John A. Dalles
As of August 10, 2023
CHESWICK – NO PLACE LIKE HOME (1954-1962)
I was born in West Penn Hospital, Pittsburgh. My parents were John S. Dalles, and Patricia Ann Dalles. I was their only child. The home to which they brought me was a little apartment in Cheswick, Pennsylvania, owned by the Grooms family, who were one of the long-time Cheswick families. Cheswick is a river town on the Allegheny River, and while it’s a suburb of Pittsburgh, it’s just far enough away that it has an authentic small town atmosphere. It did then. It still does today. In fact many of the landmarks that I think of from my childhood are still there. Although some are gone.
Before long, my parents bought a house on Sherman Street at the top of Highland Avenue. Truly the highest you could get as you went up the hill, and turned to the right. The street is fairly long, it is a cul-de-sac, or as we called it back in those days, a dead end. Nomenclature has gotten a little fancy since then. The house was a red brick ranch style house with a hip roof. I think my later fondness for hip-roofed buildings, especially those by Frank Lloyd Wright, may have subconsciously stemmed from the home of which I have the earliest memory. We lived in the house till 1962. At that time, we moved to California.
There were things about the house that were especially pleasant. One of them was that behind the backyard were woods. When I was still young, (because we moved away when I was in second grade), the woods became one of my areas of adventure. Indeed, I don’t know how many times, probably more than you could count, I set off into the woods to go visit my favorite spots. The woods must not have been as big as they felt at the time. But it was a different time. And my parents had absolutely no concern about my wandering off by myself into the woods, out of sight, and exploring for hours at a time. It was one of the ways that I grew to love being in woodland settings. There was one spot where a spring gushed out of the ground, and the plants that were there were different from all the other plants in the woods. I called it The Pretty Place. Which it was.
I spent my childhood in that blissful state no longer commonplace, in which small children were free to play all over their neighborhood without any parental supervision, worry, or concern. Was it truly a simpler time, or were we more naive? Probably a combination of the two. Now, I did not do as my mother and uncle did when they were still in elementary school, that is, taking a nickle and walking across the Highland Park Bridge to the city park pool in Highland Park. But my grandparents has no worries about that. Possibly because my maternal grandmother - when a child - found that an excursion alone on the Pittsburgh streetcar system was a good pastime. Today, I find it hard to believe that parents would permit such solo wanderings. Back then, it was assumed that the community would come to the assistance of a child on his or her own, in the highly unlikely eventuality that something troublesome happened. I'm not looking at the past with rose colored glasses, it was just this way. So wandering in the woods was perfectly acceptable play.
Another thing that I specifically enjoyed about the Sherman Street house as a kid, was that we had such great neighbors. Just about everyone seem to be friendly. Oh I suppose there might have been one or two houses where the people didn’t engage. But they were off my radar, which is a good plan for life, in general. Keep the grumps and grouches off your radar. Most of the owners of most of the houses on our street were about the same age as my parents, and had children who were near my age. And all of them were girls except me, Including a set of twin girls just down the street, the Myers twins. We would form a little bicycle brigades going up and down the street, and were perfectly comfortable to be at one house or the other, as days unfolded. At least in fair weather.
If it got cold and rainy, our basement was always a great place for neighborhood friends to go bike riding. My friends were always welcome to bring their bikes there and we would tool around, back-and-forth, like we were at the Indianapolis 500. My parents must not have had much in the basement, for us to be able to do that. I do remember it being a rather large and rather empty but smoothly paved space.
Pittsburgh is prone to cold winters, and a fair amount of snow. There was one winter that had an excessive amount of snow. So much so, that I was able to dig tunnels, including a hollowed-out room that was like an igloo, in the backyard. Here again I suspect that it wasn’t quite as elaborate as I remember it. However I do remember that my mom made me a lunch, and I took a little throw rug out to this spot. And ate my lunch in my igloo of my own creation. Happy memory.
We lived within a very short distance of both sets of grandparents. My father‘s parents lived in what was still officially Cheswick according to the post office, although that part of Cheswick was known as Acmetonia. Or Acme for a short. Yes, just like the company from which Wiley Coyote orders all of his implements of destruction, in order to put the Road Runner out of its misery. Well, in real life, Acme is not nearly that funny or dramatic.
Having been settled sometime after the turn of the century, that being the 1900s, by families that were chiefly of Italian background. Including my father‘s parents. The house that they lived in had been built in 1928. I believe it may have been a Sears Kit House. The color scheme that you see in the photo is exactly as it was when I was very young. You notice that it needs painting in the photo. It was never like that in the days when my grandparents owned it. There is something very Pittsburgh about the color scheme. It is exactly the same original combination of green and white that you will still see today at the venerable and celebrated Oakmont Country Club clubhouse. Which was just across the river.
A bit further down the river, getting a little closer to Pittsburgh is the town of Blawnox, named for the two men that founded the steel company situated there, Mr. Blaw and Mr. Knox. It was the company for which a number of our family members worked. My father, his father, my mother‘s father, my mother‘s mother’s sister, and my mother, before my parents were married. It was it a thriving concern back in those days. The name persists in a division that was spun off from it before the steel mill itself closed, that has to deal with heavy equipment. But in Blawnox, Pennsylvania, Blaw-Knox Steel itself is no more.
In Blawnox, my mother‘s parents lived, much like we did, at the top of the hill in a 1950s red brick house, although theirs was a Cape Cod with a hint of Tudor at the front door. They had bought it new, and during the year before my birth. Both of my grandparents were Pittsburgh natives from many generations back. Before WWII they had lived on Ninth Street in Aspinwall, the next town down the Allegheny towards Pittsburgh. After the war, when they first got back to Pittsburgh, there were no houses to be had in Aspinwall, and so, they lived for a time in Wilkinsburg, before finding their house in Blawnox. And just like my parents’ house, in the backyard there was nothing beyond it except for a wild undeveloped area. Which had been the farm for the county work house. It is now the RIDV. But at that time wasn’t being cultivated. I just picture fields of native plants going as far as the eye could see, in my mind’s eye.
Every Sunday after church, we would visit my grandparents, all four of them. On one Sunday we would go to one for lunch and the other for dinner. And on the next, vice versa. You had to arrive with an appreciative appetite, because there was always plenty and it was always delicious, at both homes.
Until I was kindergarten age, my life was pretty much as it has been described so far, although at some point along the way my parents decided that I really should be taking swimming lessons. It’s a good idea for children to learn how to swim. It’s one of those skills that can serve you well whether it has to do with recreation or saving your own life or someone's else. The nearest YMCA was in Tarentum, a big old building with a big indoor pool. And that is where I first began to swim. And I found it I took to it like a fish to water. Indeed, before we moved to California when I was 8, I had become such a good swimmer that I routinely beat boys who were 14 years old. I suppose I should have stuck with swimming on a team. But swimming was for enjoyment only after our move.
The only time I remember actually fishing, was in the Allegheny River, with my father. In Acme, about the place where the railroad bridge and the Pennsylvania Turnpike bridge cross the river, there was a little beach; there, my father had grown up fishing with his friends. I remember that we went. I remember that he fished. And I remember his being not too pleased that he didn’t catch much, if anything. The river must not have been as conducive for fishing then as it had been in his own childhood. We never went back to try that again.
There were other delights from those years including going to the Pittsburgh Zoo. Where my absolute favorite animals were the polar bears. Although the elephants came in a close second.
We also, in my earliest days, would go to Fox Chapel, and drive along beautiful Squaw Run Road, to walk the Trillium Trail.
The road has recently been renamed – that is in 2021 – the new name selected is "Hemlock Hollow Road". A name that was cooked up by the Fox Chapel Borough Council, to replace the older name, which carried with it unpleasant associations for those who are paying attention to wanting to be non-discriminatory in language. Fine idea to change it. But the question became: To what? There were dozens of names submitted. The name "Hemlock Hollow" was reported to have been suggested by members of the Seneca Nation (in New York State, we have stopped there often in recent years). They were consulted about the name change, because the original name actually went back to a legend having to do with Chief Guyasuta, and his daughter, in connection with the stream there. There are various colorful versions of the story, which more or less has to do with her choice of a husband and her father's disapproval, and the eloping couple hiding out in a cave behind a waterfall of Squaw Run. People point it out as such down to today. Maybe so. Oral tradition, I have learned, is often quite reliable.
I must say I don’t think that "Hemlock Hollow" is the most mellifluous term. Of course, it has a certain alliteration. The hemlock is Pennsylvania’s state evergreen tree. And there are a thin smattering of them along said road. You can count them on both hands. However there’s that other hemlock that Socrates drank, which, although not native to Pennsylvania, has been naturalized there and is almost invasively scattered all through the state. So, unless one is on one’s toes, one gets the impression that they’ve change the name to “Poison Hollow Road”. Kind of like changing Maple Street to Arsenic Avenue. Not the happiest decision. Especially when there were plenty of other possibilities.
But all that was for the future.
When I was young, we would go to walk on the Trillium Trail. In May, we were there because the trillium was in bloom. If you haven’t seen beautiful white trillium carpeting the landscape, you have missed a great sight, worth going out of your way to see. That was the beginning of many other visits that I’ve made down through my life, to walk on the same trail, to enjoy the Pennsylvania woodlands, and to remember those first days, being there with my grandparents, parents, and whoever else in the family happened to be around when we went there.
My first political memory actually comes from walking on the Trillium Trail. You wouldn’t really think of a wooded trail being a place where I went to talk politics. But apparently my grandparents were tuned in to the upcoming presidential election, and repeated the slogan “I like Ike”. To which I learn to respond by saying, “And I like Mamie!” And I do. She’s the kind of person that does endear one, whether it was because she had those cute bangs, or that she loved the color pink. And of course the Eisenhowers later retired to Gettysburg, Pennsylvania, so there was that friendly connection as well.
Not that we ran into the Eisenhowers in the woods on the Trillium Trail, or anywhere else. But if their ears were burning, they were being spoken fondly of there, by several generations of my family, including little me!
In those early days I had the first glimmers of my interest in architecture. Because, one of the things that my parents enjoyed doing was going for a drive. And when they went for a drive, they sometimes asked my father‘s mother – Grandma Lucy - to go along. If she said yes, then the drive sometimes entailed checking out the new houses, or the existing houses nearby, in the beautiful borough of Fox Chapel.
Fox Chapel had begun as an area of woods and farms. There was a little church there founded by people named Fox, hence the borough's name. But in the 1920s, it became a popular place for the younger professionals of Pittsburgh to build their homes. Before that, there were a smattering of large summer country homes built there. But it really was too far from Downtown to commute conveniently. Then in the 20s, the roads were improved. Commuting got simpler. Not simple, yet; but simpler. And many of these families, who played golf or polo way out in Fox Chapel on the weekends, said to themselves, “Why should we spend the rest of the week in the smoky city, when we could live out there, with the woods and the deer in Fox Chapel?” And those who were really well-off, who had country seats in Fox Chapel, said. “Well this is silly, to live part of the year in one place and part in the other. Let’s just live out in Fox Chapel.” The Great Depression took a chunk out of the momentum and the pipe dreams of many, and there were fewer homes built there in the 30s than had been in the 20s. Even so, right after the Second World War the area experienced a resurgence. And when I was a small boy, in the 1950s, that resurgence was going strong. Houses were being built here, there, and everywhere else, on acreage that had formally been farms.
So, on Sunday afternoons, if it was sunny and pleasant, we would hop in the car and we'd go for a drive, and then we would see what there was to be seen. My grandmother always made her preference for colonial architecture known. In the years when I was living back in the area as an adult, I often wondered, “Is that the house that Grandma liked so much?” It probably was. .
Most of the houses that were being built were either glorified ranch style houses, or colonial in style. But there was one that was ultra-modern. It stood at the intersection of Fox Chapel Road and Delafield Road, high on a bluff, partly hidden by woods. Someone was building a ROUND house! Talk about space age design! This is the kind of thing of science fiction, or at least the most progressive of the shelter magazines of the era. Yes, a round house, two stories tall, drum shaped, with a zigzag roof on the top. There was nothing else like it in Pittsburgh or Ohio or West Virginia and probably nothing else like it till you got to the West Coast. It was in a word, unique.
It also drew onlookers from far and wide. It was a sensation as it was being built. People wanted to come and see it. Just to say that they saw the round house being built. So many people went to look at it on the weekends, that the local police had to station themselves at the intersection of Delafield and Fox Chapel Roads, to direct the traffic, and prevent accidents and traffic jams. And we were among those who went to see the round house being built. In fact, I think we went more than once as it progressed toward completion. I will say more about the people who built this house much later in these memoirs, because many years later they were among my parishioners and dear friends, during my Fox Chapel Presbyterian Church years.
My first introduction to a church that I would later have many happy associations with, Shadyside Presbyterian Church, happened in this way. My mother’s mother Grandma Naomi, was very active in the Presbyterian women’s organization in Allegheny County. Grandma would go to the meetings and events that it held, at various churches in the greater Pittsburgh area. One particular day, she was watching me. In those days one didn’t get a sitter, and so forth, one took one’s child along. So it was that we were on our way into the East End from Aspinwall. And as we were crossing the Highland Park Bridge my grandmother announced to little me, age three or four, “John, today we are going to SHADYSIDE Presbyterian Church!” She said it in such an emphatic and reverent tone, that, even as a very small child, I got the point completely. Which was: it may not be heaven, but it’s awfully close! I would learn more about that many years later. And I still agree with that long-ago assessment.
In a similar way, I had an introduction to Fox Chapel Presbyterian Church, which also was to play a large and delightful part in my adult life. And again, it involved Grandma Naomi. Who announced that we would be going to Fox Chapel Presbyterian Church "to see the white elephants". What? White elephants! What could be more fascinating to a small boy, an opportunity to go somewhere other than the Zoo and see white elephants! Not your everyday ordinary grey elephants, but white ones! A rarity indeed. Sounded almost magical; like something out of a fairytale. I couldn’t wait to get to Fox Chapel Presbyterian Church! Because there, I was going to see white elephants!
Of course, you have already guessed what I got to see when I got there. It was Harvest Fair Day. Which means it was the first Saturday in October. And the church was conducting its annual fall festival, as it did throughout its history. A special fair; all the proceeds of which went to mission. A big part of the Harvest Fair, then and down through the years thereafter, was that section of the church where you could see cast off crockery of all kinds, and other household odds and ends, that were called, you guessed it, white elephants. It was a white elephant sale. With nary pachyderm to be seen. But I remembered it. During my Fox Chapel years, and thereafter, as well as during my Shadyside years, the Harvest Fair was not to be missed. Because there, one had a marvelous time interacting with church friends and neighbors, seeing what treasures might be unearthed, and enjoying the fair's famous and secret recipe mushroom sandwiches. And of course going to the white elephants and seeing Judy J in gracious charge of them. I suppose one could say she is an elephant tamer! But I am getting far ahead of myself.
Being a young child in Pittsburgh in the 1950s, I was introduced, as were many of my contemporaries, to a wonderfully engaging children’s television program, on WQED, the fledgling public broadcasting television station. The show was broadcast out of a spot over in the Oakland section of Pittsburgh, which had formally been the Belfield Presbyterian Church. The show was hosted by a perky and energetic woman named Josie Carrie. During the course of each episode, she visited with fascinating animal puppets. I was so charmed by Daniel the shy tiger that I had an identical puppet that I named Daniel as well. But mostly, I had a crush on Miss Carrie. She was my first true love. Not that she ever knew it. Not that I ever did anything about it, except watch her television program! And I had absolutely no concept that there was someone behind the scenes who had not only made those puppets, but also brought them to life. And of course, I never could’ve guessed that sometime in the future I would have a happy opportunity to meet that person, and get to know him as a friend. Dear Fred Rogers.
We didn’t go to Downtown Pittsburgh to shop very often. But we did go sometimes, before Christmas. It was a great adventure. Always in the course of the visit, was a stop to look at the at the department store windows at the big stores – Horne’s, Kaufman’s, and Gimbles - to watch the animation there. Usually on those visit I was taken to see Santa Claus. Which was always a positive experience for me. I have a hard time finding that movie “A Christmas Story” pleasant, because it’s so outside the realm of my own personal experience. It certainly isn’t anywhere near being in my top 100 favorite Christmas movies, although the people who feel that way about it, have a right to, if they wish. Wrong although they are.
I think we went to Gimbles for Santa? We usually went to Stouffer‘s for lunch. Or maybe we went to the TicToc Shop at Kaufmann‘s, from time to time. But the usual shopping plan for downtown was to park at the Gimbles parking garage. Shop at Gimbles, and then if we did not find what we wanted, we then ventured either to Kaufmann‘s for the latest thing, or the Horne’s for the highest quality and most expensive version thereof. These three stores formed a nice shopping district there.
Stouffer‘s for lunch during the Christmas shopping season entailed waiting in line out on the cold sidewalk. It was a hugely popular lunch spot. On one occasion, we were to meet up with my mother's only brother, Uncle Jimmy, who was a United Church of Christ minister serving a church up on Troy Hill. Unlike the Presbyterian ministers I was accustomed to, when Uncle Jimmy was working, he always wore a clerical collar. So, there we were, on the chillly and grey sidewalk waiting in a long line, and Uncle Jimmy met us there. When the doorkeeper spied him, he said, "Father, right this way!" And we were ushered past dozens of hungry shoppers, into the warmth of the restaurant, and to a table I have since wondered, if the doorkeeper thought my uncle was a Roman Catholic priest, then who did he think my mom and I were!
But as I say, we didn’t go Downtown that often. Usually if we went shopping we would go up to New Kensington, affectionately called "New Ken". Which at that time was lively, and a great place to go shopping. Because of Hart’s Department Store. As a child, I was absolutely entranced with Hart’s. Not because of the shopping selection, which while it was good, was more or less matter of fact to me. But because they had one of those pneumatic tube systems, so like a steampunk version of the tramway, into which the salesclerks would place your order plus your money or "charge-a-plate", as they called it, inside a brass capsule, put it into one of these tubes, and whoosh it would go all over the store and up to the office. Which is the only place where people handled money and made change. And then after the order was filled, whoosh it came back again through the pneumatic tube with a clickety clack every time it went over one of the connectors. Hart’s was old enough that it also had a wooden floor. And I can remember how that sounded as one walked from one department to another. There was a distinctive creaking sound. I’m sure it was all very solid and substantial. Between the clickety clack of the pneumatic tubes in the creaking under foot, it was a sensory experience. And then there was the wooden escalators! Yes dear friends, they used to make wooden escalators. And they sounded a little bit the way a wooden water wheel sounds when it’s turning in the mill. I guess it was the wood against wood grooves in the risers, as they folded open or closed and went up or down, with a clumpy clump clump. As I say it was fun to shop at Hart’s. It would be hard to reconstruct that kind of a store now, and that’s a shame. Because if they had left it as it was, making only minor improvements, people would probably come from miles around just to hear and see what I saw and heard back then.
If I was good (and I always was), there was an incentive to being so, when shopping in New Kensington. Before we got back into our car, we would stop at the bakery. And purchase the bakery’s specialty, sugar cookies. I think my mom must have bought about a half dozen, on most occasions. And I got one of them to eat on the way home. I would’ve thought that we were going miles and miles but it was not very far. We just crossed the New Ken Bridge, one of two in that area that went across the Allegheny River, that even then were ancient - sadly outmoded, too narrow, and probably just barely strong enough to hold up the traffic. And then once across the bridge, we drove down river. There was a stretch of no man’s land, and then came Springdale. Springdale is just barely wide enough to squeeze past the parallel parking on the main drag. Somehow, we managed. And coming the other way would always be trucks. Big trucks. Wide trucks. Hanging over the yellow line into our lane. But we got through it, as I said, and then down the hill, and into Cheswick. Years later when my Aunt Eve learned to drive in her middle age, I told her, "You drive through Springdale; you can drive anywhere in the world!" I still believe it to be true.
Just as you were leaving Springdale and going down that hill into Cheswick, there was another fine feature. Which is still there seventy years and counting. And it’s still just as enticing as it was when I was a small boy. And that is the Glen’s Frozen Custard stand. Now, we never stopped there on a New Ken shopping day. Going to Glen’s was always a special occasion destination in and of itself. My dad would say. “Let’s go to Glen‘s!” And off we would go. And then when we would get there, they had their flavors on display. They always had strawberry, chocolate, and vanilla. And then they had The Flavor of the Week. Oooo! Something exotic, like maple walnut, or banana.
As a kid, I was a fussy eater. And it even extended to ice cream and frozen custard flavors. Strange? Maybe. It’s the truth. So whatever we would go to Glen’s, no matter what The Flavor of the Week might happen to be, my order was always the same: Vanilla. I can’t remember if Mom had a favorite flavor that she ordered, but Dad, being adventurous, would always order The Flavor of the Week, no matter what it was.
After we get our cones, we sat there in our car, and took the first lick. Then, maybe the second, and then almost like clockwork I’d say, “Daddy is yours good?” And he would say, “Yes, John it is. Would you like a taste?” And I never refused his offer. So I would have a taste and I’d say, “That really is good”. Or something to that effect. And Dad would say, “Do you want to trade?” And I’d say, “Oh yes”. So my poor father always ended up eating plain vanilla. And I always had the flavor of the week! What a good dad he was, in this and every way. And a good person in all things. Uncle Jimmy, his brother-in-law, who as a minster had met a wide range of people from all backgrounds, told me that my dad was the finest man he ever met. I have never doubted his assessment. It certainly jived with my own experience. Aren't we blessed if we have someone in our life like that, who becomes our role model in life. Even though I wish he were with me to this day, I sense his presence and am deeply grateful.
Continuing on the drive home from New Kensington, now down the hill and into Cheswick.
You arrive in the main part of Cheswick, with certain landmarks that mostly aren’t there now. Although some of the buildings still are. For instance, right there on the corner of Highland Avenue, stood the movie theater. Now the theater was important to me, because on Saturdays they had cartoons in the theater. And they welcomed children to the theater to watch the cartoons. I think we all went without our parents. I don’t know what the parents did while we were in there watching vintage cartoons. And I mean vintage. These were cartoons that were new when Lindbergh crossed the Atlantic. Well, maybe not quite that old but certainly prewar. And the children all spent a happy hour or two watching these wacky old cartoons. The theater is gone now, and there’s a Sheetz Market on that corner, instead. Bringing lots of business to Cheswick, so more power to them. Across the street from that was the Kennedy's Ford Motor dealership. Which played a part in my parents ordering a pink car. Inadvertently. It was a 1959 Ford Galaxie, carnation with a white hardtop roof, and three tone inside (pink, white and black). Carnation sounded red to my parents. It wasn’t until the car was delivered and they went to get it that they learned that carnation pink was what they had selected. That was the era of bold colors for cars, turquoise blue, sea green, and yes, carnation pink. Just try to get a carnation pink new car, today.
