Mellow Milan's Musings

Journey of Awakening – 47: A Memorable Town

2012-02-14T10:42:00.001-08:00

New Year week 1978. Somehow, call it Linda’s miraculous recovery or sheer determination, our family, me, Linda, Eric, and Troy who was in our Student House in Chicago, all were in one place for about a week in Boston. We decided to take a family one day trip to Cape Cod, stopping at Plymouth Rock on the way.

We drove all the way to Provincetown Cape Cod from Above

January was definitely not the time to visit Cape Cod. And we were disappointed that we could not actually stand on Plymouth Rock which was several feet below us with a fence surrounding its enclosure. Troy’s only comment was “Is that it?”

That was the extent of our family holiday before I headed back out on the Town Meeting circuit.

By the time I joined the team we were moving our base of operations to Richmond, Virginia. Assignments were a little saner for the two weeks we were in Virginia. We had more volunteers so could go out in teams of two. We had a couple of us stay back in Richmond phoning to set up the meetings and appointments so the rest of us could concentrate on scheduling and conducting the forums.

My Colleague Burna Dunn in front of Richmond ICA House

I remember one foray I and another volunteer made all the way out to the point where Virginia, North Carolina and Tennessee connect. A little town nestled in a valley in the Blue Ridge Mountains. The name is lost to memory. Let’s call it Jonesville.

Many of the small mountain towns in SW Virginia were “Company Towns”

The only issue that seemed to be on the mind of the town leaders as we discussed scheduling their Town Meeting was that they were really disappointed that they could not get the participation of the black folks in the community in town affairs. I am sure they were well-intentioned sentiments. I couldn’t help wondering whether they realized how deep were the scars of more than two hundred years of slavery and being treated as less than human. We knew that whatever issues a town expressed on the surface, it was most difficult for the citizens to see with clarity the underlying contradictions that kept them from addressing their real situations.

Of course, one Town Meeting would not resolve all of the community issues. But we were often amazed at how much could be accomplished when people came together, left their entrenched beliefs at the door, and used appropriate methods aimed at building consensus.

I sometimes wonder if that little Virginia mountain town ever got it together.

Journey of Awakening – 46: Snowed in – in Harrisburg, PA

2012-02-04T07:12:00.001-08:00

December 1977 - Working my way toward western Pennsylvania on the Town Meeting circuit. Our team of ten volunteers was to meet up in Harrisburg, the capitol of Pennsylvania, at the home of Ellen and Dick Howie, who were expecting to put us up for a couple of nights.

The snow flurries began the week before Christmas. By the time we arrived in Harrisburg most of the highways east and north all the way to upstate New York and as far as Boston were closed. The blizzard of ’77 was upon the eastern states with all its fury.

Harrisburg Boston

Linda and Eric were stuck in Boston and I was stuck in Harrisburg. Airports were closing and even the trains were not running. So our colleagues, the Howies, were stuck with ten of us, sleeping in their living and dining room for about a week. We made due, huddling around the fireplace, singing Town Meeting songs and Christmas carols, played lots of chess and card games, and tried not to wear out our welcome. A couple of days before the New Year I was able to get a train and made it back to Boston in time to greet 1978 and find Linda with a bad case of flu. As I remember I had to walk through the as yet unplowed streets from Copley Plaza station to our house, dragging my bag through the snow. But it was good to be home.

The streets were not cleared for another eight days, which was fine because we were both recovering from sickness and Town Meeting travel. Eric, who was in fourth grade, had to take care of both of his parents. And he did so without complaining.

When I returned to Pennsylvania in the middle of January, the snow was no longer an impediment and the roads were clear. So back on the Town Meeting circuit.

The only additional memory I have of my time in Harrisburg was driving by these huge cooling towers of the Three Mile Island nuclear power generating station, unaware that in just one year this would be the scene of the worst nuclear disaster in our nation’s history and the occasion for major changes in the world’s nuclear power industry.

The Meltdown

It always amazes me how the day-to-day focus on what is in front of us as our particular piece of the human adventure allows us to go on in the midst of impending world-altering events. Another sign of how little control we actually have over the world—or over our own lives.

Journey of Awakening – 45: December Surprise

2012-01-06T13:53:00.001-08:00

Thanksgiving 1977 was spent in the ICA’s New York Regional House on the lower east side of Manhattan preparing for the next phase of the Town Meeting campaign. Our campaign team, which we named our “Strike Force” (a term stolen from our reading of the famous Chinese general Sun Tzu), had the ominous task of completing community forums throughout the eastern states. We were intent on conquering the eastern seaboard before Spring. After a weekend of celebration and planning Linda and Eric, Nancy Trask, and Tom Reemtsma were all sent back to hold down the Boston House and Region. I was assigned to go with the 15 or 20 volunteers making up the Strike Force.

We headed for Philadelphia, which was our base for the first two weeks of December. I was immediately dispatched to cover southeastern Pennsylvania. So I began my next solitary journey on a cloudy December day with only a highway map and a story to tell. Highway 30 took me to Downington, Coatesville, Lancaster, York, New Oxford, Hanover, and on the second or third day out on my circuit, I came upon a highway sign that gave me a little shiver and caused me to pull the car over to the side of the road: “Gettysburg 10 miles.”

I had of course memorized Lincoln’s Gettysburg Address, as most of my generation did, while still in grade school. And I had always felt this connection to Abraham Lincoln, the log cabin lawyer who rose to the highest office in the land and then was tragically taken down just as the war over which he presided to save the Union was finally over. Carl Sandberg’s Lincoln was my Lincoln. So I decided to take the afternoon off and spend it at the Gettysburg battlefield. It was an eerie experience for me. There was not a soul at the museum center. I literally was able to walk around the battleground undisturbed. I could almost hear the cannon and rifle fire and the yells of the soldiers as they charged up one hill after another and the screams of the wounded and dying men as they lay waiting to die or be picked up and taken to a field hospital. I stayed there until dusk, in a contemplative state, not wanting to leave.

I don’t recall much about how many towns were scheduled for Town Meetings during the two weeks working out of Philadelphia. But I will never forget the afternoon spent at Gettysburg.

Four score and seven years ago our fathers brought forth on this continent, a new nation, conceived in Liberty, and dedicated to the proposition that all men are created equal.

Now we are engaged in a great civil war, testing whether that nation, or any nation so conceived and so dedicated, can long endure. We are met on a great battle-field of that war. We have come to dedicate a portion of that field, as a final resting place for those who here gave their lives that that nation might live. It is altogether fitting and proper that we should do this.

But, in a larger sense, we can not dedicate -- we can not consecrate -- we can not hallow -- this ground. The brave men, living and dead, who struggled here, have consecrated it, far above our poor power to add or detract. The world will little note, nor long remember what we say here, but it can never forget what they did here. It is for us the living, rather, to be dedicated here to the unfinished work which they who fought here have thus far so nobly advanced. It is rather for us to be here dedicated to the great task remaining before us -- that from these honored dead we take increased devotion to that cause for which they gave the last full measure of devotion -- that we here highly resolve that these dead shall not have died in vain -- that this nation, under God, shall have a new birth of freedom -- and that government of the people, by the people, for the people, shall not perish from the earth.

Journey of Awakening – 44: Leaving Maine

2011-12-18T16:07:00.001-08:00

Mainers have a saying that goes something like “no matter how many years you stay away you’ll always come back.” I think it has something to do with the sense of ‘place’, the feeling of ‘coming home.’ I’ve had that feeling about a few of the places I’ve lived. Occasionally I have a bit of nostalgia about the old North Side where I grew up in Minneapolis, a real neighborhood.

Plymouth Avenue & Morgan Avenue Businesses Home at 915 Morgan

Lincoln, Nebraska, where I lived for seven years and where our kids were in grade school holds fond memories of family and friends.

Me and Rob at home Gordon & Claudine Scott Trinity UCC

San Francisco represents a time of re-emerging as a human being after a period of spiritual aridity.

The San Francisco ICA House No Caption Needed Now Six Bucks to ride?

And Maine. It is difficult to capture in words the feeling of being at home I experienced while travelling from town to town in that state.

There is that nagging truism about not being able to go home again. And my experience bears that out. Each time I’ve returned to any of those places that saying comes to me not in word or emotion but as experiential fact. Nonetheless, the sense of ‘home’ comes up and I have to ask myself: “What is that?”

This week I had the urge to type Ellis Bliss’ name into the Google search box and the first post that came up was her obituary. Ellis died this past September and her memorial was held in October at her old UCC church in Portland. Memories came up: The time she dropped the lobster for dinner into the pot before the water was boiling and we watched the poor creature jump out on the floor; how she was always there to welcome me ‘home’ after a long cold drive; how she would beam as she talked about her kids; her devotion to Harry who was always a big dreamer and social activist; and welcoming me back after 20 years of no contact even though I had two colleagues with me for an overnight stay.

Me and Ellis in 1996 34 Bay Road in South Portland, Maine

I left Maine behind that cold November in 1977. And it was true that nothing was the same when I returned years later. But I guess the lesson for me about coming home was that even though I left Maine, Maine never left me, just as all the places I mentioned earlier remain with me, though I left them long ago.

Whenever I forget that ‘home’ is just another concept that I can get hung up on, that sense of ‘being home’ comes up to remind me that I am never not at home.

Well, I thought I was through with Maine. Apparently Maine was not yet through with me but I would have wander around the eastern United States for a few months before that discovery.

Journey of Awakening – 43: Maine Turns Gold

2011-12-13T15:40:00.001-08:00

There was dancing and singing I was told

In the Great Hall when Maine went gold

Champaign flowing for young and old

What I remember – It was damn cold!

When we, the corporate we, the ICA, came up with the idea for the Town Meeting 76 campaign to orchestrate 5000 local community forums, one in each county of the United States, some of us housed in the eight story office building in Chicago which was the ICA’s international headquarters and training center, devised this method of tracking our progress. Since there was no way of completing all of the 5000 forums in the actual bicentennial year, we gave ourselves four years to finish. A huge map of the U.S. was found and mounted on one wall in what we affectionately named the Great Hall. It was a room large enough to hold up to 1000 bodies and where we held our large assemblies in the summer. The map was printed with every county line showing. So when a Town Meeting was scheduled someone would color in that county with a yellow marker, which in our creative minds was pure gold. And when all the counties in a state were colored in, a celebration was held, not just in Chicago, but in each of the campaign headquarters around the country.

It happened in Maine one foggy day in early November 1977. The last of Maine’s 16 counties was scheduled. Thanksgiving was not that far away. Somehow the citizens of Maine had come through. We were to conduct about 10 of the forums on the same Saturday. The logistical genius of our mostly volunteer organization always amazed me. On the ordained Saturday, about 20 of us arrived in South Portland at the Harry and Ellis Bliss home to be sent out, two by two, to conduct the all day forums. After singing Harry’s favorite, When New England Wakes up Singing, we caravanned out to the Maine Turnpike and headed off to our assigned towns.

Small Towns in Maine – The Real Main Street of America

People actually came and participated! It was a great day! The sun was shining. We were on top of the world. And I – I felt good. I felt like a conqueror. Like a hero. It was the last time that year I would get to have that feeling. But it was all good!

At the end of the day we all straggled back in to South Portland to tell our amazing stories to one another. And we sang. And we drank toasts. And we even danced. Life was wonderful. We phoned in to our colleagues in New York, Hartford, and Chicago.

And Maine was gold!

Journey of Awakening – 42: The Time Nobody Came (Almost)

2011-12-02T15:08:00.001-08:00

Some smart ICA colleague or colleagues discovered, as they tramped around the vast open spaces of Montana or Wyoming or Utah calling on townspeople that a town meeting did not have to be an all day affair but could be accomplished in an evening, in about three-and-a-half hours, and without the quality or productivity suffering. In Maine this proved a little difficult because people did not like to get out much after dark. We were aiming toward one Saturday in November when we would send teams of two out to each town we could schedule on that one day.

Maine Street, Rockland, Maine Court House, Rockland, Maine

But we did happen to call on a Methodist Minister in the coastal town of Rockland who believed that people in his town would not come to an all-day forum. He somehow convinced us that he single-handedly could host the meeting in his church’s fellowship hall and that he would do all the contacting, inviting and publicizing to ensure a good attendance. I should have trusted my gut instinct and our years of experience working with local church clergy, who were notorious for promising to take on tasks and not following through. They would often double, triple, even quadruple-schedule meetings to attend and then pop in and out for half an hour in each one. Not that their intentions were other than honorable. It must have been the “all-things-to-all-people” image that they were caught in. I had some empathy, having been in their position at one time.

Rev. Wesley was a fine and enthusiastic young man. We scheduled the meeting for two weeks later and left the details in his willing hands, after giving him as much orientation and sample flyers and promotional materials as we could in a short visit. I phoned him the week before and he assured me all would be ready for a well-attended and productive evening. We always assigned a team of two to facilitate the forums. I and a young woman who was an ICA volunteer arrived the afternoon of the town meeting to find that, indeed, the Rev. Wesley had distributed flyers in the community, published an announcement in the Rockland paper, personally invited the town leaders, arranged the tables and chairs in the hall in the format as we had instructed, and had even provided a spread of refreshments along with coffee and tea. All was in readiness.

Aldersgate United Methodist Church, Rockland, Maine

The hour of the meeting came. The three of us sat in anticipation of the arrival of the citizenry. People often straggle in at such community meetings. But there are always a few who are on time for everything. I thought that surely at least some of Rev. Wesley’s flock would show up, to show support for him if for no other reason. A half-hour passed, then 45 minutes, finally an hour. The realization came slowly but surely. No one else was coming. It had long been a doctrine of our group that whoever showed up for any endeavor was exactly those who were needed for its accomplishment.

Rev. Wesley was embarrassed. He began to re-iterate all that he had done to ensure a successful attendance. I was not going to heap more guilt on his already feeling like a failure. I ventured:

“Well, since we came all this way, and there is all this food and drink and we have prepared all the materials, and we have a great process for citizen participation, would you like to be the Town Meeting and we’ll take you through it just as though you were 200 strong?”

T hat was the turning point of the evening. The Rev. Wesley’s eyes lit up. It was as if his body began to levitate. “Why not,” he said. “Let’s do it!”

And we did. We the facilitators went through our little speeches about the New Human and the New Community, and the pioneering qualities of being global citizens working at the local community level. We drew on the history of the country as well as the lessons of the revolutions of our day, the youth, women, civil rights, and the desire of every human to participate and make a difference.

Then we asked and wrote on big flip chart paper: “What are the big challenges facing Rockland right now?” “Oh, young people are leaving after high school because they can’t find jobs.” “And the newspaper is going under so people won’t have access to local issues and events.” “Oh yes, and small fishermen are no longer able to make a living.” After recording the challenges we asked him what the real underlying obstacles to dealing with them were.

Then we posed the question of what practical actions could local citizens take to deal with the obstacles and meet the challenges. “We could start a ‘buy local’ campaign.” “We could have quarterly community meetings to address issues.” “We could work with our fishermen to form a cooperative.” These were all flip-charted and then written in the form of proposals.

Finally, we took the Rev. Wesley through what was known as the ‘Song, Story, Symbol’ workshop. We had him choose a familiar sing-able tune and wrote three verses, then pulled out of his weary brain the highlights of the history of Rockland and wrote a town story following the theme of past, present, and future. Lastly, we got out the colored markers and a big sheet of poster paper and created a new symbol in graphic form.

As we reflected on the evening and how any of the proposals might be actually implemented, my partner who fortunately was a crack typist, completed the document containing the entire evening’s work, and we all went into the church office and ran it off on the mimeograph machine.

And as we were stapling the pages of the copies together, we discussed the follow-up strategy. Rev. Wesley was now on a roll: “I could take this one proposal up with my Rotary Club. And this one the Ministerial Association might be interested in tackling. And the Chamber of Commerce could easily take one this one. And that one I’m sure the Kiwanis Club would like.”

We left Rockland in good hands. I have thought of that meeting many times and of course, told the story on many occasions sitting around the imagined campfire. All of us who were involved in that Town Meeting campaign have our stories. I would like to have known if any of those proposals ever got accomplished and whatever happened to Rev. Wesley.

But the Town Meeting when almost nobody came turned out to be a great and memorable event.

Journey of Awakening – 41: Joe Died This Week

2011-11-18T16:53:00.001-08:00

October 1977. I had just returned from my second week in October foray in Maine on the Town Meeting Circuit. The weekly gathering of the TM campaigners was to be in my home base at the Boston Religious House. I was greeted by a somber group including my wife, Linda with:

“Joe died this past week and all the Houses will have a celebration of his life on Sunday!”

Joe Mathews, Dean of the Ecumenical Institute/Institute of Cultural Affairs, formerly on staff at the Christian Faith and Life Community of Austin, Texas, before that on the faculty of Perkins School of Theology at Southern Methodist University, and prior to that a Chaplain in the United States Army during the Second World War, was a 66 year-old visionary and transformative force in the 20^th Century church renewal movement. The impact of his life went far beyond the confines of the institutional church and the constraints of his Methodist evangelical background. Joe was an iconoclast, a revolutionary thinker, a master teacher, and a plumber of the depths of the human spirit.

Stories of Joe abounded in our Order and among those who encountered him, whether on the seminary or college campuses, in the courses he taught to local church pastors and laymen, or in the many denominational and ecumenical gatherings at which he was invited to speak. There was the time he was to speak to a large gathering of church folk. The time came for his sermon and everyone in the congregation waited for 5 minutes, then 10 minutes, then coming to the conclusion that Joe was late, or not coming. At that point a faint voice was heard from behind the pulpit: “Grace be unto you and Peace from God our Father and the Lord Jesus Christ!” Joe proceeded to give his entire sermon from the enclosure under the large pulpit.

Another time Joe was speaking to a large assembly of leaders of the church in Seoul, Korea. He was warned by one of his Korean colleagues that Korean Christians were some of the most conservative in the world, and knowing of Joe’s propensity for using profanity in order to shock the people of God out of their lethargy, he cautioned him to be careful in his speech. Joe nodded and then took the podium. Looking out over the congregation and making eye contact with as many as he could, he stood silent for several minutes and then let out a booming expletive as the first word out of his mouth, drawing it out so there could be no mistake which word he was using. And of course it was the “F---“ word.

These are of course just a few of the apocryphal stories that were told among us. I was not there so I am only reporting it as I heard it.

I first met Joe Mathews when I was teaching at the University of Nebraska, Cotner School of Religion. It was 1966. A campus minister friend invited me to attend a lecture sponsored by United Ministries in Higher Education and the campus YMCA. This was, I later learned, part of a speaking tour on college campuses all across the nation, preceding the offering of weekend courses, called Religious Studies I: The Theological Revolution of the Twentieth Century. Joe was an impressive presence and a powerful orator. To be honest, I only remember one line from his lecture that resonated with me and stuck in my mind:

“There is only one absolute! And that is that there is NO absolute!”

Having majored in philosophy and theology this appealed to me as a self-styled seeker after truth. After the lecture I got a taste of the Joe of the apocryphal stories and added a personal one to my collection. My campus minister friend invited me to his campus church office for a conversation with Joe and a handful of pastors and lay leaders. There were two women in the group who were probably in their late sixties. Joe was waxing eloquent and answering questions. One of his favorite descriptive names for the clergy of the time was “little old ladies of both sexes.” He used this term in responding to a question and then, realizing who his audience was, leaned over toward the two ladies and lightly touching one on her hand said: “I mean that in a kindly way.” Joe could be repulsive in one minute and then totally win you over in the next.

Most of the men in our Order and many of the women wanted to be like Joe. Hell, we wanted to BE Joe. So we all adopted his little idiosyncrasies, his teaching style, his mannerisms, even his slight stutter when he seemed to be searching for the right phrase but was really setting you up for a point he was about to drive home. Not that we were all little robotic Joes running around the globe. Joe would not tolerate inauthenticity and did not welcome our devotion. Joe wanted to thrust his one life into history and encourage each of us to do the same in obedience to the one mysterious force that gave each one his/her life and would one day as he put it “stomp you into the earth as a bull pawing the ground.” Joe was a man of his time and a man for all time.

I did not know Joe personally as many in our group did. So I did not come to love the man as I am sure those close to him did, warts and all. I only remember one other encounter with Joe. It was in the middle of the Town Meeting campaign and we were in Chicago for a meeting of campaign leaders. I was asked to give a report on how the California contingent was doing. We were in the “great hall” on the second floor at the Kemper building, so named because this 8-story ancient office building had been a gift to the ICA by Kemper Insurance Company. After my report I walked to the back of the room and had to pass right by Joe. He always sat in the back of the room by the door. Our eyes met for an instant as he looked up just as I approached and his lips curled into the slightest of smiles, sort of half-way between a grimace and a smile actually. I got the distinct feeling that even though I did not know Joe, he knew me. And I knew in that momentary encounter that my life was approved. All of my past screw-ups and all of my attempts to be somebody, the self-perceived victories and defeats, the betrayals, all of it was OK as it was. The approval I had been seeking from some father figure my whole life was freely given. Joe released me from having to go on seeking approval. That was Joe’s gift to me.

But Joe, like all of us, was mortal. He drank too much. He smoked too much. He drove himself far more than he was ever accused of making demands on others. He got cancer. Joe had a back pain while on a trip to India. He went to a friend of ours who was a nurse in New Delhi who advised him to see a doctor as soon as he returned from this trip. Not long after that he got his final diagnosis. He died in his apartment during a meeting of many of the priors of the Order so that many of his friends and colleagues were able to say their farewells. His wife Lyn and sons and his brother Jim, a Methodist bishop in Washington D.C. were with him.

Those of us who were out on the Town Meeting circuits were informed of Joe’s death on that October weekend. We held a memorial service around our dining room table with a meal and communion service, as did those others in Religious Houses in the 50 or so nations that were now part of the Order: Ecumenical, the Ecumenical Institute and the Institute of Cultural Affairs.

Following the weekend we were all sent out to continue our work on the mission of facilitating human community and helping people to see that their lives counted.

