Month: May 2017

Prior to entering the ministry, I was employed by what is now known as the Department of Energy. My job was to check gas stations and oil companies for adherence to price controls. In 1975, we were called upon to check out coal company prices, although they were not under government regulations. This is one of the stories of those 2 years I spent working out of the office in Roanoke, Virginia.

GALAX

I drove into Galax, small-town cozily tucked away in southern Virginia, looking for the Baker Coal Company. This month our assignment as Federal Energy Administration investigators, was to visit all the local coal companies in Virginia to determine whether or not coal prices were rising as quickly as gasoline prices. The year was 1975.

Down by the railroad tracks, I finally spied the building. This was not a large prosperous concern. Instead I was looking at a wooden shack that had seen better days. There wasn’t enough paint left on it to even say it was peeling. The windows were so thick with coal dust, I couldn’t see inside.

A sign on the door declared “Gone fishin’. Call Ezra if you need me.”

Since I didn’t know Ezra or his phone number, I continued on down the road. On my return trip, I tried again and found the door jar.

I stepped into a room which might have been medicinal green years earlier, but now was called dust gray. An old well-used Ben Franklin stove stood in the middle of the room. The ceiling around the stove pipe was an even darker gray.

I immediately saw three or four moth-eaten cats meandering around the room, which was no larger than my bedroom when I was growing up. One cat had one eye, one had a half- eaten tail, the other glared at me. In the corner was a spittoon surrounded by years of misses. I wanted to turn around and leave so I could drive home and wash my clothes. I felt filth penetrating my shirt and skin as I stood there.

I hesitated when I heard the doorknob turn. In walked a tall, broad-shouldered man who matched the room. He looked as old as his stove. His full head of gray hair hadn’t been washed for months, but was a good match for the five-day growth of coarse gray stubble that covered his face. The hairs were long enough to have caught random pieces of spittle and tobacco, which dotted his chin.

His coveralls were gray, too, but whether by design or wear was a toss-up. I could tell he had had eggs and sausage gravy to eat within the last week.        Even if I hadn’t heard him, I would’ve known he had come in by the aroma which walked in with him. I was afraid I could touch the fragrance of sweat and body odor, which overcame the room. My nostrils quivered and my stomach lurched in revolt.

Yet he had kind, sparkling eyes and wrinkles born of laughter. I stuck out my hand out of habit and introduced myself. His giant, grimy paw grabbed mine. He smiled and opened his mouth to tell me his name.

Where most people have teeth, he had gaping black holes, accented by a few worn down yellowed stubs. Tobacco juice adhered to the remnants of the teeth and the corners of his mouth. “I’m Ben Baker. Pleased to meet you. What kin I do for ya, girlie?”

I told him I needed to ask him some questions about his business and asked if I could lay out my paperwork on the drawing desk in a small alcove in the corner of the main room. He nodded and pointed. The desk was surprisingly clean and uncluttered.

“How long have you owned the business? How much coal do you sell? Has the amount increased or decreased since the gas crisis? Have your prices changed over these last two years?” I ran down the questions as quickly as he could give answers, so that I could leave.

Unfortunately, he was hesitant to answer. I wasn’t sure whether that was because he wasn’t certain or he resented a revenuer, as he called me, prying into his business. Slowly, I was collecting the information I needed.

I asked the next question, but he didn’t respond. Continuing to look down at my paperwork, I repeated the question. When he still didn’t answer, I looked up. He was standing with his arms touching the walls on either side of me, blocking my exit from the alcove with his body. His proximity startled me. I was about to repeat the question, when he asked politely, “Would you like to give me a kiss, Sweetie?”

What I thought was, “You are the last person on earth I would want to kiss, you filthy pervert.” What came out was, “No thank you, sir. Thank you for your cooperation,” as I hastily shoved pen and paper work into my briefcase. Then using the briefcase as a shield, I pushed my way forward and ducked under his arm.

I wasn’t fast, but I was quicker than he was. Cats scattered in all directions as I bolted out the door, jumped in my car, locked the doors and sped across the railroad tracks back to civilization. Two hours later, I was in my shower, scrubbing myself from head to foot.

