A Memorial Day Prayer

 

Dear Lord, 

We humbly adore you this day.  

We adore you 

because, in a beginning, 

it pleased you to set the universe on its path 

and make it so the sun would rise each day.   

We adore you 

because you have sought relationship with mankind 

and breathed, through your spirit, your word, 

so that we might get a glimpse of your heavenly realm 

and find kingdom relevance in our daily lives.   

We adore you 

because you chose prophets and wise teachers 

and you sent your son Jesus

who made it possible for us to receive grace.   

We adore you 

because of all of the provision you have made for us, 

for the food we eat each day, 

for the blessings of health 

and of happiness,  

for friendship 

and for family, 

and for this opportunity to worship you 

and be called your servants.  

 

Father, 

we thank you that you have seen fit 

to allow our country to prosper 

and we pray that it may always be true 

when we pledge ourselves as a nation under God, 

undivided in promoting liberty and justice, 

because liberty and justice 

are Godly principles according to your word.   

We pray that our hearts will always be thankful for these things, 

and that you will give us the hearts of servants 

to meet the needs of those less fortunate in our neighborhoods, 

in our country, 

and across the world.  

Help us to practice compassion.

Father, 

on this Memorial Day weekend 

we pause to remember the lives and spirits 

of men and women who, 

down through our history as a nation, 

have served to promote these principles of liberty 

and justice, 

men and women who have served well.   

We honor the lives of those who gave their lives, 

as a full measure of service to their country 

and their comrades.  

Father, we thank you for their courage 

and for their resolve 

to do what they could. 

Allow us now to contemplate their service, 

and for some, 

the terrible price paid in life 

and in mental anguish.   

As we contemplate current or past family members, 

friends or neighbors 

who served in the Army, 

the Air Force, 

the Navy, 

the Marines, 

the Coast Guard, 

the Merchant Marines, 

or in other service to our country, 

allow us to value them for all of the right reasons, 

and allow us to resolve to be better because of them.  

Cause us to devote ourselves to wage peace.   

Cause us to be ever vigilant 

and devoted 

in our attempts to serve others.

I pray this in the name of Jesus.   

If God be for us, 

who can stand against us?   

Emmanuel.  

Twelve More Drives

Twelve more days of school.
Twelve more drives to Penfield Elementary,
then it will close its doors to students.
Forever.
I will miss the elk tracks in the ballfield,
the view of the huge chestnut barn,
the rock dams the kids and I built in Wilson Run,
the walk to the damp hillside spring when learning "ing" words,
the hundreds of thousands of violets,
the bent apple tree blossoming each May,
the huge classrooms,
and the closeness of friends,
both figuratively and literally.

I will also miss the drive.
Penfield is not as close as my previous schools--
sixteen miles as opposed to eleven--
but there are few buildings between home and school,
a lovely stretch to pray
and watch the seasons change.

When the jeep turns left onto route 322 each morning
I pass rock people scattered along both sides of the highway,
sitting,
standing,
balancing,
appropriate for the mountain called "Rockton".

Near the entrance to Spruce Hill Road

On the north side of 322

On the western hillside of 322

Near the ash dump on 322

East side of 153, near junction with 322

East side of 153

Upper DuBec-153 junction

I pass places where we have rattlesnake memories.
One is near the Greenwood Road.
When Paul and Luke were preschoolers,
we spotted a rattler on the roadside.
I remember my arms being stretched in opposite directions
as one boy pulled me toward the snake,
the other, away.
Funny, I don't remember which son was going which direction.
Years later,
Luke, Den, and I were motorcycling home
when we spotted a rattler on that same stretch.
We watched it crawl across the shoulder--
or "berm", as we say in central PA--
and   d  i  s  a  p  p  e  a  r   into the vetch
after I had been walking in vetch all day in sandals.
And daily I pass the big rock
where Den once stepped on a lurking rattlesnake.

Warning!

When the dirt road shortcut, DuBec,
is icy
or dusty
or slippery with mud,
I take the highway route,
but if I can drive thirty miles per hour
DuBec is a more time-efficient route
and potholes become the obstacles in a real-life video game.

