Category: memoir

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

title slide with photo of an Amtrak locomotive

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

Philadelphia

in Philadelphia
Shari

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

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

On the Chicago

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

Chicago and McCormick Theological Seminary

McCormick Theological Seminary
McCormick Theological Seminary

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

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

Chicago to Seattle, Day 1

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

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

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

church in eastern North Dakota
Church in Eastern North Dakota
Fargo

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

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

Delay

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

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

Chicago to Seattle, Day 2

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

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

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

From the train in Eastern Washington
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Seattle

Trolley
trolley

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

Seattle Skyline
Seattle skyline take from the “Space Needle”

On the Coast Starlight to Sacramento

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

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

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

The final lap to Reno

Sierras
Sierras

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

Reno Train Station
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Part 1, Reno to Pittsburgh

Part 2: Pittsburgh to NC

Other train trips

Danville to Atlanta, 2020

Coming home to Pittsburgh, 1987

Doubly late to West Palm Beach, 1986

Riding on the City of New Orleans, 2005

Edinburgh to Iona, 2017

Riding in the Cab of the V&T, 2013

Bangkok to Seim Reap, 2011

Riding the International: Georgetown to Bangkok, 2011

Malaysia’s NE Line: The Jungle Train, 2011

Coming Home on the Southwest Chef, 2012

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Getting to the Trailhead. The Southern Crescent, 1985

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

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

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

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

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



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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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



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

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Pittsburgh to North Carolina, Leg 2 of my Transcontinental Trip

title slide with photo of the author boarding a train

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The author boarding the train

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

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

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

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

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Other train trips

Danville to Atlanta, 2020

Coming home to Pittsburgh, 1987

Doubly late to West Palm Beach, 1986

Riding on the City of New Orleans, 2005

Edinburgh to Iona, 2017

Riding in the Cab of the V&T, 2013

Bangkok to Seim Reap, 2011

Riding the International: Georgetown to Bangkok, 2011

Malaysia’s NE Line: The Jungle Train, 2011

Coming Home on the Southwest Chef, 2012

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Randsburg and a 94 year old redhead

Photo of old cabins in the Mojave

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

A three week break from Nevada

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

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

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

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

The previous week had been brutal

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

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

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

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

On the train

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

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

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

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

Somewhere in Utah

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

inside the lounge car

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

Day 2: Leaving Denver

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

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

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

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

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

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

Crossing the Mississippi

A stop in Chicago, then onward to Pittsburgh

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

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

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

Other train trips of mine: 

Danville to Atlanta, 2020

Coming home to Pittsburgh, 1987

Doubly late to West Palm Beach, 1986

Edinburgh to Iona, 2017

Riding in the Cab of the V&T, 2013

Bangkok to Seim Reap, 2011

Riding the International: Georgetown to Bangkok, 2011

Malaysia’s NE Line: The Jungle Train, 2011

Coming Home on the Southwest Chef, 2012

Other Virginia City Stories

Driving West in ’88

Matt, Virginia City 1988

Doug and Elvira: A Pastoral Tale

Christmas Eve 1988

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

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

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2024 Christmas Letter

my 2024 Christmas tree

Christmas 2024

Dear Friends, Family, and Country-folks,

It’s been years since I have gotten a Christmas letter in the mail in time for Christmas. At least, this year, I’ll have it on line before the end of the Christmas season on January 6!

On Christmas Day, when I took the dogs out for the final time before bed, Cyrus the Swan, appeared to have planted the “northern cross” on the western horizon.  The cross-like shape of the constellation reminds me of the truth of Christmas. Looking in the other direction, Orion rises on his side in the east. A bit higher in the sky is Taurus, the bull. On his forehead sits Jupiter, like a Bindi (the Hundi dot on the forehead), To the north along the are the Gemini twins with the red Mars on the same ecliptic, but closer to the horizon. My punched tin Moravian star burns over the front porch. The rest of the lights are off, as the strong winds a few days ago destroyed about half the strands which outlined the railing.  

Laurel Fork was blessed with two wonderful Aurora Borealis shows this year, and I was at the beach for both (Kure Beach in Spring showing, which was cloudy, and on Hilton Head in October, where I could barely make it out). But I did see the comet several times his October, but it was best seen through binoculars. All seems to be in order in the heaven, but on earth, we’re like the stands of lights… 

My Dad with a catch of flounder in the 1970s
My father with a catch of flounder in the 1970s

I’m glad that 2024 will soon be behind us. That doesn’t mean exactly looking forward to what 2025 might. From the chaos of our world and country to personal griefs, this past year has been crazy. The biggest shock was the death of my father in May. I was in DeTour Michigan when he went in for surgery for a blockage in his intestines. Things looked good. They spoke of releasing him from the hospital. I planned to head to Wilmington to see him a few weeks after I got back, but then things went south. 