And Joe would have had it no other way.

Joseph Wesley Mathews—A 20^th Century Phenomenon

Journey of Awakening – 40: Maine Welcomes the Snow

2011-11-04T13:52:00.001-07:00

The first snowfall was early that year—October 1977. And it was to keep coming. The driving along I-95 was hazardous enough as it was. In the cold rains of Maine or especially when the night fog came in from the coast you longed for a warm fireplace to come home to. I remember the many late nights driving back to Portland and on Friday nights all the way to Boston or Hartford after a long day and a longer week, singing, turning up the volume on the radio, drinking McDonald’s coffee that had been in the pot too long, trying to stay awake. And sometimes getting so sleepy I just pulled off to the side of the road and barely had time to put the car in park before slumping over the wheel with the motor still running.

Two nights are burned deeply into my memory bank. I got onto the Maine turnpike, the section of I-95 from Augusta to Portland, in fog so thick I could barely make out the tail lights on a semi ahead of me. The highway was two lanes going one way, but I decided to follow the tail lights ahead of me all the way and not venture out in the left lane. This turned out to be one of the best decisions I ever made because, not very many minutes after leaving the toll booth I was jarred by a flash of light streaking by in the left lane going the opposite direction. A driver had apparently got confused and got in the wrong lane coming from the toll booth from the south. This was not exactly a near-death experience because it happened so fast. However, there was no more temptation to pass the vehicle I was following.

That was a story I could tell in years to come of my adventures in Maine on the Town Meeting circuit. It would have been a good story by itself had not the very same thing happened on another trip a few days later. Same turnpike, different foggy night, different semi, and different car (I assumed). Who would believe it?

My most humorous encounter with the weather as a driver in Maine was in the snow. I came from Minnesota so had much experience navigating partially plowed streets and roads after snowstorms. The back roads in Maine were more of a challenge. And I had been away from Minnesota for several years. The ‘69 Chevy Nova I was driving had seen better days. Cars in Boston and other major cities that have lots of snow tend to become rusted around the edges within a short time. My trusty steed had seen more than enough Boston winters, so what happened should not have surprised me. But it did.

I was driving on a snow-packed country road that had just two tire tracks with a foot and a half of packed snow between them. Suddenly I became aware that the floorboard was growing. As I drove along the rubber mat was lifted up so that my knees were now against the steering wheel and now pushing my legs up on either side of it. I stopped the car right there in the middle of the road to figure out what was happening. When I pulled the floor mat up I discovered a hole in the bottom of the floor board just large enough to act as shaver so the car was skimming the top of the packed snow and shavings were accumulating inside the car. I had to run the car heater with the car sitting idle for about a half hour to drain the snow which had now become hardened into ice. I had to laugh out loud at myself and my rusty Nova and still chuckle to myself whenever I think of or tell this story.

Journey of Awakening – 39: New England Singing

2011-11-03T12:32:00.001-07:00

Every movement has its songs. Every movement in history has sustained itself through continually rehearsing its reason for existing. Keeping the vision alive through the stories of its everyday heroes, regularly celebrating the smallest victories and even what could be called defeats, and singing the songs that lifted spirits and moved souls to stay on the march.

In the Town Meeting 76 campaign songs were written by each and every community where a meeting was held. Local residents would get together on the day of the forum and choose a familiar tune and then a small group would go off and write a story of the past, present and future of their town, design a symbol, and write lyrics to fit the chosen tune. These would be presented to the entire gathering in a rousing closing plenary session along with the reports of recommendations for action.

Campaign volunteers also had songs that we wrote for each region where we worked. And we sang at every one of our weekend R & R meetings. We sang at meals together. We sang in the morning. We sang at night. Whenever discussions got too long or too heavy, someone would break out into one of our songs and we were off. Sometimes we even danced. But always we sang.

One night as I was driving back from the Maine Town Meeting circuit, in the rain, heading for Harry and Ellis’ place in South Portland where I was staying during the week, I started humming tunes to myself to stay awake. Some of them were coming to me from my local church days. Then I started singing the words: “When the roll is called up yonder I’ll be there!”

“That would make a great song for Town Meeting New England.”

“Yes!”

Singin’ in the Rain – in Maine

Well, it caught on. We sang it at every weekend gathering of the New England teams. Harry especially loved singing it. Every time I made it back home for dinnertime he insisted on singing every verse at the table, with just him and Ellis and me. Harry died about ten years ago, but I can still see and hear him singing with gusto, throwing his head back and belting out the words.

I can remember only the first verse and the chorus now:

Oh Connecticut, Rhode Island, Massachusetts were the font

Of a future bright with hope and liberty

Then the hardy pioneers of Maine, New Hampshire and Vermont

Carved a home from rocky soil and lusty sea.

Refrain:

When New England wakes up singing

And New England bells are ringing

Then her people all are swinging

To the beat of marching feet just as before.

Where are the songs that will sustain the movement that is spreading across the globe today?

Journey of Awakening – 38: Potato Country

2011-10-14T16:20:00.000-07:00

One hour from Portland to Augusta, the Capitol of Maine, on I-95. Two hours to Bangor; four to Houlton, the end of the Interstate, before New Brunswick, Canada. My map stopped there. I could have continued on north to Mars Hill, Presque Isle, Caribou, Fort Kent, and canoed down to Allagash.

But I figured if I couldn’t find one town before going that far, I would stop at a gas station and conduct an entire town meeting with the attendant and a few truckers. I was getting really adept at gauging my day trips to be able to make it back to my cozy warm bed at the Bliss B & B before midnight.

Aroostook County must be one of the largest in the country, rivaling San Bernardino and those in Texas and Alaska.

Island Falls, Maine

A half-hour this side of Houlton was the little farming community of Island Falls. Fortunately, there was a Congregational Church so I could use my credentials as an ordained UCC clergyman to make a connection. Pastor Jim Johnson was a young man who had recently been called to serve the church, and since I arrived around the dinner hour (another thing I had learned early in my career), invited me to eat with his family, and even made me a comfortable bed on a couch in his office at the church. After dinner he arranged for me to meet with a couple of his elders who were also community leaders. I learned that the area around Island Falls was almost entirely comprised of family potato farms and they were in the midst of a lengthy drought and that even in good years it was hard to make a living off the land. At the same time these farmers were proud of their community and how everyone looked after one another. They were not looking for the government to step in to save them, but welcomed the chance to get together to talk with fellow citizens about making their community a better place so that their kids would not have to leave to find jobs.

Aroostook County Potato Farming

So when I left Island Falls the next day I felt I had made some new friends and also had a date set for the Island Falls Community Forum. I experienced similar welcomes in several other small towns along the I-95 corridor: Enfield, Old Town, Orono, Holden, Pittsfield, and Bradley. The specifics were different but they all expressed common longings. People wanted a place where their children could grow up and find meaningful, productive work. A place where community was experienced and families could flourish. A place where they could maintain their traditions and welcome the future without being threatened by it.

We were aiming to have as many of the Town Meeting ’76 forums as possible on the same Saturday in November, before Thanksgiving. Before the end of September I was well on the way with eight of the sixteen scheduled. At our Chicago ICA headquarters there was a room with a huge 8’ by 16’ county map of the U.S. and a team of people whose sole job was to fill in each county with a yellow marker as a town was scheduled.

Maine was now half yellow!

Journey of Awakening – 37: Coasting in Maine

2011-09-24T16:12:00.001-07:00

Making my way downeast along the ragged, rocky coast of Maine, I experienced the full range of the elements autumn had to offer: Fog so dense that driving was both disorienting and downright dangerous; rain so intense it penetrated the pores; foliage so glorious in the autumn sun you were transformed from complainer to Mainer in the space of a day.

I had learned the art of “cold-calling” while in insurance sales. This Town Meeting 76 campaign gave the term a whole new meaning. More in the tradition of the Methodist preachers of the 1800s, circuit riders as they were called. I also came to appreciate my biblical training, as when Jesus sent out those first circuit riders (I guess they were actually circuit walkers) he told them to go into one town and preach and if received leaved with a blessing, and if not well-received to just shake the dust off their feet and move on.

I made my way from town to town, stopping at this church and that business and that town hall, telling the Town Meeting story and trying to close the deal by walking away with a scheduled meeting. I think I neglected to mention that we had no budget to speak of to support ourselves on the road, a little gas money and a few dollars for meals, never enough to last the week. We were expected to live off the land. Fortunately, wherever there was a McDonald’s restaurant we could walk in and get a free meal. One of our Guardians, our term for well-connected supporters of our work, was vice-president of marketing and advertising for McDonald’s Corporation. The company’s sponsorship of TM 76 meant that any of our volunteers anywhere in the U.S. were able to get a meal. So breakfast, lunch and dinner were on Mickie D., which may be the reason I have a sixth sense for where any of his restaurants are whenever I travel.

I like to say I was thrown out of only one town in Maine that entire season. I rolled into beautiful downtown Bucksport one drizzly, foggy evening. It was close to dinner time but no McDonald’s. So I stopped at a couple of likely places, found the Chamber of Commerce president who was also the Head Selectman. This consolidation of power did not give me a positive feeling about this town. After telling my story and arranging for another meeting with two or three town leaders after dinner, I asked if there was a restaurant and Inn where I might be able to request a complimentary meal and room. Actually, there was only one little café that qualified. So with the assurance of the businessman that I might get a fair hearing, I headed over to make my pitch.

Bucksport, Maine

I found the owner of the Bucksport Inn in the kitchen, cooking. I guess I should have offered to pitch in and bus tables or wash dishes. I attributed the response I got to my request to his having had a hard day: “Are you nuts? I don’t give nothin’ for free to nobody!” I bought a donut and cup of coffee with the change I had left.

When I arrived back for my meeting, two of the three town selectmen listened politely for awhile and then interrupted, almost in unison: “We don’t think Bucksport is ready for your town meeting project. And you probably don’t need to see anyone else. You might just want to be on your way.”

OK. It was getting late and it was still misting. I made my way back from the coast to August, where the Maine turnpike section of I-95 began (or ended), found a phone booth, and phoned my friends Harry and Ellis Bliss, who would always welcome me back. Ellis answered and I could hear my hang-dog pleading voice go out through the phone line:

“Mom, can I come home?”

“We’ll leave the light on for ya” came right back. The humor of the Tom Bodett famous line was not totally lost to my tired mind.

Ellis and Me 20 Years Later - 1996

I was still a couple of hours away. That bed never felt so warm and inviting as on that night.

Journey of Awakening – 36: The Fall of Maine

2011-09-15T13:51:00.000-07:00

Maine in autumn can be the most colorfully exhilarating place on earth. But it can also be brutal. When the leaves are in full splendor they are truly awe-inspiring. And when one of those Nor’easters come swooping in off the Atlantic you are suddenly unable to stay warm and dry. Chilled to the bone is an understatement—chilled to the marrow would be more accurate. The fall of 1977 was starting off with mild, mostly sunny weather and easy driving.

I decided to stick fairly close to the I-95 corridor heading downeast, since it traversed nine of Maine’s sixteen counties. Several had interesting and unique names, probably adapted from local tribes: Sagadahoc, Kennebec, Piscataquis, Penobscot, and Aroostook. Others were more typical English and New England monikers: York, Cumberland, Oxford, Knox, Somerset, Waldo, Hancock, Lincoln, and Washington.

I would drive a ways on the Interstate until I saw an interesting sign for a town not too far off the highway. Some of the towns had unfamiliar names as well: Kennebunkport, Bucksport, Skowhegan, Bangor, and Machias.

Bucksport, Maine Machias, Maine

One of my early visits was to Damariscotta-Newcastle, a quaint little burg right on the coast that depended on the summer tourist trade.

I happened to stop by the local newspaper office to see what I could learn about the town. The Damariscotta Town Crier was a weekly. Sam, the owner and publisher, was in and to my delight, took the time to listen to my story about Town Meeting 76. Sam was a New Yorker who had bought the paper about 5 years earlier, so was considered almost as much a newcomer as I was. But Sam was looking for a way to build community awareness and participation. He agreed after spending an hour with me to have the newspaper sponsor the meeting. We had a date set before I left his office and I had met with 3 or 4 town leaders and got their OK as well.

I was only at the end of my first week on the Maine Town Meeting circuit and I had 2 of my 16 on the schedule. Life was good. Maine was cooperating. I headed back to Boston for a weekend of celebration, R & R, sharing what was working and what wasn’t, and planning for the next victorious week.

So How Was Your Summer?

2011-09-05T16:21:00.001-07:00

An e-mail from my cousin Betty in Texas is probably responsible for this posting. She was concerned that she had not received any message from me since June with an entry on my Blog. Wow! Someone actually has been reading these and someone missed reading about my journey! Then the thought came to me that, at my age, most likely the concern has to do with my state of health and whether I was still “with it,” physically, mentally, or both.

My summer has been full, not of writing, but of visits to and from kids and grandkids, friends’ 50^th wedding anniversary celebrations, playing with Norma Jean, a little swimming, and helping son Robb move into his new home in Riverside.

June was a trip to Portland for a week with Eric, Tina, and getting to attend our 5 and 8 year-old granddaughters Katy and Grace’s dance performance extravaganza.

In July 6 year-old (now 7) granddaughter Samantha from Iowa made her second solo flight and stay for two weeks, a swirl of non-stop grand-parenting including two trips to the beach, one to the desert and mountains, and a day at the San Diego Zoo, capped off by a 7^th birthday party by the pool.

August was consumed with Robb having two hospitalizations after a month or two on the streets in Riverside and San Bernardino, followed by our taking charge and moving him from his Perris home to a big old transitional living residence near downtown Riverside.

Today is Labor Day and I am relaxing while reflecting on the summer that was after a traditional trip to Oak Glen for hot dogs and pie with our gang. I promise to resume my regular posts to Mellow Milan’s Musings beginning this coming week, even if only one of you is reading them.

I hope your summer has been full of life’s rewarding experiences.

Journey of Awakening – 35: I’m a Mainer

2011-06-10T11:35:00.001-07:00

September 1977. The sun’s rays streamed in the east-facing window of my room at Harry and Ellis’ beautiful home in South Portland. The seagulls swooped around the lighthouse, so close I felt I could almost reach out and touch it. Harry had already left for the hospital. Ellis was up and had a light breakfast prepared for me. It was my first day on the Maine Town Meeting circuit. I pulled on my jeans and long sleeved sport shirt and my red and black plaid lumberjack shirt which I wore every day that fall. I had driven up from Boston on Sunday night so I could get an early start and have a full week of calling on townsfolk before making the drive back to Boston Friday night. I chatted briefly with Ellis as I gulped down orange juice and coffee and inhaled a hardly chewed piece of toast. I was ready.

Jumping in my trusty rusty green Nova, I headed out “downeast” as true Mainers would say, and with my AAA map on the seat next to me, came upon my first town that looked like a likely prospect, York, Maine.

YORK, MAINE

I had passed by York on the way to Portland and was struck by its rugged beauty, set on the ragged Maine coastline, which I would see a lot more of and come to love. York County is the southern-most county in Maine. The county seat town is Alfred, a little ways inland from York.

Alfred, Maine Town Hall & York County Courthouse

I thought it might be a little easier to find my way around there, so I stopped at a gas station to ask where I might find the Head Selectman’s house. I got the typical New England directions:

“Ya go down past the Dunkin Donuts and take the fork to the right, then when ya come to the schoolhouse there’ll be a roundabout and ya go all the way around it to the last road, then you’ll go a ways and come to a 3-way stop. After that ya take the first right after and when ya come to the graveyard ya take the first right after and Janet’s house is about the 5^th one on the left. It’s a big white one but ya can’t see it from the road, so if ya go past her driveway and come to a dead end, ya’ve gone too far. Turn around and stop at one of the farm houses and ask where Janet lives. They’ll tell ya.”

I did have to stop and ask a farmer and discovered what my colleagues had told me about Mainers. I found him out by his machine shed and told him who I was, why I was there, and that I was looking for the Town Head Selectman, Janet. “Two driveways up that way on the right.” I thanked him as he turned on his heel and headed around the back of the building, leaving me standing. I thought I hear a faint ‘A-yeh’ as he turned. So that was a good lesson for me in a nutshell. Mainers are not unfriendly, just no-nonsense folk who go about their business and don’t spend a lot of time chit-chatting, at least until they’ve decided you are not there to waste their time.

I found Janet and gave her my letter of introduction from the Governor of her state and asked a few questions about Alfred, being careful to mention a few things I’d picked up about the history and uniqueness of York County. I was a little surprised and then delighted when she expressed interest in having one of the 16 community forums as part of Town Meeting ’76 in Alfred. She said she would talk to the other 2 Selectmen and some of the other community leaders, but thought they would be interested. This was more than I could have hoped for. Janet was the right person. I had been lucky. We would not always approach the Selectmen first, because we emphasized that the forums were not to be political gatherings but a chance for townspeople to meet to celebrate and give voice to their concerns, hopes and dreams for their community. Our usual strategy was to ask “Who is the one person in your town who, if you want to get something done, you go to?” Often you would get “Oh, Josie Adams, the chair of the annual town picnic” or “you need to see Rev. Johnson at the Congregational Church.” We would usually get 3 or 4 names to begin our approach. Then we’d go to the first person and say “Rev. Johnson, we were talking with Josie Adams and she said if you were for doing this in your town she’d help and get the word out and organize the food.” Then we’d go to the Selectmen and say “Josie and Rev. Johnson think this is a good idea for the town and if you’ll support them, they’ll do all the work on it.” And so it would go until we got enough support to make it public, get flyers up and get it in the local paper.

Now I had the first of 16 already scheduled, on my first day. “This is going to be a breeze.” I went back to my South Portland B & B and reported to Harry and Ellis at dinner on my successful day, after calling Linda and reporting to the House and the Strike Force leaders of course. I couldn’t wait to get on the road to the next town.

Journey of Awakening – 34: New England Welcome

2011-06-02T13:26:00.000-07:00

Fall 1977. Our new home at 27 Dartmouth in Boston was just a six block walk from Copley Plaza and in the shadow of the recently built John Hancock building, a massive skyscraper made almost entirely of blue tinted glass.

One problem the architects had not anticipated was that in the extreme temperature variations from winter to summer in Boston, combined with the winds at the top of the 60 story structure and the bonding used to keep them in place, these huge 500 lb. panes of glass would, without warning, pop right out and fall the forty or fifty stories to the walkway below. It is a wonder that no one was killed or even injured during the time they were figuring out how to reinforce the frames so as to prevent their popping out.

It was quite a contrast to see this tall modern obelisk of blue mirrored glass against the skyline of Old Boston, overlooking the Charles River and Beacon Hill, not far from Quincy Market and the Old North Church.

We loved Boston and enjoyed hearing stories from our colleagues whose families had lived there for a couple of hundred years. It did not take us long to settle in and get our House assignments made. Eric started 4^th grade in a school down the street within walking distance of our House. He loved his new teacher and wanted to invite her to his birthday party the House hosted for him. And she showed up. It was just five of us adults and Eric but he had a ball and so did we, playing birthday games like grade schoolers.

Nancy Trask was a librarian and got a job at the M.I.T. library. Linda was quickly hired as an office secretary at Boston University.

And Tom Reemtsma had a job, I forget where, but he had the task of driving all three to work in Nancy’s big Chevy station wagon. One thing we learned well in the Order was how to build a strong resume and acquire jobs very fast.

An additional aspect of our assignment complexity was that we were as an organization entering the culminating stages of the Town Meeting campaign. The Area Priors based in New York assigned two staff to organize a team of volunteers to complete New England, which had barely been touched by the campaign the previous year. We were to alternate between our Hartford and Boston Houses on successive weekends, which meant that Linda, Nancy and Tom had to host a group of about 10 additional bodies every other weekend, arrange lodging and meals, and prepare the teams for the next week’s foray into the New England wilderness.

Nelson Stover and Larry Ward were our two “Strike Force” coordinators. Larry was an impressive black man who had grown up on the west side of Chicago. Today he is an impressive meditation teacher and author. Nelson was a creative white guy who today is a prominent advocate and supporter of the ICA’s work in India, which was begun in the early 1970s. These two always planned grand celebrations whenever our Town Meeting teams would gather for the weekend. One unforgettable one of these was the weekend in Hartford when we all went to see the opening of the first Star Wars movie and then returned to the House for a meal and movie conversation, followed by a ‘star wars line dance’ in costume, where we all took turns making up weird movements as we danced between lines of clapping ‘aliens’.

My assignment was to arrange for 16 Town Meetings in Maine (one per county), to be completed by Thanksgiving.

Tim Karpoff, the Hartford House Prior, this tall, handsome, ex-all-American wrestler from one of the Ivy League colleges, was assigned to finish off New Hampshire and Vermont. Another woman had Rhode Island, Nantucket and Martha’s Vineyard. Connecticut and Massachusetts actually had teams of two assigned. I was warned by some of the locals about how standoffish “Mainers” could be and how difficult my task would probably be, and how they didn’t “cotton to outsiders.” Another complication was the name Town Meeting. New Englanders invented the Town Meeting. It was the local governance structure for almost all towns. There were three “Selectmen” chosen to run things in between Town Meetings. But whenever major issues needed to be decided, a legal Town Meeting had to be called and all voting residents were notified so they could be in on the decision. So we had to use the term ‘community forums’ and assure local leaders and residents that we were not trying to usurp their decision-making structure when selling them on Town Meeting ’76.

I headed off early in September in the House’s only car, a beat-up old Chevy Nova, to win over these standoffish Mainers. Fortunately, we did have a handful of colleagues in the state, but they were in Maine’s largest city, Portland. Harry and Ellis Bliss lived in South Portland, in a big colonial style house overlooking the ocean. They had agreed to put me up whenever I needed a place to stay overnight. They gave me my own key and made me more than welcome. They became dear friends and enthusiastic Town Meeting supporters. Harry was a prominent Maine cardiac surgeon. Ellis was a daughter of an old established Maine family. They were members of a local UCC church, which was an added connection. One story I heard about the sort of man Harry was, that during the Vietnam War he took his lunch hours, most days, to stand on a street corner, many times alone, holding his sign in silent protest.

