How to Survive a Hurricane

First, you need to batten down the hatches, because anything that isn’t heavy enough, or tied to something heavy enough, will blow away. Case in point: we have two trash cans. The one that is currently filled with trash has stayed put in our carport. The one that was empty has blown into the fish pond. I hope the fish (who were otherwise unaffected by the brouhaha) have not sustained any casualties on account of this.

Sally Solara, in her raincoat

We also put car covers on our two convertibles. The more elderly (and most concerning) is our 63 VW. But we have recently acquired Sally Solara, who now has a raincoat of her own.

But when you have finally done all that you can to prepare for the hurricane, it is pretty boring to sit in the house listening to the wind blowing figuratively about your ears, while the rain is coming down at a 45-degree angle. What can you say about this hurricane? Much has already been said on all your local news stations about the fearsomeness of "Frankenstorm."

But from a personal standpoint, wind, rain, gee I hope the roof doesn’t blow off – and you’re done.

Nothing would do but for us to put on our boots and raincoats, and venture outside with our camera, because we needed to make the story personal. Being at the moment snug inside my house, and content to have hot water and electricity, I tried convincing Eric that he should just go outside and take some random pictures. But he thought we should do this “together”. Eventually, “together” meant Kathy standing at the top of the path into the woods, and Eric standing in the woods with the camera, and refusing to come out when Kathy wanted him to.

I kept thinking about the tree we heard falling in the woods earlier, with a rather resounding “crack,” and had visions of another tree falling on Eric, whence the trepidations.

But all was good. Not being successful at luring Eric out of his woodland lair, I grumbled to myself a bit, and then went back into the house, where I awaited the delivery of a photo chip full of pictures. So much for doing it “together.” Wasn't this my original plan?

(Philosophical rabbit trail: many things in marriage are supposed to be “together” but many of them end up apart. Not always a bad thing.)

This is a picture of the water, which had pooled in our back yard, finally running across the asphalt pathway, into the woods. I have to admit, in the 20 years we have lived in this house, this is the biggest pond we have had in our back yard.

Our sidewalk/spillway

And a close-up of leaves being swept across the path. If they were sensate beings, they would at this moment in time be experiencing a feeling of doom and inevitability.

Eventually, Eric came into the house with a photo chip filled with at least 60 photographs. This is what happens when you do something “together.” Suddenly, the proposition becomes a two-headed monster, and I have more artfully-photographed pictures of leaves and water than I know what to do with. But this is a good problem to have.

This is me, at the top of the path, having conflicting thoughts. The first one is “Oh HELL no, I’m not going down that path!” The second one is “If I went down that path, Eric and I would be ‘together’.” The third thought is “If I go down that path, I will never get back up,” succeeded by “Why won’t Eric come out, and be with me?” Shortly after that, I tired of standing in the wind and rain, and went into the house.

It is ironic that our neighborhood is named “The Heights,” because we live at a low point - literally, not figuratively. There is a culvert that runs beneath the common area in back of our house, collects run-off, and discharges it into a creek in the woods. From thence, it becomes part of Great Seneca Creek, which runs into the Potomac, flows past the majesty that is Washington, DC, and thence into the Atlantic. I could make pronouncements here about “no man is an island,” or otherwise blather on about how all rivers run to the sea, but I will spare you.

It’s not exactly Niagara Falls, but it’s ours.

When the kids were small, we would descend this path into the woods and hike around. Especially in the winter, after a snowfall, we would hike down to our own small stream that eventually becomes Great Seneca Creek.

We would tramp around in the woods until we became cold and tired, and then retire to the house for hot chocolate.

Today, however, the path was covered in leaves and water ran down its length, making it resemble a slip-‘n’-slide.

 

The House of God: Mystery and Light

When I have the pleasure of being in a cathedral, I am amazed at the spiritual profundity of the experience. The patina of holiness is expected in the cathedrals of Europe. Washington, DC has its own cathedral, which although a newcomer to the cathedral business (being built in the 20th century) has much the same effect upon me as the great cathedrals of Europe.

This revelation came to me during two recent visits of my sister-in-law, Beth, who is an Episcopal priest, when she requested that we accompany her to worship at the National Cathedral. It was a profound experience.

