at his and Lella’s Pineapple Place on North Carolina Terrace. We sat together on the porch, but were not able to share a great deal. I know that I am not a great conversationalist, but something seemed different. Later, I asked Lella about the likelihood of their being in Montreat the following summer. She said that she did not think Harry would ever go to Montreat again.
I was
aware that his health was not what it had been. He had knee replacement surgery
some years ago, and had to give up his beloved golf foursome. For quite some
time, he had ridden around in his cart, putting on the greens while his friends
played each hole. But he lost ground. I was concerned that I would not be able
to be with him again during his lifetime, so arranged with Lella, Powell and
Harry T., for us to make a visit to Thomasville.
Emily
Jean and I went down for his 91st birthday last September 13th (2011). We had a
great visit with all the family, and Harry seemed quite pleased that we had
come. After a birthday dinner on their patio, we came into the house and were
sitting around talking. Someone asked me to tell VMI stories about Harry, and I
began to do so. Harry, whose helper had taken him in his wheel-chair into his
bedroom to prepare for bed, was sitting in the chair listening from the
bedroom. Suddenly, his chair began to wheel toward us and he came out to join
us. He didn’t want to miss out on anything.
It was
wonderful being there, and we were treated really royally, but it tears at my
heart to see him struggling with the limits we all have to face as the years
pass.
I’m so
grateful I had a chance to be with him and his family, even for a brief time.
Perry Lee died before I could get to see her. I was able to spend a few days
with Kitty in Charlottesville and Roddey in Ashland before they died, so this
was special.
Chuck and Erica’s Wedding
In August of 2010, we flew out to Seattle to be present and help celebrate the wedding of Caroline and Marv’s son, Chuck to Erica. The wedding was held in a state park south of Seattle, presided over by Chuck’s father, Marv Vose. A goodly collection of their friends had come for the occasion, and we could see their tents below the area where the service was held. Friends provided music, they said their own vows, with Chuck, appropriately, readiing his from his I-Pad (He works for Apple!). What was it he promised? To do the litter?
After
the wedding, kids romped in the valley, old folks sought refuge from the heat
(it was almost as hot as Lenore and John’s wedding) inside, while devoted
friends labored helping get the wedding feast prepared. It was a lovely,
relaxed meal.
Erica
had prepared and planned a very intriguing way of getting the guests together.
She divided us into two teams, and tested our capacity to taste-judge
chocolate. She gave each guest a taste of four kinds of chocolate. There was
chocolate from Madagascar (the best), Costa Rica, Guyana, and one other place.
Then each team was given an unknown sample, and required to identify it.
Surprisingly, both teams were able to accomplish this.
Another
highlight of the trip was staying at a hotel or inn which used to be a whorehouse
in the early days of settlement. Interesting comments were painted on the walls
of the rooms, and the wall of the room where you registered had a sign
addressed to any women who planned to accompany sailors to their rooms. What
did that sign say?
We had
a wonderful time, not the least of which was (with my hearing deficit) watching
Jean McClarin Jones and Emily Jean Gilbert chat at the table while we waited
for dinner to be ready. Clearly, they respect each other a great deal.
Genevieve’s and Molly’s Wedding (Planned for 2013)
At the time of writing (May of 2012), this has not yet happened, but we have been informed by telephone that it is coming up soon, probably next year. This will be an epic occasion for our family, and we look forward to it with great joy. It has been only a matter of months since Washington state voted to allow same-sex marriage, so their decision to get married followed closely on the decision of the state legislature.
It will
be difficult to forget the joy in Genevieve’s voice over the phone when she
said: “Granddaddy, Molly has asked me to marry her!” We rejoice with her.
But our
joy has a background. The Methodist Church defrocked a fine pastor in
Germantown PA, when she announced that she could no longer keep silent about
her partner. With the approval of her senior pastor and the Administrative
Board of the church, she made her announcement at a Sunday morning service, to
applause. But the governing bodies of the connectional church took her to
trial, found her in violation of church law, and removed her ordination
credentials.
I was
so upset by this that I wrote a letter to my bishop surrendering my ordination
credentials, saying that I could no longer be comfortable identifying myself as
a Methodist.
I then
became a lay member of the UCC. The sad note here is that our local UCC church
took a straw vote on whether to call itself “Open and Affirming,” (code for
accepting same-sex marriage), and while a majority said “yes,” the vote was so
close to even that we realized that taking a real vote would split the
congregation. But time is on our side.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
The Religious/Spiritual
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Faith and Doubt
I still flounder, though, as you will see, Tolstoy has helped me to make some progress.
As a
child, I felt pressure to believe, and not to doubt. I can’t really point to
any instances where this pressure was actually applied, but I felt it,
nevertheless. Since I did not firmly believe anything except that I was a
member of the Jones family, I held my doubts closely, and never expressed them.
And they lived in me. They still do, and the shame about them also lives,
despite my intellectual determination to accept doubt as a positive good.
More
often than not, I now make myself speak up when I do not agree or when I doubt,
and it is probably an important contribution.
What do
I believe about God? I have never been satisfied with the relationship I have
with God personally, and that leads me to suspect that there is no personal
God. But I still think and talk in those terms. Who can talk about a
relationship with the cosmos? And how can anyone draw comfort from the vastness
of space? I can’t. But I still hear myself speaking about the way God is with
us in our suffering. And I believe God is. What I would like is the kind of one-to-one
relationship the saints wrote about. I found it on a couple of occasions, but
I’m greedy. I want it all the time, and feel bereft and abandoned when I don’t
have it, which is nearly all the time.
Just
recently, I have been on a Tolstoy kick, and “discovered” Levin in Part VIII of
Anna Karenina. It took a lifetime to
get comfortable being crazy, being me, but I think I am there. I am grateful.
I am
now a member of Hope UCC. Being a part of that community is important to me, as
is being a part of the Gathering. Perhaps the answer lies in the relationships
we have with people. I am sure that God is a part of those relationships
somehow.
I am
amused at myself in a wry way, as I look back over my history. How did I wind
up with the life I had? Well, I hurried back to RMC and rushed through,
finishing in two more years with the minimum number of credits required to
graduate because I felt like I had lost time during the war. I wanted to become
a chemical engineer, but Cornell would not accept any transfer credits, and I
didn’t want to start over. I went to RMC because Roddey was there, and I really
did not know what I wanted to do. I dated Jean McClarin and decided to marry
her, and went to Emory University with her because she wanted to study religious
education, and I had no better idea. I studied theology because I was there,
though I spent more time playing ping pong than I did studying theology. I
became a missionary because Jean wanted to be one, and I didn’t care, as long
as I didn’t have to preach. I was a good preacher, but it troubled me
exceedingly, because I doubted everything I was preaching. I agreed to go to
Japan as a missionary, provided I could go as something other than a preacher.
I
became a teacher of English, without any special training in English as a
Second Language, and served as chaplain and teacher in the High School of
Kwansei Gakuin, even reading the Bible in Japanese at chapel services. Later I
was chaplain to the University Student Center, and taught Bible classes in English
and then in Japanese, but I managed to avoid having to make a witness. I did a
little counseling, discovering that I was a pretty good listener.
I
attended Kobe Union Church with Jean and our children, but was not challenged
in terms of my faith. I just kept my mouth shut, as I guess most church members
do.
We
completed two five-year terms in Japan and went to Boston University to work on
doctorates, I on one in Pastoral Care and Counseling, Jean on one in Religious
Education. She got hers; I did not. I shifted into Clinical Pastoral Education,
and gave up on the doctoral program. CPE was full of religious mavericks and I
felt right at home immediately. But I was not put to the test theologically,
and never had to make up my mind what I believed.
Joan,
my second wife, was a somewhat lapsed Roman Catholic, and I did not have a
church home while I was at Overlook Hospital in Summit NJ. When I joined my
life with Emily Jean’s, I joined her in attending Judson Memorial in NYC. Here,
too, I felt at home, because hardly anyone bothered with a faith position, and
my puzzlement was shared by almost everybody. I was really happy there,
because, for the first time, doubt was respectable. And I was accepted,
respected, and liked. It was very special. And they taught me to be comfortable
with my gayness (such as it may be) as well as that of others. It helped me
with my gay son and my gay granddaughter, by getting me ready for them, and for
celebrating their place in the world.
We
moved to Pennsylvania and had to leave Judson behind. I went to St. John’s in
Allentown with Emily Jean, but it left me cold. There was no life there.
Despairingly, I stopped going to church. When Emily Jean became an interim
minister, she asked me to support her by attending her church, which I was
happy to do, making it clear that I was not there because of my faith, but to
support her.
She
began attending Hope UCC after she took the job at St. Luke’s as Director of
Pastoral Care, and asked me to join her in attending. I decided to do so, but
still was not sure of what I believed, or if I did. About the same time, the
Gathering was brought together, starting with a visit to the Church of the
Savior in Washington, DC. I had heard a lot about the COS, but had never been
there, so I was happy to join nine others in making the trip down there. While
we were there, something happened inside me that I can’t articulate or
understand, but I wanted to be a part of the Gathering as it continued.
I guess
I still have more doubt than faith, but these folks are my folks. I love them
and they love me. And that’s enough.
Strangely,
to me, I knew what to do when Beth Stroud was defrocked by my church, the
United Methodist Church. I had never been a happy Methodist, but after that, I
could no longer abide the name by mine.
I’m
with Tolstoy and Levin. I know where I am and it is OK. I still have less faith
than doubt, but that’s OK. I like who I am, and I’m sure I’ll agonize about it
a great deal less in future.
Prayer
I have read many a book on prayer. My parents, and I believe, my maternal grandparents, and possibly all of my siblings, pray and believe in prayer. It is easier for me to say what I do not believe about prayer than it is to say what I believe about it.
Over
the span of my life, I have prayed a lot, but never was able to be clear about
what I believed about prayer. I was taught that God was personal, and that a
personal relationship with God was possible. I think my parents and
grandparents believed and experienced this, and practiced prayer based on this
belief. I have wanted this all my life, but have been unable to sustain a
belief in it. This despite my incredible experience at Lake Junaluska, reported
elsewhere.
Recently,
the Caring Committee of my local church in Allentown (Hope UCC), had a proposal
before it to pray for police and firemen of the city. The pastor wanted the
committee to locate members who would be willing to pray for particular
individual members of those forces on an on-going basis. I could not bring
myself to agree to do so, and finally said to the committee, of which I am a
member, that I just could not do that, because I did not believe that God was
responsive to those kinds of requests. I have the same problem when people are
grateful that God saved their lives during a storm. I always think of those who
died. Did they fail to pray? Did they not pray properly? Did God hear their
prayers and decide they were not worth saving? Or decide that they deserved to
die? If we give God credit for good stuff, who gets the credit for the bad
stuff? A devil is convenient for dealing with this, but then God’s power is
limited, and the world is reduced to a battle between God and the devil, and
Zoroastrianism is substituted for Christianity.
And
yet, when I am in trouble, or when someone I love is hurting in some way, I
can’t help but pray.
During
WWII, when I first came under artillery fire, I recall praying to God, saying
that if God would spare me, I would become a minister. And I did. What
nonsense! But even though I think the whole business is crazy, I made a
promise, and I try to keep my promises.
I don’t
even know what I believe about God. I no longer think of God as a personal God,
whom I can keep in my pocket like a favorite yo-yo, and bring out for an occasional
spin when the time calls for it. But I mourn for that God, too, and pray to
that God, too, “when the time calls for” God. I do believe that the Holy is in
our relationships. Friends tell me of some trouble, and I say that I “will hold
you in my heart.” And I do, though I tend to be very forgetful.
I
believe that God is in all that is, and especially in life. With our native
Americans, I believe that all of nature is holy. It is given to us, into our
charge, and to treat it as a means to an end, rather than an end in itself, is
to profane the holy.
When I
am asked to say a prayer before we eat, I say something like this: “Holy One,
we are grateful for your presence with us now. You bless us by being here.
Thank you. We are grateful for this company and for this food. Amen.” But
anyone can see the inconsistencies. If I don’t believe in a personal God, who
am I talking to? I don’t know the answer, yet I am grateful, so I guess I’ll
keep praying.
When
Emily Jean and I went to Japan shortly before Betty and Dave Swain retired,
they taught us a wonderful blessing, which has been spread everywhere we go,
and is now quite popular in this part of Pennsylvania:
“Everyone
who is grateful, raise their right hand.”
We used this with our Gilbert family in Charlotte, NC when Rubye was dying. A few weeks before she died, but when she knew that she was dying, Emily Jean’s invitation to hold up right hands if you were grateful, was responded to by Rubye, who said, “I can’t get mine up high enough!”
We used this with our Gilbert family in Charlotte, NC when Rubye was dying. A few weeks before she died, but when she knew that she was dying, Emily Jean’s invitation to hold up right hands if you were grateful, was responded to by Rubye, who said, “I can’t get mine up high enough!”
I was totally deaf to words like “feminism” and expressions such as “inclusive language” until around 1970 when one of my CPE students told me after chapel that she had been able to worship until I announced that we would pray the Lord’s Prayer together. It was as if she had been speaking a foreign language. I asked her to say more, and she did. She explained that she felt shut out by the male language. I concluded she was unhinged, and thought no more about it. But over time, the same nail was struck again and again. When I began to have Emily Jean in my life, I was better prepared and able to hear better. I was by no means a feminist, but I could hear. I joined her in attending Judson Memorial Church in Greenwich Village, NYC, where inclusive language was a way of religious life, and where there were no women, and few men, who were not feminist.
Suddenly,
it all began to make a great deal of sense to me, and I find it difficult to
remember how uncomfortable it made me when someone objected to the use of the
male pronoun in reference to God, or to the use of a male pronoun to make a
general statement about “mankind.”
I now
have at least two daughters (three?) who are militant feminists in addition to
my wife. How can anyone not see that a male-dominant society/culture is biased
against women. There really is a glass ceiling.
Personally,
I look forward to the time when women have a truly equal voice in government. I
think that’s the best thing we as a people can do to make peace. I think that
our womenfolk are less likely to lead us into wars than men. I also suspect
that they are more likely to be concerned about the poor and the oppressed. I
suppose I am naïve. The proof of my naïveté lies in my shock at women like Ann
Coulter (and Ayn Rand?). And I guess there are many others.
I am
still uncomfortable in direct confrontations with women. Perhaps it dates from
the time when my mother, a very strong woman, set me straight in no uncertain
terms when she thought I was wrong. It’s sad to think that my mother was born
50 years too soon; had she lived in our time, she would probably have been a
strong leader in our world in whatever way she chose.
Now, I
find I’m enjoying books by some feminists; I particularly enjoyed Prodigal Summer by Barbara Kingsolver.
My Cynicism
I suppose I am a cynic. It doesn’t feel that way to me; it’s just that I tend to see the bad as well as the good in all of us. It seems to me that folks who look at the world through rose-colored glasses don’t want anyone to see it any other way. I know what I am capable of, and I suspect all of us are just as capable of evil as I am.
What is
meant by the word ‘cynic?’ A person who expects people not to be straight? I am
not taken by surprise when the “holier than thou” pastor is found to be unclean
while calling on the world to repent. And I expect politicians as well as the
rest of us to be repentant when caught, but hardly ever before.
I
wonder if my feelings about hypocrisy relate to this. I have an intense
loathing for hypocrisy in anyone, but especially in myself. I think this is
part of what made it hard for me to be a part of the church. It certainly had a
lot to do with my leaving the Methodist Church. Does that sound cynical? I’m
comfortable with that identity.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Professional
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Clinical Pastoral Education (CPE)
After my first year of residency in the doctoral program at Boston University was completed, I sat down with Dr. Bill Douglas, my advisor, for a routine conference. He asked me what I was going to do that summer (1965). I replied that I had no special plans, but would probably take a couple of courses. He encouraged me to consider taking a unit of CPE (Clinical Pastoral Education). It was already May, and the program was to start in early June, so I thought my chances were poor. But I called out to Boston State Hospital, and that program still had openings. It was a big program, with slots for 25 students. I got in. And thus my life was changed.
Joe Woodson was the head chaplain out
there, assisted by Pop Hartl. What a pair! God led me there, for sure. Both
embodied how craziness can be powerfully healing, and I learned it from the
best. The net result of the unit out there for me was that I “felt” rather than
knew, that I had found my niche. I asked Joe to let me stay out there after the
unit ended, and take part in the residency, which already had three or four
guys in it. I still remember how he grinned, turned away from me, walked up the
hall, came back and said, “I don’t know if I can put up with you all that
time.” But he accepted me, and I did the CPE residency. I negotiated a shift
from full-time at B. U. to half-time, with a plan to complete my doctoral
residency a year later than I would have. After the CPE residency was almost
over, Joe asked if I would be willing to be an Assistant Supervisor the
following summer. I agreed, met the Certification and Accreditation Committee,
and was approved. (I have written details about this elsewhere.)
So without ever setting out to do so, I
was well along on my way to be a CPE Supervisor. When I met the committee again
in the fall of 1967 for “Acting” credentials, I was there because I had chosen
this course for my life. I still intended to complete my doctorate, but it was
secondary. I found a job at Overlook Hospital in Summit, NJ, and began work
there in January, 1968. I got my full credentials in Washington DC in 1970.
After nine years at Overlook, and a disastrous second marriage to Joan Dominick,
I left Overlook and went to Bergen Pines County Hospital in Paramus. Joan did
not make it easier by the poison pen letters she wrote to my boss, and to many
clergy colleagues in Summit. I don’t know if anyone really believed the nasty
things she said about me, but there was a cloud, and it was good to get away
from it.
It was during this time that Emily Jean
and I had begun a relationship, and I persuaded her to apply at Bergen Pines.
She was accepted, and we began a period of work together along with being
partners. After a little more than four years, I learned of the opening at
Presbyterian Hospital in NYC, applied and was accepted. Actually, we applied
together, trying to persuade them to hire both of us, but they declined. I
began there in January of 1982, and was able to prevail on my boss to hire her
part-time within the year. She was later made full-time. We learned a lot
through co-supervision as a couple. It is not for everybody, but there proved
to be something very powerful about co-supervisors who were known to be sexual
partners. Inevitably, students tended to deal with us as parents, and issues
each had brought tended to emerge.
