House on Bishop Street. My dad with the three kids: Left to right: Warren, Sharon, me
We moved to Walnut Hills in the fall of 1963. It was in town but there were no real hills. Someone may have had a walnut tree, I don’t remember any. I do remember pines and sycamores and sweet gums. The latter’s hard spikey fruit served as make-believe hand grenades in the battles we reenacted.
Walnut Hills was in the city of Petersburg, but still partly country when we moved there. I attended first grade at Walnut Hills Elementary school and would occasionally walk home from the school to our house on Bishop Street. Petersburg’s suburbs were expanding outward. While a nice working class neighborhood, we were not as rich as those who lived in the big homes along Sycamore Street. Yet it was a good place to be a kid.
Behind our house was an alley; across it was another row of houses and the last street which was named for my brother Warren. Behind those houses, woods stretched all the way back to Carter Road This road’s name came from one of the battles during the Siege of Petersburg which lasted for nine months from the summer of 1864 to the spring of 1865. On Saturdays, my friends and I played Johnny Reb in these woods, covering the same terrain our ancestors fought over a hundred years earlier during that final bloody year of that rich folk war.
Fort Hell 100 years earlier. From the internet
At the second Crater Road turn off into our subdivision sat a genuine civil war fort operated as a private museum. Folks who attended church with us owned it, but I don’t remember their name. However, I’ll never forget the name of the fort. Known as Fort Hell, its real name was Fort Sedgwick. When my uncle Frank came to visit, he asked me why they called it Fort Hell. “’cause they really gave the Yankees hell,” I proudly proclaimed. I only vaguely remember saying that, and maybe I don’t really remember saying it at all. Instead, I remember it because Frank kept reminding me of it right up to the time of his death some 15 years ago.
I later learned that it wasn’t a Southern fort after all, but a part of the Union siege line and at the time was the largest inland artillery battery in the country. In the summer of ’66, after three years of roaming those woods, we moved back to North Carolina. We moved just the nick of time. As we left, workers busied themselves cutting down trees and laying out roads through the woods. The people who owned Fort Hell sold it to developers. Soon, the bomb proofed shelters dug by hand a 100 years earlier faced down bulldozers leaving the ground. The place became a strip mall. By the time we left, the woods in Walnut Hills ceased to exist.
Kids and young families filled Walnut Hills in the mid-1960s. I enjoyed my time there. It was a great place to spend a few years, and it still haunts me. Just a month or so ago, in Ronald White’s biography of Josiah Lawrence Chamberlain, I learned his severe wound occurred along the Jerusalem Road (I think that’s now Crater Road) near Fort Hell.
Last Wednesday we held the funeral for George Grogan at Norris Funeral Home in Stuart. His burial at the Oakwood Cemetery in Martinsville. I was asked if I would make my remarks available, so I’m posting them here. George grew up in Martinsville, where after a stint in the Army, worked for the Post Office. After retiring, he moved up on the mountain and became a beloved member or our community. The location of the funeral in Stuart made it easier for friends from both Martinsville and Meadows of Dan to attend.
The Eulogy: Memories of George
George obituary photo by Norris Funeral Homes
We lost a good man. George came from a small family. Having no children of his own, George Grogan loved and doted on his nephew and niece, Trip and Elizabeth. He gave them other names, “Dude” and “Sug.” He taught them to swim and ride a bike. George took the two of them to the beach and to the pool in the summer. In the winter, he took them sledding. Instead of building traditional snowmen they’d fashioned dinosaurs and dragons and use food coloring to make them more life-like. (There must have been a little bit of Calvin, as in Calvin and Hobbes, in George). He taught Elizabeth how to drive in Oakwood Cemetery, where we will intern his body this afternoon.
As Trip recalls, he was the best uncle anyone could ask for. After all, how could you go wrong with an uncle who joked his Christmas present for you made the list of the top ten most dangerous toys that year! Or when helping Liz with a leaf collection for school, they collected 32 instead of the minimum requirement of 10, far overachieving the rest of the class. Or who took you to all the top movies as they were released.
George almost always arrived at Mayberry Presbyterian Church before or as I arrived on Sunday morning. He’d bring with him a delicious dish for the brunch after church—sometimes a sweet dish but often some kind of grits. I joked with him about the need to spice up his grits with jalapenos. “No,” he firmly insisted. But he did relent enough to make grits with pimentos the next week.
One Sunday, I brought jalapenos poppers: peppers stuffed with cream cheese and wrapped in bacon. I planned to egg on George. The joke was on me. He wasn’t in church that Sunday. It turned out this was one of his stays at New River Valley Hospital. I wrapped up two of the poppers in foil and took them up to George at the hospital that afternoon. “Get those out of here,” he laughed as he rose up from bed and pointed to the door. A nurse gladly took them off George’s hands.
While I couldn’t tease George into exploring spicy food, he was a wonderful cook. And while George may have seemed set in his ways, he was open to change. As a mail carrier who walked throughout the city of Martinsville, George had a great dislike of dogs. They were his nemeses. I don’t know what it is about dogs, but their DNA seems to contain a distrust of mail carriers.
But after he retired, someone needed a volunteer to dog sit a Lab. George, wanting to be helpful, agreed, and fell in love with the dog. From then on, he always had a dog. The last, which also shows his humor, being Knucklehead. It took me a while to realize that was the dog’s name, not just what he was called.
Another area in which George held firm was politics. As one friend said, George was one of five people in Patrick County who would admit to being a Democrat. And there was that bumper sticker which left no question as to where he stood. But that aside, Geoge was always civil even to those with whom he disagreed. He never condemned others. George showed us how to be respectful in a world filled with hate. We need more people like George in our world.
George enjoyed joking around and having a good laugh. Who else would relish in nicknames like “Chicken George,” as the sign Mike Gillette made which he proudly displayed on his house. George always had a flock of chickens. Mike also made a sign that read “Chicken Crossings.” Motorist didn’t always abide by the sign as George lost several chickens to traffic on DeHart Road.
Trinity, a longtime friend , confided to George about leaving a pot of water on the stove. The water boiled, leaving a ruined dry pot. Geroge reassured Trinity that it won’t get any better with age. Charlie runs the kitchen at Poor Farmers. George started his day with coffee and a sausage biscuit from there. Charlie shared a story about George making her an origami ring out of a dollar bill . Then he proposed with it.
George enjoyed walking the hills around Marby Mill and Rocky Knob with his dog and always appreciated running into friends. Beth Ford tells about how she could never remember his dog’s name. They’d met up on a trail and she called the pooch, Bull Shirt, which bought laughter to George.
Beth also told me about working the polls in Meadows of Dan and how George would always stop by mid-day on election day with a treat he’d whipped up in the kitchen. He acknowledged and thanked them for their hard work and a long day that starts before sunrise and ends long after sunset.
This past election, just a few weeks ago, George came in to vote. Exhausted and not doing well, he still wanted to do his civic duty. Beth said they were willing to take a folder with a ballot inside to his car, but he insisted on coming in. He then sat down to catch his breath, smiling at everyone. He allowed her to bring over a ballot. After he voted, he said, “Thank you so much for this.” And those were the last words she heard from her friend.
Bob Potter tells about running into George at the Dollar General. He was heading into the store with a plate of cream puffs he’d made to give to the cashier on her birthday.
George was always present to help with Pancake Days and VFW spaghetti dinners. He was up early to grab coffee at Poor Farmer’s Market and to exercise with the morning stretch class. George was laid back and really wanted what is best for our community.
He was also a caring and nurturing man. He loved his mother so much that on his birthday, he’d send her flowers to thank her for giving him life. And in her later years, after she was confined to a wheelchair, he took care of her. He also helped take care of his older sister during her last days. And even while he was sick during the last months of his life, George took things in stride.
George’s garden. George wasn’t up to doing work here this spring, but he did have his onions in.
George’s home seems quiet without the clucking of chickens
There’s a lot more that could be said about George. He was an incredible gardener and often supplied fresh flowers for Mayberry Church or brought extra produce to share. I encourage you to share your stories of George with each other today, to honor this gentle giant of a man.
