HOPING FOR HOPE

     It’s been a long time since I have used my blog, so I’m not sure I still have anyone interested in reading it. If not, I guess it’s good exercise for my brain anyway. Since the last time I wrote, I have added a few years to my age—I’m now 82. I remember thinking that that was very old, and I haven’t change my mind on that, per se, however on many days, I don’t feel “very” old. What I have noticed is that aging is more than just a physical experience, it also involves a transformation of your whole psyche. 

     In these very trying times right now with social and political upheaval as the primary environment for the living of these days, it is difficult to  remember that there have been days of our lives when HOPE was alive and well—when we were not so afraid of what might happen next or tomorrow or next week or for many years to come. That wasn’t a naive  way to look at life—it was quite feasible.

     Things have drastically changed. Both the social and political areas of life have been infested with a mean spirited, self centered, greedy and self righteous attitude. Watching the news is detrimental not only to one’s personal well being psychologically but to the hope of having HOPE emotionally and spiritually—which is a sad state of affairs. 

     There is none of us who are particularly selected as God’s favorite people. We members of the worldwide human family are all included. If we think that our particular beliefs, our nationalities, our politics, our points of view make us more qualified for the LOVE that came down at Christmas, we are gravely mistaken. 

     My personal prayer is that we can be forgiven for our ignorance and self-righteous attitudes with the knowledge that nobody is better than anyone else—not more loved and not more worthy.

I pray for HOPE to be reborn in all our hearts and lives because Love came down at Christmas. May it be so.

CRABFEST

     Saturday when I was a kid was my favorite day of the week. That was true for a lot of reasons, but certainly the fact of not having to go to school was at the top of the list. I didn’t hate school, but I wasn’t a great student. I mean, I wasn’t exactly a poor student; I just was on the mediocre side, filled with a vivid imagination that sometimes overrode my interest in real life.

     But with reference to the Mickey Mouse Club, Saturdays were “Anything Can Happen Day,” for those of you who may remember the 50’s and 60’s MMC. I never knew exactly what was going to happen. Sometimes nothing exciting in particular other than having a day to go on adventures with my friends, through the woods, walking the railroad tracks, Saturday afternoon matinees, bike rides, games of hide-and-seek. 

     However, summer Saturdays could bring all sorts of good things in addition to no school. For instance, once in a while my parents would decide to go to Tuckerton to visit relatives, but more importantly, to go crabbing. I loved it! I was never a good fisherman, but crabbing was much simpler.

     My aunt, my 2 cousins, and my grandmother would go with us, and we all packed into our two-tone green ‘46 Plymouth sedan, and make our way through the Pine Barrens on route 539 until we finally reached our destination. The anticipation of going crabbing off one of the docks was as good as going to the circus as far as I was concerned.

     We’d drop my grandmother off to visit with Aunt Annie (her sister) and then go to the dock of one of the clam houses along the inlet. My dad would bate the crab lines with the meat from the winkle shells along the side of the clam house and the fun would begin. 

     We’d drop the lines into the water and within a few minutes we would be pulling them up one after another, and my dad would scoop the crab net under them and dump the crabs into the bushel basket that we brought with us. When the basket was full, it was time to head home, but on the way my dad would stop and buy a dozen clams to eat. 

     The crab fest would take place in our kitchen. My mother would boil a large kettle of water with some seasonings, and while that was happening, my dad would be opening and eating raw clams at the sink. 

It took me until adulthood to appreciate that delicacy. 

    When all was ready, newspapers were spread all over the kitchen table and we would all share the crackers and nut picks and feast away.

     

Timing Is Everything Once In Awhile

     One of my favorite Billy Collins poems is called The Sandhills Cranes of Nebraska. Here’s a portion of it for your enjoyment:

Too bad you weren’t here six months ago. 

was a lament I heard on my visit to Nebraska.

You could have seen the astonishing spectacle 

of the sandhill cranes, thousands of them 

feeding and even dancing on the shores of the Platte River.

  

There was no point in pointing out 

the impossibility of my being there then 

because I happened to be somewhere else,

so I nodded and put on a look of mild disappointment 

if only to be part of the commiseration.

    [Aimless Love, Billy Collins, p. 173]

     The excerpt does not do justice to the whole poem, so I encourage you to read it if you can. It only gives a hint of his wonderfully unique, dry wit, in this case, on being in the right place at the right at the time.

     “Being in the right place at the right time” is a phrase I’ve heard many times during my life. Another one I’ve heard frequently that is somewhat related to it is: “Timing is everything.” (I may have 7even preached a sermon on that—I don’t remember.)

     Some theoretical physicists and some philosophers will insist that there is no such thing as time.And, of course, in a sense they’re right.

Perhaps it’s something we’ve totally made up for our convenience or as a source for guilt or anxiety.

     One time I was late on my way to a meeting and exceeded the speed limit of 25 miles an hour while going through a familiar little town through which I had traveled many times. This time I got pulled over, and the officer wanted to know why I was speeding (which was probably by 5 or so mph). 

     I told him I was on way to a church meeting in Trenton and he said, “I’m sure God wait for you.” And, trying to be humorous, I said, “Yes, but the bishop won’t.” He didn’t give me a ticket, but gave me a firm warning in a friendly sort of way, to be more aware of my speed going through town.