This past Sunday, I woke up with the intention of going to the National Cathedral for church again, and Eric opted into my plans. Due to logistical problems with our departure from our house, we walked into church just as the processional was starting, and squeaked into a back row. Happily, this gave us a more comprehensive view of the congregation and the nave.

There is a lot of diversity among attendees of the National Cathedral's services, often including tour groups visiting from out of town. This Sunday a group of five people were seated a few rows ahead of us. They seemed to be related, all adults, ranging in age from their 20s to senior citizens. During the hymns, they would raise their hands in old-school charismatic style, and they joined hands during the Lord's prayer. Observing the relationships of those seated ahead of me deepened my own feelings of fellowship as we passed the peace, and progressed through the liturgy.

I was not too concerned with following the liturgy closely, or even singing during all the hymns. I was trying to soak up whatever it was I was feeling in this place. During my youth, we made much of such statements as "The Church is not a building," or "Saying you're a Christian because you attend church is like saying you are a car because you spend time in a garage." Yes, the Church is the people - but bypassing the entire question of what makes one a "Christian," I will say that there are places - buildings - that are the abode of holiness, dedicated to the glory of God. Walking into such a place, even when services are not going on, one feels the mystery of God's presence. I won't try to explain this capital-M "Mystery".

After the service, I wandered about the sanctuary, looking at the stained glass windows, and observing the way the light flowed through them, illuminating the stone walls and the floor. I was entranced, not by looking at the windows themselves, but at how the light transformed other objects.

Light is merely light. According to my junior high school science teacher, one cannot see light, until it hits a physical object which reflects it. Rays of light are merely light hitting dust motes or water vapor, because for light to be manifested, it needs to strike a physical object. In the case of these divinely inspired windows, the light is manifested by whatever else it falls upon.

Stone gray walls dance in a riot of color, Window frames are illuminated in gold. The aisles running the length of the nave become a journey from one window to another, from glory to glory.

Social Sheepishness

Today, I logged onto my Twitter account and read this:

"While I was sleeping a few days ago a shepherd in Uzbekistan logged onto the internet, created a Facebook account and then took a photo of his favourite sheep to become the 1 billionth person on the planet to join Facebook."

I was boggled. To think that technology has reached so far into third-world countries that such a thing is even possible; and to realize that the front edge of the technological envelope has moved way past me now. What might the Next Big Thing be?

Many rage against the social web and the predominant role it plays in our lives. It is an invasive new digital dimension overlaid on our "analog" lives. Although there are some guidelines of etiquette, or best practices we wish people would follow, they are not observed by everyone. Sometimes even Yours Truly slips up and gets over-reactive. This is what happens when we are physically separated from those with whom we are interacting.

(I have observed this as the manager of a helpdesk, where my career has been for the past several years. An irate caller feels free to be nasty and impolite to the hapless analyst who answers the phone because they are not interacting face-to-face. If the same conversation were happening with both parties in close physical proximity, it would be quite different.)

Irrespective of our drive to share photos of our favorite sheep, there are some unpleasant things about interacting with other humans over a digital medium.

In our country (as in many in the Western world), we give lip service to the idea of freedom of speech. Or I may do so only until an opinion diametrically opposed to my own comes streaming down my Timeline. Because I can't avoid the assault of these different ideas (short of de-friending or blocking someone), I'm uncomfortable. This discomfort becomes amplified when people aren't considerate about how they share their opinions. And it all becomes much noisier during an election year.

Quite apart from politics, religion, or other issues that normally divide people, there is another concern with the issue of privacy. If I'm putting information about myself, my activities, my opinions, my family, and my sheep out in a very public place, how can I be sure that, someone with an uncontrollable desire for lamb chops isn't salivating at that picture of my favorite sheep? Don't they have better things to do with their time? Don't I have better things to do with mine?

On the plus side of the ledger, our Uzbeki shepherd may be reconnected with his old friend who is also a shepherd. Because they are out in the fields so much, they don't have time to socialize much with anyone but sheep. They create a Facebook group, called "Men who raise sheep", where they can share anecdotes about their favorite sheep, and best practices for taking care of the health of their wooly charges. If this is an open group, shepherds from all over the world may find it, and contribute further knowledge. Since Uzbekistan is a very unique part of the world, they might find out other things about that country.

