I arrived at the Moore County Hospital, just outside of Pinehurst, on a Wednesday morning in the middle of January 1957. The highways through the Sandhills of North Carolina were paved by then, but many of the county roads were still dirt. Longleaf pines surrounded the golf courses around Pinehurst and small farms dotted the rest of the county. Bright-leaf tobacco, cured in barns heated by wood, was the cash crop. It was a simpler time.
The national average family income had doubled since World War II, rising to just above six thousand dollars a year. Of course, per capita income was lower in the South. But on paper Moore County appeared prosperous thanks to its numbers being inflated by rich Yankee golfers. Six thousand went a long way as the average house cost $12,000. However, furnishing it with a pair of Rembrandt portraits remained out of reach for most. A pair of his portraits sold for an even half a million dollars later in the year.
For non-golfers in the Sandhills, such as my relatives from the Highlands of Scotland, tobacco remained king. People considered the leaf safe and when the markets opened in late summer, it sold for 59 cents a pound. North Carolina raised nearly a half million acres of the crop, producing over 1700 pounds an acre. You can do the math.
The year began with a meeting of African American pastors who formed the Southern Christian Leadership Conference. We’d hear more about them in the next decade, but integration moved into the forefront. A year after the last veteran from the war which ended slavery died and three years after Brown verses Board of Education ruled segregated schools unconstitutional, it took the military to desegregate Little Rock Central High School in Arkansas. Things appeared to move slowly in the right direction, but I’d be in the 9th Grade before schools were completely integrated. In Congress, the Senate under the leadership of Lyndon Johnson passed the first (mostly benign) civil rights legislation since the Reconstruction. We’d be hearing more about civil rights and Johnson in the years ahead.
Two days after my arrival, three B-52s made the first non-stop around-the-world flights. General Curtis LeMay bragged we could drop a hydrogen bomb anywhere in the world. New Mexico became the one place we did drop one that year, accidentally. Thankfully, it didn’t detonate which is why no one knew about it. The military exploded bombs in Nevada but said everything was safe. No one knew differently except for the sheepherders whose flocks lost their wool and began to die off. There were other nuclear accidents in ’57 in the US and UK, but no one talked about them. What you don’t know won’t hurt you, right? And we all knew our government would never do anything to harm us. That myth died before I graduated high school.
Although there were no major wars going on, the world remained tense. The Suez Crisis and the threat of a Soviet nuclear attack loomed. Our government, working with the Canadians, established the DEW line in the arctic to provide us a six-hour warning before the first Soviet bomb could be dropped on an American city. Canadian cities would have a little less time to prepare. By the time the Dew Line became operational, they reduced the margin to three hours as Soviet jets had doubled their speed. In a few months it all became extraneous as the Soviets launched the first intercontinental ballistic missile.
Later in the same year, the Soviets launch Sputnik, and we’d spend the next decade in a space race. Amidst the space race, some yo-yo created the first plastic pink flamingo. The end was near as prophesied by Nevil Shute in On the Beach, his post-nuclear war novel, published in 1957. I’d read it in high school.
To save us from calamity, we placed our faith in Ike, the President. Many thought I resembled as I, too, had a bald head. Ike wasn’t Herod and didn’t see himself as a king. Nor did he waste any time worrying about a newborn impostor as he perfected his golf swing while supposedly preparing himself for a second term as the leader of the free world.
Jack Kerouac published On the Road in 1957. People headed out on the road sporting a new line of fancy cars with high fins and excessive chrome. The ’57 Chevy would become an icon of the era as Ike announced the building of interstates to connect the cities of our nation. Off the radar was a little-known Japanese company, Toyota. They loaded a ship with their first vehicles for the US market.
People began flying more and taking the train less. New York City abandoned its trolley cars in 1957. Shortly afterwards the Brooklyn Dodgers (originally the Brooklyn Trolley Dodgers) announced their move to Los Angeles. They took the last of Las Angeles trolleys out of service six years later as I started the first grade. Now people think the Dodgers must either be named from their ability at dodging wild pitches or an obscure reference to an artful Charles Dickens character.
In other sporting news, the University of North Carolina beat Kansas in the NCAA basketball finals. These teams have remained at the top throughout my life. The Milwaukee Braves led by a young Hank Aaron beat the New York Yankees in the World Series. As a junior in high school, I watched TV as Aaron surpassed Babe Ruth’s home run record. The Milwaukee Braves faded over the next decade and high-tailed it to Atlanta. The Detroit Lions, a team whose demise parallels the city, won their last NFL championship.
Ayn Rand published Atlas Shrugged in 1957. Almost seven decades later, “Who is John Galt?” bumper stickers are occasionally spotted on American highways. In the theaters, The Ten Commandments became the top box office success. For a country which seems so religious, the last commandment about not coveting appears overlooked. Rand launched a frontal assault on this commandment with her godless “look out for me” philosophy. Other commandments were also being broken as the movie “Peyton Place, which debuted in theaters, reminded us.
Radios in ‘57 played the music of Elvis, Buddy Holly, Debbie Reynolds, the Everly Brothers, Pat Boone and Sam Cooke. In Philadelphia, love-stuck teenagers danced for the first time on American Bandstand as more homes acquired televisions. And in England, two chaps named Lennon and McCarthy met and would go on change music as we know it. Humphrey Bogart died just two days before my arrival, but it was still a good year for Hollywood. Not only was Moses selling, but so were dogs. Children everywhere cried watching Old Yeller. Hollywood also released The Bridge over the River Kwai. It inspired whistlers with its catchy theme music (an old British army tune). That tune would later be used in a commercial for a household cleanser which inspired one of the great ditties of my childhood:
Comet – it makes your teeth turn green. Comet – it tastes like gasoline. Comet – it makes you vomit. So, buy some Comet, and vomit, today!
Even today, I have a can of Comet stashed under my kitchen sink. Some things change, and some don’t.
I spent the last half of June mostly in the Upper Peninsula of Michigan. While I have already written about my solo kayak trip around Drummond Island, I thought I’d share some of my other adventures.
Jim at Richies Koffee Shop
I arrived in Michigan on June the 18th, staying with my friends Bruce and Katie on Jordan Lake. We enjoyed dinner and sitting out by the lake, along with a late evening boat ride around the lake. The next morning, I headed early into Hastings to have breakfast with my friend Jim, at Richies Koffee Shop, a place I often ate breakfast when I lived in Hastings. As I drove up, Dave and John were at the table by the front window. They wondered who pulled up with a sea kayak on top of their car. When I got out, John said to Dave, “Oh, it figures, it’s Jeff.” I talked with them along with Sandy, my favorite waitress, until Jim arrived. Then I moved over to a booth and caught up with my old canoeing partner.
I left Hastings a little before 9 so I could make it to the Upper Peninsula (UP) by 2 PM. It rained most of the way, but I made good time.
Me, Gary, Ron at Snows Bar and Grill
At 2, I had lunch with Gary and Ron. Gary and I were in the fire department on Skidaway Island and paddled together several times in the Okefenokee Swamp. I hadn’t met Ron before, but he also lives on Skidaway during the winter and on an island outside of Cedarville, Michigan in the summer. Gary and his wife were traveling through, visiting friends in Michigan before going on into Canada. We met at Snow’s Bar and Grill in Cedarville, a great place for white fish and walleye. It enjoyed catching up with Gary, who grew up in Michigan. We said goodbyes at 4:00 PM. I stopped by Cedarville’s grocery store and arrived in Detour Village a little after 5 PM.
On Thursday, I rested and checked out my gear for my trip around Drummond. I realized I had forgotten to bring a battery pack to recharge my cell phone. On Friday, I paddled around Detour Point early in the morning. Then I headed to Sault St. Marie for Walmart, where I picked up a battery pack and the rest of what I needed for my trip. Afterwards, I decided to travel over to Point Iroquois Lighthouse.
Point Iroquois Lighthouse
I’d been here once before but forgotten the reason why it was named after a native American tribe found much further east. In the 17th Century, facing pressure from European settlers, the Iroquois tried to extend their territories further west. Here, on the east end of Lake Superior, the Chippewa, the native tribe of the Great Lakes Region, stopped the Iroquois advancement after a bloody battle. Then, in honor of their dead foe, the Chippewa named this point along the lake, Iroquois. With all the talk about changing or not changing names to make it more “American,” I had to salute the Chippewa graciousness. The next week, I would learn that Drummond Island was named for the British General in charge of northern Michigan. At the end of the War of 1812, he was ordered to move his garrison back into Canada.
On my way back that Friday, I stopped for dinner at Cozy Corners in Barbeau. I’d eaten at this place before, but never on a Friday night. The place was packed. I sat at the bar, talking to my neighbors, watching the Detroit Tigers play on TV, while also catching glimpses of two southbound freighters. I ate fish tacos made with walleye.
The Manse
On Sunday, in exchange for staying at the church’s manse, I preached at the Union Presbyterian Church, using a sermon I had preached a few weeks early at home. On Monday morning, I headed over on an early ferry run for my paddle around Drummond.
If you didn’t read about my Drummond Island circumnavigation, you can catch up here: Days 1 & 2, and Days 3 & 4
I came back to Detour from Drummond Island around 2 PM on Thursday. I laid out my gear in the garage and the sunporch to dry, showered, and took a nap. Around 5:30 PM, I got up and drove over to St. Ignace to pick up Bob, a friend of mine from Hastings. He took a bus up to the UP from Grand Rapids. He was scheduled to arrive at 10:10 PM, so I decided to go over early and eat dinner.
Of all the times I have been across the Mackinaw Bridge, which crosses at St. Ignace, I have never been into the town. I exited I-75 at Castle Rock and drove through the town and realized soon it was a mistake. The place was packed. I found myself at the end of a parade of old cars, not knowing that this was the first night of a four-day car rally. All the restaurants were packed.