Back at the office the next day, I wrote” Survey terminated prior to completion,” with a detailed explanation of events. My gentlemanly boss in Richmond called to check on me and assured me I wouldn’t have to go back. Neither did he send anyone else to finish up.

As I’m writing this, I wonder whether he really was the creepy, lonely old man I thought he was. Maybe it was a deliberate ploy by a sly old fox to avoid giving the government any more information. If it was, it worked.

 

With all the protests that have taken place since the new administration took office, I remembered a time, almost 50 years ago, when I was young and angry with the administration’s war in Viet Nam. It was another time, a different issue, but the same desire to make our voices heard and change the situation. I dedicate this to non-violent protesters now and then. Keep fighting the good fight.

MARCHING ON WASHINGTON

 

The campus was buzzing with rumors. “Come to the gym at 6:00 if you have a bus ticket.” “Emergency meeting for bus passengers.” The signs were posted all over the campus.

Like a lemming, I followed the trail of students to the gym. Hundreds of us filled the bleachers on one side. What was happening? We were only three days from a mass migration to Washington, D.C. for the Moratorium to end the war in Viet Nam. Our school, Harpur College, had booked 19 busses to take students and faculty there and back. Over a thousand of us were to join the thousands more, maybe hundreds of thousands, to protest the war in Viet Nam.

It was November 1969.

One of the leaders tapped on the microphone. The gym immediately became silent.

“We have a problem,” he began. “The FBI has threatened Greyhound with a complete shut down if they take any students to the march. They told Greyhound that the FBI would cite every worn tire, burnt out parking light, unrepaired dent and anything else they could find. The FBI is determined to shut down the protest by shutting down the bus companies. Greyhound knuckled under. They have cancelled the buses.

“But, we are not going to let the government deter us,”he shouted into the mike. “We are going to Washington.”

With that the audience broke into cheers.

Quickly, they organized car pools. People willing to drive moved to one side. The rest of us found one of them and signed on for a ride. Instead of nineteen buses, hundreds of cars would travel to Washington. The march would not be silenced.

 

Three days later, I climbed into a compact car with five other people. A French professor had agreed to drive down on Friday and drop us off. After the March on Saturday, we would meet at a designated place for the ride home. In the trunk were four grocery bags, each packed with 4 box lunches from the cafeteria to sustain us.

Darkness was settling in when he let us off at a midtown church. We had been told back at the college that we could stay here for the night. The professor and his girlfriend were spending the night with friends in the city.

Although tired from the six-hour trip, we were buoyed up with enthusiasm. We entered the church and began to walk into the sanctuary to set up camp for the night.  That was when the adventure began in earnest. One of the organizers stopped us. “You can’t stay here. This is only for the leaders from each campus.”

We were dumbfounded…and worried. None of us knew our way around Washington. One of us asked where we could go. The organizer gave us a piece of paper with an address. “Go up Connecticut Avenue to this address. There’s another church there that will be open.”

I looked at the paper in my hand. 10101 Connecticut Avenue. We started out in the direction he had pointed.

By now it was dark. A cold mist fell on us. We saw people with candles making their way to the White House for a vigil. I could also see my breath. The bag of food grew heavier and moister.

Our initial exuberance waned and our pace slowed as we walked. We were cold and hungry as we followed our own version of the Yellow Brick Road. We knew we weren’t in upstate New York anymore. We could only hope something like the Emerald City lay not too far ahead.

As we walked, I began taking note of the addresses on the buildings. They were going up. Then I realized something else.  With a forced calm, I said to my companions, “I just realized that these blocks are only going up by 100. To get to 10101, we’re going to walk miles. I bet this church is in Maryland.”

We didn’t know what to do. Our legs would not carry us that far. In an instant, we had gone from jubilant, determined protesters to wet and frightened 19-year olds.

With no alternative plan, we kept walking. A few blocks later, we saw some other people coming out of a side street. We asked them if they knew of any place we could go inside, sit, warm up, and rest for a while.

“There’s a church just down the street. They’re friendly. You can go there and rest. They even have coffee.”

We thanked them, picked up our pace and quickly found ourselves at the door of the church. We were welcomed immediately and ushered into a large room filled with chairs and tables.