Our work at Presbyterian stands out in
my memory as the best I did. I was more relaxed, less demanding of students,
more open. And I was operating out of systems theory, which had now become
second nature to me. I found I was able to accept the role of authority without
ramming it down students’ throats. I still remember one of the best supervisory
moves I made during my career, which illustrates this. One of my students, who
later became a supervisor, was resistant to my aggressive moves, and I realized
that she needed space. I announced that from that moment, I would give her no
more supervision unless she felt she needed it and asked for it. Space was
created for her to claim her own process, and she responded by doing so.The
residency was a nine-month residency, with a senior resident continuing during
the summer, and into the following year. During the summers, Emily Jean and I
each supervised five or six students. We had Verbatim Seminars with our small
groups, and two Interpersonal Group Meetings weekly. In addition, the two
groups came together for a Didactic Seminar and a Large Interpersonal Group each
week. So Emily Jean was exposed to my students and I was exposed to hers during
these times. It was a very effective model.
In 1989, about a year before I was to
retire, Emily Jean decided she would accept an offer from Bill Wycoff to join
him in Allentown PA as his Associate Supervisor. She commuted two days a week
from Allentown back to Jersey City, where we lived, until I retired in 1991,
and moved out there with her.
I thought I did not want to do any more
CPE, and resisted invitations to supervise on a temporary basis, but did hang
out my shingle not only for family therapy, but also for consultation on
supervision. Several people consulted with me over a period of time and two of
them got supervisory credentials. One who I considered to have more potential
than most failed to get her credentials. I still do not understand that!
I have more of a sense of fulfillment
about my work in CPE than any other I have done, although family therapy was a
close second.
A Philosophy of Clinical Pastoral Education
I wrote the following, remembering my thoughts about Chuck Hall's, Allison Stokes' and Glenn Asquith's addresses at the ACPE Conference in Philadelphia years ago.
It is
true that we in ACPE are searching for a clinical theology. I think that that
is the same as "getting your shit together." But we are committed to
resisting the temptation to set up a smooth system by getting rid of the piece
which doesn't fit. Keeping that piece available, even when it doesn't fit, is
costly. There is stress. And it leads to craziness.
But
craziness and creativity are tied together like yin and yang. Claiming
the piece that doesn't fit, and hanging on to it, creates dissonance, leads to
stress, and that puts us at risk. It put Flanders Dunbar at risk, it put Boisen
at risk, and they suffered as a result. It seems to me that a lot of the time
we know we are choosing dangerous courses, crossing boundaries, taking risks,
yet we act as if there is no risk--as if we think that because of our special
privilege, we will be spared the consequences of the risks we take. I see in
Dunbar and Boisen, our forebears, important lessons. Great creativity comes at
great cost, and at great risk. And there are consequences. No one is spared the
consequences; for some, those consequences will be stress that leads to
fatigue, ulcers, minor discomfort. But there will be others, like Pappy and
Helen, who will pay the extreme price of mental illness or death. And the most
dangerous thing we can do is to kid ourselves into believing that we are the
exceptions.
"Forgive
us the joys we have not known." Lee Guilliat 's (Lee is a member of Judson
Memorial Church in Greenwich Village, NYC.) "Communion Hymn" comes to
mind as expressive of another commitment we in ACPE seem to have made to
ourselves: to live life to the full; not to hold back from the boundaries out
of a fear that we might have trouble. Like Dunbar and Boisen, when at our best,
we push across the boundary, aware that we put ourselves at risk in doing so.
Of course, there are plenty of times when we count the cost and decide not to
cross, but at our best, we cross, paying the cost gladly. This is what it means
to pioneer into territory which is the unknown. This is what it means to open
the door to the holy spirit. This is what it means to venture, to be crazy, to
be creative. It is dangerous, yes, but of a different order of danger from
taking the same risk under the illusion that we are not at risk.
This is
not to condone unethical behavior by any of our members. And our history is
full of ethical breaches. We are not proud of it, but we are all too human.
Some of our community have been unable to live with this sort of freedom
without falling into temptation. That is spiritual and emotional, and
sometimes, total suicide.
What
have I learned?
1) We in CPE have a great heritage. We are
part of a great tradition. It is a rich, creative, crazy tradition, full of
risk, full of promise.
2) We are a people who seek God,
individually and collectively, yet in a way that is unorthodox, rough, earthy,
full of beans, rich in shit, sexy, powerful.
3) We believe that God and truth do not
have to be protected. For this reason, we can walk into the darkness of doubt,
question the verities, assault the given, blaspheme against tradition. We can
pursue without fear of offending or destroying the holy, because the Holy can
take care of the Holy. To think that the Holy needs me to protect the Holy is presumptuous
heresy. We are not that important, and the Holy is not that vulnerable.
4) We are people marked by our commitment
to live it up, to bet the whole pot every time. No holding back. Going for it.
So we hurt a lot, and we suffer a lot. But we are with people who are on the
edge of danger in a very special way; we have made it a practice to go there
and to live there, so we are not terrified, only afraid. And we can choose to
stay there with them, and thus, we can model the integration of hanging on to
the uncomfortable piece, treating that ache in the heart as a treasure, holding
on to that fearful fantasy as the leading edge of our pilgrimage. And those we
minister to have that same deep-down wisdom, God-given, I believe, that enables
them to know that something holy is happening when we are there with them,
sustaining them in allowing their worst fears to be welcomed in their spirits.
God is near; the Holy One brings healing through our lived craziness.
5) There is power in the choice, repeated
endlessly, to be me. In that dogged persistence, despite all pressures and
enticements, I come to know the person given me at birth. I come also to
experience the joy of finding my true home within.
6) We are a people who cannot stand phoniness.
It is destruction. It smells. It is sin. However painful, however crazy, we
find the richness of our lives in following our own truth, wherever it leads.
7) We are a people who find joy in inviting
others to join us on this crazy journey; and even greater joy in being with and
in seeing those others discover their own path, and follow it with integrity
and joy, despite the cost.
8) We are a family of those who do not know
who we are so much as who we are not. And we are united in living our lives
into the unknown with passion and with compassion.
9) And our journey is a spiritual journey.
We know that we do not have the answers, and we are suspicious of those who
insist that they do. We search for God, and for a clinical theology, not because
it brings us to a neat and complete system of philosophy or theology, but
because we can do no other. We are called to truth, to authenticity, and we
will go no other way.
Family Therapy and Supervision of CPE
During my training and work as a family therapist, I learned that a great deal of research has been done into the impact of sibling position on the behavior of individuals. While these are not “laws,” they do have predictive value in looking at individuals and families.
I had
exposure to the theory and practice of group process as early as the 1950’s,
when I participated in a week-long seminar run by a group from Bethel, Maine. I
forget the name of it, but it was quite well-known. We worked in groups, watched
“12 Angry Men,” and looked at the way they influenced each other.
I felt
comfortable in groups then, as I do now. It seemed much easier for me to be
transparent than for many others. I’m still not sure why that is. It may have
something to do with war experience “numbing” my feelings.
While
at Boston University working on a doctorate, I took a course in Group Dynamics.
I did a good bit of reading in the field, including Bion (Experiences in Groups). He influenced me a great deal. During my
residency in CPE at Boston State Hospital (1965-66), I was taught a lot by the
schizophrenic patients. Another student and I co-led a group of 7-8 ladies once
a week for a semester as part of a course taught by Jud Howard, called
“Clinical Pastoral Care of Groups.” It was a three-hour per week course: one
hour was a lecture, one hour was co-leading a group, one hour was presenting a
verbatim account of the group hour, with analysis by the student group and Dr.
Howard. It was a fantastic learning experience. I still recall how one member
of our group of schizophrenics, who had “escaped” from the hospital and gone
into town, expressed her feelings about it by describing how cars with
machine-gunners riding on top roared by and shot at her. This was a revelation.
As a part
of supervising CPE units of training, there was always a meeting of the group
of students and supervisor(s) two or more times per week. I thought I was a
pretty good group leader, but I tended to interact directly with individual
members of the group which was not the most helpful leadership. But I did not
find that out until 1977, when I entered a three-year program of training in
family therapy at the Ackermann Institute for Family Therapy. As a result of
this training, I was like Saul on the road to Damascus, the scales falling from
my eyes.
I now
understood that the group had a life of its own separate and different from the
individual lives of the students in it. Now, instead of interacting directly
with members of a group, I watched myself really holding back, facilitating
functioning of the group. Where before that training, I might have said to a
student, “Why did you do that?”, now I heard myself saying, “Why did the group
need him/her to do that?”
At
Bergen Pines County Hospital, I began to see a few client families, getting
supervision on my work as I applied much of what I had learned at Ackermann
Institute. I then joined a group of five who hired a senior staff person at
Ackermann, Dr. Jessie Turberg, to give us supervision once a month. We brought
families to the Institute, met with them while the supervisor, Jessie, and the
other four members of the group watched from
behind one-way glass.
This
was a continuation of all the valuable learning from the 270-hour course I had
taken. It was three hours, one day a week for 30 weeks per year for three
years. I still tell stories from experiences I had then. The first day of the
course, they divided us into groups of four according to our sibling positions
in our own families: an only, an oldest, a middle and a youngest. I was, of
course, the “youngest” in my group. We were then given several topics to
discuss. I remember only this one: “What did you do when you asked your mother
to let you do something you really wanted to do, and she told you “No?” I was
the only “goy” in the group, the other three being Jewish women social workers.
My response was very different from theirs. I said: “I gave it up, however
angry it made me.” They all gave the same answer: “Our mothers taught us not to
take 'no' for an answer the first four times." I’ve often thought how different
my life might have been had I had such an upbringing.
So I
learned something about the importance of sibling position, but also of
cultural norms.
When I
went to Presbyterian Hospital in New York in 1982, I applied the principles of
systems theory to my work with students, but set aside my practice of family
therapy until I retired in 1991. Once I moved out to Allentown, I began seeing
clients again one morning a week, continuing this for about five years until I
noticed how my memory was failing. I had prided myself as a CPE supervisor on
meeting with a student at a given point in the supervisory process (we usually
met once a week during each unit of 11 or 12 weeks), and taking up a particular
issue, referring back to how the problem had been dealt with by the student at
several times during the unit, showing him or her how it was not a new
difficulty they were wrestling with. This approach in therapy is also quite
essential to enabling the client to understand his or her own process. I
realized that I could no longer do that. I could function very well dealing
with current material presented by the client on that day, but the past was
shrouded, despite careful note taking.
So I
made a decision to stop, and have not regretted it, though I have missed it, as
I missed supervising when I stopped. I am also sure I made a good decision when
I stopped supervising. I was able to help two supervisors in training to get
their credentials by consulting with them regularly to talk about their
supervision.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Stories I Have Enjoyed Telling
Disclaimer: A few stories in this section have adult content and/or "dirty" words. They have been marked with an asterisk by the title so that you may skip them, if you wish to do so.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Poise in the Pulpit
I don’t remember any more who I first heard this story from, but it was probably back in my seminary days at Emory’s Candler School of Theology (1948-1951).
The
homiletics (preaching) professor had his class in the chapel. He went into the
pulpit in order to talk with them and demonstrate the techniques that go into
great preaching. He said:
"Young
gentlemen (back in those days, there were no women in seminary, I’m sorry to
say), we have talked about choosing a text, making an outline, crafting an
introduction, developing your points, using illustrative material, and drawing
all together in a succinct conclusion. But we have omitted to speak of one of
the most important elements of really fine preaching.
"No
matter how good the content of your sermon, if you do not have poise in the
pulpit, all is lost. You must be confident, calm, sure of yourself, and project
this to all in your congregation.
"For
example, there is a fly buzzing around my head. This seems a little thing, but
it is important. Do I wildly wave at it, thus distracting from the gravity of
the message? No, I gently and calmly brush it away.
[Begins
waving wildly, screams] "OH MY GOD, IT’S A BEE! IT'S A BEE!!!"
Bi-Lingual Stories (English-Japanese)
One of the great losses I experienced on leaving Japan was an audience of people who understand enough of both Japanese and English to “get it” when a joke was told which required both languages. Of course, if you have to explain, the lightning flash that makes a joke funny is not there. I can think of several examples, one of which is the title story.
Let Me off at the Next Stop
A Westerner was new to Japan with just a beginner’s smattering of Japanese. Nevertheless, he had large ambitions of being able to manage for himself in Japanese. One day, he got on a streetcar. Before he got to the stop where he wanted to get off, he called to the conductor from the back of the car: “Please let me off at the next stop.” He got the “please” right, and he got the “next stop” right, but he made a slight mistake in his choice of a verb for “let me off” (orosu). Instead, he used the verb korosu, which means “kill.”
So the
entire car full of passengers looked terribly puzzled at this foreigner who
wanted to be killed at the next stop.
The Speech
A man was asked to be an after dinner speaker. [speech = hanashi] It happened that he had false teeth. [teeth = ha, none = nashi] As he got into his speech, he made an effort to speak in a louder voice, and his teeth fell out on the table. Before he could pick them up and put them back in his mouth, one of the guests shouted out: Honto no [real] ha nashi [no teeth, speech] desu ne” [is].
Sukiyaki
I also heard a report of a missionary who went into a grocery store needing some bean sprouts in order to cook sukiyaki, a dish made of thinly sliced beef and a number of vegetables, flavored with soy sauce, broth and a little sugar. Unfortunately, when he asked for bean sprouts, he used the Japanese word which means “night soil,” which produced much astonishment at the store. The Westerner insisted that he always put “night soil” in this dish, and that without it, it just would not be as good.
Of
course, I never dared to tell this story in Japan, because, although I know
that the two words are moyashi and koyashi, I’m still not sure which one
means what.
The New Missionary's "Lord's Prayer"
A new missionary, having been out in Japan for a term, returned home, and was invited to the church which had supported him there. The pastor thought it was wonderful that he and his family had gone to Japan, and wanted them to know how much the church respected and admired them for that. So not only was the missionary asked to preach, but after the service ended, the pastor announced that, in lieu of a benediction, the missionary would say the Lord’s Prayer, in Japanese.
He was
stunned, but could not bring himself to admit that he did not know it. As all
bowed their heads, he launched into a recitation of the subway stops along the
Chuo Line in Tokyo. All were suitably impressed, except for one Japanese man,
who said from the back of the church, Ah,
soo desu ka? [Is that so?]
Other Stories
Championship Golf
[This story and the other golf stories are a legacy of a hot, summer day at Waynesville NC with David Swain many, many years ago. A sudden rainstorm struck the course, and everyone rushed for shelter, many squeezing in under the same open-sided work hut we crowded into. I expect there were 20 or more golfers there, and each one had several stories or jokes.]
A local
Country Club had had its annual tournament over the last week or so, and the
finals, 36 holes of match-play golf, had come to the final hole, even. Both
players had played very well, in a tensely fought match, and had arrived on the
36th hole with long putts. If either sank his putt, the match would be over.
The first golfer putted, being away, and his ball slid just past the hole. The
other player conceded the putt, and went to study his lie. He looked from every
angle, checked the wind, and finally addressed his ball for the putt. Just as
he drew back his putter, out of the corner of his eye, he saw the lights of a
funeral procession going by. He backed off the putt, snatched off his cap, held
it over his heart, and stood with bowed head until the long procession had
passed out of sight. All the spectators, including his competitor, followed his
example, and there was a long, respectful silence.
Finally,
the second golfer pulled his cap back on, stepped up to his long putt, and
rolled it in to win the championship. As a roar went up from the crowd, the
first golfer came over and shook his hand.
First
golfer: My God, no wonder I lost. How
could you do that? You must have ice water in your veins!
Second
golfer: Well, it’s the least I could do
after 35 years of married life.
The Minister Played Golf on Sunday Morning
A minister had a moral struggle between his call to ministry and his love of golf. Thinking he could handle it, he accepted the call, and served a number of churches with distinction. After a number of years, when he had become the senior pastor of a rather large church, he felt a powerful yearning for golf one Sunday morning early. The sky was blue, the sun was shining, and it promised to be a beautiful day. He could stand it no longer.
Calling
his young associate, he told him he had suddenly been called out of town, and
that the young minister would have to hold the service. “Remember that I told
you to be prepared on short notice? Well, here it is.” With that, he threw his
clubs into the trunk of his car, along with his golf clothes, which he had
ready in a small bag. And he drove out of the city where he lived, getting a
suitable distance away, so as to be sure no one would know him.
He
arrived at a challenging course which he had heard of, got a locker, changed
his clothes, and got the pro to link him up with three other players waiting
for a tee time.
In
heaven, God and St. Peter were looking down on this scene. St. Peter was
furious, and said to God: “Do you see what I see? Aren’t you going to do
anything about that?” God replied: “Now, Peter, don’t get bent out of shape.
I’ll take care of it.”
The
first hole was a par four, dog-leg left. The other three players went first,
one hitting it in the fairway, one slicing into the woods on the right, and the
third hooking into woods on the left. The minister stepped up, and belted a
long drive down the middle, about 25 yards further than the golfer who had also
put his ball in the fairway. St. Peter made a long face, but God was silent.
When
the others had played, the minister hit a crisp five-iron to the middle of the
green.
When
all were on the green, the minister, who was furthest from the hole, putted the
ball straight and true, dropping it for a birdie. St. Peter spoke up again.
“Lord, I don’t know what you are doing here, but it looks like you are
rewarding this clergyman for sin.” God remained silent.
On the
second hole, which was a par three, the minister made a hole-in-one. St. Peter
was so angry at the sheer outrage of God’s silence and inaction that he had to
walk away from God for a while.
And so
it continued throughout the round. As the rest of the foursome watched in awe,
the minister shot a course record, some ten strokes lower than any round
recorded at that course, or indeed, anywhere. Would you believe a 52?
Finally,
St. Peter could contain himself no longer. “Lord, I have waited as patiently as
I could for you to carry out your promise to take care of it. I now observe the
ultimate reward given to this man, a man of the cloth, no less, for the heinous
sin of abandoning his congregation on Sunday morning, going into an area where
he knew no one, obviously a planned sin, and enjoying the greatest game of his
life. How can you allow this?” God responded: “Peter, you need to get the big
picture here. What do golfers do when they make a hole-in-one?” Peter: “They
buy drinks for everyone.” God: “But what else do they do?” Peter: “They brag
about the shot to everyone who will listen.” God: “Yes! Do you see now?” Peter:
“Ah! I finally see. He will have to go back to his home town and his home
church, and his home golf course, and keep silent. God: “Yes. He will go his
entire life knowing he was the greatest golfer in the world this morning, shot
the finest round ever, anywhere in the world, and will be unable ever to tell
anyone. Isn’t that punishment enough for a golfer, even for such a sin as he
has committed?” Peter: “You’ve got me there. You know everything, Lord, even
psychology!”
