Mon - October 2, 2006
Chance Encounter?
Because you have such
little faith let me tell you the truth, if you have faith as small as a mustard
seed, you can say to this mountain, "move from here to there" and it will move.
Nothing will be impossible for you. Matthew 17:20
Yesterday I met someone at the
beach. It seemed accidental when she caught up to me while walking along
the trail. At first I thought she would keep her pace, say some
pleasantries and would not even notice my tears (damn those stupid iPod
songs). I slowed down a bit so she could pass. On the trail one must
stay within the walking etiquette rules. Instead, she matched my pace and
offered up a “nice day isn’t it?” The warmth in her voice
calmed my how dare someone walk in my space bubble attitude and I returned the
question with one of my own, “I’ve seen you walk out here
before, do you live around here?” She appeared to be somewhat taken
aback, as if I was the one being nosey or getting too personal. Hey, she
started this whole thing, but answered me with a vague, “just up the road
a bit, you?” Even though, I was beginning to feel a bit awkward and
reluctant I answered her with a brief, “me
too.”
As if she sensed my discomfort she broke into some general niceties. I could handle that. But after a bit the conversation slowed and we walked in silence for a while. Soon I decided to take control of the situation and pick up my pace to end this encounter. I needed to walk alone. I wanted to wallow in my doubt and fears for at least a while longer. I needed to prove to myself and everyone else how trapped I feel to be getting old and how since my nest is empty, I feel empty. I wanted to bug God again, with my entire list of why’s, how’s, when’s, & where’s that I want to be privy to. I wanted to walk alone. Or did I? I felt a calming attraction, almost as if I was being pulled into a new friendship. I could not quicken my step. Her next question startled me, I felt like lashing out her or someone, “I couldn’t help but notice your tears.” Well, the nerve! What would I do now? I wanted to generalize, some generalities. I was menopausal. She seemed about my age, I’m sure she could handle that. Midlife crisis. Some regrets. Instead, I heard myself telling her the truth. I told her how blatantly selfish I am. And how sometimes in the midst of family and friends, I’m painfully lonely. And then as if I hadn’t done enough damage to my self already, I told her of my struggle to keep the ember of a faith from going completely cold.
She listened. I kept turning the knife in my back. I spilled my doubts and frustrations with wanting more out of life. I started crying again when I told her I wanted to fall passionately in love with my creator, but sometimes I do not even think he exists. She kept listening. I kept confessing. When we came to a fork in the trail, she said she had to go. And then she invited me to a new church, it’s called “The Bridge” and trust me when I say, “I don’t believe that church is the answer to all life’s problems, but it’s a place to start…it’s a step."
I told her I would meet her, but when I got there Sunday I did not see her.
Today I went back to the beach in hopes of meeting her again. I walked the entire trail that eventually dumped out onto the shoreline. Just as I finished a selfish halfhearted prayer, I saw her walking out of the dunes. I waved and as she came closer, I noticed she was wearing the same clothes she had on yesterday. “Hi,” I said enthusiastically, “I looked for you at church?” She turned and with all honesty simply said, “I was there.” I was captivated now. I’m not one to collect new friends, and I struggle to keep the ones I have. But she was different. I wanted to get to know her better and so I asked if she wanted to walk together for a bit. “Sure, I can go for a while, but not too long today,” she said while glancing at her watch. This time she did most of the talking. I had told myself that I talked too much yesterday and that if I saw her again I would do the listening. But all she talked about was me. She encouraged and praised my piddly efforts at looking out for others and yet at the same time she encouraged me to keep working on me. When I asked her if she had ever met someone with so many doubts she said she had never met anyone who didn’t doubt. She calmed my questioning soul with this simple solution. “You have a lot of human problems that will only get solved with spiritual answers.” I had never heard such things, and without even knowing me she seemed to be hitting my cold, bitter, selfish, nail right on the head, without a hint of preachiness. She was reaching and I was responding. She went on for a bit longer about the faith of a mustard seed, strong families, leaving legacies, and being the daughter of a King and why I didn’t act like one. But her voice was growing faint. A cool breeze had picked up and the sun was dipping below the horizon, when she said she had to go. She had already started to climb the dune stairs, when I realized we had never even introduced ourselves. “My name is Julee," I offered up over the wind. She smiled warmly and waved, “so is mine!”
And then she was gone.
As if she sensed my discomfort she broke into some general niceties. I could handle that. But after a bit the conversation slowed and we walked in silence for a while. Soon I decided to take control of the situation and pick up my pace to end this encounter. I needed to walk alone. I wanted to wallow in my doubt and fears for at least a while longer. I needed to prove to myself and everyone else how trapped I feel to be getting old and how since my nest is empty, I feel empty. I wanted to bug God again, with my entire list of why’s, how’s, when’s, & where’s that I want to be privy to. I wanted to walk alone. Or did I? I felt a calming attraction, almost as if I was being pulled into a new friendship. I could not quicken my step. Her next question startled me, I felt like lashing out her or someone, “I couldn’t help but notice your tears.” Well, the nerve! What would I do now? I wanted to generalize, some generalities. I was menopausal. She seemed about my age, I’m sure she could handle that. Midlife crisis. Some regrets. Instead, I heard myself telling her the truth. I told her how blatantly selfish I am. And how sometimes in the midst of family and friends, I’m painfully lonely. And then as if I hadn’t done enough damage to my self already, I told her of my struggle to keep the ember of a faith from going completely cold.
She listened. I kept turning the knife in my back. I spilled my doubts and frustrations with wanting more out of life. I started crying again when I told her I wanted to fall passionately in love with my creator, but sometimes I do not even think he exists. She kept listening. I kept confessing. When we came to a fork in the trail, she said she had to go. And then she invited me to a new church, it’s called “The Bridge” and trust me when I say, “I don’t believe that church is the answer to all life’s problems, but it’s a place to start…it’s a step."
I told her I would meet her, but when I got there Sunday I did not see her.
Today I went back to the beach in hopes of meeting her again. I walked the entire trail that eventually dumped out onto the shoreline. Just as I finished a selfish halfhearted prayer, I saw her walking out of the dunes. I waved and as she came closer, I noticed she was wearing the same clothes she had on yesterday. “Hi,” I said enthusiastically, “I looked for you at church?” She turned and with all honesty simply said, “I was there.” I was captivated now. I’m not one to collect new friends, and I struggle to keep the ones I have. But she was different. I wanted to get to know her better and so I asked if she wanted to walk together for a bit. “Sure, I can go for a while, but not too long today,” she said while glancing at her watch. This time she did most of the talking. I had told myself that I talked too much yesterday and that if I saw her again I would do the listening. But all she talked about was me. She encouraged and praised my piddly efforts at looking out for others and yet at the same time she encouraged me to keep working on me. When I asked her if she had ever met someone with so many doubts she said she had never met anyone who didn’t doubt. She calmed my questioning soul with this simple solution. “You have a lot of human problems that will only get solved with spiritual answers.” I had never heard such things, and without even knowing me she seemed to be hitting my cold, bitter, selfish, nail right on the head, without a hint of preachiness. She was reaching and I was responding. She went on for a bit longer about the faith of a mustard seed, strong families, leaving legacies, and being the daughter of a King and why I didn’t act like one. But her voice was growing faint. A cool breeze had picked up and the sun was dipping below the horizon, when she said she had to go. She had already started to climb the dune stairs, when I realized we had never even introduced ourselves. “My name is Julee," I offered up over the wind. She smiled warmly and waved, “so is mine!”
And then she was gone.
Posted at 10:07 AM
Wed - August 23, 2006
Letters To The Editor
Dear Springhill
Camps,
This letter is long overdue. We first heard about Springhill from the church we attended some 20 years ago. Olivet Evangelical Free Church in Muskegon, MI. Although, we haven’t financially contributed anything substantial, we have had the distinct privilege and honor of giving our children’s lives to this camping ministry. In fact, we would say that the Springhill experience saved our children from a life of questioning, rebellion, and even periods of dryness on their faith journey.
We don’t believe in absolutely any voodoo, Holy Roller, place-your-hand-on-the-TV-and-be-healed type of religion. We don’t think that when you cross over any longitude or latitude lines that you can have religious experiences you could otherwise not have. We have come to strongly believe that the Springhill experience is twofold with the latter being the most important. Number one is taking a child, out of their everyday circumstances for a week or longer and concentrating everything around them to point them to their maker. Number two is the people that you bring on staff in a myriad of ways that affect the children and themselves towards beginning, or rekindling a relationship with the Jesus of the Bible.
We ALWAYS experienced this sort of change when we sent our children through your camping program year after year after year. And so it was with great joy that we first suffered through the sacrifices that Jennifer would have to make by counseling there in the summer of 2001. She started this whole family pattern of service to Springhill, and I don’t think she realized back then how many of her prayers would be answered when her tour of camping duty was over. All she did was obey. As the summer of 2006 comes to a close we slowly and reluctantly begin the ambivalent process of seeing our family leave the Springhill nest. Melissa will soon be jetting her way back to California for the task God has called her to by blessing her with a mighty gift and even bigger heart. In just a few short days Ben will have come full circle by having lent his god-given gift to camp for a few brief years, and marrying Annie whom he met because of his obedience and Jennifer’s prayers. I’m positive that even though he will live and work in the “real” world for a spell, his two years there will always call to him to write, edit, film, speak, perform, and lead others to a saving knowledge of God. Jennifer definetly will finish her last summer as counselor, and I use the term “definetly” lightly. She leaves the door open for service and her heart there on a daily basis because of Tony’s presence. Who knows what the future holds for those two, but after all of this I am not one bit worried about where their journey will take them?
Even though we do not know most of you personally, you have become like family to us so thank you for staying true to the mission, listening to God’s leading and bringing as many as possible along on their journey of faith. We know that you know this, because we’re sure you have all experienced it personally, but your staff does make sacrifices emotionally, physically, socially, mentally, and financially. Please be sure to listen for the small still voice that sometimes says, “Be still and know that I am God.” Our spiritual rewards have far out weighed the sacrifices, and we pray that you all will experience unbelievable joy and peace as you continue to serve Him. As far as our family is concerned, we are sure that far into the future and for sure on the other side, Springhill will always hold warmth and contentment for the ones that call it home, even if only for a short while. May you all know the peace that comes from being teachable, obedient, and fully committed to finish strong. God bless as you continue to run the race.
Every since we drove our daughter across the country and delivered her to Southern California as a new kid in the fall of 2005, I've wanted to write this letter of gratitude. What better time than now, as she prepares for her first outreach tour and I begin the ambivalent process of letting go all over again, a short year later?
Admittedly, I was somewhat skeptical, and harbored an unspoken, gnawing feeling that most of what your group was about, and the driving force behind the college aged performers that would be her cast mates, was the opportunity to be on stage. In my mind, as in most parents, I knew she could sing and that she would learn to dance. And I assumed without knowing much about the program that if we were willing to spend the tuition money, the California Pacific School of the Performing Arts was just as willing to accept most of whom applied for admission. (After reading the summer Boyne brochure, was the first time I realized the ratio of auditions vs. openings) I thought she would "get this out of her system,” have a few moments to shine, and then come home to begin what she and I both knew would be her destiny of using her god-given talent and her love of music to affect others while caring for children less fortunate than herself.
Of course the year held some highs and lows. In fact, if I had the time I would write a book on the “dos and don’ts” of being a New Kid and a New Kid Parent. I was fortunate enough to be able to eat Thanksgiving dinner with my Midwest family and then hop a plane to be in place for the New Kids Show on November 25th. Please let me insert some much-deserved praise to your New Kids 05 directors. We had experienced an exceptional arts program with all three of our children in the Mona Shores Public School system here in West Michigan. So we knew the thrill of having had our kids in excellent stage productions. But the efforts, mentoring, befriending, loving discipline, rehearsals, and overall damn hard work did not go unnoticed by us parents in the audience that night. I was simply blown away by what had been accomplished in just a few short months and I know that could not have happened unless those directors were unbelievably exceptional musicians as well as extraordinary people.
Not until Melissa's sister and I were re-seated, after the intermission of the "Really Big Show," did it hit me. I absolutely was entertained beyond belief during the first act of that show covering the overview and highlights of the Young American Early Years. But as the curtain rose for the second act a whole new respect began to form in my mind. I sat spellbound during the documentary about the overseas workshop in a Germany prison. All my worries about stage hungry performers vanished, and I do believe after that presentation I became one of The Young Americans biggest fans.
As this summer comes to a close, and Melissa wraps up another summer of counseling adolescent girls at her childhood camp, it is without reservation and absolutely no qualms, I relinquish her over to you again. This year I do not feel as if she is heading off to join a group or for that matter, “just” to perform. She is reconnecting with you, her young american family and over the edge with excitement to affect students’ lives in a positive way through music. Most importantly, even though it is still far away from home, she is exactly where she is supposed to be.
On that hot August afternoon last year after a long, tearful, and 2nd guessing good-bye, both on her part and ours we returned home and she began what we lovingly refer to as; "Melissa's Amazing Young American Journey." Even though, as a family, we have always believed that God has a plan for each of our lives, little did any of us know last year at this time, that His plan for her was to travel across the country, endure the hard work, learn life's difficult lessons, reap the consequences, experience amazing joy, and fall in love with these people called The YA's. This year we do!
So, I said all that to say this, thank you from the bottom of our hearts. We are looking forward to another year of plane tickets, cell phone bills, missing Melissa at family gatherings, text messaging, hearing amazing stories about the places and people of the Nebraska outreach tour, e-mails, holiday music at The La Mirada, and yet another Christmas family reunion. God bless us, everyone.
This letter is long overdue. We first heard about Springhill from the church we attended some 20 years ago. Olivet Evangelical Free Church in Muskegon, MI. Although, we haven’t financially contributed anything substantial, we have had the distinct privilege and honor of giving our children’s lives to this camping ministry. In fact, we would say that the Springhill experience saved our children from a life of questioning, rebellion, and even periods of dryness on their faith journey.
We don’t believe in absolutely any voodoo, Holy Roller, place-your-hand-on-the-TV-and-be-healed type of religion. We don’t think that when you cross over any longitude or latitude lines that you can have religious experiences you could otherwise not have. We have come to strongly believe that the Springhill experience is twofold with the latter being the most important. Number one is taking a child, out of their everyday circumstances for a week or longer and concentrating everything around them to point them to their maker. Number two is the people that you bring on staff in a myriad of ways that affect the children and themselves towards beginning, or rekindling a relationship with the Jesus of the Bible.
We ALWAYS experienced this sort of change when we sent our children through your camping program year after year after year. And so it was with great joy that we first suffered through the sacrifices that Jennifer would have to make by counseling there in the summer of 2001. She started this whole family pattern of service to Springhill, and I don’t think she realized back then how many of her prayers would be answered when her tour of camping duty was over. All she did was obey. As the summer of 2006 comes to a close we slowly and reluctantly begin the ambivalent process of seeing our family leave the Springhill nest. Melissa will soon be jetting her way back to California for the task God has called her to by blessing her with a mighty gift and even bigger heart. In just a few short days Ben will have come full circle by having lent his god-given gift to camp for a few brief years, and marrying Annie whom he met because of his obedience and Jennifer’s prayers. I’m positive that even though he will live and work in the “real” world for a spell, his two years there will always call to him to write, edit, film, speak, perform, and lead others to a saving knowledge of God. Jennifer definetly will finish her last summer as counselor, and I use the term “definetly” lightly. She leaves the door open for service and her heart there on a daily basis because of Tony’s presence. Who knows what the future holds for those two, but after all of this I am not one bit worried about where their journey will take them?
Even though we do not know most of you personally, you have become like family to us so thank you for staying true to the mission, listening to God’s leading and bringing as many as possible along on their journey of faith. We know that you know this, because we’re sure you have all experienced it personally, but your staff does make sacrifices emotionally, physically, socially, mentally, and financially. Please be sure to listen for the small still voice that sometimes says, “Be still and know that I am God.” Our spiritual rewards have far out weighed the sacrifices, and we pray that you all will experience unbelievable joy and peace as you continue to serve Him. As far as our family is concerned, we are sure that far into the future and for sure on the other side, Springhill will always hold warmth and contentment for the ones that call it home, even if only for a short while. May you all know the peace that comes from being teachable, obedient, and fully committed to finish strong. God bless as you continue to run the race.
Every since we drove our daughter across the country and delivered her to Southern California as a new kid in the fall of 2005, I've wanted to write this letter of gratitude. What better time than now, as she prepares for her first outreach tour and I begin the ambivalent process of letting go all over again, a short year later?
Admittedly, I was somewhat skeptical, and harbored an unspoken, gnawing feeling that most of what your group was about, and the driving force behind the college aged performers that would be her cast mates, was the opportunity to be on stage. In my mind, as in most parents, I knew she could sing and that she would learn to dance. And I assumed without knowing much about the program that if we were willing to spend the tuition money, the California Pacific School of the Performing Arts was just as willing to accept most of whom applied for admission. (After reading the summer Boyne brochure, was the first time I realized the ratio of auditions vs. openings) I thought she would "get this out of her system,” have a few moments to shine, and then come home to begin what she and I both knew would be her destiny of using her god-given talent and her love of music to affect others while caring for children less fortunate than herself.