I stopped at a grocery store to pick up a few supplies, then decided to try the St. Ignace Truck Stop. It, too, was busy, but by 9 PM had slowed down as patrons left. I sat at the bar and ordered walleye. I was finishing my meal at 9:45 PM, when Bob called. The bus arrived early. Thankfully, he was only a couple of blocks away. I picked him up and we headed back to Detour Village.
Friday was wet and foggy. I spent the morning reading while Bob, who’s an editor, worked on a project. Occasionally, Bob shared his frustration at the book he was editing. He felt he had to rework too much of the author’s words. But he had been hired by the publisher to get the book ready for print, so he kept at it. Around 2 PM, we took a break and headed over to the Detour Village Inn for one of their great hamburgers.
The Village Inn is a baseball themed park. Tim Grisdale (Grizz) started the inn after he hung up his glove having played minor league baseball in the Detroit Tigers organization. In addition to running a bar and grill, he was a big supporter of baseball and softball in the town. He died in 2018, before I started coming up to Detour Village, but his memory lives on. There’s the Grizz burgers and lots of photos and newspaper clippings posted on the walls.
Whitefish Sandwich at Snows
After lunch, we headed to a preserve off Prettiss Bay, where we stayed exploring till almost sunset. Plants seen included wood lilies, thimbleberry, yellow coreopsis, yellow lady slippers, shrubby cinquefoil, red osier dogwood, along with irises, columbines, and shinleaf. Then we drove over to Cedarville and I had a whitefish sandwich for dinner at Snows Bar and Grill.
You might think that Snows gets its name from the extreme winters of the UP, but that’s not the case. There is a “Snows Cut,” which runs between the islands, just south of the joint. I have always found this interesting since I grew up just north of “Snows Cut,” where the Intracoastal Waterway cuts from Myrtle Grove Sound to the Cape Fear River, just north of Carolina Beach. That cut was named after the engineer who directed digging this part of the waterway in the 1930s.
Bob playing the Sax on Drummond
On Saturday, after a morning of reading and editing, we took the ferry over to Drummond Island and met Dave and Sandy, who took us to a potluck dinner hosted by Lighthouse Church. The dinner was outside. Bob, who is an excellent saxophonist, did a short concert.
On Sunday, I again preached at the Union Presbyterian Church and Bob supplied special music. He had come up with me in April 2024, so folks on the island knew him and enjoyed his music. Afterwards, we were invited to join a group at the Mainsail Restaurant for Brunch.
Botanist Bob
In the afternoon, after a nap, we explored the fins along Lake Huron, just east of Albany Creek. A fin is a wet boggy area. In this case, it’s separated from the lake by a series of dunes. This place is rich of wildflowers, especially carnivorous plants. While Bob has worked much of his life in the publishing business, he is the best botanists I know. Not only does he know the names of all the plants, but he also knows most of their Latin names.
Al
Albany Fin
Plants seen: Northern Pitcher Plant, Butterwort (rare), round leaf sundew, linear leaf sundew (rare), horned bladderwort, rose pogonia (orchid), and pitcher thistle (rare).
After exploring the Albany fin, we came home and fixed steak for dinner. Monday, we lounged around reading and editing. On Tuesday, we packed up and headed over to the Detour Village Inn for lunch before driving south. On our way south, we stopped at Wilderness State Park to look for some rare plants which Bob had seen there years earlier. He found the plants, but it was after they’d bloomed. I stayed at Bob’s Tuesday night.
Wednesday morning, before leaving Hastings, I had breakfast with “Doc,” my former associate at First Presbyterian Church. Now confined to a walker, “Doc” or Jim, cares for his wife who struggles with dementia. But Doc still gets around some and remains in good spirits. Then I started the long drive home.
Selfie at Hocking Hills
I decided to spend one more night out in the woods, so I headed to Ohio’s Hocking Hills. I’ve heard about this place before and wish I could have spent more time there. The hills are beautiful with some interesting rock formations around the creeks. I slept in my hammock and enjoyed dinner at the lodge as I watched the sun set. I arrived home on Thursday afternoon, after racking up almost 3,000 miles over 16 days.
On the way back, I discovered Southern Ohio is filled with Covered Bridges. I’ll have to explore these some other time.
While I have completed a lot of books this past month, part of the reason is that two of the books were mostly read during June. I just happened to finish them in July! Also, as I am trying to find a way to reduce my library. For the past thirty-five years, I have had expense accounts to buy many of my books, which have resulted in way more books that one needs. I have once again begun to check out books from the library. Two of the books here (James and The Folly of Realism )were library books.
Leo Damrosch, Jonathan Swift: His Life and His World
(New Haven, CT: Yale University Press, 2012), 573 pages including notes and an index. Audio book narrated by David Stifel, 20 hours and 43 minutes.
Impressed with Damrosch’s The Club: Johnson, Boswell and the Friends who Shaped an Age, I explored other books written by him. Having never read a biography of Swift, even though I read Gulliver’s Travels twenty-some years ago, I dug into this book. Swift lived a generation before Boswell and Johnson. While I listened to the book, I also brought a hard copy to reread sections.
In addition to having read Gulliver’s Travels (and Swift’s short parody, “A Modest Proposal”), which made me curious about Swift’s life, in 2011, I was in Dublin. I attended worship at St. Patrick’s Cathedral. I knew Swift served as the dean of the cathedral. He was also buried there. I found it shocking to learn Stella burial is next to him. Stella, is a woman to whom he may or may not have been married. Learning this, I became even more intrigued with Swift.
I enjoyed Damrosch’s extensive biography. While somewhat academic, this book is very easy to read and includes lots of snips from Swift’s clever writings. In the prologue, Damrosch teases the reader with one of Swift’s affairs, then provides a brief survey of other Swift biographies. Chapter 1 begins with Swift’s early life, in which there are a lot of gaps and questions. It’s assumed he was born at his uncle’s house in Dublin, Ireland, in 1667. Oddly, as a toddler, Swift’s wet nurse Tok him to England. He wasn’t reunited with his mother until he was older. It is assumed his father died before his birth although Damrosch hits at other possible explanations. .
Damrosch leads us through Swift’s life. Swift thought highly of himself and I am curious if he ever preached on humility. He held out hope for a better position in life. Only later did he eventually settle in the position of Dean at St. Patrick’s in Dublin.
Even though he was born in Ireland, Swift considered himself as English. But in time, he became a champion of the Irish cause. But it appears his concern was only for Irish Anglicans. He didn’t care for the Catholics, who made up most of the Irish subjects. He also had disdain for the Scots and Presbyterians
Of course, the Anglican communion was filled with political landmines. Swift didn’t make it easy to navigate, especially after it was discovered he was the “anonymous” author of a satire of the church titled, A Tale of a Tub. In that book, Jack represents John Calvin, Peter the Catholic Church, both with whom he had issues. Marty was for Martin Luther, whom he seemed to admire more. However, Swift was more about enjoying life and making jokes and less concerned about theology. .
In addition to church pollity, Swift was also interested in the politics of the United Kingdom. Considering he lived during the first Scottish Jacobite Rebellions, English politics were never boring.
Swift also enjoyed women. In addition to Stella, there was Venessa. A woman twenty years younger, Swift and she carried on quite an affair. In their correspondence, instead writing about their sexual attractions, they substituted “coffee.” Each would write things like “I can’t wait to drink your coffee.” This silly way of flirting kept a rising member of the clergy from suspect.
In the end, after Stella’s death, Swift memory faded. He worried about such a fate. In Gulliver’s Travels, when Gulliver is in Luggnugg, he learns of people who do not die, but instead face eternal senility. Certainly, death was more desirable than living like that. By the end of his life, Swift lost his memory.
This is a massive book with great details into Swift’s life. If you’re interested in Swift, I recommend it.
Ron Shelton, The Church of Baseball: The Making of Bull Durham, Home Runs, Bad Calls, Crazy Fights, Big Swings, and a Hit
narrated by Ron Shelton, (2022), 8 hours and 12 minutes.
Shelton wrote and directed the 1988 movie “Bull Durham.” In this book, he recalls his minor league career in the late 60s and early 70s. He began playing Single A ball in Bluefield, West Virginia (which was eye opening for a boy from California). He eventually worked his way up to a Triple A team in Rochester, NY. During the first baseball strike, he decided to hang it up. The first half of the book talks about how his ideas for the movie came about. Almost everything in the movie, he experienced or heard about as a ball player.
In the second half of the movie, Shelton talks about the making of the movie. Kevin Costner, who played Crash Davis, immediately fell for the script and helped him promote it to studios. Susan Sarandon read the script and even though she wasn’t being considered considering for the Annie character, she earned the spot for the leading lady. The third star, Nuke, played by Tim Robbins, took longer to arrange. Durham became the setting for the movie. During the filming, Shelton continually battled the “suits” in Hollywood.
In addition to learning about how Shelton came up with this idea (based on a Greek play with his baseball experiences), the reader gets an insight into the hassle of making a movie.
I still remember watching the film in Ketchum, Idaho, the summer I was running a camp in the Sawtooth Mountains. I still think it’s a great movie and this book makes me want to watch it again.
Alexander Vindman, The Folly of Realism: How the West Deceived Itself About Russia and Betrayed Ukraine
(New York: Public Affairs, 2025), 290 pages including notes, bibliography and index.
Born in Ukraine, when it was a part of the Soviet Union, Vindman’s family became one of the last group of Jews to leave the country in 1979. Finding himself in America, he served and retired from the US Army as a Lieutenant Colonel. The last half of his career he worked as a military attaché for the United States embassy in Kyiv and Moscow and later for the President as an advisor on Eastern Europe. His positions allowed him a front row seat for much of what happened between the United States and Russia following the breakup of the Soviet Union. Of course, there may be some bias,. This is understandable with his background. However, the book is written in a way that strives to understand the positions of Russia, Ukraine, Europe, and the United States.
