Wednesday, July 2, 2025

Warmth One Winter

 

Journey of our Journeys

Chapter 6 - Warmth One Winter

 Shortly after my parents married in 1945, my dad got a job at the Owens-Illinois paper mill. At the time, it was by far the best place to work in our town. The pay was good, and the work was steady, even if it was noisy and smelly.

          Dad worked in the maintenance department, so he wasn’t stuck with the swing shift like many others. Instead, he clocked in from 7:30 a.m. to 4:00 p.m., Monday through Friday. He did have to take call, though, so he would go into work in the middle of the night or on weekends if a piece of machinery needed emergency care.  

          This also meant that if needed, he would travel across the country to one of the other mills owned by Owens-Illinois.

          Years before I was a twinkle in his eye, my father worked for an extended period of time at the Valdosta, Georgia, mill. Mom, Tom, and Judy went with him, living in company housing and dealing with the joys of submitting their northern-born bodies to the hot, humid, bug- and snake-infested south.

          Near the end of October 1967, Dad and some of the guys from his crew were needed at the mill in Orange, Texas. What a paper mill was doing there, along the Gulf of Mexico, was a mystery to me – and still is. Isn’t Texas a state known for ranches and wide-open spaces? Where do the trees that are needed to make paper come from?

          In any event, Dad took the camper to Texas with Tom Allory, Red Wurl, and a few others. When they got to Portage, Wisconsin, Dad took a wrong turn. Instead of crossing the Wisconsin River at the new Highway 51 bridge, he took the Merrimac ferry. Although there are 1,200 miles of dry land between home and Orange, we would always mention how Dad took the ferry there.

          At some point during his absence, Mom packed up Pat, me, a lady named Mrs. Lane, and two young men in the military and drove to Texas for a few weeks. For some reason, we left at four o’clock in the morning. It was pitch black outside and freezing cold that November.

          We arrived in Texas the next day to a warmth we never dreamed of in November. We were amazed that we could go outside without jackets or scarves. The motel where we stayed had an outdoor pool, which was still in use. Of course, Mom wouldn’t let us use it, but no decent mother of the time would let their children go swimming outdoors in November, no matter what the weather or where you were.

          Our jaunt to the Gulf of Mexico was rather chilly, more seasonable for us, with a stiff breeze coming off the ocean. Mom made us wear our jackets and scarves. Our plaid cotton scarves, with fringes, were almost extensions of ourselves, to be worn at all times unless the weather was extreme. Extreme cold was what we had left behind in Wisconsin that November, requiring a home-knit cap pulled down around our ears. Extreme heat was the month of July, those four weeks during the Wisconsin summer when the temperature consistently stayed above 45 degrees.

          Two of the souvenirs we brought home were silky scarves with a picture of the Lone Star State printed on them. Pat’s had blue trim, mine red. Mine is still at the bottom of one of my dresser drawers, threadbare and wrinkled, but still bearing the Texas logo.

          The other item I remember Mom purchasing was a play cowboy whip for my 16-year-old cousin. I cannot fathom why she thought that was an appropriate gift. As soon as she gave it to him, he chased Pat and me around my aunt’s yard with it.

          Free souvenirs are sometimes the best. Dozens of seashells found their way into the camper only after Mom had inspected them to ensure no animals were lurking inside.

          “You know that animals do live inside those shells, don’t you?”

          “Yes, Mom,” we obediently answered and immediately thought, “Wouldn’t it be cool if one of those animals made it all the way home before crawling out when we took the shell to school for show-and-tell?”

          We really wanted to take the jellyfish to school. We found one washed up on the beach, its long transparent tentacles trailing into the ocean. It was positively unearthly.

          “Get away from that thing,” Mom shouted before we could get within ten yards. “That thing is poisonous.”

          “But Mom, it’s dead.”

          “It doesn’t matter. It is still poisonous and can still sting you.”

          So much for extraordinary wildlife.

          Dad packed us up in early December, and we headed home together in the camper, stopping at the Astrodome on the way. It was the eighth wonder of the world at the time, a mechanical feat of engineering ingenuity. Opened in April 1965, it was still new when we visited it two years later. And for many years, it was one of a kind—a structure to rival the pyramids of Giza. Even the Astroturf was awe-inspiring. Over the last twenty years or so, the space had become archaic and fell into disrepair. 