Kennedy Ford would later play a part in my seeing the first ever Mustang on display. That building is completely gone. There’s an empty lot there now. Why tear down a building to replace it with nothing? They did that in Buffalo with Frank Lloyd Wright's masterful Larkin Building, in the fifties, and what has been in its place since? A parking lot. Ridiculous. Maybe the ice and snow of Buffalo got to their brains.
There used to be a shoe store in a little cluster of stores between Highland Avenue and the Cheswick Presbyterian Church. It was called Otto’s Shoe Store. And they sold Buster Brown shoes. I think most young children in those days wore Buster Brown shoes. I know I did. So even though I had not a clue who Buster Brown, and his dog "Tige" the bulldog (a cute dog by the way) were, I wore his shoes.
As I say, the Cheswick Presbyterian Church was and still is just beyond this little cluster of stores. And behind the cluster of stores or you could see, when you turned the corner on Highland Avenue, the elementary school. Or I should say one of the elementary schools. It was the old school. Which I think dated to about 1900 and looked like a pared down Daniel Burnham or H. H. Richardson Romanesque Revival idea, but built on a tight budget. And then there was the new school. Which had to be built because of the baby boom that I was part of. It was long and low and a light buff brick. Sort of a watered-down, economical version of the International Style, popularized by Mies Van Der Rohe. Very "Less is more". The younger grades starting with kindergarten were in the new building. And the older grades were in the old building. Which sounds very logical and symmetrical, does it not.
The Ches-A-Rena was built in 1947; an airport hangar designed to store WWII surplus. It stood just a little bit beyond the Presbyterian Church and on the opposite side, the river side of the street. As it sounds, it became a large enclosed roller rink. Again there was an attempted modernism in the architecture with these very large curved beams that hold up everything, especially the roof, which curved down into the sides of the building which were just a continuation of the roof. Quonset hut style. I can’t say that I went many times to the Ches-A-Rena but I went off and on, so that’s part of my memory.
Now more or less across the street from the Ches-A-Rena, was a pool business. Yes, you know, backyard pools. As an advertising feature they used a big fiberglass statue of an elephant, hoisted high on poles. Which has come to be known as "Chessie the Elephant", for Cheswick. Currently it still stands there upon its supporting posts, high in the air. And it’s painted a rather noticeable shade grape purple. "Chessie" has become a landmark mascot for the town of Cheswick. You cannot miss it.
If one were to continue along the river, we come to Acmetonia. Other than my paternal grandparents' home, there really wasn’t any place there that we frequented. But at that point you were right alongside one of the dams on the Allegheny River. And alongside the road was a rather ramshackle establishment, and to let you know exactly where you were, and perhaps entice you, the sign that hung out in front of it said proudly: "Dam View Hotel". Of course, a good deal of merriment came from that. If you went a little further along you got to Dan’s Drive-In. Dan's was bigger than most drive-ins. It was one of those places that had red Naugahyde booths, and a jukebox, with the controls at every table. So, there you heard many of the popular tunes of the day for the first time, if you went to Dan‘s for a meal. Next came the big railroad bridge and the almost as big bridge of the Pennsylvania Turnpike, and the on and off ramps for the toll booth at the Turnpike interchange - all still there. And then a long stretch of mostly fields, although here and there were a couple small buildings. That stretch was and is known as Harmarville.
Today, if you go to Harmarville, you can find more than a dozen fast food or similar restaurants, and as many motels; then tucked behind that, a lot more, including offices, a soccer center, and if you get near the end a big Target store. Somewhere in that vicinity there used to be a Murphy Mart. Not when I was a little kid. But it came along, maybe in the 1960s. It’s long gone now. Then there was the intersection of 910. Which no one in my family in my childhood ever went on. It was like the far side of the moon from my experience. The road not traveled. Not then, anyway. In another of the iterations of my living in Pittsburgh, it was a route I used every day. Wound its way past the Harmarville Presbyterian Church and up the hill through the little company mining town of Indianola, and to an intersection near the town of Dorseyville and beyond. But when I was a child, that was all terra incognito.
Instead, we would continue along on Freeport Road (aka PIttsburgh Street), and the next thing we passed is the Harmar Mine. The Harmar Mine used to be an impressive site. But it’s mostly gone now. In my early days, you could see the huge coal tipple. My paternal great grandfather worked on the top of that coal tipple, that is, my father’s mothers father. Can I say how proud I am of these ancestors, who came to America circa 1900-1912, to make a new life. They left a forgotten corner of Italy, the instep, a place that was such a backwater that you have to work hard to learn anything much about it, even today. If you read "Christ Stopped at Eboli" by Carlo Levi, which I recommend highly, you are reading about my ancestral corner of Italy. There, my great-grandfather was a farm hand; so working for the coal mine in America was a vast improvement, for sure. Not that he didn't work extremely hard all life long, and when he was not working there, he was planting and tending a huge garden. I would like to have a chat with him now, and ask if he believes the the changes he made and sacrifices he took were worth it, as he looks at his great grandchildren, and their children, and their children. For truly, he did this for us. Aren't we blessed. For time to time, I will tell family history stories, and Harmar Mine and Harmarvile take me back to this great grandfather.
He came to Western Pennsylvania, to work in the mine, instead of the field. To meet his wife, to have his two daughters, and to be the Papa of generations of descendants who have always worked hard to repay the debt we owe him for coming to America. In later years, when again I lived in Pittsburgh, I would pass the now empty site of the Harmar Mine, and think: Here it began. Here is where the geography has told me a part of my story for all these years.
Bending slightly to the left, following the course of the river, you come to the Hulton Bridge. The corner before you got to the old Hulton Bridge, there for a century and more, stood a big red brick building, which at one time had been a rooming house. This rooming house had been run by my maternal great grandmother‘s brother and sister-in-law. The great grandmother came to America at the age of 16, so that she could work for them in the rooming house, cooking and cleaning, and so forth. There, she met a pleasant young man, who worked at the mine across the street, and they fell in love.
But the course of true love seldom is smooth and this was born out with these two young people. Late one night, my future great grandmother heard her brother and sister-in-law, speaking in hushed tones, about their problem. The problem being that if she were to marry, they would lose their housekeeping servant, whose steerage passage to America they had paid for. What to do? They would lose their investment!
Poor Maria (my great grandmother to be). She had come to America on her own, speaking no English, at age 16. On a small card she carried was the word "Pittsburgh". She was to show it to the officials at Ellis Island so they could point her to the train that would take her there. Once safely in "Pittsburgh", she was to show the railroad officials the other side of the card, that said: "Harmarville". And then take the train they pointed out, to her final destination. All this she did. Imagine! All alone in a big strange country, unable to speak or understand its language, with only that little card as her pathway to the future. I am impressed, and I know you are, too. It is an epic story. So she followed the instructions. And all went as well as such things can. Until, that is, she was on that local train from downtown Pittsburgh out to Harmarville. The conductor on that train forgot to tell her to disembark at Harmarville, and didn't realize his mistake until the train got to the next stop, Cheswick. Some miles distant from her destination. She got off the train there, hoisted her duffle bag, and began the long weary trudge downriver to the rooming house, on foot.
When she was at the point where the Harmarville fast foods are now, she was walking past big vegetable farm fields that were there then. Several men working on the farm spied her, and called out to her. Picture it. Pittsburgh. 1900. A sixteen year old girl. Big boisterous farm hands. What would happen next?
The men called out to her. "Where are you going?". Frighted, she had at first not processed that they were calling out to her in Italian! When she did, she felt she could risk answering them. And when she did, they said, "We know the place well. We will take you there." And as graciously as a brace of knights escorting a fair princess, that is what they did.
Back to the overheard conversation in the rooming house.
Maria's brother and sister-in-law hatched a plan. They decided to write to her father back in the old country, and tell her what a good-for-nothing the man she loved was (quite the opposite being the truth), so as to trick the father into refusing to give his blessing to their marriage. It sounds almost biblical, doesn't it?
However, their plan was thwarted because my great-grandmother-to-be overheard them. She soon told her intended, and they decided to elope, which they did. Hooray for them! They didn't have to run to hide under the waterfall along Squaw Run, but the parallels are not escaping me. After their wedding, they settled into Harmar Mine company housing just beyond the rooming house, on the downriver portion of Freeport Road from the Hulton Bridge, which was not yet built, there was a simple ferry operating there in the early 1900s, owned by John Hulton; hence the bridge name. These extremely modest dark red brick row houses are still standing today. There, they raised their two daughters until they moved to Acmetonia in 1928.
And the rest they say is history. But you understand why this short drive evokes so many family stories.
In 1959 or thereabout, having come from New Kensington, one then looked at the old Hulton Bridge and said, "That’s a lot like the New Ken Bridge." Back in my childhood it was a 1911 structure, two lanes, again very narrow. And it existed up until just a few years ago, when it was replaced by a modern, sturdy four-lane structure. Judy and I happened to be in Pittsburgh the last day that the old bridge was open, and drove across it on that last day. And we happened to be back in Pittsburgh for another visit, the first day that the new bridge opened. And of course we drove across it. It seems fitting, because right beyond the entrance to the bridge is that row of red brick miners' houses. And that is where, after they got married, my great grandparents lived, and that is where they had their two daughters.
There was a community bake oven behind these houses, close to the railroad tracks near the river. One day my great-grandmother reached in to get bread out of it and came across a snake, instead of the bread. One remembers these stories passed down in the family. I suppose an urban archaeologist could find the location of that bake oven today. Just let’s hope they watch out for snakes.
If we continue alongside the river, there is a steep cliff to the right, and the Allegheny River to your left. Three was and is a traffic sign there that says, "Watch for Falling Rock". Someone back then told me that was Chief Guyatuta's brother: "Falling Rock". But in reality huge chunks of rock fall from the clifr there, and the rest of the cliff over Route 28, with some unpredictable regularity.
And then you go into Blawnox. Which was at that time the headquarters the Blaw-Knox Steel Company, where as I have said, a number of our family members were employed. In fact, my parents met at a Blawnox company picnic. And my dad who was smitten by how pretty my mother was, came over to her and asked her if he could butter her corn for her! Now that's a line you don’t hear every day.
After Blawnox, one makes one’s way into Aspinwall, a planned street car commuting community from about 1880-1890 onward. Where my mother and her mother grew up, up on the hill, in the same house on Ninth Street. Before you get to Aspinwall, you pass the intersection with Fox Chapel Road and if you happen to turn right there and follow Fox Chapel Road you come to that intersection with Delafield Road, and that round house that was being built in the early 1960s, and then if you go a little further you come to Fox Chapel Presbyterian Church, where the white elephants were, but weren’t. Then a few miles further out, you come to Walnut Ridge Drive, where we lived upon our return to Pittsburgh in 2019-2021. If you happened to veer off at the Y intersection on to what then was Squaw Run Road, and is now Hemlock Hollow Road (yes, you can hear me gnashing my teeth), you would come to the Trillium Trail. All these places and landmarks hold a special and recurring place in my heart.
I guess I should have said that as one goes from Blawnox toward Aspinwall, one passes a stretch where what used to be there isn’t any more, and that is the county work house. It was a forbidding and frightening castle-like structure that sat on the river side of the road taking up a lot of real estate. At the top around the edges were guard houses, and the guards I’m sure had rifles. It was always very somber to pass there. And I can remember that whenever I was in a car that my mother’s mother was in, she would, in a rather chipper way, say, "Go slow and see our city, go fast and see our jail!" If there was ever an inducement against speeding, there it was! I can still hear her saying that, every time I drive by the empty plot of land where the workhouse used to stand.
Also in that stretch, there used to be an Islay’s ice cream store. Since it was close to their home, my mother’s parents tended to frequent it if they wanted ice cream. The running joke was that after one had enjoyed a full meal, and was then driving along the stretch, my grandfather would say something along the lines of "I’d offer you ice cream, but I’m sure you’re too full for it."
True.
I should probably say that as I became aware of where I lived, and who we were, three words that all began with P loomed important: Pittsburgh, Pennsylvania, and Presbyterian.
We were members of the Cheswick Presbyterian Church. My first church memory that stands out as important is Sunday school at the church. It was held in the multipurpose room that was underneath the Sanctuary, in the basement. Sunday school was for all ages. And each class had their own set of tables and chairs. They were divided by curtains that were suspended from the ceiling. It was an early version of the open classroom concept. We would first begin with opening exercises, which usually included a hymn and a prayer. And a reading of Scripture. Presumably the reading of Scripture had something to do with the lesson that we had afterward. I remember being captivated by the Old Testament stories, mostly from Genesis and Exodus, where something dramatic always happened. The Red Sea was parted! Flame clouds and fire led God's people through the wilderness! There was thunder up on the mountain and God gave 10 Commandments! And then wandering a bit from those early books of the Bible, there was always the drama of Daniel in the Lion’s Den, and Shadrach, Meshack, and Abednego in the fiery furnace. And we heard about King David, who sang songs while holding his harp, yes, but more importantly, smote big old Goliath with his little sling shot. Or Sampson who grew his hair long, and who later brought the house down.
Children love what we might think of as frightening and gruesome stories, don't they?
Yes, every once in a while, we also had New Testament stories. And we recognized that Jesus was our good shepherd.
But as I said, my first actual leadership moment in church happened there. Where for one of the opening exercises I was asked if I want to sing a hymn. And I said yes, and then I sang Jesus loves me this I know. Which could be a theme song for this entire memoir, my focus of my life, and my anticipation of what comes next. It’s a great thing to learn when you’re very young. And to remember every day. Isn't it also appropriate that my first leadership moment in church is tied to a hymn, and I have been writing hymns for most of my adult life.
Speaking of. "When We Were Very Young", and other books by A. A, Milne, having to do with Winnie the Pooh and the other characters of “Pooh Corners", with the original illustrations (before Disney's), were much a part of my early childhood. There are other story books to that stood out, one of them being a children’s Bible, which reinforced what I was learning at church with dramatic illustrations of marvelous miracles and similar. There were several books of poetry, they have a special interest because the illustrations were by my father's talented children's illustrator sister, Grace Dalles Clark. They're classics now. I didn’t discover until I was an adult, and rereading them, that any number of family members are depicted in the illustrations. As are elements of the little town of Cheswick, in which Dad and his siblings all grew up, as well as where I lived, when young. If you look really closely at the illustration of the train station, you can see that the sign there says Cheswick. The same station where my great grandmother first set foot in her new, and lifelong home town. It’s nice that my aunt slipped in there people and places that were meaningful to her. They are the kind of things that would relate to many children in many places. But it’s fun to see aunts and uncles and my father, when they were young, as illustrations in the book.
There is more about my artist aunt, that I posted on this blog some years ago. You can find it easily.
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Dr. Seuss was coming to be well-known, and of course his wildly popular book, "The Cat in the Hat". It’s a fun read for children. Although I have to admit that I thought those two children were somewhat naughty doing whatever the mischievous cat told them to do, and they knew they were supposed to behave themselves! It seemed a bit of subversive daring. I suppose that’s why children liked it. And I’m not sure the parents quite got that part of it, they just read it along gleefully. And in later years when I had little children of my own, I read the book to them and found it fun in new ways. Indeed our son John must’ve liked it a lot, because he would finish each line. So that if I said "The sun did not…" John would respond "shine!" with an exclamation. And so forth throughout the book.
There’s a book about the salty dog that goes to sea, which was also fun.
One of the things that often happened in our family circle was someone came to visit from out of town. I mean some close relative. And then the question would be asked "Who wants to go to the airport to get them?" Now, in this day and age, if one goes to the airport to pick someone up, one pretty much goes by oneself, or takes one person along. In those days, a whole bunch of us would jump in the car and we would go toward Downtown, and around it, and then on to the Pittsburgh Airport which that time was a marvelous example of streamline moderne Art Deco architecture. There was always a group of us. It was always an adventure to go to the airport. It was always exciting to see whoever got off the plane, all dressed up in their traveling clothes - suits for the men and the latest fashion dress styles for the women - and bring them safely back home. Travel was glamorous, then. Sigh.
In our house, we had one car. I suppose I should say only one car, except just about everyone had one car per household back then. My father had owned a succession of snazy Oldsmobile convertibles. But in 1959 he bought that Ford Galaxie 500. It looked just like the Sunliners, the ones that had the hardtop roof that folded back into the trunk. But this one did not. In the fabulous 50s, no one making an automobile was afraid of color, as they seem to have become now, where the prevalent colors are a silvery gray, a charcoal to black, or white, which never goes out of style, and the occasional maroon and navy blue. We have all the colors gone? Don’t know. Probably the result of too many focus groups saying that they don’t like brown or green, let alone sea-foam green and turquoise blue, or whatever other color. Oh yes. In really sporty cars you see construction cone orange, and day-glow yellow or green, and so forth. But they are few and far between. And certainly no SUV or sedan rolls along in even one of those colors, let alone two, today. A pity.
Of course, we didn’t have SUVs back then. One either had a coupe (hardtop), a sedan, a convertible, or that ubiquitous station wagon. Which served the purpose then that minivans and SUVs have come to serve thereafter.
Before the days of the Galaxie 500, when my dad had a convertible, we did a family vacation just the three of us, to Florida. Who knew that I’d be going back to Florida again as an adult? And where did we go? I remember we went to Saint Augustine. Where the really big deal was the alligator farm where we could see people wrestling with live alligators. That was a huge draw. We also went to the lighthouse and toured it, which you can do today or tomorrow if you are in the area. It’s nice that some things stay the same. There’s a picture of me at the old fort at Saint Augustine, being held by a man in an old time soldier's uniform complete with a swashbuckling musketeer type hat, which looks exactly like a picture of our son John, that was taken many years later at that same fort. Possibly the same spot. Possibly the same docent, too!
Those were the days before the interstate highways.
Tourists drove on busy two lane roads. Although, as one traveled through Georgia and South Carolina, the roads were sleepy, not busy. While we were leaving Florida going to Georgia, probably somewhere around Brunswick, the convertible roof in my dad‘s car developed a small hole. Which grew by the mile. So we got to the point where there was a huge rip running down the middle of the canvas roof, and so my dad decided to put the roof down. It was hot, so we all bought straw hats. Yes, picture of the three of us driving along with the roof down and big straw hats, the kind that have the straw sticking out the end of the brim. That was very funny to us then, and it probably looked very funny. Until it started to rain.
It came time when kindergarten rolled around. I don’t think kindergarten was universal yet, then. But one registered either for morning kindergarten or afternoon kindergarten. No one went all day. I was in morning kindergarten. And I walked.
Okay, here I am five years old. And I’m walking from way up there on the hill down Highland Avenue to the school that was at the bottom of the hill six or seven blocks depending on how you count them. Sometimes with others. Often by myself. Things were safe. And the reality was that if your child was walking up and down the hill to kindergarten back again and needed something, there was someone home at every house along the way, willing to help if needs be. I never rode in a car, to kindergarten, as far as I can remember. Sometimes I met up with Tommy Midas, who lived on Highland Avenue, and we walked together, not just in kindergarten but in first grade and second grade, until we moved out of town.
Speaking of first grade and second grade, I always went home for lunch. Yes, I walked "uphill in both directions in the snow", just like parents say to children about what a hardship it was growing up in their day. No kidding. I really did it.
Mom was a housewife, as were most of the other moms. In later years, I said to my mother, "Did you ever get together with some of your friends and go out to lunch?" And she said, "No, it never crossed my mind." It was a different time.
I had some lovely elementary school teachers. And some of them have kept in touch, yes down to today. Save yourself from mentioning that they must have been really young when they were teaching me, considering that they’re still around and able to communicate!
One of the memorable things we had to do nearly every week, was an atomic missile attack drill.
On February 6, 1959 at Cape Canaveral, Florida, the first successful test firing of a Titan intercontinental ballistic missile was accomplished. Some of you may have been there. I could have been (technically speaking) but I was not. I was in Cheswick PA and if I am not mistaken, was at that time in kindergarten. Probably having one of those under the desk drills. But what happened in Florida on that day connects with one of my early elementary school memories, atomic missile attack drills.
The theory, back in those days of the Cold War, was that if children climbed under their desks (you know those flimsy bits of plywood or plastic and aluminum) and held their clasped sweet little hands over the backs of their tiny necks, that they would be fully prepared for whatever nuclear attack might be hurling in their direction from a foreign power (AKA the U.S.S.R.).
Doesn't it make you feel safe, just thinking of it?
We did these drills with some regularity, dutiful youngsters that we were. I cannot remember when they stopped, but perhaps it was when our family moved to San Diego and the rules for those schools were different than back in Allegheny County.
Fire drills, yes. Air raid drills, no longer.
The idea of being prepared for this or that disaster is not a bad one. We make hurricane kits every year living in Florida, for instance. And I suppose that if some sort of missile had struck, say Uniontown or New Castle, but not immediately overhead, the protection that a child's school desk provided might have been better than nothing.
Still and all, it always felt strange, doing those drills. And it always felt ever so much better to come out from under the desk and get back to normal learning. Don't ever knock normal. Normal is good for the soul. We have room to dream and learn when things are normal. Hooray for normal!
Things were happening at Blawnox Steel as far as my father was concerned. They were contacted by Rohr Aircraft, way out west out in Chula Vista, California. Rohr had received a big contract to build what would be the very first satellite dish in the world. At Goldstone, California. They are still there; Google it and see what my dad helped to design. Because Rohr needed some design engineers to work on the project. Rohr contacted the head of Blawnox, and said, "Can we hire some of your people to come out to California and design these antennas?" It was all done above board.
There were half a dozen men perhaps one or two more, all from Blawnox, who were offered the opportunity. My dad being one of them, and he accepted. So there we were, a young family of three, in the heady days of the early 1960s, when all the talk was of space, picking up stakes, moving across the country, to be part of a support industry for the aerospace program.
What that meant, for my parents and for me, was that we were leaving not only our hometown, but the place where we had lived the majority of our lives, as well as all of our close family.
It was a huge adventure! It was also a long way out there. Especially in the 1960s. Where one could fly back-and-forth, if one set aside the funds, and one didn’t mind having to stop several places along the way, usually including Chicago.