     That’s an interesting study of time for me. As I said, I’d gone through that town many times and maybe I’d exceeded the speed limit before—not sure. But this time for the first time, I got pulled over—“timing is everything” I guess applies here—not sure. 

     One thing, with all due respect to our great thinkers aforementioned, in our existence on this tiny blue marble in space, time does exist and has relevance. It matters in many ways that we don’t always think about, good and bad, depending on the outcome. 

     When I was on staff at the Milltown United Methodist Church, someone of the congregation asked me if I had ever visited Cranbury and checked out their great used book store. I hadn’t so I made it a point to do just that. As a result I fell in love with Cranbury and wished that I could be appointed there. 

     Instead I got appointed to two churches in the Pinelands, which were both fine. Nice people. But I never forgot Cranbury.y66 Then a few years later I was at a preacher’s luncheon in Ocean City, and someone at my table happen to say in conversation, “Did you hear that [the minister] in Cranbury is moving to a [new church]?”

     When I heard that, I immediately got up and sought out my District Superintendent. I said to him that I had heard that the church in Cranbury was going to be reappointed. Could I please be considered for that? He informed me that my name was on the top of the list. And so it happened, and I was there for 25 years—the town that captured my heart and soul.

     Would I have gotten that appointment if I had not gone to the luncheon and spoken to my D.S.? Maybe or maybe not. I can’t say.

But as far as I am concerned, I was in the right place at the right time to make my desires known and to let someone influential know of my interest.

     I think that all of us have those key moments in our lives that come along just when we need them—whether we know it or not. It’s part of the “flow” of life. It might involve encountering just the right person, just the right opportunity, just the right circumstance, etc. Is it Divine intervention or just the way things work? Why doesn’t that happen all the time for everything in our lives, especially when we feel desperate and confused?  

     We really can’t say for sure, but for me, I go with the more spiritual explanation—that there is a Divine influence that puts us in the right place at the right time to fulfill our “purpose” in being here. Now I can’t push that idea too far for you because arguments can be made against it, I suppose. I only know that that resonates with my own view of how things work. 

     Occasionally I stop and think of those kind of moments that have made a difference in my life—that if they had not happened I wouldn’t have the life I have. I think that that’s a good exercise in appreciating our lives, if not a spiritually great way of experiencing a deep sense of joy that leads to assurance of Divine love.

The Old Wooden Wagon

     I couldn’t stand up. I tried and tried, but I just couldn’t.  I was four years old and scared and confused to the point of frantic crying. My leg felt like it was made of sponges or springs or something. That’s the best I can do to describe it. By the way, that was almost 77 years ago now, and yet, one night recently the memory came powerfully surging back into my psyche. I don’t know why, but it was very detailed and very vivid. It’s not like I haven’t thought about it through the years, but this time was different for some reason—more real, I guess.

     Why that night? I have no idea other than the fact that I had just injured my leg in the snow as I was going up on the porch—same leg (left), same place (femur). I suppose that could explain it.

     What happened back then was that I was on the playground at the Milton H. Allen Elementary School in Medford where I grew up. I was being cared for along with a little girl my age as our parents were watching the drum and bugle corp practicing on the adjacent field. My sister was the head majorette and the little girl’s brother was a drummer.

     We were on the seesaw—a big heavy wooden seesaw made with thick planks for seats—the kind they don’t make anymore, for good reason. The little girl got tired of doing that so she got off while I was up in the air. The seesaw went slamming down and crushed the upper part of my leg, which, of course, was the reason that I couldn’t stand up. But in my 4 year old mind, I didn’t know what was wrong with me.

     I was taken to the hospital where my leg was set, and I spent six weeks with my leg in a traction that was suspended from the ceiling in my hospital room.  Certain memories have stayed with me through all those years since—memories of hospital smells and sounds, the doctor who repaired my leg (Dr. Lee, a Chinese doctor), the layout of the room with a large window facing out to the hallway, my sister and her friend who would bring me ice cream (they went to high school in the same town where the hospital was), that when I was upset the nurses telling me that my mother was working downstairs in the kitchen, which, of course, she wasn’t. I don’t remember how the food was other than sometimes I would get Junket, for those of you who may know what that is. 

     All that time my parents were under pressure to bring me home because friends said that it was a shame to keep a little boy in the hospital for that long. But thanks to my parents for listening to Dr. Lee—who told them that if they took me home sooner I would have one leg shorter than the other—I was kept in until the proper healing had taken place.

     When I did get home they put me on the daybed in the parlor, and when they opened the back screen door, in came running a puppy. I named him Butch. I had him until I was 17 years old.

     Sometimes my sister would put me in an old wooden wagon with squeaky wooden wheels and take me around town. All in all, I not only survived it, but in some ways I suppose I benefited from it, besides the puppy. My father used to say to me frequently, “Son, you’ll never regret the experience.” 

A Day At Gimbels, Long Ago

     One day when I was about 12 or 13, my mother and I went to Gimbels in Philadelphia. I don’t remember the occasion, but I think it was around the Easter season, probably to buy me some clothes. There are several things about that day that boggle my mind when I think back to it.  

     The first is that we had lunch at Horn and Hardarts, which was a fascinating experience for a small town kid. Horn and Hardarts, for those of you who are not familiar with it, was a self-serve type of restaurant, where you chose what you wanted to eat from behind a series of glass compartments. Could be a sandwich or pie or any number of other lunch-type food. I certainly don’t remember what I had, but it was a kind of a forerunner to choosing your food at a WAWA, except that it was already made and there were no such things as a computer from which to make your selection.

