The Fall of 2016

This past summer was another hot one. Connie worked on our in-ground pool and it continued to cause problems. I was in it only twice, while Allie and Ellen both were it in early in the summer. Of course Allie and Ben are now married and have their own home in Richmond, VA. It's a two story home with an attic. Lot's of rooms with a small back yard. Connie and I looked at flight schedules and costs for me to fly out to visit David in ABQ New Mexico. I flew out there and stayed 4 days; went riding horses, viewed the awesome scenery and drove down the mountain side from where David lives, down into ABQ. The people living there are mostly Latino and their food is hot and spicy. I needed a wheel chair when in the Atlanta Airport and it was strange to be pushed around, riding on trams below ground and back up in elevators. Our friend Meg from Workcamp had white oak trees cut down, and Jim Donivan brought two big loads and dumped one in the circle and one on the side hill. Eventually we started the log-splitter and our four wheeler with a trailer behind it. Even my chain saw was working. A friend on mine, a former Marine and his son helped with the whole process a couple of times and now we have stacks of wood off our deck and stacked up back in our woods. Connie is busy with another Workcamp. Assessing houses, sending out letters, etc. We've already had one executive Board meeting and a larger meeting to assess last years camp. I finished being Interim Pastor at First Christian Church after 11 months. Julie's youngest daughter, Chelsie was married outside on the lawn of her sister's home, Lindsey Van Hounten My daughter Anne has had surgery on her shoulder and is just now getting to where she can go back to work. Her son Jordon was in an automobile accident and is still on the mend. Thanksgiving is in just a few days. My favorite holiday of all of them. We will be celebrating with Ben, Allie, Jeffery, Ellen Rose and the two of us. In the stores Christmas sales are already out...and Christmas music can be heard in the mauls. The Presidential Election is over. Donald Trump will be our next President. This has caused quite a stir nation-wide; many though Hillary Clinton would win...so the next few months will tell us if all the Trump has promised...will he fulfill those same promises. Connie and I are here alone in our home now; except for our Yorky, "Louie". He sleeps between us and gets up a few times during the night. I'm still the Chaplain for Carson Fire Department. Two nights ago two fire-trucks came down our road and stopped at one of our neighbors who told me that he had smelled propane gas; three of the firefighters I knew. The wind was blowing at lot and one firefighter told me he thought it might be a brush fire. It was then that I noticed I still had on the bottoms of my PJs. I has been taking a nap when Connie woke me and told me she heard sirens...so I jumped out of bed, put on a pair of socks and sneakers and from there, jumped into my car...Oh well, at least I was there. Looking ahead to the winter months; we'll be using our wood stove a lot. Already up in Moravia NY there is a lot of snow and windy conditions. Val and her sisters post back and forth on Fb and so I keep informed. I close this blog with hopes that I will one day have written a book. You know, everyone has a story to tell, I do and you do too. Perhaps someday people will read about people like us; as we have read about people in our past.

Everyone has a story to tell

One year as I was driving to Newport News for our annual trip for Thanksgiving with some of my family; our daughter Allie was riding with me.

As we turned to go the back way on back roads which eventually led us to the James River Bridge...we were passing some old farms, with lots of land, and a dirt road leading back to the farm house, barns and equipment.  We also drove past houses which looked like shacks, when children playing outside, dogs running around them..and a few chickens next to an old car resting on sider blocks.

I said to Allie, "Just think Allie, there's a story behind every door we pass".  She nodded her head and kept watching the scenery as we passed by.

This is where I first thought about the simple truth that everyone has a story to tell.

Since the Creation and life was born. God gave Adam and Eve a garden; the Garden of Eden.  God told them "Feed and tend this Garden"  It was theirs, they owned it and from then on Man is responsible for all of God's Creation.

So everything that was created has it's own story to tell.  Whether it be the fish in the seas or the beast in the field...even the trees that grow....they all have their story to tell.  It's a story of life.

Much of life isn't good.  The raw side of life is where things are "used".  From the times of slavery to the many wars...shame spread like a whirlwind....tearing apart lives and leaving little hope.

That's where God decided to save his Creation.  Just as a person might salvage an old car; work on it for years.  Replace the motor, the seats...a good paint job...and finally starts it up and drives down Main Street...everybody watches and can't believe that old car has been perfectly restored.

That man had to work a long time to salvage that old car.

God started right away to restore all living things.  There was a groan where all creation groaned to be delivered from the down-ward fall...to hope that someone could help them, heal them, make them like new again.