This book begins under the presidency of George H. W. Bush. The Soviet Union broke up and many of the former “republics” became independent states. During the first Bush’s term and the first half of Clinton’s term, American interest centered on freeing Ukraine from nuclear weapons. When the Soviet Union split up, Ukraine overnight became the third largest nuclear power in the world. But with Ukraine’s dark history of Chernobyl, it was willing to give up its weapons. Furthermore, it knew it couldn’t maintain the nuclear stockpile, especially as many of the weapons approached the end of their lifespan. In a way, Russia and the United States agreed (for different reasons) that the weapons needed to be dismantled and turned over to Russia.
Starting with the Soviet breakup and for the next 30 years, the United States respected Russia as the legitimate heir to the Soviet Union. For their part, Ukraine just wanted protection from Russia as it attempted to build a new country.
As the 21st Century began, both the United States and Russia found themselves on the same side of the war against Islamic extremism. After the nuclear weapons in Ukraine were eliminated, the United States looked the other way as Russia attempted to control the Soviet’s former states. After all, the United States needed bases in former Soviet states for the wars in Afghanistan and Iraq.
Under Putin, Russia strove harder to influence the politics of many former Soviet States, especially Ukraine and Georgia. They even hired an American political operative, Paul Manafort, to help them break Ukraine up so they would have more influence. Manafort later managed Donald Trump’s first Presidential campaign. Convicted for fraud and witness tampering, Trumped pardoned him.. Manafort helped soften the image of Yanukovych, whom the Kremlin wanted as Ukraine’s president. Yanukovych won in a Russian influenced election. . Afterwards the people of Ukraine, desiring to aligned with Europe, revolted. He fled the country. Russia then invaded Crimea and the Donbas. Vindman, working out of the Moscow embassy, was able to report on Russian soldiers moving into the Donbas, which Russia had said was a separatist movement.
Most of this book deals with the period from 1989 to 2014, when Russia began military operations in Ukraine. Vindman makes it clear that Putin’s desire is an empire, like that of the Soviet Union. And the belief in Russia is that without Ukraine, they will not be able to have an empire.
Vindman is critical of all Presidential Administrations. Much of our policy focused on maintaining a positive relationship with Russia, while forgoing ideals of freedom. Vindman shows the failure of America not living up to our own ideals about freedom as opposed to looking out for our short term interests when it comes to foreign policy. He argues that our foreign policy needs not only a realistic approach, but one which honors our ideals. This book provides the readers with an insight into what led up to the Russia attacks on Ukraine. I would recommend this book, along with Anne Applebaum’s Red Famine to better understand the Ukrainian situation.
Percival Evett, James
Version 1.0.0
(New York: Doubleday, 2024), 302 pages.
Surprise, I do occasionally read fiction. James is a fictional story in which Jim, Huck Finn’s sidekick in Mark Twain’s novel, tells his side of the story. I found this to be a good and fast read with some surprising twists which I won’t reveal in case you want to read the book. I hope you do and highly recommend it.
James shows us how those in oppressed situations must live to maintain peace and enjoy some safety. He and his fellow slaves must show deference to all white people. This includes the way they speak. James educated himself by teaching himself to read and “borrowing books” from Judge Thatcher’s library. But he can’t let on that he has read many of the classics and musts talk with the dialect of a slave. He also is unable to speak up when other slaves are punished. His most valuable possession is the stub of a pencil which he uses to write his thoughts down on paper.
Many of the stories are like those in The Adventures of Huckleberry Finn. James and Huck spend their time on a raft and try to figure out life. They catch and cook catfish from the river. They run into the two con-artists, Dauphine and the King, who have a notion to sell James or to turn him in as a runaway and collect the reward. And they also meet up with a minstrel group without a tenor. Hearing James sings, the leader buys James as his tenor. However, to perform, they still must paint up Jame’s to make him “blackfaced,” cause no white crowd would come to see an actual black man sing. Through these stories, we see the absurdity of a society in which half the population are in bondage.
James’ mind is always on his wife and daughter, whom he hopes to buy out of slavery. The book ends as the Civil War begins. James frees his family and takes revenge on some who had been especially cruel. Instead of “lighting out to the territories,” as The Adventures of Huckleberry Finn ends, they move north. That’s enough hints to the story. There’s one larger twist you’ll have to read the book to learn.
My one complaint is that James is “too well read” in the classics. He has read (and carries on make-believe conversations with John Locke. Others he read include Voltaire. I found this hard to believe that one without a tutor could read and grasp the full meaning of such books. However, it’s still a good story.
Rebecca Solnit, Orwell’s Roses
(2021) narrated by Rebecca Solnit, 7 hours and 51 minutes.
“In the spring of 1936, a writer planted roses.” This begins the book, a sentence which, which in various forms, Solnit returns to throughout this collection of essays centered around the plant and the writer. Each section provides new insight into roses and to Orwell.
This is not a biography, even though the reader will gain insight into Orwell’s life. It’s more a mediation, as Solnit weaves together insights of the flower and Orwell. We learn about how and why the plant is grown. One tangent takes us into the greenhouses outside of Bogota, Columbia, where they grown most of the roses sold in the North America. We learn of the brutal conditions of those who work inside these compounds.
We also learn about Stalin, who Solnit suggests could have been Orwell’s muse. After all, much of his writing in the last decade of his life was in response to the world Stalin (and Hitler) attempted to create. While Stalin didn’t grow roses, he did grow lemons (or had them grown for him for unlike Orwell, Stalin didn’t get his hands dirty). Orwell, who politically was a socialist, feared what would happen in a totalitarian world.
The book delves into politics, economics, and aesthetics. The latter is important. During and since high school, I have read much of Orwell’s writings (Homage to Catalonia, Burmese Days, Animal Farm, 1984, and his much of his massive, Collective Essays). I don’t think I would have considered Orwell’s appreciation of beauty, but as I listened to this book, I pulled out my copy of his essays and reread several. Solnit is right. While Orwell was often sick and his view of the world wasn’t positive, he does appreciate beauty.
I highly recommend this book especially in our world today in which authoritarianism seems to have much appeal to many people. I believe you’ll appreciate Solnit’s masterful use of language as she conveys a sense that Orwell has something to say to our generation.
Richard Rohr, Falling Upward: A Spirituality for the Two Halves of Life
(San Francisco: Jossey-Bass, 2011), 198 pages including notes and an index.
I’ve had this book for a couple of years. Robert, a friend from Utah, suggested it to me in 2023. I brought it and my first attempt to read it just didn’t take. But the second time, something caught, and I read it. Possibility, this has to do with me pondering retirement. Two years ago, I was avoiding such thoughts. Now, I’m long past the age I could retire. The topic of retirement frequently on my mind.
Rohr divides our lives into two halves. The first half, we build a life. We also prepare for the second part. In the second half, we’re to be an elder, a mentor, and help others build. I like his distinction here of the two halves. He roots his thoughts in Biblical passages in addition to insights from his life, literature, philosophy, mythology, and other religions.
Early in the story, he shares a story of a Japanese ritual for those who served in the military during World War II. Many came home broken. They’d been loyal soldiers. Not knowing anything else, they needed to be helped to move into a new phase of life. They were thanked for their serve and then instructed by the elders in villages and cities to leave their “loyal soldier” life behind. They were now needed to help rebuild their society. This created a transition for those who had served in the military. Rohr then goes on to compare a successful transition to the older brother in the Prodigal Son parable, who was unable to let go of the past. Failure to let go of the past will lead to failure in the second half of life.
If we’re living, we’re changing. We need to learn to manage change within ourselves and our community. One of the keys to Rohr’s idea is to focus on the good of the community, something which I believe our society lacks these days. You’ll find lot more wisdom in this book. I recommend it.
I planned to finish up my tales from my Michigan trip, but the week has been too busy, so I bushed and edited a piece I wrote back in 2017. On the trip, I was coming home (to Skidaway Island) from a conference at Calvin College (now University) in Grand Rapids, Michigan. The route from Pittsburgh to Cumberland paralleled the bicycle trip I took in May with my brother. Click here to read about that trip.
The train arriving in South Bend
I wake up, realizing the guy in the seat next to me is gathering his stuff. Looking out the window, I see we’re running alongside a river. It must be the Ohio. I pull out my iPhone to check the time. It’s 4:45 AM, we’re approaching Pittsburgh.
“Getting off in Pittsburgh?” I ask.
“Yeah,” he answered. He was asleep last night when I boarded the train in South Bend. I was tired myself and had quickly fallen asleep. I vaguely remember train stopping at Elkhart, and totally missed Waterloo, along with longer stops in Toledo and Cleveland and several quick stops in smaller towns. We pass the Emsworth Lock and Dam. I’ve been here many times before. I’m surprised to see the barges are still running on the first of February, but then it’s been a warm winter.
“Live in the ‘burgh?” I ask.
“No, Philly.”
“But you’re getting off here?” I resisted the temptation to make a disparaging remark about the Phillies and Eagles.
“Yeah, I gotta catch another train. I have a two-hour layover. You from here?”
“Nah, but I lived here for three years when I was in school back in the ‘80s. It’s a great city.”
We talk for a few minutes. The train slows down and then pulls away from the river. I learn he’s a long-haul truck driver. They found a beer in his truck when it was being serviced. He said it was left over from New Years, but it’s a violation and they terminated him. But it’s okay, he says, as he’s already has another job lined up with another trucking company.
As he talks the train swings to the right and soon, we on a bridge across the Allegheny River.