Religious’ Golf
A priest who loved to play golf persuaded a sister who worked at the same parish to caddy for him when he played a round of golf. He was not having a good day to start with, and after he hit a couple in the woods, and another in the water, he began to swear. The sister was a very pious type and remonstrated with him. “Father, if you are going to use filthy language, I’m not going to continue caddying for you.” The priest promised to do better.
Soon,
however, needing a short putt to make par, he hit it wide, and cut loose again.
Sister reminded him of his promise, and said that she meant what she had said.
The priest was really fearful she would quit on him, and said: “May God strike
me dead if I swear again today!” The sister was mollified and continued to
caddy.
As luck
would have it, the priest made a series of duffs, hooks and slices, and
finally, unable to contain himself, swore a string of curse words.
There
was a roll of thunder, and a great bolt of lightning came from the nearest
cloud, striking the sister dead. And a great voice was heard from the cloud:
“Damn, I missed!”
The Bengal Tiger
A man had read a great deal about India, and was very much interested in going there on a safari for a Bengal tiger. He learned of a man who had been to India and had even hunted tigers, so he arranged to see him and get his advice.
This
man was very helpful. He gave him the name of a company that would organize
such a hunt, taking care of all the details. He gave him all manner of advice,
and as the traveler was leaving, he thought of one more important thing. “There
is a snake in India which sleeps at night by biting a branch of a tree and
hanging down from it. These snakes are exceedingly poisonous, but can be dealt
with simply by grabbing the tail, yanking hard, so the snake will bite the
branch even harder, then running your other hand up to the snake’s neck and snapping
its head off.”
The
traveler thanked the man for his help and left.
Some
months later, the man heard that the traveler was back from India, but in the
hospital. So he went to see him, only to find him swathed in bandages from head
to foot, both arms and both legs in traction. His head was bandaged as well,
leaving only a small hole for his mouth.
The
visitor was stunned! “What in the world happened?”
“Well,”
the traveler/hunter said, “I made arrangements with the person you told me
about, and his group was terrific. They set everything up for me and my party,
and we had everything we needed. We set out on the hunt, and I was quite
excited and eager to take a Bengal tiger. Carrying my rifle, I was walking
through the forest, carefully parting the high grass, when suddenly, I saw, not
a tiger, but the dreaded snake, hanging down from the branch of a tree.
Remembering what you had told me, I grabbed hold of its tail, yanked hard, and
ran my other hand up to snap off its neck…Did you ever goose a Bengal tiger?”
A Pope with Polish
[I heard this joke on the morning that Pope John Paul II was elected, when I was a chaplain at Bergen Pines County Hospital. I was there from 1977 to 1982. We had a multifaith department, with three Roman Catholic priests, three Protestant ministers and two rabbis.One of the priests, with classic Irish humor, came in and gave this report of what had happened in Rome.]
“You
heard that we have a new pope, I’m sure. But do you know what really happened
in the Sistine Chapel when the vote was announced?
A loud
voice was heard from the top of the chapel: ‘NO, NO, YOU DUMMIES! I SAID
“polish” NOT “POLISH!’”
The Toilet Seat*
[Jean Evans was a wonderful Jewish woman who appeared at Judson Memorial Church in Greenwich Village, New York City, one Sunday morning and sat next to me and Emily Jean. We talked after the service and over time got to be good friends. Jean was a retired writer, having had articles appear in New Yorker and other magazines, and had published a book of case studies of psychiatric patients thought by psychologists to be really solid. Jean had an interesting background. Her great grandfather had been a rabbi in Russia, her mother had grown up there, and had brought Jean and her brother to this country when very young. They were raised in Hollywood, where Jean’s brother made connections and became a director of note. She knew a bunch of people out there, who were aware that she liked dirty jokes, and would periodically telephone her in New York to tell her a new one that was going around. When we got acquainted at Judson, she soon learned that Emily Jean and I appreciated good dirty jokes, and when one came from Hollywood via the phone, we were among the first friends she called to share it. “The Toilet Seat” and “Bad Breath and Smelly Socks” stories came from Jean.]
A
couple (who happened to be Jewish) had a well-known marital problem. When he
went to the bathroom to pee, he invariably left the seat up. She begged, she
pleaded, she screamed at him, to no avail. He meant to do better, but he kept
forgetting.
One
night, she had to go in the middle of the night, and sleepily made her way to
the bathroom in the dark, and plopped down on the toilet, only to discover
that, once again, he had failed to put the seat down. Unfortunately, this time,
she had sat down so hard that she was caught in the toilet and could not get
out.
She
called her husband, who got up to see what was wrong. He went into the bathroom,
sized up the situation, and announced that he would call a plumber. She
protested that she was nude and did not want to be exposed like that to a
stranger. Her husband replied that she could just fold her arms over her
breasts. She was crying and upset, and yelled that her privates were on display
as well. He went and got his yarmulke, put it over her crotch, and called the
plumber.
The
plumber came, saw what had happened, thought for a while, and said:
“I have
good news and bad news.”
“What’s
the good news?”
“I can
get your wife out without any trouble.”
“What’s
the bad news?”
“It’s
too late for the rabbi!”
Bad Breath and Smelly Feet
There was once a young couple who were blessed with a son. They doted on him, but as he got older, they noticed that his feet smelled unbelievably bad. At first they thought it was just the way boys were, but others noticed, and finally they took him to see a specialist in smelly feet. This doctor acknowledged that their son’s ailment was so far beyond his training that they would have to consult the world’s top smelly feet expert. After numerous tests, and much money being spent, the great man admitted defeat, and told them their son would just have to live with the problem.
Another
young couple, about the same time, had a daughter, who was lovely, and they
were very proud and happy. But soon, they noticed that she had exceedingly bad
breath.No
amount of brushing of her teeth, rinsing out her mouth with various
mouthwashes, no amount of flossing seemed to help. Her breath still smelled
terrible. As she grew older, her parents became increasingly concerned, and
took her to several dentists. Ultimately, they were referred to the world’s
greatest specialist in bad breath, who ordered a battery of tests, and personally
examined her mouth. After a long period of treatment, he, too, admitted defeat,
and told the parents they would just have to accept the reality that their
daughter would always have terrible, smelly breath.
In the
course of time, the two grew up, and as luck would have it, met, fell in love,
and married. On their honeymoon, both were anxious, he, about his smelly feet,
she about her bad breath. He went into the bathroom first, took a long soak in
the tub, scrubbed his feet as much as he could stand, put on his pajamas, and
was ready for the marital bed. As he went to open the door to leave the
bathroom, he noticed his socks, and not wanting to carry them into the hotel
room where his bride waited, tossed them behind the bathroom door. The bride,
when he came out of the bathroom, went in herself, and did her best to deal
with her bad breath. She flossed, she brushed, she rinsed with mouthwash. She
even took a couple of breath mints before she joined her new husband for their
first night of love.
She got
in bed, and they embraced and kissed. He recoiled instantly, exclaiming, “You
ate my socks!”
The Cherry Tree*
Jean Evans swore that the following was a true story of her mother’s childhood in Russia. At the time, pogroms against Jews were not unusual, and Jews lived very carefully among their Russian neighbors.
Jean’s
mother lived with her grandfather, the local rabbi, whose house was near the
home of the orthodox priest. There was a magnificent cherry tree in the
priest’s front yard, and the cherries naturally were a temptation to the little
girl, who was about ten.
One
spring, when the tree had flowered and set its fruit, and the fruit was
beginning to show red and beautiful, the rabbi walked with his daughter to the
priest’s yard, and stopped in front of the tree.
“My
dear,” he said, “Under no circumstances must you ever go into the priest’s
yard. And certainly, you must never even think of climbing that cherry tree,
and taking any of its fruit. The priest would be very angry, and there is no
telling what terrible things he might do to us.”
She
promised. But each day on the way to schul,
she had to pass the tree, noticing how red and beautiful the cherries were.
Finally, one day, she could stand it no longer, and looking carefully around to
make sure the priest was not around, she quickly slipped into the yard,
shinnied up the tree, and began to stuff her mouth with cherries.
Suddenly,
she was terrified to feel a hand grasp her leg, and heard the priest shout,
“Come down out of my cherry tree” She was so scared that she lost control, and
peed all over the priest as he dragged her out of the tree. Furiously angry,
the priest grabbed her by the ear, and hustled her all the way home to the
rabbi’s house.
“Your
granddaughter has not only invaded my yard and stolen my cherries, but she has
urinated on me. This is unforgivable and she must be punished.”
The
rabbi apologized for the behavior of his granddaughter, and assured the priest
that he would deal with her appropriately.
When
the priest had left, the rabbi took his granddaughter across his knee, and
spanked her hard. “I told you not to go into the priest’s yard. This is for
going in his yard.” She cried. He spanked her a second time. ”And I told you not
to climb his cherry tree. This is for climbing his tree.” She sobbed. He
spanked her a third time. “I told you not to take his cherries. This is for
stealing his cherries.” Then, as his granddaughter continued crying, he reached
into his pant’s pocket and took out a kopeck. “And this is for peeing on the
priest.”
The Mother Superior*
[I heard this story told in mixed company by a Jesuit priest!]
A new
highway was being put through just down the hill from a convent. The young
novices were very interested in the men working on the new highway, and
particularly in their colorful language. The Mother Superior noticed that the
young women were practically hanging out of their windows in order to hear what
was going on below.
As soon
as she saw what was happening, the Mother Superior scolded them, and sent them
off to another part of the convent so that they would not be able to observe or
hear what was happening. She, herself, sailed down the hill, and demanded to
see the person in charge. The boss of the job came over, and asked her what was
the matter.
M.S.:
My innocent young novices have never been exposed to the kind of filthy
language that your men are using down here. I demand that you put a stop to it!
Boss:
Now, Mother, don’t be upset. These men don’t mean any harm. They work hard, and
they call a spade a spade.
M.S.:
Spade, Hell. It’s a “fucking shovel!”
The Sisters of Mercy House of Prostitution*
A traveling salesman was driving along the highway, when he saw a huge billboard, proclaiming that only ten miles ahead, he would come to the Sisters of Mercy House of Prostitution. He could not believe his eyes. Thinking it a joke, he drove on and forgot about it. But in a few more miles, he was another billboard: “Sisters of Mercy House of Prostitution, only 5 miles.” Now he was curious. As a good Catholic, this went against everything he believed in. He thought about stopping out of a sense of duty.
Then a
third sign: “Sisters of Mercy House of Prostitution, 1 mile.” He made up his
mind to stop.
And suddenly,
there it was, with a great sign out in front: “Sisters of Mercy House of
Prostitution.”
He went
up to the door, entered a vestibule, and was confronted by a little window and
a hanging bell. He rang it, and after a few moments, heard the sound of
footsteps. The window in the door opened, and a face appeared.
Sister: Yes?
Traveler: I saw your sign…
Sister: Come
in through the door on your right, go down the hall to the end and through that
door and you will find what you are looking for. $20, please.
Traveler: (Pushing $20 through the window) Thank
you.
The
traveling salesman went through the door indicated, found himself in a hallway,
and walked on down the hall to the door at the end. He pushed it open and went
on through, finding himself again outside the “convent.” He looked back, and
saw a sign on the outside of the door:
YOU’VE
JUST BEEN SCREWED
BY
THE
SISTERS OF MERCY
The Organ-Grinder’s Monkey*
A man wanted to have a baby. He consulted friends. All told him, just have sex with a woman. But he responded that he did not want to be a father by having sex with a woman. He wanted to feel his baby inside himself, just as a woman does, and to give birth to it himself. All his friends told him he was crazy. Finally, someone he talked to told him about a gypsy who might be able to help him.
He went
to see the gypsy. The gypsy listened to his story, and gave him the same advice
his friends had. Have sex with a woman, and you’ll have a baby. But when he
insisted that that was not what he wanted, and explained about wanting to feel
his own baby inside of himself, she relented, and gave him special advice. It
cost him plenty.
The
gypsy told him to shut himself up in his apartment with all the food he would
need for two weeks, and to eat all he could hold at every meal, but not to go
to the bathroom except to pee. No matter how great the pressure, he was to hold
it in, and not let himself take a shit. After two weeks, to the minute, she
promised, he would have a baby.
The man
struggled for the two weeks, eating all he could cram down, but somehow,
holding it all in and never going near the toilet except to pee.
Finally,
at the end of the two weeks, on a wonderful warm spring day, with all the
windows open to the warmth of the May day, as the time ticked off to the end of
the two weeks, an organ grinder passed by in the street below. Just as the man dropped
his pants and let fly with the two weeks accumulation of shit, the organ
grinder’s monkey came in through the open window, and ran right behind him. It
was covered with a torrent of shit.
He
turned around, saw the monkey dripping shit, and shouted with great joy:
“You’re
the dirtiest, shittiest little bastard I ever saw, but I don’t care. You’re
mine, all mine!”
The Funeral
All the children in the neighborhood where the minister lived knew that his son loved to preside at funerals for their pets, and were happy to call on him for his services. On one occasion, a little girl went to him for solace when her canary died. The little boy told her to put the canary’s body in a shoebox, dig a hole big enough to hold the box, and then invite all the kids in the neighborhood to come for the service.
The Funeral
All the children in the neighborhood where the minister lived knew that his son loved to preside at funerals for their pets, and were happy to call on him for his services. On one occasion, a little girl went to him for solace when her canary died. The little boy told her to put the canary’s body in a shoebox, dig a hole big enough to hold the box, and then invite all the kids in the neighborhood to come for the service.
At the
appointed time, the minister’s son knelt at the grave, took off his cap, and
ordered all the other kids to take theirs off.
He took
the box with the canary’s body from the little girl, and slid it into the grave
as he intoned:
“In the
name of the Father, and in the name of the Son, and in the hole he goes.”
Dad and the Turkey
When Dad was about five years old, being the youngest of nine children, he was the only one home after the other eight went off to school in the morning. One day, his mother said: “Harry, let’s walk over to the Parsonage. It’s not far, and I want to take the minister’s family a turkey for Thanksgiving.”
Arriving
at the parsonage, she knocked on the door, and the minister’s wife came out. My
grandmother said, “Mrs. _____, we want you all to have a very nice
Thanksgiving. We hope you’ll enjoy this turkey.”
The
minister’s wife happily accepted the turkey, and quickly responded: “Thank you
so much, Mrs. Jones. Do it again real soon!”
Favorite Quotations
I have
always envied the English this aspect of their governing. Occasionally, there
is that light touch. Perhaps we have it, too, in our history, though it is not
very much in evidence in our Congress now.
Winston
Churchill was challenged in the House of Commons by a back bencher, complaining
that the Prime Minister had ended a sentence with a preposition. Without any
hesitation, Churchill responded: “This is the sort of nonsense up with which I
will not put.”
In October 2006, a friend at the YMCA quoted Albert Einstein, ‘the wisest man ever,’ as saying that the way to be happy is to get up early and stay up late. My rejoinder was to cite Somerset Maugham with the quote below.
Hearing
criticism that he was undisciplined, Maugham replied: “That is not true. Just
for the good of my soul, I do two things every day which I don’t want to do: 1)
I get up in the morning; and 2) I go to bed at night.”
One-liners
Heard
at a bar: “If I told you that you had a beautiful body, would you hold it
against me?”
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Personal
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
"Gifts” Received from Others
I had turned 50, I think, before I realized that my father had given me the great gift of tenderness. As I have put it, I came to see that my father was my Mother, and my mother was my Father. He was a very sentimental man, for all his manliness. He was kind, thoughtful, and most generous. I like to think that I am a lot like him.
Mother
was more practical than he, and did all the little things around the house that
you would expect the man of the house to do. But, as she said of Dad, he
graduated from VMI with a degree in Electrical Engineering, but couldn’t change
a light bulb. He was not gifted that way, nor am I! I recall the time when we
had a leaky faucet during the depression when there was no money to speak of.
Mother called a plumber and asked how much they would charge to fix the faucet.
They said “$5.00.” She said “never mind,” went to the hardware store, bought a
monkey wrench, some washers, and some packing, all for less than $5.00, and from
then on, she repaired leaky faucets herself. What did she give me? She modeled
not whining when things were difficult, but pitching in and doing your part.
She was raised in a family which had plenty, including servants to do the dirty
work. She suddenly found herself without servants when the depression hit, and
she taught herself to cook at age 40. She also went to the school board and
applied to be a substitute teacher. I recall asking her what subjects she
signed up for, and she calmly said, “All of them.” I allowed as how she might
have more confidence than ability. I was wrong. She was a great teacher, and
friends who had her told me she had no trouble keeping discipline in her
classes. She knew no fear. She was tough. And she was smart, too, without
having to be a show-off. She had two B. A.’s because Papa Joe, her father, told
her that any woman who had graduated from a southern college was not educated.
Despite having a degree from Converse, a very fine women’s college in the
south, she went to Smith College for two additional years and got a B. A. there
as well.
My
grandmother, Mother’s mother, whom we called Mama Joe, taught me generosity. We
used to say that you had to be careful not to look at Mama Joe’s plate at
dinner, because if she thought you wanted something on her plate, she wouldn’t
be able to eat it. She was born right after the Civil War, in 1866, I think,
and those were hard times in the South. She learned to watch every penny. I’ve
seen plenty of times when someone would wish for something for dessert, and she
would go to her locked cupboard, and always be able to come up with a piece of
cake or pie. It was often so old it was hard as a rock, but some custard from
the icebox would make old cake taste pretty good.
I also
learned solitaire from her. She had servants, so she had plenty of time to
herself. If the sun shone, she was out in the garden. If it rained, there was
solitaire. She was loving, never criticized, and was enormously patient with
everybody, including her servants. She had a hard time being a straw boss. Papa
Joe is remembered for writing his name with his finger in the dust on top of
the piano in the parlor, his way of letting her know that the servants were not
doing their jobs.
I guess
Papa Joe’s gift to me was enjoyment of games. He was a great businessman, very
successful, but by the time I came along, he had lost all his money. I knew him
in retirement after his best years. He also taught me not to take religion too
seriously. I don’t mean that he was not a man of faith. He was, and he was both
a founder of and a consistent supporter of his church, the Oakland Avenue
Presbyterian Church in Rock Hill SC. But he would never have understood, nor
would he have approved of what is happening in our society today. He had great
admiration for the ARP’s as he called them (Associated Reform Presbyterians).