          The only thing good about returning home to the frozen tundra was that I got to show off all sorts of neat stuff to my kindergarten class.

Sunday, June 29, 2025

What Happened to Saul

          In the meantime Saul kept up his violent threats of murder against the followers of the Lord. He went to the High Priest and asked for letters of introduction to the synagogues in Damascus, so that if he should find there any followers of the Way of the Lord, he would be able to arrest them, both men and women, and bring them back to Jerusalem. (Acts 9:1-2, Good News Translation)

In last Sunday’s blog post, I mentioned a guy named Saul. He was born between 5 BC and 5 AD to a devout Jewish family in the area of Tarsus and was a Roman citizen by birth. He was well-educated in Jewish law but became a tentmaker by trade.

As belief in Jesus as the Messiah spread through his area, Saul, along with many other Jewish leaders, began chasing down these new believers. They harassed, arrested, and tortured the men and women who attested that Jesus Christ was their Savior.

And then something happened.

As Saul was coming near the city of Damascus, suddenly a light from the sky flashed around him. He fell to the ground and heard a voice saying to him, “Saul, Saul! Why do you persecute me?”

“Who are you, Lord?” he asked.

“I am Jesus, whom you persecute,” the voice said. “But get up and go into the city, where you will be told what you must do.”

The men who were traveling with Saul had stopped, not saying a word; they heard the voice but could not see anyone. Saul got up from the ground and opened his eyes, but could not see a thing. So they took him by the hand and led him into Damascus. For three days he was not able to see, and during that time he did not eat or drink anything. (Acts 9:3-9, Good News Translation)

If you are familiar with the Christian faith, there is a very good chance that you know how this story ends. But let’s stop here for a minute and pretend we are viewing this cliffhanger for the first time.

What would be going through your mind if you were Saul and were suddenly blinded? If a voice without a body was speaking to you, asking you what you were doing and why you were doing it? If the voice answered that He was the One who His followers believed in? And you remained blind and didn’t eat or drink for three days? What would you believe?   

(The picture above is from my third trip to Kenya, in 2015. Maybe the road to Damascus looked a little bit like that.)

Friday, June 27, 2025

My Brother, Part 2



Last Friday, I shared with you the sad story of what my brother’s life is like now. And on Wednesday, I alluded to his time in the service. Here is the rest of that story.

My brother, Tom, served in the US Army from 1965 to 1967. As you may have read in my post from earlier this week, we drove to New York in June 1967 to visit him when he was stationed at West Point.

Somehow, he dodged the bullet which took so many others to Vietnam. But before his cushy job as an MP at the military academy, he was dispatched to the Dominican Republic, where he did dodge bullets.

Ever since I could remember, the only military conflict I heard about my entire childhood was the war in Vietnam. But other places in the world were also embroiled in tension.

The Caribbean paradise of the Dominican Republic was a mess for many years. From 1930 to 1961, it was ruled by a ruthless dictator who used repression, torture, and murder to keep the masses in line. When this guy was assassinated in 1961, you would think things would settle down, but not when his son and other relatives tried to keep control. After several coups and many deaths, the US deployed troops to the island in April 1965 to keep the peace.

And my brother showed up early the following year. His role was that of a driver; whether driving military dignitaries around or picking up the payroll at the airport, it was the job of Tom and his partner to get it done.

As Tom has told the story, one time, they picked up the payroll and were driving back to base with it. The payroll was all in cash, in American dollars, so that the servicemen would have quick access to it. Also, I thought all military bases had their own airport, but in this case, the airport where they picked up the payroll was several miles away.

As they drove out of the airport in their Jeep, local rebels started following them. They could only assume it was because the rebels knew what they were carrying. When these guys with machine guns began shooting at them, their assumptions proved to be correct.

I don’t remember if Tom ever said who was behind the wheel, but one of them drove like a madman back to base while the other kept firing rounds at their pursuers.

They made it safely back to base, and the heavy chain-link gate slamming shut behind them was music to their ears.

Tom even got a commendation for it. Maybe he didn’t serve his country in Vietnam or fight to keep the communists at bay, but he still served the men and women on that base, all of them, just doing their jobs in the name of freedom for someone.