Today, dust

Often at about 8:15
I am near the highest point on Interstate 80
east of the Mississippi River.
Big trucks of all types exit I-80 here,
and the road becomes busier.
There is the ravine where my grandparents' car landed
when they were struck by one of those trucks in 1984,
and there is the office for the Moshannon State Forest,
the road to the fracking wells,
and the fire danger sign near the entrance to S.B. Elliot Park.
Elliot was a busy place generations ago
when it was filled with family reunions
and baseball games.
My father-in-law,
Walt "Slick" Shaffner,
was one of the best-known ballplayers,
and I imagine him trotting around the bases after a home run.
This area contained the state tree nursery in those days as well,
but now the trees are all grown,
much too big for transplanting.
I follow the semis
and dump trucks
past the road to the sphagnum bog
(Bogs are SUCH cool places!)
down the absolutely straight two-mile stretch
past another nursery,
Johnston's Nursery,
where Paul landscaped during college summers.
It is now closed as well,
and up for sale.
Near the end of the two mile stretch
is a tumbledown fence.
Each April it is undergirded
by hundreds of daffodils
waving in the breeze of each passing truck.

Halfway point. On a clear day, you can see the Boone Mountain ridge

Many years ago in this area, seedlings grew into trees and boys grew into men

A great place off the beaten path

Daily fire probability update

Two mile straight stretch

Anybody want to buy a nursery?

April daffodils

Laurel Run's headwaters sparkle
between the cattails
in the beaver dams.
Laurel Run is dammed downstream
at Parker Dam State Park,
where CCC boys planted trees in the thirties,
where I swam as a girl,
where Baby Luke played in the sand
while Paul ventured out into adventurous knee-deep waters,
and where I have swum cooling laps
after sweltering September first grade days.
Next year there will be no more of that.

Headwaters of Laurel Run

Parker Dam State Park. Entertaining our family with frigid waters for generations

Before descending to the valley,
the trucks ahead of me are commanded to pull over
and I follow different trucks down the mountain,
in third gear so I don't wear out my brakes.
I pass signs for the Moose Grade Road
and Oak Stub Road
and the Lady Jane mine,
bump over the railroad tracks,
pass Morelli's gas station
(Full service! I will miss it.)
and stop at the light.
A semi zooms through
and then it is my turn.

Trucks must stop here...

...so you can follow new and different trucks.

Love these names

Beware of entering trucks

Morelli's. Always cheaper than Minit Mart, and they pump it for you!

My one stoplight

I pass the flashing slow-down-this-is-a-school-zone sign
near the historical marker in Deannie's yard
and turn left into the parking lot.

Penfield, thy days are numbered

Next year I will turn right on 322
and go to an as-yet-unknown city school.
I will visit these familiar mountain stretches
only occasionally.

Spelling Bee

It's been a busy week.
Instead of relaxing on the mountain every night,
I stayed at school.
This year was Penfield Elementary's turn
to host the DuBois District spelling bees.
Each night,
students from the seven district elementary schools
would compete for individual trophies
as well as for the traveling trophy
awarded to the school with the best overall spellers.
Our third grade teacher, Heidi,
volunteered to be in charge
and I told her that I would help.
While she did the many organizational aspects--
copying lists
and ordering medals
and trophies
and cookies
and lining up helpers,
I made signs and name tags.
While she met with the judges and pronouncer each night,
I gathered the contestants in the library.

Tuesday night was the third grade bee.
I met the kids just inside the door,
sent them for a bathroom break,
verified their names,
reviewed the rules,
drew for slots,
and lined them up.
As they waited,
I reminded them to smile
and to breath deeply if they were nervous.
Most were obviously nervous,
so I also entertained them with witty conversation
and had a ventriloquist conversation with my hand.
They responded with slight smiles,
then went on to spell their little hearts out.
C-o-n-c-h!
E-n-c-y-c-l-o-p-e-d-i-a!
At the end of the night,
a Penfield contestant raised her third place trophy high,
radiantly smiling in her pink fluffy dress.
Yay!


Wednesday night was fourth grade.
I expected them to be nervous as well.
Ha.
There were huge personalities in this group,
semi-humorously trying to intimidate the others.
I had to think how to gain control of the verbal bantering
without seeming autocratic.
"Only one of you will win," I said.
"Let's practice saying 'Congratulations'."
In hindsight,
I should have told them
that their name tag was not a toy
and not to talk onstage.
At the end of the night
I found myself hoping
that I would never be assigned to a fourth grade classroom.