So there was a man from Nazareth; born of a virgin...named Mary.  A normal boy who over time found Himself on a mission so great, that only His loving Father could fill Jesus with the Father's pure love.  That love gave Jesus the strength to call twelve disciples, who walked with Him for over three years.  They were common men.  Most of them fishermen....common like most of us.  If Jesus could train the twelve, He would leave them with the mission of continuing His mission.

His story is the Greatest Story ever told.  After Jesus's death on a cross, placed in a tomb for three days...but that love of His Father was the only power that could break the power of death and Jesus was raised out from the grave....and some of the women first knew about this...and they had a great story to tell His disciples.  At first they didn't believe.  But Jesus Himself came to them and showed them His hands and feet "Come here Phillip, thrust your hand in my side, see my hands and my feet" and Phillip said, "My Lord and my God".

This is the story of the Risen Christ.  This story has been told to million of people all over the world.  In this story there is Life to the believing soul.

It's a story anyone of you can tell.  "Believe in your heart that Jesus Christ was raised from the dead...then you too can be salvaged"

Yes, everyone has a story to tell.  That means you, and you...all of us.  So tell your own story, it's yours, you are important, and you are loved.

ARLO TODD & FAMILY

Leo was a Barber down in Groton, NY and his Barber Shop was down at the North end Main Street. I remember there was a Hotel on the corner and I had to climb wooden steps to Leo's place. He had a good business for himself with the Smith-Corona Factory in town lots of men and young boys like myself would have Leo cut our hair. He charged $1.00 per haircut. Even on days where only a handful of customers came in...he would make about $10.00 a day...on Fridays and Saturdays he could pocket up to $25.00. No matter how much Leo made for one day, he would always stop at a Tavern on his way home. He drank red wine. A good size tumbler of red wine costs 50 cents. When he finished drinking his red wine he drove back up that steep hill and would arrive home late and usually full of red wine. Alma was our School Teacher in a one-room School House just about 1/4 a mile where they lived. She didn't make much money, but it was enough to buy groceries for the whole family. Arlo was my best friend. That doesn't mean that we hung out together much; both being farm boys there was little time to play. Arlo was the "black sheep" of the family. They would cuss at him and call him names and demand that he do something for them. I felt sorry for Arlo. When we did have the chance to be together he always treated me very well. He was awkward and skinny. When I was over there at their farm Arlo would show me where they kept their cans of milk. They were in deep cold water until a man came with his truck and took them to be bottled and ready to deliver. In that cold water his father kept a bottle of red wine. Arlo would pull it out take the cork out of the top and take a sip, then hand it to me and I would take a sip. "Not too much John...don't want the old man noticing...." Sometimes we walked down to Groton. There was a movie house down there and in the afternoon they would play a movie. It only cost 10 cents to get in; back then they had "intermissions" and people would walk down a flight of stairs to use the bathrooms and to smoke cigarettes. There was a container there with sand in it and they would just take their cigarettes and push them down a little but into the sand. That's were Arlo would go and pick all this cigarettes out of the sand and fill his pockets with them. That's how I first learned to smoke cigarettes. Even along the side of the road we would look and find some half-smoked ones...always on a look out. I must have been between 8-10 years old. Arlo finally went to High School in Groton and when he did he saw a cousin of mine; Leona Senecal. He really fell for Leona. Arlo was so shy he hardly said a word to her. Larry, Arlo's brother also took a shine to Leona, and by golly he purposed to her and she married Larry. Larry Todd was a good farmer. He and Arlo did all the work on their father's farm. Larry bought a place of his own; it was up toward Grotto. He had some milk cows, fields for growing wheat, corn and oats. Many of those fields would supply enough hay to last through the cold winters. Arlo joined the Navy. Once when Arlo was home on leave he and Larry went out drinking. Being in the Navy Arlo knew how to drink...Larry not so much. They were driving between places that sold boose and a train was coming and Arlo tried to beat the train racing to cross the tracks before the train came by...he didn't make it. Larry died in that crash, Arlo didn't. Larry and Leona had a number of children. Arlo began to write to Leona and would visit her when we came home on and later on she married Arlo. They moved somewhere in Flordia, close to were near a Naval Base. I have no idea where they are now. But this is what I remember, so far. I'll write again and fill in the blanks.

The Ideal Church

I think we all know the difference between a church building and who is the real church.  There have been some beautiful cathedrals in many places across our globe.  Some of the dating back many centuries.  They draw crowds of people and they view the splendor of many ancient artists who have sculpted, painted, and laid the vast array of stone-work which was often commissioned by Kings, Popes, and Governments.

