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HopeWords 2025

title slide with photo of The Granada Theater

This is my third trip to Bluefield, West Virginia for the HopeWords Conference, which is held in the beautifully restored Granada Theater. This year’s theme was “Writing in the Dark.” I have also attended this conference in 2022 and 2023. Unlike the other years, probably because I wasn’t feeling well, I didn’t take many photos.

Bluefield is an interesting setting to discuss hope and writing, as the city has struggled in recent years. At one time, Bluefield was a happening place, as Travis Lowe, the founding director of HopeWords loves to tell. Lowe grew up in Bluefield and while he currently lives in Oklahoma, he still considered Bluefield home. While coal mining was just a bit west of Bluefield, the city grew as a supply point for the mines and for the railroads that served the mines. Still today, cars of coal are built up in the Bluefield rail yard to be hauled to distant locations to “make the electricity to light up the world.” 

I had only two complaints about this year’s conference. Neither had anything to do with the conference and everything with my enjoyment of the event. The first had to do with the pollen count in the air. It was at an all-time high. My head pounded. I just wanted to sleep, which was hard because of sinus drainage causing me to wake as I coughed. The second was the replacement of the flooring in the hotel I stayed. In previous ones, I stayed in Princeton, about fifteen miles away, and the hotels were nicer. This time, I stayed in a Quality Inn in Bluefield, Virginia, about seven miles away. The hotel was older and will be nice once the remodeling is done, but for now is under construction. 

Christian Wiman

 Wiman served as the main speaker this year. The last conference I attended, in 2023, featured Miroslav Volf, a theologian from Yale. In introducing Wiman, Lowe noted that when Volf was the featured speaker, he confessed that he wasn’t worthy and recommended his colleague at Yale, Wiman. While Volf had much to add to the conference, it was a pleasure to hear Wiman, an excellent poet.  

In Wiman’s opening lecture, he discussed faith and God, in contrast to religion. We only experience a fraction of God, yet we don’t have to name God for God to be God.  God is always God. And our faith needs to be growing, as we put away our childhood and silly notions of the divine. 

On the second day of the conference, Wiman and Lowe had a conversation. For some reason, I assumed (wrongly) that Wiman was European. He grew up in Texas, raised by parents who were first poor, then his father became a physician. He told about attending First Baptist Church in Dallas and writing a poem which first line went, “I love the Lord and He loves me.” He gave the poem to Criswell, the pastor, who had it published in the Baptist Standard. Wiman joked that his first poem was published when he was eight.

Hannah Anderson

 Anderson was the first speaker on Saturday morning. This was a shame as I found her insights some of the best at the conference. Most attendees (myself included as I was five minutes late) missed the opening of her talk. Focusing on the conference theme, she spoke about a personal time of crisis (darkness) in which she felt she would never write again. She discussed the need to give herself permission to write again. She also reminded us how, in darkness, we can use other senses to experience the world. But she warned writers not to give too much artificial light into a dark situation. She closed with an essay of hers on Psalm 74, where she acknowledges that God creates light but doesn’t obliterate darkness. 

I had read one of her books, Humble Roots, a few years ago. I picked up her book, All That’s Good, from the conference bookstore and recently read and reviewed it.  I look forward to hearing wonderful things from my congregation about her as she’s scheduled to preach for me on June 22.

Karen Swallow Prior

This is Prior’s third appearance at HopeWords. Like Wiman, I’ve also seen her at Calvin’s Festival of Faith and Writing. She began discussing her upcoming book on “calling,” and then gave suggestions for those wanting to be writers:

1. Study language.
 2. Read good words by others.
 3. Seek honest feedback. 
4. Writing is not the same as publishing. 
5. Journal, it’s a place for you to record and work out ideas and you may have them burned after your death. 
6. If you want to write to feel good about yourself, do something else. Writing is humbling.
7. Don’t write to make a living. While Prior is making money from writing, it’s only after 30 years of teaching in universities. 
8. Do the writing you’re called to do. 

Dr. Derwin Gray

Gray and his wife pastor Transformation Church outside of Charlotte, NC and has published several books. I am currently reading his book, How to Heal Our Racial Divide: What the Bible Says, and the First Christians Knew, About Racial Reconciliation. 

As an African American, Gray attended Brigman Young University on a football scholarship. He later played five years for the Indianapolis Colts and a year for the Carolina Panthers. As he introduced himself, he joked that NFL meant, “Not For Long,” for most players only make it a few seasons. During his fifth year in Professional Football, another teammate led him to Christ. Since he retired from football, he has attended seminary and done doctoral work. 

Gray began by telling his story. Much of his early years were spent in special education. He also didn’t grow up in church but, as he proclaims, “God loves to use the ordinary to do extraordinary things.” His talk resembled more of a sermon, mostly based on Psalm 23, with a lot of one-line zingers. “ 

“God is not a microwave. He’s more like a crockpot.”
“Our challenge: May our lives be better than our books.”
“Fight for your readers.”
“David defeated a giant but lost to lust.”
“All of life is worship.”
“Let your ink pen become a means of grace.”
and from the Roman philosopher Cicero: “The greatest form of revenge is not to become like your enemies.”

We had a long lunch hour, and I went back to the hotel and slept, causing me to miss the S. K. Smith, the afternoon’s first speaker. 

Dr. Craig Keener

A professor at Asbury Theological Seminary, Dr. Craig Keener has been prolific in publishing commentaries on the Bible. While I have a decent commentary library with two or more commentaries on each book in the Bible, I have not read Keener. This cause of this oversight is that I tend to read mainly Reformed commentaries while Keener writes in the Wesleyan tradition. 

Keener began his talk which he titled, “Writing Because It Matters,” with a confession. “I like writing better than speaking because you can edit before it’s public.” Most everyone laughed. He also confessed that it was because of God’s grace that he, someone diagnosed with ADHD, could become a writer. 

Keener discussed his writing journey. From meeting two missionaries in high school, to his first wife leaving him, which locked him out of evangelical circles, he spoke about how writing and dealing with Scripture was forged with struggles.  Fifteen years after his first wife left, he married a woman he met as a missionary in the Congo (she also has a PhD from the University of Paris). Together, they have a book, The Impossible Love.

Keener encouraged the writers in the crowd to remember that they’re not writing for themselves but for Jesus Christ. 

Lewis Brogdon

Like Hannah Alexander and S. K. Smith, the last speaker on Saturday was another HopeWords regular. Lewis Brogdon, like Travis Lowe, is a native of Bluefield. He teaches homiletics at Baptist Seminary of Kentucky but also holds a part-time position at Bluefield College. Brogdon began discussing an upcoming book of his, The Gospel Beyond the Grave: Toward a Black Theology of Hope. While making the point how writing takes time, he suggested that this book had a long gestation period going back to article he read by a Catholic theologian 25 years ago. The theologian suggested that racial reconciliation would happen in purgatory. Of course, Brogdon acknowledged that as a Black Baptist, purgatory isn’t something he believes in, but the article caused him to think. Then, 23 years ago, his father died. These events, while also dealing with recent events in America, led to the book (which I will look forward to reading). 

His theme was how writing can be a place of light, and he discussed how our journeys involve the work and word of God along with our own holy conversations. 

Evening and Sunday morning

Inside Christ Episcopal after the service. I especially like the cork floors (which we have in our new addition at home).

After the final speaker, there was free time where I went back to my hotel and napped. Then I went to an evening reception. I wasn’t hungry and a small plate of hors d’oeuvres sufficed for dinner. I had conversations with a few folks but called it an early evening and headed back to the hotel for bed around 8 PM. On Sunday morning, I attended Christ Episcopal, where Amanda Held Opelt, who’d provided music between speakers at the conference, preached. Her text was from John 12:1-8 was on Mary of Bethany, the sister of Lazarus and Martha. 

First Presbyterian Church, Bluefield WV
First Presbyterian Church, across from Christ Episcopal. Like most of the large downtown churches in Bluefield, they have lots of extra space. I recently learned that the Presbyterians have converted part of their extra space into bunk rooms for those coming in to volunteer for mission work in Appalachia.

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Reviews of my April Readings

title slide with book covers

Timothy Egan, A Fever in the Heartland: The Ku Klux Klan’s Plot to Take Over America, and the Woman Who Stopped Them 

Cover of A Fever in the Heartland

(2023, Penguin Books, 2024), 404 pages including index and notes on sources. 

A Personal note: In late 2010, I was visiting with Earl, a parishioner of First Presbyterian Church of Hastings (Michigan), who was dying.  Earl was 96 years old and had lived in Hastings since 1950. Another friend of Earl’s, who was also in his 90s, was present. I no longer remember his name, but I remember that he had grown up in Hastings and was Catholic. The man talked about coming back into town with his father, from a trip to Grand Rapids. On a field outside of the town there was a large cross burning and a huge crowd of men in white robes. His father immediately ordered him to get on the floor of the car. Fright took over his father (and him).   In the 1920s, the Klan was popular in the heartland, as Egan reminds us.  

My review:  Does character matter? Do we expect our leaders to adhere to moral standards? These are questions we should ask ourselves. After all, in the past decade, we’ve had the “me too” movement, which lead to many resignations of politicians, preachers, educators, and others in positions of leadership. Then, in a backlash, none of it seem to matter as we elect to office those convicted of sexual offenses.  The appointment of others despite moral failures including sex and drug abuse and alcoholism occur.  In a way, reading Egan’s book about a situation in the 1920s, makes me wonder what has changed. If anything, this book just makes another case proving human depravity. 

In the early 1920s, D. C. Stephenson arrived in Indiana. Within two years, he would become the Grand Dragon of the Ku Klux Klan of the state. By the mid-20s, Indiana had the most Klan members (by percentage of population) of all the states. The Klan was no longer strictly a southern institution. Many municipalities even in the heartland already had “sundown laws,” which barred African Americans after the sunset. The Klan was also strong in Colorado and Oregon. 

The growth of the Klan in the 1920s was racist, just like the Southern Klan during Reconstruction. But they had broadened their racial views to include immigrants from Eastern Europe, especially Catholics and Jews. In the West, they added Asians to those they saw as a threat to American values. Notre Dame University became a big target in Indiana. Egan suggests that their mascot, “The Fighting Irish” came not from their undefeated football team, but the students battling the Klan who held a rally in South Bend. 

In addition to racial hatred, the Klan of the 1920s encouraged the purity of white women and supported prohibition. While the Klan was men-only, there were significant numbers of auxiliary groups for women and children.  

In Indiana, the Klan held power. They donated to both political parties and to churches with whom they sought to ally in their vision of an idolized America. They owned the governor and legislatures and local officials. People assumed Stephenson would eventually fil an empty Senate seat. The Klan was thinking big, including having eyes on the Presidency. 

But for the Klan leadership in Indiana, especially for Stephenson, the rules didn’t apply. He was a masochist and felt women were his for the taking. He used intimidation to silence women he abused. Also, with his close supporters, he not only drank, but drank to excess. 

When Stephenson set his eyes on Madge Oberholzer, an attractive young woman who’d asked for his help for her job with the state, things swirled out of control. She resisted his advances. He kidnapped her. When she made it back home, she was dying. He had not only brutally beaten her but had also severely bitten her all over her body. When she couldn’t escape, she attempted suicide. 

As she lay dying from her abuse, she dictated a statement which was notarized as her testament, a legal maneuver which allowed her to “speak from the grave,” into a court of law.  His friend, the sheriff, arrested Stephenson. But instead of eating jailhouse food, the sheriffs wife cooked his food.