Of course the year held some highs and lows. In fact, if I had the time I would write a book on the “dos and don’ts” of being a New Kid and a New Kid Parent. I was fortunate enough to be able to eat Thanksgiving dinner with my Midwest family and then hop a plane to be in place for the New Kids Show on November 25th. Please let me insert some much-deserved praise to your New Kids 05 directors. We had experienced an exceptional arts program with all three of our children in the Mona Shores Public School system here in West Michigan. So we knew the thrill of having had our kids in excellent stage productions. But the efforts, mentoring, befriending, loving discipline, rehearsals, and overall damn hard work did not go unnoticed by us parents in the audience that night. I was simply blown away by what had been accomplished in just a few short months and I know that could not have happened unless those directors were unbelievably exceptional musicians as well as extraordinary people.
Not until Melissa's sister and I were re-seated, after the intermission of the "Really Big Show," did it hit me. I absolutely was entertained beyond belief during the first act of that show covering the overview and highlights of the Young American Early Years. But as the curtain rose for the second act a whole new respect began to form in my mind. I sat spellbound during the documentary about the overseas workshop in a Germany prison. All my worries about stage hungry performers vanished, and I do believe after that presentation I became one of The Young Americans biggest fans.
As this summer comes to a close, and Melissa wraps up another summer of counseling adolescent girls at her childhood camp, it is without reservation and absolutely no qualms, I relinquish her over to you again. This year I do not feel as if she is heading off to join a group or for that matter, “just” to perform. She is reconnecting with you, her young american family and over the edge with excitement to affect students’ lives in a positive way through music. Most importantly, even though it is still far away from home, she is exactly where she is supposed to be.
On that hot August afternoon last year after a long, tearful, and 2nd guessing good-bye, both on her part and ours we returned home and she began what we lovingly refer to as; "Melissa's Amazing Young American Journey." Even though, as a family, we have always believed that God has a plan for each of our lives, little did any of us know last year at this time, that His plan for her was to travel across the country, endure the hard work, learn life's difficult lessons, reap the consequences, experience amazing joy, and fall in love with these people called The YA's. This year we do!
So, I said all that to say this, thank you from the bottom of our hearts. We are looking forward to another year of plane tickets, cell phone bills, missing Melissa at family gatherings, text messaging, hearing amazing stories about the places and people of the Nebraska outreach tour, e-mails, holiday music at The La Mirada, and yet another Christmas family reunion. God bless us, everyone.
Posted at 05:57 PM
Sun - July 9, 2006
The Frey Company
A paragraph or two about this generation
of faithfilled farmers seems horribly inappropriate. I wish it wasn’t so.
Most of it is hindsight. Well, all of it is. All of it is opinionated. Mine.
It pours from my heart and the memories flowed freely today and I didn’t
want to edit or think it through too much. I’m sure if we conglomerated
the writings would fill the farmhouse we all grew up in. My only regret is that
I simply wish there were more. Parts will come across as favoritism, and I
don’t mean for it to, but it is what it is. I’m just gonna plow
through it and hope the end product comes out in neat rows just like an Indidana
corn field. If you come across this and want want to challenge me on facts I
will warmly welcome any correspondence and will walk back through it to purge
and cultivate. I'll publish retractions without
reservation.
I admit that sometimes when I rummage around in my past I discover things about myself that I’d just as soon not. Inevitably in writing about my journey I always end up back where I started. I do not write out of revenge or self-justification, but from a small farm girl with rose-colored glasses viewpoint. I can’t promise that my writings will solve family mysteries or justify odd behavior but we all pass for who we are. Everyone has a story to tell. This is mine.
Aunt Velm and Uncle Loren.
I have no idea what to attribute the inheritance too. They did raise minks? In their back yard for a while. Did he farm in his early years? How did they meet? I loved their house at the edge of town. You couldn’t miss it…and to this day there are still just the 2 houses on the end of that street. The white brick rancher they built right next to their first town style farmhouse. Uncle Loren seemed present in the moment, wanting to seriously know the answers to the questions he would ask. My adult connection comes because they had relatives that lived in Muskegon. Unfortunately, we never connected with them and their prime of life Winnebago trips, and I’m positive it was our fault. Even with the niece inheritance looming, I’ve always felt a bit sad that they never had children. My fondest memory was the miniature style nurses uniform (complete with crisp white dress, official hat with red cross and a reversible red and blue cape) that they gave me when I was burned. If I had to describe Aunt Velm in two words it would be. Thank You.
Aunt Mabel and Uncle Ivan
I’m kinda at loss for words here. I vaguely remember a white house up a long sunny driveway? I could be sadly mistaken. I do know this; at family gatherings Uncle Ivan scared the living bejesus out of me. Rumor has it he was an alcoholic, but despite the mistakes there is always the joyous occurrence of children that can come to mean that the marriage wasn’t a total mistake. Aunt Mabel seemed like the little aunt that could. She went as far as Francesville, I would not know my cousin Ryan if he walked up to me and claimed his cousinship. But Rhonda and especially Trena were a lot like their mom and Uncle Loren in their genuine concern for answers to questions mainly directed to my parents about us, but that was probably because of the age difference. Two words. Overcome Mistakes
Aunt Eve and Uncle Andy.
Sadly, this will come across as favoritism, and if Melissa had not chosen California for a space in time, I would not possess this information and closeness I feel towards this aunt. The family gatherings hold no hints for me here because Aunt Eve chose California at quite a young age. I will visit a home of hers for the first time in the very near future. Uncle Andy seemed the jovial type, and I would love to learn more of their life together and apart, but it will be my responsibility to make that happen and accept her invitation. This I do know, she is an artist, a dreamer, a story collector and teller, a traveler, a wise and brave woman, and a true model of someone in love with life, confident in her choices, still pursuing dreams, and willing to share her life stories without a trace of arrogance. She should write a book. Two words. Hopeful Dreams
Aunt Marge and Uncle Verlin
I’m going to have to question my mom on the logistics of Uncle Verlin’s occupation. If I had to guess it would be insurance. Once again I could be off by a career or two. Even though they chose about as far east as you could go, they put down roots in Indiana; it was the Stollers that were religiously at every family gathering. I remember their house in Fort Wayne, resembling Grandma Frey’s house. I'm pretty sure that was planned. It’s funny what you remember and what you don’t. I was smack in the middle, age wise between her girls. So I could vacillate back and forth between grown-up, adolescent, and little girl play. In a family this size you’re always going to have the hard luck stories and quite a few belong to Aunt Marge, but she will always be the instigator, and conduit of nostalgia that seems to be a recurring trait in Frey Girls. Once again, I know that I would not know Denny, but quite sure I would recognize Janie and Sharla, by voice alone. I would love to reminisce with them and hear the “Janie put a raisin in Janie’s nose” story one more time. Two words. Memory Keeper
Aunt Lois and Uncle Edwin
The order here is random. I started with the oldest, and now seem to be going in order of how close of commection I had with them. We’ll see…Like I said, I’d like to keep this as I original and raw as I can without over thinking or asking my parents to clarify too much. Farm Builder, Inc. FBI What early on appeared to be the strictest, firmest, and authoritarian set of relatives, without a doubt, anchors a haven of stories from playing hide and go seek amongst the trusses to the school activities. What do you expect after all, Uncle Edwin was a successful businessman AND a local church minister. Aunt Lois was forever cooking, baking and producing more cousins than two or three other families combined. I believe I coul draw their house floor plan with precise perfection including the FBI shop and buildings. The house was tri-level, so the basement was not actually a basement but a modern (for that day) rec room. The kitchen table was a large booth U-shaped booth and even though their were eight kids that she had to feed I can remember eating dinner, maybe lunch on several occasions. One step leading down to the rec room was hinged for storage and housed an abundance of games. This is where I first fell in love with Monopoly and Mousetrap. They had an in house/business intercom attached to their telephone. Lily was my cousin and friend, but the others hold a special place in my mind because of the sheer magnitude in numbers. Just like their dad, if I ran into them today, I would recognize each and everyone of them and would warmly embrace their genuine hug. They have all gone on to procreating and staying true to the moral, family, and life changing values they were taught along the way. My two words for Aunt Lois, Uncle Edwin, Barry, Kurt, Brad, Libby, Lily, Eddie, Beth, and Charleen; Carry On.
Aunt Carolyn and Uncle Ray
I have to restrain myself here, somewhat, or the favoritism will pop up like corn stalks in a pristine bean field. It was a traumatic loss in my life when the cousins to 217 Green Street, New Haven, Indidana. Not only that but I can also feel the palpable way my heart would start beating faster when we traveled there for a visit and would start to pass beneath the green expressway signs that signaled we were getting ever so close. The house had dormers and slanted ceilings in the upstairs bedrooms. It was like a miniature farmhouse, and yet planted firmly in a subdivision with sidewalks, neighbors, and a walk to school mentality that made me insanely jealous. And then just a stones throw from the already miniature farm house and past an enviable swing set and neatly manicured lawn and Frey girl flower bed was the cutest, fully outfitted, just our size playhouse. I might be imagining this, but I do believe we even slept out there on occasion, but then again maybe it was just a much needed nap when Marcia and I would get fighting with Joy and Donna or Ruthie and Nancy over who’s turn it was to be in there. Besides Aunt Eve, and maybe Aunt Lois helping with Farm Builder record keeping, Aunt Carolyn might be the only Aunt to have entered the work force. Uncle Ray farmed for a while, I think…but I’m pretty sure his livelihood came from the insurance industry, as well. When it comes to Frey girls, Aunt Carolyn has a corner market . Her girls have all done well for themselves, two of them married brothers and two decided to introduce Texas into the mix of places to call home. As measly as it is, I’ve kept in closest contact with the Bahler Frey girls. They were the perfect match in age to me and my sisters, and even after they moved we could always pick up where we left off. Class of ‘71, ‘73, and ’77 took care of the graduating years and 5 out of 6 of us got to wear the National Honor Society tassel. And I wouldn’t even bring that up if any of them but me were the one missing the tassel. I think of them all often and would jump at the chance for another reunion. Two words… for the them; God and Country.
Aunt Normie and Uncle Art
Herein lies the epitome of Frey girldom. But let me just say that Uncle Art milked cows for a living and did it by hand, twice a day, practically every day of his life. And he loved popcorn. This union was quite possibly a match made in heaven. I don’t believe they spent but one or two nights away from their homestead and those were probably with another church family and not at a motel. I can still see A. Normie walking across the barnyard, her hair wrapped in an upside down handkerchief. She would always have to come out and greet us because Jock, the German shepherd would eat us if she weren’t hanging on to his collar. Barb and Marcella were at the early bird special when the Frey girl genes went on sale. They were also close in age and became steadfast playmates in their barns, and our yard, which at times resembled a town park. I still have a mental picture of the day Barb wore her brand new corduroy senior skirt to high school with the word “spider” down the side seam. Both girls stayed true to their roots, married hometown boys, paid their dues and now carry on with the work ethic of their grandparents and their parents hovering close by resembling guardian angels as much as is theologically possible. Two words: Got Milk? Seriously, though; Heart and Hand.
Uncle Wally and Aunt Ad
My dad’s only brother. The above mentioned are all his sisters. I have always admired this family. They just put their heads down, followed their hearts, listened to the small still voice, and lived their lives as best they knew how. You could see their house from ours, with the only inanimate objects separating us being the VC plant and the railroad tracks. And I remember wanting to stop and visit every time we drove by, walked by, or rode our bikes by. I used to babysit their Debbie and Teresa. (wow I just figured out the Frey girl cousins out weigh Frey boy cousins by 18 – 8.) Whenever I had the chance I would wander about their home and admire the souvenirs from around the world. I’m not sure how she financed it but after high school my Aunt Ad took a trip AROUND THE WORLD. I still am inspired to travel because of it. The next time I go visit I will find out her itinerary and maybe I will duplicate it some day. Uncle Wally did his time on the farm and then at the appropriate time just up and retired sold his tractors and went on to new heights, literally. At 70ish, he still maintains his pilots license and flies regularly. Two words. Well Done.
These are my roots. All these people at different times in my life have done everything from babysit me to influence the very fiber of who I am. I struggle with regrets for not having been involved in each other’s lives more. But in my defense, logically it would have fallen upon the Aunts and Uncles to pursue the relationships into adulthood. And therefore, today, while writing I am full of regret for not being the Aunt I longed for in them, to my nieces and nephews. I will do better. At my funeral, besides no organ music, I want you all sitting around, telling stories and laughing about the crazy old lady they called Aunt Julee.
Two words for the Lloyd and Thelma crew; Amazing Grace
When the time comes for me to buy the farm and I’m looking down on an Uncle Tony and Aunt Jen….Auntie Anne and Uncle Ben, or Aunt Melissa who took off for California when she was 18 years old… if not one of their children can remember enough about their relatives to even fill a couple of paragraphs, I swear I will probably have some sort of painless panic attack. And if you'll haven’t told them enough about me and my stories…when you get there, I will be standing at the gate doing the cabbage patch dance, I promise you. Will the circle be unbroken? Not if I can help it.
Two words for the future generations; Stay Close.
I admit that sometimes when I rummage around in my past I discover things about myself that I’d just as soon not. Inevitably in writing about my journey I always end up back where I started. I do not write out of revenge or self-justification, but from a small farm girl with rose-colored glasses viewpoint. I can’t promise that my writings will solve family mysteries or justify odd behavior but we all pass for who we are. Everyone has a story to tell. This is mine.
Aunt Velm and Uncle Loren.
I have no idea what to attribute the inheritance too. They did raise minks? In their back yard for a while. Did he farm in his early years? How did they meet? I loved their house at the edge of town. You couldn’t miss it…and to this day there are still just the 2 houses on the end of that street. The white brick rancher they built right next to their first town style farmhouse. Uncle Loren seemed present in the moment, wanting to seriously know the answers to the questions he would ask. My adult connection comes because they had relatives that lived in Muskegon. Unfortunately, we never connected with them and their prime of life Winnebago trips, and I’m positive it was our fault. Even with the niece inheritance looming, I’ve always felt a bit sad that they never had children. My fondest memory was the miniature style nurses uniform (complete with crisp white dress, official hat with red cross and a reversible red and blue cape) that they gave me when I was burned. If I had to describe Aunt Velm in two words it would be. Thank You.
Aunt Mabel and Uncle Ivan
I’m kinda at loss for words here. I vaguely remember a white house up a long sunny driveway? I could be sadly mistaken. I do know this; at family gatherings Uncle Ivan scared the living bejesus out of me. Rumor has it he was an alcoholic, but despite the mistakes there is always the joyous occurrence of children that can come to mean that the marriage wasn’t a total mistake. Aunt Mabel seemed like the little aunt that could. She went as far as Francesville, I would not know my cousin Ryan if he walked up to me and claimed his cousinship. But Rhonda and especially Trena were a lot like their mom and Uncle Loren in their genuine concern for answers to questions mainly directed to my parents about us, but that was probably because of the age difference. Two words. Overcome Mistakes
Aunt Eve and Uncle Andy.
Sadly, this will come across as favoritism, and if Melissa had not chosen California for a space in time, I would not possess this information and closeness I feel towards this aunt. The family gatherings hold no hints for me here because Aunt Eve chose California at quite a young age. I will visit a home of hers for the first time in the very near future. Uncle Andy seemed the jovial type, and I would love to learn more of their life together and apart, but it will be my responsibility to make that happen and accept her invitation. This I do know, she is an artist, a dreamer, a story collector and teller, a traveler, a wise and brave woman, and a true model of someone in love with life, confident in her choices, still pursuing dreams, and willing to share her life stories without a trace of arrogance. She should write a book. Two words. Hopeful Dreams
Aunt Marge and Uncle Verlin
I’m going to have to question my mom on the logistics of Uncle Verlin’s occupation. If I had to guess it would be insurance. Once again I could be off by a career or two. Even though they chose about as far east as you could go, they put down roots in Indiana; it was the Stollers that were religiously at every family gathering. I remember their house in Fort Wayne, resembling Grandma Frey’s house. I'm pretty sure that was planned. It’s funny what you remember and what you don’t. I was smack in the middle, age wise between her girls. So I could vacillate back and forth between grown-up, adolescent, and little girl play. In a family this size you’re always going to have the hard luck stories and quite a few belong to Aunt Marge, but she will always be the instigator, and conduit of nostalgia that seems to be a recurring trait in Frey Girls. Once again, I know that I would not know Denny, but quite sure I would recognize Janie and Sharla, by voice alone. I would love to reminisce with them and hear the “Janie put a raisin in Janie’s nose” story one more time. Two words. Memory Keeper
Aunt Lois and Uncle Edwin
The order here is random. I started with the oldest, and now seem to be going in order of how close of commection I had with them. We’ll see…Like I said, I’d like to keep this as I original and raw as I can without over thinking or asking my parents to clarify too much. Farm Builder, Inc. FBI What early on appeared to be the strictest, firmest, and authoritarian set of relatives, without a doubt, anchors a haven of stories from playing hide and go seek amongst the trusses to the school activities. What do you expect after all, Uncle Edwin was a successful businessman AND a local church minister. Aunt Lois was forever cooking, baking and producing more cousins than two or three other families combined. I believe I coul draw their house floor plan with precise perfection including the FBI shop and buildings. The house was tri-level, so the basement was not actually a basement but a modern (for that day) rec room. The kitchen table was a large booth U-shaped booth and even though their were eight kids that she had to feed I can remember eating dinner, maybe lunch on several occasions. One step leading down to the rec room was hinged for storage and housed an abundance of games. This is where I first fell in love with Monopoly and Mousetrap. They had an in house/business intercom attached to their telephone. Lily was my cousin and friend, but the others hold a special place in my mind because of the sheer magnitude in numbers. Just like their dad, if I ran into them today, I would recognize each and everyone of them and would warmly embrace their genuine hug. They have all gone on to procreating and staying true to the moral, family, and life changing values they were taught along the way. My two words for Aunt Lois, Uncle Edwin, Barry, Kurt, Brad, Libby, Lily, Eddie, Beth, and Charleen; Carry On.