“The Three Sisters,” I say, pointing out the identical yellow bridges below us. The train slows, stopping at the Pittsburgh Station underneath the massive building which used to house offices for the Pennsylvania Railroad. The conductors and engineer change crews here, providing a fifteen-minute break. After all the passengers depart, I get off and walk for a few minutes along the tracks enjoying the fresh air. Most passengers remain asleep, but a few shuffle around on the platform enjoying an infrequent smoking break. It’s odd to be outdoors in the predawn hours on the first of February without a coat. When the conductor shouts, “All Aboard,” I step back onboard and take my seat. Soon, I’m back asleep.
I’d boarded the train the evening before in South Bend, Indiana. I’d taken the train up from Savannah the week before to attend a conference at Calvin University. While I could have taken the train into Grand Rapids, it would have required an extra day each direction with a long wait in Chicago. Instead, I got off in South Bend and rented a car from Enterprise. They picked me up early in the morning on my arrival.
The evening before, I had to turn the car by 6 PM, to get a shuttle back to the station. The train was scheduled to arrive a bit after nine. I had brought a sandwich for dinner and ate it in the station while I waited. It wasn’t a very fancy meal, but sufficient. I would have preferred to eat in the dining car on the train, but suspected it would be closed by the time I boarded.
Taking up a seat along the back wall, I pull out my book, Robert Harris’ Pompeii. This is the original train station and the seats are heavy, old, curved oak benches. While they look like church pews, they more comfortable. Every few minutes when the crossing gates just outside the station would begin to ring in announcement of another train. The ringing was followed by the horn of a train coming closer until it whisked by, followed by the waning sound of the horn and the clacking of the wheels. This was the main line serving trains heading from Chicago east to New York, Pittsburgh and Philadelphia. The station was never very busy and only a half dozen of us who board in South Bend when my train, the Capitol Limited, arrived.
I wake up a little after seven and in the dark can make out a river that parallels the tracks. According to the timetable, we must have already stopped in Connellsville and are beginning the long slow climb over the Alleghenies. The river appears deep and slow, with just a few rocks, but I know that’ll change as we gain altitude. Snow dusts the ground. The trees are barren. Occasionally I’ll spot a pine or cedar, frosted with snow, but the trees are mostly hardwoods of some variety. In the dark, it’s hard to tell the specie. I take my book and notebook up to the snack car for breakfast, ordering a breakfast burrito and coffee. Sitting at a table, I eat, while watching the scenery change. As we gain elevation, cedars appear, and the water runs faster between eh rocks. Snow covers the ground with more falling.
The train slowly winds its way up the tracks, its wheels at time squeaking against the rails. We reach the village of Confluence. The morning is gray, foggy, and wet. Only a few cars are on the roads. As we gain more elevation, the river becomes smaller and swifter. We run through the first tunnel. On the top of the hills are many windmills. Mountain laurel covers the hillsides.
We enter another tunnel, a longer one, and when we come out, I notice that the river has changed directions. We’re heading downhill, but the engineer holds the train back, going as slowly downhill as we did uphill. The sun attempts to burn off the fog. Its golden reflections reflect from the ripples of the creek below. As we lose altitude, there is less snow on the ground. The train picks up speed. By the time we reach Cumberland, the snow is gone. We’re a bit early, so I step off the train and enjoy the fresh air. It feels more like spring than deep winter.
On my bicycle trip on the GAP, I saw these same windmills.
After Cumberland, I head back to my seat. The train runs quickly along the Potomac River. I continue reading Pompeii, picking up where I left off last night. A little over an hour later, we make a short stop in Martinsville, West Virginia, a neat looking old town. An old, abandoned roundhouse sits on the north side of the tracks. The business district runs along the south side.
Our next stop is in Harpers Ferry, West Virginia. I look for the old hotel where I stayed when I was here while hiking the Appalachian Trail. The stop is short and soon we’re crossing the river and heading into a tunnel.
Harper’s Ferry
Below Harper’s Ferry, the train parallels the C&O canal. The canal seems to be filled with stagnant water covered in a green slime. The train makes its last stop in Rockville, before pulling into Union Station fifteen minutes early. I head for the food court for a quick lunch, before heading out to the National Gallery for the afternoon. I’ll be back at the station in time to board the train to Savannah. I’ll have better accommodations for this leg as I’ve booked a sleeper.
The fossil ledges which are found on the north and northeastern side of the island.
After the windy evening, the morning turned out calm. The calm mornings are normally the pattern, with the exception being on Thursday. But on Wednesday, I woke early, fixed coffee and oatmeal, read and wrote in my journal before beginning my paddle along the north shore of Drummond. Much of the paddling this morning was along the fossil ledges, where the alvar limestone meets the lakeshore.
For the first few miles, there was no one else in sight, but a couple of miles from Chippewa Point, I began to run into boats fishing just offshore. Chatting with two of the boats, I learned that no one had caught any fished. One said this was the worse for fishing that he recalled. Normally there were a couple of inland lakes along the north side which one could explore, but the lake was so low that wasn’t possible. I also saw two bald eagles during the morning.
I stopped for lunch on a rock bar between Chippewa Point. The wind was blowing out of the east, just strong enough to keep the bugs from bothering me. After lunch, I headed due south, across the wide waters of Potagannissing Bay. The bay is filled with islands. I kept my sights on Bald and Grape Island, setting a course between the two which would land me back on the mainland approximately where Pine Street met the water. I wasn’t exactly sure where I was heading as an address doesn’t do much good on the water, but I knew it was just east of H&H Boat Launch.
Approaching Chippewa Point
After three days of paddling, my arms were tired. I had considered exploring Harbor Island, which has a large inside lake which creates a safe harbor, but since I had been to the island a few years earlier when a member of the DeTour Union Church took me out on his boat, I decided against it. I paddled on, between islands and could make out the marina.
After about an hour of paddling, I found myself just east of the marina. There was a woman out with a toddler. I asked her if she knew the Ledy’s. “You must be Jeff,” she said and introduced herself as Irma. The toddler was her granddaughter. I pulled my kayak up on their sandy beach and spend the next couple of hours talking to her and her husband Clayt, while enjoying a tall Long Island Iced Tea. Clayt, a contractor, had spent time building mission projects in Ethiopia. His stories were fascinating.
That night, I joined them, along with Dave and Sandy for dinner. Dave and Sandy had brought the meal which included tender pork chops which were a lot better than anything I could have fixed. While their cabin was full, they invited me to camp on their porch. I decided my hammock strung between trees would be more comfortable and I could get up earlier in the morning and be on my way.
Thursday morning, June 26
The rain came at 4 AM. Not expecting it, I crawled out of my hammock and pitched out my fly to keep the water from seeping in. I checked the weather. Off and on showers through the morning, but winds only 6-8 mph. It’d be a good day to paddle. Soon, I was back asleep.
At 6:30 I woke. It’d been light for nearly an hour, but the dark low hanging clouds made it seem earlier. I wanted to get a good start to the day, as I was going to complete my circumnavigation around Drummond Island. I needed to be back on the mainland in time to clean up before driving over to St. Ignace to pick up my friend, Bob.
Quickly packing my stuff., most of the gear I stored in a shed where, the night before Clayt, said I could I could store anything I didn’t want to carry. Since I wasn’t camping, I dropped most of my gear in the shed, taking only what I needed for the morning paddle. Then I ate a couple granola bars but decided to forgo coffee to get out earlier on the water.
A little after 7 AM, I was ready to push off. I noticed that the wind seemed to be blowing a lot more than forecasted, but it didn’t seem too bad. Heading out a way into the water, I turned due west. The wind blew out of the northeast, helping me make good time. Quickly passing Sandstone Point, I set my sights on Sims Point, some three miles away.
This course took me across the mouth of Sturgeon Bay. I noticed the water looked choppier than expected. As I moved further from the islands that I’d paddled through the day before, the wind picked up. About a 1/3 of the way across the mouth, I found myself in gale force winds. The waves built and the wind kept pushing me southeast, into Sturgeon Bay, I had to fight to stay on course, dropping my skeg (a small keel) and surfing at a 45-degree angle across 2- and 3-foot swells. The water foamed from the whitecaps.
Paddling with my life jacket zipped up (After crossing the lee of the island)
There were no boats out this morning. I wore my life vest over my rain jacket. Most of this trip, I only snapped the jacket at the bottom, but now I quickly zipped it up tight. In my jacket was a marine radio, in case I got into real trouble, along with snacks and bug spray. The later wasn’t needed this morning. Whatever happened to those 6-8 mile per hour breezes? Paddling became exhausting, but my boat handled the waves well. About a quarter mile from Sim’s point, I slipped behind an unnamed and uninhabited island for a break.
I rested for a good half hour. At least, I thought, I was done with the open water piece. From now on, I’d be along the shoreline, with roads and cabins if I got into trouble. I set back out paddling, with a half mile more to go till I would be on the lee side of Drummond. The waves grew taller as the wind pushed around the islands. A few waves appeared to be nearly 4 feet tall. Several times, I would miss a stroke as I crested a wave, with the water too far below the paddle.
Shelter on the lee side of an island. It’s hard to see the white caps in the photo.
Once, a wave caught me sideways and I almost rolled the kayak. At the last second, using a high brace, I pulled myself back upright and over the swell. This was scary. While continuing to paddle hard, I prayed for God to protect me and give me strength. Then, after another hundred yards, I passed Dix Point and turned my boat south, paralleling the island. The water calmed. I watched an ore freighter make its way north toward the Soo in the St. Mary’s River The current pushed me south. I relaxed.
waiting for the ferry to clear the dock before passing the terminal.