Stephenson and two associates went to trial. The trial began after a lot of legal maneuvering over what could and couldn’t be admissible as evidence. While the court didn’t allow several additional women to testified of their rapes by Stephenson, it also kept out of court Stephenson’s past included an abandoned wife and child. While Stephenson’s followers attempted to bride officials and jury, the jury returned a verdict of guilty of second-degree murder.  

The trial brought to the public’s attention the hypocrisy of the Klan’s leadership. In the aftermath of the trial, the Klan in Indiana declined almost as fast as it had risen. 

Americans should read this book. The use of “American enemies” to cause a groundswell against the “others” is nothing new. Thankfully, in the 1920s, folks like Madge Oberholzer and a few brave newspapers, ministers, academics, and politicians stood fast against the rising intolerance. It’s never fun to be the one who speaks out, but speaking out is important. 

Hannah Anderson, All That’s Good: Recovering the Lost Art of Discernment 

Cover of "All That's Good"

(Chicago: Moody Publishing, 2018), 215 pages including study questions for each chapter and source notes.

I became acquainted with Anderson’s work through the HopeWords Writer’s Conference in Bluefield, West Virginia, which I have attended three times. Anderson is a regular at the conference and one of the ones who works behind the scenes to put the conference on each year. (Soon, I hope, I’ll post a review of this year’s conference).  I am also looking forward to hearing good things about her when she preaches for me this June (sadly, I’ll be out-of-state that Sunday). 

This book is divided into three parts. The first part deals with what’s good and why we should seek it out. In part 2, Anderson approaches discernment using Paul’s exhortations at the end of Philippians. Drawing on verses 8 and 9, she works through the verses dealing with “whatever is true, honorable, just, pure, lovely and commendable. In Part 3, she looks at the meaning of the good and how we’re to work through a community for the common good. 

Anderson writing is a pleasure to read. She draws on her own memories to illustrate her points. I recommend this book to those interested in fostering a world where we celebrate the good, the beautiful, and the empathic.  This is the second book I’ve read by Anderson. The first, Humble Roots, I reviewed in 2022.

Pat Conroy, The Great Santini 

(1976, HarperAudio 2023), 18 hours and 4 minutes. 

It’s 1960. Having just returned to America from a stint in the Mediterranean, Bull Meacham is given the command of his own Marine Corp Fighter Squadron in Ravenell, SC. He meets up with his family in Atlanta, where they had been staying with his wife (Lillian) family. They then make a long early morning drive across Georgia and South Carolina. That drive seems to take forever, but in it we get to experience characteristics of Bull and his family. None of his children want to move, especially Ben, who will be a senior in high school. They’ve all been through this drill of having to make friends again. 

Ben quickly makes two friends. One is a Jewish boy whom he comes to his aid during a fight and the other is a stuttering young African American man who raises flowers, produce, and honey as well as collecting oysters and gigging flounder for a living. Sadly, Ben loses both friends. The Jewish boy’s family sends him for safety while another white boy kills the African American. 

While this goes on, Ben finally beats his father in one-on-one basketball. Bull’s lost didn’t go over well. His father, the Great Santini, fears getting older. He also fears changes to his beloved Marine Corps, that they’re losing their toughness.  A few characteristics of his father became grating by the end of the book. When he would enter the home, he’d shout, “Stand by for a fighter pilot.” He would call those he’s talking to, “Sports Fans.” 

Ben finds his place in high school on the basketball team. He becomes the star, but his father comes to a game drunk and encourages Ben to take out a kid on the opposing team he’s guarding. Ben snaps and breaks the boys arm, which ends with him kicked off the team for the remaining of the season. When Ben turns 18, his father takes him to the officer’s club. Ben comes home drunk, like his father, ruining the planned family dinner that evening. 

This book touches on many themes. Child and spouse abuse, father/son relationships, coming of age, race relationships, life in a small southern town in the early 1960s, and the Yankee/Southern conflict (Bull was from Chicago and Lillian from the South). The story is fictionalized, but Conroy draws on his famil experiencesy. I have heard his novel didn’t go over well in his family and I can see why.  In real life, the Great Santini didn’t die as he does in the book (which I left out of the book as it would be a spoiler). Conroy later wrote a nonfiction book about his father titled The Death of Santini. 

I enjoyed the story. The book is easy to follow. Conroy tells it in a chronological fashion. There are similar themes to the other Conroy books I’ve read (Prince of the Tides, The Water is Wide, and South of Broad). All these books center on the Low Country of South Carolina. Thoese (except for The Water is Wide) were published later in Conroy’s life and show a more mature writer.  I have also seen the movie, which came out in 1979, but it’s been decades so I don’t remember enough to compare the book and the movie.

Two Commentaries on the Gospel of Mark

Mark commentaries

James R. Edwards, The Gospel According to Mark (Grand Rapids, MI: Eerdmans, 2002), 550 pages 

Morna D. Hooker, The Gospel According to Saint Mark (1991, Hendrickson Publishers, 1997), 424 pages

For the past sixteen months I have been working my way through the gospel of Mark. I have preached 53 sermons from Mark. At the beginning, I read through one short commentary by Doug Hare, a former professor of mine. Then, I read through these two commentaries as I worked my way through the gospel, finishing both this past month. 

Of the two commentaries on Mark, my favorite would be the one by James Edwards. I first became familiar with his writing with his excellent 2015 commentary on Luke. This commentary on Mark was published 14 years earlier. Both books are a part of the “Pilar New Testament Commentary” series.  This author is very familiar with the early church and the role Mark’s gospel in the early church. I have previously reviewed his book From Christ to Christianity.  My complaint is that the author didn’t do his own translation and seems to mostly depend on the New International Version of the Bible.

The commentary is easy to read and follow. I especially liked Edward’s use of “Mark’s sandwiches”, a literary technique in the second gospel in which two different themes merge into one passage. The first is mentioned, then Mark moves off on what seems to be a tangent as he writes about something else., Then he returns to the first subject. Soon, having been introduced to the concept, I found such constructions even before reading the commentary. By playing the two ideas off each other helps the reader of the gospel to grasp deeper thoughts. 

I also appreciated how Edwards, when things needed more explanation, would insert an “Excursus” to better explain an idea. 

The second commentary by Morna Hooker was republished as a part of Black’s New Testament Commentaries Series.  In this series, the author was expected to provide her own translation, which she does while admitting that she started her work using the New English and Revised Standard Versions of scripture. Hooker is retired but taught at Cambridge (and the commentary does have an “English feel” to it). 

Like Edwards commentary, Hooker’s work is easy to read and understand. Neither commentary gets so far into the weeds that one has difficulty following. With her own translation of the text, Hooker’s work is a welcomed addition to the more traditional types of commentaries. 

In addition to these commentaries, I have also read all or parts of commentaries by Douglas R. A. Hare, Mark: Westminster Bible Companion (Louisville, KY: WJKP, 1996), William L. Lane, The Gospel of Mark (Grand Rapids, Eerdmans, 1974), Mary Ann Tolbert, Sowing the Gospel: Mark’s World in Literary-Historical Perspective (1989, Minneapolis: Fortress, 1996); Brian K. Blount, Go Preach! Mark’s Kingdom Message and the Black Church Today (Maryknoll, NY: Orbis Press, 1998), and David Rhoads and Donald Michie, Mark as Story: An Introduction of the Narrative of a Gospel (Philadelphia: Fortress, 1982). 

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A Week on Iona

Photo of author on the isle of Sraffa

To read about my journey from Edinburgh to Iona, click here. The trip involved two trains and two ferries!

Iona Abbey from the water
The abbey from the ferry (on the day we left)

Grasping the rail to hold steady, I stand on the starboard catwalk looking out across the waters. I pull up the hood on my rain jacket.  I could go below, but I want to face the angry sea.  The engines roar and black smoke puffs from the stack as the ferry pulls away from the Flonnphort’s dock.  Moments later, we are in open water.  The north wind whistles through the channel separating Mull from Iona. The pilot steers the boat into the wind, but the waves and tide push us southward.  He increases speed as I spread my legs apart in order to remain upright. The boat rolls back and forth in the waves. 

North end of Iona looking toward Mull
North end of Iona, looking toward Mull

In a few minutes, we’re well out into the channel. The Abbey is clearly visible, standing tall in the shadow of Dun I, the high point on the island.  We’re just the latest travelers, joining a hoard of pilgrims reaching back to the sixth century.  I have no idea what the week will bring, but the roughness of the channel reminds me of the island’s isolation.  The ferry pushes harder as we approach the landing. The pilot steers the boat up into the wind then lands on the ramp.  There is no natural harbor in Iona.  The pilot keeps the engines engaged, keeping the boat in position as the crew lowers the bow ramp.  The two cars onboard are allowed to drive off first, then the two dozen or so of us passengers follow.  The first off the boat get wet when a wave breaks and crashes over the ramp.  The rest of us learn to time our departure, waiting till a lull to move out on the ramp and to quickly make our way to shore.  We’re on Iona.   

The Abbey on Iona with a large Celtic cross

On Pentecost, 563, an Irish abbot named Columba and a group of twelve disciples landed on a pebble covered cove on the south end of Iona. They found on this small island what they were looking for and established a religious community.  At this time, sea travel was easier than traveling overland on non-existent roads. The small island became a center of faith and learning that extended throughout the mainland of Britain and Ireland and surrounding islands.  Some scholars believe the Book of Kells was originally produced here.  Others think the large standing Celtic crosses, so common in Scotland and Ireland, were first carved on this island. 

looking toward Mull
Looking across toward Mull

The religious community thrived on Iona for the next couple hundred years.  People would travel by sea, making a pilgrimage to the island of the saint known as Columba. Scottish Kings sought out the island for burial.  Legend has it that even MacBeth, of Shakespeare’s fame, is buried here.  

Around the tenth century, hostile visitors from the north, the Vikings, arrived.  With their art and wealth, churches and monasteries were attractive targets.  After several raids and the deaths of scores of monks, Iona was abandoned as a center of learning.  Most of the monks moved back to Ireland. 

Augustine nunnery
Augustine nunnery

By the twelfth century, the Viking threat had faded.  The Benedictine Order reestablished the monastery on Iona, building the current Abbey.  They were joined by an Augustine nunnery, whose ruins are just south of the Abbey.  These two continued to thrive till the Scottish Reformation in 1560. Afterwards, the site began to crumble.  But pilgrims and visitors continued to come.

In 1829, Felix Mendelssohn visited and although the seas were rough and he suffered from sea sickness, he was inspired to compose the Hebridean Overture on the nearby island of Staffa.   A “Who’s Who” of British authors also made the trip including John Keats, Robert Lewis Stevenson, naturalist Joseph Banks, Dr. Samuel Johnson, James Boswell, Sir Walter Scott and William Wordsworth

After the abandonment of the monastery, the property came under the control of the Duke of Argyll.  Over time, with the harsh wet climate of Iona, the trusses rotted and the roof caved in. In the 19th Century, George Douglas Campbell, the eighth Duke of Argyll, began restoring the Abbey. Although a devout member of the Church of Scotland (Presbyterian), he allowed a number of different denominations (Presbyterians, Scottish Episcopal and Roman Catholic) to use the site for worship.  Before his death, he deeded the grounds to the Iona Trust which has responsibility today for maintaining the site.  The site is open to all denominations.  Since the 1930s, the site has been operated by the Iona Community which uses it to hold ecumenical worship and to train people to work with the poor around the world.   

puffins
Puffins on Staffa

Those who wish to participate with the community today are expected to spend a minimum of a week on the island.  Guests live as a part of the community, staying in dormitory rooms (six or eight people of the same sex per room). The guests help with the cooking and the cleaning, and participating in morning worship and evening prayers.  The community strives to bring people together from all over the world as a way to foster a better understanding of one another.  Groups meet together for Bible Study as well as to discuss other topics, with plenty of free time to explore the island or to take boat trips around the island or to other islands.  Staffa, a small island with unique geology, known for puffins that nest there in the summer and “Fingal’s Cave” is a popular destination.