I rushed to Wilmington as he was undergoing another surgery and arrived as the surgeon stopped in to talk with my siblings and me. Again, for a day, things looked good, but the bleeding started again. The medical staff felt he couldn’t endure another surgery. Dad understood what was happening and was ready to die. They moved him to hospice care, where he spent his final days. For a couple of days, he was alert and saw lots of friends. All his children and most of his grandchildren and great grandchildren were there. Donna and Caroline came down and we rented a house on Kure Beach. While it was a nice place, it wasn’t the beach vacation I desired.

Grief has come over me many times this year with not being able to pick up the phone and call Dad to share something with him. At the same time, I realize I am blessed to still have a father at 67 years of age. With him gone, I’m now the oldest. In addition, I lost several friends, parishioners, and former parishioners this year. 

Bill paddling in the Okefenokee

Yet, a lot of good stuff that happened in 2024. In January, I met up with Bill Cheek, and old roommate from my Hickory days, to paddle in the Okefenokee Swamp.  After that paddling, I began to study and for the first time since high school, became a licensed amateur radio operator. My call is KQ4PVG, but I’m thinking of applying for a noviety call sign and getting back my old call. I have been mostly active on 40 and 2 meters and beginning to regain an ear for morse code (which is no longer required for licenses).

In April, on my way to the Festival of Faith and Writing, I aimed toward the path of the eclipse and caught my second total solar eclipse in Springfield, Ohio. The eclipse was amazing for a couple of minutes. I feel blessed to have experienced two eclipses in totality (2017 and 2024). I’d never heard of Springfield, Ohio, but found it a pleasant town. Sadly, before the year was out, the town became well-known for rumors spread by a certain vice presidential candidate that illegal immigrants there enjoyed snacking on their neighbors’ pets. It turned out to be a lie, but truth doesn’t seem to matter anymore.  

Freighter heading out of the St. Mary's River at DeTour MI and on toward Lake Huron.

After the Festival of Faith and Writing, I met up with Bob, a good friend from my Hastings days. We spent 8 days in the Upper Peninsula of Michigan reading and hiking. I always enjoyed hiking with Bob because of his knowledge of botany. We had a great time reading, writing, hiking, and watching freighters on the lake.

In May, we were able to move into our addition to our home. We enjoyed the additional space, all the windows and the cork floors. Our new back deck with views of the Buffalo was well used in summer and early fall. I thought we were about done with construction, but in November, we broke ground on a new 3 car garage to the southwest of our house. It should be done in January but as this is construction, it’ll probably be more like March or June.  

My garden wasn’t much to write home about this year. Because of my father’s passing, I got everything in late, just in time for a six-week drought. When the rains finally came, it was too late. Besides, something ate my cucumber plants so I had nothing to pickle. The tomatoes did so-so. I had enough to eat a daily tomato sandwich for six weeks, but only ended up making 7 quarts of soup and 6 pints of salsa (a fraction of what I did in 2023). But because of not working in the garden, I spent many mornings walking on backroads with Brad and even got in a canoe trip on the New River with Mike.

My brother and I on the Greenbrier trail

In September, my brother Warren and I headed to West Virginia, where we spent a few days riding the Greenbrier Trail. We had a good time. I thought about borrowing my wife’s new e-bike, but my brother would have made fun of me doing that the rest of my life and would probably tell the story of it at my grave. 

In September, a planned trip to Pittsburgh was cancelled as we braced for a brush of Helene. We were without power for 36 hours and lost a lot of limbs, but with a whole-house generator, it wasn’t exactly suffering like those in the North Carolina Mountains. In October, I attended the Theology Matter’s Conference on Hilton Head and then headed to Wilmington to preach at the 80th anniversary service at Cape Fear Presbyterian Church. 

Boat on Harker's Island at sunset

In early December, I headed down to Harker’s Island to fish with two of my siblings, Warren and Sharon, along with Uncle Larry and his brother-in-law. We picked a frigid week, with some gale-forced winds, and only caught enough fish to one evening fish fry. 