But what is heartbreaking is that we had to take away his truck to keep him from ever driving again.

Wednesday, June 25, 2025

A Really Big Waterfalls

Here we are on Chapter 5 of my Journal of our Journeys. Unfortunately, I don't have any pictures of the really big waterfall from that trip. This snapshot of my favorite falls, O-Kun-de-Kun, will have to do.  

The first big trip we took in the new camper was to New York State. We visited my brother Tom, who was stationed as an MP at West Point, and then we went to see Niagara Falls. It was June 1967. I never realized until many years later how close this journey took us to New York City.

As a kid, I was wildly in love with the Trixie Beldon mystery series. I thought the coolest thing would be to live where the Beldons, Wheelers, and all their friends lived in the Hudson Valley north of the Big Apple. I never knew that I had actually been through the area where my childhood fictitious heroine lived. I’m sure this information would have freaked me out when I was twelve and reading about another girl’s adventures. Now, I’m just amazed that I was that geographically challenged. Didn’t my parents ever show me an atlas?

Anyway, the trip took us through Indiana, Ohio, and Pennsylvania. I remember next to nothing of West Point and absolutely nothing of my brother’s role there. He was 21; I was just a kid, a punk, not even in kindergarten.

A lifetime later, when I mentioned it to my husband, he was impressed that my brother had gone to West Point. I had never thought much about it. So what? Tom was at the prestigious military academy. As a kid, I didn’t know what West Point was and never thought more about it.

Well, no, he wasn’t a cadet there. Heavens, no. He’d been sent to Fort Bragg for basic training and then to the Dominican Republic to drive around important officers and deliver the payroll. From there, he worked for the military police on the West Point campus.

But I knew none of that at the time.

I do remember Niagara Falls, though. I can still hear the thunder of millions of gallons of water rushing over the edge of rock eons old. The ground underfoot shook from the power of it. I can see the lights they turned on at night, illuminating the falls in a rainbow of color.

Dad took my sister Pat on a trip under the falls; I was too little to go. The story of my life was being left behind with Mom while Pat did something cool with Dad. Pat was all excited about it, but she never admitted until 20 years later that it had scared the wits out of her.

We returned via Canada, crossing into Ontario at Niagara Falls and coming back through Michigan and its Upper Peninsula.

It became a quest during the 1980s and 1990s for my sisters and me to visit every waterfall within a two-hundred-mile radius of where we lived. Even the tiniest trickle of water tumbling downstream was a fascination and a photo op. The smaller waterfalls were usually the better ones, with fewer people, often no people, just lots of peace and stillness, except for the hypnotic sound of water. If we had to climb a treacherous trail or slide down a slippery slope to get to that waterfall, all the better. We were always game.

Niagara Falls was certainly the biggest waterfall I’ve ever seen, but would I return there? With all the congestion and commercialism? I will take a ten-foot waterfall in the woods in the middle of nowhere. But the passion of it all may have begun for me at that New York state tourist trap.

Sunday, June 22, 2025

The Martyring of Stephen

        

           Stephen, a man full of God’s grace and power, performed amazing miracles and signs among the people. But one day some men started to debate with him. They were Jews from Cyrene, Alexandria, Cilicia, and the province of Asia. None of them could stand against the wisdom and the Spirit with which Stephen spoke. (Acts 7:8-10, New Living Translation)

After Stephen shared with these men about their Jewish heritage, from Abraham to Moses to David, he finished with the following verses.

“You stubborn people! You are heathen at heart and deaf to the truth. Must you forever resist the Holy Spirit? That’s what your ancestors did, and so do you! Name one prophet your ancestors didn’t persecute! They even killed the ones who predicted the coming of the Righteous One—the Messiah whom you betrayed and murdered. You deliberately disobeyed God’s law, even though you received it from the hands of angels,” Stephen said. (Acts 7:51-53, NLT)

 And this was their reaction.

          The Jewish leaders were infuriated by Stephen’s accusation, and they shook their fists at him in rage. But Stephen, full of the Holy Spirit, gazed steadily into heaven and saw the glory of God, and he saw Jesus standing in the place of honor at God’s right hand. And he told them, “Look, I see the heavens opened and the Son of Man standing in the place of honor at God’s right hand!”