Straffa
Straffa landscape

I spend my week on Iona meeting with a group led by two professors of British Universities.  Both are poets.  One teaches English while the other teaches in a seminary.  As for my chores, I am in the kitchen, mostly chopping vegetables.  Although the food is not exclusively vegetarian (we had meat three times during the week), we ate lots of wonderful vegetarian dishes that included roasted root vegetables and thick soups, all prepared from scratch.  

With my spare time I hike around the island.  Daily, generally around sunset (10:30 PM), I hike to the top of Dun I, the high point of the island.  The sunsets are incredible. At night, I can see distant lighthouses. One of the lighthouses was built by Robert Lewis Stevenson’s father in the early nineteenth century to warn boaters of Torran Rocks. This is also the site Stevenson’s chose for the shipwreck in. his book, “Kidnapped.’  I also gaze out on other islands in both the Inner and Outer Hebrides chain.  Twilight seems to go on forever and provides some of the most beautiful light on the island and sea.

Sunset from Dun I, on Iona

Friday is my last day and I, along with many other pilgrims, are leaving on the 8:15 AM ferry.  Its drizzling rain, but calmer than the day I’d arrived. The Iona staff gather at the dock to wish us a safe trip.  Once the ferry lands in Fionnphort, there’s no time to waste.  A bus waits. We load up and ride across the Ross of Mull and Glen More, to Craignure, where we meet another ferry.  It’s nearly an hour over to the mainland, to Oban, where we board a waiting train.

Worship in the Abbey
Worship in the Abbey

Most of those whom I’d spent time with on Iona continue on to Glasgow and home.  But not me.  At Crainlarich, where the Oban branch merges onto the Northwest Highlands mainline, I say my goodbyes to friends and step off the train. Thirty minutes later, I board a northbound train, taking me through Fort Williams and over the Glenfinnan trestle (made famous in the Harry Potter movies), and on to Mallaig where I catch the ferry to the Isle of Skye.  

Magazine cover of Skinnie Magazine in which this story first appeared.

This story originally appeared in The Skinnie, a magazine for Skidaway Island, on September 22 , 2017.

ScotRail

Cl

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The Long Way Home to Nevada, Part 3 of my 1989 transcontinental train trip

title slide with photo of an Amtrak locomotive

I wake up as the train crosses the Potomac, heading into the DC Station. I don’t get up, but continued napping as the diesel locomotives were traded for electric ones. Fifteen or so minutes later, we pull out of Washington and continue northward. Around mid-morning, I step off the train in Philadelphia. Shari stands at the end of the platform waiting. I have a long layover before catching the Pennsylvanian, a train that will take me overnight from Philadelphia through Pittsburgh and on to Chicago.  (Today, the Pennsylvanian only runs to Pittsburgh).

Philadelphia

in Philadelphia
Shari

As it was Sunday morning, Shari drove into the city. I toss my bags into the back of her car and we stop at a bakery at the end of Fairmont Park for breakfast and coffee. We catch up on our lives as it had been nearly two years since we met along the Appalachian Trail at Delaware Gap. Having recently finished law school, she is debating two job offers to teach legal writing, one at Catholic University in Washington and another at Western Mass Law School in Springfield. 

After breakfast, we walk over to the Philadelphia Art Gallery. We see Robert Adams collection of American Western photos along with several Monet and Van Gogh paintings. I was shocked to learn Shari doesn’t care much for art galleys, so we head across the river and walk around the zoo. Later, we drive across town to the old part of Philadelphia. There, on South Street, Shari insists on treating me with an authentic Philly Cheese Sandwich. This is a real treat, as she’s a vegetarian. She’d asked friends for the best place to buy me a sandwich. We then walk around the old city, stopping to look at the Liberty Bell, Independence Hall, and checking out Benjamin Franklin’s pew at Christ Church. As a Jew, she was more than willing to indulge my curiosity inside the church. Then it was time to head back to the Amtrak Station.

On the Chicago

That evening, as the train ran across Pennsylvania, I had dinner with a guy name Tim. He works in the computer import business and has spent a lot of time in Seattle. He provides several suggestions on getting around in the city and what to see. After returning to my seat, I alternate reading my academic advisor’s new book, Beyond Servanthood and Adela Yarbro Collin’s, Crisis and Catharsis: The Power of the Apocalypse before falling asleep. 

Chicago and McCormick Theological Seminary

McCormick Theological Seminary
McCormick Theological Seminary

We arrived in Chicago on time, early in the morning. Having been given directions to McCormick Theological Seminary in Hyde Park, I walk a few blocks to the east and take a regional train. At the seminary, I’m met by several students whom I had worked with at the General Assembly in Saint Louis the previous summer. They introduce me to more students. We attend chapel together, then they arrange for me to take a shower in a dorm, before meeting for lunch. Afterwards, Marj, one of the students I knew from St. Louis, insists on driving me back to the Southshore Station, which was about a mile away. She had suggested I call when I arrived there and she would have picked me up, or I should take a cab. But I decided to walk down and surprise them. Undoubtedly, the neighborhood is worse than it looks. I take the Southshore back into the city center city to catch the Empire Builder that afternoon for Seattle. 

While walking back to Union Station, I was surprised to be greeted by two kids running up to me. Aaron and Ashley and their mother Karen, whom I’d met on my journey from Pittsburgh to Washington, sit just outiside of the depot, while waiting on their train to Grand Rapids, Michigan. They’d just returned from their trip to the Nation’s Capital. We have enough time to grab an ice cream before I boarded the train to the West Coast. 

Chicago to Seattle, Day 1

The Empire Builder, the northern most of the great western railways was built by and named for James J. Hill. He envisioned a railroad across the northern plains, connecting the twin cities of St. Paul and Minneapolis to the Pacific. The line runs just south of the Canadian border. The Amtrak line which goes by the same name, starts along the old Milwaukee Road line from Chicago and then picks up Hill’s Great Northern line at the Twin Cities. 

My train leaves Chicago late in the afternoon. I finish reading Sue’s book, Beyond Servanthood, before bed. Sometime early in the morning, we stop in the Twin Cities. I don’t even get up and quickly fall back asleep. 

The next time I awake, the train gently rolls through curves, its wheels squeaking as they rub against the rail. I opened the curtains to see a thin strip of pink in the sky. I assume I’m looking out for the first time at North Dakota. A thin blanket of snow lays along the flat prairie, broken by an occasional row of trees or a line of utility poles. At regular intervals, a larger clump of trees indicates a small village. Above the trees stand a church steeple, water tower, and grain elevator. Nothing moves. Empty grain hoppers sit on sidetracks, waiting for the next harvest. A few cows huddle near isolated barns. I make out the silhouette of tractors, waiting for warmer weather. The state seems to be in a late winter nap. Then the train pulls up to the platform and I see the sign for Detroit Lakes. We’re still in Minnesota.  I fall back asleep. 

church in eastern North Dakota
Church in Eastern North Dakota
Fargo

Our next stop is Fargo. The town hadn’t yet been made famous by the Coen Brother’s black comedy. I step off the train and take a brisk walk up and down the platform. My breath smokes like a steam locomotive in the cold air. But it wakes me up. After a few laps, I hear “All Aboard,” and step back onboard and head to the lounge car for coffee.  I sit and watch the prairie as the day awakes. It’s spring but feels like it’s still winter. I can’t imagine the harshness of life up here along the high line, cold winters and hot summers. 

I spend much of the morning alternating between looking out of the window and reading. Having tired of theology, I pull out the one book of fiction in my bag, Doris Lessings, The Summer Before the Dark.  It wasn’t light reading, so I spend much of the time looking and talking to fellow passengers.

Delay

We’re running behind a bit, but late morning we come to a full stop. We’re informed of a train derailment ahead of us which needs to be clear. We sit, looking at the same barren prairie for two hours. The fences that run alongside the tracks seem mostly to corral tumbleweed. After we resume, I get off at all the towns where there’s a smoke stop, walking a few laps around the platform as the smokers puff down their cigarettes.  

The further west we travel, the more familiar the landscape seems. I spot sagebrush and, in my journal, use the term “Sage Covered Hills,” first the first time. For years, it would be the name of my blog. Some of the towns have painted their initials on the hillside above them. This common western feature I first spot on a hill above Glasgow. There are massive powerlines pulling electricity from places like Fort Peck Dam. At the time, I knew nothing about the dam. Later, I’d become more familiar with it through the writings of Ivan Doig, a Montanan author. 

Chicago to Seattle, Day 2

As the sun sets, we can make out the distant mountains. Running several hours behind due to the derailment up ahead means we’ll not see the majestic peaks as we cross into the northern Rockies. It’s two hours after dark when we arrive at Glacier Park Station. Instead of a light dusting of snow, as I’d seen in the morning, the mounds of pack snow are head high all around the station. A few passengers get off and others come aboard and soon we’re slowly climbing in the darkness. 

I wake up at dawn and we’re in Spokane, having crossed the Rockies in the dark. Here, the train splits with part of the train heading to Portland, while the rest of us will continue to Seattle.  

We run through eastern Washington and arrive in Seattle at midday. This is unfamiliar country to me. Years later, when I read David Guterson’s East of the Mountains, I recalled my trip across the state. I wished I had made more journal entries as I traveled reverse of Dr. Ben Givens, the novel’s protagonist. 

From the train in Eastern Washington
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Seattle

Trolley
trolley

In Seattle, I gather my luggage and head to my hotel, two blocks away. I’m too early to get the room. I leave my luggage at the counter and set out to find lunch.  Afterwards, I head to the Space Needle for a view of the city. I ride the city’s cable cars and walk along the wharfs and fish markets dotting the water. Later, I find a place to have seafood for dinner. I head back to the hotel before dark, wanting to sleep in a bed without waking up at stops. From the room, I call Carolyn and am surprised when she tells me she’ll meet me in Sacramento in two days.  I’m both excited and nervous. 

Seattle Skyline
Seattle skyline take from the “Space Needle”

On the Coast Starlight to Sacramento

The next morning, in a misty rain, head back to the train station and checked my bags for home. The sky is hazy as we pull out of the station on the Coast Starlight. I can barely make out the shapes of St. Helens, Ranier, and Hood of the Cascade Range.  This overnight train runs almost 1400 miles, connecting Seattle with Los Angeles.  

I get off early the next morning in Sacramento. My ticket was for Oakland/San Francisco, where I would transfer to the California Zephyr. But since the Zephyr also stops in Sacramento, this allows me to avoid riding the same track and provides me with most of the day in California’s capital.  It’s a beautiful day and the city is just waking up. As I arrive an hour before Carolyn, I hike up to the bus station, maybe a mile away. I stop for coffee and then, thinking it’s about time, walk on over to the station. Her bus is early and she’s leaving the station, when I call to her. We hug and set out to see the city. 