Thousands of worshippers would attend those services; some just to pray.  Many would receive Holy Communion and listen to a short homily. Rich is our history of such buildings.

The success of churches has always been that they drew people in to worship.  To worship in 'that church' was an honor, a tradition and a duty.

In today's time; American's have also built mega-churches with TV broadcasts, state of the art music and precision of filling the whole program with well-know people and it's like attending a great assembly of believers with hymns that are sung with their whole hearts.

The smaller churches are mostly denominational churches.  They too have their traditions, their formal experience of almost always doing the same thing every Sunday Morning Worship Service.  They have their own schools where they train their own clergy; and being faithful to their denomination gives them a sense of fellowship and pulling together for the furtherance of their denomination.  This means: missions, periodicals sent to all their churches and usually a calendar to show what date certain events will happen for all their churches.

Biblical ideas of the Early Church are studied, but since cultures have changed over time, usually most of what they did back then, doesn't apply now.

There should be one constant denominator for all churches and Christians everywhere;  to focus on serving our Lord and sharing His love to all those we come in contact with, and to truly love them more than we care for our traditions, church buildings and differences in denominational doctrines.

The challenge for Christians in the future is to be able to communicate with up-coming generations.  Not to be afraid to try something different that will answer their needs. 

There is no substitute for people who care about others.  For people who look out their car windows as they drive to church and to see real people out there...being compassionate and desirous to learn more about them.  To pray for them; to stop and talk to some of them.  To make some new friends, even if they don't go to our church.

A voice cried out "The harvest to truly great, but the laborers are few, who will come and help us with this harvest?"

A person shouted back, "Here I am Lord, send me!"

Short Stories

                                            EARLY MEMORIES

The house and farm land my father named "Jake's Acre's".  It was about three miles from the little Village of Groton, New York.  Nice two-storied home, a barn, and a fenced in pasture with a little creek running at the south end of the pasture.

The yard was fronted by a line of maple trees and a dirt road went south if a person turned left off from Pleasant Valley Road.  Going west a steep hill were Pleasant Valley road continued and a small farm was on the top of that hill, and Mr. Kirk lived there by himself, with a couple of cows, some chickens and one pig in a pig pen.

Sunday's was the time when both my father and mother would cook us a big dinner.  Usually a roast was placed on top of the stove, and they also peeled potatoes, made a green salad, and took the drippings from the roast to make a nice gravy.

They loved each other.  They laughed together and smiled at each other, hardly paying any attention to their four children.

It was not long after that, my mother began to act as though she heard voices.  Finally she was sent to Willard State Hospital.  Some times she would come home for a couple of weeks, but my father began drinking a lot because he was so worried about her and their children.

I can remember him coming home and laying on the couch and weeping.  Our mother would call a friend, Howard Holland, who knew Dad, he would come down and settle Dad down.  But as time went by, my mother would return to the State Hospital more and more.  But now there was my brother Mike, and my little sister Mary Louise.

Dad had to split us up.  Joanne was close to a teacher, named Mrs. Jenks, so she went to Tenn. to live with her.  Grace, me, Victor, and Mike went to live with Dad's parents, Mr. and Mrs. Erve Romaine.  Mary Louise would go to Auburn and live with the Murphy family.

Grace was the first to be married and she and her husband, Louis LePage lived upstairs over his mother's home on the corner of Peruville Road, and the road that led into Groton, New York.

Dad continued to drink a lot; so worried about his wife, and would come home late at night and leave early the next morning to work down at the Smith-Corona Typewriter Factory in Groton.  Some times we would walk down and in the summer, after swimming in the Groton swimming pool and then walk over to the factory, climb a hill and wave to get our father's attention.  He worked on the fourth floor, near the window, and when he saw us, he would drop down some change so we could buy some time to drink and to eat.  People would ask when they came out the front gate at quitting time, "Who are those children?"  "Oh, they're Vic Romaine's children..."  But when he did come out, we would swarm around him, and  olwalk quickly over behind a garage where he kept his car.

We found out that Dad had a girl-friend.  Her name was Harriet Keller and he told us they were going to be married.  After they wedding, Joanne came home and Victor and Mike moved to Moravia and lived at the nice home on 53 Central Street.  I stayed with my grand parents, on that old farm a few miles outside of Groton, New York.
,
I was up early each morning, go to the barn and help milk the five cows.  They before breakfast, clean out the gutters behind the cows, and also shovel the horse manure behind the two work horses.  Breakfast, change clothes and walk down to a one-room school house where Alma Todd was our teacher.