     The second thing was that my mother somehow got us there. Thinking of her in her later days with her anxiety and confusion states of mind, it is an amazing reality to think that she was once young and quite able to make such a thing happen. I believe we must have gone into Camden and taken the train across the Ben Franklin Bridge into center city. As best as I can recall, she was not the slightest bit intimidated by how to make it happen.

      The third thing were the wooden escalators with their clickety-clack sounds taking you up to the second or third floors and beyond. Talk about stepping back in time, they still stand out in my mind as something that smacks of earlier days before I was born—like the days I would have witnessed in old-time movies of Charlie Chaplin or Laurel and Hardy at the Saturday matinees in Medford movies.

     Then, the fourth and final thing of that day, was futuristic. We waited in line to enter a room that had one of the first colored televisions on display. I can still recall the excitement I felt, since at the time, such a thing seemed like a fantasy world. As little by little, step by step, we got closer, my anticipation grew, imagining the color being as vivid as on the screen of a movie theater. But then, once we were inside, great disappointment set in—not much reward for waiting in line for such a long time. At best, the picture on the TV could only be described as faintly tinted in pale reds and greens. We exited the room shaking our heads and saying, “Well, that certainly wasn’t worth it. We don’t need to get one of those.”

     Now all of this probably sounds pretty incidental to you. And, it is of course. It makes me wonder, though. My mother lived to her mid-eighties and, by then, she had her bouts with anxiety and confusion, so it’s interesting to remember that, at one time, she was young and able to do things that, while not necessarily big and adventuresome, were nonetheless of a very competent and independent nature. 

     It’s good to consider the fact that a lot of elderly people we see everyday who seem to be struggling to make sense of life and seem helpless to function within the ordinary day-to-day world, were once young and alert and very able to keep pace with life.

     Or maybe I’m just thinking about that since in February I turn 81.

ONE MORE MEMORY THAT JUST POPPED INTO MY HEAD

I had a band when I was a teenager.It consisted of me on lead guitar and vocals, a backup guitar, a drummer, and a upright bass player. We played rock and roll, of course, and had gigs at high school dances, a gig in a hotel on the Atlantic City boardwalk before casinos were there, and various social events.

The one that I’m thinking of today, though, took place the week before Christmas, and it remains a special memory that changed the way I looked at my life and my view of life in general. The scene remains as vivid to me now as it ever has and I think about it almost every Christmas.

My father worked in a factory in Philadelphia and one of his co-workers asked him if he thought my band would be willing to play at a Christmas party for kids in an orphanage in Philadelphia. When we arrived, I was speechless because it was a classic old building that you might see in an old black and white movie from the 30’s or 40’s. 

The sight of it made me nervous and uncomfortable because I had only heard about orphanages—had never seen one or, to some degree, thought they were mostly the stuff of fiction.

When we went inside, we were led into an auditorium decorated for the holidays with a giant Christmas tree in the center. It was very festive and the children of various ages seemed very excited that something special was going on their otherwise somewhat drab life (I was assuming that it was a drab existence, but I don’t know that for sure.)

So we set up in a corner of the auditorium, and when the children saw us do that, some of them treated us as if we “rock stars” since they had never had the experience of live music—especially of the rock and roll type. At first I was feeling like we were stars of some sort, but that soon faded as the afternoon wore on with other kinds of entertainment and festivities, not the least of which was the visit from Santa Claus.

Seeing the expression on the faces of all the children and realizing that, unlike me, they had no family with whom to share this otherwise  joyful holiday, I was deeply moved by what I saw that day. I almost couldn’t conceive of such a life since I was from a happy home, lived in a nice house in a nice town, with two parents who loved and cared for me, and I even had my own room.

Yet they were all smiles and joyful, and seemed to appreciate one another in spite of their circumstances. Older children helped younger ones without being asked to do so. They just did it.

So we played our gig and they were so appreciative of our music and applauded and cheered us as if they were at a rock concert.  I realized that they were the ones making us feel special in spite of all the flaws in our music. I did a few Rick Nelson songs and one of the kids came up to me whose face remains ever in my mind, and said, “You sound just like him.”  

I knew that wasn’t true, but what I did know was that these kids were the ones who were special. I was just a lucky kid from Medford, New Jersey, who went there that day feeling uncomfortable and uncertain, but who was touched deeply by children who knew the meaning of love and being loved.

THE AWAKENING AT CHURCH

It was a very moving Lessons and Carols service last Sunday at the church we are attending, The Presbyterian Church of Lawrenceville. I personally needed that for my spiritual well-being on this my 79th Christmas. 

It wasn’t that I was in a funk or even anything close to that, but like so many people, I have been so preoccupied with the national and global news that I was wasting all my energy and emotions on things that I can’t do anything about except pray, which is, of course, sufficient in its own right. 

The service included music that was enhanced by a combined choir and instrumentalists including brass, percussion, and piccolo. The Scriptures were beautifully read by various people including some young people. All was of such an inspiring quality that I felt myself being deeply touched by everything that was happening.

When it was over, there were multiple emotions stirring in my heart and mind, but by far what I was experiencing was renewed HOPE and a new vision of promise.