Of course, nothing is yet open. We walk around the state capitol. Then we head to the Roman Catholic Cathedral. This had been built by the first Catholic Priest in Virginia City after he was made a bishop. Then, when the California State Railroad Museum opens, we head there. This is one of the premier railroad museums in the world and we spend the rest of the morning exploring.  After lunch in the snack bar, we head back to the train station to the ride back to Reno.  

The final lap to Reno

Sierras
Sierras

The ride across the Sierras is familiar as the tracks mostly parallel Interstate 80. The train twists and sways and often runs through snow sheds, designed to protect the tracks from avalanches such as one in 1954 which stranded a train for a week. We mostly sit in the lounge car, close to each other, our feet propped up on the rail below the window, as we take in the scene. After the stop in Truckee, we head back to our seats and collect our baggage. In Reno, where I started nearly three weeks earlier, we step off the train.  

Reno Train Station
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Part 1, Reno to Pittsburgh

Part 2: Pittsburgh to NC

Other train trips

Danville to Atlanta, 2020

Coming home to Pittsburgh, 1987

Doubly late to West Palm Beach, 1986

Riding on the City of New Orleans, 2005

Edinburgh to Iona, 2017

Riding in the Cab of the V&T, 2013

Bangkok to Seim Reap, 2011

Riding the International: Georgetown to Bangkok, 2011

Malaysia’s NE Line: The Jungle Train, 2011

Coming Home on the Southwest Chef, 2012

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March 2025 readings

title slide with book covers

For those of you who wonder why I didn’t post a sermon on Sunday, it’s because I didn’t preach. I was recovering from a stomach bug and was still in the “infectious stage.” I doubt anyone wanted to risk seeing me. It all started late Wednesday night when I became violently sick and between episodes, was unable to maintain my blood sugar levels. I ended up in the ER, receiving IV fluids and shots to control nausea. After 4 hours, I came home but as late as Friday was experiencing diarrhea. As I was to have 48 hours after the last symptom, I was blessed to have someone else preach for me. The next sermon, God willing, will be posted on April 11th. This week, I had planned to be off in order to attend the HopeWords Writer’s Conference in Bluefield. Hopefully, you’ll find an interesting book or two from those books I finished reading during March.

Jon Meacham, His Truth is Marching On: John Lewis and the Power of Hope with Afterword by John Lewis 

cover of Jon Meachan's "His Truth is Marching On: John Lewis and the Power of Hope"

(New York: Penguin Random House, 2020), 354 pages including note, bibliography, and an index. 

In a way, Meacham’s biography on John Lewis reads like a spiritual memoir. Meacham provides the details of Lewis’ early life. However, his real focus is on Lewis’ faith and how it helped him as a young leader of the Civil Rights Movement.

Lewis wanted to preach from an early age. The family’s  chicken coop became his church. He preached to the birds and took offense when his mother cooked one of his “parishioners.” Throughout this book, Meacham captures the theological themes of Lewis’ life. These include love in the face of hate, non-violence, and with Martin Luther King, a vision of a beloved community. 

This book mostly focuses on Lewis’ first 28 years, until the death of Martin Luther King in 1968. A long epilogue brings the reader up to date on Lewis later work. This includes his 17 terms in the United States Congress. Following this is an afterword, written by Lewis himself, before his death on July 17, 2020. The book was published later that year.

Jon Meacham, as a young reporter for The Chattanooga Times, met Lewis on election night, 1992. He had just won his fourth term in Congress and Clinton had beaten George H. W. Bush for the Presidency. They would meet many more times over the years. Meacham began working on this book toward the end of Lewis’ life. Even thought Meacham focuses on Lewis’ work before they met, the closeness of the preacher/politician with the author is sensed throughout this book. 

Lewis’ grandfather was born a slave. But after Civil War, he worked hard and brought land. Lewis’ own father was a tenant farmer, but the family seldom saw the white owner of the land they worked. Lewis himself saw few white people in his early life, living in a segregated world. In 1951, at age 11, this changed one summer when an uncle took him to Buffalo, New York. It was an eye-opening event for Lewis. 

The 1950s were a time of change and uncertainty in the South. For African Americans, there was a bright light when the Supreme Court ruling against school segregation in 1954. Of course, nothing changed fast. But it was also a time of lynchings and the torture death of Emmett Till, a boy from Chicago close to Lewis’ age. 

For young Lewis, another change came when he started listening to the Martin Luther King, Jr. preaching on the radio. In 1957, Lewis left his hometown for American Baptist Theological Seminary in Nashville, Tennessee. The small school trained African American men for the ministry. While a student, Lewis learned about non-violent protests and participated in sit-ins at local cafes. He even volunteer to attempt to integrate a local white university. He was invited to meet with Martin Luther King, Jr. and Ralph Abernathy, who suggested he needed his parents’ approval since he was not yet 18 years of age. They refused and Lewis returned to the seminary. He continued his involved in non-violence as he participated as a Freedom Bus Rider. In all these experiences, Lewis saw the brutality of the Southern Whites as they resisted the demands of Black Southerners. 

As a young man, Lewis quickly became a leader within the Civil Rights movement. Even before his brutal beating on the Emmett Pettit bridge in Selma, Alabama in 1965, he had be with other leaders meeting President Johnson in the White House. It’s amazing that Lewis could continue to advocate non-violence and envison a beloved community with the violence he experienced. But he did. He even had to resist others within the movement, especially after Selma and later the death of Martin Luther King, Jr. These events led many to call for violence and Black Power as a way to confront the White backlash. Lewis stood firm for nonviolence. 

The reader of this book will take away an appreciation of what Lewis and other Civil Rights leaders endured. At a time when many of our rights as Americans feel threatened, the examples of those like Lewis, who Meacham likens to the Founding Fathers, provides an example of what courage looks like. He kept his eye on justice, avoiding violence but willing to get into “good trouble.”

I have read four other books by Jon Meacham and reviewed Let There Be Light.  Like His Truth is Marching On, Let There be Light is also a spiritual biography, but of Abraham Lincoln. I have also read his biographies of George H. W. Bush and Andrew Jackson. All have been exceptional. 

Mary Oliver, Upstream: Selected Essays 

Book cover of Upstream

(2016, Audible,  Pushkin Industries, 2023, 4 hours and 3 minutes)

A number of years ago read some of Mary Oliver’s poetry and her book on writing poetry. This is my first foray into her essays. This collection has been finely crafted, showing Oliver’s love for nature, life, and her home in Provincetown at the eastern tip of Cape Cod. As with her poetry, Oliver provides the reader with close views of the world. Owls, foxes, herons, spiders, turtles, fish, and her beloved dogs are all captured with her words. The reader learns the poet’s blessings upon those in the past. She drew strength from writers like Ralph Waldo Emerson, Edgar Allen Poe, William James, Walt Whiteman, William Wordsworth. She takes us on predawn walks. We’re introduced to a carpenter who wants to be a poet. Then we learn of her desire to master woodworking. I recommend this series of essays as a reminder to take our time to enjoy what’s around us. 

Amanda Held Opelt, Holy Unhappiness: God, Goodness, and the Myth of the Blessed Life

Book cover for "Holy Unhappiness"

 (New York: Worthy Publishing, 2023), 239 pages including notes. 

The title of this book, “Holy Unhappiness,” caught my attention. After all, doesn’t God want us to be happy? Doesn’t God want us to be blessed? Drawing on the account of the fall from Genesis 3, Opelt counters the idea we’re made to be happy. The curse of humanity includes our suffering in this life.  Of course, the pursuit of happiness, which Americans hold dear, isn’t found in Scripture but the Declaration of Independence. Yet such ideas have found their way into American Christianity through the various forms of the prosperity gospel. Opelt’s book directly attacks the heresy of the prosperity gospel. 

The author grew up in a loving Christian middle-class family in the Bible Belt. She felt she did all the things required of her to achieve blessedness. But as she grew older, she realized many of her expectations were hollow. The idea she just had to find the right job, the right spouse and they’d have the perfect children, and life would be easy was an allusion. 

The book is divided into three parts. Each looks at four places where we seek blessings followed by a chapter on the real source of blessings. The first part of the book looks at us as individuals in our work, marriage and parenthood. While there are wonderful aspects to each of these, they can also fluster our attempts to obtain a blessing. The real blessing comes in our delight of accepting what God has given us. 

Part two focuses on our life in a community. While much of American Christianity is focused on individuals, Opelt points out that the gospel is to be lived out with others. In this section, she discusses calling and community along with our bodies (through which we serve and work together). The blessing we discover is humility. The third part examines our gathering as believers, along with our suffering and sanctification. The resulting blessing is hope.  

Opelt encourages American Christians to avoid “one-verse-theologies” and to delve into the Scriptures. I applaud this suggestion. However, I wonder why Opelt didn’t link suffering and “holy unhappiness” with the cross. Perhaps this is because I am writing this review during Lent, or because yesterday I read nearly 100 pages of Fleming Rutledge’s, The Crucifixion. Nonetheless, there is a lot to commend in Opelt’s book. I was especially moved by what she has to say about the community, the church, and humility. 

Oplet will be one of the presenters at this year’s HopeWords Writer’s Conference in Bluefield, West Virginia.

Nathaniel Philbrick, Travels with George: In Search of Washington and His Legacy 

Book cover for "Travels with George"

(Penguin Random House, 2021), 375 pages include notes, bibliography and index. Penguin Audio, 2021, narrated by Nathaniel Philbrick, 9 hours and 34 minutes. 

This is the third book I read by Philbrick. The first two were In the Heart of the Sea: the Tragedy of the Whaleship Essex and Valiant Ambition: George Washington, Benedict Arnold, and the Fate of the American Revolution. I have enjoyed all three and have his book on the Mayflower sitting on my to-be-read pile.

I began listening to on audio, but ended up picking up a copy from the library. This allowed me to follow along and to see the illustrations. Most notably is John Trumbull’s painting of George standing in front of the hind end of Prescott, his horse. Prescott’s tail is raised. In the background sits the city of Charleston, for whom the painting was made. The artist’s joke is that the horse is relieving himself on Charleston even though I first thought Washington was lifting up the horse’s tail (as to say, go here?). 

Unlike the other two books of Philbrick’s I read, this one is more personal. Philbrick and his wife Melissa along with their dog, Dora, retraces the steps of Washington in their Honda Pilot. The one time they left their car behind was to sail, like Washington, to Rhode Island. This created an exciting adventure as they were caught in a dangerous storm. Thankfully, they’d left Dora behind.

Both Philbricks are avid sailors. Early in their married life, Philbrick stayed at home and cared for the kids while working as a freelance writer. Melissa worked as an attorney. I also discovered that he grew up in Pittsburgh. However, he spent lots of time in the summer on the coast where he could sail. Sadly, Phil did not reveal if he remained loyal to Pittsburgh’s sports or if he became a traitor for the Red Sox’s and Patriots. 

Blending into their personal experiences along the road, we learn much about Washington and the challenges he faced as the first President of the United States. At the time, the nation’s future was far from certain. Washington, a “Federalist,” was from the anti-federal South. Like all great men, he had his faults, especially when it came to his inconsistent views on slavery. Yet Washington was the man who brought the nation together. He strove to unite a collective group of former colonies into the United States. Philbrick notes that Washington didn’t desire the Presidency. Furthermore, Martha really didn’t relish the possibility of being the First Lady). During the time Washington made these journeys, he also worked on establishing the nation’s capital along the banks of the Potomac. This effort remained on his mind while on his last and longest of the journeys through the South. 