Limestone quarry loading docks
For the next hour, I paddled south along the west side of Drummond. The only obstacle was the ferry, which I decided to wait for it to leave instead of trying to race across it’s bow as it made its way back and forth from DeTour Village. Since there were no ships loading at the limestone quarry dock, I was able to see the operation up close as crush limestone falls into piles based on its size and use. Some of the rock is used in the steel making process, other is used in construction and agricultural.
Soon, I was at the southwestern end of the island. I thought I could skirt through the gap between Barbed Point and Crab Island but found that because of the low water in the Great Lakes, the channel was closed. Across the rocky bridge, waves were beating on the other side. I realized my challenge wasn’t quite over. I paddled around Crab Island and headed northwest, with the wind in my face. For a few minutes I was able to rest behind Arnold Island, but as I headed back northeast the wind howled. There was nothing to do but to keep paddling as I was taken back out into open water. But paddling into the wind is just tiring, not as dangerous as when the wind is coming across the boat. After about two miles I was finally in the tributary where Fort Drummond Marina was located. Once there, the last mile was a little easier as the shoreline blocked the wind.
Fort Drummond was named for the British General during the War of 1812 who controlled British troops in Southern Canada. At the time, the British held Mackinac Island. After the war, they gave it up. At first, Drummond moved his solders to the island that now bears his name. Later, they would move back into Canada, which was just north or east of the island.
Thursday morning, back where I started on Monday
I arrived at the marina a little before noon. After loading my boat on the top of the car, talked to the guy at the marina, then drove over to the Ledy’s to pick up my gear. I had to wait a few minutes for the ferry, but by 1 PM, I was back on the mainland, setting out my gear to dry in the garage. I had lunch, took a nap, and late in the afternoon set out for St. Ignace to pick up Bob.
I was going to publish the second half of my solo paddle around Drummond Island this week. However, a governmental ruling on the role of the pulpit made me decide to put that hold. Here are my thoughts on the slippery issue of politics and the pulpit. God willing, I’ll be back to paddling around Drummond next week.
The Pulpit and Politics
Last week an Internal Revenue Service decision allowed clergy and churches to endorse candidates for elected office.[1] I do not plan to make such endorsements. I think this is a bad idea. The pulpit should not be used for political purposes. Jesus himself refused to allow his earthly ministry to become political, telling Peter to put away his sword. Why should we think we’re any different than Peter?
The purpose of the pulpit is to proclaim God’s word and to point to Jesus Christ as the Savior of the world. Some politicians run on platforms suggesting they have what it takes to save their community or country. But all politicians, like all people, fall short of God’s glory. Christians should scrutinize politicians’ words, for we proclaim a different Savior.
Politicians may do good work, but none, not even the best, are without sin. When seeking power, it’s easy to justify doing whatever. Winning becomes everything. He or she can no longer articulate personal shortcomings. The allure to succeed at all costs is great. Few can withstand the temptation. Once a politician believes they have all the right answers and sees their opponent as wrong or evil, they’ve gone against the teachings of Christ.
Pulpit with the quote from John 12:21 in the King James Version
Inside many pulpits, for the preacher and no one else to see, to see, is a quote. “Sir, we would like to see Jesus.” It comes from John 12:21, where a group of Gentiles approach the disciples about meeting Jesus. This quote reminds the preacher of his or her purpose, to make Jesus known. We weaken our message when we conflate Jesus’ teachings with political rhetoric. Endorsing candidates will not serve the gospel. It will only serve those seeking political office.
However, this does not mean political discourse has no place in the pulpit. There are times in which preachers must challenge what’s happening in the world. I felt this was necessary a few times in my ministry, which made some people mad. However, the church must stand up for the integrity of the gospel and insist all people be treated fairly and compassionately.
Anytime those in or wanting to be in power co-opt the gospel, the church should push back. I have seen this recently in a social media Homeland Security commercial in which they show armed men in tactical gear on a helicopter. A voice quotes from Isaiah 8, “Here I am, send me.” By plagiarizing the prophet, the ad attempt to sanitize the behavior of Custom and Border Patrol and ICE by making it seem they’re doing God’s work.[2] The Biblical passage, in which Isaiah speaks to God, is totally taken out of context. Both Testaments of Scripture attest to our need to care for the alien and the friendless in our midst.
The pulpit should discourage Christians from dividing people into “us” and “them” groups. This is especially true when we demonize the “thems.” While the church shouldn’t be involved in partisan politics, we should push back against blasphemy (using God’s name and word for human intentions), and intentional cruelty. Our purpose is to hold up a vision that all people are created in God’s image and to seek God’s will on earth. We acknowledge our own sinfulness and accept the sinfulness of others as we strive to lead them to experience the love of Jesus.
As followers of Jesus, the church has a longer view of history than election cycles. Furthermore, we recognize our true citizenship is in God’s kingdom. Here on earth, to borrow a phrase coined by theologians Stanley Hauerwas and Will Willimon, Christians live as “resident aliens.” This doesn’t mean we shouldn’t care what happens in politics. Instead, as the Prophet Jeremiah implored the people of Israel when heading into exile in Babylon, we’re to seek the welfare of the city (or country) in which we’re exiled (Jeremiah 29:7).
While the church should shun partisan politics, we should be concerned about the society in which we live. We are to be especially concerned about those unable to help themselves. We should be a conscience for society, offering up a vision of a peaceful and more just world.
One of the best documents the church has produced in opposition to what was happening politically around them was the Barmen Declaration.[3] In 1933, the Nazi Party co-opted many of the German Churches. But a group of German pastors and theologians, longing to be faithful to Jesus Christ, challenge the direction of the nation. The document avoids discussing Nazism or Hitler. Instead, it makes a clear statement. Jesus is Lord and we’re to place our trust in him and no one else. That’s the message needing to be heard from the pulpit.
Rounding Raynolds Point, the northeastern corner of the island, the situation changed. I was no longer on the lee side of the island. The wind was in my face and much stronger. Swells suddenly appeared, breaking over my bow and attempting to push me onto the rocky ledges around the shore. Dark clouds gathered. I headed out away from the ledges and paddled harder. Having already covered approximately 19 miles, I was tired. As rain pelted me, I decided to head into Raynolds Bay. The wind helped this decision. I was not sure what’s public and private land, but there were no signs of human activity. The bay provided enough protection for me to safely come ashore. After thirty minutes of excitement, I was exhausted. This was the first bit of difficulty on my trip, but it would not be the last.
Beaver’s Work
I walked along the cobblestoned beach that’s sprinkled with fossils. There is also evidence of beaver activity, but wonder what they might attempt to dam up here. A dam on these waters would be beyond the Army Corp of Engineers ability. Finding a nice place where I could pitch my hammock and with a good view of the shore, I move my kayak.
Fossils
Again, as the previous night, I found a rock out near the water where I set up my kitchen. After dinner, I gathered wood for a fire along the beach. The skies cleared. As the daylight fades, I read and write by the water. Then I build a fire and fix a pot of tea. I hope to see the northern lights., but don’t see them. As darkness falls, I see distant lights of navigation markers and Canadian radio towers. I also pick out cabins by their lanterns on islands on the Canadian side of the water. Twilight seemed to last forever. I crawled in my hammock at 11 PM, after making sure the fire was extinguished. The stars had just begun to appear.
Sunset from Raynolds Bay. The waves are now much calmer than when I came ashore.
Monday, June 23, 2025
My trip started on the previous morning. I take the 7:50 AM ferry from Detour Village to Drummond Island. Arriving at the Fort Drummond Marina at 8:15 AM, shortly after they opened, I unloaded my boat from the top of the car and stowed my gear into the hatches. While I plan for a three-night, four-day trip, I bring extra food in case the weather deteriorates. After loading my boat and moving my car to where it’ll be out of the way. I then leave a float plan with the operator.
Easy paddling
I’m on the water at 9 AM, paddling south out of the tributary where the marina is located. At first I paddle rather slowly as I finish my thermos mug of coffee. Then paddle much faster as I reach Whitney Bay and set my course between Bird and Garden Island. Once I clear Garden, I’m in the upper ends of Lake Huron. From here, I can watch freighters coming up from the south. I turn east and round Anderson Point, then aim between Bootjack and Espanore Island. Next, I head southeast toward Cream City Point. At 11 AM, I pull up on the backside of Gravel Island in Huron Bay for a rest and lunch. I’ve covered 8 miles in two hours of paddling.
Today’s lunch is fancy. I have a left-over steak over from Saturday night dinner. Placing the steak inside a hoagie bun, I eat it while watching another freighter make its way from below the horizon towards the Soo. I then take care of a few messages I received on my phone. One is from my brother and I snap and send him a photo of my kayak resting on the cobblestones. Another is from Dave, a friend on Drummond, who invites me to dinner at a friend’s place on the third night. He asks if I can make it. I think I can. This will be the last reliable cell service until I have paddled around most of the island. For the rest of the day, I leave my phone on airplane mode to save battery.
Gravel Island
After lunch, I paddle around the north side of Gravel Island, and set my course for the distant Traverse Point, 2 ½ miles away. My course takes me further from land. Having paddled by several points, I realize I must give these points wide berth to avoid the rocks which often sit at or just below surface.
After Traverse Point, I head due east toward Scammon Point. This route takes me far from the shore as I pass Canoe Point and Scammon Cover. There are also fewer cabins along this isolated part of the shore. Most of this land is managed as a Michigan State Forest. Leaving Scammon Point, I am tempted to head into Big Shoal Cove, where there is a sandy beach. Having been there before, several years ago, I decide against it. I head southeast toward Long Point, the third of four points I can see (the last is an island).
I arrived at Long Point around 4 PM and paddle around both sides of the point. After looking around, I decided to camp on the west side, a 100 or so yards inside a small bay. The beaches were covered with cobble stones. As I had done at lunch, I paddled close to the water’s edge and get out of the boat while it’s still in about a foot of water. I lift the boat up, to avoid most of the rocks. After unloading and my boat was lighter, I carry the boat up onto dry land.