Aunt Carolyn and Uncle Ray
I have to restrain myself here, somewhat, or the favoritism will pop up like corn stalks in a pristine bean field. It was a traumatic loss in my life when the cousins to 217 Green Street, New Haven, Indidana. Not only that but I can also feel the palpable way my heart would start beating faster when we traveled there for a visit and would start to pass beneath the green expressway signs that signaled we were getting ever so close. The house had dormers and slanted ceilings in the upstairs bedrooms. It was like a miniature farmhouse, and yet planted firmly in a subdivision with sidewalks, neighbors, and a walk to school mentality that made me insanely jealous. And then just a stones throw from the already miniature farm house and past an enviable swing set and neatly manicured lawn and Frey girl flower bed was the cutest, fully outfitted, just our size playhouse. I might be imagining this, but I do believe we even slept out there on occasion, but then again maybe it was just a much needed nap when Marcia and I would get fighting with Joy and Donna or Ruthie and Nancy over who’s turn it was to be in there. Besides Aunt Eve, and maybe Aunt Lois helping with Farm Builder record keeping, Aunt Carolyn might be the only Aunt to have entered the work force. Uncle Ray farmed for a while, I think…but I’m pretty sure his livelihood came from the insurance industry, as well. When it comes to Frey girls, Aunt Carolyn has a corner market . Her girls have all done well for themselves, two of them married brothers and two decided to introduce Texas into the mix of places to call home. As measly as it is, I’ve kept in closest contact with the Bahler Frey girls. They were the perfect match in age to me and my sisters, and even after they moved we could always pick up where we left off. Class of ‘71, ‘73, and ’77 took care of the graduating years and 5 out of 6 of us got to wear the National Honor Society tassel. And I wouldn’t even bring that up if any of them but me were the one missing the tassel. I think of them all often and would jump at the chance for another reunion. Two words… for the them; God and Country.
Aunt Normie and Uncle Art
Herein lies the epitome of Frey girldom. But let me just say that Uncle Art milked cows for a living and did it by hand, twice a day, practically every day of his life. And he loved popcorn. This union was quite possibly a match made in heaven. I don’t believe they spent but one or two nights away from their homestead and those were probably with another church family and not at a motel. I can still see A. Normie walking across the barnyard, her hair wrapped in an upside down handkerchief. She would always have to come out and greet us because Jock, the German shepherd would eat us if she weren’t hanging on to his collar. Barb and Marcella were at the early bird special when the Frey girl genes went on sale. They were also close in age and became steadfast playmates in their barns, and our yard, which at times resembled a town park. I still have a mental picture of the day Barb wore her brand new corduroy senior skirt to high school with the word “spider” down the side seam. Both girls stayed true to their roots, married hometown boys, paid their dues and now carry on with the work ethic of their grandparents and their parents hovering close by resembling guardian angels as much as is theologically possible. Two words: Got Milk? Seriously, though; Heart and Hand.
Uncle Wally and Aunt Ad
My dad’s only brother. The above mentioned are all his sisters. I have always admired this family. They just put their heads down, followed their hearts, listened to the small still voice, and lived their lives as best they knew how. You could see their house from ours, with the only inanimate objects separating us being the VC plant and the railroad tracks. And I remember wanting to stop and visit every time we drove by, walked by, or rode our bikes by. I used to babysit their Debbie and Teresa. (wow I just figured out the Frey girl cousins out weigh Frey boy cousins by 18 – 8.) Whenever I had the chance I would wander about their home and admire the souvenirs from around the world. I’m not sure how she financed it but after high school my Aunt Ad took a trip AROUND THE WORLD. I still am inspired to travel because of it. The next time I go visit I will find out her itinerary and maybe I will duplicate it some day. Uncle Wally did his time on the farm and then at the appropriate time just up and retired sold his tractors and went on to new heights, literally. At 70ish, he still maintains his pilots license and flies regularly. Two words. Well Done.
These are my roots. All these people at different times in my life have done everything from babysit me to influence the very fiber of who I am. I struggle with regrets for not having been involved in each other’s lives more. But in my defense, logically it would have fallen upon the Aunts and Uncles to pursue the relationships into adulthood. And therefore, today, while writing I am full of regret for not being the Aunt I longed for in them, to my nieces and nephews. I will do better. At my funeral, besides no organ music, I want you all sitting around, telling stories and laughing about the crazy old lady they called Aunt Julee.
Two words for the Lloyd and Thelma crew; Amazing Grace
When the time comes for me to buy the farm and I’m looking down on an Uncle Tony and Aunt Jen….Auntie Anne and Uncle Ben, or Aunt Melissa who took off for California when she was 18 years old… if not one of their children can remember enough about their relatives to even fill a couple of paragraphs, I swear I will probably have some sort of painless panic attack. And if you'll haven’t told them enough about me and my stories…when you get there, I will be standing at the gate doing the cabbage patch dance, I promise you. Will the circle be unbroken? Not if I can help it.
Two words for the future generations; Stay Close.
Posted at 10:10 PM
Sat - July 8, 2006
Take It Easy
Come away and rest
awhile.
From a sleeps-two-tent to a bluebird wanderlodge, what inspires people to pack up a few amenities of home and relocate for a spell? And why do they feel the need to post a sign as to where they came from?
I’ll tell you.
The smell of bacon frying in cast iron over an open fire.
An old guitar and friends that know the words to “Flicker of the Campfire.”
A wood-chip trail that leads to water, be it a stream, a great lake, or the big pond.
The refreshment that only the great outdoors can afford.
Bunk bed cots from Sears.
Walking the loops right before sunset and waving hello to complete strangers.
Walking the loops right before sunset and finding your dad engaged in idle chit chat with complete strangers. This is a perfect example as to why people post signs that say, “The Miller’s from Findlay, Ohio.”
Making fun of the people sitting INSIDE a camper in front of the TV with the air conditioning running. Hint: People like my dad don’t usually stop and shoot the breeze if they have to knock on your door to get your attention. You lose.
The smell of any food over an open fire.
The aroma of citronella.
That just by walking past a campsite, you can get a feel for the personalities, lifestyles, and idiosyncrasies of the inhabitants.
The fact that you don’t even really have to enjoy them, but you always have to make smores.
Sitting.
Waking in the night with the moon and stars your only canopy.
Getting up early enough to see a few party lights still on and rekindling last nights' campfire with just a poke or two.
That I have become a seasoned camper because of this one small fact: I remember when there was only one style of camping lights and they were called jappy lights then.
The camaraderie that only a campfire can conjure.
A full-fledged breakfast over an open fire.
A lawn chair nap as the afternoon sun dances in and around the leaves.
Pine trees lined up in rows and offering up their needles as a carpet.
When the campfire smoke billows straight up for the whole evening.
Playing cards on a red-checkered tablecloth, with the sounds of an afternoon pot of coffee percolating nearby.
A dog barking in the distance…way in the distance.
Cooling off enough in early evening to change into your four day old jeans and sweatshirt.
Comments heard while camping in chronological order.
“Wait, maybe I WAS the one that didn’t have a burger in my bun.” Me while glued to the neighbor’s portable TV, watching Nixon resign at Raccoon Lake in the summer of 1974.
“Is it safe in here?” My younger brother Ron, while peaking his head out of the tent during a NW Indiana storm that later, we found out produced several tornados.
“Yes I CAN slalom.” Me, same summer, after dropping one ski and completing the Raccoon Lake circle …all while ski less foot refused to find it’s appropriate slot.
“We can just all go!” Me after a few glasses of wine, and completely forgetting about our babies that were sleeping, but desperately wanting some late night Big Boy.
“We’re in a war.” Ben, Nic, and Angela when we finally demanded they call a truce and come back to the tents to eat.
“I guess it’s ok.” Grandpa after joining the two families that had already been at PJ for 10 days, but had failed to secure the corner lot.
“Can I go to war?” Jennifer while tugging on the rope hooked to her belt loop and connected to grandpa’s trailer bumper.
“Does this little girl belong to you guys?” Stranger wondering around PJ Hoffmaster with 4-year old Melissa, probably because she couldn’t fall asleep and had tried unsuccessfully to join us at the campfire.
“It’s a good thing you guys left a note.” Ben and Nic, after driving all night and finding us at Muskegon State Park, because PJ was full.
“Nic and Ben…Time to get up!” Me and Aunt Joy at around 6pm on their one and ½ day visit to Muskegon State Park.
“Arrrrrrrrrrrrrgggggghhhhhhhhhhh.” Jennifer while imitating the North American Bear Jackal.
“Beware of the North American Bear Jackal with the head of a gator and the body of a bear.” Angela after Jennifer did turn into the NABJ.
“Beware! You might wake up in the belly of the Bear Jackal!” Melissa to random campers before Jennifer turned back into her old self.
“Alcohol prohibited between Memorial Day and Labor Day.” Sign posted at most MI state park campgrounds.
Looking back, I would have to say that some of my most cherished memories are connected to camping.
I don’t know if it’s all of the above or the plain and simple fact that camping forces you to rest. And even God did that.
Genesis 2:2 By the seventh day God had finished the work he had been doing; so on the seventh day he rested from all his work.
Mark 6:31 Then, because so many people were coming and going that they did not even have a chance to eat, he said to them, “Come with me by yourselves to a quiet place and get some rest.”
From a sleeps-two-tent to a bluebird wanderlodge, what inspires people to pack up a few amenities of home and relocate for a spell? And why do they feel the need to post a sign as to where they came from?
I’ll tell you.
The smell of bacon frying in cast iron over an open fire.
An old guitar and friends that know the words to “Flicker of the Campfire.”
A wood-chip trail that leads to water, be it a stream, a great lake, or the big pond.
The refreshment that only the great outdoors can afford.
Bunk bed cots from Sears.
Walking the loops right before sunset and waving hello to complete strangers.
Walking the loops right before sunset and finding your dad engaged in idle chit chat with complete strangers. This is a perfect example as to why people post signs that say, “The Miller’s from Findlay, Ohio.”
Making fun of the people sitting INSIDE a camper in front of the TV with the air conditioning running. Hint: People like my dad don’t usually stop and shoot the breeze if they have to knock on your door to get your attention. You lose.
The smell of any food over an open fire.
The aroma of citronella.
That just by walking past a campsite, you can get a feel for the personalities, lifestyles, and idiosyncrasies of the inhabitants.
The fact that you don’t even really have to enjoy them, but you always have to make smores.
Sitting.
Waking in the night with the moon and stars your only canopy.
Getting up early enough to see a few party lights still on and rekindling last nights' campfire with just a poke or two.
That I have become a seasoned camper because of this one small fact: I remember when there was only one style of camping lights and they were called jappy lights then.
The camaraderie that only a campfire can conjure.
A full-fledged breakfast over an open fire.
A lawn chair nap as the afternoon sun dances in and around the leaves.
Pine trees lined up in rows and offering up their needles as a carpet.
When the campfire smoke billows straight up for the whole evening.
Playing cards on a red-checkered tablecloth, with the sounds of an afternoon pot of coffee percolating nearby.
A dog barking in the distance…way in the distance.
Cooling off enough in early evening to change into your four day old jeans and sweatshirt.
Comments heard while camping in chronological order.
“Wait, maybe I WAS the one that didn’t have a burger in my bun.” Me while glued to the neighbor’s portable TV, watching Nixon resign at Raccoon Lake in the summer of 1974.
“Is it safe in here?” My younger brother Ron, while peaking his head out of the tent during a NW Indiana storm that later, we found out produced several tornados.
“Yes I CAN slalom.” Me, same summer, after dropping one ski and completing the Raccoon Lake circle …all while ski less foot refused to find it’s appropriate slot.
“We can just all go!” Me after a few glasses of wine, and completely forgetting about our babies that were sleeping, but desperately wanting some late night Big Boy.
“We’re in a war.” Ben, Nic, and Angela when we finally demanded they call a truce and come back to the tents to eat.
“I guess it’s ok.” Grandpa after joining the two families that had already been at PJ for 10 days, but had failed to secure the corner lot.
“Can I go to war?” Jennifer while tugging on the rope hooked to her belt loop and connected to grandpa’s trailer bumper.
“Does this little girl belong to you guys?” Stranger wondering around PJ Hoffmaster with 4-year old Melissa, probably because she couldn’t fall asleep and had tried unsuccessfully to join us at the campfire.
“It’s a good thing you guys left a note.” Ben and Nic, after driving all night and finding us at Muskegon State Park, because PJ was full.
“Nic and Ben…Time to get up!” Me and Aunt Joy at around 6pm on their one and ½ day visit to Muskegon State Park.
“Arrrrrrrrrrrrrgggggghhhhhhhhhhh.” Jennifer while imitating the North American Bear Jackal.
“Beware of the North American Bear Jackal with the head of a gator and the body of a bear.” Angela after Jennifer did turn into the NABJ.
“Beware! You might wake up in the belly of the Bear Jackal!” Melissa to random campers before Jennifer turned back into her old self.
“Alcohol prohibited between Memorial Day and Labor Day.” Sign posted at most MI state park campgrounds.
Looking back, I would have to say that some of my most cherished memories are connected to camping.
I don’t know if it’s all of the above or the plain and simple fact that camping forces you to rest. And even God did that.
Genesis 2:2 By the seventh day God had finished the work he had been doing; so on the seventh day he rested from all his work.
Mark 6:31 Then, because so many people were coming and going that they did not even have a chance to eat, he said to them, “Come with me by yourselves to a quiet place and get some rest.”
Posted at 01:50 PM
Thu - April 20, 2006
Church Lady
It’s been awhile. But if
I’m to write my memoirs, I will eventually have to go there...to church,
that is.
Someday I will tackle the AC’s, but for now I will start with RBC and end with MHBC.
Let me explain. We’ve been hornswaggled. Church has come to mean Christian, and Christian has come to mean right-wing, and right-wing has come to mean homophobic, and homophobic has come to mean I’m right and you’re wrong, and none of it has come to mean just Jesus.
Remington Bible Church
The very first memories have to be that we didn’t have to stay until 2 or 3 in the afternoon. No, we did not. We went back though, at 6pm, and again on Wednesday nights. We didn’t get baptized as babies but we had Sunday School at 9:30 and then another service at 11:00. When you are 10, 11, & 16 years old how do you offer up a good argument for staying home from PRAYER meeting to do homework?
And I’m not real sure I even want to argue them. They are my precious memories. My favorite of all would have to be the storytelling. Nothing says Ten Commandments like a flannel graph picture of Moses parting the Red Sea, while JoAnn Wilcoxsin moves the Egyptians with her hand to close in on the Jews. There were other storytellers. Edie Kissinger. Neva Wealing. Joyce Fleck. Ron & Lynn Wealing. Jane Lelle. Mrs. Cadenhead.
I’m probably going to go on a tangent here.
Church to us was a way of life. It’s something that you just did. There were no arguments. There was no school activity that took precedence over church ones. It fed us socially, spiritually, and in so many other ways. We got saved, became born again. In English that means we started our spiritual journey, at church. We gave testimonies. Which translated means we talked about what was going on in our lives at church. Church potlucks were a different way of saying we ate at church. We got baptized. Which should have been us telling the world that we were now following Jesus, but usually turned into a Pastor’s race for converts. We got dressed up to go to church. Which means…I don’t know if I’ll ever really know what that means. The bible says man looks on the outward appearance but God looks at our heart. There was the sermon. Which meant if we could think of someone who needed to hear it we would listen at church and then proceed to relay the teachings to the backsliders. Backsliding meant you wanted to go in the right direction but you kept going in the wrong direction. We were supposed to witness. Another way of saying we were going to get people mad at us. We took communion to symbolize Christ’s body and blood that was shed. Drinking wine was a no-no. Even with all its faults, church was the answer to so many questions that I hadn’t even thought to ask, yet. And later it became the excuse to so many temptations.
And now I’ll go on another tangent.
I can’t go to the prom because my church doesn’t believe in dancing. Doesn’t believe in dancing? Like dancing was another form of religion and we didn’t believe in its thesis? Or, we didn’t believe in it like it might lead to sex in the back seat of a car kind of non-believing? I guess we scratched out the verses in the bible that said dance for joy and to praise God. Really if you think about it the church is a breeding ground for exclusivity.
I’m afraid you’re out of luck with today’s church if you lie, cheat, quarrel, steal, dance, get green with envy, gossip, kill, pad your pockets, smoke, chew, step on people to climb the ladder, cuss, swear, treat others how you don’t want to be treated, want to sleep with your neighbor’s wife, or do sleep with the same sex.
If we claim to be followers of Jesus, our lives would be full of grace, peace, honesty and acceptance. We would dwell on things that were pure, lovely, and virtuous. We would forgive and not harbor bitterness. We would hear and not just listen. And seriously, if the church were doing her job, there would be no poor people, no hungry or homeless, no orphans, and no outcasts.