Donna continues to work the communication director for the Presbytery of the Peaks. Caroline still works for a cork company (and got us a great deal on cork flooring for the addition). Mia, our oldest dog, is slowing down but still in good health. Apple, Caroline’s Havanese, is as mischievous as any three-year-old. I continue to feel blessed to serve the two historic rock churches along the Blue Ridge Parkway. Preaching continues to be enlightening. This year I enjoyed working my way through Mark’s gospel. I have warned the churches of my intention to retire by the time I’m 70, but that still gives me a couple more years. 

I continue to do a lot of walking and reading (look for my reading summary next week). Another treat is waking up in time to watch the morning light sweep across the Buffalo. 

Looking toward the Buffalo at daybreak on December 24, 2024
Panoranic view of the Buffalo from my study upstairs.

Blessings as we move into 2025. 

Jeff Garrison 

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Russia: Reviews and a Personal Memory

photo of the three books reviewed in my post

Kungur, Russia,  Late July 2011

Kurgur Russia Train Station
Train Station in Kungur

I arrived in Kungur early on Sunday afternoon, the day before, after traveling three days on the trans-Siberian from Ulan Ude, west of Lake Baikal.  That afternoon, I took a tour of the city and asked the guide about church services. At the Tikhvinskaya Church, she learned there would be services the next morning which would include baptisms. On Monday, I was there shortly after the doors opened.  This church had only recently resumed being a church. During the Soviet era, the government converted the church into a prison.

Statue of Lenin and an old style water tower near the Kungur Railroad Station
Statue of Lenin and an old water tower across from train station

When I arrived, only a handful of people were in the church. Mostly, the congregation was made up of older women, but I did notice one man who was about my age and who seemed as clueless as me when it came to Orthodox traditions. As is custom, we all stood. However, around the edge of the massive sanctuary, there were a few benches and at times, some of the women would go sit down for a break. Much of the service consisted of alternating chanting from the balcony (done by a man and a woman) and from behind the icons (done by a priest).   The entire service, except for a few readings, was sung without accompaniment. Not speaking the language, I was mostly clueless as to what was happening. But the building and the voices were beautiful, and I just took it all in. 

Tikhvinskaya Church, photo taken from the main dome above the church

 I had been there about an hour when a man entered the sanctuary and approached me, speaking in Russia.  At first, I wondered if he was a beggar, looking for money, but he was too well dressed for that. He got into my face, and I smelled alcohol. He seemed distraught.  I shrugged my shoulders and whisper that I don’t speak Russian. After a few minutes, he left and walked over to a window where there were numerous candles. He lighted a candle and stood for a few minutes. Then he turned around and headed over to me and in perfect English said, “I’m sorry, my father died this morning.” Caught off guard, I expressed my condolences and asked if I could pray for him. “Yes,” he said. I placed by hand on his shoulder and prayed. “Thank you,” he said, as he turned and left the sanctuary. I never saw him again.  

A little later in the service, the priest opens the door through the icons and prepares communion.  I debated taking communion, if offered. A few people went over to receive the bread, but most did not, so I remained where I was at.  Then, an older mousy woman who’d been helping with things brought me a piece of the bread and offered it to me. I wasn’t exactly sure what it all meant, but I decided that communion is at best a mystery and the polite thing to do was to be gracious. Humbly bowing my head, I accepted the bread from the woman, held it for a moment while I prayed for her and for the congregation who welcomed me, a stranger.  

After communion, a man and woman with an infant that looked to be maybe 6 or 9 months old, walked up to the priest and presented the child. From a distance, it appears the priest gave the child a piece of bread soaked in the wine.  I couldn’t really see the baptism. Then there were prayers said over the child and each parent lighted a candle, then left.  After some more chanting in Russia, the service ended. It was nearly 11 AM and I ran back down the hill to the hotel and checked out and headed to the train station for my next leg of the journey.

Kruger River and city
A view of the city with the Kruger River flowing through it.

John P. Burgess, Holy Rus’: The Rebirth of Orthodoxy in the New Russia 

(New Haven, CT: Yale, 2017), 264 pages including index and notes. Some photographs. 

Burgess, a theology professor at Pittsburgh Theological Seminary, spent several sabbaticals in Russia learning about the Russian Orthodox Church.  He worshiped in Orthodox Churches, attended Bible Studies, befriended members and priests. While Burgess roots are in Reformed Tradition, his inquisitive and open mind provides a unique insight into the Orthodox tradition. 