We will miss him. The best way we can honor George is to learn from his demeanor, to care for others, and to jump in and help our communities thrive.
Through the effort of Barbara Wagoner, Be Like George buttons will soon be available at Mayberry Church and in the Meadows of Dan community.
Homily for George Gorgan’s Funeral
For my homily this afternoon, I want us to look at the 23rd Psalm, a hymn of confidence which acknowledges the hurt and the pain in our world. But it also reminds us of God’s presence in times of trouble. Listen, as I read the Psalm from the King James Version.
The Lord is my shepherd; I shall not want. He maketh me to life down in green pastures: He leadeth me beside the still waters. he restoreth my soul: he leadeth me in the paths of righteousness for his name’s sake. Yea, though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death, I will fear no evil: for thou art with me; thy rod and thy staff they comfort me. Thou preparest a table before me in the presence of mine enemies: thou annointest my head with oil; my cup runneth over. Surely goodness and mercy shall follow me all the days of my life: and I will dwell in the house of the Lord forever.
The author of the Psalm, credited to be the shepherd king David, knew from experience God supplied his needs. He experienced first-hand God’s mercy. Using rich metaphor’s, God is compared to a shepherd who leads his flock to fresh green grass and still waters where the sheep might be able to get a drink. George was a shepherd to his chickens, caring tenderly for them.
Just as the grass and the water restores the bodies of the sheep after a long trek through the desert, the Psalmist experienced such nourishment from God after treks through the desert of life. The God who restored his soul is the same God who restores our souls. Like a good shepherd, God revitalizes our lives when everything seems hopelessly chaotic. God as our companion can transform every situation.
Now this does not mean there is no hurt to be felt in the world. The Psalmist recognizes the deep dark valleys we must cross. A shepherd, experienced at leading his flock up through canyons and gorges, knows of the importance of being there beside his sheep. Where the trail narrows and the cliffs rise steeply on both side, danger lurks behind every bend. But the sheep remember yesterday’s taste of fresh grass and clear water, and trusting the shepherd, move forward in the face of danger.
Likewise, George experienced much trouble over the last few years as his medical challenges grew. George knew his time was short. I saw him last Thursday. He remained in bed and acknowledged the end was near but was okay with it. He trusted his Savior. I saw him again on Monday. He seemed to be doing better. He remained at peace, Although his energy remained low, at times he laughed at something said. His dog, Knucklehead, remained at his feet. At this point the decision was made that he’d be moved into hospice, which happened later that evening.
In the Psalm, an interesting stylistic shift occurs in the third verse. God is no longer spoken of in the third person as in the beginning of the Psalm. The author realizes during journeys through the valley of the shadow of death that God, like a shepherd, has become more real and more present. Instead of saying, “God is with me,” the Psalmist addresses God in the first-person present tense: “I fear no evil for you are with me.” The author admits, at times like this, he hurts and is afraid, but God is so close that he can address God intimately.
Having acknowledged God’s deeds in the past, the green grass and the still waters which provide of nourishment for our bodies and souls and having experienced God’s presence in a time of trouble, the Psalmist concluded this song with a statement of confidence in God’s future. “Surely goodness and mercy will follow me all the days of my life and I shall dwell in the house of the Lord forever.”
We can be comforted in God, not because of any myth which denies the existence of pain, but because God promises to be present with us when we suffer. God the Father, having experienced the death of his Son Jesus Christ, knows our pain and promises to be there with us. God the Son, as a man named Jesus, experienced death and knew what George experienced last week as he left this life. Jesus promised we would never be alone. God’s spirit is here with us, just as God’s spirit was present with George, as they moved him to hospice where he would die a day later.
God’s presence can help us cherish our memories and come to terms with George’s death. Amen.
George, at his place on the back row at Mayberry Church, Pentecost Sunday 2025. Thanks to Beth Almond Ford for sharing this photo.
To view George Grogan’s obituary at Norris Funeral Services, click here.
When I returned home, not only did I get a chair cut, I trimmed my beard!
On Tuesday morning, April 14, after filing an extension for my taxes, I boarded the northbound Crescent, in Danville, Virginia. At Union Station in Washington, DC, I had long enough a break to eat before catching another train bound for Chicago. My destination was South Bend, Indiana, a city I arrived in a little before 8 AM on Wednesday. I had planned to get a sleeper. When I first looked at this trip, I could have done each leg for about 400 dollars, but after the debacle of airlines and unpaid TSA agents, train travel became more popular. Two weeks later the cost for a sleeper on each leg jumped to 900 dollars (over $1800 total) and I decided I could travel coach.
Stairs inside Lowry’s
I have attended the Festival of Faith and Writing many times. It’s held every even year and Calvin brings in around 60 authors. They don’t have to be Christian, although most are. The one requirement is that the authors write seriously about faith. As with the other years, this year didn’t disappoint. As before, there those authors I wanted to hear and meet. In addition, there were other authors I didn’t know, whom I heard and are now interested in reading their works.
The festival opened with its first plenary speaker, Laurie Halse Anderson, who writes historical fiction for young adults. I was not familiar with her work, but she has won the Nobel Prize in Children’s literature. She has written some interesting books around the American Revolution. Her success, she credits, is with doing the research of a non-fiction writer to assure her stories are factual. She also focuses on the “ordinary.” Instead of writing about Washington or Franklin, she tries to bring in the common people, especially women, children, and minorities. Through their eyes, she shows how they perceive the events of the day. She also talked about how writing one book leads to another. Having written about the Revolutionary War, she became interested in a Yellow Fever epidemic in Philadelphia a few years later, which resulted in Fever 1793. I plan to read that book.
In addition to four plenary speakers, the Festival offers numerous concurrent sessions throughout the three-day period. The first afternoon, I attended a conversation by two young adult writers (Kate Albus and Dana VanderLugt) discussing the craft of writing fiction and how it can be used to draw younger readers into the past.
Next, I attended a presentation by Carrie Fountain titled “About a Million Blessings a Day.” Fountain is a poet who sets out every morning to write a poem. She acknowledges, most are not very good, but she feels the need to get something on paper and overtime has a collection of material with which to work. I enjoyed listening to the poems she recited and came away with an autographed copy of her book of poetry, The Life. Fountain charmed me by asking where I was from when I was having her book signed. She then complementing me on the sound of my voice. The next day a guy I was talking to during a break stopped me in mid-sentence to ask if I read Audible books. I thought he meant listening and I said I generally have one going all the time. Then he said, I don’t mean listening, I mean reading, you have the ideal voice. I laughed and said it would be ideal until I butchered the punctuation of some word.
That night, the plenary speaker was Robin Wall Kimmer. The title of her talk “The Serviceberry: Abundance and Reciprocity in the Natural World”is also the title of her latest book which I read and reviewed (link above) in January. Of all those authors in attendance, Kimmerer was the one I really wanted to hear. She’s both a scientist and a Native American and draws on both in her books, of which I have read all three. I read Gathering Moss in 2021 and Braiding Sweetgrass (her most popular) in 2024. While Kimmerer titled her talk after her book, it wasn’t a recap of writing. Instead, she presented a thesis around what the writer can do to help heal the world. Her first rule: always begin with gratitude. She encourages writers to help people know their place on earth. For nature writers, she suggests we celebrate the living world, foster kinship, incite wonder, inform, sound the alarm on danger to the planet, seek justice, and defend wild places. She also peppered her talk with startling statistics such as the average American child can identity only 10 plants but knows around 100 cooperate logos.
Kimmerer (in the middle) talking to Debra Rienstra and Kyle Meyaard-Schaap
Kimmerer also spoke of the danger of linguistic materialism, moral exclusion, and how the colonial experiences around the world have damaged native languages which were more earth based. Of all the presenters over the three days, I took far more notes (4 whole pages) on Kimmerer’s talk. Most other talks I only took a single page of notes. After her talk, I checked into my hotel and then walked over to a nearby Olive Garden where I had dinner with a former colleague. MaryMartha served with me when I was the pastor in Hastings (2004-2014), serving as the church’s adult ministry coordinator. Several years ago, when her husband Larry began to decline in health, they moved to a continuing care center on the southside of Grand Rapids. Larry has since died. I enjoyed our late dinner and talk, but was ready to crash when I got back into my room.