But we didn’t fly; we drove. There was much discussion: Will we take the northern route or the southern route? Thankfully the decision was made to take the southern route, because we moved in mid-February. In fact, when we departed Cheswick, there was a foot and a half or more of snow on the ground. And after our long drive out to California, we arrived in sunshine, and balmy temperatures, and because my parents had not yet found a place for us to live, we spent the first couple of weeks living in a motel, with a swimming pool. And I could not yet be registered for school, because they didn’t know where we would end up. So I spent every day swimming in the pool. If you think that I thought that I’d died and gone to heaven, you would be correct.
CHULA VISTA - WHERE WILL WE GO TODAY? (1962-1964)
So, there we were in Chula Vista. Those who are familiar with Southern California will understand that we were about as far south as you can go without getting to Mexico. At that point, Chula Vista was waking itself up from being a rather sleepy town, to being a support town for four aircraft manufacturers, and other activities. So it was growing pretty quickly. New houses were being built here there and everywhere else.
My parents did not buy a house; they rented one. A very nice ranch style house, in a great neighborhood. The house was long and low, with floor to ceiling windows in the breakfast area. Another attractive feature that one wouldn’t find in suburban Pittsburgh included a big bird of paradise bush at the end of the drive, and various citrus trees. All the backyards were fenced in that community. Our fence was one of those straw or wicker fences that roll out. Easy to put it up. I’m surprised that people don't use that type more often. And who ever lived there before us had planted morning glories, which meant the fence looked more like a hedge, most of the year, when the morning glories were in bloom. It was especially beautiful. There was also a thriving poinsettia bush. Like I said, we weren’t in Pittsburgh anymore.
My parents soon joined the Chula Vista Presbyterian Church. And they were right there at the time where the church was expanding. Indeed, they were about to build their sanctuary, a big A-frame structure, perfectly suited for 1960s. One of my early church memories is that all the children of the church school were asked if they would do a drawing that would be placed in a time capsule that was to be buried on the front terrace of the church. It will be opened at some future date. So at a future date there will be a drawing or painting signed Johnny D. They won’t have any idea who Johnny D was. Which is fine. What that reinforced in my mind that I had something to contribute to the life of the church. A good lesson to learn. Always rememer, when your child is singing in children's choir at church, or lighting the candles before worship, or taking on some rudimentary roles, that you are helping them become deacons, elders, ministers, and the like, as adults. It will come naturally to them. As the years unfolded, this turned out to be the first of three time capsules into which something of mine was placed - the later ones were at Fox Chapel Presbyterian Church and at Wekiva Presbyterian Church. But back to Chula Vista...
The church was not terribly far from our house. But even closer was the school. And that was Hilltop Elementary School. It was so close that one could walk back-and-forth. Which was no novelty since I’d been doing that in Pennsylvania. The novelties were that there were no interior hallways at the school, which was built on all one level. There were just covered walkways. And every classroom opened onto them, kind of like a larger version of a motel. There was not a cafeteria, there was a large paved area with picnic tables, and with one of those corrugated plastic translucent roofs overhead. And that’s where we had our lunches, rain or shine, throughout the year. Most of the year, it was extremely mild or extremely hot. They were however occasions when it got cold. Even in Southern California.
I don’t remember the cold so much at school as I remember it at home. The house didn’t have central heating. The house had electric registers that were placed in the walls. So that if the temperature dropped, you turned the heaters on. It was a bit like having a mini toaster oven in each room. Except it was not nearly as effective as a toaster oven. I had to stand very close, in order to feel warm at all. No doubt all those systems have been replaced in all of those houses by something much more suitable.
The house we rented was very pleasant. It was owned by a famous Hollywood actress. Thelma Ritter. I think she and other actors and actresses up and down the West Coast had invested in real estate. And this was one of them. We never saw our famous landlady, but every time I watch a movie like "All About Eve" or "Pillow Talk", I think, "There she is, our absentee landlady." A great character actress.
That was my only celebrity connection out in California. We would think, so would you, that we would be running into famous people all the time. And whether or not you asked for their autographs you say, "Oh look; there’s XY or Z." Now the question is, who was this fellow that I did run into? I was walking not far from our home one day, and at an intersection of two streets, there was a really beautiful powder blue 1962 Cadillac pulled up to the stop sign. And before it moved on, I recognized that the man who was driving the car was someone that I had seen a number of times on television. Here’s my problem. Was it Jack Benny or was it Bob Hope? I’m sure it was one of the other. And it wasn’t Bing. I suppose if I did enough research and found out what kind of car those fellows drove back in that time period, I might figure it out. Of course what made them drive all the way from Hollywood to sleepy Chula Vista is another mystery. Maybe they were looking for Thema Ritter!
At Christmas time in Pennsylvania, in those days, people put a wreath on the door, and a strand of multi color outdoor lights on the evergreens. That was it. Not so in Chula Vista. In Chula Vista they lit up every blade of grass, literally. In fact, there was a street one over from ours that was absolutely famous for everyone on it going overboard in their Christmas display. I mean, they had to have the local police direct traffic, there were so many folks that came from miles around to see what was going on. It wasn’t the first time that I experienced that sort of thing. When we had lived in Pittsburgh, along Squaw Run Road was the riding club, where people played polo, if you can believe it. And right alongside that, was a long low big ranch style house finished if I remember correctly in dressed stone. Which was the racketeers' preferred style of architecture, back then. And indeed, the man who lived there was reputed to be a racketeer of the first order. Apparently, he was a racketeer who liked Christmas. (Which sounds like a good plot for a Hallmark movie). Because when the holidays rolled around, his front yard look like a precursor to an amusement park or should I say a theme park. Every Christmassy-thing that you could think of was there on the big front lawn, from Santa's sleigh with his tiny reindeer (who were pretty big), and Rudolph, to a full-blown nativity scene complete with shimmering star and trumpet-blowing angels hovering somewhere in the air. Local police were needed to direct traffic there, like in the neighborhood in Chula Vista.
While in Chula Vista, I became a Cub Scout. Wearing those blue uniforms with the gold accents, that one could buy on a local department store. I think it was Penny’s, but maybe it was Sears. They had a whole section that was devoted to scouting. I think now you probably have to order whatever you order online and that’s it. I haven’t seen a scouting department in a store in a long time. But I digress. Of course it was the usual. With dens to which we'd go. And meeting every week. And working through a prescribed order of things when needed to know if one were eventually going to become a Boy Scout. There were also some trips involved when you were a Cub Scout. The stand outs were the trip to the fire hall, and the trip to the Mission San Diego de Acala, with a side trip to Ramona‘s Marriage Place. Huh? "Isn’t 'Ramona' fiction?" someone will ask, if they know about it all. Yes Helen Hunt Jackson set her 1920s novel in old San Diego. I was kind of a Romeo and Juliet story, between a Native American young lady and her Spanish settler swain. I haven’t read it in forever, so I don’t know whether it’s at all acceptable reading now, but it was very romantic then. it included this particular ancient house in the oldest part of San Diego. Which people called Ramona‘s Marriage Place. It’s still a tourist attraction, still open for tours, although they have named it so that it is no longer pretending to be a place where the fictional Ramona got married. Even though it might be the place where the real person who inspired Ramona actually did get married! Confused? Let it go.
It was the year in school when we studied all of the Missions that were built in California. Of course because that’s how European settlement happened in California. The Missions are beautiful. And mission life was interesting. And most of the missions are still around and can be visited today. The only one that I got to see when we lived in California I believe is the one in San Diego. Which was the first mission by Father Serra; thereafter he founded a string of missions up and down the coast all the way to San Francisco. I’ve been fascinated with missions ever since. And later on, Judy and I visited some of them. Later, I will say more about that.
Another standout memory from that time, for me, is what my dad would say on Saturday mornings. "Where are we going today?" he would ask. And there we were, the three of us, with unlimited options ahead of us: we can go to the beach, we can go to the mountains, we can go to an interesting restaurant, we can take a drive here, there, or somewhere else. We could, in other words, explore our new region. And we would do that either on Saturday afternoon, or after church on Sunday. Saturday morning was always haircut time. I don’t think we missed one. No one wore their hair long in those days, unless one played the cello or the violin. So early on Saturday morning, we would go get a haircut. And then we would either go to the library, or to the comic book store. And both of them involved reading something I hadn’t read before. I wish I had those comic books, now! Every time I watch a segment on Antiques Roadshow that shows comic books that are worth a fortune, I think with the gnashing of teeth, "I had that!" (Sigh). Well that’s the reason they’re worth so much, I threw mine away. At the library, I worked my way through Grimm's fairytales and every other similar folktale book that I could find. And they’re good stories. Although most of them are pretty violent. Even Disney’s watered-down versions of so many of them are still pretty violent. And why pray tell does the female antagonist in every Disney feature a gorgeous raven haired beauty that looks like the "wavishing Kay Fwancis" or the similarly lovely Gail Patrick? One or the other of them must have offended poor old Walt at some plush Hollywood party or other, and now it was payback time in a feature length cartoon. There are many paths to immortality, it seems; one of them, being in a Disney film.
I also read everything I could get my hands on about Greek and Roman gods and goddesses; I knew all of the intricacies of their somewhat unsavory relationships, and what each one was in charge of. I would have felt right at home at the Acropolis in 300 B.C. Just be sure to pack a lunch. And I had already begun, when we were in Pennsylvania learning about dinosaurs. And astronauts. Those were my principal interest as far as reading was concerned in those elementary school age days. In California, I became a rock hound. Somewhere or other my rudimentary collection, right down to the geodes, is packed away. Good luck finding it!
So, when we answered together the question where would we go that day, we went to a number really great places. We went to the Silver Strand. Which in those days one got to by driving around the bottom of San Diego Bay. There was no bridge over to Coronado at that time. We would spend the day at the beach. Sometimes it was at the Silver Strand. But even better, was when we decided to go to the beach in Coronado. That was the beach that was just north of the big Hotel Del Coronado. There was a row of palm trees that went from the street almost into the water. And it was the absolute best place to find tiny perfect seashells. The hotel itself with its red roofs and towers, was fascinating to look at. In fact, in the car one day driving away from the beach I said to my parents, "I’d like to be a person that thinks up buildings like that". And one of them said, "That’s called an architect." So there I was, in third grade or fourth, and I made up my mind I’m going to be an architect. I never really thought a whole lot about anything else after that, until God had a different idea, many years later.
Also, over on Coronado Island, my parents had a favorite restaurant, And of course I would get to go with them. They did go out by themselves a fair amount, but I was an easy person to have along, I didn’t make any fusses, I enjoyed what was going on. This restaurant had what I would call a mission style old Southern California theme: the tile floors, fountain with arch above it in which a flamenco dancer reminiscent of Dolores Del Rio was depicted in a tile mosaic. I’m sure there were big pottery vessels that had potted plants in there, it had an indoor patio look about it, all very attractive. It was in that restaurant, so they claimed and so the story went that’s Caesar Salad was invented. So of course, Caesar Salad was one of the things that had to be ordered. Caesar Salad was said to have been invented out of necessity for a late night crowd of Navy pilots - and in fact was also called Aviator's Salad. Wallis Warfield, when she was Mrs. Win Spencer, stationed in Coronado, learned to make it, and it became a favorite of her third husband, the Duke of Windsor. So, when you have a Cesar Salad, you are in awfully posh company.
Did I mention I was a very picky eater as a child? Another place that my parents loved to go on Sunday afternoons for lunch was the Anthony’s Star of the Sea. There were several, and they liked them all. The original was down on the waterfront near Point Loma. It was probably the least elegant of the places. There was one out in La Mesa that was built rather daringly cantilevered over a very large fish pond, stocked with fish and ducks. The first time we went there, a seafood restaurant, here was this very unadventurous eater of an elementary school boy. And whoever was along with us said, "Why don't you order tuna fish, it’s like chicken." So while everyone else got whatever - abalone, Sea-bass, lobster, who knows what they were ordering - I had a tuna fish salad sandwich. And it was very good indeed. And that became my usual order whenever we went to Anthony's. And I’m sure there were thousands of children just like me, who ordered exactly the same meal, in those days.
Speaking of ordering "the usual". I’ve always thought it would be nice if one were a restaurant owner, to have as an item on the menu something that’s called “The Usual“ so when customers came in, whether they were regulars, or there for the first time, they could say to the server. "I’ll have The Usual!" What fun!
We also went to the world-famous San Diego Zoo. At that time it was probably the best zoo in the world. And it continues to be one of the best in the world. It was there that we first saw that marvelous display of flamingos in the main entrance, which SeaWorld has since emulated, in Orlando at their theme park. So whenever in later years I’ve gone to SeaWorld (which is often), it takes me back to my San Diego days. I like it when such enjoyable things resonate from the past.
We made several trips up into the mountains, to Lake Arrowhead and Big Bear Lake. Not for extended periods, but enough that we got to enjoy the beautiful mountain scenery there. We also made several trips out to Palm Springs with our dear friends the Tashi‘s, Mr. Tashi was part of that contingent that worked for Blawnox and then for Rohr Aircraft. And they and my parents were good friends. They had two children, who were somewhat my age. So we made a congenial group. The moms were very glamorous and their beach wear and their big white rimmed sunglasses. I didn’t think of it then, because I wouldn’t have known to think of it, but Mrs. Tashi look very much like Sophia Loren, with her big white rimmed sunglasses glasses on. You can’t get more glamorous than that in the 1960s, unless you’re Jackie Kennedy. Mom of course always looked a lot like Elizabeth Taylor. So even though we weren’t Who’s Who, we might’ve been! I believe that those trips were at Christmas time, or New Year’s. But they may have been at Thanksgiving. When you’re far from family, you find alternative ways of celebrating holidays that would’ve been spent with the grandparents way back East.
Yes, you’re wondering, John, How often did you go to Disneyland? The answer is twice. Both times I had an absolutely marvelous time as a kid. And one of those two times, at the end of the day, we were walking along Main Street on our way to the gate, and my parents decided to go into one of the gift shops. While we were there, they pointed out a display of cells from Disney cartoons. These were not made for the tourist trade cells, these were actual cells used in actual Disney animated features. And they said, "John if there’s something there you like why don’t you pick it out as a present." I like Mickey Mouse as much as the next person, and his sidekick Minnie. But even better is Donald Duck, and Daisy! And there was a cell from one of their cartoons, where Donald and Daisy are sitting on one of those Victorian settees, that have the dip in the middle. It somehow it captured my imagination. And I said, "I’d like that one". And it still hangs on the wall of our home, now.
The other place I was dying to go and never got was Hollywood. Specifically Grauman's Chinese Theater, where all the hand prints and foot prints of the stars are. I had to put a bookmark in that for later.
Now, at that time I could probably name on two hands the number of movie stars there were. But we were getting to the point where I was actually going to grown-up movies as they say. My very first one that I can think of was "The Music Man". With Shirley Jones and Robert Preston. I can remember especially the scene on the train with all the traveling salesman. My dad said, "That’s a male train!" He liked making jokes and puns, long before they were called "Dad Jokes", and I actually got that one.
I probably should’ve talked about this before but I’ll talk about Shirley Jones, here. A native Pittsburgher. Miss Pittsburgh of 1949! I have that fact ingrained in my mind because my mom was a runner up in the very same pageant. I like to think about it this way, which I said to her, "Mom if you had won, I’d be a member of the Partridge Family!" We never got to Hollywood. Not in the years that we lived out there in California.
It was always a big deal for Southern Californians to go out to the desert when the cactus was in bloom. Hop in the car. Fill up that canteen. So, we went. And the desert was jam packed with people coming to see those desert flowers. And there were trails in and trails out. And there we went. And of course it was dry. Of course, it was hot. I can’t say that it was the best surroundings in which to enjoy wildflowers. Especially when I reached down and picked up a stick. But it was a mistake. It was a dry piece of cactus. Oh my, those needles were sharp.
As idyllic as Southern California was and is, it did not last.
Two things happened to bring about my parents return to Pittsburgh from California. It certainly wasn’t the weather. It certainly wasn’t the beauty of the scenery. It certainly wasn’t all these other wonderful things that we got to do while we were out there. But one was homesickness, that was my mom primarily. She really missed her family. And we only had a very few visits from them. It was expensive. It is a long way out there. The other was that my dad was developing some health issues. And he truly felt if anything should happen to him, it would be much better for my mom and for me if we were near family, than if we weren’t. Talk about premonition.
So we left California behind us. It was time of adventure. I’ve often said since that if I had the money and all my family were there, that is where I'd live. Maybe not in San Diego. I do think the most perfect place in all the West Coast is Montecito. Pasadena and Carmel are also very nice. (Don't I have expensive tastes!!) But that’s not going to happen. So I’m glad for the time that we had there. And the way it was a precursor for how most people live now; since what started out as California casual has become the norm in every state of the USA.
Before I close on this matter I should probably talk again about Hilltop School, because I meant to say that we’d been there about a year and six months, it was November 1963, when the world was shaken by the tragic assassination of our President John F. Kennedy in Dallas. I remember it. I remember that we were called out of our classrooms - every class - to that outdoor cafeteria area, where we were given the dreadful news, and then told that we should go home that school was closed for the rest of the day. The teachers were all in tears. As I said before I walked to school. So there I was at some point in the middle of the day, walking home. You just couldn’t do that today. There would be nobody home to greet an elementary student. And there’s precious few elementary students who walk. When I got home, my mother was watching the television, and I believe she had been ironing. In my mind's eye, there's a picture of the ironing board up in front of the TV. And then came those next few terrible days of the funeral, Mrs. Kennedy's quiet resolve and her small children. So dignified and so sad. The hearts of the world went out to them, but how can even that kind of empathy assuage such grief.
I can remember exactly where I was when it happened. I think people always say that. There is no other world event prior to that which stands out with such intensity, for me. There are some that came after, and I probably will talk about them in future chapters. Man on the mood. 9-11. January 6. Lots of other people remember where they were, in those times. So being a witness to history is something to take note of. But I wouldn’t presume to speak with authority. Just with feeling.
CHESWICK AGAIN – (1964)
We returned to Cheswick, as I say, because my father had a heart condition, my mother was very homesick, and the combination made it seem prudent that they not be living thousands of miles away from the family. They were right, sad to say. When we moved back, we rented an apartment on the second floor of the Borland‘s home on Linden Avenue. Such lovely people.
My dad took his old job back at Blawnox Steel. And we more or less settled into the life that we left behind several years before. But there was one major difference. My dad was not getting better; he was getting worse.
I’ve always thought it’s a shame that he lived in that time. Rather than now, because there have been so many advances in cardiac health care. I also think that the doctors in California were a tad more advanced than the doctors in Pittsburgh, at least the ones that they chose to see. I say that in all sincerity. The GP in Springdale who was the family doctor, I think probably never should’ve been one. His subsequent behavior proved it.
You’ll remember that I was fascinated by cars. My dad‘s cousin Jim Fucci worked at Jerome Cadillac in New Kensington. Which meant that he saw the new models a week or two before they were unveiled to the general public. Sometime in September, late in the month, he invited us to go see the new 1965 Cadillacs. Those of you that follow vintage cars know that Cadillac made a major change between 1964 1965 in the style of their car, principally the front grille, which went from horizontal to vertical headlights. Seeing that car was a revelation. It was also one of the last things I got to do with my dad. Because when we went to Jerome, we had to go over to the warehouse building. Which is a vertical building. And the new cars were housed hidden on an upper level. I can’t say if it was one flight or two flights up. But either way, it was too many flights up for my dad. He almost couldn’t make it up the stairs. And he was completely winded. Had to walk very slowly. He had to stop frequently. For someone who’s been very active, doing a lot of golfing, it was obvious that something was terribly wrong. Was it the same day, was it a weekend later? I seem to think it was the same day later in the day, he was so uncomfortable. That my mom insisted that he to go to the hospital. He was reluctant to go. In the time he came from, to his family, the words, you’re going to the hospital sounded very ominous.
Eventually he did go. It was too late.
He never made it home. And in those days, the usual thing was for children who could manage the rudiments of taking care of themselves to be at home by themselves. It may sound irresponsible of parents. At that time it was common practice. I truly was as safe as could be in that little apartment. And then my mother‘s parents showed up. And my grandfather said, "Let’s go for a walk". OK I like going for a walk; so we went for a walk. And we walked up the hill on Linden Avenue, and we were about a block away from home, and it was there that he told me that my father had died.
I can’t imagine what it must’ve been like for my grandfather, in the throes of grief himself, to have the awful task of telling a 10-year-old boy that his father died. I do think it was very wise of him to take me for that walk. Rather than telling me that inside the four walls of my own home. I can still remember precisely where we were. And I’ve gone past it from time to time when we lived in the Pittsburgh area again. I don’t think I’ve ever said anything to anyone in the car with me that this was the spot. But it was. It was a beautiful day, as far as the weather went. October 4. Indian Summer weather. There we were, crying together.
I wouldn’t wish this or the funeral experience that came after on anyone, ever. We were at Kuznicki's funeral home, which is still there, renamed, next to the Cheswick post office. The viewing came first. In the old fashioned way of doing things. I was not given a bit of information on what was going to happen. I think everyone was so wracked with grief. Who would have thought that a 10-year-old boy would have any concept of what he would see at the viewing: his father lying in a casket open for everyone to view, even though he was dead.
Why in the world it didn’t cross anyone’s mind to prepare me, I don’t know. But let me assure you that any of the times as a minister that I have had a responsibility of helping families through this this terrible time in their lives, I have said to them, please prepare your children for what is going to happen. They’re going to be able to cope with it better, if they know what’s coming. Even if it is an unhappy experience, children are much more able to cope, when they know what’s happening.
I didn’t know what was happening
And so, that evening, they took me the funeral home. What did I do? I lost it completely. I screamed and cried; I was inconsolable. So much so, that somebody had to take me out to the parking lot. And so much so, that all of the adults on both sides of the family decided that I should not go to the funeral, because I did such a poor job at the viewing. Hello? I would have done better if they'd prepared me. Absolutely.
I’m so grateful for the way we do end-of-life now, as opposed to then. I think the whole concept of an open casket visitation is ghoulish and gruesome. Who in their right mind wants people, acquaintances, neighbors, as well as family members, traipsing by an open casket and looking at them, and seeing their dead bodies, and saying. "Oh, he or she looks so peaceful." When in fact, he or she doesn’t even look like himself or herself, no matter how clever the hairdresser and makeup artist may be. No matter what a wonderful job the people at the mortuary may do. I’m taking nothing away from them, I know it’s a calling. But really, unless one is Vladimir Lenin, there’s no reason for one’s body to be displayed after death. Absolutely none. And even then, it’s probably not a good idea.