(For instance, in the process of writing this blog, I have found out that Uzbekistan is one of only two double-landlocked countries in the entire world, the other being Liechtenstein.)

What a wonderful thing! My life has been enriched today simply by becoming aware of this simple shepherd who has embraced technology. What have you learned? Keep your eyes open, and your mind open to the wonderful uniqueness of those around you!

Letters

I am the possessor of a pile of letters written between my mother and my grandmother. My parents and I were in California, because my father was in the Army, and I was a mere babe. These letters open a window on life as it was then, and the precious relationships between family members.

There is a smaller box of letters that Eric and I sometimes encounter when looking for something in the unfinished part of our basement. It is a stack of love letters, written to each other when he and I were engaged to be married, but geographically separated. Reading them gives us a sickening feeling in the pits of our stomachs, as we try to convert the syrupy words into "what the heck was I thinking when I wrote this?" Was it even English? Apparently it was... very passionate English, spiced with hormones, and punctuated with the desperation of two young people in love, but separated by miles.

How long has it been since you have written a letter, or even a note, on paper, and sent it through "snail-mail"? Even if you didn't hand-write a letter, but printed it out via computer, and put a paper copy into an envelope, you may count that. I have to confess that it has been years for me. Aside from Christmas newsletters, I can't even remember the last time I sent a hard copy of a letter to a friend.

(Parenthetically, I must add here that my handwriting is chicken scratch, and I would hate to inflict it on anyone I call a friend.)

Now, we have email, Facebook, Twitter, text messages, and other forms of electronic communication. We blurt words out in small soundbytes as quickly and thoughtlessly as we can type. How many times have you spouted an angsty, off-the-cuff thought, and hit send? Your hastily-conceived thoughts and feelings fly out into the ether, causing chain-reactions among the recipients. Then they are lost on the social web. Have you ever tried finding someone's witty (or offensive) post after a few days have passed? If someone is a relatively frequent Facebooker, Tweeter, or Whatever-er, a given post is quickly lost in the vapor trail of electronic effluvia that is the social web.

The Urban Dictionary defines "blogosphere" as: "Imagine a million lunatics wandering the streets mumbling to themselves. Write it all down and put it on the web. Congratulations, you've just created the blogosphere."

When archeologists unearth clay or stone tablets, they obtain clues about the lives and beliefs of earlier civilizations. One such discovery, the Rosetta Stone, helped us decipher ancient Egyptian hieroglyphics. Portions of the Bible were written on parchment and papyrus, and then stored in clay jars in the caves of Qumran. Birth and death records all over the world are used by family genealogists to help them trace their family history.

What would happen if all of those things didn't exist? For instance, I am not leaving any records of my life for my children. When I shuffle off this mortal coil, the words and thoughts that I have committed to electronic media will not exist in a physical form, but in bits and bytes in the blogosphere. What words can or should I be leaving them? What of myself - the essence of who I am - can I bequeath them? How will they know who their mother really was, as my image slowly fades from their memories over the years?

Or thinking in larger scale about future civilizations, how will they discover the genuine identity of the human race of 2012? Will they have to try and resurrect us from the corroded hard drives that will be the remnants of the Internet?

People and Places

            I get a little melancholy at strange times. I have noticed lately that when I’m at a place where I have spent time with a loved one I associate the place with them. If they are far away from me, being in that place without them makes me sad. When Jeannie was living in Dupont Circle, I used to love to go down into the city and spend a random few hours with her. She is largely responsible for introducing me to the city around that area, and taking the fear out of it. Most of the time that I have lived in the Washington, DC suburbs, I have been the country girl who has to live in the suburbs, because she doesn’t feel comfortable in the city. I have needed my green space, or the feeling that if I needed to, I could escape into the country.

            When Eric and I were first married, I actually worked downtown for the first year and a half. This was in the business district, at about 17^th and M. I could easily make the trek down there via either a Metrobus, or Metro itself, if Eric would give me a lift to the closest station. But my experience of the city was very narrow. Riding the Metro or the bus in to DC was a little like hopping into a rabbit hole in Montgomery County, and then popping up at a preordained location in the city. And I didn’t really go much more than 2 blocks in any direction from 17^th and M. My life was in the suburbs, and the city still scared me.

            But Jeannie’s comfort level with the city broke me in to its charms. If you stayed in Northwest, and were with someone else, even at night, you were probably just as safe in the city as in the burbs.