Note: Thanks to Lynne, I think I now have all of Harry’s titles correct. It is my hope you gain a sense of how wonderful Harry was. I know I have more photos of him, but could not find them quickly last night. The photo of Harry holding a Clinton/Gore cup was at a dinner. I’m not sure where the cup came from but someone thought it appropriate to serve Harry, a Republican, a drink in it. As you can see, he took the joke well and played along.
Sunday night I received word through a friend in Utah that Harry died. It wasn’t expected. I later learned his death was sudden. Walking down his front steps to greet friends, he collapsed. It was his time. They were unable to resituated him. So many people close to me during my decade of ministry in Utah are now gone. Harry joins a long list which includes the Armstrongs, the Pevelers, the Behrens, Marcia Beck, Des Penny, Jim Case, Christine Winterrose, Pam Burns, Harry’s son David, among others.
I met Harry on a Monday in late September 1993. I probably met him the day before when I preached at Community Presbyterian Church, but don’t remember it. In a meeting following worship, they voted to called me as their pastor. That Monday, I went to First Security Bank (now Wells Fargo) to set up an account in preparation for my move. Harry, a commercial loan officer at the time, saw me enter. He came out of his office, greeted me like a long-lost friend. Then he introduced me to everyone as his new pastor. He also made sure I was well taken care of by the tellers. From that point, we were friends. But that’s not unusual. Harry was the type of person who became a friend to everyone he met. He also befriended every dog. .
John and Scott on Angels Landing.
I moved to Utah that November. A few Saturdays later, Scott, another member of the church, organized a climb of Angels Landing in Zion National Park. Harry, Brad, Craig, and John joined us. We made our way up Walters Wiggles to Scout Landing, where the Angels Landing trail breaks away from the West Rim Trail. Soon, we were on a knife edge, with a 1500 or so foot drop on each side. Heights, we discovered, terrified Harry. John and I led him down off the knife-edge and back to Scout Landing. Harry waited for us as we climbed to the top of Angels Landing, which hovers over the valley of Zion Canyon. When the day was over and we stopped for dinner and a beer on our way back. Harry expressed thanks that we had not abandoned him.
Angels Landing from the Virgin River
Harry and Lynne after their wedding
In February of the following year, I was honored along with the Reverend Ed Kicklighter, a retired Navy chaplain and the former intern pastor at Community Presbyterian, to officiate at the wedding of Harry and Lynne. Harry and Lynne would become close friends.
In the fall of 1994, I began teaching a year and a half long class to train lay pastors. Harry signed up. We spent much of the class discussing theology and how to handle Biblical text in preparation of a sermon. Harry felt comfortable speaking in front of groups. His faith was strong, but quiet. He showed his faith in how he worked to better the lives of others.
Two years later, the Presbytery of Utah commissioned Harry as a lay pastor. The presbytery meeting of the commissioning was held at the brand-new church in Layton, Utah. It had been raining hard for a few days. As I stood with Harry before the entire body, asking him the questions for his commissioning, a spot in the roof failed. Suddenly, a torrent of water poured from above, just behind Harry. I paused, then looked at Harry and asked, “Do you need to be baptized?” Everyone laughed, as members of the congregation ran around grabbing buckets and mops. For the rest of my time in Utah, Harry would preach for me when I was gone and at Presbyterian Churches in Richfield, Delta, and the Methodist Church in Milford.
Joking with Harry at a dinner in the mid-90s.
During my time in Utah, our families attended parades together and had cookouts and dinners. Harry could take a joke. At one party before the 1996 elections, Harry, a Republican, laughed when he was served a drink in a Clinton/Gore cup. Around this time, Harry and I both begin to collect Dutch ovens. Soon, we hosted dinners for the congregation and other groups in town. Harry and I also participated, in competition with each other, in local chili cookoffs.
A few years after I arrived in Utah, Harry left banking and became the director of the Chamber of Commerce. I believe he was instrumental in bringing the Rocky Mountain Oriental Express train to the city. This was the first time since the 1950s that passengers got off a train in Cedar City. This elegant train traveled across the West, stopping at various National Parks. The trains would spend two or three days in Cedar City. While in town, they made excursions to Bryce Canyon, Zion Canyon, and the North Rim of the Grand Canyon. Cedar City was also known for its summer Shakespearean and Renaissance Festivals. Working with the city’s mayor, Harry expanded the number of festivals so that every month had a celebration. The city lived up to its title, the Festival City.
After working with the city for a few years, Harry became the hospital foundation and public relations director for Valley View Hospital. Exciting things were happening as the hospital built a new faculty. As I was on the hospital board, Harry and I got to work together on a project not related to the church. After I left Cedar City, Harry helped raise funds for a new cancer center.
Toward the end of my time in Utah, I began reading a lot about the area in which I had grown up. My family had moved to Petersburg, Virginia when I was six and then moved outside of Wilmington, North Carolina when I was nine. My backyard in both places endured significant battles toward the end of the Civil War. Harry was also interested in the Civil War and read the books I read on the fall of Petersburg and the fall of Fort Fisher and Wilmington. Even after I moved, when I would visit, we discussed the Civil War.
I last saw Harry in the fall of 2018. We toured the congregation’s newest effort, a thrift store on the south end of town which sold furniture, household goods, and clothes. I could sense Harry’s pride at what the church had done and how it served those in the community he loved. Harry wanted the best for his community and worked hard to serve others.
Anyone who knew Harry also knew of his love for animals, especially dogs. He and Lynne adopted many dogs and gave them a wonderful home. Over the years, I mainly kept up with Harry and Lynne through Facebook. Seldom was there a post that didn’t include dogs in the pictures.
Cedar Canyon east of Cedar City
Harry had moved to Cedar City from Las Vegas, where he had been in banking. Before that, he’d lived in Alaska and had served in the Air Force Intelligence Agency. He told stories of how, as a young man, he traveled first class in Japan to attempt to listen in on communications from Soviet leaders staying in adjacent hotel rooms. And before that, Harry, who grew up in the Philadelphia area, was one of the first “kids” to dance on American Bandstand.
Sadness often broke into Harry’s life. Long after I left Utah, his son David, who had been in our our group died. Harry, I know, strove to maintain a positive outlook on the future and continued to help others. May he rest in peace and may God embrace Lynne, their dogs, Harry’s daughter, and his stepdaughter and their families in love.
Last Thursday, February 12th, Lincoln’s birthday, was also the 100th birthday of a late friend of mine, Ralph Behrens. That evening, his son (Rob who lives in Northern Utah) and I each had a Scotch in memory of his dad.
Ralph and I met at a potluck dinner for Boy Scouts Troop 360. It was late 1993 or early 1994,, shortly after I moved to Cedar City, Utah. Sometime that evening we started talking. Ralph learned of my interest in mining towns as I had written a few journal articles on the Comstock Lode. At the time, I was considering returning to school for another degree. My hope was to write a dissertation focusing on the role the church played in mining camps.
I learned that Ralph grew up in Goler Gulch, a mining community in the Mojave Desert of California. It was a rough place to live during the Depression. Ralph graduated from high school in 1944 and joined the Army Air Corp. He arrived in the South Pacific near the end of the war, but earn a combat ribbon because, as he was fond of say, “some General wanted another metal so they loaded up a bunch of bombs on a 100 airplanes and we flew and blew the hell out of a handful of Japanese on an island we didn’t deem important enough to invade.”
Shortly after that potluck dinner, Ralph and I started taking regular trips out into the desert. I’m not sure exactly how many trips we made, but we did at least a dozen or so trips in Utah, Nevada, California, and along the Arizona Strip. I even helped Ralph cut and haul wood for several years to heat his house. One trip we didn’t get to make when I was in Utah, but had discussed, was to the Hole in a Wall. In 2006, a couple years after having left Utah, I flew back and the two of us set out to visit this spot. While not an overnight trip, this was the last big trip we took. The next few times I visited, Ralph’s health had declined to the point he could no longer able to travel in such a manner. Ralph died in 2010.