Well, not all Mainers were going to make my task so difficult. And at least I had the most comfortable and hospitable bed and breakfast in the state as my home away from home. How hard can this job be?

Stay tuned.

Journey of Awakening – 33: Boston or Bust

2011-05-26T15:38:00.001-07:00

Summer ’77. It was time for Troy to enter the “Student House,” an experiment in which 6^th through 8^th grade kids were housed in our Chicago headquarters building under the supervision of some “responsible adults,” to spend the school year in the Chicago public schools. Linda, Eric and I received our assignments at the end of July. We were to be Priors of the Boston Religious House. Along with this came an added benefit. We got to rent a very large U-Haul truck and drive it across the country, making stops at half the Houses in the U.S., picking up and dropping off belongings of other re-assigned families. We could take our family “discontinuity” time (our term for vacations, a concept that was not in our vocabulary) along the way, as long as we showed up in Boston by the end of August. We decided to make an adventure of it. Even Eric got into the spirit and we were to have many “tailgate picnics” as well as those in city/town public parks. Our journey took us to Los Angeles, Phoenix, Salt Lake City, Denver, Wichita, Kansas City, St. Louis, Chicago, Pittsburgh, Philadelphia, New --York, Hartford, and ended in Boston, all during one of the hottest summers on record. Our only expenses were gas and meals, for which we were reimbursed. Lodging wasn’t a problem, since each House put us up for a night or two, requiring very few motel stays. At today’s gas prices that trip might have bankrupted the Order, but a gallon was only about 70 cents that year, compared to 4 dollars today.

It was truly a family adventure, as we tried to soak up a little of the local culture and history of each town and state as we passed through. We imagined ourselves “reverse pioneers” retracing the steps of our forebears who made the trek west by wagon train. Amazingly, there was not a single breakdown of our trusty steed, not even a flat tire, the whole way. The weather was hot but without storms, except for that one huge dust storm we observed but thankfully were not caught in as we drove through Utah.

We arrived at our new home at 27 Dartmouth, Boston, Mass. on time and intact, greeted by the outgoing Priors, the Wiltses, who were heading for their new assignment in Seattle. We were soon to be joined by our other two House members, Nancy Trask and Tom Reemtsma, with whom we would spend the next year.

Journey of Awakening – 32: House Priors

2011-05-19T11:46:00.001-07:00

1976-7. We settled in to our new room in the San Francisco House, organized our living space as comfortably as we could, with a queen-sized box spring and mattress on the floor, a small desk and chair with a lamp, and a commode that served as a headboard and wall for privacy from the entry door. Troy and Eric were at summer camp, provided by Order staff. Linda and I were now assigned as House Priors. At the end of the summer Eric started his 3^rd grade year and Troy was in 5th grade at Starr King School.

Bob and Cynthia Vance had full-time assignments as Area Priors. Bob was travelling constantly, researching sites for potential human development projects, while Cynthia was responsible for securing in-kind donations and overall administration. One unforgettable result of her fearless approach to likely donors was the day Cynthia drove up to the front door with a station wagon full of half-gallons of rainbow sherbet. She ran frantically up the steps yelling for us to come help unload the sherbet and find space in our two or three freezers. Since there was not enough room for it all, she began handing out sherbet, which was by now getting a little soft, to neighbors and people passing by on the street.

San Francisco was a stopping place for people travelling overseas. And since the ICA had projects either in full swing or in preparation in the Marshall Islands, the Philippines, Japan, and Korea, we were making regular trips to San Francisco International to pick up staff and volunteers and put them up overnight. We also hosted a number of our travelling fundraising staff for periods of a few days, or in some cases, weeks. This in addition to housing our staff and a group of senior high students whose parents were assigned overseas. These were, by the way, incredible kids who participated fully, with only the normal amount of teenage rebellion, in the House life and community activities, while being full-time students. Some of the best of these were David St. John and his sister Ann, John Wainwright, Doug Haman and Hendrik Idzerta, all of whom have grown to be successful adults and productive and creative contributors to society.

Me and John Wainwright

The fall of ’76 kicked off with a flurry of preparations for a major Town Meeting initiative in San Francisco. Linda was in charge of coordinating twelve neighborhood forums to be held on the same Saturday. We had the support and endorsement of Mayor George Moscone and the Board of Supervisors, then chaired by Dianne Feinstein, and a who’s who list of community leaders, churches (including the now infamous Peoples’ Temple), service organizations and businesses. Training sessions were held in all 12 neighborhoods for workshop leaders in English and Spanish.

Eric, Karen Reese, Barbara Prather, Tim Goodger: Town Meeting San Francisco Promotion Team

On the day of the forums McDonald’s supplied hamburgers, cheeseburgers, and fries for every meeting. Local soft drink suppliers provided sodas. Other businesses donated door prizes. It was a massive undertaking. Some of the more memorable forums were the Tenderloin (San Francisco’s night life district), the Haight-Ashbury (where one of the participants ripped our flip charts off the wall and proceeded to jump up and down on them while shouting dis-establishment statements), the Castro District, and a special city-wide senior citizen Town Meeting that 500 unruly seniors showed up for. And we had prepared enough workshop leaders for half that number.

We received lots of publicity. The press showed up at several of the meeting sites. Politicians of all stripes attended, and many even stayed for the whole day and participated, even though they realized they were not going to be allowed to make long speeches. It was a fantastic demonstration of citizen participation and community empowerment. Every meeting produced a set of proposals that residents could take action on and not wait for the politicians. Each one had actually written their own brief story of what the community meant to them, its history, present challenges and future hopes. Every neighborhood created a symbol, displayed at the plenary session at the end of the day, and wrote a song that the whole community could sing.

The bicentennial year ended and we were still a ways from the 200 Town Meetings in California, and even further from the 5000 across the U.S., which some crazy persons among us had proposed as our ultimate goal. But we as a group had never shrunk from impossible tasks, so we simply extended the bicentennial for another year or so and created the image of completing at least one Town Meeting in each and every county of the U.S. This would be a challenge worthy of a crazy group like ours.

Journey of Awakening – 31: An Order Wedding

2011-05-12T11:00:00.000-07:00

June 1976. My dad was in a nursing home—dying. My kids were in Minneapolis. Linda’s sons, Troy, a 4^th grader and Eric in 2^nd grade, were living with her in Los Angeles. I was on the road in California for much of the spring. Linda had the whole burden of planning for our June 6 wedding while working full-time and organizing a Town Meeting on weekends. We were assigned a weekend or two to prepare our “missional family document” which included designing a family symbol to hang in our room as a reminder of our covenant with one another, the Order, and G-O-D. There was a resident artist in the San Francisco House, Dean Ellis, who put the final touches on the symbol that would be displayed on our banner.

Finally the week of the marriage celebration came. It was to be held in the Los Angeles Religious House, a large three-story home, built by the actor John Barrymore, on 11^th and Magnolia, just a couple of blocks off Olympic and Vermont. Linda’s mother came from Green Bay, Wisconsin to help her get ready, along with Linda’s cousin, Mary Anne Schefe, who lived in Redondo Beach. I was on my own, except for the members of the LA House and my mother, who lived in Van Nuys, so I had a place to stay for the week.

We had gold rings made with the center of our family symbol, a “St. Andrew’s Cross” repeated all the way around, and silver bands for the right hand signifying a commitment to a life of service. Linda had made the acquaintance of Percy Henkelman, a bishop in the Moravian Brethren Church, a local supporter of the Institute (who also happened to be Andy Griffith’s pastor) and asked him to officiate. Jann McGuire, whose family had lived with us in St. Louis and now lived in Lindsay, California, was the matron of honor. I asked Lyn Oden, an LA House member, to be best man.

Bob and Joan Knutson, LA House Priors, made sure it would be a grand and elegant, but simple, wedding celebration. We had a simply elegant pre-wedding dinner with the House members and several local colleagues present. The day of the wedding arrived. My mother showed up with surprise guests, my cousin Jan O’Grady with her family from Council Bluffs, Iowa (I had officiated at her wedding back at Trinity Church in Lincoln in 1967– now she had two little girls of her own). The marriage service was held in the large living room (we wondered whether any of the Barrymore kids had been married there), with a reception in the back yard.

Linda and I left the next morning on our “honeymoon trip” which consisted of pulling a trailer with her few belongings, and a wire cage with Eric’s pet black rabbit in the back seat of my dad’s blue Ford, heading for San Francisco, our next year’s assignment. We were able to arrange to stop for a couple of days’ stay in Carmel on the way. That was our honeymoon. But we were ready for the next challenge and approached our life together with hopeful anticipation and excitement, just like any newly-wedded couple.

Journey of Awakening – 30: Re-engagement

2011-05-05T13:03:00.001-07:00

Although San Francisco was a great place to be, 1975 had been a tough year on the family. During the year my first marriage was officially ended in divorce. I had tried to keep in touch with Leslea and Robb by letter and occasional photos. But my emotional life was pretty much a mess and I spent a good deal of time insulating myself from feelings. I could hide in my day-to-day obligations. Still, the deep reflection on just how much my self-image was bound up in being significant, being some-body, had not yet begun.

Linda Tuecke, now divorced from Dan and having spent a year in Chicago at the ICA international center, was transferred to Los Angeles for 1975-6 assignment year with her two sons, Troy and Eric, both in elementary school. We began communicating during the year about our future and requested permission to marry. While awaiting the decision of the Panchayat (the designated spiritual leadership group of the Order: Ecumenical) I was put in charge of the newly formed Town Meeting California team.

The ICA had received a $50,000 grant from Bank of America Foundation to organize and conduct 200 forums in communities across the state. The initial phase of the campaign involved sending individuals out to spend eight weeks training local community workshop leaders in selected towns and neighborhoods, culminating in an all-day forum to identify community issues and challenges, formulate proposals, write a story, create a symbol and song to celebrate the history and hopes of the community, and present a document at the end of the day that citizens could take action on to implement their proposals.

I worked with the towns of Napa and Marin City (a demonstration integrated town in Marin County, north of San Francisco). These both drew several hundred residents. We also held a forum in the Mission District, our own neighborhood, at which more than 200 residents showed up. The Mission was fast transitioning to a Hispanic neighborhood, which meant that we had to produce materials in Spanish and recruit and train bi-lingual workshop leaders.

I was also sent to form teams in Sacramento, the San Joaquin Valley and Los Angeles, which were to go out and visit communities in hopes that we could reach the goal of 200 Town Meetings by the end of the year. We had endorsement letters from politicians from “Governor Moonbeam” on down, from service organizations, religious leaders, the California Chamber of Commerce, the California Jaycees, as well as from mayors of the towns which had held the first of the Town Meetings. We thought we would be welcomed with open arms, but encountered the entire spectrum of resistance from the established leaders passive “we don’t really have any big issues” to “Who exactly are you and why are you here?” to “We need to keep commie organizations like you out of our town.” None of the open hostility and accompanying publicity ever stuck. But things were still not going fast enough to reach the magic 200.

In the early spring of 1976 permission was finally granted by the Order for Linda and me to marry. Linda was assigned out to work and was in an office manager job in LA. On weekends she joined the Town Meeting campaign focused on neighborhoods. Two of the largest of these were in Pico Union, the neighborhood adjoining the LA House, and Huntington Park, which Linda coordinated. The school year was winding down and we were planning a June wedding while trying to keep up the momentum of the Town Meeting campaign.

It was a whirlwind spring. It would be good to pause for a lively wedding celebration and glorious honeymoon.

Adventures of Obama – 7

2011-04-23T15:33:00.001-07:00

Obama’s having a difficult year,

Barack Obama showed no fear;

Two-and-a-half or three wars to worry about,

A national debt a gazillion years out,

Republicans shouting “Now here’s our chance;

We’ll roll back Obamacare, we’ll make you dance.”

Barack Obama, he didn’t shiver;

He still had arrows left in his quiver;

He went to the people and held a Town Meeting;

Then got re-elected in spite of their bleating.

For Pat Tillman et al

2011-04-22T14:39:00.001-07:00

“Friendly Fire” strikes me as a strange way

To describe the killing of a brother or sister.

I remember cold nights by pot-bellied stoves,

Bonfires crackling while singing camp songs,

A lamp in the window welcoming me home,

Shivering my way to the basement to shovel coal

And running back up the stairs to my bed

To wait for the pounding of the radiator.

“Friendly Fire” doesn’t ease a mother’s pain

Or lessen the agony of a grieving spouse.

It won’t fill the hole in the heart

Of a loved one’s absence from the home.

No matter what you choose to name it,

There’s no rational way to frame it.

But calling accidental murder “friendly fire”

Destroys all the warm memories of past encounters.

The Lady and the Towers

2011-04-21T16:03:00.001-07:00

Once I saw them, standing tall

Above me, twins of cement and steel;

I at their feet, an ant doing homage

To what they were, not knowing

What they would become.

Then, mounting a vessel like one

Of my ancestors from distant lands

Who came for the promise

Of freedom to chase dreams,

I saw her raised arm

And turned round—there they were

Towering over the land of the free

And the home of the brave,

Or at least the Wall Street part;

But now resembling towers of biblical proportion.

I have this picture to remind me

Of the folly of wrong-headed dreams.

I have this image, even stronger,

Of two towers crumbling to dust.

The lady never blessed them;

Her gaze was always on the land,

Not on ego’s constructions.

Her lamp ever toward the sea,

Welcoming strangers whose sole desire is liberty.

Journey of Awakening – 29: New Man School

2011-04-14T22:32:00.001-07:00

It didn’t take me as long or as many trips on BART to find employment this time. I made the rounds of the Montgomery Street financial district and found that there were a number of insurance companies with openings for sales people. It was easy to get interviews.

Monarch Life had a small agency at One Montgomery and the General Agent, Gary Brenzel and I hit it off right away. I was given a battery of tests which came back positive for insurance sales, except for one thing: “You’re not motivated by money.”

Gary decided to take a chance on me, put me on a training salary of $800 a month, and sent me, expenses paid, to Monarch’s home office in Springfield, Massachusetts for two weeks of training at “New Man School.” There were 30 of us from across the U.S. and we were thoroughly indoctrinated in the ‘Monarch Way’ of selling and servicing our clients who purchased long-term disability policies, which was Monarch’s primary niche. I learned many helpful sales techniques and came back to San Francisco with new enthusiasm and confidence. The ‘New Man School’, I discovered over the next few months, was really just beginning.

I worked hard at the dreaded cold-calling to get interviews. I presented our story of why every professional needed disability insurance and why Monarch was the best company to buy this from. And I continued participating in House life most evenings and on weekends. Except that insurance sales often require evening house calls. At one point Gary even decided to help a couple of us boost our productivity by financing a week-long trip to the Sacramento area to call on Monarch clients, in hopes of snagging a few upgrades to their policies or sell them life insurance. But Gary had hit the mark when he said I wasn’t motivated by money. The thing about insurance sales is, the income is directly tied to sales. You get a commission, a percentage of the premium paid, for each policy sold. So the $800 a month I was getting gradually decreased after the first two month, until it disappeared, and I was on my own.

I remember one time when Gary approached me after an agency meeting. “I’m just curious. I notice that your pay checks are endorsed over to this Order: Ecumenical. Is this some kind of religious group?” The cat was out of the bag, so I told him the story of the Institute. Gary was a pretty open guy. And this was, after all, San Francisco. He continued to be intrigued. The Institute had this network of volunteer professionals and business people, the Guardians which often held informal gatherings and hosted our celebrations at their homes. I invited Gary to one of these at a doctor’s home in Hillsborough so he could meet some of my colleagues and see that we were not an organization of religious weirdoes. He was impressed and came to me during the evening with “Now I understand.”

Just to give you the idea of what Hillsborough homes were like!

But alas, Gary’s insight about my money motivation was proving itself in my productivity as a Monarch agent. I believe if I had become a success he would probably have joined the Guardians. I don’t remember the exact time, sometime in late fall or early 1976, Bob Vance said “Let’s take a walk over to Uncle Gaylord’s and get an ice cream cone.” He discussed what was coming up in the next few months. The ICA was embarking on an ambitious campaign of citizen and community involvement, Community Forums. We had been engaged in establishing human development projects in villages around the world for a few years. Twelve of these were to be in small rural communities and urban neighborhoods in the U.S. 1976 was the bicentennial of our nation and the ICA had applied for and received approval of a massive citizen participation initiative called Town Meeting ’76, one-day forums in communities across the country. Bob wanted to know if I was interested in being a part of the project. As we approached the front steps of our house, having finished our ice cream cones, he said “Milan, I don’t think we can afford to have you working out any longer. It’s costing us more than you are bringing in. I think I’d like to have you work full-time on this Town Meeting campaign.”

I couldn’t wait to hand in my resignation to Gary the next day. We parted friends even though I sensed his disappointment. To add to his frustration, I had introduced Heather Brun, his office manager to the San Francisco House and she spent the next year as an intern. I lost touch with Gary but remember his generous spirit to this day.

Now to get back to what I came here for—awakening people and transforming communities!

Journey of Awakening – 28: Getting Grounded in San Francisco

2011-04-08T12:43:00.001-07:00

Winter 1974-5. My self-story of being an ex-pastor, failed husband and father, floundering revolutionary, unable to find a job, had to end sometime, I suppose. Here’s how it happened for me.

Bob Vance, our Area and House Prior, loved ice cream cones. And whenever he had some serious issue he wanted to discuss with someone, he would say “Let’s take a walk over to Uncle Gaylord’s” (Old Uncle Gaylord’s was a famous ice cream parlor on Mission Street, 4 blocks from our house). One evening after dinner Bob approached me with the offer I couldn’t refuse. On the way he talked of how things were going with the Houses and the Order. He asked me how I was doing. How were my kids? Did I have an idea of a direction for my life? Bob always had a way of making you think he was asking for advice on important decisions he was struggling with, even when he wasn’t.

“So how is it going with your job search?” I was waiting for it and launched into my problems and difficulties with my being under-qualified or over-qualified for this or that type of work. He listened patiently until we arrived back at the front steps of the House. His parting shot was “Well, if you really wanted to find a job, you’d have one when you get home for dinner tomorrow!” Strange how a simple comment can puncture illusions like a pin stuck in a balloon.

The interesting thing is, I actually had a job offer the next day and was to start work the following day. One of the ads I found on my next day BART run was for a chief dispatcher at a company called Private Protection Patrol. It happened that the summer before leaving St. Louis I had a part-time job as a dispatcher for Whelan Security. This job experience apparently qualified me to run an office of 3 other dispatchers, a bank of electronic monitoring devices, and several hundred security guards, because I got the interview and was hired the same day. I was able to report to the House at dinner on my new employment.

What I didn’t know was how desperate the company owners were for someone to take charge of one of the most dis-organized and dysfunctional organizations imaginable. They didn’t need a chief dispatcher—they needed a super-hero. The PPP offices were in the industrial warehouse district in the Back Bay, so I had to use one of the House cars to get to and from work. Things were going smoothly during my training period. Then I was turned loose and instructed to schedule the dispatchers and guards for their various shifts. Security guards are either part-timers while looking for full-time work or second-jobbers. Most are living on the edge and are often difficult to reach. The turnover rate is high, so you are constantly interviewing new applicants, running background checks, etc.

The most eye-opening part of the job was that PPP specialized in supplying security for big parties and rock concerts in the Bay Area. We would often be asked to line up 100-300 guards for an event. One example was the night of the Grateful Dead concert at the Cow Palace.

We were getting calls all evening that they didn’t have enough security and our guards were walking off the job site in frustration, trying to do crowd control for the tens of thousands of ‘Deadheads’

Another night we received a call from a private party that our two guards were being backed against a wall and had their guns taken away. I called the SF police who were not at all happy to have to “clean up our mess.”

It didn’t take many months for my bosses and me to agree that something needed to change. Another re-organization of the dispatch office resulted in my being put on the graveyard shift. Things were usually quieter then, except when we had a concert or party that went on into the wee hours, or the several nights that I was taking threatening phone calls from one of our disgruntled guards who had been let go. Probably the most challenging aspect of the midnight to eight shift was that bank of 50 blinking monsters, I mean monitoring devices staring at me from the wall in front of me. The sites under surveillance varied from huge trucking yards to 7-Elevens and everything in between. The interesting thing is, there were no cameras. Everything was done by listening in. Imagine trying to discern who was entering a fenced-in yard while a semi-truck engine was rumbling in the background. Then there would be the irate convenience store owner who had tripped an alarm button while being robbed, which meant a phone call to the store to determine whether a call to the police was warranted. If you made the wrong call it was too late. This system was not the most effective ever designed.

I finally got so stressed out that I asked Bob Vance to let me quit that job and go look for another. That was a few months before Private Protection Patrol went out of business.

So, back on the BART and on to the next job-hunting adventure.

Journey of Awakening – 27: The Exploration

2011-03-31T17:57:00.001-07:00

September/October 1974. I packed my lunch and headed out on my job-finding, San Francisco-exploring adventure. The 24^th Street BART station was only about 5 blocks from our house. I picked up a San Francisco Chronicle on the way. But I figured I’d better get familiar with the transportation system, so I’ll just ride it while looking in the want-ads for likely jobs.

This was cool. The Daly City line went downtown and continued on through a tube under the Bay to Oakland and ended in Richmond. You could even change trains in those days at no extra charge and go all the way down to Fremont in the South Bay. As long as you didn’t exit the turn-styles you could ride all day. But after 3 days of that it occurred to me that I should get serious about the job search. We were asked each evening at dinner to report on our results, and I had none.

So I began getting off at the Market Street/Embarcadero exit and hitting some of the office buildings, a couple of employment agencies, and some leads I found in the newspaper. Then I discovered the other forms of transportation offered by the ‘city by the Bay’. There were the streetcars that ran up Market Street, and the Geary Street Line that you could take all the way out to Golden Gate Park and the Sunset District. Best of all were these cute little cable cars that you could ride all the way to the wharf, Ghirardelli Square and the Cannery for a quarter.