They were radically conservative, fundamental in their theological doctrine. He
admired them not for that, but for the fact that if they gave their word, a
businessman did not need anything in writing. Somehow, I doubt they would have
been comfortable with the way religion is being used politically.
Joe
Woodson, my first CPE supervisor, gifted me with comfort with my own craziness.
I cannot thank him enough, because that made my life livable. Once I recognized
that it wasn’t just the patients at Boston State Hospital who were crazy, I
could begin the struggle to accept myself as I am, and to try to use myself
effectively. I was able to stop trying to be someone I am not, and also to stop
trying to convince people that I was not the person that I am. What a burden
that took off my back! When people accused me of being crazy, I could now
respond, “Yes, I know. That’s the best part of me!”
Joe
modeled that in his supervision. I have found that not being afraid to be
called crazy or weird gives you quite an edge in your work. Many people in CPE
circles dismissed Joe as crazy, but I learned that he was crazy like a fox.
More than anyone I ever knew, he communicated directly from unconscious to
unconscious. When I later read The Family
Crucible, I was reminded of Joe. I forget the name of the psychiatrist who
coauthored the book, but he had that same quality. He said he needed a
co-therapist so that he could get right into the unconscious with the family,
knowing that his co-therapist was out there keeping an eye on things.
Who
else? Emily Jean (absolute integrity and love is always enough), Joan (that I
am or can be homicidal), Jean (passivity kills a relationship), Dave (true friendship
cannot be defined, and it has no time or space limits), Harry and Roddey (you
can totally disagree on almost everything and still respect and love), Kitty
(as close to agape as I know), Perry
Lee (so different from me, but beloved), Randy, Jr. (I love a stranger.),
Caroline (I love someone who is so much smarter than I am, and it is OK.),
Lenore (I can stand being helpless to help, and not run.), Catherine (models
living her life without apology, while still loving me very much.), Jean
McClarin (Another stranger! 18 years together and I do not know her now, nor
did I know her then. Taught me I was too young to get married, too innocent to
be in a marriage relationship.)
Heroes
Gandhi: if focused and determined, and with vision, you can do almost anything.
Gandhi: if focused and determined, and with vision, you can do almost anything.
George
Washington Carver. Jesus. Martin Luther King, Jr.
What
appealed to me in these men was their intensity, their vision, their
commitment, and their dogged persistence in pursuing their dreams.
I can
recall wishing I could find a cause I was willing to die for. WWII was sold
this way, in all the propaganda, and I felt guilty because I was not that
patriotic, though I was too chicken to stand up and say so. Of course, I
discovered very quickly that very few of my fellow GI’s felt the way the
propaganda and John Wayne said they should. There is a part of me that still
looks for that cause. I guess I know I’m not going to live forever, and how
nice it would be to go out that way!
Friendships
As I look back over my life, I see very few friendships. Perhaps that’s because I define friendship very narrowly. Maybe it’s because I do not easily reveal myself. Odd, I always thought of myself as someone who was out there, transparent, but the longer I live, the more I feel like a fraud in this respect.
My
first friend was Frank Dusch. Frank’s parents were divorced (a terrible thing,
we all thought), and he lived with his father two houses away from me. Frank
missed his mother, I think, because he spent a lot of time with mine. And she
looked out for him. Frank and I had a “six-Sat” arrangement. Every Saturday
morning at six in the morning, either he came over to my house, or I went over
to his. This involved the excitement of pebbles on the window, sneaking out of
the house, and doing something together that no one else knew about. We built a
fort in the back lot one Saturday. I can’t remember all the things we did, but
“six-Sat” was very big. Frank and I lost touch over the years, but, when I was
headed out to Japan, I wrote him (His mother was a Cannon, and he was an
executive at Cannon Mills by this time.) and asked him to set us up with linens
for the trip. He was happy to do so. I have had no contact with him since, and do
not know if he is still living.
My
cousin, Barron Roddey, was almost exactly the same age as I. His father was my
mother’s younger brother. When we went to Montreat in the summers, Barron was
almost always there. His oldest brother, Dunnie, was the same age as my
brother, Harry, and they hung out together. Barron and I were four years
younger, and they wouldn’t give us the time of day. Poor Roddey was in between,
and had no cousin. Neither pair would allow him to be a part of their doings.
Barron
and I enjoyed getting into mischief together. Two memories stand out.
1)
We wanted one of the nice ripe peaches
from the fruit safe hung on the back of Mama Joe’s house in Montreat. Mary,
Mama Joe’s cook, would have been glad to give us a peach each, though she would
have given us grief at the same time. But it was much more fun to search for
the perfect sapling, cut it down, attach an old paper clip or hook of some kind
to the end of it, and then, lying on the bank above the kitchen (this was the
mountains, and the dirt had to be cut out to make a place to build the house,
leaving a 15-foot wall at the back of the house), quietly lift the latch of the
safe, spear a peach, and slowly and carefully reel it back in. I think we
removed the peach from the hook, and carefully and painstakingly relatched the
door of the safe, too.
2)
We loved the adventure of frog gigging.
Lake Susan was a central feature of Montreat from my earliest days. And at
night, you could hear the frogs. Some of them were pretty good sized. We’d go down
there with a good flashlight, take off our shoes, walk along in the shadows
until we came to a big frog, previously located by shining the spot from the
bank. Then holding the spot on the frog with your left hand to “freeze” him,
you grabbed him with the other. Big frogs like to lie in the shallow water with
their legs out behind them, so you could grab the legs with one finger between
the frog’s legs and one on the outer side of the two legs. Then, no matter how
slippery (and they were very slippery), the frog could not escape. I never
enjoyed killing them, but how would you get to eat the legs if you didn’t?
3)
On another occasion, Barron and I had to
exercise a little more ingenuity in order to have our frog legs. Dr. Anderson,
President of the Montreat Cottage Owners’ Association, and Montreat College,
was the “power” structure of Montreat. Perhaps there were complaints about us
gigging frogs, but at any rate, a law officer was hired from Black Mountain,
and began patrolling the lake to prevent our gigging, and generally to maintain
the peace during the confeences. I forget which conference was on at the time
of this incident, perhaps the Women’s Conference. At any rate, when we arrived
down at the lake to gig some frogs, we went to the little platform where a
diving board and tower used to be, next to Assembly Drive, just below the Inn.
The law officer was there, packing his pistol. We engaged him in conversation
for a while, commiserating on the devilment the kids got up to these days. He
was all business. They were going to be in for a surprise.
Barron
and I then walked a good ways up Lookout Road, up onto the trail, and lit a
firecracker with a very long, 10-minute fuse (we had done some careful research
and preparation that afternoon), came back down the road about 200 yards, lit
one with a bit shorter fuse, and repeated the process all the way down the
mountain to the lake, just giving ourselves time to join the law officer to
renew our earlier conversation before the first firecracker went off, close to
the lake. Off he rushed to catch those d____d boys, with the carefully delayed
firecrackers leading him ever higher up the mountain.
We had
our frogs and were on the way home long before he got back.
We also
raided the Anderson Auditorium for the little booklets about Montreat, because
the paper was nice and heavy, and we could cut them up and make bullets out of
them for shooting with a slingshot. We had lots of wars with other friends and
cousins. We held our own with Harry and Dunnie, even, until they began making
guns out of the slats that held bundles of shingles, nailing a couple of pieces
of shingle to the slats for handles, then making ammunition out of strips of
old innertubes. A clothespin stolen from the line and nailed to the back end of
the slat made it possible to put the innertube over the end of the slat,
stretch it back to the clothespin, fasten it in, then aim it and fire it by
pushing on the clothespin to make it release the innertube. When you got hit with
one of those things, it really smarted.
I also
ran with Buck Troutman in Montreat for a while. And Pete Schmitz and Stanley
Paul. But I don’t recall any mischief. I think all three were in the clubs with
me.
In High
School, we had a little clique, called Eta Beta Pi, which was a take-off on the
fraternities and sororities. We pronounced it “Eat a bite of pie.” I forget all
of the members, but Web Chandler, Nancy Outland (the two later married), Doris
Schmoele (my steady) and I were in it. We did things together. Then I broke up
with Doris and started going steady with Laulie Belle Friedlin. I don’t recall
how that impacted Eta Beta Pi.
During
WWII, I don’t recall any close friends, except for bridge buddies, and they
were not close. In college, it was the same. I knew a lot of guys, but was
close to no one.
In
seminary, I played a lot of ping pong, instead of studying. There was one guy,
Morrell Robinson, who always made it to the finals of the annual tournament,
only to lose to me. Except the year he pointed out to me that I always grabbed
the seam of my left pants leg with my left hand when I hit a slam. I couldn’t
hit anything after that and he won. Morrell would come and stand outside the
double doors of the library and look at me sitting at a table trying to study.
He’d wave the paddles and ball back and forth, and I’d be a goner. Of course, I
had chosen to sit at the table facing the doors! This happened with some
regularity. We’d go down to the basement and play ping pong until the library
closed. I wonder what ever happened to Morrell?
After I
graduated from Emory, Jean McClarin and I went to Yale University School of
Oriental Languages under the auspices of the Board of Missions of the United
Methodist Church, to study Japanese language and culture. There I met Dave
Swain. He and I shared a gift for languages, and soon hit it off. This
continued in Japan, where we were at the Naganuma Language School in Tokyo. We
were so good and our learning pace so fast, that the principal had a hard time
finding anyone else who was able to learn at our pace. He’d move us out of the
class we had been in because the others couldn’t keep up with us, but the same
thing would happen in the next class. Finally, he gave us our own teacher in a
class for just the two of us. I guess that cemented our friendship. It has
persisted through nearly 60 years. I think true friendship is like this. You
may not see each other for several years, and then, you are together and it is
just like it always was.
I have
written elsewhere about our ToKaiDo trek, when we took the last two weeks of
language school and walked from Tokyo to Kyoto, a distance of about 300 miles.
Dave sent me a copy of a picture I took of him standing on the old road,
talking to a farmer. I had lost my negative, and I appreciated it very much.
The picture hangs in our dining room.
In
2004, Dave and I celebrated the 50th anniversary of that trek by
driving down the DelMarVa peninsula together and visiting historical sites.
Again, David did all the research, and I went along for the ride. Great fun. And
a few years ago, we did an UGRR (Underground Railroad) trek by car in upper New
York State. Dave’s brother, Bill, joined us.
The
bonds of friendship are very special.
A few
years ago, Ron Henderson, spouse of one of Emily Jean’s residents at St. Luke’s
Hospital and I became friends. It was nothing like the friendship with Dave,
but we worked out together for two years three days a week, were part of a
Foodies Club, and had each other over for dinner with our spouses a few times.
We hated to see them move to Suffolk, but Mary found a good job down there. We
talk on the phone occasionally. Ron is the one who told me about 23andme. My DNA report just came, we were
on the phone not ten minutes ago, comparing notes, to see if we have common
ancestors/relatives. They’re moving to Fredericksburg VA which is closer. Good.
Emily
Jean is my best friend. We met through the ACPE, when she sat in to observe a
Certification Committee subcommittee. The thinking at the time was that if
people in the process could experience a committee’s functioning without the
anxiety of trying to pass, it might help them when the time came for their
official appearance. We met a candidate, the session ended, and we debriefed.
Afterwards, we all sat around talking, while waiting for the next session to
begin, and Emily Jean remarked that she had decided not to keep her appointment
with the National Certification Commission. I was much impressed, because I
knew she was going to sacrifice the enormous fee she had already paid for that
appearance. I thought that anyone who could make a choice like that had to be
pretty mature. So she was on my radar after that, and when Joan Dominick and I
separated, I called Emily Jean for a date. We had one in Brooklyn, where she
lived at the time. It was near disastrous, to hear her tell it, with me
anxiously prattling, ignoring the carefully chosen jazz music she was playing,
trying to find out if I appreciated music. She found out. I attempted a
reconciliation with Joan, canceling a second date I had made with Emily Jean,
but that did not work out, so when the Regional Conference was held in Puerto
Rico, we had another date, which led to a passionate kiss, standing in theh
warm waters of the Caribbean, other fireworks, living together in Brooklyn for
nearly two years, marriage and working together at two hospitals for a period
of nearly 15 years. We celebrated the 35th
year of our relationship in 2012.
We have
had our struggles, but there is mutual love and commitment which has not
failed. And Cinco de Mayo…
Health/Fitness
I have always been on the small side, 5’ 9” or less, probably 5’7” now. But I have always been active, well-coordinated, so that I was above average in the sort of pick-up games we used to play. I was never the last one chosen, that painful fate of some children. And I was pretty healthy all my life until recently.
I had
the normal number of accidents growing up. I broke my left arm jumping out of a
swing in Mama Joe’s back yard, competing with my cousin, Barron, to see who
could jump the furthest. I won, but I went up and then down, rather than out
for distance. I recall reading Mama Joe’s notation in her diary many years
after her death. I’ve forgotten the exact date, but I think it was July. Her
entry was cryptic, to the effect that Randolph broke his arm jumping out of the
swing. It’s still a little bent where they set it wrong.
I seem
to have had weak ankles, and when I was about 10 or so, had a series of sprains
which slowed me down. Then, when I was 12, I was carrying telegrams for Western
Union in Montreat, and turned one pretty bad coming down a hill. I went to a
house nearby, explained that I had sprained my ankle, asked them to give me a
tea towel that I could make a bandage out of. In Scouts, I had learned all
kinds of bandages, including the ankle bandage, so I knew just what to do. (I
still do.) I tied on the bandage, and began to limp back toward the Assembly
Inn, where the Western Union office was. As I rounded Fellowship Hall beside
the lake, I had a long flight of concrete steps to go down, so I was hopping
from step to step on my good ankle, holding the sprained one up, when I
sprained the good one. I fell down the stairs to the bottom, not really hurting
myself except for the second sprain. So I took off the bandage, ripped it
lengthwise to make two bandages, bound up both ankles, and crawled home. From
that time on, my ankles were constantly turning because the ligaments had been
stretched.
Then at
VMI, I was playing softball with other brother rats, when I really got hurt. It
fell to my lot to be the catcher. I was unafraid, and a good catcher. So when
an opposing player was running for home after an infield grounder, I blocked
off the plate, planning to take the throw and tag him out. He was a big guy, I
had no padding or other protection except for a mask, and he hit my
outstretched left leg with all his weight, feet first. The bone snapped.
We had
arrived at V.M.I. in early September, and this was early October. For the rest
of my time there ( only one semester.), I was on crutches or walking with a
cane, so I was spared much of the inconvenience of walking the Rat Line. But
when the Enlisted Reserve, in which I had signed up, was called in March, 1943,
I was gone from VMI, and gimpy leg or no gimpy leg, during Infantry training, I
was walking the miles with the rest of the guys. I think it took the full time
of the war (3 years for me) before I could walk without limping. I have no
residual effects today.
I was
in the hospital only four times that I recall. The first was to have my tonsils
out. I remember quite well how nice it was to have all the custard ice cream I
wanted, whenever I wanted it, and driving my toy trucks around the blankets,
filled with pennies that visitors gave me..
The
second time was when Roddey and I were in the Boy Scouts, Troop 20, located at Ghent
Methodist Church not far from our neighborhood. We went on an overnight hike to
our campground. Morris Forsberg, our scoutmaster, was delayed getting out to
the campground, and we ran wild. Among other mischief, we chopped down a mighty
pine, causing it to fall right in the middle of a little lake next to the
campground, which we could use only because of the kindness of the owner of the
land. Then we had a war throwing sticks at each other, and used our only
partially built huts for ammunition, tearing them apart, and throwing them at
each other. Finally, exhausted, we had a big bonfire, burning up all the wood
we had taken from our destroyed huts, and a lot more besides. It was a huge
fire, and we danced around, in and out of the smoke. Unfortunately for Roddey
and me, there were a good many pieces of poison oak/ivy thrown in the fire.
After many years of growth in the woods, these vines can be as big around as
your arm, but still filled with poison. We got it so bad we had to be
hospitalized. My eyes swelled shut so that I couldn’t see. Roddey’s arms
swelled so that he could not bend his elbows. When we finally were discharged
from the hospital and brought home, Mother wasted no sympathy on us. She
delivered our meals to her and Dad’s bed where we both were, and we soon caught
on that I was to dip up a spoonful from one plate, hold it out, and Roddey,
able to see, would bring his mouth to it and take it. Then, he would dip a
spoonful for me, and put it in my mouth. This went on for about two weeks, when
we went back to school, only to be sent home by the school nurse because the
scabs on our hands were so terrible looking. When we came back to school wearing
white gloves, we were admitted.
The
third time I was in the hospital was also because of poison ivy. I was now in
the 84th Infantry Division, and we were having maneuvers in the
swamps of New Orleans, near Baton Rouge, I believe. I hated being there in all
the heat, being bitten by mosquitoes, and still being ordered around by dumb
non-coms. So when I noticed a few poison ivy blisters on my hands, I
deliberately rubbed them to make them worse, and wound up in the hospital
again. The palms of my hands peeled off, and scared me, but it was worth it.
The food was great, the beds were clean, and the nurses were lovely.
The
last time I was in the hospital was about ten years ago. Genevieve was about 12
or 13 and was coming to visit us. We had planned to take her to Dorney Park, so
she would be able to ride on the coasters. While her plane was in the air on
the way from Colorado Springs, I fell off a stepladder while pruning webworms
out of one of our walnut trees. Normally, such a fall would not have caused me
any problems. I know how to hit and roll. Unfortunately, I misjudged my
landing, hitting my right heel on the bottom step with all my weight on it. It
was smashed. I had to crawl to the back door, and into the
house to get help. Emily Jean was home, but did not, at first, hear my calling.
Finally, I got some help, was driven to the hospital, and kept overnight by the
orthopod, who was against operating to set the heel, pointing out to me that
research had indicated better results with allowing the heel to harden where it
was. So on the xray of the broken heel, I have four heels. The podiatrist told
me much later than it was a miracle I was not in a wheelchair for life. I count
my blessings, despite many problems stemming from that accident.
While
in the hospital on this occasion, a very funny thing happened. The orthopod who
was keeping me in the hospital overnight told me that he was sending over a
gadget for me to breath into. He emphasized that it was very important for
people my age to do this in order to prevent pneuomia. Genevieve had arrived,
thanks to a friend who met her at the airport, and Emily Jean, Genevieve and I
were in the room with the other patient. They were talking, and I suddenly
remembered what the doctor had said about the breathing gadget. I picked up the
microphone attached to the bed for the patient to call the nurse for help,
which goes over the loud speaker so that everyone on the floor can hear, and
when the nurse asked how she could help me, I said:
"The
doctor said I was supposed to get a blow job, and I want it right away."