Then they put their hands over their ears and began shouting. They rushed at him and dragged him out of the city and began to stone him. His accusers took off their coats and laid them at the feet of a young man named Saul.

          As they stoned him, Stephen prayed, “Lord Jesus, receive my spirit.” He fell to his knees, shouting, “Lord, don’t charge them with this sin!” And with that, he died. (Acts 7:54-60, NLT)

Being stoned to death must have been horrific. I can’t imagine how terrifying and painful, but Stephen’s faith did not waver. Could any of us continue to testify that Jesus is our Savior as we fell to our death?

Stephen was the first of many believers to be martyred in the Bible, and many more would follow, many at the hands of this man Saul. Do you remember him? And who he became? 

Saul was one of the witnesses, and he agreed completely with the killing of Stephen.

A great wave of persecution began that day, sweeping over the church in Jerusalem; and all the believers except the apostles were scattered through the regions of Judea and Samaria. (Some devout men came and buried Stephen with great mourning.) But Saul was going everywhere to destroy the church. He went from house to house, dragging out both men and women to throw them into prison. (Acts 8:1-3, NLT)

Hopefully you’ve already heard of this guy Saul, and if not, you can read about him here next week.

Friday, June 20, 2025

My Brother Tom

 

          I've wanted to share this story for a while now, but it's been too close to home, too raw. Every day, sometime between ten a.m. and two p.m., it feels like the scab gets ripped off, and I'm left bleeding again.

          I've been praying, sometimes pleading, with God to lift this burden and grant peace to me and those surrounding me in this struggle. And just when I was ready to throw in the towel, God gifted me with a miracle.  

          As you may know, my brother Tom is fraught with dementia, and I'm struggling to keep him – and myself – together. Once he gets up for the day, between 10 and 2, he could call me six to eight times to tell me the same thing, or to tell me eight different things. We've decided that he has to go into assisted living, and his medical providers wholeheartedly agree.

          I visited a facility here in town last week and thought it would be a good fit for him. In the past, I've mentioned to him that we should get more care for him and that maybe he isn't safe at home alone anymore. He has met those suggestions with angry defiance.

          Tuesday afternoon, we had an appointment for him to tour this facility. My heart banged against my chest when I picked him up to drive him there. I didn't tell him where we were going until we were on our way.

          I opened with something like, "Tom, I have to tell you something, and you are not going to like it, but I want you to just listen."

          So, I reminded him that the plumber had been to his house the day before, that he needed his well worked on, and that his water wasn't safe to drink until it was fixed. That was the truth.

          Then I told him a few fibs - long stretches of the truth. It would take a couple of weeks for them to fix the problem, and he would not have any water during that time. And that they would have to clean out all his water pipes in the house, which could cause poisonous gases to be in the air.  

          He agreed, mostly saying that they have to do whatever they can to fix his water.

          I continued, with words as slow and even as I could. He would need to move out of his house then for a few weeks until the plumber was done, and I had found him a nice place to live, where he would have his own room, his own TV, and a small refrigerator to keep his Mountain Dew. This place would prepare and serve him three meals a day, and even wash his clothes, clean his room, and help him shower once a week. (Not showering has been our biggest point of contention, as he claims it is NOT healthy to be clean.)

          He actually listened to everything I said. And when I was done, he answered, "That would be great."

          Tears popped into my eyes. I couldn't believe it. Praise God, praise Almighty God in heaven.

          We toured the place, and he picked out a room just inside the lobby, where a TV was only steps away. He said he wouldn't need a TV in his room if he could watch that one. He asked how much the meals were, and we assured him they were included in the price. And how much is this place, he asked. I told him it was being taken care of, between his monthly social security check and money from the VA through their Aid and Attendance program.

          All the way home, we talked about it, and he still seemed on board.

          When I got him back to his house, though, he asked when his truck would be done in the shop (where he believes it has been for two months, waiting for repairs, when it has been in my yard most of the time).

          I told him that once his water is safe to use again, in two weeks, maybe his truck would be ready too, and he could move back to his house and drive his truck again (which is NOT going to happen, but if you've dealt with anyone with dementia, you know it doesn't pay to argue with them; tell them what makes them happy and move on).

          He was fine when I left him that afternoon and has been in a good mood since then.

          A miracle. An answer to prayer!