There are so many sights and experiences in San Francisco: Telegraph Hill and Coit Tower,

snake-like Lombard Street, the Tenderloin, Castro Street, Nob Hill, California Street, Chinatown, North Beach, Broadway, the Golden Gate, etc., etc.

The Hyatt Regency at the bottom of Market Street was brand new and had this incredible lobby with three open bar/restaurants and a large crystal-clear water fall right in the middle. I found I could end my day of job searching there for Happy Hour and a glass of chardonnay for $2 (the original Two-buck Chuck) and still hop on the BART, making it back to the House in time for dinner.

On some Saturdays after House assignments were completed, and on Monday family nights I explored like the ultimate tourist, taking pictures of everything. When I could borrow one of the House cars I would drive out to the Sunset District and find a spot to just sit and watch the sun go down, then listen to the waves crashing below me. Occasionally, when I had saved enough from my $85 a month stipend, I would go to what became my favorite Greek restaurant on Broadway (across from Carol Doda’s place) for dinner and to watch this amazing belly dancer. I always managed to have a couple of dollars to stuff in her belt. Jimmy, the owner, got to know me as a regular over time and would invariably get up and dance to the Zorba tune and have all of us up circling the restaurant at the end.

I was falling in love with San Francisco, and learned one bit of trivia—no one who is actually from there ever calls it ‘Frisco’. But I still did not have a job.

Journey of Awakening-26: Adrift in San Francisco

2011-03-24T12:04:00.001-07:00

August 1974—Arrived at San Francisco International with only a phone number and address for the San Francisco Religious House. All of the Prior families were still in Chicago and assignments were still being sorted out, so I had no clue with whom I would be living. And no one was expecting me. Jeff Gilster, an intern at the House, happened to pick up the phone, happened to have a vehicle available, and offered to come get me.

The House was located in the Mission District, at 955 So. Van Ness. It was a 5-story white Victorian style wedged between a couple of similar wood frames, one a dark green and the other blue and grey. One of the wonderful aspects of the houses in San Francisco was the colorful ways people distinguished their homes, so that some streets reminded you of a painter’s palette.

Families were still in transition and room assignments were to be made when the new priors arrived. So Jeff showed me my temporary quarters, on the top floor, an attic room with about 8 bunk beds, which had been occupied by the male singles and students for the past couple of years. Apparently the San Francisco House had become sort of a boarding house for locals under the previous group of priors. It would take us a few weeks to clear out the “deadwood” after the new families made their appearance.

Finally, families began to arrive from the summer assembly in Chicago. One of these was the Goodgers, Bill and Pat, with their youngsters, Tim and Anne, and Solo, their beautiful golden retriever. They had been in the House the previous year and were from the Bay Area. Bill was a prominent veterinarian who had the distinction of taking care of Bing Crosby’s pets. Pat was a nurse working at a local hospital in the Mission. Tim and Anne reminded me of my two kids and I was delighted whenever I got assigned to child care. The Goodgers sort of took me under their wings, inviting me to share family night dinner on occasion, and helped to get me through my first year without my family.

I had come to San Francisco with images of recruiting in churches for our courses and working with local church leadership. The House had been working intensively with 3 or 4 congregations in the Local Church Experiment. Three of these were: Mission Presbyterian, a few blocks from the House, pastored by Charles Schindler; Hamilton United Methodist in the infamous Haight-Ashbury, led by Bill Miller, a mild-mannered, welcoming guy who had a congregation of old-time San Francisco Methodists, with a mixture of old-time Hippies, Yuppies, and Muppies, and whose wife was the chief of staff for then Mayor George Moscone; and Nob Hill United Methodist on, well, Nob Hill, whose pastor, Bob Stewart and his family became good friends.

I wanted to make myself useful while awaiting my ‘real’ assignment, so I borrowed one of the beat-up House vehicles and began calling on ministers in the Bay Area. This lasted a couple of weeks. The last prior family to arrive was Bob and Cynthia Vance, who were Area Priors, responsible for the 6 Houses in the western U.S. They immediately brought the House members together and announced that the Order was now going to be going in a new direction. The local church experiment would be left to go on its own steam. Our efforts were now to be aimed at working directly with communities.

Huh? I had just got myself trained to teach our courses and geared up for recruiting and training local church leaders. I was a radical church renewer. This wasn’t exactly what I had signed up for. I’d have to change my resume and re-program myself yet again. A further shock took a little longer to sink in. My role as a clergyman was no longer needed. Bob Vance announced the assignments as to who was going to be ‘in-house’ and who was to go find jobs to contribute to the self-support of the House. I found myself on the go-find-a-job list. I hadn’t looked for a real job since college. I had done lots of things: drill-press operator, camp dishwasher/assistant cook, order packer/shipper, door-to-door salesman, recreation director. But look for a job? At my age? With my education? Not many companies were looking for ex-pastor church renewal types. And San Francisco? I had never ventured outside the Midwest. How do you find a job in San Francisco?

O.K. Only one thing to do—go find out about San Francisco. This could take some time and ingenuity.

Journey of Awakening-25: The Ecstasy and the Agony

2011-03-17T12:19:00.001-07:00

August 1974

I left my family in Minneapolis and boarded a plane with my one suitcase and two boxes, heading for San Francisco. Leslea was 12; Rob was 10. They did not understand why I was going. The marriage was over, although neither Sue nor I would come right out and say it.

It had been a rewarding year for me--being on the road recruiting ministers and lay people to attend our training courses and conducting workshops in churches all over the state of Iowa. It had been a horrendous year for Sue and our two kids. Sue had resisted bringing our family into the Order from the beginning. She finally gave in to keep our family together. I had successfully burned my bridges to going back to the local church. But I still had this vocational calling that I couldn’t shuck off. Acting out a vocation is, however, more complicated and more ego-driven than I realized. I was not prepared emotionally or spiritually for leadership and yet had been entrusted with it. Or rather, had it thrust upon me.

At the end of our intern year Sue and I packed up what was left of our belongings (the basement where we had stored everything had flooded) and headed for Minneapolis, our home town. I deposited Sue and the kids at her parents’ home. I stayed with my Aunt Thelma. Our family was unraveling. Members of the Order leadership in Chicago contacted me and urged me to try to keep my family together. Finally, they relented and assigned me to the San Francisco House. I was literally out of options.

I said goodbye to Sue, Leslea and Rob and got on that plane, heading for the unknown.

Journey of Awakening – 24: Starting Over

2011-03-10T14:09:00.001-08:00

1840 Hogan in left middle—St. Louis Arch the black area lower right

Our house the smaller building to the left of the parish church

Fall 1973. Life in St. Louis began with a flurry of activity at 1840 Hogan. Our family belongings stored in the basement of this 2-story former convent, we obediently began our year of internship in the Order: Ecumenical. The prior-ship of the St. Louis Religious House was assigned by the leadership team in Chicago: Dan and Lin Tuecke and their 2 sons, Troy and Eric, Fred and Jann McGuire and 2 of their 3 sons and one daughter, Patrick and Barry, and Adam Thomson, a single Brit. The remainder of those in the House were, like us, interns from the St. Louis Regions: Walt Epley, a farmer from Iowa, and his family, the Hawleys (Bob a Methodist Minister) with their 3 kids, John Rodda, a paraplegic, and his wife Jill, and two or three assorted single women with a child each.

Religious House life was probably not unlike that in any convent or monastery, except we were all family units, including young children. Couples and singles had their own separate living spaces. The boys were in a dorm and some of older girls roomed together. The very youngest kids stayed with their parents.

Pre-schoolers were placed in a neighborhood church-run pre-school and fortunately, there was a good Catholic school in the area where we could enroll all the rest of our kids. The inner-city schools in St. Louis were pretty tough for white kids, especially in our neighborhood. After-school and on weekends we had adults assigned to care for the “emerging generation” (E.G., a term we insensitive adults came to regret using in later years). These “children’s structures” as they were also known, were assigned to any adult who might be available, and often became a burden for them and a worse experience for the kids. Some of those assigned were more creative than others and we did try to give our kids enriching experiences, outings to cultural events, to the St. Louis Zoo, to the top of the recently constructed Arch. But it was definitely a mixed bag and made for many of our youth being neglected and even abused in their most formative years, which we as parents did not learn until years later.

Since we were to be a self-supporting House, some of us had to go out and find jobs to support the rest of us who were carrying out the full-time teaching and recruiting mission of the Order. Often this meant the women were sent out to find jobs, or those who had substantial earning power. Because I was clergy and a big part of our task was calling on local church pastors and denominational executives, I was assigned “in-house.” Sue was sent out and found a job at a downtown Zales jewelry store.

The Order: Ecumenical’s operating image was of the family in mission to the world. This meant that all time was assigned as was all space. Where you lived and your role in the mission was assigned. Your belongings were at the disposal of the mission. The mission was everything. But this was not a chamber of horrors. Some of the principles that guided us were that decision-making was based on consensus and the individual’s right to decide was upheld, at least in principle; the family was important and required to take time for its own nurture, at least one night a week. Monday was always “family night,” and the expectation was that you would have dinner together and plan some family activity, a night out if you could afford it or just being together. We did make attempts to guard the family unit, but too often the mission, or the current understanding of it, took precedence.

Time was separated into functional units. The week was divided into Week I/Week II: Week I, Monday through Thursday, Week II Friday through Sunday. Week I was the main work week, when each person was doing his/her assigned job; Week II was usually reserved for the entire House working as a unit, either a weekend teaching program or a major cleaning/repair task at the House. We even experimented with a Day I/Day II image, with Day I the main individual tasks and Day II for family/House/team functions. The day almost always began with the Daily Office, a 20 minute worship service led by House members. All children, youth and adults were expected to be present. The year was divided into quarters, with summer quarter for 2 months of research in Chicago, where all Houses were represented, and one month reserved for family time and moving to new assignments.

Meals were generally in the common dining room, with the kids eating together in a separate room. Lunches were made and sent off with the working adults and students. Breakfasts included some led conversation and a topic of interest to all House members. Thursday evening was a special study night at dinner. Sunday evening meal was always a “House Church” common meal communion and celebrations of family events, and then reading of reports from all the Religious Houses around the world, which numbered in the hundreds at one point. There was always singing at meals, one of the activities that held us together as a movement and not just an organized group. We wrote many of the lyrics and adapted them to popular tunes.

Occasionally and at least once each quarter, we planned a major House celebration and/or outing. One of the most memorable of these was a full-blown production of Cabaret, with all of the songs adapted with words written by House members. At these celebrations we would party into the wee hours and then be up for 5 a.m. Daily Office. We worked hard and long hours when we worked, and celebrated just as hard when we celebrated.

But this was not a life for the faint-hearted. It took its toll on many families, and ours was not to be exempt.

Journey of Awakening – 23: Preparing for Leaving the Good Life

2011-03-02T12:16:00.000-08:00

Summer 1972—Chicago. The Institute of Cultural Affairs (ICA), aka the Ecumenical Institute (EI) held its month-long research assembly. I was there with a thousand others. Sue attended half of it. Leslea and Robb were at the summer camp provided and staffed by the Institute. The ICA/EI had recently received the gift of an 8-story office building in Uptown Chicago from the Kemper Insurance Company. The 200 Institute staff members moved out of the old Church of the Brethren seminary campus on the west side into “Kemper” as it continued to be known for many years. These few hundred and their families were forming into a family “secular-religious” order in the sense of carrying the mission of the religious into the secular world and seeing the spiritual in the mundane social order.

I had been involved for 5 years as a committed volunteer with the Institute, first as regional coordinator for the Kansas City Region which encompassed Nebraska, Kansas and half of Missouri; then as a local church educator/reformer in my new assignment at St. John UCC in St. Charles, Missouri. This included coordinating local training courses and raising support for establishing a “Religious House” in St. Louis, one of 24 that were being formed in major U.S. cities, to house ICA staff who were being dispersed from the central headquarters in Chicago, along with interns recruited from the local regions.

A call came late in August or early September from a Dan Tuecke, who identified himself as the prior of the new St. Louis Religious House, just arrived from Tulsa with his wife, Lin and 2 other couples from Chicago. Surprised, I responded with “Really. Where is the House located?”

“Well, we don’t actually have a house yet. We’re working on it. Could you put us up at your house for a few days until we get settled? And could you find places for our other two families?”

“Uh, O sure—I think we can manage.”

I hadn’t actually checked with Sue yet, but she was all right with it. “It is just for a few days, right?” I don’t remember how many actual days it was, but eventually a facility was found. It was an old abandoned convent that had most recently been inhabited by a handful of Jesuit brothers. The Diocese of St. Louis rented it to the ICA for $1 a year, if the new occupants would promise to do some repairs and maintain the property. The location was in the infamous Pruitt Igoe neighborhood of St. Louis; near one of those high rise low income housing projects that are now being removed (Cabrini Green in Chicago is the latest one to fall).

We began the year in earnest, recruiting lay people and pastors to attend the weekend RS-1 seminars and midweek Parish Leadership Colloquies for clergy and church leaders. I tried without success to convince my senior pastor that he needed to attend, but did get the nod to recruit from our church members for the weekend courses. We held a couple of courses that were well attended and successful in the sense that the St. John members who attended were appreciative and some had profound spiritual experiences.

Then came the weekend that changed the course of my family’s life, and I wasn’t even in attendance.

One St. John couple left at the end of the first evening. This was not unusual for an occasional person to find that it was to be a little more challenging to their belief system than they were ready for. But the next morning I received a call from Pastor Burkhalter that I was being called in by the church council for a meeting. I was shocked to learn that the husband of the couple who left the course was accusing me of causing his wife severe mental distress and “if she has another nervous breakdown it will be your fault.” He was demanding that they fire me. I didn’t get a chance to ask him who was responsible for her previous breakdowns.

The irony of this is compounded by the fact that I had already submitted my resignation in order for our family to join the ICA staff as interns for a year. We were already making plans to move our belongings into the basement of the St. Louis House at the end of the summer of 1973. But I was given no chance to appeal the council’s decision. In fact, I was sitting in an adjoining room when they were discussing whether to just accept my resignation and let me take my vacation time until the end of the summer, or to fire me on the spot. I overheard one of the elders say “Let’s just get rid of the problem.” So I was fired after I had already resigned. The pastor didn’t try to defend me, nor did any of the other council members. I don’t even recall Burkhalter offering to give me any counsel. But as I wrote earlier, he was not one to allow any “boat-rocking.” I was in shock.

The only comfort I received, aside from my family, was from a group of about 25 young families, many who had been through the RS-1 course, who came to me wanting to mount a protest and defense on my behalf. I thanked them for their support, but asked that they just continue to support the church, gently leading the congregation to be more of a servant to the community. I knew that these young people would one day be in leadership positions in that congregation.

My course was set, so I thought. I was now going to spend full-time waking up my fellow-clergy to the way life really is and to the real truth of the Gospel, and to shake the church out of its lethargy.

Journey of Awakening – 22: Movin’ On Up?

2011-02-17T11:20:00.000-08:00

“St. Charles, Missouri? Where is that?”

A letter came from the search committee at St. John United Church of Christ exploring my interest in interviewing for the position of Associate Minister/Minister of Education. St. Charles is across the Missouri River from St. Louis, sitting on a bluff overlooking the river and the city of St. Louis. It is an old town, a river town, a conservative town. St. John UCC is an old church, an established church, a conservative church. It had a sizable congregation, for those days, of about 750 members, and a cathedral-size sanctuary and education building with a second facility of near equal size housing a large fellowship hall and a full size gym with a basketball court, separated by a large parking lot. The buildings are of brick and brownstone.

I was charmed and over-whelmed by all of this history and the over-sized institutional trappings that confronted me when the search committee flew me to St. Louis for the interview in late summer of 1971. Apparently my having closed a church on my first full-time pastorate was not counted against me, and I did receive good recommendations from my denominational executives. I received a call to begin in the fall and to my surprise and my wife’s delight, the salary package was twice what we had been getting, a whopping $9,500 plus housing and car allowance. We packed our belongings into a U-haul truck, said goodbye to Lincoln, and moved into a rented house a few blocks from the church. I began my new job, responsible for the church’s education program and youth programs, with the ’71 school year. I was full of renewed hope and enthusiasm.

The senior pastor, Don Burkhalter, was a gentle soul, a good pastor who had been there nearly a decade, had run out of things to say, and did not want anyone rocking the boat. His wife, Mary Lou, the children’s and youth choirs director, was a creative musician but had a bit of an abrasive style infused with a perfectionist temperament. I had more interaction with Mary Lou than with Don, because both of our kids were in the children’s choir, and a lot of the junior and senior high kids I worked with were in the youth choirs. Stories of Mary Lou’s blow-ups abounded, and I witnessed a few of what could be described as tantrums at practice sessions. But Mary Lou wanted so desperately for the kids to perform well, and for the most part they did, that she was given a pass on her issues. I then became a buffer between Mary Lou and the kids. But we were both creative in our own ways, so somehow it worked and the youth program flourished. I was co-opted by Mary Lou on one occasion to accompany the senior high choir on a bus tour across Missouri performing “Jesus Christ, Superstar” and Beatles songs, which were pretty much “out there” among church audiences in those days. But the kids came through and received accolades which made Mary Lou ecstatic and my life a little easier.

Confirmation Class: St. John UCC--1972

Life was good. The job was good. People were good. This lasted a whole year. Then things began to change—again.

Freedom!

2011-02-16T15:52:00.001-08:00

Seeds scattered in spring time,

Tears their only watering;

Now sprouting, not yet flowering,

Hope dies and rises again.

Voices shouting: “Liberation! Liberation!”

Fear vanquished, tasting freedom,

Kings and Pharaohs hear the cry:

“Let my people go!”

Saving the world is not so easy

As once we thought—

Every generation, every age

Has its part to play.

You who witnessed these miracles,

Remember where you were that day.

Perhaps you’ll have need of it

When facing some new tyrant.

The Pack is Back!

2011-02-08T10:41:00.000-08:00

Bow your heads you men of steel;

You’ve had your day in the sun.

Though well-endowed, you’ve met your match;

Your brave old warriors un-done.

Those Falcons’ feathers, talons clipped

And Eagles could not fly

Da Bears sent off to hibernate

On Soldiers Field they lie.

Even Vikings’ powers failed

Their ancient King laid low

When Favre-less Green and Gold prevailed

O’er field of icy snow.

Lift high your Buds and Miller Lights,

Leinenkugels by the pack.

Come out your taverns, small town folk;

Dance and sing your welcome—

The mighty Pack is back!

Adventures of Obama - 5

2010-12-29T14:29:00.000-08:00

Obama confronted an unruly bunch;

Republicans about to eat him for lunch;

Liberal Dems threatening mutiny;

Independents jumping ship in futility;

Tea Partyers added their noisy chatter;

Everyone blamed him for what was the matter.

Barack Obama he didn’t worry.

Obama didn’t react in a fury.

He marshaled his forces and faced the Nation;

Then got those lame ducks to pass legislation.

Journey of Awakening – 21: The Prairie

2010-12-19T15:32:00.001-08:00

Kearney, Nebraska. Well, it was not quite living on the prairie, but it was in the middle of the state, if you ignore the panhandle, on the way to North Platte, Ogallala, and finally Denver. Situated on the Platte River, which meandered across the width of Nebraska, until it joined the Missouri just south of Omaha. The locals, cattlemen and farmers, coined the phrase for the Platte: “too thin to run; too thick to plow.” Kearney was a cattle-town and a college town with salt-of-the-earth people and a few intellectuals imported to teach the kids the ways of the world. The town was next to Interstate 80, following the old U.S. route 30; before that it was Fort Kearney, a trading post and stopping point for Wells Fargo Stagecoach Line and the Pony Express.

First Christian Church of Kearney, a congregation of the denomination that ordained me, had just fired their pastor in the wake of one of those “church scandals”: Minister runs off with a) church secretary; b) organist; c) choir director; d) other. Half the congregation had left the church. They needed an interim pastor to help them heal and hopefully recover some of the “lost sheep.” I was wrapping up my 3 months at my former parish at Trinity in Lincoln. That church building was being sold to a family which was going to convert it into their home. I was available and, hey, I was an expert at taking on troubled congregations. So while circulating my ministerial portfolio around the country, awaiting my next career challenge, I accepted First Christian’s invitation. My family was able to remain in our Lincoln home until we found another place to serve. So I moved to Kearney into a small house rented and furnished by the church.

This was, I discovered, a time of healing not only for the congregation, but for me. I remembered the advice of my home church pastor in Minneapolis, Forrest Richeson, my mentor and father figure: “Preach good sermons and love the people and you’ll do well.” Old school for sure but wisdom nonetheless. The five or six months at Kearney were an oasis in my desert. I tried to preach good sermons. I visited church members who were still involved and those who had left, some with bitterness. I started small group sessions for people to share their joy and pain and begin to heal. I organized the annual pledging campaign which turned out to be a huge success because it was a part of the healing process. My nights were spent alone since my family was half-way across Nebraska. But I discovered that being alone on the prairie was a necessary part of my own healing. Kearney had one drive-in theatre. I saw every B movie that came to town that summer.

When I left Kearney First Christian they had just called a pastor and I was able to leave him a much healthier situation than when I arrived. The search committee had approached me with the proposal that I consider staying on as their pastor. I thanked them for the compliment but could not in good conscience accept. I had only come as an interim. I had learned my lesson. The Trinity experience was enough to teach me that going against good advice and my better judgment should not become a habit.

I was a good interim facilitator, not a savior. What next?

Journey of Awakening – 20: The Desert

2010-12-08T12:45:00.000-08:00

I was never drawn to Catholicism. But I certainly know what some of the doctrine points to in life. My denomination in its wisdom assigned me for 3 months to go over to the church formerly known as Trinity UCC and inventory all of the property and equipment so that it could be sold or distributed to other congregations. Every day I went to my former office and put in at least 8 hours cataloguing everything, making lists, boxing hymnals, bibles, Sunday school curriculum books, files. I knew I was not in hell—or heaven either—I had given up believing in a 2-story universe long ago. Besides, there was suffering during this period. Aha! This must be purgatory! The Catholics got it partly right after all!