Ralph’s dad, Ralph with his dog, and his brother. Goler Gulch, CA, around 1930
The story below I wrote in 2006. I’ve edited it and republished it here.
We arrive in Escalante around 11 AM. This must be one of the strangest towns in Utah. A few years ago, the Mormon influence remained so strong you had a hard time finding 3.2 beer. Interestingly the town isn’t named after a saint, but a Catholic priest. Father Escalante came through here a century before the Mormons settled this area. He searched of a faster way from Santa Fe to the California missions. At that time only a few small bands of Paiutes lived in this hostile environment, descendants of the Anasazi whose culture flourished here until abruptly disappearing around 700 years ago. As Escalante discovered, travel in canyon country is difficult. It’s easier today, but by modern standards is still difficult.
I hadn’t been in Escalante for five or six years. The town appears prosperous; almost negating the doom predictions of the naysayers who predicted President Clinton’s creation of the Grand Staircase National Monument would be a catastrophic event. The town now has sidewalks with classic streetlamps, several new businesses and a new high school. Ralph pulls up in front of the Golden Loop, a diner. The logo has a cowboy standing tall in the saddle, with the “golden loop” of his lasso falling over the neck of a calf. As it’s not quite time for lunch, we hit the Roan Pony Bookstore next door first. I know right away things have changed in Escalante.
“Don’t sell too many books to locals, do you?” I quip sarcastically to the salesclerk.
“We sell a few children books,” she replies, “but not many to adults.”
“I bet not,” I say while reading through the titles of books critical of the Mormon faith. She has a couple copies of Fran Brodie’s, No Man Knows My History. It’s a good biography of Joseph Smith, the faith’s founding prophet, and written by a granddaughter of Brigham Young, the faith’s second prophet. It’s been over fifty years since this book came out. Its publication got Brodie excommunicated and the book placed on the church’s blacklist. There are other books critical of the Mormon Church including a few titles by people who have left the church, encouraging others to follow in their footsteps. In another section of the small store are the works by Michael Moore, Calvin Tillian, Al Franklen, and other liberal thinkers. Not only is this Mormon country, but this is also Republican country, and these titles won’t gain her any friends.
The Roan Pony also features a section reserved for environmental writers, Abbey and McPee and a host of others. The only thing worse than a liberal in this country is an environmentalist. Pick-up trucks all sport bumper stickers critical of environmentalists and nature lovers. “Hungry: Eat an Environmentalist,” reads one. Not too far from here, over on US 89, more than one effigy of Robert Redford has dangled in a noose. It’s obvious the Roan Pony isn’t marketing itself to the locals, but there are now plenty of tourists now flocking in to see this rugged country. I admire the owner. She’s a brave soul. Just having this bookstore in Escalante is akin to Jeremiah of the Old Testament standing up and telling King Zedekiah and his court what they didn’t want to hear. Of course, Jeremiah got thrown into a well.
The Roan Pony advertises a 20% off sale. She’s preparing to close for winter in a few weeks. I pick up a book that’s been on my reading list, Paul Theroux Dark Star Safari, figuring with a 20% markdown, I can support the local economy.
After the bookstore, we enter the restaurant and sit at a table. It takes a few minutes for the waitress to get to us. I order a hamburger and iced tea. Ralph asks for chili and coffee. After a few minutes more she brings out drinks. Then the waiting really starts. After a good fifteen minutes, after I’ve finished my tea and he’s drunk his coffee, Ralph quips: “If they keep up at this pace, we can make it dinner.” Not very happy at the service, I nod in agreement, saying something about them having to catch a cow before they can butcher it. But then the meal comes and the burger is tasty. This isn’t any corn fattened cow, its range fed and you can taste the difference.
As we’re finishing up with lunch, Ralph tells me the problem he’s been having with the lights on the truck. He can’t remember if he got ‘em fixed. I’m sure there was a speck of horror on my face. Ralph doesn’t use this truck much anymore, but he’s always keeps it in good running order. Seeing that we’ve lost an hour between the bookstore and diner, and there is little chance we’ll get back before dark, I heartily agree that we should check the lights out before we leave town. They work!
Ralph then tosses me the key and asks me to drive, complaining of his shoulder. As I maneuver out into the street, I ask if we should top off the tank. He doesn’t think so since the truck has a full 18 gallons reserve tank. We have plenty of snacks and water, just in case. We leave the town and civilization behind.
Just out of Escalante, we take the graveled “Hole in a Rock Road,” which runs southeast. Its fifty-four miles from the point we leave the pavement until the trail dead-ends on an overlook at the Colorado River. In the 19th Century, Mormons used this road to migrate into the Arizona Territory. It was a long and punishing trip. Once they got to the “Hole in a Rock,” an opening in the mountains above the Colorado, they lowered their wagons with ropes down to the ford in the river. The ford is gone; the Glen Canyon dam has flooded this part of the river to create Lake Powell.
Imposing cliffs rise to the right of the road, with bands like chevrons of different colored sediment running nearly the fifty miles. To the left, the country drops off into canyons that lead down into the Escalante River. There are a few signs noting points of interest along the way. There are also a handful of mileage signs which aren’t consistent. After ten miles on the road, a sign says its 51 miles to the end. Then, after only a mile, another sign says its 42 miles, which is about what we expect. Yet just a few miles beyond that sign, another one says we got 46 more miles.
“You driving backwards, Ralph asks? We don’t place any confidence into the signs.
The first thirty miles of the road is good; or as good as gravel roads in this country get. This is high desert; as far as one can see there are pinion and juniper trees, yellow rabbit brush, and sage. Just off the road, to the west, are acres of unique rock formations known as the Devil’s Garden. Large beige columns of mushroom like sandstone cover the area.
Afterwards, the road continues to lose elevation, and fewer trees are seen until somewhere under 4500 feet, they become non-existent. However, there are flowers: Orange Mellow, Sego Lilies, Snakeweed. It’s a pleasant surprise to find so many flowers blooming this late in the season, but the area has recently had rain as evident by the muddy bottoms in the ravines. Yucca plants are also prevalent, their spring blooms long dried by the sun and wind. Cottonwoods grow in a few washes, an indication of water in this barren land.
As we approach the end, the cliffs and the canyons draw closer and the road snakes down into washes, only to wind steeply out of them. Driving is a challenge. The truck has no power steering, and I fight with the wheel while constantly downshifts to keep from burning out the brakes. On a few occasions, I even double clutch the truck into low, to get enough power to climb a steep embankment. We’re swung around at every bend. Driving, I recall the chase seen across slickrock in Edward Abbey’s Monkey Wrench Gang. But we’re not being chased by the Sheriff out of Moab, so I slow down.
It’s getting late in the afternoon, and we both begin to worry about getting back to the pavement before nightfall. Around 4 PM, after having covered maybe 2 miles in the past thirty minutes, we give up. We’re at least 4 miles from the “hole.” I was willing to continue, but I’d been there about 10 years earlier. Ralph had never been out this far. After swearing that it’s the worst road he’s ever been on (and he grew up in the desert Southwest), Ralph suggests we turn around.
Coming out goes faster than going in even though we’re driving into a north wind blowing sand down the road. Whenever we stop and get out, the sand stings my bear legs. As the sun drops closer to the Kaiparowits Plateau, we have one final adventure. I tell Ralph we’re low on fuel in the main tank and he instructs me on how to change tanks. I do and a minute or so later, the truck runs out of fuel. We stop to check things out. The switch has broken.
“What are we to do now,” I ask?
“Don’t worry,” Ralph says. “I’ve got my Oklahoma Gas Card,” as he pulls out a flexible tube from behind the seat. Although a toddler when his family left Kansas for the desert, Ralph somehow retained a prejudice against the southern neighbors of his infancy.