Washington’s journeys begins as he leaves his home at Mt. Vernon for New York. There, he took the oath of office. His desire to learn more about the nation and show national unity, Washington, led to these trips.

His first journey left New York for New England, with stops in Connecticut, Massachusetts, New Hampshire and a brief foray into Maine. Notably, he skipped Rhode Island as it had yet to ratify the constitution. However, Maine wasn’t even being considered as a state and it didn’t become one until 1820. 

Washington’s second journey was a tour of Long Island. The Island had mostly remained under British Control during the Revolution. However, a series of spy rings on the island, kept Washington informed as to the British plans. Even during this trip, Washington kept the identity of almost all the spies quiet. At this time, his concern continued to be their safety. What would happen if the nation failed and Britain regained control? 

Then, in August 1790, Washington sails from New York to Rhode Island. While he shunned the colony on his New England trip, he wanted to welcome them into the union after they ratified the constitution. Washington stayed with John Brown, a Quaker who helped establish Brown University. Philbeck had attended Brown, and his family had long ties to the university. We learn Brown’s chariot provide Washington with ideas of the type of coach needed for his southern journeys. More importantly, however, to the story was the Quakers mixed relationship with slavery. While the religion shunned the practice, many of the ships bringing slaves to the Americas came from Rhode Island. 

Throughout the book, Philbrick explores Washington’s own troubled relationship with slavery. It has long been noted that Washington freed his slaves upon his death, but they were only part of Mt. Vernon’s slaves. Many of the slaves belonged to his wife’s first husband and were property Washington didn’t control. Furthermore, while troubled by slavery, Washington still chased down runaway slaves and kept them in bondage. And while he was on these journeys, he traveled with enslaved menservants. 

Ironically, Washington’s final tour took him through a land of which he was unfamiliar, the South. During the Revolution, Washington time was mostly spent in the northern part of the colonies. Other generals lead the fight in the South. This was area was also the least developed part of the nation. Overland travel was difficult. It was also a place that was most hostile to Washington’s ideas, especially the tax on whiskey. 

For me, the Eastern leg of Washington’s Southern journey was the most familiar. Having spent my childhood in Wilmington, NC, and six years as an adult just outside of Savanah, I’ve traveled the roads which parallel Washington’s journey numerous times. Like Philbrick, I’ve read much of Archibald Rutledge’s writings. I have even published a piece on Hampton Plantation, where Washington stayed. I knew all of stories Philbrick told of Rutledge’s ancestors. 

The part of the Southern journey that I was less familiar with was Washington’s westward swing which took him from Augusta, Georgia through the Piedmont of South and North Carolina. While I have been to most of the sites mentioned, I never associated them with Washington. 

Washington’s travels seemed to help create the myth and numerous stories seemed to be repeated along the way. Many towns have their own version of “He’s just a man,” often exclaimed by some youngest when they met Washington. Another popular and frequent story are about the coins he gave out as gifts. Interestingly, these were British coins as America had yet to mint its own money. And then there was the stories of Washington’s beloved dog, “Greyhound.” Sadly, Philbrick discovered the story had been made up in the 19th Century. 

While this book wasn’t as detailed in historical research as the other Philbrick books, I enjoyed it. Philbrick. portrait of Washington gives insight into the type of leadership our nation needs at present. Furthermore, reading this book makes me think it’s time for a road trip.

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Getting to the Trailhead. The Southern Crescent, 1985

Title slide with photos of a wildflower and the Appalachian trail in Georgia, 1985

As I work on Part 3 of my first transcontinental rail trip which I took in 1989, I brushed off this old piece I wrote about a short trip I took in 1985. The plan was to meet up with friends and head out for a two week hike along the Appalachian Trail. At this time, my only experience of trains had been in kindergarten, on Tweetsie (in the NC mountains which featured an attack by hostile natives and a hold-up by Butch Cassidy wannabes ), at 6 Flags, and in Japan.

I wait, my backpack resting against my thigh, and look up the tracks for the lights of Southern Crescent. The night air is heavy, warm and moist. The clock on the platform reads 1:30. We’re told the train is 30 minutes late. I tell Paula, a friend who drove me down to Gastonia, that she can go home if she wants. But she, like many of the others who have brought friends and family to the tracks, waits. We make small talk, mostly about my plans to hike for the next two weeks.

Finally, a light is seen in the distance, growing brighter. The locomotives blow by. It feels as if train will skip us. Then the metal wheels squeal and the train comes to a stop. An attendant steps off, sits out a step. Those of us waiting make a line and begin to climb aboard. I give Paula a quick hug and thank her again for the ride, shoulder my back and board. A minute later, the whistle blows, the attendant picks up the step. As he boards the train as the cars jerk and continue their southbound run through the night. Next stop, Spartanburg, but I’ll be asleep by then.

author somewhere between Springer Mt, GA, and Fontana Dam, NC
That’s me, somewhere between Springer Mt and Fontana Dam



I stow my pack overhead and take a seat next to a man who’s already fast asleep. A few minutes later the conductor comes by and collects the $30 for my ticket. Back then, before internet and computers, you could still board and pay. I lean back my seat and close my eyes, attempting to sleep to the swaying of the car and the clicking of the wheels. Although tired, I’m also excited. I haven’t been on a train in the United States since I was a kindergartener. Then, my class rode the Seaboard Coastline from Southern Pines to Vass. Or Cameron? All I remember is that it was a mail train. We were treated to a tour the mail car where postal workers sorted the mail as it came aboard at each stop. 

Tonight, I’ll ride a couple hundred miles through the Piedmont, from Gastonia to just north of Atlanta. I watch as we race through small towns, the lights of the crossbars and the stoplights blinking on deserted main streets. Finally, I finally fall asleep. 

A few minutes later I wake up shivering. The AC is running full blast. The car feels like an ice box. I grab my sleeping bag from my pack, unzip it and wrap it around me for warmth and fall back asleep. A couple hours later, the attendant shakes me, informing me that my stop is next. 

The guy next to me is awake and he asks if the lounge car is serving coffee yet. Not until 6 AM, he’s told. I stuff my sleeping bag into its bag and secure it back to my pack. Then I sit back down to wait.

I chat a bit with the guy beside me. He boarded the train in New York and is going home to Mississippi. He’s curious as to what I’m doing on the train with a backpack. I tell him that I’ll be meeting friends in Gainesville. And we’re heading up into the mountains to the beginning of the Appalachian Trail. He, too, grew up in the South. Like many African Americans of his age, he had to leave if he wanted decent work. 

As he tells his story, I recall a photograph a friend of mine from the early-60s. Phil worked for the Charlotte Observer then. He caught on film the faces of three black boys looking out of the window of a northbound train. He titled it, “Chicken Bone Special,” based on the nickname the Southern Crescent at the time. The name came from how hardworking families from the Deep South, with little money in their pockets, headed north for work with a basket of fried chicken to tide them over.

The sky is pink when I step off the train at Gainesville. A sense of loneliness and abandonment washes over me as the train resumes its journey toward Atlanta, then Birmingham, Tuscaloosa, Hattiesburg and on to New Orleans. 

I can tell right away that this isn’t the best part of town. The rails run between industrial buildings, many abandoned, with their dark windows reflecting the morning light. Those who got off the train with me are all met by friends and family. Soon, I’m the only one left. A cab driver asks if I want a ride. I tell him that I’d be meeting friends later in the morning. I ask if he knows where I can get some breakfast. He points to a diner down the street. I head off in that direction. 

Entering, I’m aware of the stares, as drop my pack on one side of a booth and sit in the other. Most of those eating appears to have just gotten off their shift in one of the industrial plants by the tracks. 

I order a big breakfast: poached eggs, corn beef hash, toast and coffee. As I eat, I pull out A Breakfast of Champions, by Kurt Vonnegut and begin to read. I stay, long after finishing my breakfast, drinking coffee and reading. It’ll be noon before Reuben, and his brother Bill, will arrive and pick me up at the train station. There’s plenty of time to kill.

I sit in the diner for a good 90 minutes, wanting the sun to get up above the horizon. Then I leave to see the town, walking away from the tracks. When I find a small neighborhood park, I place my pack against a tree, using it as a backrest, and sit, continuing to read. Later, as the stores open, I check out a couple of antique shops. It’s a safe hobby. I’m surely don’t plan to buy anything to add to my pack that already weighs 50 pounds. 

I head back to the train station an hour early, thinking I can find a bench there to sit and read. But before I get to the station, I hear Rueben call my name from the passenger seat of a station wagon. He’d hired the janitor at his law office to drive him and his brother in his wife’s station wagon. I dump my pack in the back and crawl in the backseat next to Bill.  

We make a short stop for burgers and then drive toward Amicalola Falls. The Appalachian Trail begins at the top of Springer Mountain, but it requires a hike to get to Springer. We skip the falls, as we take a Forest Service Road which drops us off a couple miles from the peak of Springer Mountain. We unload and say goodbye to our chauffeur, shoulder our packs and head off into the woods. I don’t stop till we get to the bronze plaque bolted on rock, identifying the summit. There, we stop long enough to take a few photos, and then head north, following the white blazes toward Maine. 

The three of us at the start of the Appalachian Trail
Reuben, me, Bill, at the beginning of the Appalachian Trail, July 1985



Reuben and I are out for two weeks. We’re heading to Fontana Dam at the beginning of the Smoky Mountains. Bill, his brother, will hike with us the first week. He’ll get off the trail just south of the North Carolina border, where his wife will pick him up. She’ll also bring our resupply. This was Bill’s first trip, and it would be a tough one. For years afterwards, Reuben relished telling how, after he got off the trail, Bill called their mother and told her how Reuben, her other son, tried to kill him. 

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Pittsburgh to North Carolina, Leg 2 of my Transcontinental Trip

title slide with photo of the author boarding a train

Click here for Part 1 of this trip (Reno to Pittsburgh).

I’d arrived early in Pittsburgh on Friday, March 31. I dropped my stuff off at Bill and Mike’s apartment. Bill and I had shared the apartment the year before I took a year off for my western adventures. I spent much of the day around campus. I checked in with teachers, especially Ron Stone as I was doing an independent study with him on Reinhold Niebuhr. That afternoon, I met Linda, whom I had met the previous spring when I preached at First Presbyterian in Cumberland, Maryland. We had written back and forth a few times. She had invited me to her family’s cabin in the Laurel Highlands. It was a nice place, and she brought dinner that evening. We enjoyed a fire and spent Saturday hiking. 

On Sunday, she drove me to Butler, where I preached at Covenant Presbyterian Church. I had worked as a student assistant at Covenant for my first two years at seminary. It was good to see Steve Hamilton, the pastor who’d been my mentor for two years, and many of the people who had become close during my time there.

Photo of the steeple on Covenant Presbyterian in Butler, PA and Steve Hamilton
Covenant’s steeple and Steve

Linda dropped me off at the seminary that afternoon. While there wasn’t any romance in our time together, I had a nice weekend. But the pleasant weekend became tainted when I realized Carolyn had tried to call me at Bill’s apartment several times. While I was honest and we had discussed our relationship evening when I left Nevada in August, I recognized she was hurt, and we were more serious than I realized. 

I had come to the seminary for Jane Dempsey Douglas’ lecture series on the changing views of the imago deo (image of God). She drew heavily on her book, Women, Calvin, and Freedom, which I purchased and would read on my way back to Nevada. During my time there, I had lunch with Sue Nelson, my advisor at school. She’d just published Beyond Servanthood: Christianity and the Liberation of Women. I purchased her book and had her sign it. It’d also read it on the return trip, a trip in which my reading was every bit as deep as it was on my first leg.