What I’m about to say may not have the same effect on you, but I share it with you for your consideration. It is simply this:

    With all that’s going on in the world and in each of our personal lives, there is something that is invisible to us meager human beings, so caught up as we are with all that is happening around us, that is grander and more magnificent than we can even begin to imagine; and it has the power to comfort, to heal, and bring hope. It is beyond all time and circumstances that we find painfully overwhelming. It is all under the care of a Loving Spirit we call God.   

Merry Christmas and Peace on Earth and in Your Hearts!

    

HELPING GEORGE

Did I ever tell you about me helping George Washington and his troops cross the Delaware? It was a cold December 25th winter day. I was in uniform, standing in formation waiting for orders to move down to the river. I wasn’t there to actually row one of the boats—just to see them off and wish them a good crossing, military style. Obviously the event was a re-enactment of that famous and cleverly planned maneuver that took place on Christmas Day 1776. In fact it was a major turning point in the war.

In my case it was 1966, 190 years later. I was in the army, having been drafted during the Vietnam War. I didn’t go over but was stationed at Fort Dix. One of my army buddies was from Texas and wanted to go home for Christmas to be with his fiancé for the holidays, but he was assigned the duty that I just mentioned. When he told me about it, I told him that I would be glad to take his place if the officer in charge would approve of it—which he did. But I felt like I had given my friend a Christmas present. He was delighted and had a great time visiting and celebrating the holidays back home. 

So on Christmas Day, there I was standing by the Delaware at the very spot where Washington and his troops made their way across the icy river to head to Trenton and surprise the Hessians the next day at their winter headquarters. Then afterward I had Christmas dinner at the mess hall. I don’t remember what we had, but I’m sure it was far better than Washington and his men had to eat that day.

They still do the re-enactment every year on Christmas Day, and just recently the boats appeared along the shoreline to be available for a rehearsal (which I am guessing wasn’t the case for the first crossing). Maybe George said something like, “We’ve got one crack at this, gentlemen, so let’s get to it and do it right the first time.”  But probably not. Maybe someone in the ranks said, “I have a headache and got chills, so I’d like to stay right here by the fire, but I’ll be thinking of you.” But probably not. 

The point is that they did it just the way their commander ordered them to. I’m sure they weren’t excited about it nor did they necessarily  feel patriotic. They were no doubt cold, hungry, and tired. But if they hadn’t, you can’t help but wonder if we would be citizens of the United States of America.

WHEN A CHILD IS BORN

Years ago I was appointed by the bishop to a small church in the Pine Barrens. It was a historic old church across the road from the Smithville Inn, a grand old restaurant that once was an 18th century stagecoach stop.  The congregation was small when I went there (8 people in the pews on my first Sunday, and one of them was asleep), but we managed to get attendance up to 75 eventually due to a new development taking place in the area.

However it was a slow crawl to get there making progress. In December I decided to hold a Christmas Eve service, which is something they never had had before. The church leaders were a bit skeptical, but I convinced them that we should give it a try. They agreed to that and even got excited and got busy decorating the sanctuary. A group of men managed to get a huge Christmas tree from one of the local Christmas tree farms—probably 15-20 feet high. 

On the morning of Christmas Eve, I went to the grocery store and bought some paper bags and small candles to put some luminaries along the walkway up to the church front door. No one had ever seen them before, and as various people drove by the church, they would roll down their car windows and ask, “What are you doing?!” My answer was, “You’ll see tonight. Make sure you come to the service at 7:30.” 

When the people started to arrive, a few of the church members helped me light the  luminaries once they saw what I was doing. It looked beautiful outside that old church, if I do say so myself. The atmosphere inside was almost in grand Victorian style with the wains coating walls and ceiling, lovely new chandeliers which we had purchased several months before and the candlelight along the aisles. 

The  congregation was thrilled to see their old church packed with people like never before, people singing Christmas carols at the top of their lungs. I remember preaching a sermon I titled “When a Child Is Born,” inspired by a song of the same name. I actually sang that song with my guitar in the service and invited the congregation to sing along with me. All of this by candlelight!

We didn’t have a Christmas Day service, but we didn’t need to because people were filled with the season’s spirit enough to have a truly joyous day of family time and feasting around their table. I know that because the next Sunday, people were still talking about the Christmas Eve service and the feelings they had when they saw how lovely and full their church was. As for me, I felt that a child had been anew in all of our hearts that night.

As a result of that service, we added some new worshippers, including the manager of the Harlem Globetrotters, for whom I later did a wedding. And some of our new people, formed a small choir that sang almost every Sunday. 

My Once A Year Hometown

I got a set of Lionel Trains for Christmas one year. Along with that my parents also each year gave me some buildings to make a village. The company that made them was called Plasticville, which I think is still in business—at least I’ve seen some of those buildings on eBay and have been tempted to get some, purely out of nostalgia because I don’t have my electric trains anymore.

A few weeks before Christmas my dad would work on setting up a train platform, around which my trains would travel through the little village, Being an electrician, he took great delight in wiring the platform with lights over which the buildings would be placed. In the center of the platform would be our Christmas tree which we would have gotten in the Pine Barrens—a delightful smell of the long-needle white pine to come down to all through the Christmas season.

One year they added to my train collection by getting me a milk car which contained little milk containers that you could put on a platform merely by pushing a button. What fun!

My first Plasticville building was the train station; then after that came some houses, a police station, a fire house, a gas station, a frozen custard stand, a diner, a hospital, a bank, a grocery store.  It really was a wonder, especially at night with the lights around the village, and my imagination going to work, bringing it to life in my brain and heart. 