            So we would poke about the Dupont area, and occasionally diverge to Adams Morgan. But recently, when I went to Dupont Circle for another social engagement, I found myself gripped with sudden sadness. Jeannie had moved to Atlanta (for grad school), and Dupont Circle seemed to have lost its soul. It was definitely not the same without Jeannie.

When I was in Southern Illinois for Labor Day weekend, I drove back and forth between Carbondale and Zeigler a lot. I always chose the route that goes through Desoto, Hurst-Bush, and Royalton. I told Eric that that way was shorter, and quicker, but the real reason I chose that route was that it was the route that my mother, father, and I always drove between Zeigler and Carbondale. Driving on those roads always brings those times back to me. Life was simpler, and my world was different. It didn’t hold the fears that my present complex world holds. The world was a safer place – or perhaps I was unaware of many of its perils.

Driving from Zeigler to Carbondale, or the reverse put me in that world of 30-plus years ago. I could pretend that people who have been long-gone were at the end of the trip. When I drove back to Carbondale, Jose would still be there in her old apartment, and we could have deep, philosophical conversations about religion and politics.

In my daydream, Grandma and Daddy were at the end of the road to Zeigler, in our old house on Wilcox Avenue, and the rest of my family were still there, all together. The house was surrounded by Grandma’s roses, hydrangeas, and irises, and the red-bud and maple trees were still shading the median space between our driveway and the Vaughns’. The sweet gum tree still towered in our back yard. Aunt Katie and Uncle Lloyd awaited our visit on Maple Street, and if it was Sunday, Grandma Smith and Uncle Lyle would have Sunday dinner ready in their house on Ohio Street. If it was evening when we would enter the city limits of Zeigler, we would travel up Wilcox Avenue, and the fountain could be seen sparkling on the circle. Perhaps Mrs. Patton’s ice cream stand was open, and all our friends and neighbors were up there; people we hadn’t seen in years calling us by name and greeting us with a smile. And our night would end with the sound of cool air passing through upstairs windows, and the song of the night bugs whirring and chirping a lullaby so that we could sleep. And the following morning would be bright and full of promise, with life stretching out before us like a golden road.

The Front Porch

I’m a transplanted Midwesterner, from the region that calls itself “The Heartland,” not only because it is in the center of the country, but because Midwesterners are warm, friendly people. The majority of the houses in the small, rural town where I grew up have front porches. Here in the East, there seem to be front porches on some houses, but on closer inspection, many are only cosmetic, or borderline functional. It is rare to see people actually sitting there, in the cool of a summer evening.

The front porch of my childhood was not simply a decorative appendage to our house, but during the warmer months, it was an extra room. I used to like to sit there when a storm was blowing in, and even during the rain. Our house had no air conditioning, and usually the 100+ degree temperature hung about for a solid couple of weeks in the middle of summer. It was important to take advantage of every draft of cool air when it came. I would watch the rain drench our front yard, my grandmother’s rosebush and the climbing roses on the trellis. Oftentimes our dog would join us there, cooling his belly on the concrete. When the wind gusted, a fine spray would hit us. No air conditioner could rival that sensation. No air freshener could match the scent of the rain-washed air.

My other grandmother, who also lived in my home town, used her front porch for entertaining. When the family went to her house, we would spill out onto the porch in the evening, and swing with leisurely pushes, listening to the friendly creak of the swing’s chains against the metal hooks which joined it to the porch ceiling. If the mosquitoes weren’t too bad, we would stay out there well after dark, listening to the whippoorwills in the nearby fields, and watching the fireflies.

A porch was a good place from which to monitor social activity. You could wave and speak to others who were taking their evening walks, and if they were inclined, they would stroll over and have a brief conversation. It was neighborly. Everyone knew everyone else, and not to speak as others passed would be rude.

When I got married and moved to the mid-Atlantic region, I noticed that houses around here didn’t have porches – more houses had decks. And those were in the back of the house, not a good place from which to wave to neighbors, assuming that you even knew them. And the backyard of a house was often surrounded by a “privacy fence.” I sensed a sudden cultural shift.

If I’m secluded in the back of my house, I’m not expected to partake in the life of the surrounding community. I don’t care about who might be walking in front of my house. I probably don’t even know them.