Before setting up camp, I take a brief swim. The water in the shallow bay was cool, but not cold. Then I put on long pants, socks, a clean long sleeve shirt.
I find two cedar trees at the edge of the woods, where I hang my hammock. Around it, I felt I am in a garden with purple irises, buttercups, Indian paintbrush, and other flowers. On a large rock about 75 feet away, I place my stove and pot along with my folding chair. After everything is up, I update my journal before preparing dinner. This consists of a beef stew which just had to be heated along with two tortillas and some apple sauce in a squeeze container. Paddling allows for heavier food than backpacking.
After dinner, I hang my food between two trees and explore the shoreline. Afterwards, I fixed a cup of tea. Sitting down, I sip my tea as I watch the sun set and a thunderstorm build south of me. For the next half hour, I observe the storms moving east, just south of me. Huge lightning bolts strike the water a mile or two to my south. These are followed with delayed rolls of thunder. As darkness falls I am treated with a display of synchronous fireflies. Each of these bugs, along the woods, emits four or five quick blinks of light. This is followed by 10 seconds or so of darkness before another set of blinks. To the west, I caught glimpses of the new moon hang between the clouds, low in the west.
Sunset from my camp on Long Point
I fell asleep to the waning sound of thunder. About 3 AM, I wake and crawled out from my hammock to take care of business. The skies have cleared and to the south I see the pincher stars of Scorpio above the horizon. Moments later, I snuggle back in my hammock home and fall back asleep.
Tuesday, June 24, Morning to Midafternoon
Perking coffee
When I wake again, a mosquito buzzes just outside my netting. The sun rays are lighting the trees on the other side of the bay. I get up and fixed breakfast. This consists of oatmeal and perked coffee. Then I packed up everything, and spend some time reading and writing in my journal.
By 9 AM, I am again on the water. I paddle east, crossing to the outside of Shelter Island and the points on each side of Bass Cove. Afterwards, I turn northeast as I reached the eastern side of the island. Unlike the day before, where the island consisted of many points of land the eastern side is smoother. There are only a few jagged points extending into the water. Around Bass Cove, I pass many cabins, As I paddle north, I see fewer cabins. Most of this land is owned by the state. With Drummond Island just a hundred yards to my left, Canada is less than a mile to my right.
Unlike the day before in which, after leaving Whitney Bay, I saw no boats (except for distant freighters), I passed a large sailboat heading east. The boats sails are furled, and it motored on. I later see a few boats come down through the False Detour Passage that links the Northern Passage to Lake Huron.
South of Marblehead
I planned to make my first stop at Marble Head, a rough outcrop of limestone at the eastern most point of Drummond Island. Who knows why they named this place Marblehead. Drummond, as far as I know, has no marble. It is mostly limestone and the mine on the island produces shiploads of limestone every week, which is used in steelmaking, cement, and agriculture. I suppose the name had a nautical sound. I crossed by Marblehead and pulled ashore on the north side. Stepping out of the boat, the biting flies started. I grabbed snacks for lunch and bug spray. I sprayed my bear legs, where the flies seemed drawn (I wore a long sleeve sun shirt which seemed to provide some protection from the flies. But the spray didn’t deter these buggers, and I spent lunch swatting them away.
I had planned to hike up to Marblehead, but the bugs seemed just as nasty inside the forested canopy, so I returned to my boat and slowly continued to work my way north toward Stigraves Bay. I’d also planned to paddle into Pilot Harbor, which has a narrow entry that opens into an inland lake, but decided against it. I paddled north around Glen Point and into Glen Cove. It was only 1:30 PM.
map of the northeast side of Drummond
Most people who paddle around Drummond Island spend their second night at Glen Cove, but since it was too early to stop, I decided to continue north. In the distance, I see a rock that looks like a giant bald eagle sitting. Getting closer I see the white part is from bird poop. But, as I pass this rock, I do see a bald eagle soaring above.
The weather was delightful with a breeze out of the northwest, keeping me cool when I stayed offshore. When I came in close, to explore the limestone ledges which began appearing north of Marblehead, the shore blocked the wind and the bugs would attack. I assumed once I crossed Raynolds Point, 6 or 7 miles ahead, the wind would blow the bugs away.
My decision to continue also was influence by the invitation to have dinner with Dave, Sandy, and their friends on Wednesday night. Except for the bugs, I find the northeast side of Drummond delightful. Much of the shoreline consisted of flat ledges, table-like limestone, a few feet above the waterline. The “tables” appeared properly set with wildflowers growing in cracks. In most places, a second ledge extended out six or 12 inches below the water line.
Getting ashore isn’t difficult, as I exit the boat in six inches of water and climb upon the ledge. It would have been more difficult to have camped along the shoreline north of Glenn Cove, as one would have to load and pack the boat in the water and then lift the boat up onto the higher shelf to keep it safe at night. I decided to camp west of Raynolds Bay. Furthermore, most of this land is privately owned. However, only a few cabins dot the shoreline.
I have been in the Upper Peninsula of Michigan for the past two weeks with limited internet and not very active in blogland. I’ll write more about my time there, including a 50+ mile paddle around Drummond Island over the next few weeks. Here are the reviews of the books I read or listened to and completed in June. The long drive to the UP allowed me to listen to two of these books.
Derwin L. Gray, How to Heal Our Racial Divide: What the Bible Says, and the First Christians Knew, About Racial Reconciliation
(Tyndale, 2020), 281 pages including notes.
Gray was an African American defensive back who played football for Brigham Young University and later for the Indianapolis Colts and the Charlotte Panthers. After several seasons of professional football, he was led by a teammate to accept Jesus. Later, with his wife, he started Transformation Church in Charlotte, North Carolina. His church is an intentionally mix-race congregation. Gray was a speaker at this year’s HopeWords Writer’s Conference.
In the introduction and opening chapter, Gray discusses why he talks about race so much in his sermons. God has created the world with a variety, a kaleidoscope of colors. God loves diversity and longs to bring us all together, through the church, into one family. However, our churches are often less diverse than most our secular world.
After the first chapter, Gray launches into a Biblical overview, where he starts with Abraham and discusses why he believes that God’s purpose from the beginning was to create a multi-racial family. While he mentions that concept of humanity being created in God’s image, he begins his survey of scripture with Abraham’s promised family. While I might have started at creation itself, by tying together Abraham’s story with the vision of Isaiah, the teachings of Jesus, and the writings of Paul, Gray makes the case that God’s desire is for a multi-racial family. Of course, like all families, in this sin-filled world it will be messy. But in the life to come, we will experience it in fulness.
In the second part of the book, Gray discusses what he has learned at Transformation Church and offers ideas for how we can forge relationships across color barriers. For white readers, he explains the differences in how blacks see the world from our perspective.
I appreciate Gray’s interpretation of God’s vision. This book would make a great study for a church group. Chapters are short and ends with a beautiful Trinity-focused prayers followed by highlights, questions, and ways to implement what is being taught.
Les Standiford, Palm Beach, Mar-a-largo, and the Rise for America’s Xanadu
narrated by John McLain,(Tantor Audio, 2019), 8 hours and 11 minutes.
I have been a fan of Les Standiford since I first read his book on the Florida East Coast Railway, Last Train to Paradise. Since then, I have enjoyed his book on Charles Dickens and the writing of the Christmas Carol, The Man Who Invented Christmas, and his book on business partnership of Andrew Carnegie and Henry Clay Frick, Meet You in Hell.
Palm Beach, Mar-a-largo, and the Rise of America’s Xanadu picks up the story of the visionary builder, Henry Flagler, whom Standiford introduced in Last Train to Paradise. In this book he mostly focuses on Flagler’s hotels and personal life instead of his railroads. Flagler first arrived in what would become Palm Beach in 1893. Soon, he was building resort hotels. After his wife was committed to an asylum (she thought she was engaged to the Russian Czar), Flagler obtained a divorce. Later, at age 70, he married a 34-year-old-woman from a wealthy North Carolina family, Mary Lily Kenan. Many North Carolina colleges have buildings named for the Kenans). The Kenans still control the Breakers, the five-star hotel Flager built on Palm Beach.
Early on, Palm Beach was a resort for the newly rich. These who people not accepted into the “old money society” of Newport and other locations. In time, with the likes of sewing machine heir/developer Paris Singer and architect Addison Mizner, Palm Beach became an exclusive place with Mediterranean styles. Standiford ponders if the high walls of the mansions and resorts were designed to keep out those who didn’t belong or to hide the scandal occurring within.
After Flagler, Standiford focuses on the Post family. C. W. Post, who established Postum Cereal Company, doted on his daughter Marjorie Merriweather Post. In her 20s, she inherited much of her father’s estate and expanded the business (even into frozen foods). Marjorie was the one who built Mar-a-lago (which means from the lake to the sea as the property goes from Lake Worth on the backside of Palm Beach to the Atlantic). One of the interesting marriages in her long life was to E. F. Hutton, the New York stockbroker. Marjorie, the richest woman in American, and was the “senior partner” in that relationship. During the Great Depression their marriage broke up, partly for political reasons. Margorie was a supporter of Roosevelt’s “New Deal” while Hutton felt FDR was a socialist and preferred “trickle-down economics.”
In the early 1960s, Marjorie even offered Mar-a-largo was a winter White House, but it was decided the building was too expensive to maintain and impossible to safely secure the president.
After Mar-a-lago had been shuttered for a decade, Donald Trump purchased the property at a basement price. From the beginning Trump ownership came with controversy. He bragged about paying more for the property until the tax bill came in at the higher rate, then he sued to get them to tax it at a much lower rate (from 13 million to 7 million). Finally, he worked out a deal to make the property a private club which provided him with tax favors and allowed him to share the burden of owning the property with others.