Mars Hill Bible Church moves me to act like Jesus. I have come to believe at this time and place in my life that is and should be the sole mission of the church. Oh, and tell stories to the younger generations. And maybe teach them a few old hymns in funky upbeat or rap versions. But if you try and argue with me to keep the traditions, liturgies, chants, masses, rituals, and rules that man has made up, chances are you’ll lose.
I’ve had a lot of spiritual moments in my life and until late, none of them happened inside literal church walls.
But that’s another whole entry. For now I will keep my precious memories. I will honor the lessons of faith, hope, and love that were woven into all my early teachings. I will continue to learn, grow, and try to become more like Jesus and less and less like a church member. No, not try…be. Like Yoda, another old spiritual teacher once said, “Do or do not, there is no try!”
Someday I will tackle the AC’s, but for now I will start with RBC and end with MHBC.
Let me explain. We’ve been hornswaggled. Church has come to mean Christian, and Christian has come to mean right-wing, and right-wing has come to mean homophobic, and homophobic has come to mean I’m right and you’re wrong, and none of it has come to mean just Jesus.
Remington Bible Church
The very first memories have to be that we didn’t have to stay until 2 or 3 in the afternoon. No, we did not. We went back though, at 6pm, and again on Wednesday nights. We didn’t get baptized as babies but we had Sunday School at 9:30 and then another service at 11:00. When you are 10, 11, & 16 years old how do you offer up a good argument for staying home from PRAYER meeting to do homework?
And I’m not real sure I even want to argue them. They are my precious memories. My favorite of all would have to be the storytelling. Nothing says Ten Commandments like a flannel graph picture of Moses parting the Red Sea, while JoAnn Wilcoxsin moves the Egyptians with her hand to close in on the Jews. There were other storytellers. Edie Kissinger. Neva Wealing. Joyce Fleck. Ron & Lynn Wealing. Jane Lelle. Mrs. Cadenhead.
I’m probably going to go on a tangent here.
Church to us was a way of life. It’s something that you just did. There were no arguments. There was no school activity that took precedence over church ones. It fed us socially, spiritually, and in so many other ways. We got saved, became born again. In English that means we started our spiritual journey, at church. We gave testimonies. Which translated means we talked about what was going on in our lives at church. Church potlucks were a different way of saying we ate at church. We got baptized. Which should have been us telling the world that we were now following Jesus, but usually turned into a Pastor’s race for converts. We got dressed up to go to church. Which means…I don’t know if I’ll ever really know what that means. The bible says man looks on the outward appearance but God looks at our heart. There was the sermon. Which meant if we could think of someone who needed to hear it we would listen at church and then proceed to relay the teachings to the backsliders. Backsliding meant you wanted to go in the right direction but you kept going in the wrong direction. We were supposed to witness. Another way of saying we were going to get people mad at us. We took communion to symbolize Christ’s body and blood that was shed. Drinking wine was a no-no. Even with all its faults, church was the answer to so many questions that I hadn’t even thought to ask, yet. And later it became the excuse to so many temptations.
And now I’ll go on another tangent.
I can’t go to the prom because my church doesn’t believe in dancing. Doesn’t believe in dancing? Like dancing was another form of religion and we didn’t believe in its thesis? Or, we didn’t believe in it like it might lead to sex in the back seat of a car kind of non-believing? I guess we scratched out the verses in the bible that said dance for joy and to praise God. Really if you think about it the church is a breeding ground for exclusivity.
I’m afraid you’re out of luck with today’s church if you lie, cheat, quarrel, steal, dance, get green with envy, gossip, kill, pad your pockets, smoke, chew, step on people to climb the ladder, cuss, swear, treat others how you don’t want to be treated, want to sleep with your neighbor’s wife, or do sleep with the same sex.
If we claim to be followers of Jesus, our lives would be full of grace, peace, honesty and acceptance. We would dwell on things that were pure, lovely, and virtuous. We would forgive and not harbor bitterness. We would hear and not just listen. And seriously, if the church were doing her job, there would be no poor people, no hungry or homeless, no orphans, and no outcasts.
Mars Hill Bible Church moves me to act like Jesus. I have come to believe at this time and place in my life that is and should be the sole mission of the church. Oh, and tell stories to the younger generations. And maybe teach them a few old hymns in funky upbeat or rap versions. But if you try and argue with me to keep the traditions, liturgies, chants, masses, rituals, and rules that man has made up, chances are you’ll lose.
I’ve had a lot of spiritual moments in my life and until late, none of them happened inside literal church walls.
But that’s another whole entry. For now I will keep my precious memories. I will honor the lessons of faith, hope, and love that were woven into all my early teachings. I will continue to learn, grow, and try to become more like Jesus and less and less like a church member. No, not try…be. Like Yoda, another old spiritual teacher once said, “Do or do not, there is no try!”
Posted at 06:30 PM
Sun - February 19, 2006
...And we know God's will
You will know the truth, and the truth will set you free. John 8:32
I can’t quite remember, but it must have been winter in the mid 1980’s when I first heard of Springhill Camps. The buzz around church was that the minute you got your registration flyer in the mail and had picked out your child’s roommate...you better mail it in pronto if you wanted a spot for summer camp at Springhill.
Hmmmm let me think. A week without my precious, little, energetic, adventurous, sister-pestering, exasperating son. Sign him up.
And so when summer rolled around that year I carefully packed 5 pairs of underwear, 5 T-shirts, 5 pairs of shorts, jeans, sweatshirt, lots of socks, and 2 pairs of shoes, one of which could get wet.
Off we went to Springhill Camps. After subtracting my $20. deposit, my balance at the registration table was $49.
We sheepishly shook the counselors hands and tried not to leave prematurely. That week I prayed for them (the counselors) diligently. I wondered constantly how he (Benjamin) was doing. Was he cold at night? Was he showing respect to his counselors? Was he making new friends? Would there be any God seeds that fell on his fertile young mind soil?
I was resigned to the fact that if Ben came home with a positive experience we would happily become a summer camp fan family.
And so the day finally arrived (I actually kinda missed the little bugger) for me to pick him up. He came bounding up the hill from the pond behind the white house. In his hands was a gigundrus frog that he proudly poked in my face. He was dressed in the same clothes that we had dropped him off in 5 & 1/2 days earlier. After he introduced me to his new pet, he passed him (the frog) off to a friend and suddenly burst into the most horrified breath gasping cry I’d ever heard. The frog and friend backed off to find their parents as Ben fell weeping into my arms.
“I....don’t....gasp....arghh...cough...don’t...gasp...”
This is it. My mind raced ahead. I guess we will not be sending springhill any more campers, volunteers, TST’ers, counselors, summer or resident staff.
I try to comfort through the muffled gasps for air, “I don’t ever...gasp...gasp...cough...gasp...
Whoa! They better not have hurt my open minded, creative thinking, mind of his own, son’s feelings. Cuz, yeah I’d just as soon save the $69 a week once a summer if that’s the case.
“....ever....want to....gasp...cough...gasp....to go...gasp...
...home!”
For one short instant, before my heart began to overflow with a special springhill size gush of gratefulness, I thought that’s a fine how do yo do to any affectionate mother’s heart.
He liked it..he really really liked it. We were hooked...in 5 short days we had become a springhill fan family.
20 years later on a very cold 2006 February weekend, during a Senior High retreat,we would finally come full circle at Springhill Camps.
It is amazing to see what God can do with a spirit that is totally sold out and emerged in Him.
Those brief 36 hours of my life spent on the 44th latitude will forever justify in my mind that; “Train up a child in the way he should go and when he is old he will not depart from it,” is not only God’s truth, but God’s promise.
If you’ve never been...my strong suggestion is to get there. I don’t care how you get there, just get there if you can. There is a handsome, hard working, unselfish activities (could be running the whole camp) director that would certainly be able to give you a couple of volunteer weekend jobs. Ask for Tony. There’s a program director who is writing, performing, and making productions that are cutting edge, thought provoking and creative and could use a good editor, producer, and/or writing companion. Ask for Ben. There are retreats available with every kind of family combinations you can think of. There are John Deere tractors to drive and pictures to be taken. There’s tiny little camps, medium sized camps, and great big camps. I’m sure you could find one that is just your size.
I wish everyone could see and have their “What If?” questions answered. No wonder, my little 7 year old son came falling into my arms and crying that he didn’t want to go home. He was home.
Posted at 06:36 PM
Sat - January 14, 2006
Kum Ba Yah
I’m not sure if I could find my way to
Winona Lake without a map. I know generalities. Start out east on 24...from my
Indiana home. But there were quite a few twists and turns along the two lane
roads that meandered through the northern Indiana countryside. And there was
the shortcut in Logansport...I don’t even think the streets were
named...you just had to know the landmarks to remember when to turn. For a
treat and to celebrate that we were 3/4 of the way, occasionally we would stop
at the A & W on the left in Rochester. The kind that you ordered from the
speaker stand and when they brought the food the tray hooked on your window.
Rochester to Warsaw was technically pretty boring and so we would play car games
like Twenty
questions and the
Alphabet
game. Ruthie would never tell us what
letter she was on and inevitably was the first one to yell out Z. Pretty sure
she cheated. It was a family vacation--- of seven----so helplessly we must have
traveled in the same car. Luckily the station wagon had been invented by then.
We thought we’d died and gone to heaven when we acquired the car with the
back seats facing each other. There were no handheld video games, no portable
movie players, no walkmen, no headphones, and iPods were just a twinkle in some
Mac nerd’s embryonic eyes. The non iPod related nano second we turned and
could spot the Lake we would instantly stop whatever game we were playing or
argument we were inescapably having. Because for one short week, what seemed to
be every summer of my impressionable years, we were home.
This was our vacation. Like others have Martha’s Vineyard, Mackinac Island, the mountains, the ocean, the house in Tuscany...we had Winona Lake. The accommodations were eclectic. Sometimes we blindly rented a so-called renovated garage with a small frig, hot plate, and red checkered plastic that served as both table cloths and window treatments. Once, a large porch with glass-roll-out-shuttered windows all around that held a breathtaking view of the lake, would be what we called a lucky break. Once it was an entire (as opposed to the garage or the porch) tiny, two bedroom furnished cottage with bookshelves full of Danny Orlis novels and games. So us 5 kids had our own room. But upon discovering Uphouse Campgrounds and the ambiance and camaraderie that ran rampant there...that is where we put down our tent/ trailer/motorhome roots. The elusive white winona hotel housed the conference speakers and upper echelon. Oh we would darken it’s doors once in a while, to eat a meal in it's behemothic dining hall, or to visit someone who had the privilege of staying there. I can’t recall ever staying overnight there. I wanted to.
These few streets, hills, hilly streets, and coffee shop, (was it really called Eskimo Inn before it was The Lamplighter?) was the world renowned Winona Lake Bible Conference Grounds. Not too sure who owned it, financed it, and maintained it. Apparently technicalities like that didn’t matter to me, thankfully it wasn’t a Branch Davidian, or The People’s Temple in Jonestown. Just Jesus.
There was a tabernacle and yes it had a sawdust floor, I am not kidding you. There we sang songs like...How Great Thou Art, and O For A Thousand Tongues To Sing. Then we played tic-tac-toe in the sawdust while the long winded preachers preached. I would stop and listen whenever the speaker went into story mode. Later they built an air conditioned auditorium but it always felt cold in there to me. There was an outdoor seating area built right into the side of a hill called, oddly enough, The Hillside. While in this park like setting, before heading down the hill and into the tabernacle for the redundant main service, you could sometimes catch a glimpse of locals water skiing on the placid lake or the sun setting between the willow trees. There was an antiquated auditorium, probably used before they built the state of the art tabernacle, with wooden theater seats and a broadway type stage. The bathrooms were indoors and musty. With our picture bibles in hand and our brightly colored beanies on, we would march into this building with younger siblings in tow to the morning children’s meetings. These were magical. There were fun songs like John Jacob Jingle Himer Schmit and sunday school songs with visual aids shaped like stop signs. There were magicians, chalk artists, flannel graph lessons, and ventriloquists. My favorite had to be Aunt Teresa who was a storyteller. If a real missionary wasn’t available, someone would tell a story about one. These were always suspensful and came with a stack of oversized renderings that prompted the storyteller exactly when to pause and say, “I guess we’ll find out tomorrow what happened!” These antics would last all week and we would wait with baited breath to see if the missionaries got eaten by jungle animals.
Before we graduated to the teen meetings one of the favorite pastimes was hanging out at the conference book store with it’s overpriced tacky souvenirs. I still yearn for a collapsable drinking cup telling me that Jesus loved me. And maybe the forerunner to rubix cube had to be the one dimensional plastic puzzles that spelled out For God So Loved The World. Everything and everywhere proclaiming the story of Jesus. As we matured, we tried to act like we were not looking at the toys as we made our way to the back of the store. Back towards the contemporary music and novels entitled, “Straight Down A Crooked Lane.” I often wonder if our parents knew we were listening to sample albums with headphones the size of cereal bowls. Albums by Love Song, Regeneration, Free Spirit, and Larry Norman. Songs with lyrics like, “Why should the devil have all the good music,” and “Life was filled with guns and war, and everyone got trampled on the ground.”
The teen meetings proved to be more of the same. More stories about the common man trying to copy how Jesus lived, the bible, and how to spread the good news of the gospel. All presented in an upbeat fashion with new phrases like peer pressure, purity and the difference between being conformed and transformed. There was a volunteer teen choir that would perform every night at the tabernacle. At the pinnacle of this conference fad, upwards of 200 performed updated and contemporary songs that started with phases like, “It only takes a spark to get a fire going...." and “We are one in the spirit, we are one in the Lord...”
The adolescent fun part of this “family” vacation was that you didn’t always have to hang out with the family. We would reconnect with the same families year after year. We’d go roller skating, and would always asked a Voss brother when it was girl ask guy to skate. Then we’d go out to the Flagpole for the world’s best ice cream bar none, or back to the auditorium for a movie like “Thief In The Night”. One time a Voss brother asked me to go on the Winona Queen’s midnight cruise. Of course, we had paid attention to our morning lessons so nothing too inappropriate happened. We rented tandem bikes, and broke bones trying to show off on them.
Besides the stories, what I remember about Winona Lake is, well, the lake. This was pre-inground pool days at the Frey’s so I would venture to say it was in Winona lake we learned to go under, swim, dive, and water ski. Between meetings we would swim at the private bible conference beach, and when the Voss brothers got their driver’s license we would go across town to Center Lake. There, the men would be separated from the boys when it came time to climb the ridiculous apparatus know only by two words: The Tower. The men would dive, the boys would jump.
The bible conference grounds is no more. The tabernacle was razed. The bookstore is an IGA. I’m sure the hill is still there but there is no hillside. Rumor has it that the town of Winona Lake is gone. Sold off in parcels to ones who could afford to “live on the lake.” It is mostly vacation homes that by now have had a generation of their own stories to tell. But I must say, I feel like the rich one. I still have the memories. I can still swim and probably water ski. I still remember the songs, the friendships, the refreshment for the soul as well as the body. And the stories. I will never forget the stories. I may not physically be able to get to Winona Lake without a map, but I will never forget the way.
This was our vacation. Like others have Martha’s Vineyard, Mackinac Island, the mountains, the ocean, the house in Tuscany...we had Winona Lake. The accommodations were eclectic. Sometimes we blindly rented a so-called renovated garage with a small frig, hot plate, and red checkered plastic that served as both table cloths and window treatments. Once, a large porch with glass-roll-out-shuttered windows all around that held a breathtaking view of the lake, would be what we called a lucky break. Once it was an entire (as opposed to the garage or the porch) tiny, two bedroom furnished cottage with bookshelves full of Danny Orlis novels and games. So us 5 kids had our own room. But upon discovering Uphouse Campgrounds and the ambiance and camaraderie that ran rampant there...that is where we put down our tent/ trailer/motorhome roots. The elusive white winona hotel housed the conference speakers and upper echelon. Oh we would darken it’s doors once in a while, to eat a meal in it's behemothic dining hall, or to visit someone who had the privilege of staying there. I can’t recall ever staying overnight there. I wanted to.
These few streets, hills, hilly streets, and coffee shop, (was it really called Eskimo Inn before it was The Lamplighter?) was the world renowned Winona Lake Bible Conference Grounds. Not too sure who owned it, financed it, and maintained it. Apparently technicalities like that didn’t matter to me, thankfully it wasn’t a Branch Davidian, or The People’s Temple in Jonestown. Just Jesus.
There was a tabernacle and yes it had a sawdust floor, I am not kidding you. There we sang songs like...How Great Thou Art, and O For A Thousand Tongues To Sing. Then we played tic-tac-toe in the sawdust while the long winded preachers preached. I would stop and listen whenever the speaker went into story mode. Later they built an air conditioned auditorium but it always felt cold in there to me. There was an outdoor seating area built right into the side of a hill called, oddly enough, The Hillside. While in this park like setting, before heading down the hill and into the tabernacle for the redundant main service, you could sometimes catch a glimpse of locals water skiing on the placid lake or the sun setting between the willow trees. There was an antiquated auditorium, probably used before they built the state of the art tabernacle, with wooden theater seats and a broadway type stage. The bathrooms were indoors and musty. With our picture bibles in hand and our brightly colored beanies on, we would march into this building with younger siblings in tow to the morning children’s meetings. These were magical. There were fun songs like John Jacob Jingle Himer Schmit and sunday school songs with visual aids shaped like stop signs. There were magicians, chalk artists, flannel graph lessons, and ventriloquists. My favorite had to be Aunt Teresa who was a storyteller. If a real missionary wasn’t available, someone would tell a story about one. These were always suspensful and came with a stack of oversized renderings that prompted the storyteller exactly when to pause and say, “I guess we’ll find out tomorrow what happened!” These antics would last all week and we would wait with baited breath to see if the missionaries got eaten by jungle animals.