It was the suffering of purgatory, a painful purification process. The ego was being put through it. Herr Pastor was dying. Actually, the image of who I was was dying. I was in a desert. I was adrift on a dead sea with tattered sails and no fair wind in sight. Abandoned by God. Alone. All hope gone. Now even “purgatory” could not hold this experience. Even my family was no solace. I could hardly face them. The only respite I found during this time of terror was in learning to play O Sacred Head Now Wounded on the Hammond organ. When I would find myself staring at the empty room with the ghosts of Trinity Church appearing and disappearing, I would go to that old Hammond and play it over and over until I couldn’t stand it anymore.

“O sacred head now wounded

With grief and shame weighed down

Now scornfully surrounded

With thorns thine only crown . . .”

Purgatory was not adequate to describe this period after all. There was no doctrine that could hold it. All that was left was to go through it.

Journey of Awakening – 19: The Lincoln Years—Endings & Beginnings

2010-12-07T11:34:00.000-08:00

It was just after Christmas 1970, New Year’s Eve. The little church hall that had served as sanctuary, education center, and fellowship hall for nearly 13 years was filled with Trinity members, former members, members of other Lincoln churches, and our denomination’s state officials. A catered meal was prepared: the obligatory baked chicken, mashed potatoes and gravy, green beans and dinner rolls, with a large decorated chocolate cake with “Trinity UCC—1957-1970” in white frosting across the top. Not your usual potluck of many church dinners past, with varieties of hot dishes, baked beans, potato salad, fruit-laced jell-o, and assortments of pies.

After dinner we sang a few of our favorite hymns, introduced all the visiting dignitaries, provided ample time for those present to share memories of the congregation’s life for the 13 years. It had barely reached puberty. There were the work days when we painted the parsonage and the entire church building, the summer pre-school to adult vacation schools, the pre-school started by my wife, Sue, the marriages and deaths, baptisms and confirmations celebrated in that very room, the hopes for completing the sanctuary, the hard times and the spirit-soaring times.

Then came the time of asking each Trinity member family to share their plans for continuing their spiritual journeys. Some were re-joining First Plymouth Congregational, the big downtown cathedral-like church. Some were going to the little neighborhood EUB/United Methodist congregation just a few blocks away. Pastors of both were present to give them a warm welcome. Others were still uncertain where they would land and planned to spend time visiting churches in Lincoln. There were representatives from several denominations in the room, assuring our people of their prayers and willingness to be there for them. It was a real ecumenical event.

It was time. I asked Marie Schneider, who had played the Hammond organ for all the years of Trinity’s life, to play “For All the Saints” as we tried to sing it with gusto through many tears. Then I picked up my guitar and sang, to the tune of “They Call the Wind Maria”, the words from Kazantzakis’ Saviors of God:

“The Cryin’ – The Cryin’ – It calls me to my dyin’”

I put down my guitar, hoisted above my head the big pulpit Bible I had read from and preached from for 3 years, formally sent out the members of Trinity United Church to other congregations in Lincoln, gave the last benediction to be uttered in that place, dropped the Bible on the table in front of me, closing it with a loud bang, and proclaimed the formal life of Trinity UCC ended.

It was an awesome funeral, the best one at which I ever officiated.

Journey of Awakening – 18: The Local Church Experiment

2010-12-06T20:08:00.000-08:00

From the fall of 1967 to December 31, 1970 I served as pastor of Trinity UCC. Founded in 1957, it had grown under the leadership of Don Stuart to a membership of about 150 members and built its first building, a combination education and fellowship hall with a kitchen and office to the side. It was a typical suburban congregation with a vision of building a large sanctuary for worship as soon as they could raise the funds. Then when their beloved founding pastor left for San Francisco and they called his replacement, Bill Hall, who didn’t share their vision for the cathedral they had their hearts set on, things changed. According to the stories I heard, there were also some personality conflicts. At any rate the Rev. Hall was “fired” after 2 ½ years and the congregation shrank by a third.

When I accepted their call I was aware of some of the history. The Executive Minister of our denomination’s state Conference took me aside and gave me a piece of advice (the Conference was still providing partial financial support): “If you accept this call I just want you to know that you may be their last pastor. Your job will be to either help them stand on their own or end the congregation’s life.” Of course I was not entertaining the thought of failure. I was going to be their savior. I was “Herr Pastor.” Besides, I had been to RS-1. I knew exactly what the church needed.

The Ecumenical Institute had an intensive training program, an 8-week in-residence re-education in theology, Bible, church history, world religions, parish education, sociology, the family in mission, etc. I decided to take advantage of the opportunity but could not get away for 8 weeks, so I attended in 2-week segments over a 2-year period. In addition, EI brought together people from across the U.S. and world in month-long summer “research assemblies,” attended by as many as 1000 people, to work on practical applications of local church and societal renewal. The summer of 1970 was devoted to the theme “The Local Church Experiment.” Clusters of congregations formed in many cities across the U.S. for leadership training and parish education.

Lincoln was not one of those chosen. So I and a handful of others decided we would experiment on our own. In addition to being co-coordinator, along with Terry Wright, a local Methodist clergyman, of what was known as the Kansas City Region, covering Nebraska, Kansas and parts of Missouri and Iowa, I set about re-writing my congregation’s education curriculum and mission statement, with good intentions but not enough compassion for what I was about to ask of my people. Regional responsibilities involved primarily recruiting pastors and lay people to attend the Institutes weekend training courses, beginning with the basic Religious Studies (RS-1) course. This was in addition to my regular pastoral duties and responsibilities to my denomination.

Having convinced a number of young couples in our church to attend RS-1, and capitalizing on their enthusiasm to bring new life into our congregation, we were on the way to re-imagining the role of our church as a smaller, more vital, congregation with a strong educational ministry that did not require the building of a large sanctuary building. But this scared some of the substantial established families who were not able to share our/my vision. When two of these founding families left the church to go elsewhere, some of the others of the “old guard” became discouraged and decided that we were not going to make it as a viable congregation. It became clear that we were never going to build that great cathedral. They could not see that there were other possibilities. We were a small congregation with a vital and growing pre-school-to-adult education program that was beginning to attract young families. That was not in their vision of what the church was or should be. So the church council made the decision, against my pleading with them to give it more time, to close the church.

I was in shock. My own vision for a vital church in mission to the community was called into question. My idea of the Local Church Experiment was being destroyed. It was about to die.

Journey of Awakening – 17: The Lincoln Years—Discovering the Spirit Movement

2010-12-04T15:09:00.000-08:00

“You really need to attend this weekend seminar.”

Larry and Sherry Brown were two of my students at Cotner. I had introduced them. Sherry was an attractive, petite, black-haired girl from a family in one of the churches I had served on weekends. Larry was a handsome, well-tanned product of the western Nebraska sand hills who was planning on attending seminary. I and Fran Houchen, another young radical who had been Larry’s pastor and was now on the staff of a large church in Lincoln, co-officiated at Larry and Sherry’s marriage service. The two of them had just returned from a weekend in Chicago at the Ecumenical Institute’s campus in the west-side ghetto, the very neighborhood where I had taken my Peoria high school group two years earlier.

The Institute (EI as it became known to many, sometimes articulated admiringly and by some in a derogatory manner) was attracting students from all around the country to weekend seminars called Religious Studies I (RS-1 as it became known). EI, part of the church renewal efforts of the sixties, was led by Joe Mathews who I had encountered while on the university campus, and a group of radical young clergy and laymen who had been exploring living in community while teaching and practicing a theology of the church taking responsibility for the community in deep and transformative ways. It was, you might say, the left wing of the church renewal movement.

I was searching for a way to make my spiritual inclinations relevant to the real world. I had learned as much from my students as from any of my teachers. So in November of 1967 I found myself, along with about 20 other pastors and a few lay people, in a church basement in Lincoln, Nebraska being re-introduced to Kierkegaard, Bultmann, Tillich, Bonhoeffer and H.R. Niebuhr in a way I had not dreamed. David McClesky, a tall, lanky Texan, one of 2 “pedagogues” (i.e., teachers—EI had a way of re-interpreting the old words and giving them new images) from Chicago introduced himself with: “I’m a Baptist, and not only am I a Baptist but I’m a Southern Baptist and you can’t get more Baptist than that.” George Holcombe, the other of the pair, who reminded me of a young Scrooge, began his opening lecture on G-O-D (they wouldn’t actually say the word God without spelling it out, at least in the beginning of the course) with this statement: “I’m a radical, fanatical churchman of the 20^th century.” He was actually a Methodist minister and McClesky was, I later discovered, a recovering Southern Baptist. I was intrigued enough to stay for the entire 3 days of my mind being assaulted with radical-sounding theological statements, some of which began to make sense in my world, although my intellectual ego had difficulty admitting it.

We began the course by studying a paper by Rudolf Bultmann called The Crisis of Faith, followed by what I now believe was Paul Tillich’s greatest sermon ever, You Are Accepted

You are accepted; accepted by that which is greater than you, and the name of which you do not know. Do not ask for the name now. Perhaps you will learn it later.

It was that seminar on that sermon that opened me to see the heart of the Christian Gospel, without all the theological clap-trap that usually smothers the experience of grace and throws us back into our own self-made justifications and judgments of ourselves, others and the world. Before bedtime on the second evening and after a discussion of Pablo Picasso’s painting Guernica, a massive anguished response to Hitler’s saturation bombing of the Spanish town prior to World War II, we watched the classic film Requiem for a Heavyweight, the one with Anthony Quinn, Mickey Rooney, and Jackie Gleason, and discussed its theological implications. All of this was designed to force us to confront our own world views and beliefs and images of God, Jesus, and the doctrines we had been mouthing without ever grounding them in our actual experience of the way life is.

It began to dawn on me that what we were being exposed to was a method of teaching that stripped away old worn-out expressions of concepts that were becoming virtually meaningless through taking their meanings for granted, then re-investing them with meaning from our own experience of life. We were being taken through a journey of de-mythologizing and then inventing new myths (stories) more relevant in a 20^th century context. By the time we had been dragged through studies of Bonhoeffer’s paper on “Freedom” from his book on ethics, and H.R. Niebuhr’s “Church as Social Pioneer” I was almost theologically and emotionally exhausted, besides being so physically drained from 2 late nights and just plain rigorous intellectual work. What was I going to do with this now? How was I going to take my little congregation through the veil I had just gone through?

Then came the altar call. The closing meal at which we were each asked for a response to the three days and what we were going to take away. I mumbled something about how I hadn’t really learned anything new from this course (my ego trying to convince everyone that I knew things but actually trying to hide my ignorance). Dave McClesky just quietly nodded, accepting my comment and said simply: “Well then, maybe it’s just a case of how you are going to be responsible for your colleagues and your parishioners.”

I was finished and I didn’t know it. The next chapter will be about the unfolding of the response.

Journey of Awakening – 16: The Lincoln Years—Herr Pastor

2010-12-01T15:55:00.001-08:00

1967—teaching assignment at Cotner over as of June. My ministerial portfolio was being circulated far and wide. I was interviewed by a couple of small town churches in Iowa and Wisconsin. Though I received a few letters of interest, nothing seemed to be “clicking.” Academia was no longer a viable option. Then two offers came at the same time, and both were right there in Lincoln. We liked Lincoln. We had made lots of friends there. Our kids were doing well. Both job offers, however, were uncertain as possibilities for long-term employment.

The first offer was with President Johnson’s “War on Poverty” as a community organizer. The second was from a local congregation on the southern edge of the city—Trinity United Church of Christ. I was conflicted for more than one reason. I was in conflict over staying with the Church and especially a career within an institution with which I had a love/hate relationship. To use an image from the Old Testament prophets “The Church was a prostitute, but the Church was my mother.” Or should I choose to act out my passion for social justice and get paid by the government. I was wavering and waffling.

But I had been preaching at Trinity Church for a couple of months on an ad interim basis. So when they offered me a full time permanent position at nearly twice what I had been making, $5500 annual salary plus housing and a car allowance, after consulting with my family it was hard to turn down. I accepted the call at the end of the summer of ’67 and moved into the house owned by the congregation, a three-bedroom ranch-style on a corner lot. Members of the church held a work day and together we painted the entire inside. Then on moving day they came to help us move in. It was the perfect job. My own little parish church. My own little flock of about 100 families to feed, while feeding my own not-so-little ego.

Not satisfied with being a good preacher and pastor, I tried to lead the congregation toward being “relevant” to the times, to be a servant of God in the unjust world. The founding pastor of the congregation had left three years before to be the first “Night Minister of San Francisco.” His parish was the Tenderloin District; he was pastor to the prostitutes and pimps, the down-and-outers and drug dealers. So I got this bright idea that Lincoln needed a ministry to its night life and organized a group of young ministers to take turns, one night each, to visit the taverns and clubs in town. We connected with the local police department and accompanied officers in squad card. We wore clerical collars so as to be easily identified. The only hitch with that was no matter where we went we were known as “Father.” “Let me buy the father a drink” was a common mantra and we would often have a line-up of beverages in front of us wherever we sat. The biggest problem with my little project turned out to be of a sociological nature. Lincoln is not San Francisco. The night life just did not quite measure up in terms of dire need for a ministry. The Lincoln Night Ministry lasted less than 3 months.

Trinity UCC was a small congregation whose roots were in the Evangelical Church of North America, which in turn came out of the German Lutheran tradition. It was one of the first new-start congregations after the merger in 1957 of the Congregational-Christian and Evangelical and Reformed denominations. So you had this weird amalgam of Lutheran, Calvinist, New England Congregationalism, and Baptist traditions forming one new body, the proverbial camel that looked like it had been created by committee. Trinity had retained some of the old conservatism of its parents, but since it was a young congregation attracted a number of families from the neighborhood, which was as close to a suburb as a “cow-town” on the edge of the prairie might be expected to have. It is amazing to me now that they put up with me as long as they did. Yet some of my best friendships and memories were formed during the four years I spent as pastor there.

My 1st Confirmation Class

In many ways the people themselves were open and caring, willing to allow me to try new things. For example, during the 1968 presidential election campaign, following assassinations and Lyndon Johnson’s decision not to run for a second term, I was approached by Eugene McCarthy’s campaign, the infamous “Children’s Crusade,” to allow campaign volunteers to use our church building as a headquarters for two weeks, sleeping, eating, using phones, etc. I approached the church council and their only question was “Has any other campaign asked to use the building?” When I said “No” they gave immediate and unanimous approval. So Trinity was the only congregation in Lincoln that housed about 50 volunteers for two-weeks during that historic and turbulent campaign.

The patience of the congregation was stretched to the limit, however, when theological issues came to a head and 2 disparate images of the church’s mission collided. That will be told in the next couple of chapters.

Journey of Awakening – 15: The Lincoln Years—If You Haven’t Been to Peoria

2010-11-20T13:14:00.000-08:00

The summer of ’66 I was asked to take a summer interim job as Minister of Education & Youth at Central Christian Church in Peoria, Illinois. There was no summer school at Cotner and the salary was as much for the summer as my year’s pay at the school. We moved our little family into a furnished house the church rented for us. Our kids were 5 and 3.

My main job was to organize and manage the vacation church school and run the summer youth programs, which included two weeks at high school church camp. This was a time of growing interest in integration and the more liberal churches were beginning to push the issue, primarily at the national and state levels. Local congregations were dragging their feet, except for a handful of radical young clergymen.

I had been hearing about these “immersion” experiences in Chicago, conducted by the Urban Institute, where people from suburban settings would be “turned loose” for a couple of days to experience the poverty of the inner city. I somehow convinced my senior pastor, Bob Bennett, and the parents of the high school youth group, that this would be a great summer experience for their kids. We rented a 12 passenger station wagon, loaded it with 9 boys and girls with all of their luggage tied on top and rolled-up sleeping bags tucked around them, and headed for the big city. I had made some arrangements through our church’s state office with the pastor of Jackson Blvd. Christian Church, an African American congregation in the middle of Chicago’s west side ghetto for us to sleep in their building, as well as to have a get-acquainted session around a meal with the young people of his church.

We arrived in Chicago as the sun was setting, found the church after driving around the west side of Chicago and stopping at the local Jewel Tea supermarket to stock up on groceries for our stay, the only white faces in a sea of black shoppers with suspicious stares. The pastor met us at the church parking lot with a warm welcome as he unlocked the gate to the wrought iron fence surrounding the building, after which he showed us to the hall where we could lay out our sleeping bags for our two night stay.

The get-acquainted session went well and was an eye-opening educational experience for our kids, as these young black kids talked of what life was like growing up on the west side of Chicago. It also became clear to all of them that their hopes and dreams for their lives were not that dissimilar. It was an eye-opener for me in that it was beginning to dawn on me what a sheltered life I had led and my naïve liberal images were being shattered, one after another.

Somehow we survived that brief immersion and got all the kids back to Peoria safely. The rest of the summer unfolded smoothly. Summer youth camp was a relaxing and fun end of our Peoria summer. Three of the black kids from Chicago attended the camp. One vivacious girl took on a real leadership role at the camp. She was also a comedian. On one occasion several kids were on the lake in boats. The girl was in one boat chiding her two friends seated in the front and back of another boat with a white kid in the middle rowing. The young lady shouted for the whole campground to hear: “Hey look! They’ve got a slave!”

It was only two years later that the west side we had visited was burning after the assassination of Martin Luther King. We were not aware of all the undercurrents of erupting anger we were in the middle of at the time.

So at the end of the summer we packed our belongings and headed back to Lincoln, without a clue what would be next.

Journey of Awakening – 14: The Lincoln Years—Gathering Storms

2010-11-17T13:12:00.000-08:00

My two-year teaching assignment at Cotner was extended for a third year. The professor I was filling in for discovered that he needed another year at Duke to complete his Ph.D. dissertation. So I got a reprieve from having to find a “real” job and could stay in the academic womb a little longer. I had my little family and my slightly larger student body and a growing circle of like-minded friends in the university and church community. I was busy on weekends with preaching in small town churches in eastern Nebraska. I taught several off-campus classes for ministers and lay people. Cotner’s dean sent me to represent the school at Society of Biblical Literature and American Academy of Religion regional and national meetings, which gave me the opportunity to rub shoulders with many of the prominent scholars and writers in the theological and biblical studies world.

The mid-sixties were also times of growing unrest on college campuses. The civil rights movement was in full swing. The anti-Vietnam war protests were heating up. I found myself attending rallies for these two causes and helping to found a peaceful anti-war protest on the edge of the campus. Daily we stood on the sidewalk with signs and made our silent presence known in opposition to the war’s escalation. Students were also organizing volunteers to get on buses leaving from the campus to go to Mississippi and Alabama.

The end of my life in academia was approaching but I was not yet aware of it. I delivered lectures at a Cotner sponsored series on The New Testament Conception of the Ministry and Paul Tillich’s Concept of God, and while I received kudos for my presentation, the life of a scholar was making less and less sense to me. Also, in 1966 I attended a lecture sponsored by the campus YMCA delivered by the new-on-the-scene Dean of the Ecumenical Institute: Chicago, Joe Mathews, who began to rock my world and challenge many of my already shaky beliefs about the way life is.

One quote from his lecture that never left me was: “There is only one absolute in life and that is that there are no absolutes.” After the lecture I had the chance to spend a couple of hours with him in a small group of campus pastors. I literally did not know what to make of this guy. It was like it must have been the first time the disciples encountered Jesus. I did not immediately pick up and follow him back to Chicago, nor was he asking me to. But the seed was planted. Sometimes it takes a few years to blossom, as will be revealed as the story unfolds.

Joe in “5th City” with a community leader on Chicago’s west side.

Journey of Awakening – 13: The Academic Dream Deferred

2010-11-15T15:22:00.000-08:00

Fall semester ’64 at Cotner School of Religion began slowly. Enrollment was down. I taught 2 classes, one on the Literature of the New Testament and the other The Four Gospels. Neither class had more than 10 students. I must have done well enough because they signed up for the 2^nd semester and I even added one class on The Bible as Literature.

My own student year went somewhat differently. The classics department chair, whose reputation as a Greek scholar had drawn me to Nebraska, died half-way through my first semester. The University “imported” a visiting professor directly from Greece, who became my major advisor by fiat. Elias Kapetanopoulos was a young, arrogant, classic-featured Greek with pre-maturely graying hair who had an attitude best expressed by Gus in the movie, My Big Fat Greek Wedding: “My ancestors were writing philosophy while yours were still swinging in trees.” We did not hit it off from the start and it continued to descend throughout the year. I probably can’t blame the whole sordid affair on his attitude. I was getting OK grades but not those I thought I deserved. I went to the acting department head and asked if he would take me on as my major advisor. He, understandable, refused, since it was only a 2 person department. I had to stick it out or quit the program.

On reflection I have to admit that there were two egos involved in the matter at hand: His and Mine. The fact that I thought I already knew as much if not more than he did may have been partly in play. And, as I reflect further, I recall having a similar problem for a time with my (now) beloved seminary professor, Ron Graham, until his patient and kind manner, coupled with his wry Aussie sense of humor, revealed to me one day how much I had to learn.

But with Elias K. it was different. He was neither patient nor kind, at least in my ego-out-of-control mind. So after one year my grad student days were over. For the time-being. But that is a story for later. Much later.

Journey of Awakening–12: The Academic Dream

2010-11-13T15:24:00.000-08:00

One of my seminary professors was a graduate of a small college in Lincoln, Nebraska. Cotner University was founded by some ministers and laymen of my denomination, The Disciples of Christ, to prepare young men and women as preachers and educators in small town churches scattered throughout the state of Nebraska. It had fallen on hard times and gone out of existence during the Great Depression, but a small group of college trustees had saved a portion of the school’s endowment in hopes of resurrecting the institution. Cotner was started up after World War II as a school of religion and became affiliated with the University of Nebraska.