How much better now, that we let grieving happen as it should. We have, as a best practice, memorial services in place of funerals. We let the family and friends gather, without the corpse of the person who has died before them. After all, no one needs to be reminded that this person is gone. It serves no therapeutic effect to look upon a dead body. If anyone ever were to ask my advice on the matter (sometimes they have in my role as a minister), I would encourage them without hesitation to do a memorial service, not a viewing type funeral.
And so I missed my father‘s funeral. I missed the trip to the cemetery, and his coffin's placement there. They are other family members buried there, on top of the hill above Acmetonia. The strange thing is I have a picture in my mind of all of it happening. Maybe I didn’t go to the funeral but I went to the committal?
Mom made the choice of wearing the outfit that my dad like the best that he bought for her. It was not at all traditional funeral dress. It was a beautiful white suit that he bought for her in California, with a white mint collar. She looked absolutely stunning in it. It was definitely of that Jackie Kennedy era type of dress. With the three-quarter sleeves, the straight skirt, a nicely tailored jacket. in white. Her parents were fine with it. But I think to this day, that my dad‘s family is still a bit taken aback, they with their traditional old world views of things.
I give my mom a lot of credit for doing what she knew was right. Even though she was overcome by grief. And she was overcome by one thing more. And that was the medication that Doctor Couch prescribed because she was grieving.
He prescribed all kinds of medication that basically made her a walking zombie. It was designed so the grief wouldn’t be as deep, the pain will be lessened. So the theory went. I have no idea just what they were putting into her in the way of prescription drugs. But she wasn’t herself. Please, medical people, allow people in shock to be shocked and alarmed - to live their genuine emotions. Grieving is a part of life. And tears are part of dealing with. In 1964, no one understood that. It was the days before wonderful Dr. Elizabeth Kubler Ross. We didn’t know about stages of grief. But you can bet that Doctor Couch had a pharmaceutical trick up his sleeve. It would have devastating effects for months to come.
It was apparent that Mom wasn’t able to do daily life on her own. She was just too numbed by the prescribed drugs. My aunt and uncle lived in Scottsdale, PA, where my uncle was pastor of a church; they took her in. To give her support. Which is a very wonderful.
But dear reader can you believe it that they didn’t take me in? I’m not making this up. It was decided that the best thing for John Allan would be not to be disrupted from his routine. What? What is going to disrupt you from routine more than being 10 years old and having your father die, and your mother incapable of getting through a day unassisted? But that was the way the reasoning went. And so my mother went off to Scottdale, an hour or so away. I stayed at the apartment.
Yes, at the apartment, all by myself. The wonderful Borlands were downstairs; I was to take meals with them. And I was to go to school, as if nothing had happened. You can imagine this didn’t last long before other arrangements needed to be made. I was not thriving on my own. My mother was not thriving in Scottdale. I kind of doubt anyone would, even under the happiest of circumstances. And my mother‘s parents who had in the intervening years, when we were in California, moved to Coatesville, Pennsylvania, rightly decided that we should both come and live with them. I can remember my grandmother saying later on about this time, "All Patty needs is love and time." Now, there were words of wisdom. That’s exactly what she needed. And exactly what we needed.
I just need to say, in the list of people that I wish had never crossed my path, Doctor Couch is among the top 10. And always will be. If you are one of his family members, you’ve probably heard the same thing from any number of other people, who had the unhappy history of being one of his unfortunate patients. And I am putting it diplomatically. So let us leave him, and Cheswick behind.
COATESVILLE – (1965-1967)
And so we moved to Coatesville, Pennsylvania. Located between Philadelphia and Lancaster. It’s basically a former steel town, built because Lukins Steel was once there. It’s situated in a valley. Oul US Route 30, which is the main street, runs roughly east to west. At the far west end the steel plant was located. On the far east end were streets of older homes, dating from the 1920s and 1930s up through the 1950s. Now when I say this I’m talking about on the south side of the main street, Route 30. That’s what I had been through most of its time of development divided almost equally between white Coatesville to the south of Main Street and black Coatesville to the north of Main Street. We moved there in the midst of desegregation.
Interestingly, prior to that time, there were schools that were placed roughly across Main Street from each other, in a so called separate but equal kind of an arrangement. So that the children north of Main Street went to one. And the children south of Main Street went to the other. The school district decided the best way to accomplish integration was to send all the younger children to the elementary school south of Main Street, and all the older children to the elementary school north of Main Street. There was one middle school. And one high school.
To say that this was in the midst of growing pains for Coatesville school district would be a huge understatement. Although they lived only a short distance from each other, it was as if they lived in different countries, as far as their awareness of each other prior to this time. Just as one has immersion experiences when one goes to live in a foreign country, it was pretty much an immersion experience to attend elementary school in those days, both for the black students and for the white students.
One thing that I learned, was that it’s good to have an opportunity to get to know people that you would not have gotten to know otherwise. Not only to know them, but to be comfortable with them, and see them as friends. This could’ve happened at a younger age, but didn’t. But I’m glad that it happened before I got much older. It was one of those experiences that helps me understand better, and empathize more.
Of course, that broadening of the heart and mind had begun already, because of the several moves that I’d made. Where, rather than growing up in the same community all my life, I had to learn how to relate to new people, and they to me. I don’t think it’s a bad thing. And in that era, it certainly wasn’t unusual because it was the time when people were moved everywhere if they were part of a larger corporation. In later years, I reflected upon my friends who had grown up in the same community, and by this, I mean from nursery school on into adulthood. Can you have the same friends in their 60s and 70s as you had when you were in nursery school? What a cozy and enjoyable experience that was, I’m sure. Even though it was quite unlike my own.
What else can we say about Coatesville? Let’s just say that people weren’t knocking down the doors to move there. But it was a somewhat stable community. In addition to the school, my life centered around the neighborhood and the church. In the neighborhood they were a few friends that I saw regularly. Bob and Sandy Zimmerman, especially. It was the age of these really small plastic figures of Disney characters called Disneykins. And we set up elaborate configurations of miniature communities that were peopled by these Disneykins. They didn’t play the role that they played in the Disney animated features, they took on new roles of their own. So even though one might have an Alice in Wonderland figurine, she was playing the part of whatever the occasion called for. Kind of like a stock company in Hollywood. The same as with every other from Donald Duck, to Cruella Deville. I suppose it was not unlike elaborate story themed video games of today. But it required only a few feet of tabletop and a few very inexpensive trinkets. We built the "set" for our stories out of those pre plastic Lego type bricks. We devised scenarios worthy of Dickens or Trollope.
A lively imagination was required to create and then to act out these situations. Keep in mind it was long before the days of complicated video games. But I think some of the same skills were brought to use. I sometimes think that I probably should’ve ended up writing film scripts, or directing films, because the skills that we used would have translated quite well to that sort of vocation. But of course it was not to be.
One of the joys of living in Coatesville was that we weren’t terribly far from Longwood Gardens, then and now, one of the premier gardens open to the public in the United States or anywhere else. A product of the DuPont family, Longwood is stunningly beautiful in every season. In those days when I was in later elementary school, it was entirely free and open to the public, thanks to the generosity of the founders. And, then as now, there was an ever-changing display of magnificent flowers and shrubs in the conservatory, usually built around the theme of whatever season of the year. Outdoors, the many formal and informal gardens brought a succession of blooms from early spring to late fall. So you could visit about once a month, and what you would see would be quite different from the month before or the month after. It was a great place for our little family to go on Sunday afternoons, a pleasant drive through the country, down through southern Chester County to Kennett Square. It’s the same sort of area where Andrew Wyeth and his family, and other Brandywine River School artists painted. And the same inspiration that they drew from the scenery was available to anyone who might have eyes to see it.
I don’t know what your family did to keep you entertained in the car on long drives, but one of the things that we did was counting cows. There were a lot of farms on this drive, so it was one of the drives on which we regularly counted cows. There are variations of the game but basically what happens is you strive for an accurate count of the cows that you pass by on your side of the car. Also focusing on your side of the car only, if you see a white horse it’s worth 10 cows (some say 100). Of course it is! However, sad to say, if you pass a cemetery, it wipes out however many cows you have counted, up to that point.
Anyone who’s ever driven in and out of Coatesville knows that there are cemeteries on the hills from just about any direction that you would approach. Because my grandfather loved to tease, in a good hearted way, he often would make sure that we drove into town on the way home, with a cemetery on my side of the car wiping out all my many cows, right before we were done with the drive! I remember it fondly to this day.
Between the marvelous architecture of the conservatories, the beautiful flowers, and going to Longwood Gardens month after month, it had a very positive effect upon me. It was also the first place that I ever heard a true organ recital. Now, we had organ music in church, more about that in a moment or two. But nothing like having a world class organist come in and hold forth on the magnificent pipe organ at Longwood Gardens. The room where these recitals were held was like being inside a cello or violin, paneled in rich reverberating wood. So that it sounded truly magnificent. This instilled in me a love of organ music that has continued throughout my time of ministry, and to this day. And also a preference for fine organists, not only as staff members of the church but as friends. Bill, Charlie, Larry, HIldur, Bob, Mark, how dear each of you are to me.
An organ can take worshipers to a place nothing else can. An organist who understands the nuances of congregational song can make even the most timid singers think they are Julie Andrews and Tony Bennet holding forth of a Sunday. A church thrives or not depending on the organist. More so than their pastor. I cannot say this strongly enough. Plus, how lucky are we ministers who get to hear marvelous music week in and week out, and if we are luckier still, to hear the choir and organ rehearsing before worship each Sunday. When the organ and choir present their music, then we minsters can truly worship.
So, what about the church in Coatesville? It was Presbyterian of course; that’s what our family have ever been. Now, the Presbyterian Church in Coatesville was a little bit different slice of cake than the Presbyterian Churches that we had experienced in Western Pennsylvania, which is of course the home of Presbyterianism. In Coatesville, somewhere along the way, the congregation had taken a turn for the narrow. I don’t know what else to say about it. Maybe one example is that which was made by one of the leading members of the congregation who taught adult Bible study. Who pronounced one particular day, "There’s no room for sinners in this church." Hello?
Well, even then, the comment was ludicrous.
If you know anything about the basics of Christianity, especially what the apostle Paul has to say about all have sinned and fall short of the glory of God. And it was amusing to think that if this church truly did have no room for sinners, it would certainly have to shut its doors, immediately, if not sooner. Actually, that’s pretty much what happened as time went on. The narrow rigidness of thinking proved unattractive both to those who had already become members, and those who decided that such a viewpoint really wasn’t very warm and welcoming.
It in those days, some other things happened that were, to say the least interesting. The church choir seemed to be rather large; I never really stopped and counted. And they produced what I would call ambitious anthems. Why were they ambitious? Well, they were mostly well-known and beloved old chestnuts, as in church music that was written before 1920. The choir director's name was Bob McFalls, and perhaps the best thing for you to know about Bob was that he was completely deaf.
I know right? I’m sure it’s possible, but this was certainly the only time in my life to run across someone who was in charge of the music program anywhere, who couldn’t hear it. I mean how do you know where the bases are coming in late? How do you know where the sopranos are off key? To this day, I don’t know the answer to that.
To add to the levity, Bob was also an exuberantly enthusiastic soloist. Now you realize that most of the time he would be standing with his back to the congregation directing. But if he had chosen for himself a showy solo baritone part, when he got to that part, he would promptly wheel around there on the director's podium and hold forth musically. It was dramatic, to say the least. Or maybe to say the most. If I said that he would put you in mind of Bert Parks at the Miss American Pageant, you get some idea of the wall of sound he produced. No one slept in church when Bob was singing.
There was a big sign outside the church, hung from the corner tower vertically, in neon. Which doesn’t exactly sound Presbyterian to me, even now, and certainly not in those days. And the sign declared: "Jesus Saves!" I suspect the people that have never been in the church, but had made their way back-and-forth on the main drag, knew exactly where the church was because of that particular sign. Which proclaimed that pithy truth 24-7. It was a bold bit of marketing but it does sort of suggest again that this was a congregation that certainly wasn’t on the moderate or liberal end of the theological spectrum. The fact is that in this way and many others it felt more like a Baptist church, I don’t mean American Baptist, I mean Southern Baptist.
For a while, there was someone who sat not far away from us, across the aisle, who came by himself, and left by himself. Yes, we knew he was there, because he was, unlike most Presbyterians, someone who responded with loud enthusiasm to what the minister Dr. C. Hans Evans had to say from the pulpit. So there Dr. Evans would be, getting up a good head of steam in his message, and from across the aisle came a loud, "Amen! Ain't it the truth!" Shades of Bert Lahr. This happened a dozen times more during the course of the sermon. "Amen! Aint it the truth!" Somebody got to know him well enough to know this man’s first name was John, because he was referred to by one and all as "Amen John".
There was another interesting solo worshiper who always showed up in what I can only assume was an imitation leopard coat. If it was real, I pity the poor leopard. I suppose you could say she was the church's very own Norma Desmond. But in a congregation of no sinners, and pretty staid people all around, any woman in a droopy leopard coat would naturally stand out.
For young people my age, there wasn’t just Sunday school in the morning, on Sunday evenings there was a thing called Christian Endeavor. Christian Endeavor (CE for short) was a nationwide movement within churches, probably a bit conservative. And like youth gatherings all over the world, when we got together, we would sing songs, learn a lesson, and have fellowship. There was a whole set of songs in the Christian Endeavor hymnbook that never appeared in the trusty old 1933 Presbyterian hymnal upstairs. Most of them were hymns that were made popular in the 1870s through 1900, and the best of them were written by people like Fanny Crosby. There were a lot of allusions to rescuing the perishing, about lives being like ships that are floundering on the rocks, light houses as beacons of hope. There were a lot of motivational sentiments about being able to follow Jesus and die with him. I don’t think too many of these ever made it into the rank-and-file hymnals of denominations. But lots of people sang and knew them by heart, not just because of Christian Endeavor, but they were kind of out there in conservative evangelical Christian subculture. It expanded my hymn repertoire considerably. Good, bad, or indifferent.
I suppose here’s a good place to talk about the weather. I already mentioned that winter in Pittsburgh occasionally got so much snow that I could actually make tunnels under the snow. I don’t know if they would ever get snows like that anymore in western Pennsylvania. But it seemed in the 50s and 60s that we had very deep snowfalls both there, and then again when we lived in Coatesville.
I remember one year when we were expecting my aunt and uncle, and my great aunt, for a holiday gathering. I think it was Christmas. But it may have been Thanksgiving. We had a major snowfall the night before. And they were coming, and they were going to need a place to park their cars in front of my grandparents' home. I really don’t know how many hours I spent out there shoveling that extremely deep snow, except it certainly was three or four. In order to make room for two very large automobiles at the curb. And of course with the added inconvenience of the snow plow coming by several times and pushing snow from the street back into the place that I had shoveled.
Anytime I hear someone say how much they love snow, I know in my heart of hearts that they never in their life have had to shovel out parking spaces that would fit a Chrysler New Yorker and a Chevy Impala of the 1960s land yacht variety. They probably have a snow removal service where they live.
Later on, when we lived in Pittsburgh again, and had children of our own, we had two years in a row where we took the kids to Disney World in Florida, and each time we invited one set of grandparents to go with us. On the trip on which my parents accompanied us, which was in February, we had a wonderful week in Florida, but then we had to drive home. The weather was going rapidly downhill. Around Charlotte, North Carolina, where the roads are congested with amazingly un-Southern hospital type snarly drivers even in sunny times, they were terribly icy. So much so, that I was afraid I was going to lose my entire family in the next skid. So even though we had not gotten as far as we intended to drive that day, I said I was going to get off the highway and find us a motel. Everyone else on the interstate had the same idea. However we were able to find one motel room. When we pulled into the parking space, the car that was next to ours was one of my church members from Fox Chapel Presbyterian. We couldn’t have managed to meet like that in the middle of North Carolina having planned it. But we were able to stay warm and toasty all night long, while we watched the television reports about how bad it was out there. I bet the people who say they love snow have never had a life threatening version of it like that one.
A year or so before that, there was a church over in Columbus, Ohio, that was quite interested in me. And Judy and I decided that we would on a Saturday drive over to take a look at it from the outside, to get a sense of the church itself and its surrounding neighborhood. You realize this is before the days of Google maps. What a joy that has been. To be able to log on to a location and then basically drive up and down the street and around the corner and see just what's what. We had to do it in person. We went over and had a very pleasant drive. We checked out the church. And then as we started back Judy suggested that perhaps the kids, who were quite small then (Anne was just walking), might need some time out of the car to let off some steam. So we went to a local mall, and let them do that. When we left the mall, we discovered that it snowed about 4 inches while we were inside. Completely unexpected. And when we started our drive back to Pittsburgh, there were true blizzard conditions. It was not safe to try to get anywhere. Indeed we had to follow the tail lights of a tractor-trailer off the street and into a convenience station. And from there we could see the lights of a nearby motel. So we went there and checked in. And then it was that I had to call my colleague and let him know I would not be there the next day for worship. And why. This who say they love snow, have never been stranded in Columbus Ohio on a wintery Saturday night.
Growing up in Pennsylvania, and having cold and harsh and snowy winters, and then living in South Bend and having more of the same, it was just a fact of life. But then we moved to Florida and for 23 years didn’t have to worry about it at all. I can remember the first Christmas that we were in Florida, on Christmas Eve day, the kids and I were splashing about in our backyard pool, and I said, "You know, your friends up north are wearing coats and mittens and hats and boots right now." And they thought I was teasing. Until I reminded them of what winter is like up north.
In the 2 1/2 years that we were back in Pittsburgh serving at Shadyside Presbyterian Church, we had some snow days. There were no really deep snows in that time. However there were slippery roads. One day in particular when I was trying to get home, all the roads in the East End had developed a layer of ice, on top of which was white powdery snow. Just the worst combination ever. I was very relieved to be able to get home that day. Anyone who has tried to drive on such roads had better not tell me that they love snow. The liars!
But, back to Coatesville.
I’m sure it wasn’t easy for my mom to be a young widow with a son still in elementary school and about to be in middle school. A very loving and caring person, it was only natural that after her time of deep grief, and she got herself back on her feet again, she would try new things. The first thing that she did it was a great success at it was teaching at the Upland Country Day School. Which was located in southern Chester County not terribly far from Longwood. One approached by a winding road that led long beautiful Doe Run. I almost don’t want to mention that, because that’s one of the most beautiful places in the United States. One crosses a covered bridge to get there, as well, of which Pennsylvania has quite a number. Upland was the place where very well-to-do people sent their children, a private school of the first order. The DuPont people, the King Ranch people, and others like that sent their children there to school.
If you were a teacher there, your child could attend. Either for a very reduced rate, or perhaps as part of your benefits; at any rate, the offer was made to my mother, she my grandparents talked it over and decided they would ask me whether I wanted to go there, rather than the public schools in Coatesville. I’m sure from their perspective it sounded like a fabulous idea, and it probably was. I didn’t think it was a great idea. I said I really didn’t want to go to school in a place where people of modest means were in the thin minority. Public school was fine with me. Even though I understood that it was a great place for education, that my mom was well thought of there. And there were even some very cute girls! Sometimes you wonder if you had taken in the other path, what might’ve happened. But even so, I think that my judgment was pretty sound where that was concerned, for me, at that time. It was a knid and lovely offer, nonetheless. Thanks Upland!
As mom more and more got back on her feet, we moved down the street from my grandparents, into our own apartment. And mom was dating again, in a cautious way. The first person she dated was the son of one of the leading families in town. This was a widowed mother and adult son who lived together situation, high on the hill north of town. There’s a street that had maybe a dozen houses, all of them expensive showy places, that overlooked the people down in the valley so low.
This fellow had never married. And he a was good looking enough person. But here’s the weird thing that I remember about him. We were at the pool, I assume it was the community swimming pool that we belonged to in Wagontown. He was there with my mother and me. He thought he was very clever to show me how he could pick clover with his toes while lying on the blanket there in the lawn beside the pool. Why?. As a kid it just seemed extremely weird. And it still does.
I think the reason that they didn’t continue to date had nothing to do with picking clover with one’s toes, however. I think it had everything to do with the man’s mother. Who as many mothers in these kinds of circumstances do, pretty much made up her mind that no woman was ever going to be good enough for her son. Which was a lucky break for my mother. And for me. Because I get the impression that I was halfway off to boarding school, if by some chance they did manage to get together and get married. I don’t know why I have echoes of that memory. I might be wrong. But I don’t think so. And whether he went on happily picking clover with his toes the rest of his life or not, I cannot say, and do not care.
On a much happier note, my mom got to know another single mother with a son about my age there in the Coatesville church. And that was Betty Clay and her son Scotty. And Scotty and I became fast friends. Just as Mom and Betty became dearest of friends. We would sometimes do things the four of us together. Like the time we took the bus trip to see the World’s Fair in New York City. Which was memorable not only for the fair itself but because the bus broke down on the way home and it was beastly hot, I think the only thing that saved us was that Betty had these newfangled things in her purse, that you could tear open and you had a moist towelette, as they say. It really was new then. And what a godsend.
Now, Betty and Scotty live with Betty‘s mother whose name was Miss Harlan. Yes yes. Because Betty's birth parents had died in the influenza pandemic of 1918 and 1920. Miss Harlan was a nurse volunteer at the Coatesville hospital during the epidemic and here was this little girl, really an infant, without another soul in the world. And Miss Harlan scooped her up took her home, adopted her and made her her own. Happy result. Miss Harlan was the daughter of Dr. Harlan, very prominent figure in Coatesville and beyond. He was long gone of course by the time we lived there. But nothing in the house had changed. If I were to tell you that except for the cheerful occupants, the house would’ve been easily home to the Addams family, you understand it was a big Victorian house. Dark in aspect, surrounded by trees outside, which made it hard for passersby to see. Heavily draped inside. But if you got inside, for someone interested in architecture even then, what wonders awaited. It was one of those double parlor houses with the huge sliding pocket doors between. It was one of those houses that had both a formal dining room, and a family dining room that was called the breakfast room. It had a rather grand main staircase. But hidden in the paneling in the dining room, behind a door operated on a push latch, was another set of stairs by which the servants could come and go, and not disturb the household's serenity by using the main stairway. Hanging in the breakfast room, amid all the other interesting works of art, most of which were of the Barbizon school type, was a framed invitation to tea at the White House issued by Mrs. Benjamin Harrison, to Miss Harlan‘s mother. Apparently, they were friends.