Before we graduated to the teen meetings one of the favorite pastimes was hanging out at the conference book store with it’s overpriced tacky souvenirs. I still yearn for a collapsable drinking cup telling me that Jesus loved me. And maybe the forerunner to rubix cube had to be the one dimensional plastic puzzles that spelled out For God So Loved The World. Everything and everywhere proclaiming the story of Jesus. As we matured, we tried to act like we were not looking at the toys as we made our way to the back of the store. Back towards the contemporary music and novels entitled, “Straight Down A Crooked Lane.” I often wonder if our parents knew we were listening to sample albums with headphones the size of cereal bowls. Albums by Love Song, Regeneration, Free Spirit, and Larry Norman. Songs with lyrics like, “Why should the devil have all the good music,” and “Life was filled with guns and war, and everyone got trampled on the ground.”
The teen meetings proved to be more of the same. More stories about the common man trying to copy how Jesus lived, the bible, and how to spread the good news of the gospel. All presented in an upbeat fashion with new phrases like peer pressure, purity and the difference between being conformed and transformed. There was a volunteer teen choir that would perform every night at the tabernacle. At the pinnacle of this conference fad, upwards of 200 performed updated and contemporary songs that started with phases like, “It only takes a spark to get a fire going...." and “We are one in the spirit, we are one in the Lord...”
The adolescent fun part of this “family” vacation was that you didn’t always have to hang out with the family. We would reconnect with the same families year after year. We’d go roller skating, and would always asked a Voss brother when it was girl ask guy to skate. Then we’d go out to the Flagpole for the world’s best ice cream bar none, or back to the auditorium for a movie like “Thief In The Night”. One time a Voss brother asked me to go on the Winona Queen’s midnight cruise. Of course, we had paid attention to our morning lessons so nothing too inappropriate happened. We rented tandem bikes, and broke bones trying to show off on them.
Besides the stories, what I remember about Winona Lake is, well, the lake. This was pre-inground pool days at the Frey’s so I would venture to say it was in Winona lake we learned to go under, swim, dive, and water ski. Between meetings we would swim at the private bible conference beach, and when the Voss brothers got their driver’s license we would go across town to Center Lake. There, the men would be separated from the boys when it came time to climb the ridiculous apparatus know only by two words: The Tower. The men would dive, the boys would jump.
The bible conference grounds is no more. The tabernacle was razed. The bookstore is an IGA. I’m sure the hill is still there but there is no hillside. Rumor has it that the town of Winona Lake is gone. Sold off in parcels to ones who could afford to “live on the lake.” It is mostly vacation homes that by now have had a generation of their own stories to tell. But I must say, I feel like the rich one. I still have the memories. I can still swim and probably water ski. I still remember the songs, the friendships, the refreshment for the soul as well as the body. And the stories. I will never forget the stories. I may not physically be able to get to Winona Lake without a map, but I will never forget the way.
Posted at 04:06 PM
Fri - September 23, 2005
My Sister My Friend
I went to Hallmark today to buy my
sister a birthday card. I came home with a cranberry candle. That aroma, if
any, should send a surge of warm, sister memories surging over my seawall of
reality. Today, as I reflect on Joy’s birthday the early childhood
memories are eluding me. I can do teen-age and up through young married sisters.
I can do generalities, attitudes and personalities. I can remember playing
with baby dolls, baby puppies, baby sister and brothers. The sister escapades
are up there floating around, haunting me. This thought has crossed my
mind...that as little girls we had just enough to be content and an imagination
so vivid we couldn’t help but become creative. The privileges and perks
of growing up the middle sister were many. There was always someone there to
expound and implement genius ideas. When those genius ideas went south, there
was always someone to blame. Joy was (and still is) the creative one. Almost
every make believe, play house, outdoor/indoor game, and wash line tent, was
born on the right side of her brain. Even blaring WLS while we cleaned, was her
idea. She LIKED to clean, rearrange, create, sew, paint, cook, play the piano,
decorate, and organize. Take all those talents and apply them to two little
girls playing dolls, legos, sharing a bedroom, barbies, and the great outdoors
and viola that was our childhood. I liked to read. On more than one occasion,
when we had our Saturday list in front of us, she would cover for me when we
would get the famous call up the stairwell, “How are you guys doing up
there?” I would get the deer in headlights look and Joy, with dust rag
in hand, would yell back down, “ almost done!” Long after she left
for college, and I was engulfed in a page turner, I would use her words to stall
off the Gestapo while finishing 2 or 3 more chapters. On occasion, we would
walk to town after school and the possibilities seemed endless. Window shopping
at Lynch’s 5 & 10 store, up the ramp to the tacky toy shelves in back.
Woody’s Snack Shop with it’s wooden benches and thick greasy french
fries to die for. The library before it burned down. I especially loved the
library. And yet, most days we came home on the bus and with the parents busy
farming, Joy and I could find a myriad of things to occupy our time, I just
can’t remember what they were. But I knew the words bored and dull were
not in our vocabulary. If nothing else, we would ransack the cupboards for some
cookie dough ingredients that usually turned into...delicous.We were satisfied
to live, play, work, and go to school, without computers and cell phones. In
fact, the closest we ever got to a blackberry was the balsam prescribed by Dr.
Forbes. We didn’t watch TV, well maybe
The Price Is
Right once in a while when we were
home sick. And Miss
America, religiously, every
September. We didn’t have iPods, we had records and later, 8-tracks AND we
took piano lessons from Mrs. Smith at the funeral home. We didn’t take
adventurous, exotic family vacations, but at the tender young ages of 15 &
17 we went to Winona Lake to a Youth For Christ convention....BY OURSELVES!
Maybe I have selective memory but I do not remember arguing, fighting, tattling,
or degrading one another, I’m serious. She almost always let me tag along
with her and her friends. When she got her license we would “ride
around” (that’s NW Indiana teenage girl language for ride around.)
We would go to L.S.Ayres in Lafayette and hang out at the perfume counter or
play in the dressing rooms, before grabbing the best fast food hamburger known
to mankind at Burger Chef. Once we defied all sensible notions that our parents
might worry about why we weren’t home, and stayed in town to catch
Dawn Of The Living
Dead and
The Day The Earth Stood
Still, at the drive-in. I do
remember the trouble we got in at home...Joy took all the blame. Thanks for
that and saving me from ever enjoying scary movies. Thanks for putting Velveeta
on the Chef BOYARDEE pizza, hence my love for REAL cheese. Thank you for
cleaning while I read. Thanks for all the genius ideas. Thanks for going first
all the time and letting me learn from your mistakes. I hold you responsible for
any creative juice cup I sip from today. Thank you for bringing joy into my
life. And even though it is your birthday, I’m asking for the gift.
Now that we’re all grown up and oh so much wiser...I have one request...I
need you to share with me one more time: I want your take on those two little
girls. I need specifics and stories to help me recall. I want to smell the
aromas, giggle uncontrollably, and warmly recall the carefree sisterhood that
will forever bind us together and always be fondly retold. I need to remember
and I know that you do.
Life Lesson: History not recorded is soon forgotten.
Wilke Web Page
Life Lesson: History not recorded is soon forgotten.
Wilke Web Page
Posted at 12:32 PM
Sun - May 8, 2005
I thought the Sun Rose in Your Eyes
I had always felt like the ugly
duckling. And I’m not saying you didn’t. I’m just
saying.
I went through it all, puppy love, school girl crushes, teen-age idols, and high school boyfriends. Both boyfriends fell shy of the typical “school jock dates Pretty Cute Chick” syndrome. In fact, they were neither one jocks nor did I feel worthy, by any stretch of the imagination, with the high school P.C.C. label.
My parents had a sort of unwritten rule not to get too involved with someone that didn’t share our same beliefs. Deep down I wanted the same thing...a nice, god-fearing, church attending, cute, guy.
My choices were slim. If I would have gone with the church attending priority, I would now be married to someone who was severely mentally challenged or an ex-con. Not that there’s anything wrong with that.
And so, much to the chagrin of my would-be daughters, I headed off to a “christian” college looking for my M.R.S. degree.
The Moody Bible Institute of Chicago is a prestigious school of higher learning. It’s founder, D.L. Moody, was one of the great evangelists of the late 19th, early 20th centuries. The alumni donations are in the millions and they pay each students tuition every year. You can click on the above link if you want to know more, but I must get back to my story.
In the late, stifling, summer of 1973 I packed half the house into the gold country squire station wagon with wood on the side, said my good-byes, and headed off to college life. I was the small town farm girl heading towards the big city lights and I might as well have been traveling in a pumpkin turned carriage.
The first semester came and went without a prospective husband in sight. Come to think of it, I sort of lost sight of my goal the minute I walked onto the gated campus. Instead I fell in love with everyone and everything about college life and the city. You might say I got side tracked.
4th floor Houghton Hall was a medley of personalities, relationships, emotions, and fragrances. I had never before experienced any thing like it. One minute I could walk in on Brenda kneeling beside her bed praying. The next minute, I might be walking down Michigan Ave, and my roommate Sue from NY, could produce a stray marijuana cigarette. Anyway, she said it was.
Moody ran a tight ship, all in the guise of student safety rules. There were no co-ed dorms. No co-ed dorm floors. No co-ed dorm hallways. What we did have was a “brother” floor. Culbertson Hall 7 had quit the eclectic group of guys. They were supposed to act like “brothers” and vice versa with the girls on HH 4th. We baked them goodies, typed their papers, and attended all their intramural games. They, in turn, would “escort” us around the city and ask us to the Fall and Spring Flings.
Both dorms had open houses twice a semester, when the ban would be lifted and we could literally hang out in each others rooms----for the evening. Once a semester these were formal occasions where each floor chose a theme, decorated, and treated their sibling floor to a very nice evening. Kinda like a prom without the dancing. One time we transformed 4th HH into the emerald city. My tall, blonde, friend, Sandi was Glinda the good witch. I played the ugly, evil, witch of the west, I think her name was Alphaba. 7th floor Colby (short for Culbertson) was the reigning king of transformation. One time they did a tropical theme, complete with an erupting volcano. And one year they transformed their lounge into a Chicago city skyline at night, with the help of black lighting and thousands of miniature cereal boxes. They always won the prize and we, their sister floor, felt very special to be treated to such imagination and creativity.
As my 2nd semester started, I must admit my original motives were overshadowed by studies, concert band, big city, girlfriends, “brothers”, and just overall fun! Right around this time Brenda invited me to go to abasketball game with her fiancé Mark and his friend Mark, both of the wildly acclaimed 7th heaven. Fine by me, I enjoyed her fiancé, and I loved basketball. Of course, by default, on the shuttle bus to the game the other Mark and I were seated together.
We started out with the basic conversation.
Me: Where are you from?
Him: Michigan
Me: (because of all my license plate savvy) The great lake state?
Him: Yes, even though Minnesota claims to be the land of 10,000 lakes we actually hold the title with over 11,000 lakes (something in common, we both read license plates)
Him: Where are you from?
Me: A small town in Indiana, ever heard of Purdue U., well I’m about 35 miles and hundreds of cornfields from Purdue.
Him: What class was your high school in?
Me: Hmmmm?
Him: As far as your enrollment, were you class A, B, C, or D?
Me: What are you talking about? There were no divisions. The little guys could go all the way to the state finals and end up beating the big guys. Haven’t you ever heard of “Hoosiers?”
Later on when we would visit each other, he always commented on the basket ball domes rising from the cornfields without a football stadium in sight. And I always mentioned that we could fit 4 of his gyms into one of ours. He came from a graduating class of 400 and I graduated with 80 friends.
And then we did Chicago. We walked and talked the whole semester. Mark & Brenda knew when to tag along and when to become invisible. Even when they would disappear we talked some more. He paid attention and I noticed. We always seemed to end up together even in groups and it just felt right. My yellow ugly duckling status was turning a beautiful shade of white. Even though our tuition was paid by donors, our funds were tight, and so we used the beautiful new dining room, the 2nd floor (co-ed) lounge, and the absolutely breathtaking city of Chicago to date. And we walked and talked some more.
We were becoming strong friends. Yes, and the second we opted for thin crust Pizza Hut instead of deep dish Chicago style...I knew I could marry this guy and live happily ever after.
He was ever the gentleman, not only holding the doors, but guiding me through them. We first held hands in a car ride to attend a new church in the suburbs. We held hands again as we made our way down the aisle of this movie theater church. A full band was on stage playing a rock and roll version of “How Great Thou Art”. Even though the 2 or 3 hundred other worshippers were strangers, I have never felt so at home, at peace, and in love.
To escape the city life I invited the four of us to Indiana for a weekend visit to the farm. And so on a greyhound bus somewhere along the Indiana Toll Road we kissed.
But the bumpy school bus ride to a Moody basketball game was the first time ever I saw your face.
I went through it all, puppy love, school girl crushes, teen-age idols, and high school boyfriends. Both boyfriends fell shy of the typical “school jock dates Pretty Cute Chick” syndrome. In fact, they were neither one jocks nor did I feel worthy, by any stretch of the imagination, with the high school P.C.C. label.
My parents had a sort of unwritten rule not to get too involved with someone that didn’t share our same beliefs. Deep down I wanted the same thing...a nice, god-fearing, church attending, cute, guy.
My choices were slim. If I would have gone with the church attending priority, I would now be married to someone who was severely mentally challenged or an ex-con. Not that there’s anything wrong with that.
And so, much to the chagrin of my would-be daughters, I headed off to a “christian” college looking for my M.R.S. degree.
The Moody Bible Institute of Chicago is a prestigious school of higher learning. It’s founder, D.L. Moody, was one of the great evangelists of the late 19th, early 20th centuries. The alumni donations are in the millions and they pay each students tuition every year. You can click on the above link if you want to know more, but I must get back to my story.
In the late, stifling, summer of 1973 I packed half the house into the gold country squire station wagon with wood on the side, said my good-byes, and headed off to college life. I was the small town farm girl heading towards the big city lights and I might as well have been traveling in a pumpkin turned carriage.
The first semester came and went without a prospective husband in sight. Come to think of it, I sort of lost sight of my goal the minute I walked onto the gated campus. Instead I fell in love with everyone and everything about college life and the city. You might say I got side tracked.
4th floor Houghton Hall was a medley of personalities, relationships, emotions, and fragrances. I had never before experienced any thing like it. One minute I could walk in on Brenda kneeling beside her bed praying. The next minute, I might be walking down Michigan Ave, and my roommate Sue from NY, could produce a stray marijuana cigarette. Anyway, she said it was.
Moody ran a tight ship, all in the guise of student safety rules. There were no co-ed dorms. No co-ed dorm floors. No co-ed dorm hallways. What we did have was a “brother” floor. Culbertson Hall 7 had quit the eclectic group of guys. They were supposed to act like “brothers” and vice versa with the girls on HH 4th. We baked them goodies, typed their papers, and attended all their intramural games. They, in turn, would “escort” us around the city and ask us to the Fall and Spring Flings.
Both dorms had open houses twice a semester, when the ban would be lifted and we could literally hang out in each others rooms----for the evening. Once a semester these were formal occasions where each floor chose a theme, decorated, and treated their sibling floor to a very nice evening. Kinda like a prom without the dancing. One time we transformed 4th HH into the emerald city. My tall, blonde, friend, Sandi was Glinda the good witch. I played the ugly, evil, witch of the west, I think her name was Alphaba. 7th floor Colby (short for Culbertson) was the reigning king of transformation. One time they did a tropical theme, complete with an erupting volcano. And one year they transformed their lounge into a Chicago city skyline at night, with the help of black lighting and thousands of miniature cereal boxes. They always won the prize and we, their sister floor, felt very special to be treated to such imagination and creativity.
As my 2nd semester started, I must admit my original motives were overshadowed by studies, concert band, big city, girlfriends, “brothers”, and just overall fun! Right around this time Brenda invited me to go to abasketball game with her fiancé Mark and his friend Mark, both of the wildly acclaimed 7th heaven. Fine by me, I enjoyed her fiancé, and I loved basketball. Of course, by default, on the shuttle bus to the game the other Mark and I were seated together.
We started out with the basic conversation.
Me: Where are you from?
Him: Michigan
Me: (because of all my license plate savvy) The great lake state?
Him: Yes, even though Minnesota claims to be the land of 10,000 lakes we actually hold the title with over 11,000 lakes (something in common, we both read license plates)
Him: Where are you from?
Me: A small town in Indiana, ever heard of Purdue U., well I’m about 35 miles and hundreds of cornfields from Purdue.
Him: What class was your high school in?
Me: Hmmmm?
Him: As far as your enrollment, were you class A, B, C, or D?
Me: What are you talking about? There were no divisions. The little guys could go all the way to the state finals and end up beating the big guys. Haven’t you ever heard of “Hoosiers?”