While Burgess goal is not to give the reader a history of the Orthodox tradition in Russia, he does provide a history of the church in the 20th Century,. Much of this decade, the church lived under a dictatorial communist regime who sought to exterminate religion in Russia. The church struggled to survived as the government converted the church’s property into museums, theaters, and even prisons. The early years were the worse. The church strove to survive by supporting the government as they followed the Apostle’s Paul’s commands. During World War II, even Stalin saw the church as useful in the defense of the nation and the worse persecutions waned. But it wasn’t until the 90s, after the breakup of the Soviet Union, that the church was free to openly participate in society. Much of the book explains the rising role of the church during this era.

Holy Rus is a vague concept that see’s the Russian Church link to the nation for the purpose of the advancement of the gospel. While the idea was established during the age of the Czars, it has found its way back into the mainstream. Putin has embraced such ideology as he attempts to place Russia, and not the West, as carrying on the gospel traditions.  While Burgess doesn’t say so, Holy Rus to me seems to be a Russian version of Christian Nationalism.

While this book attempts to explain the role of the church in modern Russia, it also part travelogue. Burgess takes us along with him as he travels Russia and meets with leaders and priests and laypeople within the church. This is a valuable book for those looking to understand the Orthodox Church’s role in modern Russia, but because of the expanded war in Ukraine, I sensed that the book was a little dated. 

I picked up this book at the Theology Matter’s Conference I attended last month in Hilton Head. Burgess was one of the presenters. I have previous reviewed his book,  After Baptism: The Shaping of the Christian Life. 

Anne Applebaum, Gulag: A History

 (2003,  audible published in  2004), 27 hours and 41 minutes). 

This Pulitzer Prize winning book has been on my TBR list for several years. I have previously read two of her books: Red Famine: Stalin’s War on Ukraine and Twilight of Democracy: The Seductive Lure of Authoritarianism. Both books seemed more important to understanding the world we live in than old Soviet history. However, a few weeks after I finished this book, Mike Davis, of Trump’s lawyers mused about building Gulags for liberal white women. Sadly, I realized it might be a good thing I have some knowledge of what he was talking about. Gulags aren’t necessarily tied to communism. They’re tools totalitarians use to create fear within society to keep people in line. In the old Soviet Union, any minor infraction could end you in a Gulag, which helped maintain control over the masses. 

 I started listening to his book in early October, knowing I had long road trips ahead in which I could listen to large sections of the book (I drove to Hilton Head, SC, then to Wilmington, NC, and then home). With over 15 hours in the car, and my regular walks, I was able to finish the book in less than two weeks. 

Applebaum begins discussing how the Gulag took shape from the beginning under Lenin and on through the 70s and 80s. Over the course of the decades, the Gulag changed. Lenin used the prison system to put away “enemies” who had different ideas about government. This included many communists who saw things differently. One of the interesting things about the Gulag is that many of the prisoners remained loyal to the Soviet ideals.  Early on, the Gulag was seen as a way for economic gain. Attempts to profit from prison labor included building the White Sea Canal and lumbering in the north and mining in the vastness of Siberia. 

Stalin took the Gulag into more extremes and in the late 30s, during his purges, the most horrific atrocities occurred (both within the Gulag system and general executions). During World War 2, the Gulags in the east had to be moved to avoid capture by the Germans. Some prisoners, unable to be moved, were summarily executed. Applebaum spends some time discussing the differences between the Soviet Gulags and the Nazi Concentration Camps. As bad as the Gulags were, at least the Soviets weren’t attempting genocide against a particular race of people. 

After the war, life improved slowly in the Gulags and things never returned to how bad it was in the late 1930s. However, many captured Soviet soldiers found themselves, upon being released from German POW camps, in the Gulag.  Upon Stalin’s death and Khrushchev obtaining power, things slowly improved. But still, the camps continued to the fall of the Soviet Union. 

One of the surprising things about the Gulags were the corruption, both by the camp leadership and the prisoners. Gangs often ruled the prisoners, especially those prisoners who were in the system due to criminal (as opposed to political or religion) crimes. These gangs terrorized other prisoners and sometimes even the guards. 

The Gulags were also a training ground for those who would eventually lead to the breakdown of the Soviet system.  The non-Russians often created their own gangs and many of those within the prison system learned leadership skills they would use to help throw off the communist governments in Poland, Ukraine, the Baltic States, and Georgia. In this way, the abuses of the Gulag created a time-bomb which helped undo the Soviet Union. 

This is a long book, but worthwhile. Hopefully we won’t see any Gulags in our country. But Applebaum’s book serves as a warning. 