I can remember one of the real delights of the house in addition to the secret staircase was that someone somewhere along the line had had bought toy blocks for one of the children of the household, probably Miss Harlan when she was a wee bit of a lass. These were not the standard wooden blocks that were still around at that time. Certainly not Legos or anything as newfangled, made out of plastic. These were stone blocks. They came in shapes that lent themselves to the imagination for building. In fact many of the same shapes as Legos, but without the bumps; so that you had to put them together like you were building a dry stone wall up in New England. And there were columns, and there were arches, and there were pediments. And they all fit snugly into a wooden box with a sliding lid. If you put them away the way you should have, which is according to the illustration on both sides of the lid. One for the lower level blocks and one for the upper level of blocks. I don’t know how often we played with them, and made buildings with them, but they were a lot of fun.
Miss Harlan and Betty and Scotty were tended to by a couple; the wife was the cook and housekeeper, and her husband was the handyman and chauffeur. And they lived in an apartment above the garage. Now, also in the garage was the family car. A 1936 Buick sedan. A handsome automobile. And Betty said she loved to go shopping in it, because when she came out of the grocery store, if she had forgotten where she parked, she could see it automatically in the parking lot. This being in the days of low-slung automobiles, and zero minivans or SUVs. (In other words, in the days of bliss). Miss Harlan owned only two cars in her long life. The first was a 1918 Cadillac. And when at last it was decided that perhaps it needed to be replaced, the 1936 Buick was purchased. Which was still being driven in the mid-1960s, and kept as if it just rolled out of the show room.
It’s rather pleasant that, in the days of instant communication and the Internet, after all these years Scotty’s gotten back in touch with me. In 2021. He and his wife are now retired. Her parents live not terribly far from where we did in Pittsburgh. And we anticipated at some point that we might actually have a chance to get together when they came to visit her parents. But then we moved back to Florida before that happened.
As most of the churches, the First Presbyterian Church of Coatesville, Pennsylvania, conducted Vacation Bible School in the summer. And one particular summer, my vacation Bible school teacher was Mrs. Priscilla Coleman. Mrs. Coleman was a sweet lavender and lace elderly woman. Who had a gracious way about her. She always seem to be in flowery print dresses, the kind that Laura Ashley made fashionable, many decades later.
She apparently took a shine to me. And she took a shine to my mother. Lo and behold, she had a widowed son who lived not terribly far away, in Lancaster, Pennsylvania. And so was that my mother met my future of stepfather Ted Coleman, through the good graces of someone at church. They say if you want to meet someone, go to church. I have found it to be true. Not only in these circumstance, but in many others along the way. More of that later.
So yes, they began to date. And they fell in love. And they made plans to be married. Which they were, on St. Patrick’s Day in 1967, at the first Presbyterian Church of Coatesville, and thereafter we moved to Lancaster, where my new stepfather worked for RCA. It was good, however, that my mother's parents were in Coatesville, only half hour so drives away depending on traffic, it meant it more Sundays than not, we made the trek there, shared some meal or other, and also went to see my stepfather‘s mother, who lived a few blocks away in her very own apartment.
It’s fair to say that my mother's parents rescued us from the darkest time of our lives, after having lost my father. And so of course they became very influential in my life. Not that they hadn’t been before. But when we lived with them, on a daily basis 24-seven. They taught me a lot. Both by how they lived, and by what they had to say. At one point I was given the assignment in school to write about the most interesting person I knew. I wrote about my mother‘s father, my grandfather. He really was the most interesting person I knew. He was fascinated about many different things, and brought me into this and that. Similar to my circumstance, he grew up in a mult-generation household, in Pittsburgh. His grandmother who lived with them, had a brother who had fought in the Civil War. That was enough to instill within him a great deal of interest about the Civil War. He knew about all the members of the family tree that had something to do with fighting, and in some cases dying, during that conflict. We made more than one trip to Gettysburg. The first one was not only to see the battlefield and all of its chief elements, which help you understand the battle, but also to see the monuments. The Pennsylvania Monument is the grandest of them all, and when it was built, the decision was made to list the name of everyone who fought at Gettysburg from Pennsylvania. So whether they lived or died, their names were there. Including that great uncle of my grandfather. Who survived the war and lied till a ripe old age, dying by falling out of an apple tree he had climbed to prune. Old people should avoid climbing ladders.
Some of the other monuments listed only those who fell in battle and met their death on the spot there. If you go up to the New York Monument on Little Round Top, the names there are only of those who died. And one of our ancestor's names is there. So we saw these things. We saw the site of Picket's Charge, we visited Devil's Den. And because of his interest in the Civil War, Gettysburg became a very special place for me; this hallowed ground, as we say.
My grandfather also was a lifelong stamp collector. Stamp collecting is one of those things that you can get into relatively easy, but you can spend a lifetime and never quite manage to find those elusive stamps that are so rare and costly that almost no one but the King of England has them. He had been collecting stamps since the 1920s. It’s a great hobby for people who don’t have a lot of funds, but want the thrill of the hunt, and the joy of discovery. He taught me everything that he knew about stamp collecting, which was a lot. And certainly was an invitation to appreciate American history, to see and collect and understand the stamps that pretty much encapsulate of American history. So, in my late elementary years of the 1960s when I was introduced to stamp collecting, I also was introduced to many aspects of American life and culture, first hand. I think I would do well as a contestant on Jeopardy, as a result.
My grandparents were avid readers. They always had a book going. I like reading as well. You can remember that I was reading all about Greek myths and so forth in the days I was in California. My reading took a new turn in the Coatesville years. Somehow or other I had made available to me the complete set of the Sherlock Holmes mysteries. And I read them enthusiastically. They were a step above the Hardy Boys that I'd read previously for sure. But there’s only so many of them. When I finished reading the Sherlock Holmes mysteries, I felt very sad. There were no more mysteries to be solved.
My grandparents were both mystery readers, and they said, "Why don’t you try reading Agatha Christie?" What a great suggestion. Even though the subject is murder, which on the surface doesn’t sound anything too palatable for children to be reading. The reality is, it’s problem-solving. And personalities. And just as millions of people before and after me, I found Agatha Christie’s mysteries to be thoroughly engaging. I especially liked Miss Marple, and Hercule Poirot. But I really wish there were more books about Tuppence and Tommy, and that rather scatterbrained apple eating authoress detective Ariadne Oliver, who was a clear representation of Agatha Christie herself, in her most humorous moments.
From there, I branched out further. And the branching out sometimes was guided by things were being presented on television. Especially once Masterpiece Theatre came along. I was drawn into Dorothy L. Sayers, and into the world of the great British novelists of the Victorian era. Especially Anthony Trollop, the author who understood the human condition better than any other. Yes, I love Charles Dickens, especially because he loves every one of his characters, even the vilest villains. But Trollope was to me then and is still the ultimate interpreter a real life, without all the boring bits.
Looking back, it’s good to see where my interest in vintage movies and vintage Hollywood began. It began because of some sort of premium gift from some purchase somewhere, maybe someone can give me some indication of the actual origin. But it was a deck of cards, really only as thick as paper, on which were displayed faces of famous film stars from the silent era, up through about World War II. Almost all of them were unknown to me. I was at that time probably 11 or 12.
This was when we were living with my mother's parents in Coatesville. And I recall asking them to tell me who the various people were. Which they did; and that was how I first heard the names of people like Gloria Swanson, Norma Talmadge, Douglas Fairbanks, Mary Pickford, and many more. But once you hear about them, and you realize that they had a significant role in the past, in popular culture, your curiosity is piqued. I wanted to see their movies, if possible.
Now, remember, this was in a time before Turner Classic Movies. So that wasn’t available. Neither was the Internet. You were really at the mercy of whatever television station showed old movies, usually on their late night programming. As a treat I would get to watch various movies, if it wasn’t a school night.
Fast forward to when I went to Penn State, and film festivals were a part of what went on on a regular basis. Sometimes the films that were presented were foreign language films, that was one series of Fellini films for example, that all of our friends attended together, and then we would have dinner and talk about the film. Which was very pleasant.
That was the second time I saw "Gone With the Wind" the entire way through. But it was interesting because when it got to the very dramatic moment of the intermission, at least half the collet students in the room assumed that the movie was over, and left. And I’m thinking, "Stay! Wait! There’s more to come". They went away, assuming that Tara and the big tree and Scarlet vowing that she would never be hungry again was the end of the story.
Also at Penn State, I had the opportunity to meet one of the most interesting silent film stars, Lillian Gish. She was at that time doing a national tour giving a lecture showing scenes from her films, most memorable was her talking about her hair dangling in the icy waters of a river as she herself performed the stunt for "Way Down East". The title of this tour was "The Movies, Mr. Griffith, and Me". Once the presentation was over, people left the auditorium and made their ways back to their dorms. I was part way back, when I suddenly thought, "She’s got to come out of that theater at some point; maybe I should go back and see if I could see her". So I did. There was only a small handful of people that were waiting by the stage door. And her manager for the tour opened the door for the 12 or so of us, and said, "Miss Gish would like to have an opportunity to talk with all of you." So we were ushered into her dressing room, and sat with her as she sipped on orange juice and talked with us about moviemaking, very much off the cuff. Yes, silent film stars do actually speak.
One of the summers that I was at Penn State, the local television station showed the complete set of Fred Astaire and Ginger Rogers movies. I had figured out who the two of them were, but I had never seen these films before. And I was thoroughly entranced by them. The songs and the dancing especially, but also the very witty repartee, some of which holds up extremely well done to this day. The quality of those productions, all but one in glorious black and white, shimmered, even from the television in our home. Sheer heaven! I have been a fan of both those wonderful people ever since.
The person who fascinated the most was Gloria Swanson. I remember convincing my elders that I should be allowed to watch "Sunset Boulevard". Now at the time as I say I was probably 11 or 12. And the story really is not terribly suitable for impressionable younger people. Or at least it wasn’t then. Nowadays anything seems to go.
So anyway, I watched that movie and was entirely captivated by it. The things that Billy Wilder made happen, and the strange juxtaposition of a silent film star playing a silent film star in a tour de force manner. It really is one of the greats.
While I was at Penn State, Carol Burnett did her famous spoof of Norma Desmond, which is probably the second funniest skit that she did ever, the first being the drapery dress scene from "Gone With the Wind". Well, the send up was extremely popular, and with no less a person than Gloria Swanson herself. She enjoyed it so much that she became a guest on Carol Burnett‘s program.
I wrote to Carol Burnett and asked if there might possibly be any still photos that were taken during that show, because I was such a fan of Gloria Swanson. Some weeks transpired, when I received a large envelope in my dormitory mailbox, and in it was a signed 8 x 10 of Carol Burnett, another 8 x 10 of Gloria Swanson dancing with one of the chorus boys from the show, and a lovely letter by Carol Burnett that said keep an eye out in your mail there’s something else coming. There certainly was. Not much longer, maybe a week or two was another large envelope, inside of which was beautiful autographed photo sent to me by Gloria Swanson.
There were other famous actresses that I thought were especially compelling, that I wrote to and who likewise sent me beautiful photos, which I placed in frames and hung from the picture rail in my dorm room. Joan Crawford, Bette Davis, Lucille Ball, Ann Miller, and Dolores del Rio, the most beautiful woman ever to grace the silver screen.
Now my roommate Evan, had his own style of decorating on the other half of the room. And that was that he’d strung several fluorescent tube lights along his picture rail. Those he connected to his stereo system. And connected to his alarm clock. So that every morning when it was time for him to get up and his alarm went off, the music began to play loudly, and the lights blared in our tiny dorm room. It was like being awakened by reveille and klieg lights. I never fussed about it; I thought it was more humorous than anything else.
My framed photos of glamorous Carol, Gloria, Joan, Bette, Lucy, Ann, and Dolores smiling their brightest smiles was even more disconcerting to Evan than his fluorescent lights and musical concert were to me. In fact he said it was very hard for him to change his clothes with all those women watching him. I think he was serious, but it was a really funny remark.
One of the photos was a still from the 20s of Gloria Swanson, and she was looking dramatically away from the camera so that you didn’t really see her pupils; just her whites of her eyes were showing. It was an effective portrait. But I came back from classes one day to find a pair of google eyed pupils taped over her eyes so it look like she was staring you down. I left it up for a while just because it was so funny.
My enjoyment of vintage films continues to this day. I believe that "Casablanca" is the perfect film, and every time I watch it and enjoy what I have enjoyed in the past, I always find some something new that I had missed. That’s a rich film. Billy Wilder can’t do wrong, and addition to "Sunset Boulevard", I am particularly fond of "Some Like It Hot", probably in part because of its setting at my favorite bit of architecture, the Hotel Del Coronado. Likewise I feel that Alfred Hitchcock can do no wrong, and my favorite of his films has become "Notorious", with that amazing tracking shot at the party. Although it nudges close to my other Hitch favorite "North by Northwest" which has the second most romantic love scene ever, on the way west on the Broadway Limited, no less. (The MOST romantic scene ever, in any movie, before or since, being Vivian Leigh and Robert Taylor and their Farewell Waltz in "Waterloo Bridge". Watch it. You will agree. You will also be moved to tears).
I enjoy the wonderful works of charm (not escapism) that comes with all these films, whether they are musical comedies, dramas, or thrillers. The one thing that they are not, is dystopian. I have to say I have very little patience for dystopian films of any type. Life is stressful and unpleasant enough, in reality. Why would you add to that by the same sort of distresses in the film that you’re watching? That’s my opinion; I know it’s not popular right now. And right now, if you create a very dystopian plot, and you light all the sets in dreary gloom, people come in droves to watch it no matter what the actual plot line might be. That’s fine for them. But give me something that draws you into another world filled with magic, or beauty, or laughter. Much more preferable to me. Give me "The Philadelphia Story", or any of the Thin Man movies, anything by Frank Capra, who is perhaps the best of all directors of all time, and I am content.
I could go on and on forever, but this is also why I’ve been glad from time to time after my meeting with Lillian Gish, to meet other famous actors and actresses. and celebrities. So I can say that by happenstance, primarily I have met Ruby Keeler Glen Campbell, Dorothy Lamour, Sugar Ray Robinson, Joan Fontaine, Hugh Grant, I’ve been in the same room but I had no chance to say hello to Glenn Close. Politically speaking, we have been at a National Prayer Breakfast where the Bushes Senior, the Quayles, and Billy Graham were at the head table. On another occasion in Washington we met Sandra Day O'Connor, Jack Kemp, and Bob and Libby Dole. Of all the well known figures I have met, the one I became friends with was Fred Rogers. These moments when someone who is familiar to you through the media, and suddenly there in person, are always a treat.
One of my favorite stories having to do with that is the one about Cary Grant and Michael Caine, who were friends, and were together when a woman came up and started gushing. "You're Michael Caine!" she exclaimed. "I’m so glad to see you. I’ve been in Hollywood for a week and haven’t seen one celebrity!" Then she turned to Carrie Grant and said, "It’s so hard to run across celebrities in Hollywood". Not recognizing that she was talking to one of the Hollywood greats. Grant didn’t miss a beat; he nodded his head and said, "Yes it is". And she went away never realizing that she hadn’t met one celebrity, she met two.
We were on a family cruise one year at New Year’s with Judy's entire family. And Judy's mom had scheduled a family portrait on the grand stairway of the ship, as a memento of the trip, very nice idea. So we all put on our best bib and tucker and off we went, waiting in line. We were a few moments before our scheduled appointment, and there was another family in front of us. And I’m standing there looking at the family in front of us thinking, that woman looks very familiar to me. And then it suddenly dawned on me that I was looking at Lucie Arnaz and her husband Gary Luckenbill and their family. About the moment the realization hit me, as she was looking more or less my way, because I was pretty much within the range where the camera was. I could see that she saw that I knew who she was. I just gave a slight nod and she gave a slight smile. And that was that. I’ve always thought that she probably appreciated the fact that there was no gushing. I hope so, anyway. I follow her to this day on Instagram.
In the years that we lived in California, it had always been my wish as a kid to go see Grauman's Chinese Theater, to see all the foot prints and hand prints there. Which I guess means that I really was interested in old movies even before those deck of cards, come to think of it. We never got to Hollywood while we lived out there. The closest we got was two trips to Disneyland. Fast forward to when Judy and I did our 25th anniversary trip, which was a driving trip up and down the California coast. One of our stops was Hollywood. We parked the car and headed directly toward Grauman's Chinese Theater. Where, in the courtyard, I thoroughly enjoyed finally seeing all I had hoped to see years before. As we were standing there I said. "Oh I’m so glad I finally got to see this." And Judy said, "What, you’ve never seen this before?" I said, "No". She said, "I thought you saw it when you lived out here." I said, "No we never got here, but I’m glad I’m here now, with you."
It was on that same trip we saw Joan Fontaine, and Hugh Grant. It happened like this.
We were staying in Carmel as one of our stops along the drive. I especially wanted to see the Frank Lloyd Wright house that is built right into that rocky shoreline. Which is easy to see if you look at it from the north, because it’s the first house after the public beach. Knowing that, we found a parking place on the bluff, and then got out of our car, moving toward the stairway to the beach. As we did so, an absolutely gorgeous woman, exquisitely dressed and coiffed, came walking along with her a little dog on a leash. She was wearing a mink coat, her hair was in a beautifully fashioned chignon. She had a pleasant expression on her face. We’d been traveling for about a week, and we were missing our own puppy, so we exclaimed about her dog, and she was very gracious, and we stood there and talked about our pets for a moment or two. And then we made our goodbyes, and we headed down the stairs to the beach. When we got to the bottom I looked at Judy, and I said. "I know that woman. There’s something familiar about her. I know she’s not from any of the churches that I’ve served, I wonder…?" At that point the lightbulb went off. And I said, "That was Joan Fontaine!" And it was.
That same trip, on our way southward, we were driving through Malibu on a Sunday morning. We had rented a beautiful white Mustang convertible which made the open air trip so much fun. The roof was down. Judy was driving. And we were right along where the farmers market is, when Judy said, "Look at that". And "that" was a vintage XKE Jaguar convertible. At one point it was alongside us, at another point it was behind us. We stopped at a light at which point Judy mouthed to the driver, "I love your car," and he smiled and mouth back, "Thank you". And then we continued on, still interested in the car because it was just such a classic. I said I want to take a subtle photo of the car; so I moved my phone up a little bit so I could take the picture, It was then that I really saw the driver clearly. And said, "That's Hugh Grant".
On another journey, we were doing the Lilly Grant trip, with John and Annie. We found ourselves in Rome, and at the top of the Spanish Steps. It was lunchtime and we were hungry. So we found a restaurant of interest, it actually had a glass room on the terrace that was air-conditioned, the rest of the restaurant was outdoors. It was an extremely hot day and we were glad they seated us in the air-conditioned birdcage as I would call it. After we sat down and were ordering our meal, with the kids across from us, I noticed a very striking woman with blonde hair wearing a light blue top, at a table with two other people. And once again my brain began to do that "I know that person, who is that person? Are they from South Bend? Are they from Pittsburgh? Are they from Florida?" And none of it was locking in. So I said very quietly to John and Anne, "There’s somebody at table behind you; the lady is blonde and wearing a blue top, I’m trying to place her. I’m sure I know her. So don’t stare, but at some point if you can, casually look in that direction let me know who you think it is." Which Annie did, and then she turned around and said, "Dad, it’s Glenn Close."
Getting back to Coatesville, I should probably tell you about something that happened to my grandmother and me when we were returning one day after a trip. A day trip. I think that that day we had gone to look at a couple dozen 1930s era Cadillacs that sat rusting in a field. Because I was interested in cars, old cars especially, but cars in general. As we returned over Calan Hill, on a very winding road and hilly, a car came towards us in the opposite direction and we experienced something that to this day is unexplainable. The car came right at us; it was going to be a head on collision. It crossed the centerline at a great rate of speed. As far as we could tell, it wasn’t slowing down; and even though my grandmother tried to avoid it, disaster seemed inevitable. We continued in our direction, as that other car continued in its own, and passed us, but the only way I can describe it is that we both occupied the same space at the same time. They, going south, while we were going north.
It was as if that car and ours went through each other. And that car came to rest on the side of the road pretty much unscathed. And so was ours. My grandmother and I looked at each other in complete disbelief, and one of us said to the other, and I’m not sure in which order, "Did that just happen? Did you just see what I just saw?" We both agreed that what we had experienced was nothing short of miraculous. I’m sure we must’ve talked with our family about it we got home. Safe and sound in one piece. Nary a scratch upon us or on the car. I’m not somebody who goes looking for the strange and unexplainable. But I know it when it happens to me.
Since were on the subject of cars, perhaps I should mention that the carnation pink Ford Galaxie 500 was showing its age in 1966. Now the car was only seven years old. But you have to remember that planned obsolescence was the Detroit plan, in those days, and for many years thereafter. (Getting about the worst it ever was decades later, when they were making utterly miserable cars in Detroit in the 1980s). Our Galaxie 500 was turning into an oil burner of the first chop. With a blue haze that came out the back every time it was started, kind of like Onslow's car on "Keeping Up Appearances". So a new car was needed. And there I was, to offer suggestions; since I was absolutely crazy about cars. And pretty knowledgeable.
My mother had her ideas about what she wanted; she also talked with me. Which I think is awfully nice she was consulting a six grader. One of the cars she thought about was the Corvair. She obviously didn’t want as big of a car as the Galaxie 500. There being just the two of us, and she not being a big person. She was also very interested in the Oldsmobile Cutlass, mainly because before the Ford, she and my dad owned Oldsmobiles. Now, I have to say the Cutlass was a nice choice, and probably would’ve been an enjoyable one, and if we had it to this day, probably nicely collectible. But also still very new was the original generation Ford Mustang. I suggested to her that maybe we should go look and see what those were like. Well she liked them. She decided to order a Ford Mustang. The car that she ordered was a 1966 coupe in silver, with the interior in red. A really great combination. But of course, she had to wait till it came in.
Sometime later, she received a phone call from the salesman at the Ford dealership. "Mrs. Dalles, your car is here; you may come down and get it." Back in those days, there was nothing like dealer prep. The car was rolled off the car carrier, the keys were placed in the new other’s hands. And that was that. So down to the Ford dealership we went. The cars were coming off the car carrier. And there came that silver Mustang Coupe.