There came a day when my father asked his mother if it would be fine with them if I moved down to Moravia and lived with his new wife and my other siblings.  One day Dad drove into the old farm's driveway and waiting for me to come out, carrying what few clothes I had, and just as I was starting to close the door of the car, my grand father leaned over his wife's shoulder and said, "After all I've done for you, is that what I get for it?"

I did move into the nice home on 53 Central Street.  Not having to awaken early each day of the week and go to the barn and milk my one cow, clean the gutters out...go to school and come back and do the same thing in the evening was a sudden change of culture for me.  I went out for sports.  I delighted in being short and very fast on my feet; all three sports.

Dad came home one evening and told me that his mother had asked him if I would come and help her husband put up the hay in that old barn that summer.  I took it.  This was my opportunity to make things right with my grand father.
So that summer, though it was awkward at first, we did enjoy working together once again.

When I went to the barn early in the morning, he would already be milking cows.  I looked and saw my old milk stole he had made for me.  But no pail.  I walked back into the old farm house, opened the cellar door, and hanging up on a nail it was there.  I took it off that nail and walked back into the barn, pulled up the old milk stole and began to milk the cow I had milked for many years.

When I had finished milking, I hung my milk pail on the same scale we had used for many years.  This would should how much milk was in the pail.  I jotted down on a small pad of paper the weight, poured the milk through a little piece of linen into the milk can.  I left the cap of that can open and waited until Granddad had finished his milking and just poured milk into the milk can.  He didn't weigh his, now it all belonged to him.

When the haying season was over Dad picked me up after work, and waving goodbye to both of my grand parents, Dad drove us back home to 53 Central Street, Moravia, New York.

P.S.  During lunch time, granddad always took a nap.  I would walk down through the fields to a tree near a hedge row, and just sit there thinking about the years we had plowed. seeded and harvested those fields.  I also was waiting for a letter from a friend how had gone off to college, finally one day there was a letter in the mail box addressed to me.  I read it and reread it often.  Now I wished I had saved that letter.  It was worth waiting for.

Finding the Right Mixtures.

 Finding the  Right Mixtures

whether we are looking for the right mixtures of words, or of people, or of talents, that takes a certain amount of insight into all of those factors.

Take for instance the right mixtures of words.  Accomplished writers are able to use words which stimulate emotions, images and mix them into a delight story about, say a visit to an old person who lived on a farm when the writer was just about over, and then a small boy was sent over by his father to ask the old farmer if he could borrow his one horse for a couple of days. 

His first glance of this elderly man came when he least expected it, he was walking up the elderly man's open barn door early one morning, the old man was astride the old gutter where he cows emptied their urine and big plops of cow mature and the old farmer, instead of using the old out house located down a path quite a ways from their old farm house, that was too far for him on a cold winter's morning, and besides the barn was warm, and there were amble hands of straw that he could use instead of an old Sear's catalogue, that his wife used when she went out there each morning before fixing their breakfast.

Well, the young lad, only had a glance of him, who was just finishing up, pulling up his over-all, and bringing his suspended over both shoulders, he had finished his morning routine.

So the young lad breathed a sign of relief that the elderly farmer hadn't noticed him.  The young lad had been sent over by his father to see if the to ask the elderly man if he could borrow his one horse for the morning, to start to plow one-half an acre of land for their garden in the spring.  He then, knowing it was safe to knock on the barn door, and wait for the old farmer to ask him who was there.

The young lad, hesitated and blurted out as quickly as he could what his father was requesting.  The old farmer  then opened hid barn door and looked at the young lad, and smiled a little bit, and said to him, come on into the barn, it's too cold out there to talk about this.

So the young lad slowly pushed through the slightly open barn door, and first he notices a lantern was still hanging from a small chain from one of the rafter is the ceiling, and it cast a warm glow down upon them both.

They both took a few moments to take in what they saw.  "My, this  little young man is skinny as a rail, and doesn't have nearly enough clothes to be out in the cold this early in the morning., maybe I should invite him inside our house, Maggie will have breakfast ready, and I am sure she would enjoy what is going on here. (Better now for her to see it, then for me to try to explain it later, she would be more likely to understand exactly what this young boy looks like, wearing not enough cloths for such a bitter winter morning).