Aleksandr Solzhenitsyn, One Day in the Life of Ivan Denisovich

Cover of "One Day in the Life of Ivan Denisovich

 (1962, Audible 2013), 5 hours and 5 minutes. 

This short novel is set in a Gulag during the early 1950s. The prisoner wakes in his bed and begins to plan his day (or how to get out of work). It’s cold but not cold enough for them to call off work.  Soon, they are all awake and begin their morning routine. He wraps his feet for warmth and worries if he will be discovered with extra cloth. They are not to hoard, but everyone does. This morning, he visits the infirmary hoping to be sick enough to avoid work. With his temperature only slightly elevated, he must work. He eats breakfast, where he’s given bread for lunch. Does it eat it all or save it and hope it isn’t stolen before lunch? Then everyone assembles for the morning count before marching off to their various jobs. Denisovich is a mason. He finds where he has hidden his trowel. He has a favorite one and is supposed to turn in the tools at the end of a shift, but he doesn’t. Laying block with the weather being well below zero means they must melt snow and warm the sand and mortar. At least it requires a fire. They work through the day. In the late afternoon, they march back for an assembled count. Standing in the cold, he hopes everyone is present and there would be no need for a recount. Then there is dinner and bed. 

The story is grim. I felt the cold, the hunger, and the foreboding existence within the Gulag. There, the prisoners are not called comrades. Inside the prison camp there are those who faithful to the Soviet Union and others, like Ukrainians, who are not. There’s the Baptist who hides his New Testament and who has a different hope. But most people exist without hope. The day ends, the light in the barrack goes out, and the reader is left to understand that the next day will be the same. 

The novel takes place in the early 1950s at a time when Stalin was still alive. Interesting, Khrushchev as Premier, read a copy and allowed it to be published. At the time, he attempted to move the Soviet Union away from Stalinism. The book publication occurred just before the “Neo-Stalinists” booted Khrushchev and replaced him with Brezhnev. 

I was amazed the way this book highlights the quotidian events in the life of a prisoner in the Gulag. The writing (or translation) is stark and amazing. I started listening to this book immediately after finishing Anne Applebaum’s Gulag.  I highly recommend reading it and wish I had read it earlier. The book will go back on my TBR pile as it is as worthy of rereading as Hemingway’s Old Man and the Sea. 

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A Good Boy

Title slide with photo of Trisket and me in a canoe

I have been working on a post, but just didn’t have time to finish it. As I’m coming up this week on the 7th anniversary of Trisket’s death, I decided to pulled this post from an older blog and reposted it.

Trisket lying on the kitchen floor on the night before his death, November 2017.

Over the past year, I often watched you sleep.  At times, your legs twitched. I imagined you dreaming of when you were younger and ran with grace.  In your sleep, were you still circling the house at full speed, stopping only to chase squirrels back up into the trees? 

Over the past year, on our walks, I took the lead while you moped behind. As I slowed down to your speed, I wondered if you recalled dragging me as we headed into Hastings or up the canyon by Cedar Creek.

Over the past few months, I watched in sadness as you bumped into walls and furniture. Your cataract eyes glassed over, and I wondered if you remembered the hours we played in the kitchen. Your sharp eyes followed my hand as I tossed popcorn. You’d snap each kernel out of the air, seldom missing. And how, I could never make banana pudding without you being under my feet. While you never turned down a strip of steak, you loved banana pudding. I even tested you once, putting a dab of banana pudding on one plate and a strip of steak on another. When I let you go, you headed straight for the pudding, then the steak. Always go for dessert, first, you taught. And let’s not forget how much you loved pineapple!

When we moved to Skidaway, near Savannah, you struggled in the humidity and heat. I wondered if you recalled snow. Could you remember running through it as you scooped it up with your snout and tossed it in the air, snapping at the falling flakes as if it was popcorn.

I am thankful that to the end, when you stood beside me, pressing your neck on my lower thigh. You were atthe right height for my fingers to bury themselves in your beautiful mane. And I always loved how you stood in the wind. The tufts at the end of your ears flew back, as you sniffed and enjoyed the breeze.  Sadly, I miss our long walks around town, our hikes in the wood, and how you sat like General Washington in the middle of the canoe as we floated down river.  