Some people were eating, others were stretching out their legs while they sat. Still others were singing folk songs and discussing politics. A few were curled up in a corner sleeping. We plunked ourselves down, thankful to be safe and out of the cold. We each began eating one of our box lunches. We were hungry and also wanted to lighten our load.

As we sat in their social hall, a man came up and said he and his wife had room for four. We raised our hands and followed him out. We were rescued. We were blessed. Our energy surged. We were okay. More than okay. Only the realization that I had lost my student I.D. lessened my sense of relief. But I decided to worry about that when I got home.

We soon arrived at a small Cape Cod house in one of the suburbs of D.C. We had no idea where we were geographically, but, we had the feeling that we were home, warm and safe.

I immediately noticed that every appliance and piece of furniture in the kitchen had a lettered sign with the name of the item in English and another language, which I learned was German.

Our host’s wife was from Germany. The signs were there to help their two children grow up bilingual. The husband worked for the U.S. Bureau of Statistics. I hoped he wouldn’t get in trouble for giving sanctuary to protesters.

They showed us to our rooms. That night we slept in feather beds, soft and cozy. Exhausted by the emotions and events of the day, we quickly fell asleep.

Tomorrow would be an adventure we did not want to miss.

Our “foster” father drove us back into D.C. in the morning and let us out near the reflecting pool. By now, we were only toting a couple of the boxed meals. We found ourselves immediately immersed in the moment. We were marching and singing and talking with those around us.

Students had come from all over the country. We met folks from Michigan University, the University of Chicago, Princeton, Purdue, Cornell, Virginia Tech, and the University of Pennsylvania. We hoped that our actions would shorten the war. The air was alive with goodwill. We later learned that we were part of the largest demonstration up to that time, numbering over a half a million.

We were fortunate to be near the Washington Monument when Peter, Paul, and Mary began to sing. We sang with them: “Blowin’ in the Wind,” “The Times They Are a Changing” and “Where Have All the Flowers Gone?”  We sang with joy and a fervor that came from believing we were making a difference. There was a positive spirit. Despite our anger with the powers that kept us in the war, we were filled with the naive belief that our actions could end the war.

The day galloped along as we listened to speakers, shouted in unison to bring the troops home, and tried to take in everything while living in the moment. We were not aware of any large police presence, although they must have stood on the periphery, just in case violence broke out. When the program ended, we all dispersed to our respective means of transportation. The French professor and his girlfriend were waiting for us. We piled into the car and shared our stories and observations. We were tired, but feeling good about the day.

We listened to the news on the car radio. On Friday night, only a few blocks up Connecticut Avenue from where we had turned off to the church, a group called the Weathermen set off some small explosives and started a riot. Had we continued up that street, we would have found ourselves in the middle of a violent protest.

Even the least religious of us said a short prayer of thanks.

 

Monday, we returned to classes. Nothing changed. The war continued for another 6 years. But, at least, for a few months, I felt like I had done something to try to change the world.

A week later, I found an envelope in my mailbox. In it, was my student I.D.

 

Yesterday, I found myself in a writing mode. I took my journal and a book with me to a restaurant. Usually, I don’t write while I eat, but I remembered a moment from my years in college and wanted to put it down on paper. I kept writing, even when I was trying to eat wings and blue cheese. A storm came up and the rain poured for a short time. When I finished, I walked along the waterfront park by the river. Sitting on a bench, I began writing what I was seeing. These 2 short essays are the products of the day. I hope you can, in some way, see what I was seeing as I wrote.

HARPUR – I WAS THE GROUND

There was a night, my sophomore year at Harpur, that I walked out of my dorm and started down the hill. I was going no place in particular. That in itself was unusual. I only walked to get somewhere.

But that evening, dusk deepening, I felt lost and meandered into the trees. It might have been November or maybe October. The air was whispering snow, but only autumn leftovers were on the ground. Dried orange and yellow desiccated leaves crunched beneath my feet.