For the time being, I switched back over to the main tank and drove cautiously. The needle pegged empty as the sun slips below the mountains. I let out a sigh of relief when we turned back onto the blacktop of Utah Highway 12. A few minutes later, we’re back in Escalante and I pull in under the lights at a gas station. Filling up the main tank, I calculate we had less than half a gallon left in the tank. Had we continued on to the hole in a rock, we’d been out of gas and siphoning it from the other tank before we got back to civilization.
Once back on the highway, I watch the stars appear as we head west, arriving back at Ralph’s home in time for a late but wonderful dinner of short ribs, prepared by Pat, Ralph’s wife. Ralph fixes himself a martini and offers me a Scotch.
In early October, Sandy, a woman I had dated while in Pittsburgh that spring, flew in. She had an interview for a job in California, but before that spent a few days with me. On Friday night, we checked out the bars and nightlife in Virginia City, listening to Murray Mack pound the piano playing ragtime tunes. Then, on Saturday, we went with Victor in his old Bronco and checked out the country around the Comstock. We were looking for the petrographs, which we never found. Then, on Sunday, after church, we packed up and headed South on US 395, with plans to visit Yosemite from the backside. I don’t remember if someone had suggested I check out Bodie or if I learned about the town on this trip.
This being in early fall, bursts of yellow aspen dotted the mountains on both sides of the highway. Unlike in the East, where the fall landscape becomes colorful with reds, yellows, and oranges, in the West color shows up in patches up on the hillside. Our first stop was for ice cream at Bridgeport, an old town on the east side of the Sierras. Then we went to Mono Lake, a place I’d wanted to see since reading Mark Twain’s Roughing It late that spring. It was one of several books I read in preparation to moving to Nevada for a year. While at the lake, we saw the unique geological monuments left behind by calcium springs when the water was higher and experienced the brine flies that cover the shoreline. Thankfully, they don’t bite.
Mono Lake looking toward the Sierras. I took this photo in 2013
As the light began to fade, we headed to Lee Vining where I rented the last hotel room in the town. This older hotel had shared bathrooms, something I was surprised to find in America in the late 1980s.
The next morning, we rose early and drove over the Tioga Pass to Tuolumne Meadows on the backside of Yosemite. Most everything had closed for the season, so after hiking a bit, we had to head back to Lee Vining for lunch.
After lunch, we drove to Bridgeport, turned east and drove 13 miles on mostly a gravelly wash boarded road. At one point, we crossed a ridge and Bodie stood in front of us with mountains rising behind the town. The town’s old woodened structures and the mill’s industrial complex sheltered under tin, appeared to rise out of the sagebrush. Coming into town, we saw only a few trees, cottonwoods and aspen, nestled in ravines which protected them from the strong winds. We parked, paid our entrance fee as Bodie is now a California State Park, and proceed to spend several hours walking around the old buildings.
The road leading into Bodie. Parking is below the town and visitors must walk
Bodie shares a few things in common with Virginia City. Both areas were discovered in the late 1850s, just before American fell into the Civil War. But Bodie’s start was slower than the mines along the Comstock. While Virginia City was remote, it was only 10 miles north of the Pony Express and the Overland Stagecoach route. Dayton, Mormon Station and Carson City, while small towns, were all close, while Bodie had only Bridgeport, which was not much more than a stage stop. And the Southern Sierras are higher and wider than the those around Carson City. So Bodie was harder to reach.
Warning sign on road to Aurora r
However, 15 or 20 miles east of Bodie sits Aurora, Nevada. It’s discovery also occurred around the same time as Bodie. Aurora had higher grade of ore and in the early 1860s became very prosperous. One of its citizens in 1862, who learned how difficult mining came be, was Samuel Clemens. While in Aurora, he wrote a series of articles and mailed them to the Territorial Enterprise, a leading Nevada newspaper in Virginia City. This lead to a job which didn’t involve a pick or shovel and there, as a reporter, Clemens would begin to go by his nom-de-plume, Mark Twain. Sadly, lacking a high clearance 4-wheel drive vehicle, I never made it to Aurora.
In addition to its isolation, Bodie sits at 8300 feet, two thousand feet higher than Virginia City. This is harsh territory. While the Sierras capture much of the snow, it still snows here and there’s little protection from the bitter wind. It’s amazing to consider that once Bodie came into its own in the late 1870s, as Virginia City’s production declined, 10,000 people lived amongst these hills. In those early years, the town developed a mystic as a very violent place. Supposedly, one young girl whose family were leaving Virginia City for Bodie said, “Goodbye God, we’re moving to Bodie.” But such was the life early on in mining camps, which were mostly populated with men.
Then, as with all mining towns, in the early-1880s, Bodie began to decline. But people continued to mine. In 1932, a young boy started a fire that burned a large portion of the town. Yet, even then, a few hung on, continuing to live and mine in Bodie until World War 2, when the government closed all gold mines as unnecessary for the war effort. In time, the state of California inherited the town and in the early 1960s created a state park.
While the state protects the town, private concerns own the rich hills to the south of the town. The mines were located here.. When I visited again in the spring and summer of 1989, I learned a Canadian mining company had its eyes on the potential ore in that hill. California no longer allowed cyanide leaching (a process to remove valuable metals like gold and silver from rock). To get around this, the company proposed to build a ten-mile-long conveyor. This would allow them to transport the ore to Nevada, where such operations are allowed. I don’t know what happened to such plans as California fought it. Such an operation with blasting and heavy equipment would be enough to destroy what’s left of Bodie.
Bodie’s remaining mill
I would visit Bodie twice more during the year I lived on the Comstock. In late May, my parents visited. We took a two-night trip down to Bodie and stayed in a hotel in Lee Vining. While walking around the ghost town, it began to snow. This ddi not amuse my mother. I knew she didn’t care to share a bathroom with other guests at the hotel. I made reservations before leaving.
On this trip, we left Bodie and took another gravel road to the south, which came out at Mono Lake. Back in the day, train tracks ran down the cuts now used for the road. The train cut along the east side of Mono Lake, then headed into the hills south of the lake. There, east of Mammoth Lakes, a sizable forest consisting of Ponderosa and Jeffrey Pines grew. Lumbering operations cut the trees forr mining timbers, building lumber, and firewood. Kilns converted some of the wood into charcoal. The later found use in heading and in the milling process. The tracks never connected to another railroad and was only used to wood products. Once the town declined, the train ceased to operate.
After a night in Lee Vining, we traveled over Tioga Pass, across Tuolumne Meadows which still had snow. We then headed down into Yosemite Valley where we spent the second night. The next day, we drove through some of the California mining areas on the western slope of the Sierras, before crossing back over on Sonora Pass and heading north back to Virginia City.
My third visit was late in June. Carolyn, whom I had been dating much of the year, and I took her daughters, Emma and Holly to Bodie and Mono Lake. We camped at Twin Lakes on the eastern slope of the Sierras, before spending the day exploring Bodie.
While I have been back to Mono Lake and over Tioga Pass several times since 1989, I haven’t gone back to Bodie. But I would like to see it again one day. Unlike Virginia City, Bodie is a true ghost town. You’re not allowed to stay there after dark, and the only residents are rangers working for the state.
The photos were taken at different times. some were slides and others were prints. I have more photos somewhere!
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 in American BaptistHistorical Society Quarterly. Earle spent several weeks in Virginia City in 1867)
Last week I wrote about being “tapped out” for the Order of the Arrow. But, as I said at that time, before I would be received into membership of this group of honored campers, I had to pass an ordeal. This is the story of the ordeal.
Some of my saved Order of the Arrow memorabilia: bottom slash that I received at the ordeal (the top sash was when I was made a Brotherhood member. There is a membership card and both the lodge and camp neckerchiefs.
A few days after the ordeal, I sat at the kitchen table, scratching bug bites while telling Mom all I’d endured. I thought she’d be impressed with her macho 13-year-old son. I was mistaken. While I don’t recall if she used the word fool, but that was essentially what she called me for having allowed myself to endure a day of hard work on meager rations, without the ability to talk back. “You did all that for a patch and a white sash with a red arrow embroidered on it?” she asked. Mom had a way to put me in my place. She knocked me off the high I’d been riding since the ordeal.