You were so gentle with that little girl, the one who picked you out of the litter and named you for a cracker. You always looked out for her and for that reason alone, I am eternally grateful. The two of you grew up together, but you grew old much too fast. Seventeen years is a long time for a dog, they say, but not nearly long enough.  The house is way too big, lonely, and sad tonight. I keep listening for the sounds of your clanking tags and the tap of your toenails on the hardwood, but only hear the cold rain splattering on the deck out back. We’re all going to miss you, Trisket.  You were such a good boy, a pretty boy, a big furry fluffball!

My favorite photo of Trisket and me. On the Thornapple River in Michigan in 2007. He would have been around 7 years old at this time.
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Soap Box Derby

When I was in Wilmington two weeks ago, I spent a lot of time with my sister going through my parents photos and came up with these photos of my soap box derby cars. This is the story of building and racing these cars.

I sat in my car on the starting platform. The platform had been installed at the top of what might be the tallest hill in New Hanover County. They had closed a section of 16th Street for the Saturday running of the 1971 Soap Box Derby. Gripping the wheel and leaning back as far as possible to cut the drag, I glanced over at my opponent.  His car was sleek, constructed of fiberglass, but with lots of metal inside. I knew it would be fast, but I had registered good time during the practice trials and had easily won my first race. 

The starter, holding high the flag, let it fall. The gates dropped and the cars eased down the plywood ramp and onto the pavement. I concentrated on staying low and keeping my car straight in its lane. The cars began picked up speed. I saw the other car pull slightly ahead as we shot toward the finish line. The checker flag fell. He won and my days of racing had come to an end. Later that morning, the car which beat mine became the overall winner. He got to go to Akron, Ohio, for the nationals. 

Soap Box Derby Car
I’m sitting on the “hood” of the my second car with my younger brother sitting inside the car with a friend of his on the back. My other brother stands behind the car.

This was my second year of building a soap box derby. Both years I lost in the second round of a single elimination tournament.  

The Wilmington Jaycees held the event. They provided participants with a basic kit which included wheels and axles, a steering wheel, wire, and brake assembly. The sponsors of our event cover the cost and provided a small amount of funds (I think it was $35, which wouldn’t today purchase the plywood) for everything else. I used two sheets. I cut the floorboard and the bulkheads out of ¾ inch plywood. The body I fashioned out of ¼ inch plywood. The metal axles went inside a 1-inch board. Cutting a channel half way through the boards, I chiseled out a channel for the axle. Then I planed down the front side to make the axle cover streamlined. 

Those of us who were drivers were to build our own cars with only adult supervision.  The first year, I built my car under the carport at our house with David Hunter. David’s father had recently died, so my father served as both of our supervisors. We were to build our cars ourselves, which my father ensured except for the rough cutting of the ¾ inch plywood, which required a circular saw. My father insisted we were too young but allowed us to use jig saws to cut out the bulkheads. Each of these he had us file down to make smooth. I remember lots of stokes using a half-moon file. 

The floorboard also had a wooden cutout for a brake. The pedal was made of plywood left over from the center of the bulkheads. A wire ran from pedal to the break in the back, where a wooden 2×4 with a piece of tire on the bottom served as the brake.. When pressed, the brake descended to the road and slowed the car. 

Then I attached the bulkheads with angle braces. This was in the day before power drivers, so we drilled pilot holes and used screwdrivers to fix the screws and bolts. 

The rear axle and cover were attached with bolts to the back of the floorboard. The front axle was attached with a single bolt, allowing it to move two inches. This was for safety since we were running a straight course. If we could have steered any more, there would probably be cars running into each. This was just enough movement to allow us to make minor adjustments to our path. I then installed the steering wheel between the first two bulkheads in the front. A wire wound around the steering wheel shaft, threaded through pulleys, ran out to each side of the front axle. This allowed us, when racing, to turn the axle slightly to adjust for bumps in the pavement. 

At this point, we attached ¼ inch plywood over the bulkheads. The sides were rather simple, but the top required us to use a circular saw with the blade set about 1/8 of an inch to cut strips underneath the plywood, allowing it to bend. With barely any blade showing, my father decided to let us use the saw ourselves. 

Once all the plywood was attached, we installed a seat, covered screw holes with putty, and painted the car. My first year, I chose orange with a blue racing strip. For my second year, I used purple with a white stripe.  Since we could have a professional do the sponsors lettering on the car, my father volunteered to do it. 

family and soap box derby car
My first car. I’m sitting inside, flanked by my two brothers and sister. Behind is my father, my grandparents on my father’s side and my grandmother on my mother’s side.