Right after it came another Mustang. That one was yellow, with a black roof and interior. Not a vinyl roof. A convertible roof. My mom, remembering the convertible days with my dad, said to the man, "Oh, that’s a nice car. What are you going to do with that? Is it spoken for?" He said, "No, we’re going to put it on display in the showroom." And then my mom said, "What if I wanted that car instead of the one I ordered?" That was perfectly fine with the sales person. "And what was the difference in cost be?" she asked. It was certainly under $400. If you can believe it.
‘I’ll take it,” said she, and we drove home that day in a 1966 sunshine yellow Mustang convertible. Which gave a tremendous amount of pleasure over the many years that my mom owned it
LANCASTER – (1967-1972)
Harrisburg Pike
Upon my parents' marriage we first rented half of a big Victorian house from my stepdad's sister and family. That was NOT a success, due to the fact that she was one of the most meddlesome and manipulative people on the planet. Think Mrs Danvers in "Rebecca". I have decided not to give her any further attention.
On a much happier note.
In those early days we became members of Highland Presbyterian Church. Highland was new then, and was growing by leaps and bounds. It was at the right place at the right time, as Manheim Township was turning from farmland to suburbia. The church was in the middle of building programs every year. The key to its success was the senior minster, Ross S. McClintock, of an old Pittsburgh family. Ross is among the top three preachers I have had the pleasure to listen to. His insights were on target, his humor was infectious, and his skill at engaging the listener was unsurpassed. Ross had a photographic memory. Even though he took his sermon manuscript into the pulpit with him, he never looked at it. But he knew where one page ended and the next begin in his text, and turned each page when his sermon got to that point. Ross was so ably paired with his wonderful wife Joyce - who was also a seminary graduate. To me they are the model of what a minster family is supposed to be. At Highland we made many friends. Among them, Hank and Ann and their kids, Marijean and John. This would have been in the late 1960s. Hank worked at RCA as did my stepdad. Ann was a proficient needleworker and a dedicated leader in the Girl Scouts. John was in Troop 99 as was I. And I took Marijean to the homecoming dance in 1969. Our families remain friends today.
East Petersburg
My parents did a tremendous amount of house hunting. It was almost every weekend we were going to see open houses. Good, bad, and indifferent. And I do mean some of them were pretty bad. Eventually, we happened upon a new street that was being developed in East Petersburg. Which was only a couple of miles away from where we lived. East Petersburg is one of those typical Lancaster County towns with a crossroads in the center where one street is called Main Street and the other is called State Street. One is called State Street because it has a state route number, obviously.
The new development was on what had been a farm on owned by the Martin family. And they had built their beautiful retirement years house up on a small hillside along this street that was named Martin Drive. The neighborhood was tucked in behind the Manheim Pike, in such a way that although it was close and convenient to everything, it was truly pleasantly suburban. We toured a house at the corner of Martin Drive and Brook Drive. It was a split entry. Although some call these kinds of houses raised ranch. You go in the front door and you are neither on the main floor nor the lower floor; you’re on a landing halfway in between. And then you have this opportunity to go up to the main level which has living room, dining room, kitchen, and any number of bedrooms, or down to a level that has a family room, and perhaps another bedroom and bathroom, as well as an area that we would think of more of a basement where the furnace and so forth are. It was a nice house. Just done. Everything spanking new and looking very pretty.
My parents became quite interested in it.
However, there were several other different designs being built at the same time. One was Dutch Colonial in style. The house was nearing completion, and was halfway down the street on the left. It was also quite pleasant. At that point, there was absolutely nothing residential behind it. Martin Drive was the only street in that area. So behind it were farm fields. Which reminded me of my grandparents’ home on Summit Drive. Much discussion ensued, and eventually my parents decided that they would make an offer, not on their first consideration, the split entry, but rather, on the second, the Dutch Colonial.
In our family we’d gotten into the habit of flying the flag on special occasions. So if it was somebody’s birthday, if we were celebrating something or other, up would go the American flag on the front porch post. Buying this house was a tremendously positive and hopeful step. Not only because we would be living in a place that was our own, but because we would no longer be living across the street from Skip and Lou. Which would be kind of like moving away from the realms of the underworld, to the Elysian Fields. But more so.
And of course the discussion was, if we get approved for the purchase, we will fly the flag. So you can imagine my joy when my school bus stopped, let me off, and there was the flag flying to say we got the house! It was a good move for one at all. And especially for my parents and the new atmosphere, which was not tainted by the miasma of malicious meddlers any more.
East Pete was a little bit further from the high school than Harrisburg Pike house, but that was fine. I will say however that the drive to the high school goes past the Denlinger‘s chicken farm. Where their son actually was in the same grade in school I was. I must tell you, only two smells are equivalently awful in this world, in the world of agriculture. One being a mushroom farm. And the other being a chicken farm. In those days, and I believe still today, school buses were not air-conditioned. So once the weather gets warm, the windows go down and whenever one is driving by, one smells it. It really was not possible to hold your nose long enough to get past the chicken farm, without getting a few whiffs. And how unpleasant the whiffs were.
We moved East Petersburg in 1971; I was in 11th grade. Mom let me know that if there were after school activities, I was welcome to drive her car. Let’s just say I never drove alone. Many East Pete friends were glad to share the ride with me in to Landisville, in the 1966 Mustang convertible.
I was involved in a lot of activities in high school. Very much so in the chorus, the Hempfield Singers. Richard Klein, the director, was one of the people I looked up to then, and still do, as being someone who not only knew music backwards and forwards, but also tried to instill in the students under his watchful care, some sense of right and wrong, dignity and decorum. He was pretty much teaching these things along the lines of the things I’d been learning at home. But it was through this I began to realize that not everybody was being taught the same things at home. You had to try out for Hempfield Singers. If you got into it, not only did you perform concerts at the school at various times during the year, but you also had a full schedule of concerts that were in churches scattered about Lancaster County. Mr. Klein‘s weekend job was as an organist and choir director at one of the downtown Lancaster churches, and as in most cities, the musical network of professional church musicians was pretty strong. So there was never a lack of concerts. So all through December we performed our Christmas concert. In the spring we performed our spring concert. The understanding was you had to be there for all these concerts. It was very much like being on a sports team.
While in Hempfield Singers, one of my personal joys was singing with Duke Ellington and his band. Yes. It is true. Our high school choir was selected to be the choir that sang with Duke Ellington for a performance at Longs Park in Lancaster. It was amazing. And what we were singing was all part of a suite of music that Ellington had written based on the Christian faith. It was a marvelously uplifting experience to rehearse as well as sing with his band. All you have to do is look at the titles of these compositions by Duke Ellington to know that the subject is both sacred and Christian:
1."Praise God" 2."Supreme Being" 3."Heaven" 4."Something 'Bout Believing" 5."Almighty God" 6."The Shepherd (Who Watches over the Flock)" 7."It's Freedom" 8."Meditation" 9."The Biggest and Busiest Intersection" 10."T.G.T.T. (Too Good to Title)" 11."Don't Get Down On Your Knees To Pray Until You Have Forgiven Everyone" 12."Father Forgive" 13."Praise God And Dance".
I still find myself humming some of the score, on occasion.
The girl I was dating at that time, Jane, was the daughter of a retired FBI agent and his wife. Her father was a Lancaster County native, the graduate of Franklin and Marshall College. When they moved to Lancaster from their years in Manhattan, they rented a house in the fanciest neighborhood in the city of Lancaster, School Lane Hills. It was a temporary spot rather than a permanent spot in which to perch. It was a nice ranch style house. It wasn’t really adequate for their needs. Because the garage was absolutely chock-full with things they couldn’t fit anywhere else in the house. I liked to tease Jane that perhaps Ralph’s double garage with all that was in it was stuff that was confiscated on FBI raids. She and I both knew that I was teasing. Because it was absolutely unlike Ralph who was the soul of discretion. They were looking for a place to live, to buy, in the area. And they did not settle in the city of Lancaster or anywhere terribly close to it. They settled in Marietta PA, which is an old Victorian era town that sits along the Susquehanna River. And there they bought one of the biggest houses, dating I would guess from the 1880s. Although it had been shorn of its front porch, so it looked a little bit older than it actually was. The house was painted white with black shutters and very impressive; indeed even among the other interesting historic architecture in Marietta. Instead of being a small fish in a big pond in School Lane Hills, they became the biggest fish in the little pond of Marietta.
Jane‘s mother was a southern belle to the core. She would have made Blanche DuBois seem like a d----d Yankee. I’ve met many people from the south I like very much. But there are those who let you know that if you are not a descendant of Robert E. Lee, or one of the Alabama Beauregard Jacksons, you might just as well curl up and die. You are second or third class citizens, if that. Jane‘s mother Ruth could be diplomatically described in that way.
Jane was in the same Hempfield Singers that I was in, so we were often going after this that or the other concert. And I was often driving back-and-forth to Marietta to take her out to this that or the other thing in addition to concerts. And I was a pretty presentable person, and not much of a threat as far as my personal style was concerned. But I just didn’t measure up where Ruth was concerned. Which I have to say in retrospect, hooray.
That was back in the days before Turner classic movies, or any other resource be it online (didn't exist yet) or in cable, that would allow you to watch old movies. Even the most famous. About that time, one of the most famous of them all was re-released for a limited theatrical engagement: "Gone With the Wind". I’d never seen "Gone With the Wind". I’d heard about it. I wanted to see it. And I invited Jane to go with me, which was not an unusual thing to say, "Let’s go to a movie." Well… It never happened. For without giving any reason, Jane‘s mother Ruth absolutely forbade her to see "Gone With the Wind". I don’t know the reason. Maybe the character Scarlet O’Hara was too much like Ruth's own personality, although much more beautiful, having been portrayed by Vivian Leigh, surely one of the most beautiful women to ever grace the silver screen., But I think perhaps the real reason was because (spoiler alert here) Ruth didn’t want Jane to know that the South lost the war.
Jane and I dated all through high school. The years that we dated were a lot of fun. We had a number of interests in common. What broke the camel's back wasn’t the "Gone With the Wind" event, but another event having to do with Ruth and the battle of Marietta. Jane was hosting a party or picnic at her house, I think it was a picnic, in anticipation of graduation, and invited all the kids that we were close to in high school. One of them, our mutual friend, Roger. Roger was a minister's son, and a very nice person.
Somehow, Ruth got it in her mind that Roger was just the right person for Jane. And so, when various people were arriving - including me - there was hardly a fuss made at all. Not that anyone expected one. But when Roger arrived, you would have thought Prince Charles has shown up with his entourage. "Here you ARE!" she exclaimed and she went running down the long front walk, gushing to greet him, and it was very obvious that Jane‘s boyfriend of two years was getting the brush-off in favor of this fellow that her mother had set her sights upon.
Sad to say, for Jane, it did not work out, this plan of Ruth's to fling together she and Roger. I don’t think they even dated. But it was just one of a string of obvious messages to me, that really this was a relationship that wasn’t worth fighting for.
I had, in high school years, several close friends that I spent a lot of time with; Scott Sylte being one of them. He and I were both interested in old cars. And we could sniff them out no matter where we went. There was one day when we were up beyond Manheim, when we were passing a gas station, and I said, "I bet there’s an old car behind it". And we went and looked, and sure enough, it was to our minds the old car of all cars. It was a 1946 Cadillac Fleetwood limousine. In pretty good shape. And in the window was a sign that said "For Sale". For sale! This was in the era of the first "Godfather" movie, and there’s a car just like it in that movie. And so, Scott and I began to imagine ourselves driving around with fedoras on our heads having a great time in this big old car. It probably wasn’t a practical idea, but we didn’t really care; here was our opportunity to own a bona fide classic car of some distinction.
So we talked with the owner, who was the owner of the gas station. He told us the sale price. And we chatted amongst ourselves, and realized that Scott and I together had saved enough to buy it. We didn’t have enough, either of us, on our own. So we hatched the impractical plan of buying it together. But what we needed to do was tell our parents we had this scheme in mind. It went over fine with my parents, but not with Scott’s. And the opportunity to look like distant members of the Corleone family passed us by. Still it is fun to think about that. Did you know that such cars had stainless steel running boards? I just thought I’d drop that in.
One of my other friends in East Petersburg was Darlene Hain, along with her brother Steve. Steve was in the class before ours. Darlene was in our class. I think it’s fair to say that in those high school years Darlene was probably the sister that I never had. And whenever we got together, laughter ensued. There was the day that her parents corn crop was ripe, and we stood outside in the front yard selling corn all day. We sold a lot of corn. But we had more fun than we made money.
Many of these friends worked at the nearby mall, Park City. My friend Scott and our other friend, also Scott, worked at RadioShack. Darlene‘s brother Steve worked at Sears. And I worked at Woolworths a.k.a. "The fun place to shop!" It wasn’t my first job, but it wasn’t a bad job. Most of the time, we got off when the mall closed. Most the time, we were dog tired and didn’t hang out together after work. But we knew where each other parked our cars.
At some point along the way, the two Scotts hatched a scheme that was an innocent practical joke. They began saving all of the Styrofoam peanuts from the electronics equipment that they unpacked at RadioShack. When they decided that they had saved enough, during a break, they went out to the parking lot, with these boxes filled with Styrofoam peanuts. And they found the Chevrolet convertible that belonged to Steve, and filled the car up to the windows with the Styrofoam peanuts. And they reasoned correctly that by the time Steve came out to go home, it would be pitch dark, and the likelihood was that he wouldn’t notice what was in store. That was exactly what happened. Steve opened the door, and the flow like the Johnstown Flood of Styrofoam peanuts poured out onto the parking lot. So, not only was his car mostly still filled, but he was spreading Styrofoam peanuts all over the lot.
We could call Steve a fussbudget.That is not an unkind description; it is completely accurate. Steve didn’t think anything about this was funny, or so I’m told. I didn’t see any of it happening. I was told about it afterward. Apparently, Steve managed to get himself in the car and get it started, and put the roof down, and went tearing down many Lancaster County back roads until all of the Styrofoam peanuts had blown into the cornfields. So if you have a farm within a 5 mile radius or so of Park City Mall, and if any time in the last number of decades you have found Styrofoam peanuts in your field, you can rest assured that they came from RadioShack at Park City in the late 1970s.
Steve was dating a young lady named Linda. Linda was a Mennonite, which wasn’t unusual in Lancaster County for someone to be a Mennonite. Her family was of one the more progressive branches of Mennonites. And the only thing that set her apart from everybody else in school was that she wore a very small head-covering on top of her hair, some of the size of a strainer in the kitchen but of course without the handle and a little flatter. I do not call it this but she did, a crash helmet. I think that was a permissible reference within their community. And I wouldn’t want to say it anyway. But I digress.
Linda was the smartest girl in our class by far. She ended being the valedictorian and getting all sorts of special awards at graduation. And she was sweet as could be. Linda was part of a youth group in her Mennonite church that went on a annual trip, to the New Jersey seashore, to Cape May. During the week they were there, the rest of us latched on to the idea, "Why don’t we drive down and see Linda at the beach". Who knows why we thought of that. Probably the leaders of this trip wouldn’t have liked it if they knew we were coming. But we got into the Mustang, and Steve's now Styrofoam-free Chevrolet. Both cars were pretty full. Then, we drove down to the beach.
We did get to see Linda, but she was busy with all the planned activities of her retreat, so we didn’t see her for long. And then we started back home again. But before we did, Steve (who was driving the other car), said to me, "What happens if we keep going on this road?" Meaning the Garden State Parkway. I said, "We end up in New York City". "No," said he in the most incredulous tone possible. I said, "Oh yes; it leads directly to New York City." "Well let’s go," he said.
So spontaneity and serendipity met together at that moment, and sure enough we got on the highway and were headed north to the Big Apple. Which then, did not allow you to drive in the City unless you’re over 18, which neither of us were at the time. No matter, we went.
It was one of those summer days where everyone and their grandmother had gone to the beach and was coming home from it. So while we zipped along at a goodly pace for a while, we eventually got to a point where we were stopped in the Garden State traffic jam. It was a hot day; the Mustang didn’t have air conditioning, so our windows were open. And Darlene was sitting across from me up front. She struck up a conversation with the people in car in the lane next to us, who were about our age and very friendly, but certainly not people we had ever laid eyes on before. As we creaped slowly along, the conversation continued. And someone said that we should exchange information, names and phone numbers. So Darlene got a piece of paper and a pencil, and she started writing down hers. And the same was going on with somebody in the other car.
As that was happening, the traffic jam eased a bit. And before long we were back up to highway speeds, but we had not yet accomplished the information exchange. So there we were, tooling down the Garden State Parkway, with Darlene leaning way out of the Mustang, and someone in the car beside us leaning way over toward us. We were going much too fast for such an exercise; and we knew even then that it was a dumb idea. But it happened without incident. I don’t recommend trying this at home, let alone on the Garden State Parkway.
That wasn’t the only adventure that happened in the Mustang.
There was an adventure that began with my stepdad‘s Plymouth station wagon. We were at the point we were almost done with high school. And one particular day in the spring had been designated by somebody or other in the senior class as "Senior Bag Day". No, this is not a day where you take something to school in a bag. This is a day where you skip school, entirely. The thought goes that you’ve earned it, you are ready to graduate, why not take a day and enjoy it? Anyone who has seen "Ferris Bueler's Day Off" will understand. I don’t know what other groups were doing that day. But our group of friends decided if we’re going to take the whole day off, why don’t we go to Washington DC for the day. It was just a 2 1/2 hour drive away. In those pre-911 days it was pretty easy to park for a nickel, right in front of all of the various memorials and monuments, and walk right in and see what was what. So, essentially it was an educational trip, not goofing off. More about that later.
We had four cars. The way that you go is from Lancaster to York and then south toward Baltimore. We almost got to York, Pennsylvania, when somewhere along the way the exhaust pipe in my stepdad‘s Plymouth station wagon broke. Somewhere under the front or back seat. Well you can’t drive to Washington DC like that. It just doesn’t work. So there we were in a service station. And the guy said it was going to be this and that and the other and this that and the other was way more than any of us had, even if we scraped it all together.
So I said, "Well do me a favor. I’m going to drink a can of Coke over here from the machine. And when I’m done, if you've got a can opener, take both ends off. And use this as a splice for the tailpipe. And I’ll drive home to Lancaster, and get the other car, and come back." The guy was somewhat dubious about this plan. But it worked, I don’t know that I want to know how it worked. But we got the station wagon back to East Pete, where it could be serviced by our own mechanic, and got the Mustang, and headed out again.
Of course the numbers of people that fit in the Mustang are much smaller than those that fit in the station wagon, so some of the other people had to be evenly distributed in the other cars that were going to Washington.
We had a wonderful day at the National Gallery, the Air and Space Museum, the National Archives, Washington Monument, Lincoln Memorial, and the Jefferson Memorial, perhaps five or six other places. We put in a full day, and didn’t get home till about 10 o’clock at night. At which point all of our parents were on high alert. Not because of the time we got home; they expected that. But because they had all gotten angry phone calls from the high school administration office.
"Where were we? Why hadn't we come to school today? Don’t you know it’s an unexcused absence? Anyone who has been involved in this Senior Bag Day is going to have to pay dire consequences!"
We were dropping Scott B's off at his house when we first heard of this hubbub. And we were told we were each to go home to our own homes, and deal with it individually. Well, that’s a glum way to end a nice day. Especially one that we had salvaged so cleverly, early in the day.
But homeward we all went.
And yes, there were messages at each home saying, you have to get in touch with the principal and the vice principal or whoever it was that was conducting this follow up to Senior Bag Day. They probably were phoning about 300 of the 401 people in the graduating class. I mean really it was a groundswell of non-attendance. So yes we followed up, the next morning. And we made it very clear that what we had done was not anything that could be called goofing off per se; that it was actually a very educational trip. The kind of thing that any teacher or administration would’ve been glad to have provided for their students, in order to learn about our national government. Begrudgingly the administration agreed; consequently, everyone who was on our trip had no consequences to pay because they missed that day of school.
One other thing I want mention about my friend Darlene. She was (and she would admit this), an okay but not stellar student in her high school days. And this came out very clearly when it came time for us as students to make some decisions about what we were going to do after high school. More than anything else, Darlene wanted to be an elementary school teacher. And Mrs. Kammerer had a frank discussion with her. Mrs. Kammerer being our high school senior guidance counselor; a nice lady but in this regard she did not do much to be helpful. She told Darlene that she might as well go to secretarial school or something similar, because there was no way she was going to get into college with the grades that she had.
I can still remember how devastated Darlene was after that meeting. She was in tears. Absolutely crestfallen. We talked about it at lunch. I said. "You really want to be a teacher don’t you?" She said, "Yes." I said, "I think that you would make a great teacher. I think you should ignore what Mrs. Kammerer had to say. And apply to a lot of different colleges that have elementary education majors. And see what happens". Which is exactly what Darlene did.
And she got accepted into Eastern Mennonite College. She had a great college four years. Graduated with high grades. And immediately found a job as a teacher in Front Royal, Virginia.
In the weeks between graduation, and her beginning her new job, when she was at home, I said, "There’s one other thing you have to do. Get out your college diploma. And your contract for your new job. And now, you’re going to go to the high school, and show these to Mrs. Kammerer, and tell her that she really should be in the job of encouraging people rather discouraging people in their vocational aspirations." Which is exactly what Darlene did. I know. Because I went to the school with her.
I don’t know if Mrs. Kammerer learned anything or not from the experience. I see by the obituaries that she lived to be 98, dying in 2019, nearly 50 years after the advice she gave to Darlene.
Then came graduation day. My dad‘s parents came out from Pittsburgh to share in it. We had a great time together. But when you’re a senior at graduation time there are all kinds of parties and activities that friends are doing. And our friend Scott B had some family member or other who had a cabin somewhere up in central Pennsylvania. He invited us all up to the cabin. Which sounded like fun.
This overnight was to happen when both my friend Scott S and I had to work rather late at our jobs at the mall. So while the others were long gone ahead of us, we finally got off work, and then I drove us up to the cabin, late at night, in the dark, on roads that went from country to gravel to dirt, and surroundings that went from fields to woods, to woods with cabins hidden in darkness ,with people with hunting dogs and large rifles living in each. We never found the cabin. I’m sure that we must’ve been within shouting distance of this famous cabin. But we never found it. And we ended up turning around and heading for home. So much for that graduation party. On the radio that night was that song by Frank Sinatra, "Strangers in the Night". It must’ve been at the top of the hit parade that particular week. Or maybe it was the only station that we could get in those remote regions of Pennsylvania on our excursion. But every time I hear that song now, I think of those dark woods, those barking dogs, and the cabin we never found.