One year my dad brought home a timer from work and set the train to run automatically, stopping and starting all by itself. I give that mixed reviews based the fact that it was out of my control. But then i realized that the trains were as much his as they were mine. And that’s as it should have been! Why shouldn’t he have the joy of such a childhood treasure—especially since he used to tell me that the only thing he got for Christmas as a child when he was growing up was an orange. 

Alas I don’t have Lionel Trains anymore! I have often thought of getting some and maybe someday I will. But when our grandson comes over, he loves to play with the little wooden train set we have. His father, Pete, usually makes the track layout and I get to play along with Rowan.

ALWAYS A SHEPHERD

As in just about every Christian church in the US, my home church had an annual  children’s Christmas pageant. Helen Johnson was in charge—very in charge. She was a fourth grade teacher in my elementary school, and she was also in charge there, so to speak, but that’s another story. Being a soft spoken, timid child, I was intimidated to be in her presence. I’m not sure why. She wasn’t a mean person at all—just strict, and she was a member of my church, Medford Methodist Church.

My parents did not go to church in those days, but they made sure I went to Sunday School. The truth is, though, my sister is the one who took on the responsibility getting me there.  She taught Sunday School and so I would go along with her, though I wasn’t in her class.

Meanwhile, back to the pageant and Helen Johnson. For me, it was always a mixed event. It was exciting because something was happening that was related to Christmas, which was the biggest and most joyful day in the whole year as far as I was concerned. It was magical in the truest sense of a child’s imagination to conceive of. And it wasn’t just about Santa and gifts, though I have to admit that those was certainly important to me. But there was something about the atmosphere of the world and my home and our town’s various festivities that was not like any other time.

So the annual Christmas Pageant was part of the spirit. It was held in the sanctuary with its dark oak pews and woodwork, including the mysterious enclosure for the organ pipes. It would be tastefully decorated for the season—holly, pine branches, red ribbons; and Helen would sit in about the fourth row from the front, from which she would direct the drama and manage the lighting, such as it was. 

Of course we had a couple of rehearsals, but with little children, rehearsals were mainly to familiarize the whole operation for the adults who would be giving us our cues, so to speak. 

Every year that I participated (maybe three years), in spite of my shyness, I would silently hope to be a Wiseman with their royal purple garments and crowns or Joseph the father of Jesus. But, alas, I was always a shepherd. Typecasting, I suppose, since I was more of a blue collar kid (the days before “blue collar” was not necessarily related to political views. In fact, my father, an electrician, was an avid Democrat). 

Truthfully, I don’t know that that had anything whatsoever to do with me being assigned the role of a shepherd. In these days of my life, I have since realized that that was the appropriate role for me. I was not the Magi type nor in any sense did I possess the dignity of Joseph. Also in these days of my life, what’s the matter with being a shepherd?  Answer: nothing. And anyway, I ended up being a shepherd for my career, so they say.  Turns out it was type-casting after all.

ONE CHRISTMAS I WILL NEVER FORGET

I get very sentimental at this time of year because it was always an exciting and joyful time in the house in which I grew up. I don’t mean that every year was flawless in that sense. There were years when there were financial problems for my parents. One year, for instance, the company for which my dad worked went on strike, and at the same time, he was physically suffering from bursitis in his shoulder. I remember him pacing the floor in agony.

That year we were delayed in getting our usual Christmas tree. To add to that, there was a significant snowfall. It was a few days before Christmas and things were looking pretty bleak as far as holiday festivities. Suddenly my mom said to me, “Come on, Jack. Let’s go down the street to Harriets and get a tree.” My mother was a little woman whom you wouldn’t think could have conceived of going out on such a night. But she was determined we were going to have a tree.

Harriets was a gas station down the street from where we lived. It was actually a forerunner of that kind business in that it included a small store for such things as Wonder Bread, cigarettes, candy, a pinball machine, and most importantly, ice cream. And in that particular year, the manager, Lloyd Parks, was selling Christmas trees.

So my mother and I bundled up and headed down the hill on Main Street with the snow swirling around our heads. To add to the adventure, we took no money with us because my parents were fresh out of cash (no such things as credit or debit cards in those days). My mom asked Lloyd, who knew us very well, if we could get a tree and we would pay for it after Christmas when my dad’s strike was over. It was small town America and Lloyd wouldn’t hear of that—“Just take one! You don’t owe me anything!”

I remember trudging back up the hill in the blowing snow—both of us delighted that we had a tree. My dad felt terrible that we had to do that without his help, but we assured him that we were fine and happy that we had a tree to decorate. And we did!

I don’t remember that there were any gifts under the tree. There probably were because my parents loved that season so much, including  the gift-giving part of it, carefully wrapping presents and putting them under the tree for Christmas morning. And we always had a great Christmas dinner of either ham or turkey and all the extras that went along with it.

I’m sentimental about that because it was a time when my parents seemed to be at their happiest—though there were other happiness times too. But Christmas had a special warmth in our household. I am also sentimental about it because my mom and I were a great team the night we got the tree down at Harriets, and thanks to Lloyd Parks, the tree was also a gift under which other gifts went too.

Bobbie Had a Nickel

Today for some reason I was trying to remember some of my favorite toys and books from childhood. I know that sounds like a strange thing for a 79 year old man to spend time thinking about when so many much more significant things are happening in the world at the moment. 