Ironically, my present house has neither a front porch nor a deck, but as a person, I’m persuaded that my life has a big front porch, and I’d love to invite people come up and “set a spell.” It’s the neighborly thing to do.

Living for the Lord

United Methodist Church, Zeigler, Illinois

Note: This blog was originally written in January of 2010, and I'm republishing it here in my new blog.

Just when I think I’m comfortable with my own level of spirituality, I meet old friends who make me question what the heck I’m doing. They don’t state it that way, of course. They are just being their old sweet selves, but the fact that they seem so certain about what they believe, and they seem so much the same as they ever were makes me question my own ever-present questioning state of mind.

I have just come out of a period of deep spiritual distress. I was unsure about many things regarding my own spirituality, and whether I could even continue to call myself a Christian . That is “Christian” in the sense of being a rather garden-variety conservative Christian.

Several of my views on the basic precepts of what I would consider traditional Christianity have changed. One of them is the idea of heaven and hell. The first question is, do they exist? My eventual conclusion was: yes, and no.

Does the self continue in some form after this life is over? I do believe in some kind of afterlife, although what that is like is something I have a difficult time conceptualizing. The first reason I believe that there is an afterlife is that it would be intolerable for me to believe that this life is all there is, and that I will not see those that I love on the “other side.” Secondly, the strength of my own self awareness convinces me that something of myself must continue, even after this physical body stops to function.

This is all very subjective, I know.

Heaven and hell, and their existence? After a lifetime of attending churches that believe in a literal hell, and much painful deliberation, I believe that a loving God, whom I believe I know well, wouldn’t send his beloved creations to hell. I have been exposed to a very diverse cross-section of the human race, and many people who are not Christians, but who are members of other faiths. These are very devout and morally good people. For them, the way to God is not through Jesus, as it is for me. I believe that they still have a relationship with God, and they are pursuing righteousness in the way that they have been taught. That does not equal a one-way ticket to hell. Does hell exist? It may, but I don’t think that I know anyone who is going there.

My spiritual journey so far has resulted in my finally ending up as a member of a very non-judgmental church, that lets people be themselves spiritually, within the context of “belief in Christ as your savior.” It doesn’t try to tell them whether or not women should be in the ministry, or whether it is a sin to be gay. In short, it doesn’t take any other socio-political stands, because that is not the business of the church. And I very much agree with this position. I’m comfortable to be a plain old Christian in this church, and believe what I have come to believe.

On to the next part of my conundrum: those people I have encountered recently from my past spiritual existence who have said things that have again made me question myself.

The most recent was when Sarah and I were having a mother-daughter date on Boxing Day. We were killing time in Barnes and Noble, waiting to go to a movie, when I recognized someone from one of our old churches. I can only characterize our time at this church as an “okay” time. We were transitioning, via a merge, into a new church, and our beloved pastor was backing away from his former ministry, and going on to the next phase of what he felt God was calling him to.

Debbie and her husband, Steve, had four children, starting at about the age of our youngest. When I said hi to her in B&N, at first Debbie didn’t even remember me, which was in itself a strange thing. But even stranger was her way of asking how we were doing? “Still living for the Lord?” she asked. Now, that set me back on my heels. I know that Sarah was feeling the same way. Living for the Lord. My outward response was, “Sure!” but my inward one was “WTF! Who else would I be living for?“ What did Debbie expect? For us to say that we were shameless backsliders, who no longer believed?

Living for the Lord. What is it exactly? I think that is something we each have to decide for ourselves. She may have thought she knew what it was… and maybe she did know what it was, for herself. I think I know what it is for myself. But chances are (and I would be willing to bet on this!) that we would not have the same answer.

This chance meeting notwithstanding, Debbie was not, and is not a close friend. She is merely someone who attended the same church as I did a number of years ago, and with whom I had very little interaction. So I could care less about her opinion of me. However, on New Year’s Eve, Eric and I got together with some old and dear friends of ours, people we have known since we have been married -- approximately 30 years. The opinion of such people in regard to my spirituality is something else -- something I would pay attention to.

Our spiritual conversation during the evening was in two parts, and the topics were:
• Evangelism as the most important calling of a Christian
• The theology of the pastor of one of our couples (who used to be our pastor), and their searching for something else, in the way of a church affiliation.