Later on when we would visit each other, he always commented on the basket ball domes rising from the cornfields without a football stadium in sight. And I always mentioned that we could fit 4 of his gyms into one of ours. He came from a graduating class of 400 and I graduated with 80 friends.
And then we did Chicago. We walked and talked the whole semester. Mark & Brenda knew when to tag along and when to become invisible. Even when they would disappear we talked some more. He paid attention and I noticed. We always seemed to end up together even in groups and it just felt right. My yellow ugly duckling status was turning a beautiful shade of white. Even though our tuition was paid by donors, our funds were tight, and so we used the beautiful new dining room, the 2nd floor (co-ed) lounge, and the absolutely breathtaking city of Chicago to date. And we walked and talked some more.
We were becoming strong friends. Yes, and the second we opted for thin crust Pizza Hut instead of deep dish Chicago style...I knew I could marry this guy and live happily ever after.
He was ever the gentleman, not only holding the doors, but guiding me through them. We first held hands in a car ride to attend a new church in the suburbs. We held hands again as we made our way down the aisle of this movie theater church. A full band was on stage playing a rock and roll version of “How Great Thou Art”. Even though the 2 or 3 hundred other worshippers were strangers, I have never felt so at home, at peace, and in love.
To escape the city life I invited the four of us to Indiana for a weekend visit to the farm. And so on a greyhound bus somewhere along the Indiana Toll Road we kissed.
But the bumpy school bus ride to a Moody basketball game was the first time ever I saw your face.
Posted at 06:19 PM
Sun - February 27, 2005
Happiness is a choice
I have seen 3 train wrecks in my life.
There was a train wreck down at the tracks only a 1/4 mile from the white farm
house. I don’t think I actually saw the wreck happen. I heard it. The
otherwise ordinary train whistle seemed extra long that day. It was followed by
a heavy silence and then the low, slow, drudging noises which turned into
terrible crunching and steel grinding together. It sounded like car wreck after
car wreck happening in slow motion. At first my mom tried to keep us from even
looking down to it. But just like a solar eclipse, even when you know the
terrible circumstances, it’s hard not to sneak a peak. My dad eventually
took us down to look and what a tangled horrible mess it was. I couldn’t
imagine how they would get it all cleaned up and removed. I pictured a memorial
on the site with that section of track being retired. But soon the heavy cranes
arrived and cleared everything away and before you knew it the train whistles
were blowing again and again. Years later, as I take a walk around the section
while visiting my family, there are no signs whatsoever of that long ago train
wreck. Oh, don’t get me wrong, for a while there were tell tale signs,
deep gouges into the soft earth, and new shiny rails interspersed between the
worn rails. But even those telltale signs soon faded and life on the railroad
returned to normal. Not so with the other train wrecks I have witnessed. There
have been two people that have come into my life that I would consider train
wrecks. They both appeared within months of each other and will forever be
labeled in my mind as “What could have
been.”
When #1 came on our family scene, I was, actually just leaving. It was the summer of 1973. I had recently graduated from high school and been accepted at prestigious downtown Chicago institute. I was ready to fly, to escape the small town, to discover me and all that a big city/sheltered school could afford me. I might as well have been heading to California or New York. So nothing really much impressed me about #1. He was going to marry my sister and he was from Chicago. He was a big talker, convincing, and worldly. Most of his stories seemed a bit exaggerated to me, but my sister, more so than him, convinced me that this was her destiny. I felt even more compelled to run to the city and fly free and alone. Looking back through the glasses of “what could have been” almost makes me feel sick to my stomach about the life of #1. He was an extremely talented musician and pardon the pun, but I do believe he could sell refrigerators to Eskimos. He always seemed to have the answers to all the questions and his facade did not crack early. So while charming my sister, my folks, and some of the time, me, he physically became the train wreck that, to this day shadows the lives of my two younger brothers. In his defense, he had a hideous home life. The only difference between #1 and his so-called father was that at times I actually enjoyed being around #1. But on the few occasions I was around his father my skin and soul would feel like it was crawling on sandpaper.
I haven’t had contact with #1 for close to ten years, and yet somehow in my mind’s eyes he has grown into the desolate, stubborn, forlorn man that he never wanted to be.
# 2 was my father-in-law. After settling into college life in the big city, I became friends with a girl who was engaged to her high school sweetheart. Brenda and Mark fell in love with me and I with them. They showed it by inviting me to experience the city, college fun, and newly formed friendships with them at every turn. One day to ease my objections about being the 5th wheel, they invited the love of my life on one of our outings, but that is a future memoir! I met my husband’s father on a cold and angry winter day in Chicago. The #2 train wreck that came into my life, at times, had the personality to match that first day we met. In all fairness I must tell some of his story from my “what could have been” view point. And once again, time has softened, some of the blows that were dealt to my husband in his early life. There were good times, but they came only at the whim of his father and appeared between the cracks in time before legalism replaced the alcoholism that dogged #2’s personality until the day he died. But now, in defense of my husband and brothers, there are no defenses. The only cure for the pain and wounds that all forms of abuse can and will bring into the lives of it’s victims, is the attitude they will choose to carry with them.
Train wrecks can and do leave deep scars and gaping wounds that can take a lifetime to heal, if they do at all. Not too many trains just jump the track...collisions usually happen at crossings when something gets in their way. They are slow and painful and can seem to last forever. If they do jump the track it is usually because of a problem that inevitably started years earlier with a slow decay of rails, beams, spikes and such. In a weird kind of way I’m thankful for the analogy, because it’s eaiser to call it a train wreck and not the neglect, shame, and abuse that it actually was.
Achieving distance has helped me comprehend, not only what happened, but also start down the road of forgiveness. Time has had a profound affect on my emotions and I can safely say that I did love these people and once in a while even miss them. Now I write to remember because it eases the pain that won’t go away.
When #1 came on our family scene, I was, actually just leaving. It was the summer of 1973. I had recently graduated from high school and been accepted at prestigious downtown Chicago institute. I was ready to fly, to escape the small town, to discover me and all that a big city/sheltered school could afford me. I might as well have been heading to California or New York. So nothing really much impressed me about #1. He was going to marry my sister and he was from Chicago. He was a big talker, convincing, and worldly. Most of his stories seemed a bit exaggerated to me, but my sister, more so than him, convinced me that this was her destiny. I felt even more compelled to run to the city and fly free and alone. Looking back through the glasses of “what could have been” almost makes me feel sick to my stomach about the life of #1. He was an extremely talented musician and pardon the pun, but I do believe he could sell refrigerators to Eskimos. He always seemed to have the answers to all the questions and his facade did not crack early. So while charming my sister, my folks, and some of the time, me, he physically became the train wreck that, to this day shadows the lives of my two younger brothers. In his defense, he had a hideous home life. The only difference between #1 and his so-called father was that at times I actually enjoyed being around #1. But on the few occasions I was around his father my skin and soul would feel like it was crawling on sandpaper.
I haven’t had contact with #1 for close to ten years, and yet somehow in my mind’s eyes he has grown into the desolate, stubborn, forlorn man that he never wanted to be.
# 2 was my father-in-law. After settling into college life in the big city, I became friends with a girl who was engaged to her high school sweetheart. Brenda and Mark fell in love with me and I with them. They showed it by inviting me to experience the city, college fun, and newly formed friendships with them at every turn. One day to ease my objections about being the 5th wheel, they invited the love of my life on one of our outings, but that is a future memoir! I met my husband’s father on a cold and angry winter day in Chicago. The #2 train wreck that came into my life, at times, had the personality to match that first day we met. In all fairness I must tell some of his story from my “what could have been” view point. And once again, time has softened, some of the blows that were dealt to my husband in his early life. There were good times, but they came only at the whim of his father and appeared between the cracks in time before legalism replaced the alcoholism that dogged #2’s personality until the day he died. But now, in defense of my husband and brothers, there are no defenses. The only cure for the pain and wounds that all forms of abuse can and will bring into the lives of it’s victims, is the attitude they will choose to carry with them.
Train wrecks can and do leave deep scars and gaping wounds that can take a lifetime to heal, if they do at all. Not too many trains just jump the track...collisions usually happen at crossings when something gets in their way. They are slow and painful and can seem to last forever. If they do jump the track it is usually because of a problem that inevitably started years earlier with a slow decay of rails, beams, spikes and such. In a weird kind of way I’m thankful for the analogy, because it’s eaiser to call it a train wreck and not the neglect, shame, and abuse that it actually was.
Achieving distance has helped me comprehend, not only what happened, but also start down the road of forgiveness. Time has had a profound affect on my emotions and I can safely say that I did love these people and once in a while even miss them. Now I write to remember because it eases the pain that won’t go away.
Posted at 12:04 PM
Sat - February 5, 2005
The Wonder Years
I attended Gilboa School for three years
in the late sixties. Somebody had to. Mr. Lelle was the principal and he most
likely saved my life. At the very least he had a huge role in filing a big
piece of the chip that had formed on my shoulder. The school was 5 miles south
of my hometown and stood in the middle of nowhere surrounded proudly by purple
ribbon corn and healthy Indiana soy beans. The building was a two story red
brick structure that emerged on the horizon standing cavalier and pretentious
long before you arrived. Being inanimate, the building harbored no feelings of
inadequacy or shyness as it’s glaring peculiarity screamed out at the
surrounding white farmhouses and pristine barns. I’m sure in it’s
hey day it was state of the art and served as a trophy house to the proud
Indiana farmers who seemed to declare, “we have the straightest corn
rows, the cleanest bean fields, and manicured monstrosities we call yards. If
we build a city looking country school they will come. And they did. Only by
the time I arrived it had lost most of it’s glamour and served as a
replacement middle school for the overcrowded town schools. I was, after all, at
the tail end of the baby boomers. Three of my most influential, awkward, and
life-changing years were spent at Gilboa. Of course all this is hindsight
because most of the time I went there I felt homely, plain, and run-of-the-mill
as far as personality , talent, and looks were concerned. Despite all that I
did manage to fall madly in love five times in those three tumultuous
years.
In 5th grade, my best friend walked into Mrs. Gick’s English homeroom, and my life, bringing with her all the flair, class, and style that one would associate with the Paris runways. She was from Ohio. We fell in love instantly. She was everything I wasn’t; tall, blonde, beautiful, charming, and after my embarrassing tryouts, a cheerleader. We had one thing in common from the very start. We both knew we were different from everyone else, and somehow we found the language to express our views, innermost thoughts, and feelings to each other in a way that only the two of us understood. We remained best friends throughout high school and I can not recall one misunderstanding, harsh word, or argument. What I do remember, is another whole book, but I would be remiss if I didn’t mention some highlights. Since Linda was my best friend AND a cheerleader I got to tag along to almost every home and away basketball game. Mr. Nist must have driven us to hundreds of tool-shed style gyms in northwest Indiana smoking cigarettes all the way there, before the game, at half-time, and all the way home. I think smoking is a most disgusting habit, but the smell of a Camel brings me a rush of warm, comfortable memories. We were the epitome of best friends. I had never known death, and so I might have bumbled my way through consoling her when her mother died. All I knew to do was share mine with her, and from that point on we became inseparable. I couldn’t fathom there would come a time when we would have absolutely no contact with each other. I wish like crazy that wasn’t the case. One lazy pre-driver's license Saturday we were strolling the streets of town and a carload of unrecognizable, redneck boys drove by. At first the whistles and cat calls seemed flattering. But I must have been overly affected because to this day I remember the comment verbatim, “I get the tall one!” And even though boys are stupid that warm summer day, I started my journey to prove that girls were just as good , if not better. Which leads me to my 2nd love affair of the wonder years.
The last day of school, before summer vacation, was always party day. Mrs. Carmicheal, our home room teacher, decided we should play a lively game of softball to get our party started. I was already a fan of football, and I had enjoyed a number of basketball games traveling with the cheerleaders, and all. I don’t think it was because of any superhuman athletic prose, but with a little god-given coordination, I was an ok kick ball and dodge ball player. Right before I got up to bat Mrs. Carmicheal whispered in my ear like she was the major league batting coach and I was her prodigy, “Don’t ever take your eye off of the ball.” Well much to everyone's amazement, the most of which was mine, I hit the dang ball right out of thepark
infield and into the field. That was the year I declared myself a true athlete,
which eventually turned me into a loyal sports fan. I realized along with my
olympic talent, that my ulterior motive blossomed right beside my budding ball
career. I gained a whole new respect from the stupid ones. Ahhhh for the love
of the game.
Right about the same time I fell in love with the arts. Mainly music and theater. Mrs. Bowley was the music teacher and one rainy day when I couldn’t be outside playing ball, she plunked out a few harmonizing notes and suggested that I try to sing those notes while others sang the melody. I was an alto! Viola. Love affair. Then, since she had piqued my interest, she suggested I pick up an instrument. Mr. Lelle’s wife just happened to have an old coronet they let me borrow, and after a couple of hints such as, “act like your spitting a raisin out of your mouth,” I was now completely addicted to music of any style, shape, or form. I was the only girl trumpet player in the band and so once again my competitive nature kicked in and the ulterior motive reared it’s ugly head and I sat 1st chair from sixth grade until I graduated. Although my parents were encouraged with my musical career, they had not come to terms with the difference between menial and mortal sins. “Going to the show” was mortal in their baptist eyes. But the end of the year party in 6th grade there was a field trip back into town to the Rem Theater to see Black Beauty. Now it seemed to me that anything forbidden is the one thing you want the most. And I wanted to go to that show. I begged, pleaded, pouted, and finally got the “just this one time” speech. (It didn’t occur to me, or them, that if theater attendance WAS a sin you might end up in hell for just darkening the doors) I don’t think that would have hindered me if I knew it to be true. Anyway that was their first mistake. I fell in love with the movies and storytelling that day. All of it. The pictures, the music, the scenery, the velvet curtains that opened after the movie had already started, the smells, the art deco character of the building itself, even the popcorn. They had me at the marquee. I was so mesmerized by the whole experience that not until my boyfriend let go of my hand during the credits rolling, did I even realize the movie was over. And what a great segue into my fourth love affair at Gilboa.
Even though my mission in life, at the time, was to prove girl was the greater sex, it took only three small words to bring my glorious female bragging rights crashing to the ground. It’s funny how those three small words could wipe out a lifetime of feeling gangly, ugly, ordinary and just downright self deprecating. And sometimes I wish I could have found beauty somewhere inside myself before a member of the opposite sex did. But it wasn’t meant to be (not even sure if maybe God intended it to be that way, or why such the strong attraction). But anyhow, cute, short, nice, boy, Larry Shepherd told me at the end of the year 7th grade party, “I like you.” Why the heck those end of the year parties held all my hopes and dreams in their delicate hands is beyond me. Now-a-days I think they are pretty stupid. Just don’t have school the last day, make the year one day shorter...all you do is party, anyway. My point exactly. So when he let go of my hand at the movie theater, I let go of a certain amount of innocence, and right along with it some of the anger at the boys that had yelled, “I get the tall one.” And so we come, at last, to my 5th love affair and how it was that Mr. Lelle saved my life.
At some point in those three wonder years, I began to test my adolescent wings with tiny doses of rebellious, yet humorous, sass. Kids laughed. Teachers tried not too. After a very courageous day with a substitute teacher who had all he could take (the tears should have been my first clue) I was called down to the principal’s office. The era of physical punishment had not yet passed and “boards of education” were not decorative plaques but still used as discipline tools. It was the longest walk I had ever taken. The Lelle’s were good friends of my parents and so I had somewhat of an advantage there, but wasn’t sure how I should play my cards with that bit of ammunition. After all, he was the principal and if I remember correctly he never smiled until after Thanksgiving. I came into his office scared and pathetic. I fell into the chair because my legs literally gave out on me. It was ghostly silent for what seemed to be two or three days. Then I heard these words. “Julee, I’m disappointed in you.” That couldn’t have hurt any worse if he had exercised his right to use physical punishment. “You were mean and cruel at someone else's expense.” Ouch. Please stop. That isn’t who I am. I am a kind, funny, caring, talented, athletic, and yes, beautiful-on-the-inside girl. I don’t know if he actually said those words or if I, at that point, just started to believe them myself. It didn’t matter. And so that is how Mr. Lelle saved my life, because my 5th and final time I fell in love at Gilboa, I fell in love with me.
Life Lessons
We often accuse others of the shadows that lie within us.
As a parent, and I know this now because I am one, once you use the “this one time only” speech, you’ve opened the cattle gate and you might as well just sit back and watch the stampede.
It’s never too late to rekindle an old friendship
Seasoned by time and remembrances, I have come to believe I was and am the heroine of my own heart’s desires.