The inspiration, though, came from a Billy Collins poem I read. I won’t go into great detail about that—suffice it to say that he has a poem entitled  “Bathtub Families.” (By the way, I highly recommend his poetry as a way for sheer enjoyment and imaginative reflection on life.)

When I read this one, which I have read many times before, for some reason this time it suddenly inspired me to think about the joyful treasures of childhood even though he wasn’t talking about childhood.

My sister and I not too long ago were talking and reminiscing about our early years growing up at 77 South Main Street in Medford, NJ. She remembers reading stories to me (she’s 11 years older than me) and in particular, one that I constantly asked her to read: Bobbie Had a Nickel. 

(I didn’t buy it , but still available on eBay)

Of course I had a Slinky and ran it down the wooden front stairway. Then there was a Canadian Mounted Police costume I got for Christmas one year because I use to listen to “Sergeant Preston of the Yukon” on the radio and later when it came to TV. I think I was about 6 (Funny I almost wrote 60). 

I had a toy movie projector which actually showed cartoons and short 16m movies excerpted from feature length films. And I loved the board games that my parents and I played sometimes in the evening: Pahrcheesi, Checkers, Chinese Checkers, Old Maids, and of course, Monopoly, among many others. 

Not all things from my childhood belonged to me. One of my best friends had electric scissors. I was over at her house one day when it raining and she got out those scissors which I thought were the coolest things ever. I remember just wanting to keep cutting paper with no particular design in mind. (She was much more artistic than me.)

Probably my most favorite toy was my set of Lionel Electric Trains. My dad made a train platform for them to run on and we put together a village with a train station, fire houses, police station, hospital, bank, a diner of course and a few houses. That is also what our Christmas tree sat in the middle of (Plasticville). 

I’m sorry I’m rambling on, but if any of you would be interested, you could use the comment section of this blog to tell about any of your favorite childhood toys. I’d be very interested and would perhaps create another blog posting just about that. 

In the meantime, my reason for this whimsical, and I guess, sappy post is simply as a kind of distraction from other things going on in the world that I don’t always want to think about.

Small Town Doctor

The usual way of putting it is that he brought me into this world
but that would ignore the fact that my mother had a lot to do with it as well, bearing me in her womb as she did for 9 months or so (not intending to omit my father’s contribution, as it were.)

Doctor Small was our family healthcare system in the days long before Penn Medicine, Capital Healthcare, Robert Wood Johnson and many other such extensive medical practices of the present age. 

His office was in a house on Branch Street in Medford. When you went there, you entered a room that historically may have formally been a sun room for a family before him. But it was lined with very nice wooden colonial arm chairs along the walls. The last to enter sat in the last empty chair in the row, and as each person or persons were invited into the inner office (announced by him personally), you moved around until you were “next.” By the way, that was the way barbershops also maintained crowd control in those days.

There were some exceptions, and for some reason I was one of them. My father would usually go with me, and Doctor Small would come out into the waiting room and see us and no matter where we were in the chair lineup, he would say to us, “Johnny, Morris! Come in! To this day, I don’t know why because there was nothing about my family that would be of any social importance to him at all. By the way, he’s the only one in my life who called me Johnny.

Nonetheless we were given special attention, even though my family lived on South Main Street where, with a few exceptions, the common folks lived. North Main Street was where, with a few exceptions, the more “elite” folks lived. So I guess there was  something about us personally that appealed to Dr. Small.

Dr. Small was also the doctor who was given the responsibility of visiting my elementary school for checkups such as hearing tests, etc. On those occasions, he showed no favoritism or partiality, which was just fine.

He was a great story teller, especially with regards to Maine, where he had a summer home. He would weave stories about his neighbors up there and how backwoods some of them were. But he found them both amusing and interesting at the same time. And, I have to say, he made them come alive when he described the way they looked and some of the peculiar habits they had. I sat spellbound listening to him tell his tales.

I don’t remember at what age or why I stopped going to him, but I was still seeing him when I was in my first year of college at least. And I’ve never known what happened to him—when he died or anything about his burial or anything else. He was one of the last of the small town doctors who still made house calls and charged only two dollars for each visit. No charge for cough syrup or any other meds. 

The reason I’ve written about him is because he was a truly unforgettable person in my life who made me feel important. As you’re growing up you are influenced by so many adults who can either help you or hinder you in feeling good about yourself. He made me feel that I was somebody important.

One of the last things he told me when he learned that I was thinking of going into the ministry was “Johnny, don’t get carried away with your self importance, If you can’t save someone in ten minutes, just stop preaching and sit down.”  

By the time I finally made it through college and seminary, I had long since lost track of him, but I have to admit that I didn’t follow his advice. On the other hand, I’m not sure I did any more soul-saving in 20-25 minutes than10, if in fact I ever saved anybody, so to speak. But THANKS, DOC, wherever you are!

UNCLE JOE’S CHRISTMAS TREES

(The following is an excerpt from my memoir, still in progress. It falls into the portion about the most memorable people of my life—a  section that is proving to be much longer than I had anticipated.)

Uncle Joe was a man of few words. When my aunt died, he would frequently come to our house and sit in the living room and just be—to use a spiritual description of his presence. Every now and then he would say something which caught us off guard and probably made us pay more attention than if he were a man of many words. I don’t think that was an intentional strategy on his part, it was just simply who he was.