As I prepared for the last competition on Thursday,
I opened my desk drawer to use my chapstick
and picked up a glue stick instead.
Hmmm.
I took this as a sign
to pare back my opening talk.
The fifth graders
were good combinations of smiling and serious,
earnest and funny.
In the opening, practice round,
a boy confidently misspelled "mom".
Thankfully, he did better in later rounds.
One of the kids that I thought would go far was the first one out.
He later confessed that he had done no studying whatsoever.
Among the contestants was D,
a former student from a former school.
D spelled word after word confidently in his newly-deepened voice.
O-b-s-i-d-i-a-n!
And so did the boy beside him.
After countless rounds,
Heidi called the parents up for a consultation
and the spelling bee was declared a tie.
D immediately turned to his co-winner and shook his hand,
then walked to the runner-up and shook his hand as well.
My eyes got a bit misty.
It doesn't really matter who wins a spelling bee--
every device has spell-check these days,
but to see good sportsmanship in young students
is a huge encouragement.
I was so proud of him!
It truly ISN'T whether you win
or lose,
but how you play the game.

I am truly thankful for D
and for his parents
and extended family
who have raised him to be thoughtful
and persistent
and interested
and smart
and funny
and kind
and gracious.
I am thankful for the opportunity
to have been his teacher years ago.
I am thankful
for all the other families
who are raising kids like D,
who have their priorities straight.

Our future is in good hands.

A Trip to New York City

It's been a week since I left the mountain
and went to New York City
with my friend Jill
on a Fullington "Do Your Own Thing" tour.

Jill and I had asked for NYC advice from friends.
We decided on the Intrepid aircraft carrier
and the 911 Museum.
(It was raining and 33 degrees,
so Central Park
and the High Line
were Right Out.)

On the Intrepid,
the gigantic seldom-used anchor chain in the fo'c'sle
was impressive,
as is the word "fo'c'sle"--
TWO apostrophes!
Some planes had folding wings
like Uncle Ric's Clairton basement toys.
We saw the space shuttle (!!!!) Enterprise
and ate hot dogs in the Intrepid cafeteria.
"For $4.50,
they had better be darned good hot dogs!"
They were.
We saw the intersecting triangles of the new World Trade Center,
the sober footprint pools of the former World Trade Center,
and photographs of thousands of faces of people
who died that morning in September.

The space shuttle Enterprise! Wow!

Our first destination

Jill on the deck of the Intrepid

The new tower disappeared into the sky

Pools rimmed with names now stand where the twin towers once stood

Jill and I have many memories of the things we saw that day,
but is the people that we encountered
that perhaps have made the most lasting memories:

The skid steer driver
clearing the streets of trash and snow
after the Saint Patrick's Day parade
who waved at us as I picked up my first souvenirs,
three new green plastic hats.

The skid steer driver had more work to do

A man told us in an Australian accent
about seeing Sully and his airplane
float down the Hudson River
 right there.

The young guide on the submarine Growler
told us that the cigarette smoke
was so thick
that men had to reach above their heads
to find enough oxygen
to light up again,
and that cinnamon rolls were served at midnight.

One Intrepid veteran
told of a shipmate who had fallen overboard
while taking on supplies
and was found the next year.
ALIVE.
Hmmmmm.
I asked,
"Did he,
perchance,
fall in shortly before midnight
on December 31?"
He grinned.

I asked another veteran,
an ex-marine pilot from the carrier Lexington,
what it was like to land for the first time on a carrier,
and how to know if you need to abort
when something goes wrong.
He replied,
"Did you ever get up in the middle of the night
and stumble to the bathroom
and sit down when the lid is still down?
You know immediately that something is wrong.
Flying is like that..."

The girl at the souvenir shop
told us exactly how to catch a bus,
then gave us all the quarters we'd need.

The crosstown bus driver at the Circle Line stop
explained bus transfers,
then reminded us when to get off.

We remember the old women in wheelchairs
who that same busdriver
loaded oh-so-patiently
and gently strapped in
for a trip of a few blocks.

A woman with long dreads
waited with us at the downtown bus stop.
We wondered together
why those guys on bikes
kept disappearing and returning.

We remember the driver of the downtown bus
who explained a bit about the treeless neighborhoods--
I wonder where the closest squirrel is?
and the passenger who was so enthusiastic
telling us about the neighborhood schools
that she missed her stop.

A woman from Chicago
had just taken her first subway ride
and imparted her new-found wisdom.

The helpful worker at the subway entrance
advised us to get one ticket
for the two of us
and thus save a dollar.

A woman at the subway turnstile
showed me the Goldilocksian way to scan the pass.
"Too fast!"
"Too slow..."
"Ju-u-u-ust right!"
She smiled a goodbye
as I pushed through the gate.