A few weekends after the tap-out, I was back at Camp Tom Upchurch for the ordeal. I didn’t know much about what to expect. In addition to our scout uniforms, they told us to bring work clothes, gloves, and sturdy shoes. As the camp was over two hours from my house, I rode up with other scouts. There were about thirty of us going through the ordeal. Mostly kids but also a few adult leaders, including Mr. Barrow. His son, Ricky, and I were in the same class for the three years I attended Bradley Creek Elementary School.
After dinner in the dining hall, they told us to stow our gear and to report to the campfire circle with only a pocketknife, a poncho, and a blanket. We knew we’d be spending the night in the woods, so we all doused ourselves with bug spray before heading to the campfire.
I don’t remember much of the mysterious ceremony. When we arrived, older scouts, dressed like Plains Indians, and already members of the Order of the Arrow greeted us. Someone shot a flaming arrow into the lake. Then the Chief reappeared. He instructed us as to the ordeal we faced. We would spend the night alone in the woods. They required us to maintain silence for the next 24 hours. And, by morning, we needed to carve an arrow to wear around our neck. If we talked, a notch would be made in our arrow. If we received three notches, our arrow would be broken, and we would fail the ordeal. I had worried about this ever since the tap-out ceremony. .
After giving us our instruction, they lined us up. In our left-hand we carried our poncho and blanket. We placed our right hands upon the shoulder of the scout in front of us. In front and back of the line Indian braves carried torches. We were led down a two-track road toward the rifle range. To the right of the road, the land rose, covered by pines and wire grass. To the left, the land slopped into a swamp, with thick vegetation. As we moved down the road, I could hear people running around behind me. Then, the guy behind me dropped his hand from my shoulder and I felt him whisked away. I was next.
Two braves grabbed me and led me to the left, down toward the swamp. They sat me in a dry spot and told me they’d be back in the morning. It was a moonless night. I looked at the stars as I listened to the mosquitos’ buzz and the frogs sing. Lightning flashed in the distance, but thankfully, the storm missed us. I thought about carving the arrow, but decided it wasn’t a bright idea to carve in the dark, so I spread out my poncho and wrapped myself in my scratchy wool blanket in an attempt avoid the mosquitoes. Surprisingly, I quickly fell asleep.
Something moved nearby, waking me up. “Was it an animal?” I worried. I opened the blade of my pocketknife and laid still, clutching the knife and looking around. My eyes had become somewhat adjusted, but the vegetation was so thick that I couldn’t make out what it was. Then a twig snapped and I turned and saw another scout, testing branches, obviously trying to find wood for his arrow. We looked at each other but didn’t speak and, in the darkness, I couldn’t recognize him. His placement was about fifty feet behind me,. Without saying a word, he walked back back to where his poncho and blanket were lying.
Lying back down, I watched the stars and battled the mosquitoes for a few minutes. The bug repellant was no longer working. I rolled up in my blanket and, despite the heat and bugs, somehow fell back asleep.
When I woke the next time, the stars had faded away and there was enough light that I could orient myself. Mosquitoes were still buzzing. I knew I needed to carve and arrow before they came to retrieve us, so I looked around for suitable wood. Nearby, I found an old stump from a longleaf pine, its inners filled with lighter wood. I broke off a chunk and began to work shape it in the form of an arrow that was approximately four inches long. Such wood splits easily and has a nice sheen from the resin it contains, but the wood is hard and therefore difficult to carve. I worked with it and even though my arrow wasn’t the best looking one in camp, it had a nice rich golden color and, because of the way the wood splits, was probably the sharpest arrow around. This wasn’t a particularly good thing since the arrow had to dangle from my neck.
I barely had enough time to fashion the arrow before being rousted up and led with others to the main part of camp. They sat us down under a tree beside the dining hall, handing us a carton of milk and a fried egg between two pieces of white bread for breakfast. We sat for the longest time and after eating. I shaped my stick into a more presentable arrow between scratching mosquito bites. Then, they assigned to work groups. As the smallest kid in the group, my fate was to be assigned to the group with the toughest task.
Our taskmaster had our group jump in the back of a truck and drove us to a sandpit beyond the rifle range. Today, they wouldn’t be allowed to haul us in the back of a truck, but this was 1970. They assigned us the task of loading sand onto the bed of a truck and hauling it to the waterfront to fill several gullies. Another group constructed dams in these gullies to help hold the sand in place. As the morning wore on and the sun rose higher, the temperature climbed. We kept making signs of wanting water to our taskmaster, an older and sadistic scout who was probably sixteen as he could drive the truck. He kept saying we’d have a water break later and pushed up hard. At least mosquitoes left us alone in the sun.
When he finally did let us drink, we gulped water down at an unhealthy rate. Several guys got sick. After a morning of hauling sand, we were led back to the same site where we’d eaten breakfast for our lunch. Large containers of bug juice (watered-down Kool-Aid) sat on a table, and we could drink all we wanted. For lunch, they provided us a bologna sandwich. As it was with the egg at breakfast, this consisted of a slice of bologna between two pieces of white bread. Mustard, mayonnaise, and cheese were not an option. I ate my sandwich hurriedly and laid down, closing my eyes knowing that before too long, I’d be back working a shovel.
That afternoon, our taskmaster continued to be stingy with the water breaks. At one point several of us got so thirsty when unloading the sand into the ravines by the lake, we ran out into the water and wet our shirts as well as cupped out hands and gulped water lake water. Later, our task master stopped the truck at the camp trading post and brought himself a coke with ice. He drank it in front of us, making slurping sounds and then poured the ice out on the ground, taunting us while trying to get us to talk. An adult leader observed his stunt and called out taskmaster over for a serious conversation. I don’t know what he said, but afterwards, our taskmaster provided frequent water breaks and no more hazing.
Our afternoon ended at about 4 PM. We remained silent. They told us to clean up and to report back to the dining hall at 6 PM in uniform. We showered, first with water, then with calamine lotion. Dressed, I spent a hour resting, waiting for the bugle to call for dinner.
We gathered at the dining hall filled with memorabilia left behind by camp staff members going back into the 1940s. Paddles, banners, and flags hung from the rafters, one for each year. Each piece memorized the names of the staff members. As we entered, each table contained platters and bowls of food and pitchers of water, bug juice, and iced tea.
After a scant breakfast and lunch, this was a feast. Fried chicken, mash potatoes, vegetables, freshly baked yeast rolls, and chocolate cake. Still, we could not talk,. This was okay as we were famished . We stuffed our mouths with a seemingly unlimited amount of food, some of the best I’d ever eaten.
Thinking back, much of what happened after dinner is now a blur. Exhausted, it was a long ceremony. We were again led out into the woods in a single file, with a hand on the scout in front of us, to a secret fire ring located deep in the swamps. When we arrived, a fire blazed. Behind the flames stood the Chief. He welcomed us, had us sit down and told us the legend of the Order of the Arrow. He then gave us a secret sign and handshake, and presented sashes, a patch, a pocket ribbon with a small pewter arrow, and a neckerchief. We’d passed the ordeal.
I was proud I endured the ordeal without a single notch in my arrow. However, I can’t say that I didn’t talk during the day, we just made sure we talked away from the taskmasters and others in charge of the ordeal. After the ceremony, we all made our way back to the dining hall where a cracker barrel was waiting. No longer on silence, we talked about our experience as we ate crackers with cheese and sausage and drank plenty of bug juice. I was now an Arrowman.
Exhausted, we headed to bed around 11 PM. I would be on a high for the next several days, until that morning when I told my mother about my experience.
Camp Tom Upchurch would close in 1974. For several years, the Cape Fear Council used camps from other councils until 1981, when Camp Bowers opened. For a history of the Council with Lodge history on the sidebar, click here. The Order of the Arrow was based on the Delaware tribe of Native Americans. Interestingly, the name of the lodge, Klahican, supposedly means “Venus Fly Trap” in the language of the Delaware trip. I find that suspicious as the Venus Fly Traps only grows in three counties in Southeast North Carolina and one county in Northeast South Carolina. They would have been unknown in Delaware!