Dr. Frank Gardner, who was a colorful “disciple” of Henry Nelson Wieman and Alfred North Whitehead and the infamous process theology school at the University of Chicago, and who had played football at Cotner in the late twenties, put me in touch with Dr. Raleigh Peterson, Dean of Cotner. It was the summer of 1963 and there was an opening for a temporary and part-time instructor of religion. I was interested in pursuing a graduate degree in classical Greek with a prominent professor of classics at the U. of Nebraska, so I applied for the job.

I was on the train from Des Moines to Lincoln for the interview when the news was spread from car to car that President Kennedy had just been shot in Dallas. It was a depressing mood as I was greeted by the Dean and a couple of local ministers from the Cotner Board, but I did get offered the position to begin in the summer of 1964. I was to begin by travelling throughout Nebraska on a “recruitment” trip for Cotner. Even though it was the unofficial school of religion for the university, courses were not required and not part of any major, so students had to be particularly motivated to want to enroll in Cotner’s elective courses.

As it turned out I had to delay my start date by a month or so, due to having major surgery on a cyst requiring 6 weeks of recuperation in my in-laws basement in Minneapolis. Finally, with our two little ones in tow, all of our belongings packed into a U-Haul truck, we caravanned from Des Moines to Lincoln, assisted by our friends, Ted and Georgiann Warren, who drove all the way to help with our move. We had rented an upstairs apartment in the big old red brick house that served as the state headquarters of our denomination. Luckily, our rent was only $90 a month, since my salary at Cotner was to be only about $300. This meant I would have to find weekend preaching jobs to take up the slack. On top of carrying at least 2 classes at the U. in Greek and Latin literature.

The month of August was full of travelling the state, speaking at churches and attending endless pot luck suppers, and calling on students who were coming to Lincoln for fall classes at Nebraska.

I was now ready to take on the academic world as both student and teacher.

Journey of Awakening–11: Waiting for ToGo

2010-11-03T08:13:00.001-07:00

I hung around for a year after graduation from seminary, taking a couple of classes to “further my well-rounded education.” I was also offered the position of New Testament Greek Instructor at Open Bible College, a training school for ministers and missionaries of the Church of the Open Bible, a home-grown Pentecostal group based in Des Moines. The president of the college was a seminary classmate who, when interviewing me for the job said: “Milan, I know you smoke, but I’d appreciate it if you didn’t around our campus—if any of our trustees happened to see you smoking, it would mean both of our jobs.”

One day after Greek class, the guys in the class were sharing that they wanted to start a basketball team but did not have a coach. They had discovered my passion for the game and asked if I would work with them. This meant that I also had to help them find teams to play since there was no league for their school. I entered them in the YMCA men’s league and arranged some pickup games with a couple of settlement houses. That was the first time most of them had met any black people, let alone play against them. It was an eye-opening experience for all of them, as they tried to compete while watching some of these guys soar over them. It might as well have been Michael Jordan or Kobe Bryant on the other team, to amplify the comparison just a bit. All of my considerable coaching experience and even my playing on their team couldn’t save them. I told them they had better pray harder because only Jesus was going to get them through this game.

Because it was such a small college we often did not have enough players at practice or games to have more than 6 or 7 guys show up at any one time. I had to be player/coach and I was not in the greatest physical shape. After the game with the above-mentioned young black men who had “taken us to basketball school” one of our players said to me as we were dressing: “You know coach, if you’d give up the weeds you’d be more able to keep up.”

Journey of Awakening–10: Still Asleep in Seminary

2010-10-25T15:35:00.001-07:00

I began my seminary career at Drake Divinity School in the fall of 1959 and graduated with a B.D. (Bachelor of Divinity) degree in June of 1963. Ted Warren and the rest of the class I started with graduated in 1962. I told my friends it was because I am a slow learner. I don’t recall all the factors, but we did have two children born during those years: Leslea in ’61 and Robbin in ’63.

Sue had to quit her teaching job after one year to care for them. My job at Cottage Grove Presbyterian was theoretically part-time, but because it was almost a campus church with a sizable congregation I probably put in more time and was more easily distracted from studies, I carried a lighter class load in my last 2 years.

Of course there were the “extra-curricular” activities as well. Drake’s intra-mural sports program caught my interest. I organized, managed, played, and coached our touch football, basketball, and fast-pitch softball teams for three seasons. All of the fraternities, dorms, the Pharmacy and Law School had teams. The “Preachers” especially delighted in beating the Lawyers whenever possible. My love of basketball was my downfall. I arranged to get us uniforms with D.U.D.S. imprinted across the front (blue on white—Drake’s colors). We always had to point out that the letters stood for “Drake University Divinity School.”

Our best season was when we took the team on the road, playing the Drake Freshmen team, a couple of small college teams, even travelling to my old home church in Minneapolis to play the church team I had played on in college. We billed the trip as PR for the seminary, but really just wanted to play basketball. We lost by a couple of baskets as I recall.

Drake Student Faculty Football Game

I did however do well enough in my studies to get a full tuition scholarship in my last year. Majoring in Biblical Languages and Literature, and excelling in Hebrew and New Testament Greek, I was able to compensate for less interest in classes in preaching, education, church history, and administration. So I finally got my degree, a bachelor’s degree in those days. Years later Drake corrected this “injustice” and issued retroactive Master of Divinity degrees to all of us.

I was ordained to the Christian ministry in June of ’63 at First Christian Church, Minneapolis.

Journey of Awakening – 9: Integration, Family, School, Church & Society

2010-10-20T14:16:00.001-07:00

The three years after our wedding were full of family, church, and seminary, not necessarily in that order. Sue and I rented the upstairs of a house from an elderly couple, Phil and Mary Smith. I was a smoker but it didn’t bother Phil who was a chain smoker. The whole house reeked. I am not sure how Sue and Mary survived in that environment. At the time I was not even aware.

Sue got a teaching job at Smouse Opportunity School for children with physical disabilities. I continued to travel to Allerton on weekends, to preach and do pastoral duties. Sue ordinarily went with me, unless she had to prepare lesson plans for the next week, or during the second semester of the ’60-’61 school year, when she was pregnant and sick with our daughter, Leslea, born in September of ’61. At the end of the semester I was offered a job as Assistant Pastor at Cottage Grove Ave. Presbyterian Church, at an incredible $3,000 annual salary, plus a 2 bedroom apartment in a house owned by the church (and right next door). The church was within a few blocks of the Drake campus.

We were ecstatic, although it did require a slight shift in my theological journey. These Presbyterians actually baptized babies. My Disciples of Christ heritage was a strictly adult Baptism tradition. Fortunately, my senior pastor, Ed Ingersoll, a short, pipe-smoking gentleman, was understanding, as long as I didn’t get into arguments with parishioners or try to “dunk” the catechism class graduates I was responsible for teaching.

There were other paradigm shifts happening during the early ‘60s as well. Des Moines was the capitol of Iowa and a university town, but African Americans, or “colored people,” as they were called then, were restricted by some rigid real estate codes from living in certain parts of the city. The civil rights struggle was coming to our city in the form of a movement to have the City Council adopt an “open housing” ordinance to prevent these “redlining” practices. Sue and I helped establish a family-to-family system of whites and blacks inviting one another to their homes to get acquainted, since most whites did not know any blacks personally. We also had lots of “Hootenanys” in our living room.

Our seminary had one black Methodist student, Fred Smith. We could socialize on campus, but I remember being jarred when I learned why he did not respond to any invitations to come to any of our homes, letting us know that there were certain places he did not feel safe being seen.

I had attended the first Martin Luther King visit and speech to Des Moines at the civic auditorium in 1960 and had the opportunity to meet him and ask some questions after his speech. I’ve always said that was the inspiration for my involvement in the ‘60s civil rights and anti-war movements. We did, in fact, get the open housing ordinance passed over the next couple of years, not without struggle and late-night phone calls threatening me and my family, and a few of our church members turning their gaze away when I was around. But on the whole, Dr. Ingersoll and the congregation were quietly supportive of their young radical Assistant Pastor.

Seminary life went on as though not much was going on in the world. Except that we did have some students from the real world. I had mentioned Fred Smith, our one black student, who was a young pastor and family man who let us know what it was like being black in Iowa. Joe Fourre, a “colored” Methodist minister exchange student from South Africa (colored was a legal classification there) introduced us to the struggle against Apartheid. When he had finished his year at Drake and was headed home to his wife and 3 young children, he told us: “Some of us may have to give our lives to end this unjust system.” I’ve often wondered about him and his family. And the one female student in our seminary reminded us of the glass ceiling for women who wanted equal status and pay.

The 1960s were just beginning and we were living our lives unaware of what was unfolding.

Journey of Awakening – 8: Is This Any Way to Begin a Career?

2010-10-19T14:59:00.001-07:00

Enrolled in Drake University Divinity School in Des Moines, Iowa, fall 1959. Packed up all of my belongings in my ’53 Chevy, including a stack of books of sermons my pastor had given me, from which I liberally borrowed ideas, illustrations, and quotes to begin my preaching career. Drake had this system of assigning students as pastors of rural and small town churches, congregations that couldn’t afford full-time ministers. This worked out well as on-the-job-training.

I was sent to a weekend church in Allerton, a town of 300 population 10 miles from the Missouri line. There were 5 protestant churches in town. Allerton Christian Church had been a thriving congregation until 10 years prior to my coming, when a controversy split the congregation and all but 35 adults had left. I spent my first year in seminary travelling on weekends the 80 miles from Des Moines, staying with a nice widow lady, Monte Eberlein, who delighted in telling everyone at church and in town how it had “been a long time since she had a man’s shoes parked under her bed.”

Ted Warren, my home town friend who was also single but courting his future wife, Georgiann, and I found an apartment and lived together for 9 months of the first year, when he was married and moved up to the parsonage of his weekend church. It was a very frugal year. I made $35 a week plus an occasional tank of gas given by one of the church members who owned a gas station in town. I actually had to find some part-time jobs to supplement my meager income, while carrying a full class load. This was also the year of driving back and forth to Minneapolis to try to convince my future bride, Sue, who would break up with me on a moment’s notice. On one breakup/makeup trip I arrived in the middle of the night and stood under her window throwing pebbles until all the lights went on and she finally came down. Her parents were very patient with the whole process, and relieved when it was resolved.

Finally, on about the 3^rd try she agreed to set a date and we were married on June 25, 1960, with all of my old buddies standing with me.

Journey of Awakening – 7: The Seasons of Love and Learning

2010-10-15T13:57:00.000-07:00

“Who is that mysterious beauty with the enigmatic smile and the classic features?”

“That’s Sue Wilson! She’s been away at a fancy college in Illinois.”

She showed up at the Teens & Twenties college age singles group. I was finishing my sophomore year at the U. of Minnesota. She was a year ahead of me, also enrolled at the University. I don’t remember when we started dating or how I got the courage to ask her out. I think it was an ice-skating date. She went to Colorado each summer to work at a guest ranch. Later I found out that she had this fellow staffer summer romance for a couple of summers. He phoned me and my daughter a couple of years after Sue died, wanting me to know how “close they had been.” He was Jewish. He wanted to marry her. She was Christian and couldn’t quite make the leap. So she got me. But not without a struggle. I had the whole school year to impress her. He only had a couple of months in the summer. By the end of my junior year and as Sue was graduating with a degree in early childhood education, we were going steady.

Then the summer came and I was assigned to North Commons Park (from my old neighborhood) with Shirley Larson, a striking blond who was rebounding from a relationship. By the end of the summer I had broken it off with Sue and was spending all of my spare time with Shirley.

Of course, a month or two after the summer Shirley went back to her former boyfriend. It took some convincing and crawling, but Sue did take me back and by Christmas we were engaged. Then over the course of the next year-and-a-half she broke up with me twice and relented twice. I said: “Not without a struggle.”

My senior year was made more challenging because my dad was drinking again, then got a job in Ogden, Utah, leaving my mother to sell our house, help me find a room, and join him in Ogden. It was winter. I couldn’t afford to keep my car going so I put it up on blocks at my Aunt Thelma’s place and got a used bicycle to ride to classes and work at the park. Occasionally, when I ran out of money and was hungry enough, I would make the ride to my Aunt Thelma’s in Parker’s Lake, a 15 mile ride one way. And if you think riding a bike for transportation is tough, try it in a Minnesota winter. There were days when I had to take the streetcars. Fortunately it still only cost a dime to ride.

Somehow I got through the school year, to find that my grade point average was not quite high enough to graduate with my class. So on to summer school in hopes of getting the degree by August, in time to enroll in seminary in the fall semester. My two summer classes were almost ended. I was getting a “C” in one and hovering between a “C” and a “B” in the other. Fortunately, that class was Dr. Holmer’s on Kierkegaard. I begged him: “What can I do to get a “B”? He let me write an extra paper and I was able to graduate by the proverbial skin of my teeth. Actually, it was partly Dr. Holmer’s fault. As my major advisor, he advised me to take an “inter-departmental” major, which meant every class I had taken would be included in my GPA. If I had majored in, say, Philosophy, those “D”s from my sophomore year would not have been included.

I really learned a lot at the U. of Minnesota. I just can’t remember exactly what.

Journey of Awakening – 6: Dreaming & Escaping

2010-10-14T12:30:00.001-07:00

The Minneapolis Park Board had this great summer recreation program at what must have been a hundred parks throughout the city. Each park had one man and one woman assigned for the summer to run sports, games and crafts programs. Somehow during the summer after my sophomore year I caught the attention of Stan Nemec, the Director of Recreation for the City. He offered me the job of Men’s Rec. Director at Nicollet Field, which was year-round and part-time. This got me through my college years, along with the continued summer program. I organized and coached teams in football, hockey, and baseball for the Park Boys’ Leagues. The rest of the time at work I played pickup basketball games with the “guys from the hood,” a group of mostly African American boys who hung around the field. Evelyn Schellhammer, who was the Girls’ Director and a middle-aged lady with a sour attitude but a good heart, was constantly on my case for spending so much time playing. I told her I was the men’s’ recreation director and my job was to teach kids how to play together and how could I teach them if I didn’t “recreate” with them. She would shake her head and walk away mumbling. You might say I played my way through college. I also played on our church’s team in the men’s church basketball league, as well as making the final cut on the U. of Minnesota Freshman team.

There were also classes to attend on campus and studies to complete. Tests to take, papers to write. I spent lots of time at the Bridge Café, adjacent to the campus, which was, along with the basement of the Library where you could smoke, and my church where Ted Warren and I wrote most of our term papers in all-night sessions, my “study halls.”

I do have memories of going to classes. Freshman English with Dr. Irving Deere, who liked to touch the girls in his office during private “counseling” sessions. Thankfully, he wasn’t into touching the guys. We read Catcher in the Rye and took endless essay tests. Dr. McCorkadale lectured to a thousand of us in Psych. 101 and got a standing ovation on the last day of class. He and his minions introduced us to the famous, now infamous, Behavioral Psychology School (aka the “rats-in-the-maze” school of psychology) and multiple choice exams (aka “multiple-guess” exams, which we studied by going over copies of all past exams, hoping to catch some of the right questions on the current exam). Dr. Jones in World History 101 gave his lecture, “Jones’ Folly,” describing in great (and boring) detail how he had spent 20 years of his career attempting to decipher Minoan Linear B, a pre-Greek cuneiform script, and the day before the lecture, his colleague in the east had “cracked” it. Two years of French and all I can remember is reading The Three Musketeers and how to invite a damsel to your boudoir. Also, in two years of Classical Greek I discovered an interest in language and got straight “A”s.

The most influential teacher I had was Dr. Paul Holmer, who was one of the pre-eminent Soren Kierkegaard scholars, from whom I received an intimate view of the Melancholy Dane and his writings, especially Either/Or, the great work on Christian existentialism, and the Attack on Christendom, which, I am sure, at least in part, led to my demise as a local church pastor (that and encountering the Ecumenical Institute which will be in a later story).

Journey of Awakening – 5: Clueless in Minnesota

2010-10-07T16:26:00.001-07:00

Enrolled at the University of Minnesota in the summer of ’55. Tuition only $75 per quarter and an equal amount for books. Living at home helped and my church, First Christian, aka Dr. Forrest Richeson, my pastor paid for tuition and gave me “extra help” when necessary, since I was, until his considerable influence, headed for the ministry. Freshman orientation week was a whirlwind of tours of the campus (at that time 40,000 students strong) and parties. Somehow our orientation host found me attractive which led to a hot evening of necking and petting at the closing party. Can’t remember her name. She was short and chunky and soft. I remember she wore a black skirt and black cashmere sweater. I don’t recall running into her on campus for the next four years. So, for an incoming freshman with only about 3 real dates behind him it was “rush week” and I don’t mean Frats.

Since I didn’t live on campus my social life centered around church and the college age group “Teens and Twenties,” comprised of grads from the high school CYF group and those singles who were not away at college, plus students from the Abbott Hospital School of Nursing which was a few blocks from the church. Several couples formed around the TNTs and five of us guys found wives there, although through the usual tumultuous, turbulent, messy relationship-building required of maturing young minds and hearts.

I continued to work through much of that first year at J. Olson Machine, while trying to maintain a full class schedule mid-week with partying on the weekends, until I was “let go” after a screw-up of a job costing the company tens of thousands. I managed to pick up a few part-time jobs as an order filler and mailer over the rest of the school year and summer and into the next year.

It was also during my freshman year that I started dating Bobbie McLennan (one of the nursing students). My friends Denny Neill and Fred Reed also latched onto theirs, or rather were latched onto. These relationships saved our first year out of high school from totally degenerating into a series of drunken lost weekends. However, we did manage a few unmemorable ones (possible because we don’t remember them). Mostly our lives revolved around our gang of friends. Ev Hall and Ron Morehouse, in the Navy for two years, re-joined us at the end of my sophomore year. Bobbie had dumped me at the end of my Freshman year, which resulted in a whole lot of falling grades in my second year, due to spending a good deal of time in “recovery” and moping around like a sick puppy. Ev started dating Bobbie, which didn’t help. There were other girls who were willing to fill in the gap, but I kept my distance after one or two dates and hid by hanging out in the group.

The summer after my first year at the U. I worked as assistant cook (dishwasher and floor-mopper) at our church camp, Tipi Wakan, which means Lodge of the Great Spirit with our pastor’s daughter and Connie McAdams, who was my summer romance (and who sobbed uncontrollably when I left her, leaving me embarrassed and puzzled that I had no clue how she was feeling). One of my TNT friends, Barb Harden, looked me in the eye after the summer break and said “Hi, Romeo, how many hearts did you break this summer.” I of course was clueless and did not really know how to respond, or rather did not want to acknowledge how afraid of close relationships I was. But that sentence of hers has stuck with me as one that comes up on occasion. Barb is now in my “meditative council” although we have had no contact since that year.

Adventures of Obama - 5

2010-09-03T10:55:00.001-07:00

Obama watched the endless attack

On our brave forces assigned in Iraq;

Democracy foundering at home and abroad;

All factions thinking they’re upholding God.

“You’re making mistakes,” say the ‘Libs’, “left and right;”

From the right “You’re an ‘Islamic commie’ we need to fight.”

Barack Obama he didn’t worry;

He didn’t fret and scream and scurry.

He took the long view as he promised before,

And brought our troops home signaling the end of THAT war.

Summer of Love—the End: At Least I Don’t Hate Cats!

2010-08-30T16:32:00.001-07:00

This is Noah. He runs Tomi’s house!

Figaro and Einstein. They keep Frank up at night!

One of my daughter Leslea’s cats whose name escapes me.

This is Angel. She lives in Malibu with Georgianna and Holly.

Tipper lives much of his life in a 5th Wheel with my cousin Jan.

This is Norma Jean when she had her tail.

And this is Norma Jean without it!

I Fell in Love with Music—Again!

2010-08-26T11:46:00.001-07:00

My mother had this Oahu Hawaiian guitar which I inherited when I was in the seventh grade. I learned to play a few chords on it so I could perform in our junior high talent show. Hank Williams was my favorite country singer. I played and sang “Detour, there’s a muddy road ahead” in the talent show. My classmates at reunions have not neglected to recall this performance, in my cowboy hat and Levi’s and engineer boots. That was my introduction to the guitar. I never played in public again, but continued on for my own enjoyment, later adding the harmonica. During the ‘60s I picked up the guitar again, graduating to a cheap but not bad sounding acoustic job so that I could play with some friends at the “hootenannies” we had in our living rooms. It was, after all, the 60s. We played and sang all the protest songs of the civil rights movement and the anti-war movement: “Blowin’ in the Wind,” “We Shall Overcome,” etc., etc. Later I joined in the church renewal movement and joined a secular-religious order. We sang a lot and even wrote lyrics to some of the folk hymns and popular tunes of the day. Then I just stopped singing and the guitar went to my ex-wife when we split up. Except for a few brief attempts to sing in a church choir it seemed that I had just lost interest in music. Until this summer, that is. My friend Frank got this guitar, a steel string Eko made in Italy that he wanted to sell. I took it home to try it out. It sat in my office next to my computer desk, gathering dust for several months. Then this summer Linda, intuiting that I might be almost ready to pick it up, arranged a bartering deal with one of her Tai Chi students: free Tai Chi lessons in exchange for free guitar lessons. I got the guitar out, tuned it up, had my first lesson, and was amazed at what was coming back to me, not just the chords, but the Music, the interest, the passion for it. So I went out and bought new strings and a tuner and re-strung the instrument and am now practicing every day. I even dug out my four harmonicas that have been languishing in my bedside stand for several years. This must be the “summer of love.”

Smitten By Samantha!

2010-08-25T15:50:00.001-07:00

WHAT DID I TELL YOU?

THAT SMILE WILL MELT YOUR HEART!

MONA LISA HAS NOTHING ON SAMANTHA!

EVERYONE LOVES SAMANTHA!

I CALL HER SAMI! SHE CALLS ME GRANDPA!