When the car was done, we hauled them on a flatbed trailer the day before the race to a warehouse which had been reserved on 13th Street. There, they checked our cars to make sure they weren’t too heavy, and everything was safe and to regulation.  My car the first year was about 30 pounds lighter than it had to be. When they checked us in, they kept our cars impounded until race day. 

That evening, after the race, the Jaycees threw a banquet for us. We were presented with medals and endured motivation speeches by a couple of the Jaycees.

In building my second car, I mostly worked by myself since David didn’t sign up to build another car. Moving my radio out to the carport, I remember repeatedly hearing that summer Three Dog Night sing “Joy to the World” as I worked.  

I had learned a few things from my first car. I wanted the car to be more streamlined and heavier. Trying to figure out how to add weight, my father suggested that instead of buying lightweight angle braces, we use ¼” steel angle iron. Someone he knew cut them into 2-inch-long angles. At the front and back, I used six-inch-long angle iron. This was overkill, but it added weight. Drilling through the iron was difficult, but it was worth it for the weight. I also added more ¾ plywood in the bracing and using solid pieces at the front and back. By the time I completed the car, it was only about 2 pounds under the maximum. The added weight and the sleeker design created a faster car than my first traditional design.  In the end, it didn’t matter. The fastest car knocked me out in the second heat. 

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President Nixon:  High School in 1974 and a new biography 

cover of book and campaign button for Nixon

I will first share a story from the spring of my junior year of high school, followed by a review of a new religious biography of Richard Nixon. This is my last planned post till October 6. I am on vacation and will be away some from the computer. From the looks of the weather, I picked a heck of a time to take a week off!,  

John T. Hoggard High School, Spring 1974

It all came to a head in Coach Fisher’s economics class. I took my seat in the class and when he saw me, he fumed. 

“You are not allowed in my class,” he yelled, staring at me.

“I’m not leaving,” I said. 

“Yes, you are,” he said, pushing desks with students sitting in them out of the way to get to me. 

Scared, I stayed in my seat, thinking that if he physically harmed me, which he could easily do, I’d have a class of witnesses for an ensuing lawsuit.

Standing over my desk, he ordered me out into the hallway. I had spent the past two weeks sitting in the hallway, working chess puzzles in a magazine. This started when I challenged one of his diatribes about Richard Nixon. Nixon was in the news a lot in the spring of 1974. 

The day before, at the end of the class, Coach Fisher told me I would fail his class because I had missed so much of it. I told him that I better not, because he was the reason I was missing his class. The class really had nothing to do with economics. Most of the 50 minutes was spent discussing basketball and other sports. What little had to do with economics was more about consumer spending than the relationship between price and demand or an understanding of macroeconomics. Fisher was a coach, who had been given a teaching position. 

I decided it was time to end my exclusion from class, so the next morning, I returned.

After a few moments of a standoff, I told Coach Fisher that if he wanted me out of the class, we could go together to Mr. Saus’ (the principal) office. His anger grew and he started to drag my chair outside. 

“Fine,” I said. “I will go to the principal’s office,” I said, getting up. He ordered me to sit in the chair outside his door, but I walked down the hall and turned toward the office. I expected him to follow, but he didn’t.  Mr. Saus wasn’t available, but I was sent into Mr. McLaurin’s office. He was an assistant principal. I told him my story. He listened and had me remain in his office while he disappeared for a few minutes. When he came back in, he told me to go back to class, that Mr. Fisher would let me back in. 

Fisher didn’t fail me for that six-week period. I passed the class with a decent grade without having to do anything because Fisher essentially ignored me for the rest of the semester. I just sat there. I would have to wait till college to grasp economics. 

 Richard Nixon was president during the formative years of my life. I was in the sixth grade when he was elected president in 1968. At the time, Nixon, to me, seemed to be the best choice. 

I would continue to support Nixon throughout my junior high and early high school years. Why, I’m not sure. Why did I believed him when he said he didn’t do anything wrong? This belief was strong enough to encourage me to speak up for Nixon in Coach Fisher’s class, which led to our encounter.  Later, after he resigned from the Presidency the summer after the above incident, I felt embarrassed. Some of that shame remains. How could I have been so naïve? 

There were two events that happened in high school which my mom always blamed on me losing all respect for authority. And they happened about the same time. The first was a wreck.  A young woman (she was 21) turned in front of me from the left-hand lane on Shipyard Boulevard. I hit her in the front quarter panel and both cars were totaled. Thankfully, my mom was seated right next to me and saw it all. I was knocked out and sent in an ambulance to the hospital.  The young city police officer, whom my mother witnessed flirting with the other driver after the accident, charged me with following to close. From the damage to her car, that was an impossibility. Thankfully, a neighbor who was a state highway patrolman, came to our aid and helped prove my innocence.  Click here for a sermon where I share more about the wreck.