 

He was a welder by trade and no doubt a good one. He and my Aunt Almyra (aka Aunt Maurie) lived in the family homestead on Branch Street, in which my father and my Uncle Ernie had also lived during their growing up years, along with my grandparents of course. The sibling lineup was: Aunt Maurie was the oldest, my father was next, then Uncle Ernie.

 

Uncle Joe had a couple of beehives from which he showed me how to extract the honey. I watched him with wonderment as he pulled the trays out of the hives, not wearing any protective equipment, bees landing on his bare arms and buzzing around his head. If he got stung, he never let on—again, a man of few words.

 

I guess he has come to mind recently because Christmas is on the horizon and our Christmas trees always came from his property in the Pine Barrens. They were long-needle white pines, one of the most fragrant and sweetest-smelling of all the trees in the forest. 

On the established day, we would get into our ‘46 two-tone green Plymouth and go into the woods to pick out the perfect tree for that particular Christmas. It would be in the center of the platform around which my Lionel trains ran through a little Plasticville village,which included a service station, hospital, a train station, a few houses, a post office, police station, a few other things—all to my great delight.

I suppose I could say that the sweet-smelling needles of Uncle Joe’s Christmas trees were like being vaccinated with true Christmas joy and wonder.

THE MAN ON THE TOP STEP

 I’m on LBI, the Jersey shore of my childhood, my young adulthood, my middle years, and now my senior years. I came here to preach at the United Church Of Surf City this past Sunday. It went surprisingly well considering I haven’t preached in quite a while. I actually particularly miss that part of the ministry more than the rest. But, of course, it’s not like I have some supreme wisdom that the world can’t live without. The upside is that they want me to come back.

Having said that, I told a true story from my childhood that I want to share with you now in these sometimes scary and trying days we are living in presently. I shared this in my sermon and maybe you will find it helpful in some way.

When I was about five years old or so, I was afraid of the dark because we lived in an old house on Main Street in Medford that had it share of creaks and moans, the way old houses do. My bedroom was upstairs in the back of the house and my parents' bedroom was downstairs.

When I was really scared I would yell downstairs and let my parents know about it, and faithfully my father would come up and sit on the top step of the back stairs. He would sit there as long as I needed him.

It's important that you know that he had to get up very early in the morning to go to work in Philadelphia. When I say early, I'm talking about 4:30 a.m. So he sacrificed a lot of sleep time doing that. 

Sometimes he would think that I had fallen asleep and try to get up from the step carefully and quietly, but then I would say to him, "Where are you going, Daddy?" And he would say, "I'm right here" and sit right back down again and would do it over and over again until I would finally be fast asleep.

There in the dark, no matter how many nights it happened, my father would make me feel safe and protected.

When I told that story in my sermon, I ended it by saying that that's what God is like. And I believe that that is true.

OLD BOOKS AND NEW THOUGHTS

When I was the pastor of Cranbury UMC, every once in awhile I would wander up the street to an old house on the corner of North Main & Park Place, which was known as The Bookworm. It was a treasure trove of old and antique books on every floor, even down into the basement.

My reason for going there was sometimes to try to find a copy of a book I wanted and/or needed that was no longer in print. But there were other times I wanted to just be in a place that was filled with the words and thoughts and wisdom of a whole host of people, literally, of all walks of life. The many shelves of the Bookworm were their home amid the musty smells and the quiet, pensive sound of classical music in the background. 

I would aimlessly meander from room to room, occasionally taking a book off the shelf here or there—maybe poetry, maybe philosophy or religion, maybe even cooking or “how to draw.” Once in awhile an Agatha Christie or other mystery novel would catch my attention, and I had no choice but to buy it and take home with me if I wanted to know "who done  it". Once I found the complete works of Sherlock Holmes stories, which has long since disappeared from my collection. The topics were endless. 

There was something about being in an atmosphere so filled with old books that each contained the works of a multitude of authors who had carefully crafted their thoughts on pages that someone would read even many years hence. Maybe they wrote in the wee hours of the morning while everyone else in the house slept; maybe they wrote in the evening hours as the sun was going down; maybe they wrote by candlelight or gas light or by a lamp on a desk in a library.

Well, of course, you can see how carried away I can get with this stuff, (I was an English Major in college) so I’ll get to the main thing I want to say, which is that while we are so caught up with current events as well we need to be, and so overwrought by the likes of a pandemic and major storms and international crises, just to name a few, there is a need for the healing and comfort that can be found in the wisdom and humor and imagination of those who proceeded us on this planet. 

Consider this: You need a shift in some present mood that has infiltrated your soul and has left you in despair or with a sense of hopelessness? May i suggest that you find and read an old book of poetry, philosophy, spirituality, or some area of life that you've maybe even forgotten about that those kindred spirits who have gone before us left for our goodness and well-being. Treasures of thoughts and heart.

Ecclesiastes 1:9 says:

    "What has been is what will be, and what has been done         is what will be done; there is nothing new under the sun."

I could very well be wrong in my interpretation, but it seems to be saying that, in the living of our lives, we can be assured that all will be well when the day is done. (Peter, Paul, & Mary)

Just a thought. 

The Parable of A Walnut Tree

It was 1954 and I was 11years old when Hurricane Hazel came sweeping through Medford, NJ. It took out our family’s much beloved English walnut tree in the side yard and stretched it across Main Street, blocking traffic. Neighbors came from all over the neighborhood and beyond to help cut it up, and to my recollection, those were the days long before chain saws were a common tool.  