In 5th grade, my best friend walked into Mrs. Gick’s English homeroom, and my life, bringing with her all the flair, class, and style that one would associate with the Paris runways. She was from Ohio. We fell in love instantly. She was everything I wasn’t; tall, blonde, beautiful, charming, and after my embarrassing tryouts, a cheerleader. We had one thing in common from the very start. We both knew we were different from everyone else, and somehow we found the language to express our views, innermost thoughts, and feelings to each other in a way that only the two of us understood. We remained best friends throughout high school and I can not recall one misunderstanding, harsh word, or argument. What I do remember, is another whole book, but I would be remiss if I didn’t mention some highlights. Since Linda was my best friend AND a cheerleader I got to tag along to almost every home and away basketball game. Mr. Nist must have driven us to hundreds of tool-shed style gyms in northwest Indiana smoking cigarettes all the way there, before the game, at half-time, and all the way home. I think smoking is a most disgusting habit, but the smell of a Camel brings me a rush of warm, comfortable memories. We were the epitome of best friends. I had never known death, and so I might have bumbled my way through consoling her when her mother died. All I knew to do was share mine with her, and from that point on we became inseparable. I couldn’t fathom there would come a time when we would have absolutely no contact with each other. I wish like crazy that wasn’t the case. One lazy pre-driver's license Saturday we were strolling the streets of town and a carload of unrecognizable, redneck boys drove by. At first the whistles and cat calls seemed flattering. But I must have been overly affected because to this day I remember the comment verbatim, “I get the tall one!” And even though boys are stupid that warm summer day, I started my journey to prove that girls were just as good , if not better. Which leads me to my 2nd love affair of the wonder years.
The last day of school, before summer vacation, was always party day. Mrs. Carmicheal, our home room teacher, decided we should play a lively game of softball to get our party started. I was already a fan of football, and I had enjoyed a number of basketball games traveling with the cheerleaders, and all. I don’t think it was because of any superhuman athletic prose, but with a little god-given coordination, I was an ok kick ball and dodge ball player. Right before I got up to bat Mrs. Carmicheal whispered in my ear like she was the major league batting coach and I was her prodigy, “Don’t ever take your eye off of the ball.” Well much to everyone's amazement, the most of which was mine, I hit the dang ball right out of the
Right about the same time I fell in love with the arts. Mainly music and theater. Mrs. Bowley was the music teacher and one rainy day when I couldn’t be outside playing ball, she plunked out a few harmonizing notes and suggested that I try to sing those notes while others sang the melody. I was an alto! Viola. Love affair. Then, since she had piqued my interest, she suggested I pick up an instrument. Mr. Lelle’s wife just happened to have an old coronet they let me borrow, and after a couple of hints such as, “act like your spitting a raisin out of your mouth,” I was now completely addicted to music of any style, shape, or form. I was the only girl trumpet player in the band and so once again my competitive nature kicked in and the ulterior motive reared it’s ugly head and I sat 1st chair from sixth grade until I graduated. Although my parents were encouraged with my musical career, they had not come to terms with the difference between menial and mortal sins. “Going to the show” was mortal in their baptist eyes. But the end of the year party in 6th grade there was a field trip back into town to the Rem Theater to see Black Beauty. Now it seemed to me that anything forbidden is the one thing you want the most. And I wanted to go to that show. I begged, pleaded, pouted, and finally got the “just this one time” speech. (It didn’t occur to me, or them, that if theater attendance WAS a sin you might end up in hell for just darkening the doors) I don’t think that would have hindered me if I knew it to be true. Anyway that was their first mistake. I fell in love with the movies and storytelling that day. All of it. The pictures, the music, the scenery, the velvet curtains that opened after the movie had already started, the smells, the art deco character of the building itself, even the popcorn. They had me at the marquee. I was so mesmerized by the whole experience that not until my boyfriend let go of my hand during the credits rolling, did I even realize the movie was over. And what a great segue into my fourth love affair at Gilboa.
Even though my mission in life, at the time, was to prove girl was the greater sex, it took only three small words to bring my glorious female bragging rights crashing to the ground. It’s funny how those three small words could wipe out a lifetime of feeling gangly, ugly, ordinary and just downright self deprecating. And sometimes I wish I could have found beauty somewhere inside myself before a member of the opposite sex did. But it wasn’t meant to be (not even sure if maybe God intended it to be that way, or why such the strong attraction). But anyhow, cute, short, nice, boy, Larry Shepherd told me at the end of the year 7th grade party, “I like you.” Why the heck those end of the year parties held all my hopes and dreams in their delicate hands is beyond me. Now-a-days I think they are pretty stupid. Just don’t have school the last day, make the year one day shorter...all you do is party, anyway. My point exactly. So when he let go of my hand at the movie theater, I let go of a certain amount of innocence, and right along with it some of the anger at the boys that had yelled, “I get the tall one.” And so we come, at last, to my 5th love affair and how it was that Mr. Lelle saved my life.
At some point in those three wonder years, I began to test my adolescent wings with tiny doses of rebellious, yet humorous, sass. Kids laughed. Teachers tried not too. After a very courageous day with a substitute teacher who had all he could take (the tears should have been my first clue) I was called down to the principal’s office. The era of physical punishment had not yet passed and “boards of education” were not decorative plaques but still used as discipline tools. It was the longest walk I had ever taken. The Lelle’s were good friends of my parents and so I had somewhat of an advantage there, but wasn’t sure how I should play my cards with that bit of ammunition. After all, he was the principal and if I remember correctly he never smiled until after Thanksgiving. I came into his office scared and pathetic. I fell into the chair because my legs literally gave out on me. It was ghostly silent for what seemed to be two or three days. Then I heard these words. “Julee, I’m disappointed in you.” That couldn’t have hurt any worse if he had exercised his right to use physical punishment. “You were mean and cruel at someone else's expense.” Ouch. Please stop. That isn’t who I am. I am a kind, funny, caring, talented, athletic, and yes, beautiful-on-the-inside girl. I don’t know if he actually said those words or if I, at that point, just started to believe them myself. It didn’t matter. And so that is how Mr. Lelle saved my life, because my 5th and final time I fell in love at Gilboa, I fell in love with me.
Life Lessons
We often accuse others of the shadows that lie within us.
As a parent, and I know this now because I am one, once you use the “this one time only” speech, you’ve opened the cattle gate and you might as well just sit back and watch the stampede.
It’s never too late to rekindle an old friendship
Seasoned by time and remembrances, I have come to believe I was and am the heroine of my own heart’s desires.
Posted at 02:50 PM
Sun - October 24, 2004
To Everything There Is A Season
Charlie Bauer *** May 4, 1886 ~ September 29, 1982
Barbara Lehman Bauer *** October 23, 1898 ~ June 17, 1986
To Everything There is A
Season
I can vaguely remember going to my grandpa and grandmas house before they moved within the village limits of Cissna Park, Illinois. Vaguely, and then I don’t know if it is when my mom’s brother Loren lived in the house or I was actually there when grandma and grandpa lived there. It seems they had knotty pine in a den with a leather (probably vinyl) recliner that my sister and I could comfortably share. Beside the recliner was a basket of knitting and crocheting items, and tucked down under the sewing supplies was a stash of golden books. I can still feel the excitement in the car on the way to visit when I had finally learned to read. I was going to go through those books at my own leisure. No more waiting for someone to read to me. I would finally come face to face with the realities that dreams come true and there’s usually a bad guy around every corner. I read and memorized Cinderella and Snow White before Disneyworld was even conceived. After all the versions of that story were finally copied: to this day my favorite remains the golden book in which Cinderella’s dress for the ball, (the one the mice made her) makes Valentino and Versace pale. Grandma and grandpa had a border that lived with them. His name was Paul and I think he had a glass eye. I know he lived upstairs, but I was too afraid to go up there, because I was tormented I would run into him and I wouldn’t know where to look. It’s funny, you’d think I would remember their first house in town more so than the farm house, but I can only remember the outside. It had a porch (cement slab) with no railing. And a sidewalk that led to nowhere. We played outside with our cousins (by today's standards we had a host of cousins, but that's another entry) and that is where I got my introduction to saltines spread with soft butter. If I could have eaten them at every meal I would have. To this day, whenever I’m home alone and need some comfort food I will spread butter (has to be real, not margarine) on saltines for a snack. But their second house on the outskirts of town is what I precisely remember. It had a secret door in the back of a closet that led to the garage. An army of African Violets found their home on the glass shelves lining one whole wall of windows in the same room with the secret door. I’m positive the recliner made the move from the farm house because even though my grandma eventually went blind, the basket with the golden books remained intact. When grandma grew tired of us asking to brush and braid her hair, or we were just under her feet she would let us play in the living room. Otherwise the room was seldom used. At the far end of the living room sat matching gold swivel chairs edged with fat black fringe tassels. The chairs called out to us. “See how far you can get the fringe to fly out...or better yet, put your little brother or sister on me and see how fast you can get them to twirl before they need to hurl!” The dining room was at the other end of this long unused space. It had a china hutch that would make any antique dealer drool. I don’t remember grandma telling us each time we visited that we could take something home, but my sisters do and have the items to prove it. The spare bedroom was kinda scary, but it’s saving grace was that it was in the middle of the hall, right off of the dining room and not clear down the hall. My favorite room of all was grandma’s kitchen. She had a stool that had steps that closed up into it when not in use. But mostly it was used, by us, to observe, ask questions and smell the smells while grandma baked. The food was real good at grandma’s, but I mainly remember the desserts. She had to give up the knitting and crocheting when she started to go blind, but the cinnamon rolls she could make with her eyes shut anyway. Her measuring cup was a coffee mug. The rolls would have to rise and then bake. The smell will surely have to be in heaven for me to call it home. Then she would use the shirt boxes from my uncle’s store to wrap them, and I don’t know why for sure, probably to prevent intruders, she would tie up the boxes with strings and about 50 knots, and put them in her freezer. We would always go home with a box, and we should probably thank the string and knots for that. The next home I remember was the nursing home in Eureka, and the smells there left me wanting to return to my childhood and sit on the stool with folding steps. My grandpa talked so fast you couldn’t understand a word he said but I knew he loved me. The fast talking was always a blessing when it came time to pray before the mouth watering meals. I caught about every fourth word but it seemed like seconds not minutes until Amen was uttered. I think he gave us special attention because all the other cousins lived in town and we lived an hour and 1/2 away down Route 24. Our cousins would look at us like we were freaks when we would ask Grandpa if we could play in the secret door closet. I don’t remember that he ever said no to us, and soon we found ourselves the go-betweens whenever the cousins wanted something. They had a vintage plaque outside their back door with a rooster on a hinge and a pad of paper with a pencil hanging from a string. The plaque said, “Leave a note, if you don’t find us...tilt the rooster to remind us.” I was so envious of my cousins that could skip by after school or on a Saturday and leave a note, well not so much leave a note, but tilt the rooster. Grandma and Grandpa were always home when we came. And being a conscientious kid, I wondered if after the pad of paper was gone the plaque would become obsolete, so I never dared waste a piece, with them being home and all. But after all, we got to play in the closet with the secret door any time we asked.
Life Lessons
If it wasn’t for grandmas we wouldn’t need Weight Watchers.
Always look people in the eye whether they have one or not.
Pay attention when your Grandma is doling out china and such.
Ebay is a great source for vintage rooster plaques.
God hears and understands all prayers.
Wilke Web Page
I can vaguely remember going to my grandpa and grandmas house before they moved within the village limits of Cissna Park, Illinois. Vaguely, and then I don’t know if it is when my mom’s brother Loren lived in the house or I was actually there when grandma and grandpa lived there. It seems they had knotty pine in a den with a leather (probably vinyl) recliner that my sister and I could comfortably share. Beside the recliner was a basket of knitting and crocheting items, and tucked down under the sewing supplies was a stash of golden books. I can still feel the excitement in the car on the way to visit when I had finally learned to read. I was going to go through those books at my own leisure. No more waiting for someone to read to me. I would finally come face to face with the realities that dreams come true and there’s usually a bad guy around every corner. I read and memorized Cinderella and Snow White before Disneyworld was even conceived. After all the versions of that story were finally copied: to this day my favorite remains the golden book in which Cinderella’s dress for the ball, (the one the mice made her) makes Valentino and Versace pale. Grandma and grandpa had a border that lived with them. His name was Paul and I think he had a glass eye. I know he lived upstairs, but I was too afraid to go up there, because I was tormented I would run into him and I wouldn’t know where to look. It’s funny, you’d think I would remember their first house in town more so than the farm house, but I can only remember the outside. It had a porch (cement slab) with no railing. And a sidewalk that led to nowhere. We played outside with our cousins (by today's standards we had a host of cousins, but that's another entry) and that is where I got my introduction to saltines spread with soft butter. If I could have eaten them at every meal I would have. To this day, whenever I’m home alone and need some comfort food I will spread butter (has to be real, not margarine) on saltines for a snack. But their second house on the outskirts of town is what I precisely remember. It had a secret door in the back of a closet that led to the garage. An army of African Violets found their home on the glass shelves lining one whole wall of windows in the same room with the secret door. I’m positive the recliner made the move from the farm house because even though my grandma eventually went blind, the basket with the golden books remained intact. When grandma grew tired of us asking to brush and braid her hair, or we were just under her feet she would let us play in the living room. Otherwise the room was seldom used. At the far end of the living room sat matching gold swivel chairs edged with fat black fringe tassels. The chairs called out to us. “See how far you can get the fringe to fly out...or better yet, put your little brother or sister on me and see how fast you can get them to twirl before they need to hurl!” The dining room was at the other end of this long unused space. It had a china hutch that would make any antique dealer drool. I don’t remember grandma telling us each time we visited that we could take something home, but my sisters do and have the items to prove it. The spare bedroom was kinda scary, but it’s saving grace was that it was in the middle of the hall, right off of the dining room and not clear down the hall. My favorite room of all was grandma’s kitchen. She had a stool that had steps that closed up into it when not in use. But mostly it was used, by us, to observe, ask questions and smell the smells while grandma baked. The food was real good at grandma’s, but I mainly remember the desserts. She had to give up the knitting and crocheting when she started to go blind, but the cinnamon rolls she could make with her eyes shut anyway. Her measuring cup was a coffee mug. The rolls would have to rise and then bake. The smell will surely have to be in heaven for me to call it home. Then she would use the shirt boxes from my uncle’s store to wrap them, and I don’t know why for sure, probably to prevent intruders, she would tie up the boxes with strings and about 50 knots, and put them in her freezer. We would always go home with a box, and we should probably thank the string and knots for that. The next home I remember was the nursing home in Eureka, and the smells there left me wanting to return to my childhood and sit on the stool with folding steps. My grandpa talked so fast you couldn’t understand a word he said but I knew he loved me. The fast talking was always a blessing when it came time to pray before the mouth watering meals. I caught about every fourth word but it seemed like seconds not minutes until Amen was uttered. I think he gave us special attention because all the other cousins lived in town and we lived an hour and 1/2 away down Route 24. Our cousins would look at us like we were freaks when we would ask Grandpa if we could play in the secret door closet. I don’t remember that he ever said no to us, and soon we found ourselves the go-betweens whenever the cousins wanted something. They had a vintage plaque outside their back door with a rooster on a hinge and a pad of paper with a pencil hanging from a string. The plaque said, “Leave a note, if you don’t find us...tilt the rooster to remind us.” I was so envious of my cousins that could skip by after school or on a Saturday and leave a note, well not so much leave a note, but tilt the rooster. Grandma and Grandpa were always home when we came. And being a conscientious kid, I wondered if after the pad of paper was gone the plaque would become obsolete, so I never dared waste a piece, with them being home and all. But after all, we got to play in the closet with the secret door any time we asked.
Life Lessons
If it wasn’t for grandmas we wouldn’t need Weight Watchers.
Always look people in the eye whether they have one or not.
Pay attention when your Grandma is doling out china and such.
Ebay is a great source for vintage rooster plaques.
God hears and understands all prayers.
Wilke Web Page
Posted at 04:18 PM
Fri - September 17, 2004
As For Me and My House
The White
House
When it was white it was very, very white and when it was not it was green, red or gray. After a fresh coat of paint and after the morning glories had climbed their trellis, and it was early summer, there was no reason not to call home a little bit of heaven. The house actually sat on about 1/2 acre of land with corn or soy beans surrounding all four sides. It was less than a mile into town, but in my early years it might as well have been a thousand. We were our own best friends. A huge excursion would be a trip to Lafayette for school shopping, if we were lucky and the hand-me-downs didn’t work for sizes, those would come every 2 or 3 years. We ate farm spaghetti (Franco American), roasts, meatloaf, and all the fixin’s. Breakfast came early, lunch was called dinner, after school snack was called lunch and supper was sometimes breakfast. The whole farm seemed to be encircled by the white fence, which thankfully only needed paint every couple of years. We were safe and secure within those boundaries. The house had a front entrance which we never used, and is now extinct. It did get played on, though. There were four pillars that would fetch a bundle at an antique action today. And there was a flagstone sidewalk that led to nowhere. The flagstone started out in huge big chunks that one could use for a myriad of games. But as you hop scotched closer to the road and with time the grass won the race and overtook the stones. The front porch, yard, and trees, soon became our throne room, and our village houses respectively. We didn’t just play house, we played Palace. Towels became robes, capes and wedding veils. The trees were so mature that some of their above ground roots actually formed perfect jails and dungeons. The grass in a certain section of the yard was smooth and velvety, almost royal to the touch. It later became the perfect courts for badminton, croquet, and bacci ball. So if you were feeling royal and European the front yard was the place to play. The back yard was more, how do you say, middle american play field. There was a homemade sandbox, and a monkey bar (jungle gym) that made town kids jealous. We made dirt houses in the gravel. Huge monstrosities with hallways that were quite possibly an1/8 of a block long. The kitchens had sinks, the bedrooms had beds, and the bathrooms even had the necessities. We did the same when the leaves would fall, by sweeping them into piles, lines, and hallways. When we tired of the dirty gravel or it was harvest time and the grain trucks would wreck what had just taken us hours to construct, we would drag every conceivable blanket or sheet out to the wash line and create a miniature apartment complex with towels cloths pinned for doorways and throw rugs for carpeting. And then the snow would come, you guessed it more houses. Only with snow you could actually make 3-D structures. In Indiana, the snow houses only came along every 3 or 4 years. There was the blizzard of ‘65. That was a very good year for make believe. One year my dad actually backed an old chicken coop behind the garage for the sole purpose of letting us use it as a playhouse. Emulating our “real” house,we painted it white inside and out. Another good year for make-believe. It also became the year our parents felt we were old enough to take over their job of keeper of the white house and fence. And so we painted the house and the miles of fence. Not too neat and not very fast, but we did paint and always white. We played kick the can and hide and seek on warm summer evenings. We caught fireflies and begged for a swimming pool every summer. We did our chores and crossed off the lists. When we grew weary of each other or the house construction business we would retire to the velvety section of the lawn, spread out for an afternoon of Milton Bradley or a real good book. It was tradition. We were children. We had room to roam, and life was good. We lived in the White House.