The subway was much faster
but didn't have quite the same camaraderie as the buses.
A earbudded man sat across from us,
his stocking cap  pulled over his eyes.
Was he antisocial?
Probably.
Thought curious about his story,
I respected his silence.
I also restrained my inner cheeky child
from beeping his exposed nose,
much to Jill's relief.

We still had an hour
before the bus to Clearfield would return
so we walked the few blocks to Times Square.
The music blared from Ripley's Believe It or Not Museum
and I danced with a few happy strangers
in the middle of the sidewalk
before moving on.

I took a picture of Jill taking a picture of the Times Square ball

Dances With Strangers--
perhaps a good phrase for a movie title
or an epitaph.
Will Rogers,
who once visited this mountain of mine,
said, "Strangers are just friends we haven't met yet."


Joy in your journey
as you turn strangers into friends,
Sue

The House That Den Left

Last night
we celebrated Den's return from the Dominican Republic
with stories of time well-spent with friends
and Daeny's raisin cake.
Den had walked the cake through customs specially
so I could enjoy Daeny's gift.
Delicious!
He then caught me up
on the lives of friends not seen since the late nineties,
when we helped with education seminars.
He told of songs sung enthusiastically
and a presentation
where the Prodigal Son's family was played by monkey puppets
and the tour of Lilo's state-of-the-art school
and gave me the perfect gift:
a colorful necklace made of a water beetle's body.

Daeny's raisin cake

Bible school

Den coaches monkey puppeteers

Then it was my turn.
My story was more like The House That Jack Built:
See this skirt I'm wearing?
This is the skirt that was still in my closet
after I sleepily packed up many bags of clothing to donate
and accidentally gave away some of my favorites
because I may as well clean out my closet
since I had to take everything out of the closet at midnight on Monday
to let the plumber
(who made it up the driveway
because the snowstorm of the decade failed to materialize)
...to let the plumber see to fix the leak
in the closet's frozen pipe
that soaked the carpet padding
that wetted my socks
and thankfully let me know
that there WAS a leak
before it ruined the kitchen ceiling below.
And it only took two hours and a small section of pipe to fix.
The bill is on the table.
I haven't looked at it yet.

Newly cleaned closet

A new pipe elbow at The Scene Of The Crime

The pen that signs checks to the plumber

This morning there was leftover cake. Yay!
As I walked to the jeep
wearing the new water beetle necklace
and other clothing I had NOT accidentally given away,
Den, with happy cat at his ankles,
gave me the traditional daily send-off:
"Thanks for letting me be retired!"
to which I gave my traditional response:
"Thanks for taking care of the house and the bills!"
Except I rrrrrrrreally meant it,
like 287% more than usual.

Water beetle necklace. Cool.

We both have had adventures this week
and are grateful to have our missing parts back.
This week,
may all your adventures be good ones,
but if they're not so good,
may they at least make an interesting story.


PS. Three dollars at Goodwill
should pay for what I accidentally gave away.

Remembering Pamela Johnson

Pamela Johnson, 1957-2017

You moved to Penfield?
From California?
Why?

I had questions for this gentle visitor, Pamela.
She had chosen our church,
Bethany Covenant in DuBois,
because she had loved her Covenant church in California.
I learned she was a graduate
of Parsons School of Design in Manhattan,
the number one art school in the nation,
then the artist became a psychologist
who left her Mount Lassen wildflowers
and moved to Penfield to be closer to her mom
who lived in the eastern part of the state.

I teach in Penfield,
a tiny town nestled at the foot of the continental divide
and volunteered to take her jeeping
through the mountains surrounding her new home.
We splashed through puddles,
explored abandoned mills,
looked for opsrey at a mountain impoundment,
walked to rock outcroppings,
and watched the beech leaves turn from green to burnt sienna.
She loved her neighbors, the elk.
Pam came to Bible study,
helped decorate the church for Christmas,
sat around the fire with us.

Soon after the move to Pennsylvania,
her mom died
and Pam missed California's scenery and working conditions.
When the weather warmed,
we helped her pack for her move back to California,
to a new town, Alturas.
We kept in touch via computer
and continued to enjoy her artist's viewpoint
in photographs of landscape details
and pastels of western wildflowers.

Frost feathers! A gift for those who observe

Paintbrush. Pam knew both the literal and the botanical

If I am interpreting what I've read correctly,
last week Pamela visited
an artist she had befriended in Alturas
who, unbeknownst to her, was a felon.
Things went wrong
and he turned on her.
We read of her death on Facebook.