It’s funny how certain songs do stand out at different points in your life. I’ll try to make sure that I mention, both before and after this, other pieces of popular music that were in the air everywhere at that time. It seems to me that in my senior year the other song that was played endlessly was "Alone Again Naturally" by the cleverly named Gilbert O’Sullivan. Which is a really depressing song. And that year, we heard it over and over and over and over and over.
It wasn’t until years later that I realized that the year of Woodstock, I was in high school, and in theory I could have, if I wanted, made that trip. Oh my goodness. There’s so many people that say, "I was at Woodstock". There would’ve had to been about 35 Woodstock’s for then all to have fit. Let me just say once and for all clearly and definitely, no I didn’t go to Woodstock. I’m kind of glad I didn’t participate in all the mud and mess.
But I did participate and other kinds of activities all through my high school years. I was a Boy Scout. I think I may have mentioned that my mother’s father absolutely loved boy scouting. And he tried to instill that in his son and his grandson. It was OK. But I can’t say that I leapt out of bed on days I was going to be doing something scouting. The troop that we were part of in Lancaster was associated with our Highland Presbyterian Church. The scout leader was Mr. Wegner (I think he served as the scoutmaster for over 50 years). He was a great guy. He used to take us on hikes. We hiked all of the Horseshoe Trail at least twice. And all the Pennsylvania portions of the Appalachian Trail. I suppose I should have said thereafter, let’s go hiking the rest of the Appalachian Trail, but I’ll leave that to others.
Mr. Wenger was great about encouraging us on these challenging hikes. When asked the question of how much longer we'd be hiking each day, his answer was always the same, "It's just over the hill!" True. There are so many hills in Pennsylvania, it's bound to be just over one of them.
If you hike those trails in Pennsylvania, either the Horseshoe or the Appalachian, you know that there are some places where it isn’t really a trail, it’s a dried up glacial stretch of boulder sized rocks, not the easiest thing to walk over. We always camped in some nearby field. I think that Mr. Wenger arranged ahead of time from the farmers for us to camp there. I don’t think we were really squatters. It seemed to be raining an awful lot on these journeys. And there was one particular night where, somewhere over in the Camp Hill area I suppose, we pitched our tents in a farmer's field, and woke up to find that we were sleeping in a huge pool of water, it having rained overnight. There really is nothing as unpleasant in outdoorsy adventures than having to spend the next day hiking in squishy boots and socks carrying a heavier than usual pack because everything in it is wet from the rain. You can understand why I have said to my family in my adult years, I never want to go camping again. Been there, done that.
The highlight of any scouter's camping experience and hiking experiences to go to Philmont, the Scout reservation in to New Mexico. Going is a big deal. And if you’re from Pennsylvania, everything about it really is an adventure. Several different kind of scenery, the hills are higher, everything from the vegetation to the wildlife is different from what you can expect to come across on the trails in Pennsylvania. So before you go, you’re given a lot of instructions having to do with dealing with a different kind of environment, including the fact that absolutely no one should ever have anything that is edible or smells enticing on their person at night, because it would attract the bears. Well that’s true. So you put all of that in a tarp, and you tie it up, and hoist it into a tree. The first night, it was very obvious that the bears tried their best. But we all survived the trip, and got home again.
Our leader for our trip, who serve as adjunct to several of the different scout troops in the area, whose nickname was Litzie, was a jovial sort of a fellow, kind of a John Candy type. He’d been to Philmont so many times it jumped up and said Hi Litzie! whenever he showed up. So he had mapped out an itinerary that was not one of the official itinerary hikes. It was his own custom bespoke Philmont experience. I recall that generally we went in an counterclockwise ark from right to left. So that at the end of the trip our last day we followed the course of the Riado River back to headquarters. It was hot. It was remote. We had a good week. Our last day was hot and sunny and pleasant and we got to a point along Riado River where they were enticing swimming holes. And so all of us stripped down and got into the pool. There were no bathing suits in sight. We swam for a while to our hearts content and eventually got up and dried off. As we were pulling on our hiking clothes, we heard the sound of another group of hikers. Until they came into view. And it was not hikers. No. It was a bunch of middle-age ladies, being taken on a tour, of this particular area that was not terribly far from headquarters, because it was so scenic and interesting. We learned later they were wives of members of the board of Philmont. And we waved to them on their way back. But think about the view that they would’ve had, if they had shown up on the scene 15 minutes earlier!
Before I move on, I do want to mention another hobby that I developed in the Lancaster years. Vintage music. By this I mean popular songs from the 1920's-1940's. With emphasis on the 20s and 30s. How in the world, before the Internet and Youtube, did I even have access to these? I have Goodwill to thank. In those days, the Goodwill store in Lancaster had racks of 78 records for sale for five or ten cents each. Not much of a demand for them. So I could look at the labels and imagine what I might hear, and for a pittance, have a few discs to take home and try. Some were duds, some were horribly damaged, but most rewarded me with the sounds of people like Paul Whiteman, Isham Jones, Rudy Vallee, Al Jolson, Leo Reisman, and the like. I have not stopped listening and learning about those musical times. A typical afternoon when I am working on my vintage watches, or typing these pages, is spent with a background of songs like "Sweet Sue", "I Cover the Waterfront", "Old Man Moon", and so many more.
As I’ve said before, I wanted to be an architect from the time that I saw the Del Coronado Hotel out there in California. I was about eight years old. Although I had thought briefly doing something in history or English, architecture was always tops on my list. I had really good SAT scores, so I had every hope of getting into a good college. My class ranking was 4 in a class of 401. So there again the likelihood was that I would probably be accepted into a good program.
As it turned out I applied for three. But I was only interested in one. I applied for MIT, Carnegie Mellon, and Penn State. But with my love of Pittsburgh, Carnegie Mellon was the only one I really wanted to go to.
I never did get up to MIT for a tour, even though I was accepted at all three places. But I did arrange to go on a tour at Carnegie Mellon. And drove out, and stayed at my grandmother's and went on the tour, which was a half-assed lackadaisical one, given by somebody’s graduate assistant. He was given the job to do, that day. He took me to his favorite spots on campus, which had nothing to do with the architecture program, whatever. I was also told by whoever sat down and chatted with me, in the administration, "Well, Mr. Dalles, you do have good SAT scores, but everyone who applies to Carnegie Mellon has good SAT scores. And yes, you have high class ranking, but everyone who applies to Carnegie Mellon has high class ranking." La de da. It was as if to say, "We are not going to give you much encouragement about coming here".
One of the things that you had to do then, and perhaps you still have to do now, is to take a special additional SAT test to determine architecture aptitude, if you’re applying to architecture school. I had taken the test, but the results weren’t back yet, by the time I had my fabulous tour at Carnegie Melon, the place that my heart was set on. Some weeks past after I was back home again, before the results. Then, out of the blue I got a phone call from the Dean of the Architecture School at CMU! The big Khulna himself.
And the reason the phone call came, was because they had gotten the results of the architectural SAT. And lo and behold, across the whole United States, I had ranked third. In the whole country. Well! Now the man gushed about how much he hoped that I would come to CMU. But I have to admit that by then, my interest had dimmed. If they didn’t want me before they had these test results, but now want me after they had them, I’m not so sure I wanted them.
And then there’s Penn State.
A state college! So, reasonable tuition for someone who’s an in-state student! My mother‘s mother is the one who said, "You really should apply to Penn State, just as a backup". And I did it. Just as a backup. There was no way that I was going to go up there in the middle of nowhere, when I could go to the city of Boston or Pittsburgh where are all kinds of urban architectural delights awaited. I was pretty serious about this whole architecture thing. But since it meant a day off school, I agreed to take a trip up to State College with my parents, and tour the campus. We’d never been, before.
So, on the appointed day, up we drove. I went to the administration building, with my transcripts in hand, to let them know that we wanted to walk around and see the campus, and if possible, to see the architecture department. So the nice woman there looked at my SAT scores, and the architecture SAT scores, and my bright smiling face. She looked them over and she said, "Wait a minute," And she walked away from the counter, and back to a desk, and made a phone call, and came back. She said (remember I had no appointment), Dr. Corbeletti, the head of the architecture department, would like to meet with you. He’s tied up this morning. But can you meet with him right after lunch today?"
Yes, that would be possible; we could walk around the campus in the morning, have lunch at The Corner Room, and then walk across the street to the architecture department. Which is what we did.
I don’t care who you are young, or old, or in between, having the red carpet rolled out for you like that makes all the difference in the world. We were ushered into Dr. Corbelitti's office. He was one of the most engaging and elegant gentlemen you'll ever find. I mean he looked and talked like an Italian film star. He was warm and friendly, talked with me as if I were a real person, an adult. He was very pleasant with my parents, as well. And let me know just how much I would enjoy coming to Penn State and studying architecture.
So I went away from State College that day pretty much convinced that, while MIT sounded like it was the upper regions of heaven, and while Carnegie Mellon was the place that, because it was in Pittsburgh, where the angels sang, Penn State was the right place for me.
And Penn State it would be.
PENN STATE – (1972-1976)
Even though I had such a wonderful introduction to Penn State by the head of the architecture department himself, I still needed to follow all of the steps that every other architectural student did as they arrived as freshmen
I went to Penn State the year that they had shoe-horned five years of architecture studies into four. Reasoning that then they could have people go on and do it their master’s program, and therefore spend tuition dollars for six years rather than five. I’m sure there were other reasons than that. But that probably loomed the largest. When I started out, I fully thought that’s what I would do. Four years of undergraduate work. And two years of master studies. And then off I would go, to pursue my lifelong dream of being an architect. As things transpired, they were a little different. Let me tell you.
When you go off to college, you really don’t know who you’re going to end up with as friends. Back in those days, when you went off to college, you either were randomly assigned a roommate for the dorm, or if you wanted to, you could specify who you want to be your roommate, as long as they specify the same. There were 11 others from our high school who were going to Penn State. None of them were immediate friends. But one of them was an immediate neighbor. And someone who was sort of quiet, rather than boisterous. I thought to myself, I’m going off to study, I want to be able to do that, I don’t really want to be in the midst of all kinds of extraneous activities, especially not in the small space of a two-person dorm room in the 1970s, which was smaller than a one car garage. I said to this neighbor Evan, "Rather than take potluck, why don’t we specify each other as roommates." He agreed to do that. So that’s what we did, and for the first two years of Penn State, we were roommates.
We were as different as could be. He was a computer science major and I was an architecture major. Our studies were such that there wasn’t any overlap. In fact, I learned pretty early on not to ask Evan how his day was. Because he would tell me. And after the first word or two, he would lose me completely in technological terms having to do with these strange massive things called computers. Because at that time, any computer worth its name took up as much floor space as your average Walmart does today.
There was probably less computer capability in the gigantic computer science building at Penn State, then, than there is in your average smart phone, today. Of course, the main concern was that everything was done on punch cards. If something went wrong with those punch cards, you were sunk. Look it up if you never heard of it.
At one point, we were talking about what’s your dream in life. What would you like to do? And Evan surprised me with the most ridiculous thing I’d ever heard. He told me that his dream would be, one day, to have a computer in his house! All I could think of was an ordinary sized house and something somewhat like a huge garage or a barn attached, in which there was this gigantic piece of equipment, his personal home computer. Hilarious! You could say Evan was visionary. It’s too bad he didn’t know Steve Jobs or Bill Gates. But I digress. I befriended another architecture student, and a journalism student, all of whom lived in the same dorm complex. We hit it off well enough that we would usually have our breakfast and dinner together.
The fellow in the architecture studies took the same classes as I in the first two years. Which included the history of architecture from the Renaissance to 1825. It was principally Italian architecture, as Italy was at the forefront of architectural design in that sweep of history. It was taught by Professor Helmut Hager. Who was thoroughly German. He spoke English with a pronounced German accent.
This architectural survey course was filled with every incoming student in the architecture department. We would all sit in this huge auditorium, and on the stage in front of us were two screens. Where Professor Hager would compare and contrast the finer nuances of Italian Renaissance architecture. He would be there at the podium, lecturing away. And occasionally he would write some thing or a big chalkboard. This was about as high-tech as it got in 1972.
Dr. Hager spoke in his own style. If it was time to move to the next building being discussed, a graduate assistant hidden in the nether regions of the balcony manually changed the slides. Unless he didn’t. And then Dr. Hager would say, "The Zlides do not come!" Which was his way of lighting a fire under his graduate assistant. He ended each lecture with, "Zo far for today!" The problem came when he started pronouncing Italian architects names like Brunelleschi and Alberti with his German accent; they were unintelligible. We spent a lot of time trying to figure out who in the world he was talking about.
College students have a heightened sense of the humorous. Very soon, several of us, as we walked across campus, found ourselves talking like Dr. Hager. We got pretty good at it; you would’ve thought that we were just off the boat from Düsseldorf. One day, we were walking past a building chattering away in our faux German accent, when who should pop out of the side door of the building but Herr Professor, himself. I have no idea whether he heard that we were talking like him or not, but he gave us a cheery hello of recognition as we stood there, totally chagrined. If he heard us, he probably thought, "Wow, those nice young freshmen really know how to speak English, rather than most of the people in most of my classes."
Because I always went to the home football games in high school, and because I was going to Penn State where football is king, I assumed everyone on campus would go to the home games. So I bought season game tickets, which even at student discount, and shoved into the end zone student section, were not inexpensive. Especially on a student's budget. But I discovered that my friends had absolutely no interest in going to the football games. Even if they just paid for one ticket. So all through that year, I went to the home games all by myself. I certainly was lonesome in the middle of the crowd. After my freshman year I did not attend any home games of the Nittany Lions. That’s not to say that I didn't spend time with some of the football players. Because some of the underclassmen football players were housed in the exact same dormitory as was I. So it was the closest that I ever came to living near a sports celebrity. Woody Petchel is one name that comes down memory lane; he was a fine and friendly fellow, and was in a room two from mine down the hall. John Capiletti was the big football star at Penn State in those days but I think he had a dorm room in West Halls. Which was as close as one could get to an Ivy League quadrangle dorm as Penn State offered.
Dormitory food is famous for fattening you up. As in the freshman 20 that people talk about. I can’t say that the food at Penn State was bad. It was pretty much just ordinary. There were usually two selections for the evening meal. And you got to know in a very short while, because they were repeated each month, which of the selections was the better of the two. There was always something for dessert. You’ll be surprised to know that the absolute number one popular dessert in the dormitories at Penn State was saltine crackers with cream cheese and strawberry jam. Sounds pretty ordinary does it? But the cream cheese was made on campus at The Creamery. If you know anything about Penn State, you know people that come from miles around just to buy ice cream, or other dairy products, at The Creamery. The butter fat content in the cream cheese was higher than usual, as was the ice cream. So much so, that they couldn’t sell it to commercial establishments. Either you bought it at The Creamery or you didn’t get it at all. The cream cheese was so good, that whenever I went home, I was commissioned to bring a big Velveeta-cheese-sized block of it for Mom to use in baking, and just on its own. And of course it’s one of those things that you say I can still taste, all these years later.
Interestingly enough, in addition to The Creamery. there was another establishment in State College where ice cream was all the rage. That was Myers Dairy. And sometimes just for a change of pace, instead of going to The Creamery for ice cream we ventured off campus to Myers Dairy. It was far enough away from campus that you needed a friend with a car, or one’s family needed to be visiting from out of town. So it was, one particular day, we made it out to Myers Dairy, and in addition to their dozen or so usual selections, they also had the flavor of the day. Which was teaberry. That sounded intriguing. So there we were, my entire family having ice cream, and we all ordered the flavor of the day. It was bright pink. It tasted great. Until one of my stepbrothers with a smile on his face, announced, "It tastes just like Pepto-Bismol!" It did. We all put down our spoons. That was the only time we ever ordered teaberry ice cream
Even though my vocational direction was architecture, faith was important to me, and I was a good Presbyterian. And so, whenever Sunday rolled around, which it seemed to do weekly, I decided I would go to church. I first tried going to the Presbyterian Church in State College. I hope that they’ve improved the way they greet college students over the years. Because at that period, which admittedly was at the tail end of all the protest movements, and students were acting up on campuses all over the country, the members of the First Presbyterian Church of State College acted like some sort of lethal reptiles were showing up if there were students in the sanctuary for Sunday morning, even though dressed appropriately, and participating knowingly in the hymns and responses. Not at all welcome in capital letters and underlined was the message they gave to students, which is odd, being in the largest college town in the nation. Without college students, State College would dry up and blow away in a month, including every last Presbyterian there.
So after a few attempts, wanting to give them the benefit of the doubt, I decided, that is not the place to go to worship of a Sunday morning. 'Doesn’t feel worshipful at all. I wonder if they do any better, now.
Right on campus was a Chapel Worship service every Sunday. I would go to them. At which the head of the organ studies of the music department played the organ, magnificently. And at which the Penn State choir sang beautifully under the direction of Professor Brown, who along with his showy wife Nina, acted as if they were resident royalty of some Balkan nation. (For music department concerts, they sat in the center of the balcony, spotlighted, with a royal standard type banner hanging over the balcony in front of them). At these weekly services, there were different guest preachers every Sunday from all around Pennsylvania. I went there for many months, every Sunday. There was only one person whose sermon stood out as being worth remembering. That was Dr. James Glasse, the President of Lancaster Theological Seminary. I had never run across him in Lancaster. He preached a sermon about the different gifts Christians are given. It was biblical. It was logical. It was a great sermon. Jim preached as if he were having a conversation with just you. As if you were thinking it up at that moment, even though he had done a lot of preparation. After that one particular Sunday, I wrote a letter him, to say how much I appreciated his sermon, and wondered if he might send me a copy. He got back to me, sending some notes, not the full sermon text. That was the beginning of a connection and friendship that would be continued later.
That was truly the only satisfactory thing about all those months of going to worship every Sunday at the university chapel service. At first, I couldn’t put my finger on it. And then I realized what was wrong, was that everybody was pretty much the same age. They were students. Or they were faculty members from the music department. That was it. The room was usually pretty full. But people came in as if they were coming to a concert, and left as if they’d been to a concert. There was absolutely no fellowship, whatsoever. There were no young children. There were no middle schoolers. And there was no one over the age of 50. So there was no one in what I would consider the grandparent department. It really was a pretty sterile environment. And most of the other guest preachers were mediocre or worse. If you happened to preach there during fall 1972 - spring 1973, I apologize. But it’s true. I was used to listening to Ross S. McClintock, and had very high standards for preaching. I still do.
It turned out that one of my fellow architectural students was a member of a congregational church up there in New England. When you went off to college, they tried very hard to connect you with a nearby church. It worked. Unlike me, he found a place to worship every Sunday. Faith United Church of Christ, across College Avenue from the campus.
He said, "Why don’t you come to church with me?" The church had a fellowship program for college students. Someone along the way had been given funds to allow them to hire a seminary student to work at the church for an academic year, a student minister.
At the Student Christian Involvement Program (SCIP for short), they got together and made dinner, and then had a time of fellowship and Bible study thereafter, one evening a week. Also, you could be part of a group that did concerts in other churches during fall break and spring break. Before long, I had joined the choir there, and I was involved in SCIP, and on the whole, it was very good association for the rest of my Penn State time. With some exceptions that I will get to later.
So college continued apace.
I didn’t say earlier and probably should have right at the get go, two things about my first week or so of college. One had to do with registration at Rec Hall. Back in those days, registration took place in this gigantic gymnasium. You were sort of herded in, and you had a few notes about what classes you were supposed to register for. And then you had to go around the various folding tables, where you could register. Well, not quite yet. You had to pick up one of those IBM punch cards that was specific to that particular class. There were only so many. After all, there's only so many seats in a room, whatever room is assigned. If you had done this more than once, you knew that you went first to the electives, the popular ones that you wanted to be in, and that everyone else want to be in. And tried to get those first. Because in your core classes, you were only competing with the other people in your major, and they always had to make a places available for everyone. But your first time on the floor of Rec Hall, trying to find required courses and electives, it was a dizzy experience. Later, I learned that if you were smart you could usually schedule your week so that you had at least one day without any classes. If that was a Monday or Friday, then you had just provided a three day weekend for yourself. Clever!
After doing that, you made your way out of Rec Hall. It was the whole length of the indoor track of Rec Hall. Along the way, you passed every interest group on campus flinging in your direction a flyer, and hoping that you’d stop. Do you want to join the local chapter of the beekeepers of America? That sort of thing. So here you are already frazzled from getting your punch cards, going down this long hallway where people's arms are out and they’re waving papers at you. And then, all the sudden someone snaps your picture. Because the last thing you do before you leave Rec Hall, they photograph you for your student ID card.
Let’s just say that I looked like I’d been through the Great Depression in my photo. Move over Mother Joad. If you think passport photos are bad, it’s nothing compared to the student ID photos of the 1970s at Penn State. Two years later, when they had to update the student IDs, I made sure I was ready. I wore my absolute favorite shirt. Made sure I had a nice new haircut. I ignored every one of those stupid papers of being thrust out at me, and I took a deep breath and smiled beautifully for the camera for my ID photo. If I learned nothing else at Penn State, I learned that!
Oh there is another interesting side note to Penn State. Everyone who graduated from Penn State had to know how to swim. Everyone. It was a requirement. So, as a part of being an incoming freshman, you had to make haste and go to the Natatorium, where you took the standard swimming test. I came across on the Internet one other person who has talked about Penn State's swimming test at that time. Let’s just say it wasn’t a "bathing suits optional" experience; it was a "you don’t wear bathing suits" experience. And it was about as crowded as Ellis Island on a busy day. Yes, they did separate the men from the women. Different times at the pool. But there we were, hundreds of us, all buck naked, jumping in the water, and doing things they wanted you to do, to prove that you weren’t going to stink like a stone. I’ve never quite experienced anything like that before or since, thank the Lord.
You’ll recall that I’m a good swimmer. I was an even better swimmer then. So there I was like Johnny Weissmuller doing all the things I was supposed to do, and then some. And I passed all the tests. No surprise. It was about then that someone else who was dripping wet, climbed out of the pool looked like he just managed not to succumb.
He looked at me and said, "Hey buddy." I said, "Yeah?" He continued, "You passed the test, right?" I said, "Yes, I did. I’m a good swimmer." He said, "Between you and me, so am I. But I know we have to take four Phys Ed classes to graduate. So I intentionally did a bad job on the test, so that I would be assigned swimming as one of my four. Which I’m sure I’m going to ace. Hey by the way good luck with those four classes that you just signed up for."
Yes, we grow too soon old, and too late smart, as the Pennsylvania Dutch say.