This is a fascinating story. I enjoy how Standiford weaves together the stories of interesting characters around Palm Beach.
George Saunders, A Swim in a Pond in the Rain in Which Four Russians Give a Master Class on Writing, Reading, and Life
Narrated by the author and others. (Random House Audio, 2021), 14 hours and 44 minutes.
Over the past decade, I have read and listened to several of Saunders’ collections of short stories. Saunders teaches at Syracuse University. This book is based on one of his favorite classes in which he uses Russian authors. Those he draws upon wrote during a creative period of Russian history (between Napoleon’s invasion and the Bolshevik Revolution). Each section of the book begins with the story. In the audio version, a different voice reads the story, followed by Saunders’ discussing it. Many of the stories are about simple every day and even mundane events. Saunders helps his students and readers see how such a setting can make a great story. The stories include:
Anton Chekhov, “In the Cart” Ivan Turgenev, “The Singers” Anton Chekhov, “The Darling” Leo Tolstoy, “Master and Man” Nikolai Gogol, “The Nose” Anton Chekhov, “Gooseberries” Leo Tolstoy, Alyosha the Pot”
Some of the stories like “The Nose” are quite funny and many of the others, especially “Alyosha the Pot” are sad. This book would be helpful for anyone wanting to improve their writing, especially if they are working with fiction! It is also a good introduction into Russian literature. Before reading this book, I had read some of Chekhov and Tolstoy’s stories, but not the others in the collection.
Alex Pappademas, Quantum Criminals: Ramblers, Wild Gamblers, and other Sole Survivors from the Songs of Steely Dan
audio book narrated by Michael Bulter Murray (Tantor Audio, 2024), 7 hours and 15 minutes.
The rock group Steely Dan blended jazz and weird lyrics into some memorable rock tunes. Donald Fagen and Walter Becker were the band’s mainstays. The two met in the late 60s at Bard College. Both loved jazz. In an earlier band in college, Chevy Chase (the comedian), played the drums. Over the years, Fagen and Becker drew on numerous other musicians to meet the needs of the sounds they sought, but the two remained the mainstay of the band until Becker’s death from cancer in 2017.
The band is known for mellow jazz-like tunes mixed, at times, with outrageous lyrics. Their songs feature those who down and out or on the other side of the law. These characters, which include drug dealers, violent or dirty old men, and a kid about seeking “cop suicide” as he yells, “don’t take me alive.” Other songs involve love triangles. And then there’s the desire for inappropriate relationships. “Rikki Don’t Lose that Number,” was about Fagen trying to date the wife of a college professor at Bard.
Mostly, the extreme lyrics are presented without moral evaluation. The music behind the lyrics mellows the songs. Fagen and Becker often refused to interpret the songs, leaving them for the listener to figure out or if not, just to enjoy. It’s not surprising that the band’s name came from sexual object in Wiliam S. Burrough’s novel A Naked Lunch.
Quantum Criminals runs through the discography of Steely Dan, while providing insights into the lives of Becker and Fagen. Those who enjoy the music of the band might enjoy this book. Or you might prefer to skip the book and just listen to their jazzy music without knowing all the secrets imbedded into the lyrics. The print book includes artwork by Joan LeMay depicting the characters in the songs of Steely Dan.
“We’ve lost a good friend, Jeff,” Terry said. It was late in the spring of 2010. I stopped by to see my Uncle Frank on his farm just north of Carthage. Terry, Frank’s oldest son, heard I was around and dropped by to see me.
I’d forgotten my cousin knew Charlie. Terry runs a company which rakes and ships straw from longleaf pines over the East Coast. Charlie’s wife had inherited a track of land, and my cousin harvested the straw off it. Terry told me about the old homestead near Cowpen Landing on the Northeast Cape Fear. Although I’d heard about the place, I’d never been there. My cousin told me the old house had fallen in, but the chimney still stood upright. Charlie had pointed out an indention in the brick where his mother-in-law sharpened the blade of her butcher knife. She ran the blade along the course brick till the blade was sharp. Then she would walk out to the smokehouse to cut off a slap of meat for dinner. Over the years, the metal of the knives carved into the brick.
I met Charlie at the Holsum Bakery. I hired on the summer I was nineteen, between my freshman and sophomore years of college. Charlie would have been almost sixty then. He spent most of life working for the bakery. You could always count on him to lighten things up with a good joke and you knew that any joke he told would be clean. Charlie worked hard but laughed even harder.
One afternoon, there wasn’t much to do as we’d run out of flour and the railcar, which was scheduled to be delivered that morning, had been delayed. We sat out near the loading dock where we could look down the tracks. Charlie came by and told us of growing up next to the railroad tracks, out north of the Green Swamp, east of Wilmington.
His daddy had been a section foreman for the Atlantic Coastline, maintaining the rails and water tower along a section of the mainline between Delco and Bolton. It may not look like much to those who speed by these days on the four-lane highway, US 74-76, but it’s a magical place. The land is as flat as a pancake and grows some of the most interesting plants on earth including the Venus flytrap. In some high sandy areas, higher by only inches, stately longleaf pines, and huge live oaks grow. In wetter areas, tupelo or black gum grow, often capped with mistletoe. And on the edge of swamps, often standing in water, are cypress, their sparse limbs dangled in Spanish moss. On cleared land in these parts, farmers raised tobacco and grew peanuts, along with strawberries and blueberries.
This is black-water country, water darkened by the tannic acid produced by the tupelo and cypress. Often, in the evenings when the air cools, fog develops over the waters, making it even more mysterious.
“Charlie,” I asked, “have you seen the lights?”
Just down the tracks from where Charlie grew up had been Maco Station. There, just a couple years after the Civil War, at a time the line was known as the Wilmington and Manchester Railroad, a brakeman named Joe Baldwin rode in a caboose. His car decoupled from the rest of the train and started to slow down. When Joe realized what happened, he grabbed a lantern and ran out on the back deck of the car. There, he swung his lantern back and forth, a universal sign on the railroad for trains to stop. He knew the schedule. Another train followed them.
Joe hoped to signal the engineer in time. But in the foggy swampland, the engineer didn’t see the signal until it was too late. The engine collided into Joe’s caboose, destroying it. Joe died; his head severed from his body. As they cleaned up from the accident, they never found the head and Joe’s body was buried without it. Most just assumed the head had rolled down the embankment and into the black waters filled with cottonmouths and an occasional alligator.
Shortly after Joe’s death, people started reporting a strange light moving in the swamps near the Maco sidings. Some suggested it was Joe’s lantern swinging along the tracks. A legend developed that Old Joe still looked for his head. People often went to these parts to walk the tracks to see the lights, but the tracks were removed in the late 1970s and not long afterwards, the highway expanded, and the lights fades away.
Charlie had seen the light, but he didn’t believe it to be Joe’s lantern. If I remember correctly, he brought into one popular theory that the lights were caused by swamp gas.
I don’t have any photos of the line near Charlie’s house. This is the Aberdeen, Carolina and Western Railroad in northern Moore County, North Carolina
Living by the railroad tracks, hearing that lonesome cry from the engine pierce through the night as freight rolled toward the port in Wilmington must have been sealed in Charlie’s memory. But that lonesome wail can also bring sadness, as Charlie shared with us.
A year into the Great Depression, when Charlie was still just a boy, finishing up grade school, the lonesome wail wasn’t heard as much. There was so little freight moving that the railroad laid off every other section foreman. Charlie’s dad lost his job. The next day, Charlie went with his dad into Wilmington to look for work. But there were none to be found. Coming back home, late in the day, discouraged, they noticed smoke over the distant pines. As they got closer, they realized their house was totally engulfed in flames. The family lost everything.
Charlie’s life was forever changed. He went to live with family in Wilmington, where he worked hard and earned a little until the war came and he joined the Navy.
You’d think that after such hardships, Charlie would have been bitter. But there wasn’t a bitter bone in his body. He was one of the most joyous and positive individuals I’ve known. He wasn’t a bellyacher. Even when he had good reason to complain, he just shrugged it off.
About a year before I left the bakery, I was called into the General Manager’s office. I wasn’t sure what was up. When I entered, Charlie was there, along with the general manager, plant manager, and the president, who owned the bakery with his brother. It was obvious, they had been talking for some time to Charlie. At this point, Charlie’s responsibility included sanitation, receiving, and building maintenance. I was a production supervisor.
In the past six months, we had several problems in sanitation and receiving. When I entered, they informed me changes were being made. They assigned me Charlie’s responsibilities. Thankfully, they kept Charlie employed. He would continue to handle building maintenance but even there would report to me. It seemed strange for Charlie was nearly three times my age. I felt sorry for him, but he never showed any bitterness toward me.
Thinking about Charlie, I’m left to wonder why some people endure tragedy and disappointment and yet can still be joyful. He continued to maintain a positive attitude. In Charlie’s case, this partly had to do with his faith. Charlie knew he was loved by God. He found joy in creation, in life, in laughter, and in good friends.
My cousin met Charlie long after I had left the bakery “Charlie thought a lot of you,” Terry said. “He was always asking about you.”
Two weeks before Easter, 2010, and a month before Terry and I talked, Charlie died at the age 91. Hearing of his death, it seemed as if a part of my past died with him. Charlie was the one person from my time at the bakery whom I would occasionally see. After he retired, Charlie found a home in the church in which I grew up. Whenever I visited my parents, I would attend church on Sunday. Afterwards, Charlie and I would talk about old times.
Oh, how I wish I could talk to him again.
I haven’t yet been able to find any photos of Charlie. I wrote this in 2010, but edited and significantly expanded it for this post.