If God is a god outside of the realm of time,
perhaps my tearful prayers
that God comfort her on her transition to heaven
made a difference.
She was, and is, His child
and perfect love casts out fear.
Say her name in remembrance:
Pamela Johnson.
Pamela Johnson.
Pamela Johnson.
There is joy in the morning.
But now it is night
and we continue to cry.

A Christmas Carol 2016, Epilogue

 
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This year will be the eightieth first grade performance

of Dickens’ “A Christmas Carol”.

In 2001

I spray painted pennies gold

and put them in Grandma Maud’s tin box

where they made a wonderful metallic sound when shaken.

A white ostrich plume

picked up in the streets of Nassau

during the Junkanoo celebration

became Bob Cratchit’s quill pen.

The Ghost of Christmas Present

started with a Dollar Store elf hat

but now has a Father Christmas suit

with wreath hat,

fur-collared robe,

and long white beard.

The Ghost of Christmas Past 

now has a velvet medieval gown

and sequined wand.

Jacob Marley now has real chains.

Everybody gets some kind of costume

I have an IKEA bag filled with vests for the boys

and skirts of all sizes for the girls.

Casting is always interesting.

After telling the story and reading through the script

I have kids sign up for LOTS of different parts

so that they almost always get a part they were interested in.

Jacob Marley needs to be uninhibited

and say “Oooooooooooo!” really well.

Tiny Tim often goes to the smallest child

but we have had larger Tiny Tims 

because they were great limpers.

Scrooge needs to be able to remember lines and speak clearly.

One year Scrooge was the shyest girl in the class

but I knew she could handle the part

because one day during silent reading

she surprised the class--

and herself--

by shouting  “LET ME DRIVE THE BUS!!!!”

She was perfect.

Each year there are moments never-to-be-forgotten:

The Ghost of Christmas Present entering with a handspring.

The Ghost of Christmas Future blindly tripping on his long robe.

Scrooge falling off a large table while enthusiastically dancing—

the superintendent was present for that one--

and skirts falling off during Mr Fezziwig’s Christmas dance.

The Ghost of Christmas Past

ad-libbing, “Ebenezer! Think about what you DONE!”

This year I have my smallest class ever

so some kids have multiple parts;

the charity worker is also Mr. Fezziwig and a villager.

(He read his lines the first day in a British accent

but shyness has kicked in

and he hasn’t done it again.)

Bob Cratchit doesn’t know his lines yet,

but has a huge nice-guy smile.

Amy is Tiny Tim

who limps with the aid of a pebble in her shoe.

Joel may be the best Scrooge ever—

he thinks about EVERY LINE

and says it with such expression,

from “Bah! Humbug!”

to “Will the child live?”

to “Thank you Spirits! I will honor Christmas in my heart!”

As we get ready for our December performances

I think about the Scrooges over the years--

boys and girls,

black and white and multiracial--

and I think about how there are no boundaries

on who is cruel

or who is beyond redemption.

We thank God this Christmas season

for the incarnation,

for the baby

who brought the gifts of grace

and mercy

and the ever-present possibility of change.

Tiny Tim's self portrait

Epilogue:

“How did it go?” you ask.

They sang. Loudly.

Apparently Marley’s speech impediment

is worse than I realized

as few people could understand what he actually said,

but his oooooohs and chain-shaking skills

still carried the redemption story along.

The Ghost of Christmas Past got rave reviews

as she delivered her lines clearly 

with a huge smile

in her lovely velvet dress,

her hair poofing all around her sparkly tinsel headpiece.

Scrooge was wonderful, as predicted,

but during the afternoon performance

he had difficulty getting out of his bed

sending the Ghost of Christmas Present into a nervous giggle fit.

(Remember those?

I think they lessen near the end of adolescence.)

The Ghost of Christmas Future doesn’t talk

and didn’t trip,

so that was an easy one.

I saw no fingers in noses,

another reason to be thankful.

There were a few things I would have changed;

hindsight is like that...

“It was the best of times.

It was the worst of times.”

Another Dickens quote*

that is true for plays,

for teaching,

for many situations in 2016

and probably 2017 as well.

In 2017,

may the best of times

be frequent

and appreciated

and the worst of times be redeemed

as you feel the breath of God

on your life.

God, bless us, every one!

From our chimney to yours, happy Christmas!

*The opening paragraph of A Tale of Two Cities:

“It was the best of times,

it was the worst of times,

it was the age of wisdom,

it was the age of foolishness,

it was the epoch of belief,

it was the epoch of incredulity,

it was the season of light,

it was the season of darkness,

it was the spring of hope,

it was the winter of despair.”