It was a very dramatic scene seeing all those men working so diligently at a job that had very little rewards for anybody other than doing something together with a complete sense of comradeship. And when the cutting and chopping were done, my dad insisted that the leftover stump be set upright in place. Would it live? Only time would tell.

We were heartbroken because of all the memories that tree held in its branches. Each year my parents would gather up the walnuts after they had fallen, and put them in a cardboard box, and store them up in the attic to dry. The aroma the walnuts emitted as they “aged” was amazing! Open the attic door and the scent came wafting down the steps, enticing you to just go up and spend some time.

Besides the walnuts, it had also been the center of family life. My sister and her friends would sit under it and talk teenage talk. My dad hung up a swing for me on one of its branches. There was an array of crocuses that came up under it every spring. Friends and neighbors visited with my parents beneath it, sitting in our lawn furniture --a metal glider and chairs for those of you who know what they were like. 

Here's the thing: other people might have decided to remove the stump, thinking of what use was it? The tree's no longer there--take it out and fill in the hole and move on. But, not my dad. The next spring he planted a rock garden around it in loving respect for what the tree had meant to all of us.

And yes, it continued to live with little branches and leaves. It reminds me of that text from Isaiah: "A shoot shall come out from the stump of Jesse, and a branch shall grow out of his roots..." [Isaiah 11:1 NRSV]

I guess you could say about that, that there is strength in our memories to help us smoothly transition into the next phase of life, as long as we have faith in even the littlest glimmer of hope. Tend that hope like a rock garden surrounding the best roots and branches of our past.

Just a thought.

The Sand Bucket Parable

I haven’t spent much time at the beach this summer because other things have been going on, plus we’ve had some pretty hot days, which for an old guy like me aren’t exactly the ideal conditions for sitting on a white sandy beach. I do love sitting in a beach chair under the umbrella, listening to the sound of the waves washing ashore and reading and people-watching. There is a wonderful sense of joy in hearing laughter and the voices of children playing in the surf, dramatically pretending to be in great danger when in fact they are perfectly safe.

When I was a child, we would go to LBI each year and my parents would buy me a new bucket and shovel at Hands Department Store, costing roughly 25 cents. They were made of tin and were always decorated with some cartoon characters like Mickey Mouse or Popeye or Woody Woodpecker or cowboys like Roy Rogers or Gene Autry. 

As I played along the water’s edge, I would dig for sand crabs, filling the bucket to the top and insist that I take it home, believing they could live very comfortably in the bucket of sand—perhaps forever or at least for a very long time—which of course was a kid’s limited understanding of biology. By the next day they had all died and I was just left with a stinky bucket to be dumped in a far corner of the yard. 

Several years ago I saw in a case in a collectibles shop on LBI, a tin bucket just like the ones my parents bought me for 25 cents each year. The price tag was $350!  If only I knew then what I know now! Actually it probably wouldn’t have made any difference. I probably would have still filled it with sand and crabs. I was a kid; why would I care? Today is today and tomorrow is tomorrow. Kids are mostly present moment people.

Then we grow up and think, “if I only knew then what I know now…” Deep sigh and shrug of the shoulders. Life goes on.

But what we know now is what we will allow ourselves to know. And truthfully, it’s all we need to know for the living of these days. And what is it that we know now? We know that we are living, breathing creatures privileged to be still walking on this earth. We know that life is unpredictable but still gives us the permission to pursue our dreams if we’re so inclined. We know that there are things that bring us joy and happiness, and that we should fully allow ourselves the time for them when the opportunity presents itself. And we know that we are loved even on the days we don’t feel so lovable.

May I suggest that you make your own list: Things That I Know That Makes My Life Something To Celebrate. 

Just a thought.

RIDING THE HOPE TRAIN

 Another summer of my life is making its way toward autumn—and I am too—riding on the calendar train as it chugs along the track of inevitability. I can hear the clickety/clack of the one-day-at-a-time progress toward the unknown territory of the future. I have hopes of seeing friendly faces waiting at the depot when I arrive, waving, not palm branches as if I were worthy of a holy reception, but at least hands gesturing a sign of welcome, “Glad you’re here!”

The thing is that all of us want to be welcomed to the future. After all, we’ve traveled through some sometimes rough and often threatening terrain. There were train robbers along the way, wanting to take our supply of joy and hope. There were things on the track attempting to interfere with us getting to a safe and lovely place. Yet we’ve made it this far so far. And we’ve survived pretty well. But for some, not necessarily altogether healthy.

By the way, it’s not the first time nor the first train we’ve journeyed on. And we know that how we travel—that is, what kind of passengers we are—makes a difference as to how we arrive at the next station, the autumn depot.

 For one thing, were we congenial to the others on board, knowing that we all shared the ride in hope of a promising destination? Were we kind and forgiving of ourselves for when we lost hope and spent our time in anger and cynicism? Did we at least spend some time, even a millisecond, in prayerful thanksgiving for what is right with the world and for those who have made it so?

There are many ways of journeying on this train to the future. We will arrive at the station soon. Here and there, in our daily progress, maybe we could consider that we’ve made it safely thus far, and upon our arrival disembark and breathe in the fresh fall air, and celebrate the splendor of the colors of the new season, and most importantly, ordain ourselves as prophets of hope and joy and love.

 Just a thought.