While I only completed two books in May (compared to five in April), I am posting three reviews. I finally set out to complete Taylor Branch’s trilogy about the Civil Rights movement in America. I have one more volume to go!
Jim Shea, Get Up and Ride: A Humorous True Story of Two Friends Cycling the Great Allegheny Passage and C&O Canal
(2020), 189 pages with some maps and photos.
Somehow Facebook knows my brother and I are planning to peddle from Pittsburgh to Washington, D. C. in late May. I learned of this book in which two brothers-in-law did the same trip in 2010 from a Facebook advertisement.
Two brothers-in-law. One teaches and has his summers off. The other finds himself between jobs. They decided to do the trip they’d been talking about for a few years. This book is easy to read and humorous, although much of the humor reminded me of listening in at a restaurant to conversation of a family unknown to me. This is not Bill Bryson’s A Walk in the Woods or the writings of J. Marteen Troost traveling in the South Seas. But I did laugh and their stories helped me envision my own planned trips. I just hope the weather is as good for us as it was for them. (It wasn’t as I showed in my blog: Part 1and Part 2). I can handle one day of rain, but it would be a bummer to have a week of rain!
Most of the humor of the book come from the experiences of Jim and Marty before they set off to peddle to Washington. We learn about how they often vacation together (after all, their wives are sisters). While one is from Pittsburgh (and still lives in the Steel City), the other is from just outside Washington but now (or at the time of their trip), also lives in the Pittsburgh area. One is an avid bicyclist, and the other is kind of along for the ride. While there are a few humorous things which happened during their ride, most of the laughs come from how they relate within the two families.
The author of the book speaks of not reading much as if that means he won’t sound like a Hemingway or Steinbeck. At least he can make light of himself, but I would suggest that he read more and learn about how humor works. Bill Bryson’s short adventures on the Appalachian Trail, A Walk in the Woods, which he turned into an international best seller might be a good place to start.
Taylor Branch, Pillar of Fire: America in the King Years 1963-65
(New York, Simon & Schuster, 1998), 746 pages including index, notes, and one set of black and white photographs.
This is the second volume of Taylor Branch’s massive undertaking of chronicling the Civil Rights Movement during the life of Martin Luther King, Jr. Unlike the first volume (review below), this is less of a biography of King than recapping what happened in these three pivotal years to the Civil Rights movement. This included the Burmingham Church Bombings, the death of voter registration workers in Mississippi, and significant Civil Rights work in Mississippi, St. Augustine (Florida), and Selma Alabama. In the background there is the death of John Kennedy and America’s deepening involvement in Vietnam.
In a way, reading this book is like reading the newspapers for three years. At times, it seems Branch jumps around, but the movement was in such flux with events happening in multiple places at the same time.
The book also takes us inside both political parties in 1964, as they struggled with what to do with the Civil Rights movement. The Democratic candidate, Lyndon Johnson, had just passed the 1964 Civil Rights act, shifting African Americans further away from the party of Lincoln, who’d freed the slaves. Furthermore, the Republican candidate Goldwater tried to avoid discussion on Civil Rights, there were those within the party who used the movement to steal away Democrats who were unhappy with their party’s move toward supporting the movement. This was the campaign in which Strom Thurmond would become a Republican and Jackie Robinson would condemn his Republican party as being the party of “white men only.” Robinson would later leave the GOP.
Much is made of the FBI’s role with both King and other Civil Rights leaders. They helped solve the murders of Civil Rights leaders, but they also kept close eyes on the leaders of the movement, watching for communist connections. Through wiretaps, they learned of King’s infidelities an even used this to encourage King to commit suicide. They attempted to thwart King’s reception of the Noble Peace Prize, which he later received. They also called in Cardinal Spellman to give him the dirt on King to block a papal visit. While Spellman supposedly took the information to Rome, the meeting papal meeting still occurred partly due to the intervention of Rabbi Abraham Heschel. Like the first book in the series, King isn’t seen as totally a saint or sinner, but a man who struggled with depression and his own humanity.
Branch spends considerable time providing a background on the Nation of Islam and the conflict between its founder, Elijah Muhammad and Malcom X. The Nation of Islam created a vision of separation of the races and violence toward their enemies, which contrasted to King and the Southern Christian Leadership Conference vision of a beloved community. The book begins with a deadly police encounter after a Nation of Islam meeting in South Central Los Angeles in 1962. Toward the end of the book, the Nation kills Malcom X after he left the Nation for a purer form of Islam. His view of religion had become less racially focused, and he softened his stance toward King’s nonviolent resistance.
This book also shows the tension within churches over supporting Civil Rights. Not all African American churches supported the Civil Rights movement, with some seeing it too dangerous. After all, there were many firebombed churches in the American South during the early 1960s. Northern Episcopal bishops struggled with what to say as they didn’t want to be seen as challenging their southern colleagues. This led to the wives of some bishops taking up the clause. One of the interesting stories was the wife of a Massachusetts bishop and mother of the state’s governor, Mary Peabody, who was arrested and jailed for protesting in St. Augustine.
I recommend this book to anyone wanting to better understand the Civil Rights movement in America. I don’t plan to wait another 19 years before I read Branch’s third volume. The final volume holds interest in me as I remember some of the events which happened.
This review is from 2006, after reading the first book in Branch’s series:
Taylor Branch, Parting the Waters: America in the King Years, 1954-63
(New York: Simon and Schuster, 1988), 1064 pages including index, notes, and two sets of black and white photographs.
This book is an enormous undertaking, for both the author and the reader. The author provides the reader a biography of the Reverend Martin Luther King’s work through 1963, a view into the early years of the Civil Rights movement, as well as showing how the movement was affected by national and international events. This is the first of three massive volumes by Taylor Branch that spans the years of King’s ministry, from his ordination in 1954 to his death in 1968.
This volume also provides some detail about King’s family history and his earlier life through graduate school at Boston University. I decided to read this book after hearing Branch speak in Birmingham AL in June. It’s like reading a Russian novel with a multitude of characters and over 900 pages of text. However, it was worth the effort as I got an inside look as to what was going on in the world during the first six years of my life.
Branch does not bestow sainthood, nor does he throw stones. The greatness of Martin Luther King comes through as well as his shortcomings. He demonstrates King’s brilliance in the Montgomery Bus Campaign as well as in Birmingham. He also shows the times King struggled: his battles within his denomination, the National Baptist; King’s struggles with the NAACP; as well as his infidelities.
The FBI also had mixed review. Agents stood up to Southern law enforcement officers, insisting that the rights of African Americans be protected. They often warned Civil Rights leaders of threats and dangers they faced. However, once King refused to heed the FBI’s warnings that two of his associates were communists, the agency at Hoover’s insistence, set out to break King. Hoover’s inflexible can be seen as he reprimanded an agent for suggesting that King’s associates are not communists.
The Kennedy’s (John and Robert) also have mixed reviews. John Kennedy’s Civil Rights Speech (and on the night that Medgar Evers would be killed in Mississippi) is brilliant. Kennedy drew upon Biblical themes, labeling Civil Rights struggle a moral issue “as old as the Scriptures.” Yet the Kennedy brothers appear to base most of their decisions based on political reasons and not moral ones. This allows King to sometimes push Kennedy at his weakness, hinting that he has or can get the support of Nelson Rockefeller (a Republican).
Although we think today of the Democrat Party being the party of African Americans, this wasn’t necessarily the case in the 50s and early 60s. Many black leaders, especially within the National Baptist Convention leadership, identified themselves as Republicans, with Lincoln’s party.
Many of the black entertainers played in the movement. King was regularly in contact with Harry Belafonte, but also gains connections to Sammy Davis Jr., Lena Horne, Jackie Robinson, James Baldwin and others. The author also goes to great lengths to put the Civil Rights movement into context based on the Cold War politics. Both Eisenhower and Kennedy found themselves in embarrassing positions as they spoke out for democracy overseas while blacks within the United States were being denied rights.
The book ends in 1963, a watershed year for Civil Rights. King leads the massive and peaceful March on Washington. Medgar Evans and John Kennedy are both assassinated. And before the year is out, King has an hour-long chat with the President, Lyndon Johnson, a Southerner, who would see to it that the Voting Rights Acts become law.
As a white boy from the South, this book was eye opening. I found myself laughing that the same people who today bemoan the lack of prayer in the public sphere were arresting blacks for praying on the courthouse steps. The treatment of peaceful protesters was often horrible. There were obvious constitutional violations such as Wallace and the Alabama legislature raising the minimum bail for minor crimes in Birmingham 10-fold (to $2500) to punish those marching for Civil Rights.
I was also pleasantly surprised at behind-the-scenes connections between King and Billy Graham. Graham’s staff even provided logistical suggestions for King. King’s commitment to non-violence and his dependence upon the methods of Gandhi are evident. Finally, I found myself wondering if the segregationists like Bull O’Conner of Birmingham shouldn’t be partly responsible for the rise in crime among African American youth. They relished throwing those fighting for basic rights into jail, breaking a fear and taboo of jail. The taboo of being in jail has long kept youth from getting into trouble and was something the movement had to overcome to get mass arrest to challenge the system. In doing so, jail no longer was an experience to be ashamed off and with Pandora’s Box open, jail was no longer a determent to other criminal behavior.
I recommend this book if you have a commitment to digging deep into the Civil Rights movement. Branch is a wonderful researcher, and his use of FBI tapes and other sources give us a behind the scenes look at both what was happening within the Civil Rights movement as well as at the White House. However, there are so many details. For those wanting just an overview of the Civil Rights movement, this book may be a bit much. As for me, I’m looking forward to digging into the other two books of this trilogy: A Pillar of Fire: America in the King Years, 1963-65 and At Canaan’s Edge: America in the King Years, 1965-68.