As I was enjoying lunch with Sue and other classmates, Barry Jackson, another professor, hunted me down with an urgent message to call Ken Hall at Hill Presbyterian Church in Butler. Somehow, Ken heard I was in town and wanted to meet. As this was in the days before cell phones, Ken knew Barry and thought he might be able to find me. Ken was the moderator of the Presbyterian Church USA. In the two years I worked in Butler, I had only meet him one time, but I had worked with his youth minister on a few activities between our two churches. 

Ken was elected as moderator at the 200th General Assembly held the previous June in St. Louis. As a seminary student, I was there working for the Office of the General Assembly. The moderator was elected on Saturday. On Sunday, everyone attended different churches in the area. Then we came back together Sunday night for the moderator’s reception. There, with a group of seminary students from around the country, I waited in line to meet him.  When I approached, I stuck out my hand to shake his as I started to introduce myself again. But before I could, he yelled, “Jeff, I didn’t know you were going to be here.” Then he pulled me close for a hug. I was shocked that he remembered me with the 1000s of people who were present. The other seminary students were impressed. 

I excused myself and went back with Barry to his office where we called Ken. He wanted to know if I could come up and visit, but he was only free that afternoon. I borrowed Bill’s car and drove to Butler for the second time in two days. We spent an hour and a half talking. He asked me to get him a resume. His associate had left, and they were interviewing for another. But he suggested if they didn’t hire one, he would be interested in hiring me during my senior year to fill in the gap. While they would hire someone that summer, it was good to contact Ken again.

Ken and my path would cross several times at General Assemblies over the years. Afew years later, he went to work for the Presbyterian Foundation. Nine years after our meeting, I was a pastor in Cedar City, Utah. Having just built a church, I looked for someone to preach a dedication sermon. I invited Ken. He did a wonderful job. 

On Tuesday night, I played basketball with a group from seminary whom I’d played with for the previous two years. Afterwards, I went out with a group of friends to one of our favorite watering holes in Shadyside, “The Elbow Room.” 

As that party broke up, three of us who were visiting Pittsburgh decided we should visit a real Steel City place. John White, who had moved to Princeton, had been the director of admission who recruited me, and Karen, another former student, whom I barely knew, but who’d come back from the lectures, and I headed out to the “O” for hot dogs and more beer!. 

The “O” stood for “The Original Hot Dog Shop” or “The Dirty O”. The was a long-established hot dog place in Oakland section of Pittsburgh, on Forbes Avenue. When they started, they were across the street from Forbes Field. They witnessed the Pirates World Series win in 1960. By the time we arrived, the Pirates had long moved to Three River Stadium. Across the street from “the O” stood the University of Pittsburgh’s massive library was across the street. 

 John dropped me off at Bill and Mike’s apartment at 1 AM. I had just long enough to shower and catch a few hours of sleep. Bill took me to the train station at 5 AM the next morning. 

It was dark when I boarded the train for Washington. I took my seat at the back of partly filled car. Soon, I fell asleep as we pulled out of Pittsburgh in the dark and ran up the Monongahela River. An hour and a half later, I woke as the train worked its way over the Allegheny Mountains. 

The author boarding the train

The morning was gray. I headed to the lounge car for coffee. When I came back, others were stirring in the car. I grabbed some food from my bag. Then, two blonde hair and blue eye kids popped up from the seat ahead of me. Aaron, the boy was seven and Ashely, the girl, four. Sleeping in the seat across from them was their mother, Karen. As I drank my coffee and ate fruit and a cinnamon bun for breakfast, they played peak-a-boo from behind the seats. Soon, they were drawing pictures for me. When their mother woke, she told them not to bother me. I assured her it was no bother. We spent much of trip to Washington, playing and talking to the three of them. 

Karen, a single mother, was taking her kids to see the capitol. I learned she’d been divorced for a few years and worked in the layout department for the Grand Rapids, Michigan newspaper. 

At this time, the Capitol Limited which ran from Chicago to Washington, DC, was a single deck train. Today, it’s a double decked train, like the trains in the American West. With everything on one level, the lounge car had a dome section where you could have a better view of the mountains. The four of us experienced that for a while that morning, before giving up our seats for others to enjoy.  When we arrived in Washington, we went our separate ways. 

Early that afternoon, April 5, 1989, I left D.C. on the Silver Star, heading south. That night, my parents picked me up in Fayetteville, North Carolina. We spent the night at my grandmother in Pinehurst, before driving to Wilmington the next day. It was a short trip.  I spent time with my parents and saw my grandmother, my brother and his two kids, as well as a few friends. I even went for out to Wrightsville Beach Friday night.  Then, late Saturday night, April 8th, we drove back to Fayetteville. The agent looked at my tickets and commented, “you’re going the long way home.” At 12:50 AM on Sunday, I boarded the train for Philadelphia, the first stop on a long roundabout trip back to Reno. 

###

Other train trips

Danville to Atlanta, 2020

Coming home to Pittsburgh, 1987

Doubly late to West Palm Beach, 1986

Riding on the City of New Orleans, 2005

Edinburgh to Iona, 2017

Riding in the Cab of the V&T, 2013

Bangkok to Seim Reap, 2011

Riding the International: Georgetown to Bangkok, 2011

Malaysia’s NE Line: The Jungle Train, 2011

Coming Home on the Southwest Chef, 2012

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Randsburg and a 94 year old redhead

Photo of old cabins in the Mojave

This is a second post on a trip I took with Ralph to the northern Mojave in California. Click here to read about the morning at Goler Gulch.

Olga’s the first 94-year-old redhead I’ve met. I’m sure she has some artificial help; even so, her hair shows spunk. She gets around well and lives by herself. “I wouldn’t have it any other way,” she confesses. She still runs “The Joint,” pulling a regular shift, tending bar. When things are not busy, she steps out front and pull weeds from the flower bed. That’s where we first saw her. Ralph and I along with Bill and his friend had stopped in Randsburg for a late lunch after our tour of Goler Gulch. As we headed to a restaurant, Ralph mumbled something about it can’t Olga pulling flowers. He recognized the woman who none of us had seen. 

Ralph and Olga in "The Joint" in Randsburg, CA

After lunch, Ralph and I walked down to “The Joint,” a bar in Randsburg. Olga’s washing glasses as we enter. She stops and turns to take our order. Olga doesn’t recognize Ralph, so he introduces himself. She looks at him for a minute, then smiles and comments about how much she misses his brother. He lived in the area and died a couple of years earlier. The two chat for a minute about Olga’s son, who was Ralph’s age. The two of them went off to war together in 1944. Ralph asked how long she’s been tending bar at “The Joint.” We learn she and her late-husband brought the establishment in 1955. “I’ve had honest work ever since,” she tells us. I was curious about what kind of work she’d done before but decide not to interrupt their reunion. 

Selling booze in a mining town was lucrative business. Selling anything liquid use to be lucrative business as water in these parts was expensive, even as late as the ‘40s. Today, there is little mining and its mostly tourists who stop in want something alcoholic. The establishment is open from Wednesday through Sunday and they close in the evening when they are no longer busy. “The Joint” is in the heart of Randsburg’s business district and one of the original structures in town. The building was first a bakery. In the 30s, it was converted to a bar and a pool hall.

Ralph and I both order a couple of Mojave Greens, a local beer made in Inyokern and named for the famous rattlesnake of the Mojave. Ralph, who grew up in this area, said he’d only seen two of these snakes in his life. She pulls us two bottles out of the cooler, opens them, and ask if we want a glass. Ralph, always the civilized one, takes a glass and slowly pours his beer into it. I shake my head, grab the bottle and tip it up to drink. Ralph and Olga continue talking until Olga pauses to fix another drink for the woman sitting at the other end of the bar.

Its then I notice Faye, who’s sitting a few stools away and looking for a refill. I’m not sure why I hadn’t noticed her earlier as she wears a barely ample halter displaying more than ample breasts. She’s attractive or certainly could be. With her tight mini-skirt and heels which must be five inches high, I wonder what kind of business she’s in. We chat for a few minutes and learn she’s the proprietor of the Silver Dollar Saloon in Red Mountain. This is her day off. 

The day before, when we drove through Red Mountain, Ralph had told me earlier about the red-light district there. It was a hoping place when he was a schoolboy before the war. The saloons in Red Mountain lined the west side of the street and featured backroom gambling. Gambling was illegal in California, but this wasn’t exactly on the main highway and most people looked the other way. On the east side of the street were “cribs,” where prostitutes who free-lanced in the bars and around the gambling dens, led their clients. It was a cozy arrangement, and local authorities did little to discourage business. 

But then World War 2 came along. The Navy built a base on China Lake. Since there’s not enough water in China Lake to float a canoe most years, they used the base to train pilots. Naval authorities found that after a night of drinking, gambling and whoring, the drive over the mountain was too difficult to negotiate. They lost many pilots before they had a chance to sight in on a Japanese Zero. The Navy called in the FBI, who shut down the gaming establishments and ran the women off.

A few minutes later, Faye’s partner at the Silver Dollar joined us at the bar. While I’d enjoyed glancing over at Faye as we talked, I now divert my eyes. This guy is scary. His bare skinny legs end within fancy black leather cowboy boots, with pointed toes, and scroll threading. Personally, I think wearing cowboy boots without long pants should be a misdemeanor. Wearing cowboy boots with super tight short shorts, the kind which hadn’t been seen since the 80s, should be a felony! This guy’s pants are shorter than his partner’s mini skirt.

I’m glad I’m not alone in the bar with him. Had it just been me drinking and he came in, I think I’d wallowed over to the Methodist Church and take the temperance pledge. But he joins the conversation and seems to be an okay. However, he and Faye, to say the least, are one unique couple.

Ralph and I finish our beers and head out. The darkness in the bar forces our eyes to squint as we adjust to the bright desert sky. We take the long way back to Ridgecrest, through Inyokern. I tell Ralph about my one other trip to Inyokern. It was approaching midnight. I was with Eric, another friend of mine who Ralph knows. We’d been looking for a place to stop for the night. We were on our way to do a week hike from New Army Pass, to the Pacific Crest Trail and then up the backside of Mt. Whitney, and then north along the John Muir Trail to Onion Valley. And we wanted to get an early start the next morning so we kept driving late into the night. 

Eric sighted a spotlight for an airport. As a pilot, he suggested we head there and camp, telling me about camping under his plane at such places. There was no one to stop us. I slept on one side of the car and Eric on the other. The night was warm. I laid out my pad and sleeping bag and slept on top. I must have been exhausted for I don’t remember anything else until 5:00 AM, when a loudspeaker rudely awaken me as it called out for those boarding the 5:30 AM flight to LAX. Shortly afterwards, we were on the road.

Ralph, who always had a way with words, quipped something about how Eric and I must not of been living right. Ralph and I had camped out when in the wilderness. But he felt if we’re going to stay in civilization, we should, at least, find a motel. 

We drive back into Ridgecrest as the light softens. The shadows of the barren peaks provide definition to the distant hills in the low warm light. It’s nearly dark when we arrive. Unlike Randsburg, Ridgecrest is a new town, built during World War II. The purpose of the town is to serve the China Lake Naval base. We drive around, looking for a place for dinner. In our search, as we navigate ubiquitous four-way stop signs, But what amazed me of the town was to see not only had a dollar store, but also a 99-cent store and, for those who that’s even too much, a 98-cent store. Every place needs to be known for something. 