Adventures of Obama - 4

2010-06-16T19:34:00.001-07:00

Obama saw a gargantuan gusher.

Oil! – Looked like a real crusher.

The gusher spewed, enlarged its reach;

It fouled the waters, approaching the beach.

The people were anxious, the fishermen scared;

BP couldn’t stop it, its flawed system was bared.

Barack Obama, he didn’t worry;

He wouldn’t yell or scream and fury;

He went to work on a cleanup plan,

And mobilized the forces to save the Land.

Waiting for the Show

2010-06-12T12:12:00.001-07:00

Sitting in Palm Springs,

Corner of Starbucks and Coffee Bean,

Waiting for the movie to begin the beguine;

Waiting for the birthday to arrive;

Waiting for anniversaries to come alive;

Waiting for the homecoming;

Waiting for the end of all shortcomings;

While waiting a bus went by

And I – well –

Missed it.

But no cry

Or sigh

Escaped;

Just another thought of “I”.

Adventures of Obama - 3

2010-06-09T19:25:00.001-07:00

Obama encountered a ferocious Troll

Which came in the form of a popular Poll;

The Troll grew and grew to gigantical size

Until it was bloated; He looked into its eyes

And listened carefully as it demanded attention:

“Obama you know I can eat you, in case I didn’t mention.”

Barack Obama, he didn’t worry;

He wouldn’t bow to its frantic fury.

He summoned his courage, he kept his cool

And said “A Poll ain’t no Troll, and I ain’t no fool.”

Happy Birthday and Anniversary!

2010-06-03T16:46:00.001-07:00

Yes, believe it or not, Linda is having her 67th BD Saturday, and it happens also to be our 34th anniversary. So below are a couple of photos from our birthday and anniversary archives:

Linda is the star of her birthday!

Do you recognize any of these people?

Or these?

Memories of Writing Class

2010-05-26T15:52:00.001-07:00

Wanting to write

Being blocked by unknown demons

Then unlocked by friendly angels:

Cora Lee’s quick-writes,

Bill’s poetry,

Ada’s Twelve Mile Tales,

Ellie’s memories of a child in war,

Carol’s sharing of her journey through abuse,

Lida’s family stories,

James’ coming of age saga,

Helen’s Catholic recovery,

Rose’s Mexican family memories,

And all those other angels

Embedded in my psych like seeds

Waiting to sprout in some new

Flower bed still to be watered.

2010 Writing Class

My Teacher—Cora Lee Brown

Pathology Report

2010-05-21T11:35:00.001-07:00

“No Invasion!”

Sweeter words than these?

Not in this lifetime.

Those sounds!

Do they call them birds?

I did not know.

“Decaf please!”

Better taste than this?

I think not.

Tumor gone!

Do I get a hug?

Can’t touch this.

I Really Did Enjoy the Show

2010-05-16T17:50:00.001-07:00

“Did you see that?”

“That was a fascinating shot—are you cutting that thing out?”

“No, I’m burning it out!”

I’m watching this whole process on the big flat screen HD TV as if it is a dance. This little round electronic tool is flitting around as I’m talking to my surgeon through the whole play. I wonder how he got that tool, along with the camera and attached floodlight up through the penis, urethra, and into the bladder. But he is a master of his craft: “Been doing these for 30 years,” as he says. And he is pleased, as am I, that I talked the anesthesiologist into the spinal block so I could participate in the whole show.

Now, the recovery process is not going as smooth as I had hoped: Last night’s midnight trip to the ER because my plumbing wasn’t working; re-introducing the catheter; now wearing a bag attached to my leg that I have to empty every couple hours; waiting for the lab results of the biopsy, which should be here by the end of the week; and finally, looking forward to quarterly “inspections” of the bladder in case there is a recurrence.

But on the whole, it was another freakin’ learning opportunity (AFLO) and I’m glad I was present for it. I’ll keep you posted on progress from time to time.

Above is one shot of the tumor that was removed and my victory dance as I was about to leave the hospital. I was going to include a video of the whole operation but did not want to totally gross you out. And Dr. Torrey wouldn’t let me have a copy.

MY TUMORIC FRIEND

2010-05-03T14:08:00.001-07:00

I have a little tumor that appeared inside of me,

And how I came to have it is quite a mystery.

I try to live a healthy life, at least inside my head;

And I don’t smoke or other things that make me stay in bed.

The funniest thing about it is I wasn’t near aware

Until my doctor took one look and said, “A tumor’s there!”

“These things are oft malignant so we have to take it out

And send it to the lab so we can see what it’s about.”

I told my wife and friends about my new internal friend;

And they became concerned and asked me questions without end.

Of course I couldn’t answer them because I hadn’t thought to query,

As men are often wont to do, at least they do so rarely.

But I have confidence and faith in my internal strength;

My doctor’s good and so is life, no matter how the length.

I figure this is just another chance to beat the proverbial odds;

So I’ll let my doctor do his job and leave the rest to God.

Milan Hamilton

April 29, 2010

National Poetry Month - 8

2010-04-24T07:10:00.001-07:00

Adventures of Obama – 2

Obama faced a room full of Titans

Of Wall Street that is, but he wasn’t frightened;

The Bears were growling, the Bulls’ nostrils flared;

The lobbyists bellowed, but he wasn’t scared.

They crawled around threatening, they brayed and they stomped:

“Obama, be careful, you’ll surely get whomped!”

Barack Obama, he didn’t worry.

He wouldn’t bow to their frantic fury.

He stood straight and tall, looked them right in the eyes

And said “Since you’re out of control I’m gonna regulate you guys!”

National Poetry Month – 7

2010-04-14T22:40:00.001-07:00

Adventures of Obama

Obama took an enormous job,

He faced a fickle, unruly mob;

Whose tongue did hiss and venom did spew;

Whose color oft changed, now red, now blue.

The mob said, “Obama, we’re glad you came.

We got you elected, now just play our game.

Barak Obama, he didn’t worry.

He wouldn’t bow to their frantic fury.

He meant what he said and he said what he meant.

He went on being The President.

Milan Hamilton

April 9, 2010

National Poetry Month - 6

2010-04-10T07:34:00.001-07:00

He Was Born

“He was born the night the Titanic went down.”

Intrigued, I googled, thinking,

As the kid coming up for the 3^rd time said:

“There’s got to be a pony in here somewhere!

What happened on January 25^th, 1937?

Google said:

Guiding Light airs on the radio—for the first time ever;

Atlantic & Gulf Coast Maritime strike ends—unsuccessfully;

Germany agrees with Britain—all volunteers should leave Spain;

Mrs. Roosevelt takes her guests out—sightseeing;

Don Maynard, NFL receiver and Kathleen Tynan Halton, writer—are born;

Apparently no one dies!

What happened on January 25^th, 1937?

I’m here!

Milan Hamilton

April 8, 2010

National Poetry Month - 5

2010-04-06T22:38:00.001-07:00

Old Woman

What is that smile?

Do you know something I should know?

Living in this cave house for the past 80 years—

Bound feet—but apparently not your spirit.

Someone asked to what you attribute the long life you’ve lived.

“Living underground—warm in winter and cool in summer!”

Is that all there is to it?

Or have you learned somehow to receive life as a gift?

I wanted to tell you about my visit to the Forbidden City

Where so many of your emperors lived, sitting on golden thrones.

Or that I climbed up the Great Wall just two days ago.

But you just sit there and smile

At your daughter

At your grandchildren

At me.

You sly old dragon lady

Just sitting there

Sitting and smiling and loving life as it is.

Milan Hamilton

October 11, 2007

National Poetry Month - 4

2010-04-05T16:07:00.001-07:00

My Grandfather’s Coin Purse

Real leather—not cheap imitation

A metal frame—hinged—with clasp

Still works

Opening with a finger-flip

There’s the button-down pocket

Well-remembered.

“D’you wanna get a soda-pop?”

Those trips to town recalled

With warm sensations arising

From somewhere deep inside.

Out would come the leather treasure pocket

Never failed me.

I have it now—carry it with me

Just like he did—(He’s gone—cancer got him at 76)

Leather separating from metal

And grain nearly worn off in places

Speaks volumes.

Milan Hamilton

April 26, 2007

National Poetry Month - 3

2010-04-04T17:16:00.001-07:00

The Story

I come from Minnesota

Where Minnehaha falls

Lakes freeze over in winter

As well as your eyelids

And stories of Paul and Babe

Fill young minds to overflowing

And where you grew up

In real neighborhoods and

Fannie Cohen would call your mother

Whenever you misbehaved

And where surprised New Yorkers would come

Wondering where the cows were

That they were told wandered the streets

And where Minnesotan is spoken

And is definitely distinct from Wiscon-zan or Io-way-an.

But I’m not going back

Because I found it is true

That the sun shines

Every day in California

And I have a bridge I’d like

To sell those New Yorkers.

Milan Hamilton

April 19, 2009

National Poetry Month - 2

2010-04-03T18:24:00.001-07:00

Ides of March

Caesar’s blood-stained toga still

Held in reverence

With flowers I saw them

Gandhi’s concrete footsteps preserved

From that last walk

In the garden I saw them too

MLK’s “I have a dream” speech

At Lincoln’s Memorial

I stood there on that stone

How many lie today still

In blood-soaked garments

The Ides March on

Before

Our

Eyes

I walked today where Caesar walked!

The Forum in Rome.

Milan Hamilton

March 15, 2007

April is National Poetry Month - 1

2010-04-02T17:40:00.001-07:00

In honor of National Poetry Month, I am posting several poems I have written, most of them over the past four or five years in writing class. The first five are those I have selected at the request of my writing class teacher, Cora Lee Brown for submission to a portfolio she is organizing of writings from her classes over the last few years. This one is probably my favorites, partly for sentimental reasons. Oak Glen has become our weekly retreat for meditation and spiritual reading and conversation. We are there every Sunday morning whenever we are at home.

What Are We Going To Do Until Next Season?

2010-02-12T11:42:00.001-08:00

The big day has come and gone. The big game is over. The Saints have come marching in. The Colts have gone back to their pastures. Our gang did our part. Tomi and Paul purchased a new wide-screen TV just in time for the party. We had sauerkraut and brats and hot dogs and lots of junk food to last us until half-time. We all took a poll of our gang and decided we were going to root for the Saints (except we are still not sure whether there might have been one or two closet Colts fans in the room), especially since they were in the same league as the Vikings and Packers. I showed up with my brand new, never-worn Packers T-shirt and cap, the shirt purchased just for when the Packers made it to the Super Bowl, but since I may not live long enough to see it, I decided this had to be the year. However, if Brett Favre comes back next year I may just buy a Vikings T-shirt just in case.

Above is me giving my welcoming speech before the big game.

Below is our gang breathlessly awaiting the kickoff.

A Correction—Not a Retraction

2010-02-05T15:54:00.001-08:00

A few posts ago I alluded to a breakthrough on my meditation retreat over the holidays. I have to acknowledge that after several arguments with my gang at my 73rd birthday party, I had to go back and review my calculations. I had mentioned that I was actually going to be 72 years “old” on January 25th. I had to admit my friends were correct. I actually was 73 years “old” on that date. I had miscalculated. Nevertheless, the breakthrough insight still is valid. I am not “old.” It is just that I am beginning my 74th year on the planet instead of my 73rd. Anyway, here are some photos from the big celebration of my 73 years of life. Happy Continuation Day to me!

Football Is Still a Game—Isn’t It?

2010-01-27T16:10:00.001-08:00

I keep seeing him, over and over, running to his right, outside the pocket, looking for a receiver who will make the catch and set the stage for Ryan Longwell to kick the tie-breaking and game-winning field goal, with just seconds left in regulation playing time.

“Brett! Brett! Don’t try it! Look! In front of you the field is wide open for 10 or 15 yards!”

“You can slide into the 25 or 30 yard line—that will be enough”

Every quarterback from Pop Warner on up is taught the one cardinal rule of passing the football: Never, ever throw the ball back across the field. Of course, Brett Favre is not every quarterback. He doesn’t see it that way. Whether it is the number of hits he has taken from charging linemen and linebackers and even safeties who have taken turns pummeling him to the ground during this grueling day of battle with the New Orleans Saints (team of destiny, some say), or his return to his old standby throwing arm which has made him one of the legendary quarterbacks in NFL history, or whether he is just too damned tired to run another step on the injured ankle that almost took him out of the game, he goes ahead and does what every quarterback and field general knows better than to do. He throws across the field to his left into three Saints defenders surrounding his intended receiver. One of them picks it off.

The next scene is New Orleans winning the coin toss to begin the overtime and promptly marching through the demoralized Minnesota Vikings defense to score the winning 3 points.

Why am I obsessing about Brett Favre and the Minnesota Vikings? After all, as the saying goes, it is only a football game. Perhaps a career-ending one for Favre (but even that isn’t so certain, is it?), but a game nevertheless.

Well, if I am honest, it is not about Brett Favre or the Vikings, or even football. How many times have I seen, right in front of my nose, the way open to get to the next critical juncture in life, only to revert to my little tried and not-so-true way of doing things? I throw myself directly into the most impossible situation, knowing the outcome will be disastrous. Is it for glory and fame? For proving that this time my way will work?

No! It is just the little me again, thinking I can control the outcome of the game, all by myself. Thankfully, I know that it is still a game, one that the mysterious force called life is playing with itself. And we get to play and we get to watch ourselves playing at the same time. So let the game continue!

The Journey of Awakening – Part Four: Friendship

2010-01-22T12:39:00.001-08:00

Following graduation from North High I tried to get a summer job to afford to go to college. Even though tuition at the University of Minnesota was only $75 per quarter in 1955, with textbooks, even used ones, coming to about the same, wages were not that high and jobs for students were not so prevalent. And I was not really afraid of work but had little preparation for finding it. After several applications did not materialize, my dad got me a job as truck driver and gopher at J. Olson Machine Company, where he was by now a master machinist. I was making real money at last, with overtime, some weeks over $100. Enough to buy a used ’49 Chevy. Over the summer I was promoted to drill press operator and was praised by the boss (but chastised by the other operators who were shown to be dragging their feet a bit on the production line—“Somebody’s not pulling their weight around here,” in the words of Jim Olson, the owner).

Then I got this great idea how to speed up the process even more. Only I selected the wrong tool for the fine pieces with very low tolerance for error that I was removing the burrs from. My part was the very last in the long process of tooling that had these parts ready for shipping. And before the inspector caught me I had ruined an entire multi-thousand dollar job. Fortunately for me this happened at the end of the summer and it was time to get ready to enroll at the U. of Minnesota. So I left behind my budding career as a machine operator.

I was able to get my best friend, Denny Neill, on as driver, a job which he stayed with until he decided on his own future. Denny was a true friend. We car-pooled to the campus for a couple of years and lived less than a mile apart. I was living at home and working my way through school at summer jobs and then got hired part time by the Minneapolis Park Board as Men’s Director at Nicollet Field in South Minneapolis and in the summer as a recreation supervisor at various parks throughout the city.

One time my dad and I got into a “knock-down, drag-out” fight during one of his drunken binges (which by this time had cost him his job at J. Olson Machine), resulting in me leaving home with no idea where I was going. Denny and his family took me into their home where I slept on the couch for several weeks, until my mother forced my dad through an ultimatum to reconcile, at a meeting called by our pastor in his office.

DENNY AND ME IN 1995

That is the kind of guy Denny was, and is. Even though I once hurt him to the point of endangering our friendship. Denny and I went through high school church youth group, young adult fellowship, two years of college, played basketball and hockey, went water-skiing, courted girls from the same nursing school (Denny married his, Carol, and they are still together), went on a canoe trip on the Gunflint trail into Canada together, stood up in each other’s weddings, went drinking together on more than one or two occasions, and both survived the other’s driving during those awful “invincible” years to which young men are prone.

We are no longer keeping in touch on a regular basis. But we are still friends. In fact, I learned the meaning of real friendship from Denny Neill.

What I Learned On My 9-Day Meditation Retreat-5

2010-01-13T16:52:00.001-08:00

Part Five

This has been the most physically challenging 9-day retreat ever—for me. Not least due to my misstep on the way to report on my most fabulous break-through sitting ever. I’m taking a different path to the cabin where the group is meeting. “Hmmm, this doesn’t look like too steep a drop-off. I’ll just sort of dig in my heels and slide down.” The dirt is a little looser than I anticipated. I hit the bottom and discover that the incline is also steeper than I thought. I am suddenly aware that my legs are churning at about 10 mph while my upper body is moving at 12 mph. “Maybe I can grab that tree—too late—moving too fast—this is not going to end well.” I sort of slowly dive forward toward what I hope will be a not-too-bone-crushing landing . . . . whump! Just like sliding into 2^nd base—head first. Oooh! That ground is slightly harder than I had hope for, but covered with nettles which cushioned the blow a bit. After about 10 feet I come to a halt, the dust cloud rising around me.

“Uh, Oh! What is that pain in my right shoulder? And the knee? And the foot seems to have turned a little as it hit the ground.” I lie there assessing the damage. Up on one knee—Oh yes! The shoulder took the worst of it. But I can get up. I can walk, painfully and limping and right arm dragging by my side, but I can walk.

What a reporting session this is going to be! What was it I was going to report on again?

Oh yes! It is enough!

What I Learned on My 9-Day Meditation Retreat-4

2010-01-12T16:14:00.001-08:00

Part Four

Saturday, Day 8—The last full day of the retreat and I am ready for the day. I bound out of bed at 6 a.m., put in my pre-breakfast 2 hours of “doing nothing,” and go into the morning prepared to report on a calm and insightful meditation. During the 10 to 11 a.m. sitting time I begin to reflect on my upcoming 73^rd birthday. “I am almost 73 years old! Wait a minute—let’s check this out!” Born January 25^th, 1937, I begin rehearsing the decades of life so far. An aha!—“I’m actually going to be 72 years old on the 25^th. I will be beginning my 73^rd year of possibility. In fact, I’m not old! I am about to embark on a new year of living.”

Now comes the kicker. I’m recollecting, decade by decade, the incredibly smart and constructive things I’ve done, and the absolutely stupid and destructive, the friendships I’ve made, and the enemies, the people who have benefitted from their association with me and those I’ve hurt. And in the midst of this rehearsal comes up: “It is enough!”

It is enough that I know that I have done the things I’ve done and not done others. It is enough that I know that I have been present and conscious, and at times without a clue to what was really going on. It is enough that I know that I know and that I know that I don’t know. It is enough! It is enough! It is enough!

What I Learned On My 9-Day Meditation Retreat-3

2010-01-11T19:22:00.001-08:00

Part Three

Thursday, Day 6—Feeling much better, up at dawn, 2 hours of calm sitting. On the way to breakfast, just rounding a turn in the road at the fork of Casa de Angeles, the lodge dining hall, and Singing Bird Trail, I stopped, rather, was stopped at the sight of Coyote sauntering slowly down the trail toward me. He stopped, turned his head toward me, and there we stayed, eyes locked, just looking, for about 5 minutes. Then Coyote turned away and ambled on down the trail toward the big bell tower, which rang Christmas carols every day precisely at 6 & 9 a.m., 12 Noon, 3, 6 & 9 p.m., where Coyote again stopped and turned his head toward me, eyes meeting mine for another few minutes. I had not moved.

The encounter with Coyote dominated the first few minutes of my meditation period before the morning group reporting session. Then I saw myself walking a mid-sized dog for the next minute or two. Since I had been thinking about volunteering at our local animal shelter, inspired by my friend Bob Vance who has taken this on as part of his retirement volunteering and exercise regimen, this image did not come as strange. What did strike me was a big question that came into view: “Is it enough?”

I just sat with that question for what seemed a long time. Now that I am approaching my 73^rd year of living on the planet, the question of what do I do now with the rest of my life comes up now and again. Would it be enough to walk a dog? I’ve had for some time a sense of completion, of having done everything I really wanted to do, with no pressing sense of need to join any more groups, organize any more projects, or get involved in any more causes.

I want now to share some of what I have learned—with my family, my friends, and anyone else who might be interested. To write, to take pictures, to meditate. Is it enough? Seems like an entirely appropriate question.

What I Learned On My 9-Day Meditation Retreat-2

2010-01-10T15:44:00.001-08:00

Part Two

Up at 6 a.m. the first morning, a quick shave and shower, and I was at the beginning sitting period by 6:30, ready for the day and the week. A half hour later I began to notice a strange yet familiar sensation, which was growing stronger in my middle section, while at the same time cold beads of perspiration were appearing on my forehead.

“Oh no! This isn’t really happening—I felt just fine—until now.” About 3 minutes later I was convinced that this was not going away soon. I got up as quietly as I could and headed for my lodgings. It was a half-mile walk down and up hills and by the time I arrived and made it to the bathroom it was as though all the energy in by body was literally and figuratively “flushed” out of me. I took the 5 or 6 faltering steps to the bed where I lay, barely able to raise any part of my body for the next 24 hours. The only good part of this situation was that I had Linda and our friends close by and willing to bring me food, should I desire any.

The 2^nd day I felt well enough to make it to one or two of the sessions and then head back to the bed. By evening the stomach cramps and gas pains began—these lasted through the night. By day 3 I was definitely on the mend. I could make it through most of the sessions and even to the dining hall for meals. “Ah, back into the reason I had come—the silence, the sittings, the spiritual journey.” I even managed to take a nature walk.

Then the mind-storms began. For two days my meditations were filled with obsessive thoughts about . . . surprise! . . . computers! Linda had been warning me for months that I was spending a little too much time absorbed in technology, which of course I denied. But denial is much more difficult when confronted by oneself without the defense mechanisms. Perhaps my weakened physical condition prepared the way, but in this one sitting period an image appeared, something like a Trojan Horse, only it came in the form of a big monitor connected to a larger-than-life desktop computer. Out of the screen were reaching for me—wires and cables and worm-like tentacles, grabbing at my arms and wrapping themselves around me, pulling me back into the screen and, if I allowed, down into the innards of this technological nightmarish computer thing. I was being strangled and suffocated by my own technology!