Life Lessons.
Sometimes work can be fun. Like when you’re painting and a cat walks between you and the paintbrush.
All work and no play is not acceptable.
If everybody just made do with what they have, there would be no “back-to-school shopping season" and there would be a ton of quaint, remodeled, eclectic white farm houses.
For a season, painting can cover a multitude of problems.
Wilke Web Page
When it was white it was very, very white and when it was not it was green, red or gray. After a fresh coat of paint and after the morning glories had climbed their trellis, and it was early summer, there was no reason not to call home a little bit of heaven. The house actually sat on about 1/2 acre of land with corn or soy beans surrounding all four sides. It was less than a mile into town, but in my early years it might as well have been a thousand. We were our own best friends. A huge excursion would be a trip to Lafayette for school shopping, if we were lucky and the hand-me-downs didn’t work for sizes, those would come every 2 or 3 years. We ate farm spaghetti (Franco American), roasts, meatloaf, and all the fixin’s. Breakfast came early, lunch was called dinner, after school snack was called lunch and supper was sometimes breakfast. The whole farm seemed to be encircled by the white fence, which thankfully only needed paint every couple of years. We were safe and secure within those boundaries. The house had a front entrance which we never used, and is now extinct. It did get played on, though. There were four pillars that would fetch a bundle at an antique action today. And there was a flagstone sidewalk that led to nowhere. The flagstone started out in huge big chunks that one could use for a myriad of games. But as you hop scotched closer to the road and with time the grass won the race and overtook the stones. The front porch, yard, and trees, soon became our throne room, and our village houses respectively. We didn’t just play house, we played Palace. Towels became robes, capes and wedding veils. The trees were so mature that some of their above ground roots actually formed perfect jails and dungeons. The grass in a certain section of the yard was smooth and velvety, almost royal to the touch. It later became the perfect courts for badminton, croquet, and bacci ball. So if you were feeling royal and European the front yard was the place to play. The back yard was more, how do you say, middle american play field. There was a homemade sandbox, and a monkey bar (jungle gym) that made town kids jealous. We made dirt houses in the gravel. Huge monstrosities with hallways that were quite possibly an1/8 of a block long. The kitchens had sinks, the bedrooms had beds, and the bathrooms even had the necessities. We did the same when the leaves would fall, by sweeping them into piles, lines, and hallways. When we tired of the dirty gravel or it was harvest time and the grain trucks would wreck what had just taken us hours to construct, we would drag every conceivable blanket or sheet out to the wash line and create a miniature apartment complex with towels cloths pinned for doorways and throw rugs for carpeting. And then the snow would come, you guessed it more houses. Only with snow you could actually make 3-D structures. In Indiana, the snow houses only came along every 3 or 4 years. There was the blizzard of ‘65. That was a very good year for make believe. One year my dad actually backed an old chicken coop behind the garage for the sole purpose of letting us use it as a playhouse. Emulating our “real” house,we painted it white inside and out. Another good year for make-believe. It also became the year our parents felt we were old enough to take over their job of keeper of the white house and fence. And so we painted the house and the miles of fence. Not too neat and not very fast, but we did paint and always white. We played kick the can and hide and seek on warm summer evenings. We caught fireflies and begged for a swimming pool every summer. We did our chores and crossed off the lists. When we grew weary of each other or the house construction business we would retire to the velvety section of the lawn, spread out for an afternoon of Milton Bradley or a real good book. It was tradition. We were children. We had room to roam, and life was good. We lived in the White House.
Life Lessons.
Sometimes work can be fun. Like when you’re painting and a cat walks between you and the paintbrush.
All work and no play is not acceptable.
If everybody just made do with what they have, there would be no “back-to-school shopping season" and there would be a ton of quaint, remodeled, eclectic white farm houses.
For a season, painting can cover a multitude of problems.
Wilke Web Page
Posted at 11:43 AM
Mon - July 5, 2004
The Lord loves a cheerful giver
Springfield, Missouri had
particularly warm weather on my fifth birthday, November 1, 1960. I do not
remember having my cake outdoors in Indiana. I would celebrate only one
birthday in that midwestern, prairie house. Listening to an impassioned
preacher, and because the book of John says, “Behold, I say to you, lift
up your eyes, and look on the fields, that are white for harvest.” my dad
stopped working the land, planting the seed, and reaping the harvest, and we all
started on his short-lived journey of fishing for men. The sole reason that
early in the year of our Lord, 1960, the family packed up and moved to
Springfield, Missouri was so my dad could attend bible college. This began my
foray into the sizable world of school. Recollections of my first few months in
school are sketchy at best, I can not for the life of me even recall what the
building looked like. My big sister and I attended together, and I am not sure
how far that forgettable building was from our house, but one day I trudged all
the way home in a torrential downpour without her. I did not even consider the
fact that I might not find my house, but rather, how warm and cozy it would be
to get out of the wet clothes. At the risk of being put to bed early in the
afternoon, I contemplated putting on my winter jammies, and spending the rest
of the afternoon on the oversized, wrought iron, floor grates that spewed warm
air. I loved that we lived “in town.” The corner market was an
adventure in and of itself, but only if I had my big sister in tow. The list of
school supplies must have included some sort of oiled cloth to protect school
furniture and newly acquired back to school cloths. I loved the pattern and
smell of mine. On Monday through Friday that oil cloth smelled better than
Sunday dinner. We had a back porch that housed a washer, dryer, and the kitchen
waste basket. One evening, I was fiddling out there, and as I relive the
memory, the sights, sounds, and smells are as vivid as the day is today. I must
have been wiping down the table cloth to put it in my school bag, when I heard
someone yell, FIRE! I slowly laid my tablecloth out over the waste basket and
started to contemplate my new-to-me-in-town house with the push button light
switches, burning to the ground. I also pondered for a moment why no one
(parents in particular) was scurrying around to try and collect me and my
siblings and ward us off to safety. Since no one was coming for me, I gathered
my tablecloth and nonchalantly walked off the back porch , around to the front
of the house only to catch my first glimpse of flames leaping out of the
upstairs windows of the neighbor’s house across the street. The sight
so sickened me, I don’t even remember feeling relieved that it
wasn’t ours. The whole neighborhood pitched in to help the family. There
was a big box at the corner market that was accepting donations to help with
clothing and everything. One day not long after the fire, I folded my oil
cloth as neatly as I could, and walked down to the corner store, sans my sister,
to place it in the donation box.
I think milk by the carton was .02 at the lunch room. My mom must have given me a quarter one day instead of a nickel, because I had this cache of change I kept concealed in my desk at school. The desks were such that you lifted the lid and beside the cavity that held all the bigger items was a small tray molded right into desk. It sort of reminded me of a cash register drawer and I placed my stash of pennies there and contemplated the items I would buy at the corner market . Right around that same time came my most embarrassing moment at school. Good to get it over with in 1st grade and with a teacher that knew something about discretion. She called me up to her desk and asked me to go down the hall to the bathroom with her. When we got there she handed me a bag of my own clean clothes, and I’m not sure anyone in that classroom ever knew of my plight that day. I was so happy that I gave all my pennies in my desk to my sister and told her to buy whatever she wanted at the corner market on the way home from school.
In my short life, so far, we had attended two churches. The first one was a small red brick country church My favorite memory there was the chrome counters and matching bar stools downstairs. There we would eat homemade cinnamon rolls, and begin to contemplate what the lunch aromas would yield. That is correct, Sundays, in the first five years of my life were spent mostly in church. The second church was in town, built of white wood and practically smaller than our farm house. It was there my dad followed the teachings of a fervent man that took us on his bypass to becoming a missionary. By comparison, we went to a massive church in Missouri. The only scary time at that church was after Sunday School I always worried as to how my parents would find me in such titanic surroundings. My fears were unfounded. But just as they were at the lunch-eating church in Indiana, my dad and mom were miserable in Springfield. He was meant to be a farmer and she the farmer’s wife. And so what seemed like late at night and without any fanfare we packed up and moved back home again, in Indiana.
Life lessons I learned much later on in life. 1) Do not attempt to become a missionary unless the big guy himself calls you to do so. 2) There are things money can’t buy, like a bag of fresh, clean clothes. 4) I saw my dad and mom give above and beyond the measly 10% recommended in the old testament. They gave it mostly to missionaries.
Wilke Web Page
I think milk by the carton was .02 at the lunch room. My mom must have given me a quarter one day instead of a nickel, because I had this cache of change I kept concealed in my desk at school. The desks were such that you lifted the lid and beside the cavity that held all the bigger items was a small tray molded right into desk. It sort of reminded me of a cash register drawer and I placed my stash of pennies there and contemplated the items I would buy at the corner market . Right around that same time came my most embarrassing moment at school. Good to get it over with in 1st grade and with a teacher that knew something about discretion. She called me up to her desk and asked me to go down the hall to the bathroom with her. When we got there she handed me a bag of my own clean clothes, and I’m not sure anyone in that classroom ever knew of my plight that day. I was so happy that I gave all my pennies in my desk to my sister and told her to buy whatever she wanted at the corner market on the way home from school.
In my short life, so far, we had attended two churches. The first one was a small red brick country church My favorite memory there was the chrome counters and matching bar stools downstairs. There we would eat homemade cinnamon rolls, and begin to contemplate what the lunch aromas would yield. That is correct, Sundays, in the first five years of my life were spent mostly in church. The second church was in town, built of white wood and practically smaller than our farm house. It was there my dad followed the teachings of a fervent man that took us on his bypass to becoming a missionary. By comparison, we went to a massive church in Missouri. The only scary time at that church was after Sunday School I always worried as to how my parents would find me in such titanic surroundings. My fears were unfounded. But just as they were at the lunch-eating church in Indiana, my dad and mom were miserable in Springfield. He was meant to be a farmer and she the farmer’s wife. And so what seemed like late at night and without any fanfare we packed up and moved back home again, in Indiana.
Life lessons I learned much later on in life. 1) Do not attempt to become a missionary unless the big guy himself calls you to do so. 2) There are things money can’t buy, like a bag of fresh, clean clothes. 4) I saw my dad and mom give above and beyond the measly 10% recommended in the old testament. They gave it mostly to missionaries.
Wilke Web Page
Posted at 01:03 PM
Thu - June 10, 2004
All things work together for good
On a warm, lazy, late summer afternoon
in 1961 I had the accident, that as far as I can recollect, is my earliest
childhood memory. The following description of events and emotions surrounding
the accident is how my childlike six year old mind remembers and how my stubborn
48 year old brain choses to tell the story. I guess my mom was going to go
shopping in Lafayette and I, claiming to be a bona-fide tomboy, opted to stay
home with my dad. Harvest time was just around the corner and that meant that a
convoy of trucks and tractors was being paraded in and out of the tool shed for
repairs. Why I chose to "wash" the combine (the largest farm implement to date)
remains a mystery, except to say that later on in my teen years I would wash
vehicles inside and out just to get a nod of approval from my dad. He
didn’t know I was down below “washing” when a spark ignited a
can of gasoline and he kicked it down from the top of the combine so as not to
cause a gargantuan explosion. The lit can of gasoline hit me in the head and
poured down over my face and arms. I can remember my dad crying (more of a
wail) and picking me up and running. Evidently, stop, drop, and roll had not
been invented yet. After putting the fire out he carried me to the house and
laid me on the scratchy couch while he made some 911 calls. As my self-indulged
little mind started to imagine the scope of all this, a couple of burning (no
pun intended) questions had to be answered. First of all, I was thinking, why
the heck did this have to happen on the day that the cover to the couch was
being washed. I sincerely believe the pain would not have been as bad if I
hadn't had to lay on that darn, burlapy, piece of furniture we called a couch.
Secondly, so as not to miss out on any of the excitement, I asked my dad if he
thought the ambulance would sound the siren on the way to the hospital. They
did. And although I don't remember feeling any pain (that would come later) I
vividly recall the skin on my arms had curled into hundreds of dorito shaped
patches that the emergency personnel predicted the doctors and nurses would take
care of in no time. I was then tranquilized, I mean, pacified by them, and to
my chagrin I began to fall asleep to the rhythmic melodies of the siren. Now the
hospital stay had it’s ups and downs. One of the highlights was that
being from a small town everyone knew what had happened and everyone felt
dreadful for me and my family. My dad was burned trying to put out the fire and
so he had a brief hospital stay at the onset of mine. The ladies groups, church
groups, school kids, and relatives would make what they called “Sunshine
Boxes”. Everyone would donate a wrapped gift and then they would decorate
the box with wrapping paper. The hospital stay was 9 weeks and I had a gift to
open every day. Now picture everything you ever drooled over at the 5 &
dime store, or in the grocery check out lane, and it was in my "Sunshine Box."
Gum, candy, barbie and her legion of accessories, stuffed animals, paper dolls,
color-forms (do they still make those?), tinker-toys, lincoln logs, and a race
car set, just to mention a few. My siblings were ecstatic when there were so
many of these boxes that "bigger" gifts had to go home with my mom on her daily
visits. Some gifts were exceptionally memorable, like the authentic child size
nurses outfit including a hat with a red cross on the front that my Uncle Loren
and Aunt Velm gave me. Tons of money, well to a six-year old with no job it
seemed like allot. In 1977 when I got married I finally drained and closed the
savings account that I had maintained since 1961, interest and all! Guy Mackey,
a coach and later the athletic director at Purdue University was the most famous
person that came to visit me...I think he was in the hospital at the same time
and sent down a plant in an upside down football helmet vase, AND four tickets
to a Big Ten football game. I have known and loved the game ever since.
It’s easy, listen up girls. You get 4 tries (downs) to move the ball ten
yards up the field. You can carry it yourself if you’re the guy making
the decisions (quarterback). You can throw it to a team member (hopefully
called a receiver). Or, if you’re scared of being hit by another guy
(tackled) you can just plain and simple hand it to someone else (hand-off).
Anyway, if you get 10 yards in those 4 tries, you get another 4 tries to make it
10 more yards and so on and so on. If the other team keeps you from getting 10
yards you get to kick the ball as far away from them as possible (punt) and then
it’s their turn to get 4 tries. It’s actually a game of sharing
that way. How’d I got off track? Without a doubt, the heftiest gift of
all came later when I had to wear a splint on my little finger to straighten it.
I hated that thing, and repeatedly tore it off in my sleep UNTIL the day my
Grandpa Frey told me if I got the finger straight he would buy me anything. I
soon became the proud owner of Milton Bradley's Mousetrap game. So yeah,
those were the ups. Now THEY say you can’t remember pain, but who are
THEY, anyway? In the pain rulebook the following must surely be an exception. I
had to lay naked in the bed and get rotated every few minutes so that the burns
and the skin graft sections wouldn’t stick to the sheets. My so-called
cover was a wire contraption that arched over me with a sheet woven in and out
of the wires. To repair my burns they needed to "take" a thin section of my
good skin: buns, stomach, thighs, etc. and so those areas also became
susceptible to getting stuck to the sheets. The only pain I remember is when
their rotating and tent contraption failed to work. And then slowly and
meticulously they would have to separate me from the sheets. OUCH. I was
somewhat of the local town hero when it all happened. And I think the school
kids were all coached not to stare or be mean. If good comes from everything I
would have to say that in a weird way the accident is such a part of me that
every once in a while I need to review the lessons it taught me. 1) I’m
not a person that considers the outward appearance of myself or others as a
trait to magnify. I am not saying I don’t like to look nice, but my
philosophy is this: If you have blisters the size of buicks on your feet from
dress shoes, it’s ok to wear tennis shoes even if you are an American
tourist in Paris.
2) Childbirth is definitely a pain you don’t remember. 3) The bank will actually pay you money to hold on to yours. 4) Treat all people like you want to be treated whether they look like you or not. 5) Don't stare. 6) For goodness sake, at the very least, I should have asked for a pony!
Wilke Web Page
2) Childbirth is definitely a pain you don’t remember. 3) The bank will actually pay you money to hold on to yours. 4) Treat all people like you want to be treated whether they look like you or not. 5) Don't stare. 6) For goodness sake, at the very least, I should have asked for a pony!
Wilke Web Page
Posted at 09:16 PM
Calendar
| Sun | Mon | Tue | Wed | Thu | Fri | Sat |
Categories
Archives
XML/RSS Feed
Statistics
Total entries in this blog:
Published On: Jan 13, 2007 10:43 PM
Published On: Jan 13, 2007 10:43 PM