I became aware of speckles of snow dotting my glasses. As I looked through the canopy of barren branches, I saw the moon beginning to crouch behind the clouds. The stars drew back, but still sparkled as the snow became firmer, more intentional. At first, the ground quickly swallowed the flakes with her warmth. I was glad I had worn my heavy watch cap and warm gloves. The temperature was rapidly descending. I could see the frosting up of my breath. If I had spoken, I may have been able to see the words. Eternity sped by and was nearing its end, swallowing up the moment. Since I was nowhere in particular, I lay down, wondering what the ground must feel like as it was covered by the frigid virgin snow. As I lay there, arms extended loosely by my side, I could see the snow begin to drape my royal blue jacket. Because of my glasses, I the ground, could see what it was like to go slowly blind, as first, droplets clouded my view like cataracts, then flakes congealed on the lenses and obscured my view.

I felt myself drifting off to sleep, cold and content. I was no longer me. I was the ground, one with the tree, the snow, the leaves. I was every thing. I was no thing. I was. I was alive and I belonged in this moment.

Eventually, I was seized by a shiver that started at my fingers and moved up to my chest. My toes were numb, I realized. My reverie burst into an awareness that I was freezing.

I lingered a moment before sitting up. I was aware my jeans were wet. I wondered if the ground was aware that summer’s heat and autumn’s dryness were speeding away, unable to shake the bitterness to come.

I stood and I looked around at the remnants of dirt, leaves and grass around me. Then I brushed the snow off my clothes and wriggled my fingers inside the gloves. As I climbed the hill back to the light and warmth of the dorm, I remembered: winters are long in Binghamton.

A DAY AT THE WATERFRONT PARK

The clouds balled up like fists and pelted the strollers with needles of rain. People scurried to find shelter. Sheets of water raced across the pavement, soaking benches, walkways, and uncovered heads. The winds drove the rains across the river to burst against the cement barricades and splash the sidewalk and benches.

10 minutes. Maybe 12. The rain stopped, blown out of town by a relentless fury of cooler air. The sun darted out and lit up the sky saying, “This is my town. No room for storms today.”

As I sit here on a park bench too big for my short legs, I watch the water, waves racing to the wall.   When I sat down to expose myself to the shining vitamin D in the sky, 20 minutes after the downpour, the bench was already dry. Several people are sitting on the swings, feeling for a few minutes like children on the first day of spring. I, in turn, kick my legs back and forth because they do not reach the ground.

Some of the trees are bending over backward, conceding the power of the thundering wind. The sound reminds me of the roar of a seashell held to my ear. As strong as it is, I think it is playful today rather than angry, encouraging the leaves to titter with the latest gossip.

It is an afternoon for smiling. The sea is rumbling strongly, but safely contained… for now. The water is a battleship gray, darker where the clouds shadow it from the sun. Five horizontal lines of cloud hang over the swing bridge. Maybe they are the musical staff on which God is composing today’s symphony.

A solitary unseen bird scolds occasionally from a nearby perch. One small bird, flying low over the waves, was startled by a sudden white-tipped peak that sprayed its wings.

There is a light mist in the distance giving Lady’s Island a mysterious, almost ghostly appearance. In an adventurous corner of my mind, I can imagine sailing a skiff across the river to look for pirate treasure or the secret burial site of an extinct tribe.

The boats are all deserted today, sails rolled up tightly, sitting snugly at anchor. I wonder if they are missing the excitement of feeling the wind launch them up the channel or riding the waters like a cowboy on an unbroken horse.

I smile at a woman as she walks by and she returns the smile. A few minutes later, she walks back and stops. “What are you writing?” she asks.

I answer, “All of this,” and sweep my hand across in front of me.

The petite woman in white and I talk for a few moments. When she asks what I did for a living, I tell her I was a pastor. She tells me that she is a psychic. We were enjoying the back and forth until her no nonsense sister walked up and asked what she was doing. She looks like a woman on a mission. She dismisses me with a nod and asks her sister which way she was walking. The psychic and I smile as she turns and walks away with her sister, who might have been her twin. I’m sorry she had to leave. I enjoy conversations with strangers and I had never met a psychic before. Such encounters have, on occasion, led to new insights and adventures. I return to my journal and allow the sun to warm my face.

As I write, I discover that the picture I have painted with my words is as vivid and permanent as the paintings and photos I see in the nearby galleries. The scene is engraved in the album I keep in my mind. I thank God for giving me words: endless, ordinary, exotic, nuanced words to color my world, tickle my imagination, and enjoy the majesty of creation.