Right then and there a deep resolve arose. I did not want on my tombstone or have read at my memorial: “He was good with computers.” As soon as I returned from retreat I was going to downsize my computer equipment by one-third to one-half!

What I Learned On My 9-Day Meditation Retreat

2010-01-09T18:26:00.001-08:00

Part One:

“Oh Boy! I’ve been looking forward to this for months now—nine days of silence and sitting in meditation in ‘Friendship House,’ wrapped up in my soft maroon throw, with a crackling fire sending warm welcoming rays toward me from the corner fireplace at the end of this hall filled with angels.

Arriving at Questhaven on the day after Christmas, Linda and I settled into our comfortable and familiar lodgings in “Casa Contenta,” this roomy double-wide manufactured house with two bedrooms and baths and a large living room with kitchen and dining area, all the comforts of home. It was our turn to get the master bedroom with its own bath. Our friends and house-mates, the Butchers, graciously deferred and took the smaller bedroom with only a double bed, which was to be a life-saver for me as it turned out, in view of what the week had in store.

The schedule for the week was to be full but fairly relaxed, for a meditation retreat: Up at six for 2 hours of sitting in meditation before breakfast, followed by a break and a 9:30 short talk, then more meditation, combined with small group reporting sessions to share our sitting experiences with a teacher and receive feedback to help us in our meditation practice. After lunch and a break for rest or walks on one of the beautiful trails on this several hundred acre property in the coastal mountains of San Diego County, we would gather for an hour talk by the lead teacher, Jason Siff, a little time for questions, then more sitting until 5, and then a break before dinner, usually spent horizontally in our rooms, unless we had signed up for dinner prep, one of the many jobs the 20 of us would take on to help the retreat run smoothly. Evenings would start with a meditation period followed by an open discussion and end with one of Jason’s “bedtime stories,” most often a reading from his novel, King Bimbisara’s Chronicler. We would then be ready for bed by 10 p.m. and up for the same routine the following morning—for eight full days.

As I said, I was really looking forward to the retreat, a perfect way to transist from one year to the next, in silence for the most part, and in this beautiful green hill country setting. The first evening after an opening orientation and meditation we had our first vegetarian dinner, which was to be the fare for the whole week, prepared by Sandy, a gourmet vegetarian cook, who gave us combinations of grains and vegetables, many of which I had never heard. All was going as I had anticipated! After the first evening’s talk, meditation and bedtime story, we were tucked in our king-size bed by 10, ready for a wonder-filled week.

So much for anticipation . . .

The Worst Winter Ever

2009-12-23T16:42:00.001-08:00

It was the worst of winters. It was the best of winters.

The worst winter I ever experienced turned out to be one I have the fondest memories of and best stories about. It was 1977 in Pennsylvania. I lived in Boston, or at least the rest of my family did, and that was the address on my driver’s license—27 Dartmouth, Boston, Mass.

I was on the road that year all but seven weeks. The blizzard hit Pennsylvania like a fast freight train roaring by in the middle of the night. Only it stopped and dropped 3 feet of snow before moving on. I was snowed in for 2 weeks in Harrisburg. I couldn’t even get a train out to be home for Christmas. My host, one of our organization’s volunteers, put 10 of us up for 2 weeks.

The most “fun” that winter was a trip I made from Pittsburgh when I thought the storm had passed. I was on I-80 on the way to Snow Shoe, PA, when I began to snow again. The borrowed Nash had windshield wipers that didn’t work. I spent the next two hours reaching out the driver’s side window to grab the wiper blade to keep the snow off. I made it to Snow Shoe to find a group of townspeople waiting for the scheduled meeting I had arranged. The mayor let me know that a little dusting of snow like this would never stop them from meeting.

But it was the Harrisburg Christmas that taught me it was possible to bond with a dozen strangers, many of whom I’ve not seen again.

A Christmas Tradition Today

2009-12-20T16:19:00.001-08:00

Christmas Eve is always at our house, at least for the past decade or so. We didn’t plan it so, but since no one else ever makes the offer, my wife and I have concluded that it is now a tradition, and our “gang” just assumes it as a given.

On Christmas morning we all go out for breakfast at IHOP. Or occasionally our friend Leslie T. makes sourdough waffles at his apartment. But that is only when he takes a notion, or one of us says “Why don’t we go to LT’s for waffles this year.”

In the afternoon we always troop over to the Krikorian for a Christmas day movie. Then in the evening we may take my mother and son for a drive around Redlands to see the lights, or if we feel adventurous, the Mission Inn in Riverside.

This year we may vary the schedule slightly. We have a flexible tradition but the essentials will hold: Friends and family together to share the spirit of the season.

Our (almost) Brand New Bathroom

2009-12-16T19:27:00.001-08:00

Our bathroom is almost brand new. You would not believe what a small, 4’ X 8’ room would take to remodel it: Contractors for tearing out shower and floor tiles right down to the 2 X 4s; a counter-top company for the 24 by 18 inch sink cabinet; a mirror company to install the big wall mirror we had to buy when the tile contractor nicked the current one; and Ric the plumber/handyman who my wife worships for correcting all the mishaps made by contractor and husband. I am no longer allowed to install towel bars, hooks, door hinges, or anything that requires drilling holes in doors or walls. “Let’s call Ric” has become an oft heard mantra of Linda’s.

But in spite of the minor inconvenience of having to walk (or run) a quarter block to the pool bathroom and shower (we only have one bathroom) for a few days, and the few nicks and gouges in our bathtub (which Ric repaired), the tile looks beautiful, the new shower doors shine, the corean counter and sink is classy, the brown colors actually go with the light tan textured tiles, the chrome fixtures gleam, and even the new toilet stool seems proud to be in its place. I now understand why it is called the “throne.”

The mirror was delivered on time and Ric was there to see that it was properly installed and that the finishing touches were added. Just in time for Christmas Eve. I wonder if all of our guests can get in our 4 X 8 bathroom at the same time. It is the most elegant room in our home.

The Mysterious Patio Cat

2009-12-14T16:41:00.001-08:00

It began to appear a couple of years ago. It would come two or three days a week and explore our patio. Then it began to settle on our chaise lounge. One summer evening when the patio door was open it stuck its nose in and then gingerly stepped into the living room and proceeded to explore every room in our 900 sq. ft. apartment. It disappeared for a few weeks or maybe a couple of months and then re-appeared on our patio. One thing we became aware of was that it was missing one important detail. In fact it was “de tail.” Was this the same cat? It must be, we concluded. Its actions were too much like the cat-with-tail that used to frequent the patio.

We had also been puzzled by a mysterious call from across the street that we noticed occurred each evening around 8 p.m., a high-pitched woman’s voice that sounded a little like a siren song. On one visit the cat was wearing a collar and we noticed a name engraved on it. The mystery was partially solved. Our patio cat’s name was Norma Jean and the strange sounding high-pitched call was a woman across the street calling her to come in for the night.

But we still had not solved the mystery of the missing tail. Until this week, that is. Norma Jean had been sleeping on our patio every day for several days and then going home at night. A couple of nights ago, the “Norma Jean call” came when we were watching the cat stir from her comfortable bed on the lounge. Linda called to the woman that Norma Jean was on our patio. The lady came across the street, surprised to learn what her cat had been doing every day. It was then that we learned that Norma Jean had been crossing Center Street a year ago and was hit by a car. Her injuries required the “amputation” of her tail.

I just looked out on our patio and Norma Jean is in her favorite spot on the lounge. So I took a few shots on my trusty Sony to show you Norma Jean, formerly known as the “mysterious patio cat.” We are pleased with her having adopted us because our apartment complex has a ‘no-pets’ policy.

Norma Jean

The Our Gang Thanksgiving

2009-11-28T16:56:00.001-08:00

Thanksgiving is a major production; at least it has been for the last few years. We celebrate holidays, birthdays, and other such occasions with our “gang.” This is a collection of about six individuals whose family ties extend throughout several states. My wife and I are the only couple among our gang. We decided to call ourselves a gang after watching a TV interview between Bill Moyers and Kurt Vonnegut, the author, now deceased. Kurt said everybody should have a gang. By this he meant a group of friends who play the role of support, accountability, extended family, and all-around caring people. So we are now a gang. But I digress.

Thanksgiving, as I mentioned, has turned into a major production in recent years. Partly this is due to the spaces we live in. Two members of our gang occupy 8-900 sq. ft. apartments. A third has a town house that is only slightly larger. None of us has space to accommodate 17 people at a sit down Thanksgiving meal. So we have become very creative. We usually begin with our gang of six talking about who will host the dinner this year and who is coming. By the time we finish the discussion, we find that somehow between 12 and 18 people have already been invited and/or have expressed a desire to join us for dinner.

Linda and I always count on my mother, Opal, and my son, Robb. Then our friends the Butchers from LA have an open invitation and sometimes show up. Frank now has his son and daughter-in-law, Kyle and Jackie, who have somehow doubled in the last few years, with Ronin and Roxanne, three and 15 months, respectively. Tomi invited her sister and brother-in-law from Santa Fe and they in turn asked if their son Keith could join us. Two days before the big day one year our friend Paul, from Colorado, showed up, un-announced, to stay with Frank. And this year my cousin Jan from Iowa, now a "California Snow Bird,” is with us.

Every year we come up with plans A and B. Plan A is to have dinner by our community pool. Of course it is always too cool by Thanksgiving Day. So plan B is executed: hors d’oeuvres at someone’s place at 1:30 p.m., followed by dinner at another’s at 3, then dessert at a third house, whenever. We arrange to borrow tables from my Mom’s church and chairs from the Redlands Art Association, where Tomi is past president. A living room is transformed into the “Great Hall” by moving every piece of furniture. The setting is just enough space for seating the 17-19 of us, but with no room to move around otherwise. Hence the decision to have a “progressive” Thanksgiving, dividing up all the ingredients among the participants. Frank’s son, Kyle, sometimes cooks the turkey and dressing. This year Tomi’s sister and brother-in-law did the deed on their Weber. Amazingly, it all works and comes together without a hitch.

Our gang is amazing. We are still friends after many years and several Thanksgivings and even bigger productions for milestone birthdays. I heartily concur with our late friend, Kurt Vonnegut. Everyone should have a gang. If you don’t have one, get one.

First Times

2009-11-22T16:19:00.001-08:00

I used to eat meat. In fact, I was known in the family for eating hamburgers. My mother delights in telling the story of how upset my dad got, and continued to get on the occasions, not at all that often, when he took us out to eat at a “real” restaurant. One where you could get a thick juicy steak. “And Milan would ask for—a hamburger.”

There were other firsts when I disappointed my step-father. Like the time he took me fishing with him. In a boat. On Medicine Lake. His favorite escape (besides drinking). Like the time he took off from work to come to a football game and I never got off the bench. He never let on about being disappointed. But deep down I knew.

My Dad did love to fish!

The real disappointment was that we never developed a father-son bond. He tried. But an alcoholic has a hard road. I remember another first. He lay on his death bed in a nursing home. He was only in his late fifties and had never recovered from a botched surgery where they damaged the nervous system somehow. We had been estranged for the past year or so. He grabbed my hand with his shaking one and said in his feeble voice, that sounded like he was a little drunk, “You’re a good boy, Milan.” I still couldn’t respond.

A few days later he died. It was 1976—in the spring. I remember because Linda and I were married that spring.

I Still Don’t Understand Why . . . . . .

2009-11-21T16:03:00.001-08:00

. . . . . .the American people elect a President every four years or Congressional Representatives every two. It’s OK with me that Senators run every six years: their old boys club, punctuated by a few females to keep a semblance of sanity, is largely an obstructionist bunch and we might as well deposit them all in the Smithsonian.

My main issue is with the incessant amount of time, energy and money it takes to crank up the campaign machines with such repetitive regularity. No sooner are they sworn in than they have to start the next campaign.

Why not just elect a President every eight years, give him or her the charge to get something done and that’s it? They get only one term to lift us up or drive us to ruin. And Congress—I don’t know what to do with them. How about staggering elections across the country so that not all of them are taking office at the same time? And then let’s have performance reviews by panels of regular citizens. Two bad ones and they are out!

Cluttered Desk—Cluttered Mind?

2009-11-16T16:21:00.001-08:00

My office desk is a mess. Receipts of all shapes and sizes, paper with unintelligible markings, a tall yellow-and-black battery operated pencil sharpener, computer flat screen LCD 15 or 17 inch monitor with my grand-daughter’s photo as wallpaper, old chrome stapler, pink piggy bank, little Zen garden from a birthday past, blinking mouse, camera cord, organizer cord, clutter my desk and therefore my life.

Is this my desktop
Littered with droppings
Of a cluttered mind?
There—I see you
Where I left you
Under receipts and assorted CDs.

Journey of Awakening—Part 3

2009-11-12T19:08:00.001-08:00

After my two years in Charles City, Iowa and my return to North Minneapolis, I found myself in the midst of a baptism experience with both of my parents. I knew my dad was a drunk, but didn’t know much about the disease as yet. While I was “away” my dad had encountered Forrest Richeson, pastor of Portland Avenue Christian Church, who was “Mr. 5^th Step” in the Twin Cities, this being the “confessor” step in the Twelve Steps of Alcoholics Anonymous, usually completed with a clergyman. This spiritual encounter of my dad’s led to the three of us being immersed in this baptistery, an oversize bath tub at the front of the sanctuary of this old downtown big red brick church. I didn’t really appreciate the spiritual part but certainly was impressed with “Dr. Richeson,” whose square jaw and shoulders exuded ministerial authority, and who with great confidence took my confession of faith in “Jesus as the Christ, the Son of the Living God and do you accept him as your personal Lord and Savior for life?” I answered yes and then was immediately dunked under the waters of baptism by this man of God in hip-waders.

This led to my being a regular attendee with my folks at this downtown church. It was a couple of years later that I became involved in the Christian Youth Fellowship (CYF) following my near encounter with the justice system after borrowing my employer’s panel truck to take my friends for rides. I was given the “choice” and wisely chose to get involved in the youth program. I was immediately welcomed by the group’s leaders, Bruce Rolstad, Ginny Donohoo, Sylvia Brown and adult sponsors, the Jenkins and the Donohoos. Not long after, I discovered Ev Hall and Denny Neill who became my close friends for many years. They were, like me, children of alcoholics. I was “home.” This was to be my family through high school and college years, which is likely the reason I have the many gaps in my memory of North High and old neighborhood friends. I spent most of my time with my new family. I would travel by streetcar and later with friends whose parents let them take the family car to church and youth group events. This was truly a metropolitan church with kids coming from most of the 11 high schools and even from what were becoming the suburbs.

But it was the summers at Tipi Wakan, the church denomination’s camp on the shores of Lake Minnetonka, where the next “awakening” occurred. At the end of a week of swimming, games, living in dorms in this big old hotel-like building, there was always a ceremony of “commissioning.” I had no idea what the commissioning was for but remember being impressed with the missionary couples on furlough from the “field” who were always on staff. Hearing their stories of working in Africa or South America with native peoples must have inspired me more than I was aware. I found myself walking up to the “altar” with the handful of other commissionees, having heard “the call.” This was a surprise, not only to the camp staff and all of my friends, but to me as well. I went on to become a leader in the youth group, was elected co-president of the church camp the next summer, and became one of Forrest Richeson’s “Timothys-to-be.” This was heady stuff for a teenager and put not a little pressure on. Especially since I had not yet finished my “wild days.” But that will have to be part of the next phase of the story of the Journey of Awakening.

That’s me in the middle second row with Barb Harden

The summer “haunted house” lodge and the girls of summer

And that is Connie McAdams on the left

My Aunt Mattie Died Today

2009-11-08T19:41:00.001-08:00

I’m really glad that I wrote that tribute to my Aunt Mattie a few weeks ago. My mother informed me a couple of hours ago that she received a phone call from my cousin Sharon, that her mother had died this morning after a night’s sleep in her own bed. Mattie had called my Mom just last week and asked her to thank me for what I had written about her. Linda, another daughter, and Sharon had printed my blog and read it to her. How often we wish we had told someone what they meant to us before they were gone. I’m glad my Aunt Mattie was able to hear and appreciate the sentiment I wanted to express. That in itself made my decision to write a blog worth the effort. Every week I tell the members of my writing class that they need to have a blog. Everyone has something important to say—important to someone. I know my cousins, Mattie’s 5 kids, Robert, Linda, Betty, Sharon and Dennis are gathering for comfort and memories. I wish I could be with them, but I trust they know my spirit is reaching out to them as they send their mother on her final journey.

Life goes on in generation after generation—Thanks Aunt Mattie

Winter Stopped at the Window . . .

2009-11-04T16:33:00.001-08:00

. . .and I was imprisoned in my room, nay in my bed, by a flu bug. This was doubly, yea triply confining because I had just had my burst appendix removed, followed by a bad case of chicken pox (under a 6-inch wide bandage), and another trip to the hospital to have my tonsils and adenoids ripped out, leaving my throat so sore that all I could “eat” was vanilla shakes, the only compensating factor in the whole deal.

But there it was, a giant snowfall, right up to my bedroom window. I could hear some of my friends out in it already, making snow forts in preparation for the big snowball war, thrashing out angels in the snow banks, and playing touch football in the thick powdery stuff.

I was eleven. It was agony.

This winter scene at Los Rios in Oak Glen is representative.

Was I There?

2009-10-31T22:20:00.001-07:00

I’d been looking for it everywhere. Unpacking every box of books in the storage shed, the patio cupboards, the carport cabinets, not once but three times. There are huge gaps plaguing me since I embarked on this journey of “blogging” my memoirs, which requires “jogging” my memory. I knew that if I could just find that high school annual, the Polaris, Class of ’55, it would help me recover some of the gaping holes left by years of neglect, moves, leaving behind stuff and people, repression, detours, adventures, successes, failures, and downright dumb decisions, as well as a few smart ones that have punctuated my living.

Could I have possibly thrown it out accidentally, or worse, intentionally? I never cared much for my past, or didn’t think so, until Marilyn and a couple of classmates tracked me down before our 40^th class reunion. Then I discovered Sheldon, another grade-school-to-high-school buddy, who lives a little more than an hour away in Orange County. We’ve been having lunch together every month or two. Sheldon keeps in touch with people and has been a big part of my “memory jogging” community of friends over the past few years. Fortunately I was able to borrow Sheldon’s Polaris (the name derived from our school name and mascot, North High Polar Bears) and began going through it page-by-page, thinking I would scan a selection of photos. This was a strange, humbling and less-than-satisfying experience, a little eerie in fact. Faces of teachers and friends looked familiar, but no experiences of actually “being there” were coming up.

My memories of high school years, where were they? There I was in the football team photo, number 35, last row, second from the left. There too in a Hi-Y club picture. And my senior class photo appeared in its place. But I was on the wrestling team until I cracked that rib. And the track team. Also on the AV Projection crew—I helped produce a movie about good old North High.

I went through it again. This was incredible. “I know I was there! But I’m not there!” Just like the movie about Bob Dylan with all the various actors. “I’m not there!” “Did I drop out of high school in the second half of my senior year?” No, I still have my diploma. I must have graduated. I have a degree from the U. of Minnesota. I couldn’t have got into college without that diploma, could I? I wasn’t the smartest kid in my class, but I did get good grades—top 10%.

Sheldon always says what a painful experience high school was for him. I always nod and let it slide off. But he may be right. All those notes we wrote in one another’s Polarises about how much fun we had in _____ or _____, and what a great ____ you are and I’ll never forget _____.

Maybe we were just covering it up. In my case, perhaps I just kept telling myself I was there when I wasn’t. Where the hell was I? To be continued . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .

Small Compulsions

2009-10-30T22:09:00.001-07:00

I am compulsive about very small and insignificant things. I re-arrange the dishes in the dishwasher if anyone else has loaded it. I wash the dishes before I allow them to go into the dishwasher. Each pocket in the silverware holder has its assigned items: forks in one; teaspoons in one; soup and larger spoons in one; knives in another; and serving utensils in the largest pocket.

Furthermore, I am extremely perturbed at those who just willy-nilly throw dishes in the dishwasher, and with food clinging to the dishes.

Why I Am Not A Farmer

2009-10-29T22:00:00.001-07:00

“If you squeeze it just so and at just the right spot with just enough pressure she won’t kick and you can get a good stream going.” I watched as the white tomcat and the grey puss, quickly joined by the half dozen kittens living in the barn, lined up with open mouths as the warm stream hit one mouth, then another. Tongues shot out, licking from one side to the other as my grandfather’s deft touch squeezed out arching lines of the white elixir, all the more amazing because of two partially missing fingers on the skilled milking hand, the result of a hand caught in a whirling pulley and belt on a corn grinder years before.

“Now you try it. But remember, it’s all in the right amount of pressure in the squeeze and the slight downward pull.” Sitting down on the one-legged milking stool I contemplated what I was about to do. Brownie, the Brown Swiss cow, looked around from her temporary stockade. Just for a moment our eyes met and I knew that she knew I was no master milker. But when I grabbed on to one teat with my little soft child’s hand, not at all like the rough-hewn-years-of-toil-grinding-out-a-living-from-the-soil hands of my farm-hand turned homesteader turned farmer grandfather, no hind foot lifted, no more looking back at this upstart wannabe occurred.

Apparently Brownie had decided it was inevitable. If this kid was going to learn milking, now was as good a time as any and she was just the one to be my guinea pig, or cow. I did eventually get a few streams heading in the cats’ direction, even though they had to keep jumping to get to the spot where the milk was heading.

I was just getting the hang of this milking profession when one day this shiny can with four suction cups appeared. I watched with fascination but some regret as the new milking machine was hooked up to Brownie and the others. I was out of a job! Automation had come to replace me! Probably just as well. I don’t think I was cut out for a farming career.

And when I watched my grandfather and Uncle Ralph struggle to make it on the land over the next couple of decades, finally having to give up their life-long livelihood to move to town, I realized that that milking machine was the harbinger of doom for the family farm.