There was a stunned silence from the nurse's station and Emily Jean and Genevieve stared at me in horror. Finally, the nurse responded, "Chaplain, I'll be there in just a moment to see what you need." I did get the device and I was able to avoid pneumonia, but the story has plagued me ever since!
I saw a
neurosurgeon over at St. Luke’s, where Emily Jean was Director of Pastoral
Care, about growing weakness in my legs, and he found that I had four discs in
a row, all of which were threatening to rupture. If only two, he would have
recommended surgery to fuse them. With four, it was impossible. He sent me to a
Physical Therapist, who worked with me, and guided me to the Fitness Department
of St. Luke’s, where I began an exercise program which I still follow, although
I now go to Planet Fitness, closer to our house. Had I not done this, I think I
would undoubtedly be in that wheelchair, or dead.
My
chiropractor was very helpful over this period. I went to see Dr. Mark Augello
on referral from Martha Frith Palm. I called her out in Sausalito CA and told
her I wanted her to fly East and give me an adjustment. She laughed, and agreed
to give me a referral to someone who used the same approach she did. I rely on
working out only now.
The
scoliosis of my spine resulting from walking on my injured leg without an
orthotic lift for nearly five years after the injury, has resulted in great
fatigue when walking. I used to be able to hike for miles without a problem,
but it’s always a cane now, and for more challenging situations (museums), I
use a rollator , and sometimes a wheelchair. I never make a trip any more
without giving careful thought to this limitation.
I also have
macular degeneration, which seems to be genetic. Both Mother and Kitty became
blind because of it, and Perry Lee told me about “eye vitamins” years ago, so I
know she had it. Mother’s father, Papa Joe, was blind in his last years, so I
suspect he had it, too. I was diagnosed with it some years ago, and have been
followed closely. So far it is “dry” macular degeneration, but it could switch
to “wet” at any time with dire consequences. Although the paper today had an
article about a new treatment for “wet” macular degeneration which is
miraculous.
Another
effect of macular degeneration is night blindness. I discovered it several
years ago when I visited Kitty in Charlottesville. I arrived just at dusk, and
it was raining. I heard lots of horns blowing, and to my astonishment,
discovered that I was in the wrong lane driving against oncoming traffic.
Fortunately, there was no accident, and I got back to my side of the road. Now
I am accustomed to planning carefully to drive only when the sun is brightly
shining.
Two
lens implants may have helped, but they have not solved the problem.
Another
problem I have is GERD. (Gastroesophageal reflux disease). This is pretty much
controlled by taking omeprazole once a day, more often if needed. Diet also
helps. I try to keep intake of certain foods to a minimum. Among them are
tomatoes, garlic, raw onions, citrus, caffeine, chocolate, all fried foods, and
fats. I remember one evening when we had a coupon for a local Italian
restaurant and went just as I was in the middle of a sort of outbreak of the
GERD. When the waitress came, I asked, “What do you have that has no tomatoes
and garlic in it?" There was a roar of laughter from customers at tables nearby.
Therapy
My first experience of therapy was with Dr. Paul Johnson, retired professor of Pastoral Counseling at Boston University. Dr. Johnson, after retirement, came to Japan under the auspices of the Board of World Missions of the United Methodist Church for a year to assess the needs of Japan for services in this field. He spent six months living and working in the Tokyo area, and six months in the Kansai (western Honshu), near Osaka. He was housed on our campus, at Kwansei Gakuin, and I was requested to manage his itinerary. In addition to doing this, I talked with him a great deal about personal matters, and I asked if he would give me counseling. He agreed, and I asked Jean, my wife, to go with me. She agreed, reluctantly, to go, but was unwilling to continue.
I
continued to work with him for several months. I don’t know what was
accomplished, except that Dr. Johnson urged me to go back to B. U. to work on a
doctorate in Psychology of Pastoral Care.
When I
got to B. U., I soon learned that anyone going into the field was expected to
do therapy in order to know themselves. I again asked Jean to accompany me. She
again declined. I went to see a psychiatrist to consult him about getting
“didactic therapy.” At the end of the hour, he asked where my wife was. I said
she refused to come. He said bring her next time. He then said that I did not
need didactic therapy, about which I had inquired. He said I needed therapy.
Jean
came with me the next week for the one session, then chose not to go back. I
decided to go on anyway for myself. It was the beginning of the end of our
marriage. The more work I did on myself,
the more I realized how much I was holding back my negative feelings in the
relationship. So I began trying to express them. The problems became worse.
Finally, I decided to separate from her. I was already living out at Boston
State Hospital a good bit of the week, coming home on week-ends. It was a
painful time for all of us, perhaps especially for the kids.
After
Joan Dominick and I had been married a year or two, I realized that she had a
problem with alcohol, and that I had a problem with rage. Friends encouraged me
to go to Al-Anon, and after much resistance, I did. I have no doubt it saved my
life. Had I not gone and gotten some relief and release with fellow-sufferers,
I have no doubt I would have killed Joan, and would have been in prison or
dead. It was not therapy, but it was wonderfully therapeutic. I kept my
identity as a minister hidden, wanting to be there as a person with the same
problem as everybody else, not as clergy. No one ever found out. But I was able
to give leadership along with everyone else. I remember doing a program on
anger one night when it was my turn. I invited everyone there who wished to
share, to tell about their own struggle with anger. Without exception, as we
went around the circle of nearly 30 people, all were struggling. One woman,
about 4 feet 10 inches tall, told how she blew her stack and beat her 6 foot
four inch husband over the head with her spike heels. There were many such
stories. I was in good company, and it helped a lot.
After a
while in Al-Anon, I got into therapy with a woman who had come through the fire
with an alcoholic partner, gotten training and become a counselor. She was a
good listener, but more importantly, she started every session with a question.
It was a question that I dreaded more and more each week. By this time I had
told her all my troubles with Joan and her drinking, and there were no more
surprises. Her question was always the same, “What do you want?” And my
answer was usually the same, for many, many weeks: “I don’t know.”
Finally,
I did know, and it was to stop living with an alcoholic and her abuse. So I
did. A year later, I ran into Joan on the street, and she looked like a
different person. We spoke, and I learned that she had begun going to A. A.
within days of my leaving. She had stopped drinking entirely, and had lost
weight. She looked like a million dollars. I was impressed, and felt that our
marriage deserved another chance, although I had already had a brief affair
with one woman, and one date with Emily Jean. I called Emily Jean and cancelled
a second date already made, telling her that I wanted to try to save my marriage.
She understood. I think it took me all of three weeks to determine that Joan
was what is referred to as “a dry drunk.” The alcohol was gone, but the abuse
was not. I left again, and Emily Jean and I resumed our relationship in Puerto
Rico.
When we
realized that something big was happening, we both, almost at the same moment,
made clear that we were not going to enter into a long-term relationship unless
the other was open to conjoint therapy. I recall the sense of relief when I
heard her pushing me to get therapy. I had wanted Jean to join me in therapy,
and she had refused. So we began doing conjoint therapy with Arthur Tingue, a
CPE Supervisor, Diplomate in the American Association for Pastoral Counselors,
and one of the founders of ACPE. Emily Jean had already been seeing him in both
individual and group sessions. Now she added conjoint with me, and I began
seeing him also in individual therapy. We continued four almost five years, two
before we married, and nearly three after. I’m quite sure this work with Arthur
accounts in large part for our still being together.
One
thing that became quite clear was that therapy was something to be resorted to
at any time our relationship seemed to be in trouble. After we moved to
Allentown, we found another therapist at one point and worked with her for
about six months. And we’re both open to going back if we feel a need to.
Aging
I know what aging is now. When you are young and you get hurt or have an ache, you know that in a short time, it will be history. When you get old, you know that it is not going to go away. With such a simple change of expectation, you know you have become old!
I went
to Boston University to work toward a Ph. D. in Psychology of Pastoral Care, and
decided to focus on Pastoral Care of the Elderly. My timing was right—had I
completed the dissertation and demonstrated some expertise in this then
burgeoning field, I would have had my future laid out for me. I’m very glad I
did not, because then I would have never gotten into CPE, which is where I
really belonged.
During
my first semester of residency, I decided it would be helpful to take a course
in gerontology, and joined the nurses in the Nursing School to take the course.
I recall that one of the nurses asked the professor for a definition of aging.
“Aging,” he replied, “is a process of becoming more and more like what you have
always been.” So wise. And so true.
I am
very comfortable getting old. I know that I will not live forever, although my
mother and father both lived a long time, and Mama Joe was over a hundred when
she died. I am glad to be here, glad to be without debilitating pain, and very
glad to have discovered that they have a beautiful hospice in Bethlehem. It’s
officially known as Hospice House of the Visiting Nurse Association of St.
Luke’s Hospital. I’m working on getting them to put up bluebird houses in their
back yard so I’ll have some when I get there!
If pain
gets bad, or my limitations increase so that I can do less and less on my own,
I expect I will not be so happy with the aging process, but, for now, it’s OK.
And I resent very much any assumption that I would prefer to pretend that I am
young. The “greeter” at Weis Market used to say as I came in or left, “Hello,
there, Young Fellow!” I hated it. I confronted him once or twice about it, once
very angrily. But I realized afterwards that it was my problem, because he is a
little dim. Besides, how should he be expected to recognize me when I come in,
among the thousands of people he sees every day. So, though it is irritating to
be called “young” when we both know I’m not, I let it go.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Poetry
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Haiku and other Poetry Through the Years
I would
be leaving out a big piece of my spiritual journey is I failed to include my haiku poems. In the section on Japan
(Vol. II), I related the story of a week-end at a Zen temple when a mixed group
of Japanese intellectuals and American missionaries wrote haiku poems and
shared them.
After
that week-end, I found that writing poetry, especially haiku, was a freeing experience for me, enabling me to give
expression to my deepest feelings that I was unable to express in any other
way. Each poem arises out of a specific time and place and my feelings about
what was happening at the time. Wherever I can recall the context, I will give
it.
1952
[On the occasion of the burial of my baby, or on later
reflection.]
I looked but did not see—
I heard rather than saw
The clods fall on the coffin.
And my
heart turned to stone.
Dec. 21, 1954
[National Training Laboratory Conference, Japan]
Poor flowers! Still bravely blooming
On the table by the window, hiding
Death behind their smiling faces.
Undated
Threatening thoughts, voices intruding—
Blank out, dethink.
Fear, despair, void.
Undated
Nightmare of soul-raft, roaring river.
Hate-faces line the banks, staring.
May 8, 1966
Wellesley, MA
Such a loveliness:
Our family is incomplete—
One empty chair.
Brown and yellow umbrellas
Glistening with Heaven’s kiss.
Spring again!
Undated
The eerie stillness
Of dawn’s darkness is shattered!
God paints us yellow.
Undated
Windblown, buffeted,
Bamboo kisses Mother Earth.
But when the sun shines…
Undated
Tiny shoot agreening—
Guard it well, my soul.
In time, a daffodil!
Undated
That sweet smell in the night air
When I stand close to you?
A red, red rose.
Fifties or Sixties
Storm’s terror and
Rain-sheets stilled.
Imagine that! The sky is blue!
Dark clouds pressed
Upon a weary world,
And a yellow rose wept one tear.
Tiny piper flit-flirting
With roseate wavelets
Ne’er wet his feet.
1964-67
Boston area
Time turns strength to rubble,
Present viewed with future’s eyes
O God, be near.
Yes! All bones and skulls, weathering.
When these bricks are gone,
God is still with us.
Bomb’s aftermath,
Beasts among the rubble,
Christ, then and now, in our hearts.
December 23, 1965
“Empathy with Schizophrenia”
(Written
during Clinical Pastoral Education Internship at Boston State Hospital.)
O God--
O God--
My skin crawls at the color of a
scream.
The
empty vastness of space is crushed
By the enormity of a baby’s tears.
How
could love ooze from a hairbrush?
The teeth of my soul grind and gnaw,
Tearing
my heart. I am destroyed.
Yet it will not end.
The
hate I feel feel feel before the pasted smiles—
They smile and simper their wooden
roles
Of
loving uncle, sister and son,
But I hear their heart-beat.
I know
the color of death. I smell
The stench of their hard shells
Covering
over fear, hate and self-pity
With the mean mask of Motherhood.
Is
there none to give me of himself?
Is there none to speak the
Life-giving
word to my starved soul?
O God--
Why?
O God--
When?
O God--
Teach my eyes to wait,
My ears to ponder the sweeter
sounds,
My heart to search for the door
To
what?
To life and the way of it.
O my
soul!
Suffer not my rebel feet to
Draw
back again. There is nought for thee
In the darkness there, hidden
Alone
from the outness, the noness.
Wait
not, o my soul, for a gift!
New ears and eyes and heart for
thee?
Take
now the shrill terror of the ancient
Babe into thy quaking heart, and
Of it
Life make.
Give it with quaking soul, and
Receive
it again.
So shalt thou know thine own pangs
Of birth.
So shalt thou live.
Scream, odious green of false faces—
No,
I’ll not give way.
Shriek, yea, cry aloud thy pleas
And
beckonings to doom’s darkness--
For me no turning now.
Ye shall not wound me more.
For me
now, an opening into the
Glory of a light-bursting tomorrow--
Today!
Today,
ah yes, today, I’ll kneel--
Today, I’ll kneel at the manger
For now
at long last, the star has shone,
His light been born for me.
August 7, 1968
[Overlook Hospital, Summit, NJ. For Jim Cooper and the
Turtle Group.]
Foaming sand, crashing waves—
A solitary mound wept
One snow-white egg.
February 1, 1976
[Visiting Caroline and Marv at their church in Denver,
during a sermon by the Minister of Finance, who was undoubtedly better at handling
money than at preaching.]
Ten thousand starlings
Clustering the pine branches—
I can’t hear you, Lord.
Oh, for a bird song
To sweeten my evening.
Winter chills my soul
Prairie tumbleweed
Blowing aimlessly about—
Yet courage takes root.
Pain behind my eyes—
Clanging, pounding dissonance.
Thus my spirit cries.
February 7, 1976
[Greymoor Friars, Garrison, NY, during Eastern Region
Conference. Written for Jean Gilbert, who was having a “down” time. We were not
in a relationship then.]
Wintry ungreen hills,
Cold snow-covered barrenness—
Season of waiting.
May, 1976
[Forest Lawn Cemetery, Norfolk, VA, while visiting my
son, Donald’s, grave—it was raining.]
Heart and leaden sky—
My baby boy’s stone is wet
With tears—mine and God’s.
June 29, 1976
Montreat, NC
I heard a bird sing
At midnight in the moonlight.
Lovely loneliness.
March, 1977
[With Catherine at Harvey Cedars, at the Jersey Shore.]
A long, cold winter—
‘Ere yet I looked, a crocus.
Lovely secret shared.
March 22, 1977
Overlook Hospital Chapel
Inconvenient
Rain trickles down my neck. Wet.
Listen! A crocus.
A rose blooming midst
A mad mob of daffodils—
Somehow out of place.
The dogwood, they say,
Is riddled, its bark peeling,
Its heart eaten out.
Where can I find joy?
If it’s not somewhere within,
Hidden from me, where?
Doing a new thing!
Making something new happen—
That’s where true joy is.
May 8, 1977
[On Eastern Flight 271 returning to Atlanta from the
Eastern Region, ACPE Conference in Puerto Rico, where Emily Jean and I had
“connected” in a very serious way. We fell in love during the conference
there.]
Suspended in blue
And kissed by apricot eyes
I am home again.
May, 1977
Red clay, Kelly woods
And lonely miles between us.
Apricot and blue.
July 3, 1977
[In June, 1977, I moved in with Emily Jean in Brooklyn.
Our third housemate was Bill Altham, a friend of hers from Union Seminary.
Emily Jean had a yellow cat, Butterscotch.]
Feigning interest
In butterflies, a yellow
Cat is watching me.
July 24, 1977
[I thought about writing Bill Altham a poem for his
birthday yesterday, and couldn’t. During the Judson Church service…]
I tried to enter
Your space, there to discover
And greet you. I failed.
How can I open
A flower for you ‘til I
Know who, what you are?
October 1, 1977
[Judson Retreat, Ivoryton, CT. Written upon hearing the
news that Al Carmines was in the hospital with a brain-stem aneurysm.]
Raining then and now—
God’s promise, the rainbow, glows
Brightest midst dark clouds.
November 17, 1977
[Emily Jean took me to a birthday party for her friend,
Linda Clark, not long after we began to live together in Brooklyn. Everyone
present except me had graduated from Union Theological Seminary, and were old
friends. I was feeling overwhelmed by knowing no one, and retreated into my own
head. I noticed that Linda was wearing an orange dress, and that her hair was
turning grey. This was my present to her.]
Orange persimmons—
Beautiful, but much nicer
When they’re touched by frost.
February 5, 1978
Judson
Behind massive walls
Our cloistered family lives,
Loving, quiet; here.
But in that great wall
A door opens to the world—
We go out gladly.
April 26, 1978
[Eastern Regional Conference, Lancaster, PA.]
I can’t remember,
But I thought I saw the sun
Bright gold this morning.
The mimosa, too,
With nightfall and black darkness,
Closes its eye-leafs.
June 7, 1978
I was ready when
The leaves fell from your drooper—
But, oh, my elm tree!
July 7, 1978
Far off in the sky,
A red-tailed hawk slowly sails.
Lonely, a clear view.
Sometime in 1978
visiting Bergen County Jail
A star fell on me!
O, let stars fall and touch them
Behind slatted bars.
June 22, 1980
[During Judson Service; Dad died September 16, 1979]
Oh, my Father, oh—
Lovely man. I remember.
Oh, oh, my Father.
July 28, 1981
CPE Retreat, Darlington
Under a rose leaf
I found a caterpillar
Chewing merrily!
April 21, 1987
[CPE Worship led by me. All wrote haiku poems and shared them. I read some of mine. I wrote this
poem, thinking about the cursor as I work with my computer.]
Busy buzzy bee!
Moving so fast to and fro
It can’t smell the flow’rs.
April 27, 1988
Our crocus are gone,
Our hosta are still buried—
But spring stirs my soul.