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From Reno to Pittsburgh, 1989, the first leg of a transcontinental journey

title slide with Amtrak post card of the California Zephyr in Colorado

This piece is from my journals, memory, and the train guide for the California Zephyr. Sadly, I must not have taken as many photos as I do now, but then this was long before digital photography. 

A three week break from Nevada

I left my car at Carolyn’s house in the Washoe Valley on the southside of Reno. We had an early dinner, then she drove me to the Reno Amtrak Station where we waited for the eastbound California Zephyr. It was the Tuesday after Easter, March 28, 1988. I checked my suitcases through to Pittsburgh, keeping with me only a small duffle bag which contained a pillow, blanket, toiletries, a few clothes, books, and snacks. The train pulled up to the station. It’s a short stop, just long enough for passengers to debark or step aboard. Carolyn and I hugged; I threw my duffle over my shoulders, grabbed the handrail and stepped up. 

As I was finding my way up to the second floor of the double decked train, we pulled away. A few minutes later, we stopped in Sparks, for a longer stop so they could service the train. I looked out the window and saw Carolyn by the tracks waving. Knowing there was going to be this stop, she followed the train over. I waved back but couldn’t leave the train as I was waiting on the conductor to process my ticket. By the time he reached me, the train was running east alongside the Truckee River and passing the infamous Mustang Ranch. The train guide described the gaudy brothel only as “one of Nevada’s unique institutions.”  

At this time, Amtrak had a promotional which allowed you to name your destination. You were allowed one additional stop each direction. The nation was divided into three zones. For 150 dollars, you could travel in one zone. For 300, you could cross all three zones. Looking to make the best of the offer, my destination was Fayetteville, North Carolina, three zones away. Going out, I would make a stop in Pittsburgh, where I would attend a lecture series and catch up with old friends. In North Carolina, I’d have a short visit with my parents, grandmother, and siblings. Coming back, I planned to stop in Seattle, cause I had never been there. I was a little scared but also excited about riding over 7,000 miles on the train over a three-week period. 

I tried to do a little reading as I got use to my seat. While I brought several books with me, the reading was all heavy, mostly on theology and Biblical Studies. I had a commentary on the book of Revelation, a collection of Reinhold Niebuhr’s shorter writings, and Doris Lessings, The Summer before Dark.  With daylight fading fast, I found myself unable to concentrate. I went to the restroom to brush my teeth and long before we stopped in Winnemucca, the rocking of the car and the occasional sound of the whistle blowing in the night had me asleep.

The previous week had been brutal

The past week had been brutal. The Wednesday before, I had officiated at my first funeral. It was for Lois Bowen, a longtime member of the church whom I had not met. Shortly after learning she had cancer, she left Virginia City and moved to Las Vegas to be near to family. They brought her back to the funeral, which I was to conduct. I don’t know how it all came together, but those who knew her shared with me pieces of her life and I somehow managed to work it into a homily.

The small sanctuary was packed for the funeral. Rudi, a former opera singer and a church member, sang a solo while Red, a local banjo picker in his 90s, played a wonderful rendition of “Amazing Grace.” When it was over, Pat Hardy, who served as my supervisor as I was only a student pastor, complimented me on having given one of the best funeral homilies he’d heard. 

Then Holy Week kicked in. Thankfully, Pat came up to Virginia City again on Thursday to lead the Maundy Thursday service since I was not yet ordained and not allowed to officiate at the Lord’s Table. On Friday, I preached the ecumenical Good Friday service at St. Mary’s in the Mountains on John 19:17-20. The service went well except for the confusion which came in leading the Lord’s Prayer the “Presbyterian way” in a Catholic Church. (Presbyterians say debts instead of trespasses and the Catholics don’t have the doxological ending to the prayer). Also, on this day, I learned I had passed all four of the ordination exams I taken in February.  A major hurdle toward ordination had been completed, but with two Easter Services, I had little time to reflect. 

Then on Easter Sunday, two days before I stepped on the train, I held my first Sunrise Service at the cemetery on the north end of town. It was a cold morning. The temperature was in the 20s and a cold wind blew off Mount Davidson. We hurried through the service with me giving a short homily on Luke 24:1-12. Afterwards, we rushed back to the church on South C Street where Norm had coffee and pastries waiting for us. A few hours later, I conducted my first Easter Service, preaching on 1 Corinthians 15:19-26. 

On the train

By the time I boarded the train two days later, I was exhausted. I don’t remember much after the Mustang Ranch and slept soundly to the rocking of the train.

In the dark, we passed Lovelock, Winnemucca, and Elko, towns I recalled from my drive the past Septemberfrom the Sawtooth Mountains to Virginia City.  I woke at 4:30 AM. The train no longer rocked as we had stopped in Salt Lake City. I got off and walked around the platform in the cold. As we waited for another train, the Desert Wind from Los Angeles, I headed into the station and out onto the streets seeing if I could find a diner. It’d been a long time since dinner at Carolyn’s the evening before.

The streets were dark. Having only been to Salt Lake City once before, the previous summer as I drove west, I didn’t know where we were in relations to anything.  When I came back to the station, I was ready to board the train and snooze again but was held on the platform as they hooked up the cars from Los Angeles. Once the cars clanged together, it was safe to board. Soon we pulled out from the station, heading south toward Provo. As we passed Geneva Steel, dawn was just breaking. The steel plant, with its furnaces glowing, made me feel as if I was already in Pittsburgh. I quickly fell back asleep. 

I slept through the stop in Provo. When I woke, the engines up front rumbled and the wheels squeaked as the train labored over the steep and tight curves heading up to up to Soldier’s Summit. I head to the laboratory to brush my teeth and wash my face, then back to the lounge car, where I picked up a cup of coffee.  I would spend much of the day alternating between the lounge car and my seat in coach, and between looking at the scenery across the Utah desert and reading. Late morning, after the stop in Green River, and just before leaving Utah, the tracks began to parallel the Colorado River. We followed the river for the next 282 miles of stunning scenery, with stops at cute ski towns. 

Somewhere in Utah

Leaving the Colorado River, we made a steep climb over the Rockies. Shortly after a stop at Winter Park, the train entered into darkness as we ran through the 6.2 mile long Moffat Tunnel. Coming back into daylight on the other side, we began our slow descend toward Denver as we ran through many tunnels. 

inside the lounge car

Denver was another long stop on the train. I got to talking to an African American passenger on the platform, who was heading from his home in California to Cleveland, where he had family. We decided to see if we could find a place to get dinner and a drink. Not far from the station was a brew pub. This was still a new concept in 1989, with the only other one I knew of being back in Virginia City. We each ordered a sandwich and one of their brews. We consumed our food and drink quickly, making sure we didn’t miss the train when it headed out across the plains. 

Day 2: Leaving Denver

Darkness was falling as the train left the station. I went to the lounge car where they were showing a movie, but it was crowded and I wasn’t interested, so I went back to my seat, got out my blanket and pillow, and quickly fell asleep. 

Early to bed meant that I also woke early as we were rolling through eastern Nebraska. Knowing the lounge car didn’t open until 6 AM, I headed to the lavatory to clean up and brush my teeth. I got off the car for a few minutes when we stopped in Omaha and walked around in the platform. The sky was just beginning to lighten, and I could make out a few of the buildings. When the conductor called “All Aboard,” I went back to my seat and waited. 

It wasn’t long before I saw the lounge car attendant heading from the crew quarters for the lounge, I followed him with my book, with the hope of getting some early coffee. When he entered the car, with me on his heels, he had a fit. 

The lounge car attendant was an older African American gentleman who had spent his adult life working on the railroad. He was friendly, took pride in his work, and saw the lounge car as his kingdom. What he saw once he opened the door was a dozen or so dozen college students passed out on the floor and in the seats. Empty beer cans rolled from one side of the car to the other whenever the train went around a curve. He cussed and began nudging them with his shoe, telling them to get out of his lounge car. They slowly got up, rubbing their heads, and heading back to their seats. I helped him pick up the empty beer cans and clean up the tables as he gave me a lecture about what’s wrong with today’s youth. 

The college students had been skiing over spring break and had boarded the train the day before in Steamboat Springs. He had been willing to sell them one beer each when he closed the car the night before, but it obvious they had a supply of their own as many of the cans were of brands not sold on the train. 

That morning speed by. We stopped for a few minutes in Ottumwa, Iowa. It was a smoking stop, and all the smokers got off, lighting cigarettes as soon as they were on the platform. I got off to look around at Radar’s hometown. Radar, if you remember, was the loveable corporal on the TV series, “Mash.”  At Burlington, Iowa, we crossed the Mississippi. The California Zephyr pulled into Chicago early in the afternoon. 

Crossing the Mississippi

A stop in Chicago, then onward to Pittsburgh

I had over five hours before catching the train to Pittsburgh, so I checked my duffle and walked across the Chicago River, down West Adams Street a few blocks, to the Chicago Institute of Art. There, I spent a couple of hours looking at paintings. To this day, I remember turning down a hall within the museum and looking at Grant Wood’s “American Gothic.” This was the first time I had seen the frequently parodied painting of a farmer with a pitchfork and his stern looking daughter standing in front of a gothic style house Wood’s had seen in Iowa. I was shocked by the small and unassuming size of the original. I’d always expected a much larger painting.

I left the museum around 5 PM, stopping at a bar and grill for dinner, before heading back to Union Station. Around 7, I boarded the Capital Limited for Pittsburgh. As we made our way around the south shore of Lake Michigan, through the steel mills of Gary, Indiana, it felt as if Pittsburgh was getting closer. Soon, I was asleep in my seat as we rushed through the upper Midwest. At 6 AM, we arrived in Pittsburgh. I gathered up my stuff and stepped off the train. Bill, a friend from the seminary, was there to meet me. 

Ticket jacket, route guide, and post card of the California Zephyr

Other train trips of mine: 

Danville to Atlanta, 2020

Coming home to Pittsburgh, 1987

Doubly late to West Palm Beach, 1986

Edinburgh to Iona, 2017

Riding in the Cab of the V&T, 2013

Bangkok to Seim Reap, 2011

Riding the International: Georgetown to Bangkok, 2011

Malaysia’s NE Line: The Jungle Train, 2011

Coming Home on the Southwest Chef, 2012

Other Virginia City Stories

Driving West in ’88

Matt, Virginia City 1988

Doug and Elvira: A Pastoral Tale

Christmas Eve 1988

Easter Sunrise Services (a part of this article recalls Easter Sunrise Service in Virginia City in 1989)

The Revivals of A. B. Earle (an academic paper published inAmerican Baptist Historical Society Quarterly, part of these revivals were in Virginia City in 1867) 

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Reviews of my reading during February

cover photos of books reviewed

The weather has often been cold and unpleasant, so I have been doing a lot of reading. These five books are all different, so maybe you’ll find something that is of interest. I often read something in February in honor of Black history. I have been reading His Truth is Marching ON: John Lewis and the Power of Hope by Jon Meacham. But, I won’t finish this book before the end of the month. Look for the review next month.

Stanley Hauerwas, Hannah’s Child: A Theologian’s Memoir

 (Grand Rapids, Eerdmans, 2010), 288 pages, no illustrations. 