          But then God said, "I'm not done yet."

          Shortly after I got home, Hubby's orthopedic surgeon's office called. He had been scheduled for shoulder replacement on June 10, but it was bumped back to August 12 because of an infection in his tooth. We were worried that surgery that late in the summer would mean he couldn't drive the bus yet when school started a few weeks later. Plus, he's been in a lot of pain and just wanted this shoulder fixed.

          The woman on the phone said they would have to cancel his surgery in August as the doctor would be out of the office.

          "Okay," I numbly replied. 

          And God was about to chime in, "Gotcha!" when I heard the words, "But we can move the surgery up to July 30 if that would work for you guys."

          I said, "Yes, of course, that would be perfect," and wanted to add that you could have opened with that.

          God chuckled and thought to Himself, "I'm still not done."

          This might sound so minor, but it still means so much to me.

          While I was on the phone with orthopedics, I had another call. When I checked messages, it was Home Health calling to schedule an appointment to visit Tom. But this just wasn't any nurse; this was a woman I had frequent contact with when I worked at the clinic. Anyone who has gone through stress like I have over the last two months knows that a familiar name and voice can make such a difference.

          There you have it. I have rambled on for long enough. But I need to let you know that there is a loving, caring God, Who listens to your every prayer, Who knows what you are going through and will lift you out of your despair when the time is right. Don't ever give up on Him. 

(The portrait was taken in 1991, as a Christmas present to our parents from my brother, both sisters, and me. Before ugly sweaters was a thing.)

 

Wednesday, June 18, 2025

The Dells through a child's eyes

Chapter 4 - The Dells

Our first trip in the new camper was a weekend getaway to Wisconsin Dells. Now, it is known as the Water Park Capital of the World, but in 1966, it was a calm, restful place for parents to let their young children discover all that is kitschy, while Mom and Dad try to absorb the natural surroundings of rock and water.

          Henry Hamilton Bennett is credited with putting the area on the map. In the late 1800s, when the Dells was called Kilbourn City, Bennett began taking photographs of the natural wonders along the Wisconsin River. He experimented with new and innovative photography and changed many aspects of how pictures were captured. As word spread of the amazing photographs he sold, tourists began journeying to Kilbourn City to see these places for themselves.

          H. H. Bennett Studio is still on Main Street, and as part of the National Register of Historic Places, it serves as a historical museum.

          In the 1920s, enough Americans owned automobiles that they could truly flock to The Dells. In the first half of the twentieth century, the beauty of the Dells themselves, the rock formations carved by thousands of years of the rush of the Wisconsin River and the work of glaciers were what people came to see. The famous ducks, amphibious vehicles engineered and first used by the military, would ferry tourists across land and directly into the water for scenic views of the area beginning in the late 1940s.

          By the 1950s various entrepreneurs saw opportunities to expand the tourist attractions. One of the first such attractions was Storybook Gardens and Mother Goose Land. These beautifully landscaped grounds had life-size figures from all the beloved fairy tales of my youth. There was a little cottage with statues of the three bears, waiting to greet any girl willing to be their Goldilocks. There was the wall Humpty Dumpty sat on precariously. There were three men in a tub in the middle of a pond. Many more settings from children's stories dotted the grounds.

          When my family visited the Dells in 1966, Pat and I ran from one fairytale scene to the next. We pretended to eat porridge with the bear family and carried on imaginary conversations with some statute children outside a giant shoe. We climbed the crooked ladder to the roof of the crooked home of the crooked man and his crooked wife and slid down the crooked slide.

Storybook Gardens closed in 2010, and the local fire department burned down the big boat at the entrance the following year as part of their training exercises. It's a shame that today's children don't have the chance to live out fairytales like my generation did. It's a shame that their idea of fun is going down the waterslide over and over again without using any imagination. Do they even know about Mother Goose?

          For me, though, since I can't swim, it would always be enough to frolic in the grass and pretend that I was Little Red Riding Hood.

Anyone who has seen any pictures of Wisconsin Dells, has seen these iconic formations. When H.H. Bennett started photographing the area, he took pictures of his son jumping across this space. Now they have a German Shepherd do it. And there is a net underneath him. I took this pictures in October of 2021 when Hubby and I spent a weekend in the Dells