Summer, 1989
Rainy, then clearing,
Life’s like a summer shower—
Surprise! We’re all soaked!
Date uncertain
Chill soul-wind blowing,
Sere leaves quiver, soon will fall.
You will all leave me.
Dick Schaffer’s Birthday
October 5, 2005
In the autumn of life,
When the trees are all dressed up,
It’s leaf-peeping time!
Emily Jean’s Birthday
October 19, 2005
The days come and go,
With a rhythm all their own.
We’re here, and it’s good.
Catherine’s Birthday
October 23, 2005
Such a tiny seed.
How quickly it grew into
A beautiful tree!
2006 Haiku Diary Selections
[My New Year’s Resolution for
2006 was to write a haiku each day of the year. This is a selection from
those.]
Sunday, January 1st
2. I see a blue light—
Interstices of heaven.
O, please speak to me!
Friday, January 6th
[A friend, Sharon, was dying.]
9. Where is God today?
Auschwitz, Sago, Sharon’s bed.
God hurts with us all.
Thursday, January 12th
19. Growing old – the pits.
Just when you need ev’rything,
It’s hardest to get.
20. It ain’t right. It ain’t
Right. It ain’t right. It ain’t right.
We say: “It ain’t right.”
Sunday, January 15th
25. Hypocritical
Cynic that I am—O God,
Save me from myself!
Thursday, January 19th
33. “Walk on him! Wake him!
“It’s past five! Get up! Feed us!”
My morning greeting.
Saturday, January 21st
35. How much time is left?
Day by day, the time runs out.
There’s still time to love.
Saturday, January 28th
47. Sitting here alone,
Enjoying my solitude—
That is a blessing!
Friday, February 3rd
[Catherine asked us to board her cat, Joe, for a few
days/weeks until she could get into the apartment she had leased in NJ. Upon
reading the fine print (“No pets.”), Joe’s stay became a matter of months.]
62. Joe, cheese and water
Determined immiscible
On the table cloth.
Sunday, February 5th
65. The wind is blowing.
Old sailors wet their fingers
And then hold them up.
67. I won a race once
By gambling on a wind shift
To blow me home first.
68. Yet I know nothing
About making a new wind
To bring us all home.
Tuesday, February 7th
71. How I want to be
My own person! Our five cats
Are, effortlessly.
Sunday, February 12th
82. All snowed in today—
We’ll have a complete day off,
Enjoy being home.
Tuesday, February 14th
87. Drive the speed limit.
No telling how many lives
We can save that way.
Wednesday, February 15th
[Joe Duggan, former resident of ours, and former Jesuit
seminarian, then Roman Catholic seminarian, who contended unsuccessfully with
church authorities, became a very successful Human Resources
specialist with enormous responsibilities in his company. He left it to become
a candidate for ordination in the Episcopal church. After further struggles at
Episcopal Divinity School, he completed his studies, was ordained, and at the
time of writing, was in England, working at an advanced degree. He received his
Ph. D. from Manchester University. The "gators" reference those with
whom he contended.]
89. I celebrate Joe
Risen above the gators.
He will climb higher.
Thursday, February 16th
92 We’re in the middle
Between question and answer.
We are all Hamlet.
Friday, February 17th
[Em Finney’s brother, John, a world-class organist, came
to Packer Chapel, Lehigh University, to give a memorial concert for the mother
of Lloyd Steffen, Professor of Religious Studies and Chaplain of the
University. Em is Lloyd’s wife.]
96. And what’s this music,
If not God’s great miracle
Sent to fill our souls?
Saturday, February 18th
97. Lying in your arms
On a Saturday morning—
At home and at peace.
Sunday, February 19th
[One of the first times I attended Hope UCC, the
congregation sang “Happy Birthday!” to those who had a birthday in that month.
As we sang, they ate apples and honey. I was powerfully moved by this homegrown
ritual. I thought I was weird to be moved!]
99. Apples and honey!
God’s way of calling is strange.
Weird ways for weird folks.
[Ten of us—our Gathering―meet every other Sunday for “check-in,” discussion and worship. One Sunday afternoon, when we were meeting at our house at 5:30, we saw three bluebirds on a limb of our walnut tree over the holly bushes, red with fruit which they like to eat.]
100. Just at four today,
Three came for the Gathering.
Cold, hungry bluebirds!
Friday, February 24th
110. Catherine and Joe
Left for Phoenix this morning.
How quiet the house.
Tuesday, February 28th
115. Blue sky and white snow.
And I thought winter was done.
The groundhog was right.
Sunday, March 5th
130. The rainbow tells us
God, too, needs a reminder
To keep Covenant.
132. Look! Red oak-flowers
Telling of spring’s coming joy!
I love that color.
Wednesday, March 8th
[The Methodist Church put Rev. Beth Stroud on trial for
openly living with her lesbian partner, took away her ordination credentials. I
decided I could no longer be a Methodist minister, and surrendered my papers to
the bishop of the NY Conference, of which I was a member.]
143. Son and granddaughter
Both gay. If no room for them,
There’s no place for me.
Thursday, March 9th
147. Reading Canaan’s Edge.
Loved the poor, protested war—
We had to kill him.
Sunday, March 12th
160. In the wilderness,
There is darkness ‘til Easter.
We’ll welcome our Lord.
161. Rainy, gloomy day—
Seems to invite reflection.
So fitting for Lent.
Wednesday, March 15th
169. Caroline’s birthday!
All day quite aware of her—
I feel greatly blessed.
Monday, March 20th
181. “Headed for the Y.”
We should have bumper stickers
That tell our story!
182. The sky is all blue.
What are these snowflakes I see?
Supposed to be spring.
183. Patriotism.
We know how to hate and kill—
Can we learn to love?
185. “Swords into plowshares”—
This idea has been around
For a long, long time.
Thursday, March 23rd
194. I am alone now.
Emily Jean is away.
Thank God for the cats.
Friday, March 31st
209. A beautiful day
Warm, sunshiny. 74.
Where are the bluebirds?
Tuesday, April 4th
[A member of our congregation at Hope UCC in Allentown,
killed himself.]
218. I am a slow dirge
Of dark feelings. I just hold
Michele and her boys.
[I am aware of the feelings of the members of the congregation.]
220. Our pain’s palpable.
Let your love flow over us
And heal all our hurt.
Wednesday, April 5th
223. I can always choose
What I want to do and be.
It’s my business.
Sunday, April 9th
227. Snow fell yesterday.
Blanketed the ground, melted.
No, it’s not yet spring.
Monday, April 10th
229. We went for a drive
Through the Valley. Forsythia
Is really gorgeous.
Friday, April 14th
[My brother, Roddey, dug some of Mother’s daffodil bulbs
from her back yard when she died in 1990, and before the property was sold. He
planted them in his yard in Ashland, VA, dug them up and separated them and
offered me some of his surplus. I was delighted, planted them in a corner of
our yard where we used to have raspberries.]
236. I like Mother's smiles
Much better than raspberries
Down in the corner!
Sunday, April 16th
[My nephew, Jimmy, is in prison. We doubt he is guilty,
but he’s there.]
239. Jimmy, it’s Easter!
Beyond the bars, and within—
Our Lord is risen.
240. Sister Perry Lee
Is 90 today—Easter.
Happy Birthday, Dear!
Thursday, April 20th
[My urologist told me of a procedure which would relieve
the symptoms which accompany enlarged prostate. It’s called Transurethal
Microwave Thermotherapy.]
246. I have decided
To go for the microwave,
Gambling it’ll help me.
Saturday, April 22nd
[Our Gathering is writing “money autobiographies,” and I
conclude…]
249. Looking at money,
We soon come to see ourselves.
Upsetting pictures.
Sunday, April 23rd
[I began a mindfulness program which is to last ten
weeks, designed to help us learn to meditate and be more in touch with
ourselves. The body scan is an exercise.]
250. Finished body scan
With but a few excursions.
A sense of triumph.
[The Gathering created a worship service in which each of us wrote a haiku for the part of the service assigned to us.]
251. It feels very good
That my haiku
effort
Is making impact.
252. May the Holy One
Enhalo Nancy Adams;
Be her life’s power.
253. Go forth, you people,
Called of God to cast shadows
Of healing on all.
Tuesday, April 25th
255. I tilled the meadow
And planted wildflower seeds.
Now it’s up to God!
Friday, April 28th
259. I’m not sure I want
To be aware of my aches—
Too many of them!
Wednesday, May 3rd
266. Asparagus—Yes!
Breaking through leaves, standing tall,
To give us pleasure.
Friday, May 5th
[On May 5th, 1977, Emily Jean and I fell in
love, down in Puerto Rico.]
268. Cinco de Mayo!
We began on a big day!
Still the biggest yet.
Sunday, May 7th
272. The Best Shepherd trains
His border collies to do
What they love to do!
273. We begin the month
By gathering at table.
Feed your sheep, O Lord.
Monday, May 8th
[Our pastor, Bill Ragan, asked me to accompany him on
visits to shut-ins. Phoebe is a home for the elderly.]
274. Bill and I made calls
At Phoebe. My age and death
Loomed up before me.
Tuesday, May 9th
[We at Hope UCC were in the midst of an effort to become
“Open and Affirming.” This is UCC code for welcoming of gays and lesbians.]
277. I don’t understand
Why gays are so troublesome
To some of our folks.
278. I just know it’s so.
God help me be sensitive
To their pain as well.
Sunday, May 14th
Mother’s Day
[Every Mother’s Day during my childhood, Dad went into
the back yard and cut six red roses for Mother and us five children, whose
mothers were still living, and one white rose for himself, since his mother was
dead. We wore them to church that day.]
286. This tear in my eye
Is for my father. He brought
A rose for each one!
Monday, May 15th
287. Rainy day today—
The earth is very thirsty.
God loves wildflowers.
Monday, May 22nd
[At BJ’s, a woman was coming out of the Men’s room as I
went in. This is what she said to me!]
298. Entering Men’s Room,
A confused lady told me
“You’re in the wrong room!”
Sunday, May 28th
304. Iris are blooming.
Why can’t I remember when?
Next year, too, it’s May.
[I have a visceral negative response to the use of patriotism to manipulate our people.]
306. Let’s salute the flag
And never blame those who make
Our young people die.
Tuesday, May 30th
308. Maybe we’re addicts
To violence and killing.
It sure looks that way.
[My cousin, Gatewood Kistler, was a fine painter. This exchange took place shortly before her death.]
312. Who is an artist?
I think she’s a soul with eyes:
Never mind the rest.
Saturday, June 3rd
315. Let us not fear fear!
Manipulating our fear
Empowers false gods.
Sunday, June 4th
317. Pentecost today!
Let me be blown before it
The rest of my days!
Monday, June 12th
[Joe and I put up two of my bluebird houses at Wild
Meadows, their place in Bath Co., VA. We left early to return to PA.]
331. Five! We’re off, Lillie
And Joe. It was marvelous.
Now come on, bluebirds!
Tuesday, June 13th
[We are in the habit of calling our male bluebirds
“Sam.”]
333. Why, hello there, Sam!
It’s been a long time! Welcome!
Our bluebird’s arrived.
Thursday, June 15th
335. Sun shining today.
Nice rain yesterday, also.
The meadow’s blooming.
Wednesday, June 21st
342. Inexorably
Time rolls on, carrying us
To the next crisis.
Friday, June 23rd
[The urologist’s procedure is imminent.]
344. Three more days, and then
I’m in Gordon’s hands. Alas.
I’m really nervous.
[Joan Hemenway, our dear friend and then President of ACPE, lived until the end of January, 2007.]
347. I can’t believe it.
Our Joan has a brain tumor,
And not long to live.
348. Driving through the rain
Returning from seeing Joan—
Dark and gloomy day.
Sunday, June 25th
349. It doesn’t seem fair
That I, an old man, am left,
And Joan is taken.
Wednesday, June 28th
[To my lover, Emily Jean.]
354. Your love’s wonderful.
I thank you with all my heart
For that special gift.
Thursday, June 29th
355. I’d rather believe
That God is helpless than that
God just doesn’t care.
[About Joan.]
356. God’s heart is breaking
Because Her lovely daughter
Is living with Death.
[Sense of helplessness at Joan’s dying, along with expression of faith.]
357. A mighty wind blows
Us down a thundering sea—
Yet God is with us.
Friday, June 30th
358. Tomorrow I fly
Home to Montreat, family,
And our Reunion.
Tuesday, July 4th
366. You shoulda been here!
Unbelievable chaos—
Roddey Clan swarming.
Thursday, July 6th
369. Been away too long.
In that whole Montreat parade,
Nobody knew me.
Friday, July 7th
[My feelings after two nights and days with Dave and
Betty Swain.]
371. Thank you, my dear ones,
For a truly, lovely time.
It was “coming home.”
Tuesday, July 11th
377. Can it be my heart—
This tightening in my chest?
I’m not ready yet!
Wednesday, July 12th
380. The message is clear—
To follow Christ means trouble.
It will cost our lives.
Thursday, July 13th
381. I feel so empty.
Joan’s life is ebbing away
As I sit alone.
382. My emptiness fills
All my body and spirit.
This is my prayer.
Saturday, July 15th
385. Tell me about love,
All I need to know to live.
For my heart is full.
Sunday, July 16th
[I’m preaching at Hope UCC.]
386. O God, be with me.
Help me stay out of your way,
And bless your people
387. Thank you, Holy One,
For being present today.
We all felt you there.
Saturday, July 29th
[To Joan Hemenway and Jennifer Allcock]
404. To take a moment
To think of you, cherish you—
That is my prayer.
Saturday, August 5th
414. Saturdays are great!
My lover and old movies
Make time very rich.
Sunday, August 6th
415. Gathering today.
Is this three years, or just two?
It’s been life-changing.
Saturday, August 12th
[Emily Jean and I wrote this together to celebrate Nancy
K-M, one of our friends in the Gathering, who also gives us massages.]
423. Slender and stately,
The very soul of kindness—
She blesses us all.
Sunday, August 13th
425. Another cool night,
A blessing to our spirits.
Thank you, Lord. Thank you.
[Another Gathering friend is not well.]
426. We’re worried for Em.
God, let our love surround her—
Let there be healing.
Friday, August 18th
431. How much shall I tell?
And how little is enough?
My life’s Mystory.
[On this date, I suddenly was ready to finish my Spiritual Journey.]
432. Time for Volume Four!
I read the outline and click!
I’m gonna begin.
Monday, August 21st
[We’re heading to Bath County, VA.]
437. Hello, Virginia!
We’re coming down to meetcha!
Give us your best air.
Tuesday, August 22nd
[Wild Meadows, VA]
439. We’re finally here!
Wild Meadows and blue skies.
Inexpressible.
[Some call them “surprise lilies,” but most Southerners know them as “Naked Ladies.” They send up leaves in Spring, much like daffodils, but no bloom. Then suddenly, in August, after the leaves are gone, up comes a long stalk (30”) with a pink flower on it. Beautiful.]
440. Near the house, we were
Greeted by Naked Ladies.
What a warm welcome!
Thursday, August 24th
442. Magnificent sky—
A full bowl of azure blue.
And still—so quiet.
443. Wild Meadows whispers:
“Soul, hear this word—‘Peace, be still.’”
And my soul listens.
444. Green and blue intense
Assert the artist’s hand. Who
Has been at work here?
Sunday, August 27th
449. Trees are whispering
This morning. They are saying:
“Welcome to this place.”
Monday, August 28th
453. Three deer came and stood—
Tense, alert, jumpy, looking
Toward the painful cries.
[Emily Jean’s]
457. Rumbling o’er the hills
Signaling to thirsty earth—
“A drink is on the way.”
Wednesday, August 30th
460. It’s Randy’s birthday
Today. I wish I had been
A better father.
Thursday, August 31st
461. Rain. It’s raining. Rain
Falling steadily. Rain. Rain
So long waited for.
Saturday, September 2nd
466. The Gilberts gathered—
Family, ah, family.
We are truly home.
Sunday, September 3rd
472. Walking through the woods—
Beautiful quiet, silence,
Not even bird calls.
Saturday, September 9th
481 Breakfast with Diane
At the Emmaus Diner.
How nice to have friends!
Monday, September 11th
[Reflecting on 9/11.]
485. What did I lose then?
My innocence. Why such hate?
Surely we have fault.
487. Teach us love, O Lord.
Show us how to hold our lives
Lightly, loving all.
Sunday, September 17th
495. What’s community
If not the freedom to be
Your own nasty self?
Wednesday, September 20th
[Remembering Wild Meadows]
498. Cedar waxwings crowd
The trees, drop on the cherry,
Quickly pick it clean.
499. Is this how life ends?
Thoughts and memories fly back,
And gobble us up.
Tuesday, September 26th
[Edna & Edie’s last cat, Cocoa, had to be put down
shortly before Edna died.]
510. Donna’s Mom, Edna,
Died this morning. She’ll be missed.
Cocoa’ll welcome her.
Thursday, September 28th
514. I’ve started writing
My Spiritual Journey.
I think it is time.
Saturday, September 30th
517. Through the cloudy veil
Of misty falling water,
I see the sunshine.
518. Special day today!
Our 27th Wedding
Anniversary!
Sunday, October 1st
520. Good month, October!
Mother gave me a good start,
For which I’m grateful.
[Thinking of Edna and Cocoa]
521. Edna: “Cocoa!
Why in Heaven are you here?”
Cocoa: “Welcome Home!”
[Recalling our first trip together back in 1977]
522. That double rainbow
Up on the Blue Ridge Parkway—
What did it all mean?
Wednesday, October 4th
525. Listen to Amber,
My morning soporific,
Purring on my lap.
Thursday, October 5th
526. 82 today.
I’m a modern miracle,
Glad to be alive.
Sunday, October 8th
532. The Fall air is cool.
It is an omen of snow
Falling on my head.
Monday, October 9th
533. Nice warm day today—
Indian Summer, I guess.
It’s nice while it lasts.
Wednesday, October 11th
535. Looks like rain today—
And it’s getting colder, too.
Guess it must be fall.
Sunday, October 15th
540. Where do I find God?
Not sure. Any place will do.
Being hungry helps.
541. What to do when sad?
My best haiku
poems
Are made of sheer pain.
542. And what else to do?
The best loaves of bread I make
Are baked in anguish.
543. Agape is love—
The love I want to live out.
Lead me in that way.
Monday, October 16th
544. Speaking wordless words,
We rediscover true words
Speaking in our souls.