One of the first books I remember reading after my ordination was Resident Aliens: Life in the Christian Colony by Stanley Hauerwas and William Willimon. The book came out during my last year in seminary, and I borrowed a copy for the presbytery office. I liked the book so much that I ordered a copy for myself and reread it. I often go back to that book, and it has informed my ministry over the past 35 years. Beside that one book, I have only read articles by Hauerwas. Learning that he had a memoir, I decided to read it. While this reads more like an autobiography than a memoir,[1] I’m still glad that I read it and recommend it to others. 

Hauerwas was the son of a bricklayer. His parents were modest lower middle-class Methodists from Texas. Both parents were older when he was born and his mother, like Hannah the mother of Samuel in the Old Testament, promised to dedicate her son to the Lord. Hauerwas sensed this and even committed his life into that direction, which led him to college and on to Yale Divinity School. But instead of becoming a pastor (he was never ordained and wasn’t even sure, at first, he was Christian), Hauerwas went on to earn a PhD focusing on ethics. He spent his career teaching and writing. 

Hauerwas began teaching at Augustana, a small Lutheran College. After two years, he moved to Notre Dame, where he taught for fourteen years, and then on to Duke Divinity School. Throughout this time, the nation dealt with Civil Rights and Vietnam. In his memoir, he is also honest about the political struggles in academia. This was especially true at Notre Dame, where he was a Protestant teaching in a Roman Catholic university.

Another intimate part of the book deals with his first wife, Anne, who had mental health issues that showed up early in their marriage and increased over time in severity. Bipolar by nature, Anne struggled with reality. She often thought she was in love with other men (who she fantasized as loving her) and much of this first marriage was without sexual intimacy. Along the way, they had one child, Adam, who was mostly raised by Hauerwas. After moving to Duke, Anne decided she wanted to go back to South Bend (where she was again in love). They divorced and her world unraveled. In her 50s, she died of a heart attack. 

Hauerwas then married Paula, a woman who was working at Duke and an ordained Methodist pastor. According to his story, their relationship has been much steadier, and both have been able to thrive in their relationship with each other and others in the academic community. They also both love baseball and at one time (before I moved to the Blue Ridge) owned a house on Groundhog Mountain, which I pass every Sunday morning between Mayberry and Bluemont. 

One of the things I appreciate about the book are details about who have influenced Hauerwas. Early on, it was Barth and the Niebuhr brothers. Later came Catholic theologians and a Mennonite, John Yoder, who helped Hauerwas move toward Christian pacifism. In addition to those Hauerwas personally knows, he also credits books which have helped shape his theology. There is much in this book for those who enjoy theology, philosophy, and how thought process is shaped.  

[1] I think of a memoir as focusing narrowly on one aspect of a life. This book tends to focus on many aspects of the author’s life, from his birth to his sixties.

Timothy Snyder, On Tyranny: Twenty Lessons for the Twentieth Century 

(New York: Crown, 2017), 127 pages. 

This is a valuable little book that shouldn’t take most readers more than an hour or two to read. I’ve heard it mentioned often lately as an antidote (or resistant manual) to a more authoritarian society which seems to be preferred by many in the western world. As for the desire for authoritarian desires, see Anne Applebaum, The Twilight of Democracy: The Seductive Lure of Authoritarianism.

Snyder offers easy to understand lessons on how we might resist tyranny.  The first one has become a rallying cry since the election, “Don’t Obey in Advance.” The lessons themselves are just a few words, making them easy to understand. Then, following each lesson is a bolded paragraph highlighting the importance of such action. This is then followed by several pages of examples from European fascist movements early in the 20thCentury and the collapse of Eastern Europe into the communist domain following World War 2. Snyder also highlights the troubling trend of many of these same countries, after having a short bit of freedom with the collapse of the Soviet Union, have slipped back into authoritarian control. 

The Twenty Lessons:

  1. Do note obey in advance
  2. Defend institutions
  3. Beware of the one-party state
  4. Take responsibility for the face of the world
  5. Remember professional ethics
  6. Be wary of paramilitaries
  7. Be reflective if you must be armed
  8. Stand out
  9. Be kind to our language
  10. Believe in truth
  11. Investigate
  12. Make eye contact and small talk
  13. Practice corporeal politics
  14. Establish a private life
  15. Contribute to good causes
  16. Learn from peers in other countries
  17. Listen for dangerous words
  18. Be calm when the unthinkable arrives
  19. Be patriot
  20. Be as courageous as you can

I especially liked his lesson on being kind to our language. Here, he encourages us to read books (not just what’s on the internet). His reading list includes: 

*Ray Bradbury’s Fahrenheit 45
*George Orwell,        *1984, *Animal Farm, and his wonderful essay, *“Politics and the English Language” 
*Fyodor Dostoevsky, The Brothers Karamazov
Milan Kundera, The Unbearable Lightness of Being
*Sinclair Lewis, It Can’t Happen Here
Philip Roth, The Plot Against America
Victor Klemperer, The Language of the Third Reich
Hannah Arendt, The Origins of Totalitarianism
Albert Camus, The Rebel
Czeslaw Milosz, The Captive Mind
Vaclav Havel, The Power of the Powerless
Timothy Garton Ash, The Use of Adversity
Tony Judt, The Burden of Responsibility
*Christopher Browning, Ordinary Men
Peter Pomerantsev, Nothing is True and Everything is Possible 
J. K. Rowling, Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows

The * indicates books I’ve read (8 out of 18, so I have some catching up to do). 

This is an important book. It might be a good one for a small group of people to read together and to discuss, over a period of time, each of the lessons. 

Leo Damrosch, The Club: Johnson, Boswell, and the Friends Who Shaped an Age, 

narrated by Simon Vance (2019, Audible, 15 hours and 1 minute.


In 1763, the English portrait painter Joshua Reynolds proposed to Samuel Johnson to start a club that would meet each Friday evening. Starting with nine members, the club voted on new members (and membership had to be approved by all members allowing one no vote to blackball a prospective member). While this book focuses only on the activity of club members in the 18thCentury, the club continues to this day as the London Literary Club. For most of the 18th Century, The Club met at the Turk’s Head Tavern, starting with dinner at 6 PM, and then drinks and conversation going on till midnight (or afterwards). 

The membership of the Club in the early years were men (the membership was all male), who made their mark on history. In addition to social critic Samuel Johnson and biographer James Boswell, The Club had an impressive list of members. Reynolds made a fortune with commissioned portraits. The great political philosopher Edmund Burke, who is best known for his quote, “All that is required for the triumphant of evil is for good men to do nothing,” was a member. He still influences true conservative thinkers today. Sadly, most who consider themselves conservative probably don’t know him, the exceptions being George Will and Arthur Brooks.  Another Scottish political philosopher, Adam Smith, gave us economics as a discipline. Edmund Gibbons wrote the multi-volume Decline and Fall of the Roman Empire. Other members included David Garrick, the great Shakespearean actor who changed the way actors performed, and playwright Oliver Goldsmith. 

While each of the above members receive a short biography within the book, Damrosch focuses most on James Boswell (who joined The Club after its establishment) and Samuel Johnson.  Johnson was English and Boswell was Scottish and would later become the Lord over a vast estate upon his father’s death. Boswell also wrote a major biography of Johnson. The two of them even took a Scottish holiday, traveling across the lowlands and to the Inner Hebrides. Both would published books on the journey. 

Johnson valued the control of one’s passions while Boswell often drank to excess and sought out prostitutes. In Boswell’s journals he used codes, which have been broken, to indicate sexual activity. Boswell had a rough relationship with his father. Johnson who was 20 years older than Boswell, became a surrogate father for him while he was in London. 

Damrosch dedicates some focus to what was going on in the larger world during this era, from the Seven Years War (known as the French and Indian War in America) to the American and French Revolutions. Club members discussed topics such as capital punishment, slavery, and religion. 

While I have listened to this book, I have also ordered a copy because I want to go back and collect quotes. Also, the text often refers to paintings of the era which was printed within the book. I recommend it. 

J. Murray, To Hunt a Sub 

(Laguna Hills, CA: Structured Learning LLC, 2016), 370 pages. 

I picked this book to read because it was about submarines. For some reason, my daughter has been fascinated with submarines and I partly to be able to keep up a conversation with her, I have read several books on submarines over the past several years. I also chose this book as I have followed Jacqui Murray’s blog for years and wanted to read one of her books. 

However, if you’re looking for a book on submarines, this isn’t your book. Only a few pages of this story deal up what happens in a submarine. In this case, the sub has lost control due to a computer virus. The story is engaging. It reminds me of some of the action books I read in high school. 

To Hunt a Sub centers on an Islamic terrorist group who figured out a way to incapacitate the American submarine fleet. To pull it off, they need the help of an Artificial Intelligence research of Kali Delamagente, a single parent PhD candidate at Columbia University. Her research blends AI, geography, and paleoethology. Her computer program named Otto allows her to go back in time to places where she follows “Lucy” around as she and her tribe made their way out of Africa tens of thousands of years ago. This story is very creative, blending life in the “pre-human world,” paleoethology, computer science, geo-positioning and terrorism. 

Center to the story is Kali, who is running of out of funds and time to finish her research and complete her degree. Two shady men attempt to help her, but for their own benefit. One is a male professor who secretly kill off lovers and stole their research, which he published as his own. The other is a Muslim on a secret jihad. Kali’s research will help him in his goal to kill large numbers of “infidels.” He promises money for her research. 

Helping Kali avoid the dangers she faces is Zeke Rowe, an ex-Navy Seal, whose last mission resulted in permanent disabilities. He is now a professor of paleoanthropology at Columbia but has been secretly recruited by the Navy to help them discover what’s going on with the submarine fleet. The two are romantically drawn to each other, but both put the importance of their work ahead of any relationship. In addition, Kali is not just concerned for her well-being but that of her son and her three-legged dog.  

The book was a fast read as I was drawn into the story. There’s lots of action and plenty of violence, but in the end the good guys win, and the American fleet is safe. The number of characters (and how some of them used various names in different settings), was confusing until I got further into the story. Some of the encounters seemed far-fetched. But this is an action book and it keeps your attention. 

Fred Chappell, River: A Poem 

(Baton Rouge: Louisiana State University Press, 1975), 51 pages. 

This is a delightful collection of poetry by the late Fred Chappell, who taught at the University of North Carolina at Greensboro for forty years and served four years as Poet Laurate for the state of North Carolina. Originally from Canton, North Carolina, these poems draw heavily on the image of the mountains.  River was Chappell’s second book of poetry. In addition to poetry, Chappell has also published novels and short stories. 

While the title suggests the book is “a poem,” it consists of 13 rather long poems. Some like “Susan Bathing,” are prose-like. This poem describes in detail but without slipping into pornography his wife’s body. Another, “Science Fiction Water Letter to Guy Lillian takes on the form of a poetic letter.  Others are more traditional, often drawing on stories of his grandparents. One moving poem, “Dead Soldiers,” is about the floods in 1944 and the empty liquor bottles in a man’s basement which are washed down the river as he shoots at the bobbing bottles with a 22 rifle. Reading it brought the floods in the mountains after Hurricane Helene last year to mind. The poems capture the rough life many in the mountains endured. 

Water, more than rivers, provides a unifying theme of the poems. While rivers often show up, but so does water such him as a child being lowered into a well to clean it. Other water themes include bathing and baptizing. The poems draw on Appalachian sayings and include clever phrases and metaphors. Humor is also inserted into the poems. 

I found similarities in these poems and Wayne Caldwell’s Woodsmoke, which I read last year and Ron Nash’s, Among the Believers, which I read several years ago but didn’t review. I recommend this book especially for someone wanting to capture the sense of the mountains in the early 20th century.