Wednesday night campfire at Camp Tom Upchurch in Hope Mills was the highlight of the week. Families gathered with their scouts. On this night, my grandparents had driven over from Pinehurst, which was a lot closer than my parents coming up from Wilmington. Grandma brought a picnic dinner consisting of fried chicken, rolls, potato salad, fresh tomatoes, deviled eggs, and a jug of ice tea. We all devoured the food which was a welcome relief from that they served in the dining hall.
About an hour before dark, a bugle called us to the campfire circle. We sat on wooden benches, the scouts in front, each troop sitting together, with family members sitting behind. The campfire circle was really a semi-circle which faced the lake, with two fire pits between the benches and the water. The air was still, warm and humid, when we arrived. Mosquitoes buzzed and, in the distance, we could hear the roll of thunder. Or maybe it was artillery from Fort Bragg, which wasn’t far away. Be prepared was our motto and we all carried ponchos and had doused ourselves with some deet-ladened insect repellant.
As soon as everyone found a seat, a staff member dressed as an Indian warrior from the Plains called down the fire. Arrows flew into each pit, igniting the wood. It seemed a miracle, but it really as the church camp song goes, “it only takes a spark to get a fire going.” This is especially true when the wood has been soaked with some kind of petroleum products. With the fires burned brightly as we sang songs, watched corny skits and listened to stories. As the light drained from the sky, a chorus of frogs threatened to drown us out. When it was finally dark, the mood became somber, and we sang the song of the voyageurs.
Our paddles keen and bright, flashing like silver; swift as the wild goose flight, dip, dip, and swing. Dip, dip, and swing them back, flashing like silver; swift as the wild goose flight, dip, dip and swing.
Repeatedly, we sang the song, each time softer. Soon, we whispered the words and could hear fish jump in lily pads near the water’s edge. We started another round and then he appeared. In the middle of the lake the chief stood in a canoe, his arms folded across his chest, a full bonnet of feathers surrounding his head and hanging down his back. A lantern sitting in the bottom of the canoe illuminated him as two other scouts, dressed as braves, paddled quietly. We watched in awe. The canoe beached and several other staff members, dressed as Native Americans, joined the canoe at the show to help the chief out of the boat.
A distant drum began to beat as the warriors danced around the dying flames. Then the Chief joined in, dancing across the front and then up into the benches where he crossed back and forth in front of the sitting scouts, just inches away. We sat, entranced. When he came to me, he stopped, turned, slapped my shoulders, and then lifted me up. Before I comprehended what was happening, happening, one of the braves whisked me to the front. He had me stand by the fire, with my arms crossed over my chest. Several other scouts soon joined me. After a while, the Chief led us away as the campfire closed with the singing of the scout vespers.
Softly falls the light of day, as our campfire fades away. Silently each Scout should ask, “Have I done my daily task? Have I kept my honor bright? Can I guiltless sleep tonight? Have I done and have I dared, everything to be prepared?”
I had just been tapped out for the Order of the Arrow, the brotherhood of honored campers. That night, the Chief told us we’d been elected by our peers to be a part of this elite fellowship, but before we would be welcomed into the group, we’d have to pass an ordeal scheduled later in the summer. I was excited, yet nervous about what I’d have to endure. I’d heard about the ordeals: a night alone in the woods, a day of little food, hard work and silence.
When he told us we could go back to our troops, I set out to find my grandparents. I could tell they were proud of me. Granddaddy asked me to walk with them to their car and once we got there, I spied on the floorboard of the back seat, one each side of the drive train hump, two watermelons. Granddaddy gave me one and he took the other and we walked over to our troop site. My grandma carried a butcher knife and a saltshaker. She cut up the melons on a picnic table in the center of our campsite, sprinkled salt on them, and gave everyone a thick wedge. I sure the watermelons came from Coy McKenzie’s farm. Coy was grandma’s nephew. In addition to growing and curing some of the best bright-leaf tobacco in the county, he was well-known for his watermelon patch.
I started reading Frances Liardet’s novel, We Must Be Brave, this week. It’s about a woman who falls in love with a lost girl whom she cares for during the chaos following the German bombing of Southampton, England during World War 2. The story reminded me of something I experienced and wrote about over 30 years ago, before our other kids came along. At the time, I had the article approved by the social worker, making sure I wasn’t breaking any rules or leaking confidential information,, then submitted it for publication. A magazine accepted the piece for publication, but then they closed down the presses before it was published. So, it sat in my files. This evening I dusted it off and presented it here.
MEMORIES OF A FOSTER DADDY
Becky, photos are copies (this was before digital)
The first of September 1994, one of the saddest days of my life.
I waved good-bye to Becky for the final time as the social worker’s car backed down our driveway. But the sadness didn’t take away the joy of the previous six months as I experienced how precious life seen through the eyes of a toddler can be. Becky taught me the importance for adults to spend time with children, caring for them and helping them to discover the world. From Becky, I learned a lesson which everyone needs to experience firsthand. Children need responsible adults in their lives and, as adults, we need children in our lives if we are to experience life to its fullness. Perhaps that is why Jesus was so insistent on the disciples allowing children to come to him (Mark 10:13).
Becky was just a little over a year old when she came to live with us. At first, she seemed so small and fragile. The previous month, she lived in a shelter for children and came complete with a cold. She struggled to go to sleep in a strange place while hacking and coughing. My wife and I took turns holding her, patting her back and saying, “it’s okay,” while praying she would eventually fall asleep. After regaining her health, Becky still had a hard time going to bed. Only then, it had to do with her fear of missing out on something exciting. She was at the age where she wanted to experience all that life had to offer.
Church was a new experience for Becky. On that first Sunday, she seemed stunned to hear my voice from the pulpit and started to run down the aisle. My wife caught her after a couple of steps, and we introduced our foster child to the congregation. Becky came with only a few clothes, mostly worn hand-me-downs. Before her first church service, my wife brought her a lacy pink dress. Becky looked stunning in that dress and she knew it. After worship, she came to me expecting to be held. Acting shy, with her arms tightly hugging my neck, she charmed everyone during fellowship hour. Soon, however, she lost her shyness and became the terror of the fellowship hour, running around like a wild cookie monster. No one seemed to mind, everyone loved her.
During our time together, Becky and I developed a special relationship. She would get up in the mornings with me, and we would eat oatmeal together.
This was so long ago I was skinny and had hair!
On the days my wife had to work, I would take her to church with me. Even though the nursery with all its neat toys was next to my study, Becky would insist on playing with my books. She would take them off the shelf, rearrange them on the floor, and then put them back in another location. Sometimes she would demand that I read to her. I think she found Augustine as boring as I once did. At other times, I would take Becky visiting. I know my parishioners were glad to see us coming, and I’m sure they were just as glad to see us go. Having an energetic toddler along assured me that a short pastoral visit wouldn’t take up the whole afternoon.
In a way Becky became my guardian angel. Taking the suggestion of Family Services, we didn’t teach Becky to refer to us as mother and father. Instead, we allowed it to happen naturally, and Becky quickly took to calling me “da-da.” Becky showed concern for her daddy when my wife dropped me off on a backroad for an overnight backpacking trip. According to my wife, when Becky realized I was not in the car, she panicked and cried “ah-da-da” all the way home. In addition to looking out for me, I found myself looking forward to coming home early so that I could spend time playing with her. Having her around made life less stressful.
at the table
From the beginning, my wife and I made it a point to include Becky in our prayers at mealtime. With her sitting in a highchair between us, we would each take one of her hands and say grace. At first, Becky was not at all cooperative with what must have seemed to her a strange ritual. Instead, she was ready to eat as soon as her food was placed on her plate. Having just come from a children’s shelter, Becky learned not to wait too long when food was available and would stuff herself with whatever placed in front of her.
However, as the months passed, Becky calmed down at the table. She waited for us to sit down while holding out her hands in anticipation of the prayer. Before she left, she had added to word “amen” to her vocabulary and would boldly proclaim it at the end of the prayer.