I will start with the question of evangelism. The person who brought this subject up had been reading works on the life of D.L. Moody, who stated that evangelism was the most important thing that any Christian should do. D.L. Moody would share his faith with at least one person each day. He made a point of going out on the streets and seeking people to talk to about their salvation. It was said that if he was ready to go to bed, and realized that he hadn’t had one such conversation in the course of his day, he would immediately go out onto the streets, find someone, and have that conversation. And by extension, stated my friend, all of us should live this way.

D.L. Moody was a giant of the faith. He certainly had an impact on the spirituality of our country in his time. However, is evangelism the calling of every Christian? And if you aren’t out on the streets handing out tracts, or knocking on doors to share the gospel in some way, are you a failure as a Christian? In other words, do we all have this calling, and should it always be done the same way, by overtly looking for openings to share our faith?

My answer to this last question would be no. I don’t think that I have the calling of an evangelist. I do think that I’m called to live my Christian life with integrity, and that I should be prepared to share what I believe with others, if and when the subject arises. And it has been my experience that if you are an open and transparent person, the subject will arise.

Everyone who knows me knows that I’m a churchgoer. I don’t hide that fact, and I sometimes go out of my way to make people aware of it. It is their decision what to do with that knowledge. If they want to engage me in conversation, they may. I believe in a kind of lifestyle evangelism. That doesn’t mean living my life in a holier-than-thou way, but in living it with a joyful integrity. People can smell insincerity and hypocrisy from a mile away, and for me to force myself into the Evangelism Explosion mold would not only endanger my job, but it would also be very fake.

The second topic was one that I look forward to exploring more with the other friends who brought it up. They have been so fully committed to the churches they have attended, that it must be a new experience altogether for them to explore a totally different expression of spirituality. They are reading books about it, and I don’t know what else they are doing, but it will be an interesting journey to watch.

And that is just it. It is a journey for all of us, and a very individual one at that.

Closing the Circle

Note: This blog was actually written February 7, 2010, and I'm just getting around to posting it here.

Today, we officially became empty nesters. In other words, we moved our youngest daughter, who had graduated from college last spring, and had gotten her first full-time, post-college job this summer, into her first real apartment. “Home” for her is no longer our home address.

I was going to write that this process started when our eldest daughter, Jeannie, moved into her first apartment. And then I was thinking that the beginning was when they started going off to college (again, Jeannie being the first one). I remember the waterworks that came upon me as we got ready to leave Jeannie in her dorm. I started crying, then all three girls started crying, then Eric, with a look of disgust on his face, said, “I’ll be waiting in the car.” Too much estrogen in the room for him. With each subsequent girl’s departure for college, it got easier to let them go.

But even this wasn’t the beginning of the empty nest. It started when Jeannie went to Kindergarten. A bus came to the entrance of our townhouse community, and I put her on the bus. She waved goodbye happily, and my eyes started watering, but I managed to hold it together until the bus pulled away, whereupon… you get the idea.

Hence, I’m feeling a little lonely tonight. No longer am I assured that on a daily basis I will get hugs and kisses from my babies. They are engaged in lives of their own, and like Jeannie her first day on the Kindergarten bus, they are looking forward at their futures, and not backward at the space they have just left. Such is the way of it.

I will do my best to fill in my time with whatever activities I want to do. I will have plenty of free time, for no longer will I have to shuttle girls to volleyball practices, ballet lessons, and shopping trips. I’m no longer responsible for getting them to the Metro, so that they can get to work. I don’t even have to worry about loaning them my car. I have lots more free time.

Three children, my three girls, came into my life, and into our home, first Jeannie, then Meghann, then Sarah. In the same order, they have now left our home – Jeannie, Meghann, and today Sarah. Each one made a space for herself in my heart that is like a little nest, and now those spaces feel empty. I know this is nothing new, and I will get used to it soon. I am blessed that all three live close by (for now). Life goes on, but today I find myself waving goodbye to someone who isn’t looking back.

Community

Aerial View of Zeigler, IL

I didn’t have to go looking for community, because it was all around me, like the multiple layers of an onion (but much nicer smelling). I lived in a family that was part of an extended family which lived in one small town. Most of my family went to the Zeigler United Methodist Church, of which my father’s parents had been founding members. My mother’s father had been the town doctor. Everyone in the town knew my mother and father, and most knew both sets of grandparents. The entire town was like an extended family.