546. What’s a wordless word?
It’s a holy silence now,
A moment of truth.
547. Listen to silence,
See the hidden, catch and hold
Your own dark shadow.
Tuesday, October 17th
549. I’m
writing about
My spiritual journey.
This is my whole life!
Thursday, October 19th
[Emily Jean is ready to retire—now!]
551. Today’s her birthday.
Retirement’s one year closer;
She’ll be so happy!
Friday, October 20th
552. “Good-bye, dear Edna.
We hope to see you again
On that glorious day!”
Monday, October 23rd
555. Catherine’s birthday!
My youngest is forty-eight.
Unbelievable!
556. My dear Catherine!
I wish you a happy day,
And a happy life!
Sunday, October 29th
[Dave Swain and I visited sites on the Underground
Railroad in NY State, staying with his brother, Bill, and Bill’s wife, Molly.]
563. Harriet Tubman
Is a true American—
A first-class hero.
Monday, October 30th
564. The snow was falling
As we left Oneonta—
And our hearts were full.
Wednesday, November 1st
566. Planning the retreat:
How to find my true center—
How claim the real me.
Thursday, November 2nd
568. The sun is shining
And Ollie and I are warm
Sleeping in our chair.
570. The sun shines brightly,
And I think of my friend, Joan:
How to honor her.
Thursday, November 2nd
572. I’m writing for Joan.
She’s such a special person
And good friend to boot.
Saturday, November 4th
576. Repetitiousness
Guarantees burn-out for sure.
Can’t write a long time.
Sunday, November 5th
577. I am excited
About writing Volume Four.
Making good progress.
Tuesday, November 14th
586. Washing clothes today—
Emily Jean in Tampa.
Perry Lee, my heart.
587. You’re a terrific
Soporific, dear Amber.
We’ll soon be asleep.
Friday, November 17th
591. Now is all we’ve got!
Our calling: to live it up,
Make love ev’rywhere!
Saturday, November 18th
592. Look at the bricks—
Alyssum volunteers there
In between the cracks!
593. The Gathering’s here
At Mary Immaculate.
We’re finding ourselves.
Sunday, November 19th
595. My dear Perry Lee
Died this morning. I’ll miss
her.
She’s my big sister.
596. I missed seeing her,
I’m sorry to say. She died
Before I got there.
597. I give her over
To you, Holy One. Take her,
Give her joy and peace.
Tuesday, November 21st
599. I am sad today.
All the chances to visit
Are gone forever.
Wednesday, November 22nd
600. It’s hard to feel joy
At this Thanksgiving
Season.
My dear sister’s dead.
Thursday, November 23rd
602. Great Thanksgiving meal—
Bill, Peggy, Barbara, Ted
And us, family.
Saturday, November 25th
604. Driving home again,
And grateful for
Thanksgiving
With our special friends.
Monday, November 27th
606. Dearest Perry Lee,
I hope you are happy now,
At rest and at peace.
Wednesday, November 29th
609. End of an era!
Perry Lee was laid to rest
Yesterday. We’re changed.
610. Yesterday was rich—
We loved being family
And saying “Good-bye.”
Friday, December 1st
612. It’s almost Advent—
We hear Christmas bells ringing
The siren song to spend.
Saturday, December 2nd
613. Cantigas singers—
Lovely to see Lenore sing
With such abandon!
Sunday, December 3rd
614. Sitting at Judson,
Listening to choir practice—
I’ve come home again.
Wednesday, December 6th
617. Who’d have believed it?
I’m still telling my story
Writing haiku.
Friday, December 8th
620. On my lap again,
Amber’s working her magic
To put me to sleep.
621. May our good neighbors
Have a very good Christmas
And Happy New Year.
622. What dear friends you are!
You’re walking the path with us
All the way to God!
Saturday, December 9th
624. Kitty’s birthday’s soon.
I think how precious she is,
Now that Perry’s gone.
Sunday, December 10th
625. Missed Harry’s, Roddey’s
Birthdays. How did I do that?
I do love them both.
626. Tomorrow’s Kitty’s
Birthday. Have a good day,
My special sister!
Monday, December 11th
629. Kitty’s 88,
Japan’s age of indulgence.
She sure deserves it.
Tuesday, December 12th
[Posted to Caringbridge about Joan]
631. May your life be whole—
May you find serenity—
And may you know peace.
Thursday, December 14th
633. New Year’s Day Party—
First, invite 60 people,
Then leave for a week.
Friday, December 15th
637. Bought myself a gift,
For the kitchen. We needed
A toaster-oven.
Saturday, December 16th
638. It’s Lenore’s birthday.
It was a wonderful day
When you came to us.
Sunday, December 17th
639. Our choice: to rejoice
At all your wonderful gifts.
We thank you, O God.
Monday, December 18th
642. Do I want to write?
Or am I using Christmas
As my best excuse?
Wednesday, December 20th
644. We leave Christmas Day
To drive down to the mountains;
It’ll be a good break.
Friday, December 22nd
646. Today, Jalousie
With Diane and Nancy K.
It’ll be delicious!
Saturday, December 23rd
648. Eight more days to go
To the New Year, to fulfil
My Resolution.
649. What shall I promise
For Two Thousand and Seven?
Can’t think of a thing.
650. I know! I’ll finish
Up My Spiritual
Journey.
A worthy project.
Monday, December 25th
652. We’re on the way South.
Sad we won’t get to see Jim,
But glad to be Gilberts.
Tuesday, December 26th
653. Wild Meadows loves rain—
It’s so peaceful, so quiet.
My soul is at peace.
Thursday, December 28th
656. We’re on the way home.
Had a great time together
Up at Wild Meadows.
Friday, December 29th
657. How I love dear Em!
One New Year's Resolution
Is to love her more.
Saturday, December 30th
658. It’s been a great year—
I’ve enjoyed my haiku,
My resolution.
Sunday, December 31st, 2006
659. This is the last day
Of the Old Year. And I’ve kept
My resolution!
Haiku Since 2006
June, 2007
[At Kitty’s Memorial Service, Montreat]
We knew and loved you,
And knew that you loved us, too.
Go with God, Dearest.
November, 2007
Two Thousand Seven
A dark and unhappy year
Kitty and Roddey.
Ah, me, Jacob’s gone.
I’m glad we have the pictures
That show his sweet smile.
Thursday, January 17, 2008
[Edie Wilson’s Memorial Service]
Stubborn persistence—
A long life not long enough—
Beautiful cookies!
Saturday, January 19, 2008
If she was the block
From which the chip came away,
She was real special.
Sunday, February 10, 2008
[Outhouse incident ?]
Someone's after me!
Another narrow escape—
Can you believe it!
God’s out to get me—
Why am I so important?
I do not get it.
Monday, February 11, 2008
Genes and orange juice
Explain my wonderful teeth.
Thank you, dear Mother.
Thursday, February 14th, 2008
That beautiful tune
You feel in your inmost part
Is your Valentine.
Friday, February 15th’2008
Cold – cloistered within
Mary Immaculate walls,
Wintry leaves will fly.
Saturday, March 8th, 2008
Thunder, lightning, hail—
Wild Meadows is wild today,
Snowing and blowing.
Sunday, March 9th, 2008
Blue skies and bluebirds
Flitting and flying around.
What a warm welcome!
Saturday, April 19th, 2008
April the Nineteenth—
Incontrovertibly Spring!
Four asparagus.
Tuesday, April 22nd, 2008
Spring is wonderful!
So new, so delightful, you
Can almost taste it!
[We gave her a bunch of asparagus!]
Happy Birthday, Em!
Spring brings wonderful things to
Share with those we love.
Thursday, April 24th, 2008
My Daddy loved ‘em—
Called ‘em “asparagrass!” Yes!
He knew when ‘twas Spring.
March 21st , 2008
Wonderful woman!
Easter brings new life again—
As you do to me.
Thursday, May 22nd,2008
Losing your mother—
There’s no sorrow quite like it.
Such bleak loneliness.
Wednesday, Aug.13th, 2008
George and Vivian
Are moving today. I’m sure
It is a great loss.
Sunday, Sept. 14th, 2008
Sitting here alone
Trying to remember, but
My haiku’s gone.
Thursday, October 2nd, 2008
Summer’s gone, Fall’s here,
And so our lives have gone, too.
I thank God for you.
Wednesday, Dec. 31st, 2008
[We greeted Joe and Lillie at Wild Meadows in Bath Co,
VA, then Emily Jean came down with 24-hour flu, just as we were about to return
to PA, so we delayed for several days until she felt better. A high wind came
on New Year’s Eve, and down went the largest tree on the mountain, a huge old
oak about 150 feet high. It had rotted to the core.]
Hugs, bugs and snow, too.
How the mighty have fallen!
Two thousand and nine.
[We played Mexican Dominoes, and Rummi-Kub, and we all played to win. But nobody was more into it than Lillie’s friend, Beedee.]
Stones, tiles and blood flowed.
Though we all won and lost, ‘twas
Beedee P. D. Q.
Sunday, February 28, 2010
[John Peterson died on this day.]
Awesome! Wonderful!
That John could start his journey
With your sweet blessing!
O bright Maple Leaf!
You circled in the eddies—
Floated out to sea.
April 2012
[Emily Jean spent a week in Provence the last week of
April, 2012. I was very aware of her absence.]
I’m eating breakfast,
My lover is having lunch—
France is “over there.”
Sunday, May 13th, 2012
Mother’s Day
White roses for us,
Blooming down many years—
You blessed us with life.
We start life anew
Each day. That’s why we love Spring!
Ev’rything is new.
[Musing about writing haiku, and thinking about our Book/Movie group having a poetry night:]
Writing haiku
Is like catching soap bubbles
Without breaking them
A Haiku for Early Spring
A Haiku for Early Spring
Look! Snow on the ground
And also on our heads. But
Here come daffodils!
Dreams
Emily
Jean and I were married at Judson Memorial Church in Greenwich Village during a
morning worship service on September 30, 1979, just exactly two weeks after Dad
died. During the period 1977 – 1991, we were active at Judson.
It was
during that time that I was in therapy with Art Tingue, and did Spiritual
Direction with Lee Hancock, Associate Pastor of Judson. Both were very
interested in dreams, and both helped me with mine.
I had
three dreams in a very short period of time, in all of which God appeared as a
woman. This affected me greatly, and, to tell the truth, may have affected me
more at the unconscious level than at the conscious one.
In the first dream (and the only one I remember), I went on a fishing trip. I caught nothing, and was walking home with my pole over my shoulder. The path I took was into the mountains, and led through a rhododendron thicket. As I walked along, the hook on the end of my line caught on a branch of the rhodies, and the line reeled all the way out without my being aware of it. I was brought up short when the end of the line came, and only then, realized what had happened. I looked back, and was chagrined to see that the line had become hopelessly entangled in the thicket. Still, I was determined to get it untangled so that I should not lose my line. I was making slow progress, when an old man came along the path and offered his help. I was glad to have his help and together, we slowly got it all untangled and rewound on the reel. I thanked him and we parted. He went on down the path I had come up, and I continued on my way.
Soon
the path widened, and I came to a high clay bank or wall, into which some steps
had been cut. I climbed up those steps, still carrying my fishing pole, and
when my head rose above the bank, I saw a grassy clearing with a log cabin at
the far side of it. I saw a very large woman standing in the doorway, and as I
drew nearer, recognized her as Maggie Wise, a fellow member of Judson. As I
approached, she withdrew into the cabin, and I saw when I went through the
door, that she was standing behind a table, the long communion table at Judson.
On the table was a large platter with a fish on it. Maggie spread her arms wide
as she looked at me, and said, “Come and eat!” And I knew that she was God.
At my
next appointment with Arthur, I shared the dream. His only comment was: “You
know who that old man was, don’t you?” I said, “Who?” He said, “Me.” It was
important to see my therapy in the context of my spiritual journey. He was so
right.
[I just
learned (8/11/2008) that Arthur died over a year ago in Maine, where he and his
wife, Carrie, had retired. I shall miss him.
The Rocket full of Eggs
The journal in which I recorded this dream was stolen from the trunk of our car when we were visiting a friend in Manhattan. We parked the car on the street, and discovered the theft when we came out after dinner. There was a “Rocket full of Eggs” dream and a third, in which God, a woman, drove me in a car.
While
both of these dreams have been lost, the three appearances of God as a woman
within a short space of time opened me up to “see” the pan being inflicted on
women by our male-dominant language. It is not necessary, and is not helpful. I
am glad to be free of it.
Reflecting/Hoping
The Meaning of My Life
April
9, 1966
[At the
time I wrote the excerpt below, I was engaged in a doctoral program at Boston
University. After the first residency year, my advisor inquired what I planned
to do the summer of 1965. I said I would make up a couple of courses I lacked.
He urged me to get a unit of Clinical Pastoral Education. I had never heard of
it, but followed his advice, and although it was quite late, succeeded in
gaining admission to a program at Boston State Hospital which began in June. By
the end of the summer when the program ended, I knew that I had finally found
my niche, and asked Joe Woodson, the supervisor, if he would allow me to stay
on in a residency program. He reluctantly agreed, I cut back my doctoral load
to half, stretched it to two more years rather than one, and was completing the
CPE residency at the time of this writing.]
It has
become imperative now for me to consider the meaning of my life. I have erected
many barriers to an honest examination of this question, and can now see that I
have lived these 41 years without really making it clear to myself what that
meaning is. Furthermore, I have stood before my life waiting for it to happen,
without ever seizing and making it happen.
One
does not live forever. I need now to consider the fact that while I may live 30-40
years more (or may not) I have only about 20 productive years remaining to me,
and I am using up three of them in this period of study, a monstrous investment
regardless of the outcome, tragic waste in the event of failure to energize and
give meaning and purpose and accomplishment to the few years remaining.
I
cannot build on doubt. For me, there must be an island of firm ground from
which to begin. It must be an affirmation of myself as a living being, blessed
with the equipment needed to live and enjoy life. And I know myself as this
being in relation to others. I know myself most fully where I am most fully
known. I can accept myself most fully where I am most fully accepted. And I can
love only as I am loved. I want to believe that God loves me and by this love I
can love. But wanting to believe is not believing. And to pretend a belief
where there is none, or only doubt, is pitiable, and ultimately, a delusion.
Still, I am not content to turn my life solely inward. For me to live is to live for others. To love myself is to reach out to others. I can find meaning for my life only as I can help others to find it for themselves.
The old
morality of laws and rules is part of my bones, but I cannot live by it only.
Neither can I put it off like a winter coat in spring. Yet will I affirm myself
and my life, to joy in it, and to hold it in my hands, to live it to the full.
To live it, and to accept responsibility for living it—this shall be my goal.
I do
not yet emotionally accept myself as worthy to be loved. But there is one who,
like water dropping on stone, wears away the crust of my self-negation until I
foresee a growing of new life, new love in me.
Dare I
live? Dare I love? Dare I stand erect and leave boyhood behind? Yes, I still
fear life. It threatens me. Twenty years. They shall not be empty years. They
may not be perfect, but they shall not be empty.
And yet
I must struggle and fight to use dreams and fantasy--not let them use me.
Reality is what I am and what I am able to do with myself in relation to
others. Relax, then, and live each day, each moment to the full. Fill each
moment with love, looking ahead far enough not to miss the next turn, but not
so far as to forget its importance.
I’ll
stop agonizing over my doubt and lack of faith, lack of certitude about God. I
must accept this as a given, too. In a sense, to trust God is to trust God’s
right to remain a hidden God. The nearest I can come to affirming God is to
affirm myself and others. This I can do and I will affirm them. And I will
express this affirmation in accepting and affirming myself.
I want
to look at a day, a week, a month, a year, a lifetime, and find some warmth of
satisfaction in what I have been able to do. With this warmth, I shall find the
courage to die.
The
road of life has many strange turnings. I’ll not question why or how I meet
others there. No, I’ll accept them as given to me, and me to them. Let this
then be the meaning of my life.
Self-Assessment and Goals
April 9, 1989
GOOD THINGS ABOUT ME
|
HABITS I WANT TO DEVELOP
|
Honest
|
Active
rather than passive
|
Sense
of humor
|
Staying
engaged when angry
|
Give
good hugs
|
Listening
when criticized
|
Enjoy
gardening
|
Productive
|
Like
being alone
|
Avoid
cross criticism
|
Tender
|
Take
better care of myself spiritually
|
Generous
|
Dependable
|
Smart
|
Self-giving
|
Concentrate
well
|
Less
arrogant
|
Kind
|
Careful
not to be rude
|
Faithful
|
Stubborn
in healthy ways
|
Loving
|
More
sensitive
|
Enjoy
being crazy
|
Fighting
fair
|
Don't
worry very much
|
Being
direct with anger
|
Good
health
|
Less
procrastinating
|
Stable
family of origin
|
Be
more orderly
|
Well
educated
|
Be
more disciplined
|
Like
gadgets
|
Not
allow myself to be depressed
|
Enjoy
puzzles
|
Stop
being self-assaultive
|
Can
use computer
|
Be
more political
|
Am
not money hungry
|
Care
more about social justice
|
Tolerant
of differences
|
Be
more alive
|
Good
listener
|
|
Effective
group leader
|
|
Self-accepting
|
|
Strong
ego
|
|
Healthy
unconscious
|
|
Uncomfortable
with phoniness
|
|
Sensitive
to dissonance
|
|
Skeptical
|
|
Comfortable
doubting
|
|
Comfortable
using systems in my work
|
|
Effective
family therapist
|
|
Effective
supervisor
|
|
Read
well
|
|
Enjoy
sports
|
|
Way
with words
|
|
Flair
for metaphor
|
Words at Retirement
June 8,
1991
I spent
ten years in Japan, four as a high school teacher of English, five as a
university Chaplain. It was a wonderful experience of exposure to Japanese
language and culture which I enjoyed thoroughly.
Returning
to the states in 1964, I enrolled at Boston University in a program designed to
lead to a Ph. D. in the Psychology of Pastoral Care. Between my first and
second residency years, I participated in a program of Clinical Pastoral
Education, and recognized that I had found my niche. I decided to pursue
certification as a Clinical Pastoral Educator or Supervisor, after doing the
math, and realizing that teaching ministers pastoral care, I could touch more
lives than by direct pastoral care ministry.
I would
guess that I worked with from 150 - 200 clergy, a small number of lay people;
mostly Protestant, a significant number of Roman Catholics, one priest and
quite a number of sisters, and two rabbis.