Just as some people spend their entire lives listening to and playing music; others labor over rebuilding an engine which doesn't run anymore.  Some like to read books or go to the movies and can't wait to read the next "People" magazine.  Then there are some that just like words; fascinated by the sound of different words and how people speak different languages with strange sounding words just rolling off their tongues.  How some people long to put together a story that becomes a best seller and then they can say, "I make my living by writing novels".

Then he begins a new book and writes about a young lad and an elderly man, but the publisher rejected it and wrote him a note saying, "I was expecting some better writing from you!"  So the writer spent many years thinking about a good topic to write about and finally settled on his own desire to become a famous writer.  But before he could finish the book, he suddenly died of a heart attack.  His family found the manuscript and sent it off to the publisher and it became a classic work of art because the book was snatched up as soon as it came out and it made millions of dollars for the family of the writer of that book.

Later the family found more manuscripts but they left them in a drawer upstairs in an old house that caught fire and burned to the ground.

Making Ready for Winter in Upstate New York

When the winter months come in upstate NY., the weather can change very suddenly.  I saw large dark clouds looming over in the western part of the sky.  Soon the wind picked up and little snow flurries began to fall out of the sky.

Next the wind stiffened and now the snow was coming down hard, looking to me as if it was falling sideways and the wind turned very cold.

I'm grateful that we had already nailed some tar-paper along the bottom of the house and stacked big rocks on the bottom edge of the black tar-paper.  There were bails of straw left over from the fall harvest and we pulled a few of them up to where we hade placed the big rocks.

Scattering the straw over the big rocks, the straw settled down between the big rocks.  Now as the heavy snow was continuing to fall, the snow covered the straw and even drifted up against the tar-paper.

So when we went into the deep cellar we could no longer feel that cold wind from the west.  We had stacked a lot of good dry wood along the other side, against the wall which was made out of just hardened dirt.  Nothing like good old dirt to lean all that dry wood against and now it was time to start the furnace down in the cellar; first some chips of wood which were from the woodshed, nice and dry and just great for starting a little fire in the furnace.

Soon, those chips were blazing red flames, and it was time to throw a couple of pieces of that dry wood into the furnace and slowly they would catch fire and so one of us closed the door to the furnace and knew we could wait until after we milked out cows and did other chores, after a good supper, it was time to go back down into the cellar and open the furnace door and take a couple shovels of coal, throw them all around the embers of all that burning dry wood; that would last all night long.   The heat came up through three open floor registers, and one open floor register that let some warm air into my upstairs bedroom.

Early in the morning I could hear my grand father moving about, putting on his winter long johns, his overalls, and finally his heavy shoes.  I would roll out of my bed and notice that my room was so cold I would shiver when I dressed in my warmest clothes I had, slip on a pair of boots, and quickly tip-toe down the stairs (didn't want to wake up me grand mother yet) and then hurried out to our barn, opened the barn door and when I went inside that old barn, it was so nice and warm where the cows had slept all night long.

By the time we finished milking the cows and finishing up our other chores, we would both walk through the woodshed and taking off our boots/heavy shoes, we went inside to the smell of hot coffee, seeing my grand mother up and busily fixing our breakfast.  Our kitchen was small, but in addition to the wood cooking stove, there was a small table, my grand parents sat facing each other, and I sat down at the bottom of that kitchen table.  The floors in that old farm house had settled do much, that were I sat down to eat, my chair was much lower than my grand parents chairs.  But I still was able to sit up straight and eat some toast and cooked oat meal.  I poured real milk on my bowl of oat meal and then sprinkled some brown sugar on top of it all.  Taking my spoon I would stir the brown sugar, milk and oat meal together, now that was real good eating; hot, sweet and enough energy to keep me all morning.

About 7:30 in the morning a yellow school bus pulled up in front of that old farm house, I would climb on and away we would go, down to school in Groton, New York,

With a paper bag filled with a couple of molasses cookies, a couple slices of home-made bread...perhaps someone would give me part of the pint-sized carton of milk they some times did, they couldn't finish all of it.  I never felt hungry nor embarrassed when the town kids would laugh at me (we didn't have a nickel to buy that pint-sized carton of milk) but that was just fine by me, I just smiled at them and finished eating my lunch.

Looking back on those early years of my life, those memories of how we all just kept doing what we were doing, always bowed our heads for a few words of thanksgiving, and usually smiled a lot because we just knew that up the road there were some folks who didn't have it as good as we did.

No, life isn't about how well off we are in terms of money and fine foods, it's more about memories like these which keep me thankful for the simplicity of poor farm folk, and to think of the generations before them, I just can't imagine how they managed to stay alive; but they did because my grand parents also had grand parents.