When I strayed outside of our immediate neighborhood (not often) people still knew me and my family, and were watching out for me. When I fell off my bicycle in front of my house, Irene Vaughn, who was on her front porch, appeared at my side in an instant, took me into her house, cleaned my scrapes and put Band-Aids on them before sending me home. One school day, I mistakenly came home for lunch, but no one was home. It was unusual for my grandma not to be there, and my mother must have been in the neighboring town doing her weekly grocery shopping. Nancy Proctor, who then lived next door, found me sobbing on my front porch, and administered a peanut butter sandwich and a glass of milk, along with a hug or two, and then sent me back to school, after she was certain she had “filled the hollow spot.” She certainly did that, and I’m not just talking about the PB&J.

I regret that my daughters didn’t have the overwhelming sense of peace and security with which I grew up. In contrast, they grew up streetwise, learning tactics to keep themselves safe from the people in their environment.

It’s ironic that in a major city, every day lonely people are surrounded by other lonely people, and none of them seem to value each other as human beings. They are rude to each other as a kind of default setting (politeness, when it occurs, is a complete surprise), cutting each other off in traffic, and then making rude gestures. Road rage is chronic. People in our area have been known to kill each other in traffic-inspired altercations.

“All the lonely people, where do they all come from? / All the lonely people, where do they all belong?”

Going Up the Country

Sunday, we decided that it was too beautiful a day to stay indoors. I had a desire to take up my writing someplace close to nature, and Eric had his never-abating need to to take pictures. So we headed out to that strange country where Virginia, West Virginia, and Maryland are within "spittin' distance" of each other.

As we got off the Interstate, our car windows were slightly ajar, the smell of “country” invaded our space. The clean yet dusty scent of impending rain; the smell of a wood fire in someone's fireplace; a pig farm; a cow farm (believe me, there is a difference in bouquet, and if you were raised in a rural area, you know what I'm talking about).

There is an art to finding a beautiful place in which your creative juices will be stirred. In practice, a long hike should not be involved. At the same time, it was not desirable to be inundated with people. We agreed to stop at Harpers Ferry, WV and as I write these words, the Shenandoah is softly rolling past, parting as it flows around the large stones set into its riverbed.

Shortly after I penned these words, the intermittent raindrops turned into a steady pitter-pat, making it prudent to seek the shelter of the local pub I had passed on one of Harpers Ferry’s back streets, determining to lubricate my muse with a glass of locally-brewed beer.

Historic landmarks like Harpers Ferry tend to stimulate thoughts about the toughness of our ancestors - those who came to these shores fleeing oppression and searching for opportunities. They settled North America, fought for independence, and abolished slavery. John Brown's fort looms in the center of this town as a grim and gritty reminder of that struggle.

We modern Americans are a shadow of our forebears. We don't know how to make a living off the land; how to manually clear acreage, plant, harvest, or shoe a horse. In a post-apocalyptic scenario, we could not survive, because we have become weaklings. We are but the frail offspring of a race of determined settlers; unworthy to inherit the mantle of the democracy for which they gave their lives.

Although Harpers Ferry resides in what is now West Virginia, I can see Maryland and Virginia when I look across the Potomac and Shenandoah Rivers. At this point, the Shenandoah and Potomac join their waters and flow toward Washington, DC.

Until 1863, West Virginia was part of Virginia. The Lewis and Clark Expedition gathered provisions and departed from this location. A young George Washington and his brother Charles waded through the wilderness and surveyed this land prior to the War of Independence. Thomas Jefferson visited this area, and a large slate formation (Jefferson Rock) above the town is dedicated to him. Upon looking eastward from this point, he stated that “this scene is worth a voyage across the Atlantic.”

My thoughts dwell for a few moments upon these explorers, dreamers, and statesmen, and I know in my heart of hearts that our political system has also devolved from its origins. Fallen from the early golden dreams of independence and self-determination, our government is so polarized and deadlocked that our Congress accomplishes nothing from one session to another, with the exception of showboating for lobbyists, and taking stances they believe will set up their respective parties for the coming election.

We are the morally skewed and unworthy descendants of giants, and no longer deserve the land of peace, prosperity, and plenty for which they died.