I don’t think my mother even knew about the incident in Coach Fisher’s class.

The accident in which I was wrongfully charged occurred within a year of Nixon’s resignation. Mom was right. Both probably contributed to my cynicism when dealing with authority figures.  And Coach Fisher became the icing on that cake. 

Daniel Silliman, One Lost Soul: Richard Nixon’s Search for Salvation

 (Grand Rapids, MI: Eerdmans, 2024), 317 pages including an index, bibliography and notes on sources. 

One Lost Soul is a religious biography of our 37th President. Silliman begins with a brief overview of Nixon’s early life, after which he jumps from one critical injunction to another to show the role religion played in Nixon’s political career. These include Nixon’s anti-communism work as a young congressman, the run with Eisenhower as Vice President and his “Checkers Prayer,” the role of religion in the 1960 election, his holding “church” in the White House, the Vietnam War, his outreach to China, the Watergate Coverup, his resignation as President, and a bit about Nixon’s life after his presidency. 

Silliman’s theme is that Nixon spent his life, from childhood, with a desire to find acceptance and love. Such desire began in his father’s grocery story but continued throughout his life. His obsession led him to work hard. He believed in the “great man” theory of history and wanted to be such a man, as seen in his reaching out to China. He had a hard time accepting God’s love or the love others. On the night before his resignation, Henry Kissinger, the Secretary of State visited with him. On Nixon’s suggestion, the two men got on their knees and prayed. Nixon cried as he asked, “What have I done?”

Kissinger shared this moment with his staff members before Nixon called him to ask that he not tell anyone that he had cried. Kissinger later asked, “Can you imagine what this man would have been had somebody loved him?” 

I had always wondered about Nixon’s background as a Quaker. I still remember a Mad Magazine from the time with a cartoon-like article about religion. When they got to the section on Quakers, one panel said something like, “There are 100,000 Quakers in the United States. The next panel said that Quakers don’t believe in war. The third panel featured Nixon saying that he was a Quaker. The final panel read, “That makes 99,999. 

Silliman points out that California Quakerism differed from the East Coast variety in several manners. In some ways, it was more like a Methodist tradition, with focus on working out one salvation. Nixon saw military activity as a way toward peace, so instead of seeking a consciousness objector status during World War 2, he joined the navy. Even during Vietnam, Nixon maintained hope the bombings would bring the North to the negotiation table. While this upset many Quakers, the decentralized structure of the denomination meant that any church disciplinary actions would have to be taken by his home church in California. While Nixon continued to claim to be a Quaker, he had not been active in the church since a child. 

As President, Nixon created White House worship services. For these, he would import ministers to preach. Interestingly, Nixon maintain total control of the service down to the hymns. The services served a political purpose as Nixon often invited those to attend as favors. These services were Protestant, but on one occasion was led by a Jewish rabbi. 

Nixon could also be impulsive. In the middle of the night during the anti-war protests, he takes his valet (and some secret service agents) to the Lincoln Memorial. There, he talks to anti-war protestors who are camping out on the steps. He asks questions of them. When they depart, he expresses his hope their opposition to the war won’t turn into hate for the country. 

Silliman points out many good things Nixon did. Certainly, his work with China stands at the top. But he also refused to play the religious card against John Kennedy in the 1960 election. While it would have probably worked at the time, he didn’t feel it appropriate. He was also deeply concerned with Civil Rights, even though for political reasons, he refused to make a public statement on Martin Luther King’s arrest during the 1960 election. In 1968, he tried to play it both ways, reaching out to Strong Thurmond and other who supported segregation. This was the beginning of the Republican “southern strategy.”   

While this is a sad and tragic story, I can’t help but to have hope that at least Nixon had a conscious that bothered him. I didn’t come away from this book thinking he was a psychopath. There were times he had empathy for others and instead of thinking too highly of himself, he doubted his own self-worth. In a way, it was his lack of self-worth that made him so desperate to win and to prove himself.

This is a good book not just for understanding Nixon, but also understanding the difficult many people have in accepting grace. 

This biography is a part of the “Library of Religious Biography” series. I have read several others in the series including Aimee Semple McPerson: Everybody’s Sister, Billy Sunday and the Redemption of Urban America, and Harriet Beecher Stowe: A Spiritual Life.