More
than ten of that number are now Clinical Pastoral Educators. And many of them
have had multiple students go on to get their credentials as supervisors. I am
very proud of that record.
I
appreciate the NY Conference "taking me in," at a time when
membership in the Virginia Conference, because of the distance from the
hospital where I was working, was making it difficult to serve the United
Methodist Church. I was very glad to serve on the Metropolitan District
Committee on Ministry.
I feel
good about the work I was able to do in ministry, but am glad to slow down. I
wish you all Godspeed, especially those to be ordained. Get some CPE! It will
help you to be more effective ministers.
When have I felt most me?
I look back to those magical days of my childhood in Montreat when I carved roads and tunnels in the clay banks and played cars, or went out in the rain to fight desperately to dam up the water as it came running down the mountain by our house as times when I felt most myself. I lost myself in play, and was purely me. Sometimes when playing bridge, I have also lost myself. I was still trying to win, but I was beyond trying to impress anybody.
Oddly,
I have felt this when doing supervision of CPE, and when doing family therapy.
I think I was also “lost” during wartime, when the focus was on survival. But
I’m not sure. I have been so devoted to making people think well of me that I
might well have fallen into it in the heat of battle, unless I was alone.
I
remember once when there was a great flood at Montreat, and I was about 12
years old, that I put on my bathing suit and went out in the rain, and down to
the lake to see what was happening at the dam. The level of the water in the
lake was up almost to the surface of the walkway across the dam, and all sorts
of debris was coming down from the mountain above. Logs, trees, bushes, all
kinds of things. Yet, I was so totally fascinated, that, alone, I climbed down
one of the stone pillars that supported the dam and bridge over it. At the
bottom, the water was shooting out over the spillway well over 20 feet. I was
caught up in the excitement of it, and thought how great it would be to crawl
across under the water. I was alone, and no one was around to stop me, so I did
it. I expect I was as much “lost” in me at that moment as ever in my life. It
was an incredible high.
As I
reflect on this, I become aware that either I was alone, or in authority at the
moments when I felt most myself. I also experienced myself in my work as
chaplain, as chaplain supervisor and family therapist, as thoroughly competent.
Does that mean that I am most myself, or experience myself as mostly myself
when there is a low level of threat? Perhaps. And I feel most me when I am
writing! Like now. Or when I am writing haiku.
The Gathering
May 4,
2004
I
retired in 1991 from Presbyterian Hospital and moved to Allentown, PA. I was a
happy retired person, with no interest or need to practice ministry in any way,
shape or form. I did not want to do any preaching or teaching, though I did
some family therapy work for ½ day once a week for several years. While in the
Metropolitan area, Emily Jean and I were active at Judson Memorial Church in
Greenwich Village. Since I was an ordained Methodist minister, I was unable to
join Judson, but the church had a special category for people like me, called
“voting non-member.” I loved being a part of the Judson Community. This is, by
far, the most satisfying experience of church I have ever had. Probably 50% or
more of those who are regular participants are gay or lesbian. This was a
wonderful education for me, and sorely needed. At least two members of my
extended family are gay or lesbian, perhaps more. Sadly, I found nothing in the
Lehigh Valley to compare with it. Though I attended different churches from
time to time, eventually, I came to avoid church for the most part.
A
little over a year ago, nine other people, including my wife, Emily Jean
Gilbert, began talking about meeting regularly in order to find what they were
missing in their local churches. A trip was planned to the Church of the Savior
in Washington, DC. I had first heard about the Church of the Savior in 1948,
when I was in seminary, but I had never visited it, and I immediately wanted to
go.
The
visit was powerful for me, and I decided to continue in the “Gathering,” as we
decided to call our group. It’s very special to study, discuss, pray and
worship with a group of people who are all present because they want to be,
engage each other, and care about each other. I am sure some churches are like
this, but I have rarely experienced it.
Jump-started
on a new, more intentional spiritual journey through my participation in the
Gathering, I joined Hope UCC as an associate member. Emily Jean was already
attending and soon became a member. I became a full member a year later. My
response to the Methodist Church’s trial of Rev. Elizabeth Stroud, which
resulted in her defrocking, was the painful and sad decision to surrender my
ordination credentials and leave the Methodist Church. My family had been
Methodist since well before the Civil War.
At the
Church of the Savior, missions are formed when two or more people want to meet
and work toward a particular goal together. One day, I saw a squib in the
newspaper that noted that the cost of educating a student in the public schools
in Pennsylvania was $8,000, and the cost of imprisoning someone was $28,000+. I
said to myself: “Something’s terribly wrong here.” I had found my mission.
George
Yoder, another member of our Gathering and I formed a Prison Mission, and met
about once a week to talk about our concerns. I read a lot about prisons and
prisoners. We went on a tour of a nearby county prison.
I
wanted to find a way to be directly involved in working to change the prison
system. Rather than going into a prison to work, I decided to seek an
involvement with one or more children whose parent(s) are or had been in
prison. This was a new departure for me.
The
director of a Family Center in Allentown (We attend the same church.) made a
brief presentation at Hope UCC on her work at the Center. I spoke to her after
church, asking if I might volunteer as a foster grandfather to a child whose
parent had been in prison or was then in prison. She invited me to visit the
center, we talked and I put in for clearance with the state police and the
Child Abuse Line run by the state Department of Public Welfare. I got official
clearance, and spent a year working one day per week with a 12-year-old boy who
was having adjustment problems at school.
I had
been warned by my friends in the Gathering that going into the homes of people
who have run afoul of the law could be dangerous. That makes sense. But it
feels like going into the prison as a chaplain (I did this in Bergen County, NJ
for a short while about 25 years ago) is not where I’m led. Now over 80, I’m
equipped to be a grandfather, and maybe that can make a difference to some one
kid. I was willing to see.
At the
time I began, I wrote the following, and it is still true:
Do I
know what I’m doing? No. Do I know what I’m getting myself into? No. Am I
scared? Yes. Am I crazy? Yes, and it’s one of my greatest gifts, as I learned
back in 1960, when I did my first unit of CPE at Boston State Hospital with Joe
Woodson.
It was
a new departure. My friend, George, and I are convinced that prisons are
obsolete, doing a great deal more harm than good, and costing all of us an
enormous amount of money which could be much better spent. I tried this
intervention in hopes that it would help.
I
worked with this boy for only a year, and am not up to it now. I wish I had
done it many years ago. It was a great experience. George and I no longer meet.
New Year’s Day (2006) Meeting of the Gathering
What follows is what I prepared for our Gathering meeting of Jan. 1, 2006. Each of us had agreed to prepare something about our past year, and the year to come.
Reflections
on 2005
I don’t
want to do this. I can’t think of anything that feels like an accomplishment. I
kept on working out. I read lots of books. That’s about it.
No. I
spoke out against the UMC’s action and position on homosexuality by
surrendering my ordination credentials. And I joined Hope UCC, became a full
member. I continued my participation in the Gathering.
Hopes
for 2006
I draw
a blank on this one, too. Keep on keeping on. Work out. Take care of myself.
Stay in touch with those I love. Read. Write more poetry.
Lazy,
disorganized, irritable, easily bored, undisciplined. Am I even glad to be
alive?
I don’t
even know who I am. So important to have others think well of me that I am
always performing. Yet I hate that. I don’t like it in others, I despise it in
myself. I despair of changing this in me. It’s the only way I know to be. God
help me. Even as I write, I know I’m thinking that someone may be reading this,
and I’m partly, at least, thinking of trying to impress. What bullshit!
This haiku poem, written at that time,
expresses how I felt.
Microscopic bug
Poised on the top of the world―
What if I jump off?
By the
end of the meeting, I had announced that my New Year’s Resolution for 2006 was
to write at least one haiku every
day. I missed a few days, but kept the resolution for the most part. I think
writing daily helped me to complete my Spiritual
Journey. I composed over 600 haiku
during the year.
The Seekers
About four or five years ago, several men friends began meeting together to discuss a book once a month. We soon realized that this was more than a book-discussion group. We were asking and answering important personal spiritual questions. We decided our group was The Seekers. There is no titular leader, but Dick Schaffer got us together and keeps us reminded of times and places.
There
are four of us. Dick is retired from Bethlehem Steel, 62; Paul, a retired
Mennonite pastor, 92, and the "youngest" of the lot; George, a retired UCC pastor
and social worker, 89; and myself, a retired hospital chaplain, 87. All their
memories are better than mine, and our discussions tend to be wide-ranging,
dipping often into the book before us, and often going beyond it.
Our
most recent book was James Hillman, The
Force of Character. I know we have talked about what we are seeking, but I
don’t recall what was said. I know that we have found brothers whom we trust
and love.
Devotional Journal
Feb. 16, 2012
I have
been meditating for over a year now, thanking God for giving me one more day of
life. Today, the thought occurred to me to ask why I appreciate having one more
day of life. I decided to ask myself that question along with the “thank you.”
Here are the answers that came up today.
A
chance to
Read
Pray
for folks
Love
Date uncertain, after Feb. 16th
Perhaps
I have discovered the answer I have been seeking all my life.
Itadakimasu.
When
one begins a meal, it is good manners to say to the host/hostess, itadakimasu. Literally, I receive.
Japanese expresses relationships in many ways, of which language may be the
most important. Moraimasu expresses
the thought, I receive, without a relationship being explicit. Itadakimasu expresses the relationship
as well: the speaker (I) am of lower status than the one who gives. (I remember
someone telling me that this is the language which it would be appropriate to
use to the Emperor.)
For
some time now, during Emily Jean’s and my devotions, I have been beginning my quiet
time by thanking someone (God?) for the gift of another day of life. My doubts
remain, but the sense of gratitude is real. Today I decided that Itadakimasu expressed this for me
The
chance that I will live the day faithfully is strengthened by my itadakimasu at its beginning. What a
world we could have if each of us began each day with itadakimasu!
April 7, 2012
What is
faith?
Faith
is starting each day by renewing the commitment which I have made daily and
never kept.
April 9th, Easter Monday
Who am
I?
I am a
man of faith. See above.
There
needs to be a sense of lightness and humor about this. Discouragement is not in
it. Depression and despair is not a part of it. It is not heavy, but it is very
serious.
April 10, 2012
Doing
business with God: Dad used to say that in business, both people involved are
pleased when a good deal is reached. God holds out his gift of a new day, but I
must reach for it with my itadakimasu
in order for the deal to be complete. God wants me to have it, and is pleased when
I accept it.
The sun
will come up and there will be a new day whether I and God transact business or
not, so what’s the big deal? My business with God is extraneous to the sun’s
coming up, separate and apart from it, and for me and God, far more important,
very personal. Itadakimasu.
Easter is over
But Mother’s daffodils are
Still so beautiful!
April 11, 2012
Reflecting
during meditation: I began a long time ago thinking that the story of my life might
be a) God sending people to me, and b) God sending me to people, and what I did
with them. In a way, I have been God’s chosen angel. And my life is the story
of my successes and failures with them, mostly failures. I want to enlarge
“mindfulness” to include awareness that I am chosen as angel for all whom I
meet every day. My itadakimasu includes
that.
Midori iro*—
Without it, God cannot paint
The Glories of Spring.
*A
Japanese word which refers to the first yellowish green of the new leaves of Spring.
April 13, 2012
Let the world slow down—
The kitties are here for you.
Comfort, peace and joy.
Devoting
alone, EJ at EPICS. (Gathering of CPE Supervisors and supervisory students)
I’ve
been reading a chapter in Hillman’s Force
of Character on Erotics. Very challenging to me. My insides say “bad” to
acting on my lustful imagination, but Hillman says why not? Or that’s what I
hear.
Devoting
was a quiet time, with only Amber visiting briefly.
April 14, 2012
One
scripture reading was Mark 16:35ff, I think. Early days of the Christian
Community. All things held in common, selling houses to provide for needs of
all. I said it was an economic plan that would not last. But then recalled the
Sermon on the Mount, in which Jesus said, “Take no thought for tomorrow…”
This
led to my thinking of the Bible as a loveletter from God to me, not a missive
to use against others. And this is what it becomes in most sermons, I’m afraid.
I want to resist all impulses to do that. It is also a loveletter from God to
each person who goes to it. What makes it sacred is not its existence, but that
God gave it as a loveletter to each of us.
God is still speaking
In God’s own true loveletter--
I plan to listen.
April 15th, Sunday
O you holy cats—
You purr us into prayer.
Stay with us all day.
When I
quote the Bible at people to get them to change their behavior (even in my
thoughts), I am reading their mail. God’s loveletter is addressed to them, not
to me (in that instance). When it’s to me, I will apply it to me.
Hillman,
in his The Force of Character, which
Seekers are reading and discussing, speaks of jisei, the poem written just before death by some Japanese people.
I wondered if their jisei were spur
of the moment, or if they meditated for years on the poem, then issued it as
their death poem. I wrote two, feeling the latter approach more realistic for
me, and I am sure I will write more, or rewrite these.
Fog slowly crept in—
I struggled to see through it
And learned to love.
Life—eternal fog—
I long to see clearly, but
My sight fades with years.
Tuesday, April 17th, 2012
I hear a faint voice
Calling to me from somewhere—
Come and receive life!
Thursday, April 19th
O, Wisteria—
Your gorgeous purple flowers
Fill our hearts with joy.
Ah, Wisteria—
Your glorious, luscious clusters—
Is this my last time?
Today,
Friday, I think of an alternate third line: “Speak to me of life.”
Friday, April 20, 2012
[Written during devotional. The poem reflects the daily struggle to be present without “leaving” in my thoughts.]
From words set me free—
From images let me be
Alone, God, with Thee.
Catherine visited for a couple of days before she moved from Eagleville PA to Atlanta in February 2012. While here, she crocheted me a throw.
Dozing ‘neath my throw,
My heart filled with gratitude,
I’m thinking of you.
Devoting
More than two years ago, Emily Jean and I decided that we wanted to have a devotional time in the morning. With both of us retired, it seemed that it would be possible. We began to start our day in the living room, lighting candles, and using A Guide to Prayer for All God’s People, by Job and Shawchuck, and Rubye’s (her mother’s) Bible. Lillie had given me a head lamp to help me in dim lighting situations, and I got it out. Our three cats, Kaki, Amber and Sully, join us almost every morning, Kaki being the most faithful. Our devotional time is occasionally spiced by a battle between Sully and Amber, who, after several years together, still have little use for each other.
I also
began keeping a devotional journal just recently, though already my ineptness
with technology has resulted in the loss of the earlier portion. One morning it
was gone, so I just started over. Mainly I have reached a few conclusions about
life and myself in it, and have written a few haiku, often relevant to my thinking and feeling about my life.
I find
myself thinking as follows:
1) I am God’s angel; God is sending me
every day, and has been sending me every day to all the people I meet. This did
not start yesterday. It has been so since I was born. Most of my life, I have
not been tuned in, not mindful of it. I have been oriented as a taker, not as a
giver.
2) God has also been and is now sending
people to me to receive a blessing. Needless to say, I have missed most of
those opportunities.
3) At the same time that I continue to
doubt almost all dogma of the church, despite my continuing skepticism of all
authority, and despite the absence of an ongoing sense of the Holy, or personal
relationship with God, I begin each day with Itadakimasu! There
is a source of life, One who continues to give me life a day at a time, and I
reach out and take it, with gratitude. And I don’t understand this at all. But
it feels OK. And I want to say “Thank you.”
4) Itadakimasu!
came to me as a new understanding during meditation. Comfort with the use of
the word, itadakimasu, as symbolic of
Japanese courtesy, made this an important insight approaching a spiritual
breakthrough. While I do not actually kneel, prostrating myself on the rug, and
holding out my hands to receive my fresh new day of life from God, I do
visualize it as I say itadakimasu.
5) Lots of haiku has come to me during our devoting time; I try to record them
as much as I can.
6) I find it hard to meditate. I still do
not know how to do it, but it feels like it is enough to try. By being quiet
and providing a lap for one of the kitties, I am doing enough.
7) I am open to new ideas and directions
coming out of our devotional times together.
Overview
This volume has been written over a period of at least 20 years, maybe longer. I have not succeeded in putting it together in such a way that the seams do not show. Nor have I sought to stick to chronological arrangement. Perhaps it’s just as well. It will be a little like a biopsy being taken every year or so on my spiritual life. Is it any wonder that there has been change? I know that I do not experience myself as the same person. When I read over some of the older stuff, I am surprised and often pleased.
I had a
premonition this week that I need to press ahead, that time may be more limited
than I think. I was thinking of my father, who died in 1979 of stomach cancer,
and I felt a pain in my stomach. I thought: “Is that it? Am I going out the
same way Dad did?” He played golf in August, and died a month later. If my
premonition proves to be accurate, My Spiritual Journey is at a stage now where
somebody else, if they choose, can publish it as is.
I
reread some of my files prepared over the years, and ran across a letter
Benjamin Dunlap, Perry Dunlap Roddey’s father, wrote to her on her honeymoon in
1890. It made me wonder when my spiritual journey began, if not with my
great-grandfather, known in the family as Pa Ben or more familiarly as Pa
Bennie. So I’ve decided to put that letter in along with one from my father
written a year before he died in 1979. Both letters seem to me evidence of
cradles in which I was spiritually nurtured, long before I was born.
This
completes Mystory. I will be no
different from the person I was, but it feels good to be able to hand it to those
I care about and say, “Here I am. I want you to know me.”
Jisei
Many Japanese offer jisei from their death-beds. I particularly liked one by Saruo that James Hillman quoted in The Force of Character:
Cherry blossoms fall
On a half-eaten
Dumpling.
My reading of it is: “My life
is over, and I hardly got started living!”
I got to thinking that folks
who leave jisei probably wrote them
some time before they arrived at their death-bed, so it might be well for me to
start thinking about it. Two came to me.
Fog slowly crept in—
I struggled to see through it,
And I learned to love.
Life—eternal fog—
How I yearn to see clearly!
My eyes fade with years.
Jisei kept coming to me during devotions; clearly they belong here, but removing them from that Journal didn’t feel right.
O, Wisteria—
Your gorgeous purple flowers
Fill our hearts with joy.
Ah, Wisteria—
Your glorious, luscious clusters—
Is this my last time?
I hear a faint voice
Calling to me from somewhere—
Come and receive life!
May 22nd, 2012
Tolstoy and Levin
Opened a new world for me,
My life’s beginning.
June 16th, 2012
Waiting patiently,
I have finished My Journey.
I’m ready to go.
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