Although Becky was a foster child, we held out hope that we would be able to adopt her. Becky’s case worker assured us it was unlikely she would be allowed to return to her original family. Our dreams were shattered when another family member decided to accept custody. We were given two weeks notice, two weeks to say goodbye to her and our dreams, before the social worker moved Becky to her new home.
Running in the backyard
On our last full day together, we took a picnic and went up onto Cedar Mountain. Becky seemed so happy. No longer a fragile sickly little child, she had blossomed into a healthy toddler. She ran around enthusiastically, only to occasionally stop and examine nature. While on that picnic, Becky collected several rocks and sticks and gave them to me for safe keeping. I still have those mementoes, in a small glass case, as a reminder of what a small child considers special in our world.
During the final week of Becky’s stay, I found myself drawn to the passage of her namesake in the Bible. I read and re-read the story of Rebecca in Genesis. I came to understand Rebecca had done all she could to prepare Isaac for life, but in the end, she had to let him go. With Esau out to kill Isaac, Rebecca could no longer protect him. Isaac fled and as far as we know Rebecca never again looked into the eyes of the son she loved so much. It suddenly dawned on me the pain that she must have felt, and the pain that parents everywhere feel when they lose a child.
The Apostle Paul reminds us of how some plant, and others water, but God gives the growth (1 Corinthians 3:6-9). In a way, my wife and I had an opportunity to water and nurture Becky. We cared for her, loved her, and allowed her to love us. But Becky didn’t belong to us, and in the end, we had to let go. We could only pray and trust God, the one who gives the growth, to watch over her.
A few weeks before Becky left us, a fierce thunderstorm in the middle of the night woke her up. I went into her room, picked her up out of the bed and held her. She quickly calmed down. With the thunder rumbling and lightning flashing, Becky started patting me on the back, saying, “it’s okay, it’s okay.” Among other things, she learned to trust and to love.
I still get tears in my eyes when I think about her; however, I am thankful I had the opportunity to be her daddy, even if only briefly.
Becky had a serious side. At the groundbreaking for the new church facility, Summer 1994.
I didn’t get out a Christmas letter in time, so this will have to suffice…
It’s the 29th of December as I begin writing this end of the year letter. This morning, I took down the 16-point Moravian Star which hangs on my front porch from the first week of Advent through Epiphany. I know it’s not yet Epiphany. But that punched tin star with dangling chain could easily become a weapon if it broke loose in the near hurricane force winds currently blowing outside. And the temperature has dropped significantly. It was 50 degrees when I got up this morning and at 9 PM, has dropped to 20 degrees F. By early morning, it’ll be in the low teens. Before I’m blown off this ridge, let me share a bit about the year coming to an end and the new one about to begin.
Personally, 2025 has been good. I’m still in decent health and walk quite a bit each week. I still enjoying serving the two rock churches along the Blue Ridge Parkway. This year, I finished preaching through the gospel of Mark at Easter, then switched to Psalms as I picked out those I have yet to preach on in the past 37 years. Then, in the fall I did a series on the Nicene Creed, as this year marks the 1700th year of the Council of Nicaea. Since Advent, I have been preaching from Matthew. This ministry has been a blessing.
I have become more involved in the community, serving on the Laurel Fork Community Board, Carroll County’s Litter Task Force, and helping once a month on the ministerial association’s food bank. And my garden produced enough tomatoes for sandwiches along with soups and salsas canned and stored in the pantry. Unlike 2024 when a groundhog ate my cucumbers, I got enough to make two batches of lime pickles. And stored in the basement are plenty of winter squash.
In May, I set off with my brother on a bicycle trip from Pittsburgh to Washington, DC. The first of the trip was on the Great Allegheny Passage (GAP) and was lovely, even though we had rain! But once we hit Cumberland, MD, things fell apart. The rain caused flooding along the C&O Canal which was our route to Washington. The trail flooded and at places washed out. With my Achilles tendon hurting and more rain forecasted, we gave up. Hopefully, we can do the C&O part next year.
In June I spent some time in the Upper Peninsula of Michigan and took a four-day solo paddle around Drummond Island. This was a lot of fun, and I got some solo wilderness time in, but three nights wasn’t enough. Coming back from Michigan, I was able to spend time in Ohio’s Hocking Hills.
In October, I attended my 50th high school reunion. Where did the time go? It doesn’t seem that long ago we dressed in blue caps and gowns and marched out onto the football field at Legion Stadium.
In early December, I spent five days with my brother, sister, and uncle, on Harkers Island, North Carolina. We fished off Cape Lookout. While we caught enough fish for a couple of dinners, that was about it. But being there with siblings made it worthwhile.
My biggest complaint of the year is continual delays in construction. Don’t get me started. A garage started a year ago will hopefully be completed with doors at the end of January.
But I can’t complain too much. I knew from the time I first saw this place that we were buying a view. However, I never knew we’d be living in a construction zone for five years. Yet, I still love living here.
In addition to the above grievance, I’m troubled about the direction our country and our world. But without going into politics, let me say that I’m getting old and probably on my way to becoming a curmudgeon. Despite Jesus’ command to love everyone, I find myself despising litterbugs and with no tolerance for jerks and bullies. I wish people were more responsible and would show concern for their neighbors and strangers.
While I’m far from perfect, it appears the lives of many who claim to follow Jesus miss key points of our Savior’s teachings. I know hypocrites have always abound, but why can the message be about love. And we could all be a bit humbler. After all, our hope in life and death isn’t in what we do, but what Jesus has done for us. While none of us, by ourselves, can end wars or solve poverty or racism, we can make things better for those around us and hopefully this will encourage others to join in and make the world better. And if enough join in, we just might make a difference.
My reading this year seems heavy, but unlike 2024, I didn’t delve into a monumental 1200-page book of fine print like Augustine’s City of God. I read a lot of civil rights works. I finished Taylor Branch’s America in the King Years trilogy, Jon Meacham’s biography on John Lewis, Derwin Gray’s Healing Our Racial Divide, and Timothy Egan’s “Fever in the Heartland,” which is about the Klan in Indiana in the 1920s. Egan’s book is one all Americans should read as there are many parallels to the present.
I also discovered a new “favorite” author, Leo Damrosch. His book, The Club: Johnson, Boswell, and Friends Who Shaped an Age was wonderful. Can you imagine being in a “club” with people like Gibbons as he wrote The Decline and Fall of the Roman Empire? And then there was Adam Smith writing The Wealth of Nations, and Edmund Burke, who would became the father of what, until late in the last century, we called conservativism. I also delved into Damrosch’s biography of a favorite satirist, Jonathan Swift. By far the most entertaining (and short) book) I read was Bernard DeVoto’s The Hour: A Cocktail Manifesto. This year I reviewed all the books I read in my blog,.
My big news is that I am quickly moving toward retirement. I have always held out age 70 as the time to retire. God willing, I’ll reach that birthday in January 2027, so this will most likely be my last full year of ministry. Looking back, I feel very blessed. And I know there will be other opportunities for ministry even after I retire. They may not pay as well, but that’s okay (if there are few required meetings). Hopefully, when I retire, I will fill my time with writing, woodworking, gardening, paddling, hiking, amateur radio, and travel.
In 2026, I plan to attend again attend the Festival of Faith and Writing at Calvin University. I also hope to do some paddling, head back to Michgan’s Upper Peninsula, and maybe make a trip out West. I still have sagebrush in skin. And hopefully we’ll soon be done with the construction work around the house and can start gardening more as well as take more naps in a hammock on warm days. And, while I have had many articles published over the years, I learned this fall that this Spring I will have my first poem published!
As for the rest of the family… Donna continues as Communication Director for a presbytery and remains very involved on the board of Tri-Area Health Care. She has lately taken up watercolor painting. Caroline still works in the cork business and does incredible work with fabric. She made me a wonderful “Bear” quilt and spins her own yarn and has made most of her sweaters. Thomas and his family are now living in Las Vegas.