So you’re probably wondering what in the world did I do for my four Phys Ed classes. One was rifle and shotgun. Another was introduction to modern dance. It’s basically doing warm-up exercises for the whole semester. I don’t think we ever did one step of a dance routine. A third was rowing and canoeing. And the fourth was archery. But the one that’s most memorable was the rowing and canoeing.
It was conducted primarily in the classroom, as we were taught all of the rudiments of a small craft on open water. And then we paddled about in a large swimming pool in a canoe. You think that I’m making this up but I’m not. The final exam took us up to a real, spring-fed lake, owned by Penn State, high in the mountains. I was taking this class in the winter semester. At the lake, our final was to swamp our canoe, inflate our blue jeans and jacket so they could be used as life preservers, which meant taking them off in the frigid February spring-fed waters, and then righting the canoe and paddling to shore.
I have never been so cold in all my life as when I hit the water. The whole concept of knives and needles going through your body it’s an apt description. I’m still shivering thinking about it. When we got out of the water, we were taken to this little unheated hut. We changed into dry clothes. What an awful experience. But I did learn how to canoe.
By the end of my freshman year, I had become involved at Faith United Church of Christ. And in the music program, as well as their college program there. It was being run that year by a couple the wife of which, before her marriage, was a daughter of the Myers Dairy teaberry ice cream people. They did a pretty good job of running the program. But they did even better job of meddling in the lives of the students who went there. They tried to convince every one of the students that their parents were awful. What motivated them is beyond me. The wife cultivated an air as sweet is apple pie, but hidden behind that was a schemer. She was also the director of these musicals that took us here, there, and somewhere else. Every year we sang music that written by Bill and Gloria Gaither. Which was more contemporary in sound, and more conservative and narrow in theology, than one was used to at a Presbyterian or UCC Church. So once again my musical repertoire was broadened, if not deepened.
I took a lot of interesting electives over the time at Penn State, but maybe the most interesting elective, which I have not used a bit since, was meteorology, where we learned how to chart weather patterns. Everything that’s now done with the computer models from the USA or other places. Whenever I watch Tony Mainolfi on WESH (hi Tony!), I think about my days in the meteorology class.
At some point in my sophomore college year, I received a kind offer of a car - to purchase it at the cost of what I would pay to insure it for the first year - from my Aunt Marie, who lived at the Watergate in Washington DC. She and my Uncle Roger had bought the car new, just before he was sent off to Vietnam, where his plane was shot down, and he was, for many years, listed as missing in action. That was 1967; Aunt Marie had driven that car, a 1996 Pontiac Catalina Ventura (white with black interior) ever since, but was now ready to replace it, which she did with another big white car, a Ford LTD. Aunt Marie believe that all cars should be white (in direct contrast to Henry Ford). She also believed that all lampshade should be black. But I digress. I was delighted with the offer. The car was huge inside, a true wide track Pontiac as they advertised. It could carry eight passengers, 4 in the front bench seat and 4 in the back. Now, at Penn State, freshman were not permitted to have a car. Upperclassmen could. If you had a car on campus you had to park it way out in Parking Lot 80, which was on the far northeastern end of the campus, closer to the town of Bellefonte than it was to Old Main. There is nothing in the world like mushing off to Parking Lot 80 in the middle of January or February with the winds of winter, ice and snow, fighting you each long step of the way. I soon determined that I would NOT park my car there. instead, I bought a monthly pass for the town's only parking garage, and happily housed the Pontiac there throughout my college years. It was just a block off the central portion of campus, and covered, so there was no shoveling of snow or scraping of ice. Brilliant! And the passes were quite reasonable. My only spurge at college. That was a great car. Till the gas shortages came round. It had a huge gas tank. I recouped some of the gas costs whenever I drove to and from Lancaster. I always had at least three of my Hempfield High friends who went along and chipped in. Hi, Jim and Dave.
Students don’t have a lot of money, so I didn’t shop a whole lot, but there were a couple of stores on College Avenue that had relatively inexpensive interesting things which served for me to buy gifts for family for occasions like Christmas. The most famous establishment on College Avenue was The Corner Room, of the place where one could get a nice meal. Most students could not afford it, unless their parents were there paying bill. Also along Main Street and just as famous was the College Diner. The College Diner was known for its grilled stickies as in sticky buns. I’d love to tell you that I frequently had grilled stickies at Penn State, but I believe I had them no more than three times in four years.
Just off of College Avenue was the barbershop that I went to, Toto‘s barbershop. No, it was not run by the canine actor from "The Wizard of Oz". But rather by a man whose last name was Toto. He was very nice. And he gave a good hair, just about the best I have ever had. But perhaps his greatest claim to fame was that one of his other regular customers was the most famous person in State College. And that would be Joe Paterno. Many time I had been in Toto‘s Barbershop when Joe was in the chair, or just leaving or just arriving. And we would say hello and that was about as far as it went.
His last year of life was such a disappointment. We expect our heroes to be role models, too. They may not choose it. But they take on that role, by virtue of what they’ve chosen to do in life. These people were supposed to be exemplary, but missed the mark hugely. We try to look only at their accomplishments, but we cannot in any way condone the behavior. It’s always disappointment, especially to the young who are looking up to them, to find that their admiration and trust was miss-placed.
Take a moment as you read this to pause, and to write down the names of those people that have helped form how you will live your life. There will be famous people on the list. And there will be people known only to you on the list. The people that you list should be worthy for every aspect of your admiration and emulation. People who have the goodness, and kindness, and intelligence, and hard work, and dedication, that help build up a life, a family, or a society. Don’t put anyone on your list that belittles others, or undermines others, or manipulates others. Even when these kinds of things are lauded in the business world as a way to "get ahead". These are dead ends, in this world and the next.
Shrive to be worthy to be on someone else’s list. Perhaps your own children, or another member of your family. Worthy of emulation in the best sense. May people remember a word that you said, a kindness that you have done, a question you have posed for them to ponder. Selfless acts, done out of the limelight. Something along those lines that has made a lasting difference. There are many such people in my life. And I’m grateful for each and every one of them.
You never know who you’re going to meet when you are off to college. Some of the best people. (Conversely, we will not mention them further, you also meet some of the worst). I was very fortunate to meet some very wonderful people who became my friends, and still are. A number of them were friends because of the architecture studies. They were part of that. Chuck Romigh, Allan Lengle, and Jim Madden, all of whom later were groomsmen in my wedding. Chuck went on to have a full and interesting career as an architect for the Commonwealth of Pennsylvania. Allan, a similarly responsible job for the telephone company. Jim had a career in creating new stores for a national line of retail shops. Also Penn State was where we met our mutual friend Hope Stephen, and through her, her roommate Betty Bechtel. Both were in graduate programs in the English department. We all became a part of a small group of friends who met regularly, intentionally. To take turns making dinner, and then to go to films that were being screened on campus, in their ongoing film festival - among other things.
We went to picnics at the university owned park on the mountain (but no canoeing or swamping thereof!). We went on trips to various cities and places of interest. Over time we created what we called the Unbirthday party, when, instead of celebrating each other‘s birthdays all through the year, we had one big event. We also would get together on New Year’s Eve and play that game where you select and steal beautifully wrapped presents that could have anything at all inside. The key was to wrap them so they looked enticing, even though most of them were what would be called gosh gifts. A roll of toilet paper (new!) generated lot of interest one year. But the best was a tie that looked somewhat like the marbleized endpapers of old books, but in a riot of colors. That one put in an appearance year after year. We devised other games, such as a version of Name That Tune. All very enjoyable. It is amazing how much fun you can have doing congenial things. One year we attempted to play Monopoly, but another member of the group who shall remain nameless, was a real cutthroat Monopoly player. She would have killed her own grandmother own Boardwalk and Park Place. That was the end of that game.
Jumping a bit ahead in time, but while we are talking of this group of friends, there was another outing that only four of us did, canning down the Brandywine River in southeastern Pennsylvania. I highly recommend it. Except that - and it pains me to remember to this day - Allan had a brand new expensive SLR camera. There were four of us in total, Allan and Chuck in one canoe and me and Miss Monopoly in the other. At some point, Allan decided to pass the camera to Miss Monopoly so she could take a picture of the other canoe. Oh dear! Her grip was about as firm as silly putty. Into the Brandywine went the new, expensive camera, completely ruined. Had I dropped it, I would have offered to pay for a replacement, and so would you. But that offer was never made.
Those of us in the architecture program hatched upon the idea of doing a trip to Chicago to see the famous architecture there. So we did. It was a week-long trip, and we pinched every penny we had. We took Jim’s parents' truck and travel trailer, and stayed in a campground that was distant from the Loop, but convenient to public transportation. We made due with meager meals, and we drove back and forth on state highways to avoid the tolls on the limited access roads across Ohio, Indiana, and Illinois. All of that was worth it, however, as we saw all of the places worth noting in the city and in the suburbs of Oak Park and River Forest - in other words, among the buildings, we saw many of the early works of Frank Lloyd Wright. We also had business cards from a friend in the design business which opened the doors to the many floors of the fabulous Merchandise Mart. We were glad that Jim's parents owned a succession of travel trailers, and got a kick out of Jim's quip that as soon as one got dirty, his mother would trade it in for a new model!
Eventually, the architecture program when you’re in your junior year gives you an opportunity to do a semester abroad. Of course, with my Italian background, and having learned so much about Italian Renaissance architecture, with or without a German accent, I was dying to go to Italy. I had planned it; I thought about it; I had eagerly anticipated it. So I came to the fall of my junior year, when everyone was planning where they would go for the spring semester. And we were given unhappy news: the program in Italy didn’t look like it was going to happen. It was some problem with the academic portion of it that didn’t seem like it was going to come about. It certainly didn’t have to with the residential portion, because students were given the task of finding their own place to live in the semester abroad in Florence. Which seems like a cockamamie idea then, as it seems now. But any rate, the other location that where there was not going program was in Germany. And I had absolutely no desire to go to Germany. It just didn’t speak to my heart and mind.
But at that first meeting, they said they were thinking they had found a program in England as an alternative. It’s going to be in this little town south of London called Petworth, and the students will study with a man who is an architect, and live in his home. His wife is trained as an architect too, and they have two small children. He has a London office. And there’ll be opportunities to go back-and-forth to London, as part of the studies.
I hadn’t ever thought about going to England to study. But given the alternative of going to Germany, which held no interest, or signing up for Italy which sounded as if it wasn’t going to happen at all, I did what you would have done, which was sign up to be part of the group that would go to England. I did it without consulting anybody. Which was out of character because usually I would ask my parents what they thought. But we had to decide then and there, immediately.
And so the die was cast, as they say. I would be spending the spring of 1975 in West Sussex. Which made all the difference for my life thereafter.
Petworth - Spring of 1975
So we were off to England. In those days, the Penn State students who were headed to Europe to study flew as economically as possible, on Icelandic Airlines. This meant you flew from New York to Rekjivick, and then on to Luxembourg. No matter where you were headed thereafter. The stopover in Iceland was scheduled just long enough for you to buy Icelandic sweaters and blankets, right there at the airport. Which the airlines pushed considerably.
Once in Luxembourg, you had to make your way to wherever you were to be studying. Our program was to begin several days after our arrival in Luxembourg, so we hopped the train and headed to Paris, this being our only chance to do that. The introduction to The City of Light included a visit to the Louvre. Our architecture professor Bob Desmarais - a jovial fellow - had told us the "secret" that if someone wants to take a street photo of you, let them do it, because the price is very cheap. Well, he must have been somewhere other than the Louvre. We followed his advice, but had to pay through the nose for the resultant photo.
After a brief time in Paris, we were off to England. In those days, there wasn't a Chunnel. So you crossed the Channel the way that people have been doing since before William the Conqueror - by boat. Ours was a night boat. Along with the darkness, we had rain falling sideways, and heavy seas. Everyone turned unflattering tones of green and yellow on that crossing. I wondered how Gertrude Ederle ever made it across.
The train took us to London, and then we followed the instructions for the train to Pullborough, which was the nearest town to Petworth where the train stopped. At the station, our host John Wingate Davidson met the five of us who had opted for the Petworth studies. He came in a late model Renault (pronounced "Wren-Oh") and we barely managed to all fit. Then off to Petworth along West Sussex narrow and winding roads at the verge of the South Downs. We passed the home where Sir Edward Elgar once lived, although with little pomp or circumstance. Near it, there was a particular tight bend that John referred to whimsically as Opportunity Curve. Well, I guess if someone you were interested in happened to be seated next to you in the car.
We arrived at Petworth and to the Davidson's home, North House, which I talked about in an earlier post from this year. I am going to insert it here, rather than rewrite the same information:
It is a special vintage house dating back centuries that looks somewhat like the famous George Wythe House in Williamsburg, Virginia. All red brick and Sir Christopher Wren in appearance. It is the kind of historic home that would be of general interest to anyone who enjoys good architecture. But it is more so, to me.
In the spring of 1975, I spent a semester abroad as part of my architecture studies at Penn State. The semester abroad program had been long established by then. There were locations in Florence and in Darmstadt that provided architectural studies for students who were juniors in the architecture department. I had been looking forward to going, and had my heart set on going to Florence to study Renaissance architecture first hand.
The early fall of 1974, there was a special called meeting for everyone who had been considering the semester abroad. I attended, only to learn that there was great doubt as to whether the program in Florence would happen. Changes there with regard to the professors meant that the folks at Penn State might not be able to put a program together in time for anyone to go and study there. What a disappointment, to say the least.
However, the faculty told us, there was an alternative we could consider. For the first time, they would be offering a study option in Britain. Specifically in Petworth, south of London. The program would be overseen by an architect that our PSU professor Bob Desmarais and his wife Sally had met in a restaurant in London. The meeting was by happenstance. The prof had looked over age the adjacent table and had seen a man drawing on a napkin, and said to himself, "The only people who draw on napkins are architects!" and went over to introduce himself. He was correct. The napkin artist was a London based architect, John Wingate Davidson. They struck up a friendship which led to this proposed new semester abroad.
It was all rather whimsical and poetic.
I decided to try the new location rather than wait to find out whether Florence was a go or a no-go. A good decision all around. From April through June I lived in and studied in North House, the house that is currently for sale. The architect, John Wingate Davidson, and his wife and fellow architect Janet Davidson, were our hosts as well as overseeing our course of study.
They lived on the middle (main) floor of North House. For our semester, they opened up the third floor, where each of us had a bedroom to ourselves. They also opened up the ground floor for ongoing use of a bathroom for us, and occasional use of a big drawing room for receptions and for the presentation of our final projects. The room was rather grand, with big floor to ceiling windows that could be opened by sliding the lower portion into the floor and the upper portion into the ceiling, to make the kind of openings one usually associated with French doors.
Seeing that the house is for sale brings back many wonderful memories of that time in England. I suppose the best is that while in England I unexpectedly experienced my call to ministry. Which I may say more about later. It also brought about a life-long transatlantic friendship with the Davidsons which has included a visit from Janet to us when we lived in Pittsburgh the first time, and a last moment tour of Fallingwater for her while she was with us.
The Davidsons left North House some years ago, and relocated to Byworth, a hamlet just outside Petworth. The current photos of North House show that it has been well cared for all these years. And decorated in a style which is much grander that I remember. There is also now a swimming pool in the garden; not there in my time there.
The main facade of the house is a challenge to photograph, chiefly since it abuts the North Street and directly across are the high walls of Petworth Park. When I saw this very fine photo of the front of the house, I thought that the photographer must have risked life and limb by perching on top of those 8 foot high stone walls. Well, probably not, on second thought. The photographer probably used a drone.
Something that would have been unheard of in the spring of 1975.
North House's drawing room is where the Davidsons threw a lovely welcoming reception for us in April of that year, which was where we first met Sir Leslie Fry and Lady Penelope Fry (Marian Elizabeth Penelope Bentley), Lord Egremont and Lady Egremont, and Lady Ursula Wyndham (Lord Egremont's aunt), all Petworth notables and most gracious indeed. About which more later.
Wishing whomever purchases North House many years of happiness.
About John Wingate Davidson (1923-2015):
John Wingate Davidson was born on 23 July 1923, the son of Walter Henderson Davidson, school teacher and his wife Isabella Drysdale Wingate who was also a teacher. They had married in Edinburgh in 1912. John Davidson was educated at George Heriots School in Edinburgh and Hawick High School.
He studied for the diploma in architecture at Edinburgh College of Art. He was an RIBA probationer from 1940 and elected ARIBA in 1950. From 1950-1952 he worked in the Architects Department of Somerset County Council where he worked on the design of schools, moving in the latter year to Plymouth City Architects Department. He was the design architect for Plymouth Civic Centre and was awarded the Grand Prix d'Honeur (Paris) in 1956 for this design. In that same year, 1956, he moved to a post with the Schools Division of Coventry City Architects Department. He was job architect on Binley Comprehensive School, Coventry which was designed using the CLASP system.
In 1959 he was appointed Group Architect in the Housing Division of the LCC ( later GLC) under the Principal Housing Architect, Kenneth J. Campbell. He designed the first multi-story Housing Block in the world to utilize a steel frame and GRP external panels, the SF1 System. Four tower blocks were erected. This led to extensive lecturing engagements while still working at GLC. In 1965 he left the GLC to open business on his own account in Westminster which continued until he retired in 1992. For some time during this period his firm was associated with Alison Hutchison under the style 'Wingate Davidson, Alison Hutchison Partnership'.
During the 1960s Davidson lectured widely on the use of steel in multi-story housing and reinforced plastics in building - at MIT Boston, Pratt University NY, and Penn State University in the USA, Edinburgh College of Art and Birmingham School of Architecture. He also lectured for the European Iron & Steel Federation and for the Construction Specifications Institute in Washington DC in 1969. Between 1975 and 1988 as their Professor of Architecture he devised the Course and supervised groups of students on the Foreign Studies Programme of Penn State University. The students were resident at North House, Petworth, the Davidsons' home.
Davidson married twice, first to Marian, by whom he had one son and then to Janet who was an architectural technician with the LCC/GLC and a lecturer in art and architecture. They have one daughter Katrin who is an artist and teacher, and a son Maxwell who is an architect.
Outwith his professional life Davidson maintained an interest in the RAF Bomber Command having served as a Pilot from 1942-46, attaining the rank of Flt/Lt. He was also interested in Scottish Rugby Football stemming from his schooldays in Hawick where he was at school with Bill McLaren.
I did not know, until today, about John's WWII service. He was a Flight Lieutenant in R.A.F.V.R. Bomber Command in the Second World War. He flew Wellingtons and Halifaxes. He writes: "I flew solo for the first time in a Stearman trainer plane in Ponca City, Oklahoma. I have been recording my memories of my four years in the Royal Air Force Volunteer Reserve, including the pilot training I had in America as part of the ‘Lease-lend’ arrangements UK had with USA. Memories are triggered by random contacts with names, places, music, photographs. They are ‘wild echoes flying’. “Based on the place and the time, it is highly likely that he and my Dad were at Ponca City at the same time.
About Sir Leslie Fry:
Sir Leslie Fry was Her Majesty's ambassador to a number of nations, chief among them, Hungary during the Hungarian Revolution. Those who wish to know more about that time, or about the inner workings of international statecraft in the mid 1900s, would do well to consult his autobiography, "As Luck Would Have It".
Sir Leslie was a gentleman in every way, and in the time that I knew him in Petworth, a delightful raconteur and host. His wife, Lady Penelope, was likewise charming and kindly, with a serenity and beauty that was a wonder to behold.
The Fry’s at that time lived in a masterful house by the great British architect Norman Shaw, (designed by Norman Shaw in 1871 for Henry Upton, Solicitor and Agent to Lord Leconfield of Petworth House). Gorehill House was surrounded by century old rhododendrons, with an unparalleled view of the South Downs. Luncheon conversations with them ranged from diplomacy to fine art.
Indeed, they had a wonderful collection of paintings and Sir Leslie was wont to ask visitors to spot the "fake" amid the bona fide Old Masters in their dining room. Guests were usually stumped, as we Penn State students were. Among Canalettos and Impressionist works, one was, to our eyes, undoubtedly by Rembrandt. And we said so.
Sir Leslie was delighted to have pulled the wool over our eyes with it. Nope. Not by Rembrandt!
His story of the pseudo Rembrandt (painted in the manner thereof but signed by the actual artist, and so, not a forgery), by a grateful Hungarian whom the Fry’s had spirited out of the Hungary at the very last moment, is not in his autobiography, but many other equally fascinating tales are.
About Lady Ursula Wyndham:
As someone who got to know Lady Ursula Wyndham before she wrote her two books of memoirs ("Astride the Wall", and "Laughter and the Love of Friends"), I highly recommend them both.
In the 1970s when I knew her, she was a keeper of goats who went round Petworth on her bicycle selling her homemade yogurt. Thin and wind-blown looking, she was perhaps foremost among the many fascinating residents of that charming village, and of undoubted interest since her nephew was and is Lord Egremont. Some of the locals called her "Crazy Auntie" for that reason, and while it was an affectionate nickname; her life story makes it perfectly clear that - eccentric as she undoubtedly was - Lady Ursula was sharp as a tack and bright as a penny.
There are many places in her books where I laughed aloud at her frank and pithy observations about herself and her family. She later admitted that these books helped serve as a way to avenge herself upon her parents' treatment of her, as may be clear in some of these excerpts...
"I do not think that my mother ever fell in love. Any situation involving vulnerability was not for her. Twin brothers, called Bonsor, are reputed to have proposed to her at the same ball. My mother said "No" to the first proposal and "Is this supposed to be funny?" to the second. Throughout her life she made that response to most jokes. There is no reason to suppose that young Bonsor was not serious, but my mother would never have married anybody who made a social gaffe. She was also wooed by an Irish earl, but who wants to fritter their life away on a bog?"
* * *
"My mother had been encouraged to breast feed her first child, but was intensely adverse to the ritual and did not attempt it with any of her other children. To my intense surprise and delight I discovered that, when goaded, I could momentarily even the score by saying, "What do you expect from a child that has never known its mother's milk?"
* * *
About her father: "There is only one thing worse than having no sense of humor," he was wont to proclaim, "and that is thinking things funny that aren't." The latter comprised all witticisms not uttered by himself."
* * *
(And this gem) "I rifled through the pages of the Peerage to find myself a husband and settled on Sir Aymer Maxwell of Monreith; he was a suitable age and of the same family as the notorious Jane, Duchess of Gordon, who raised a regiment. A grander title would have involved one in a tedious lifetime of opening bazaars. My mother, while agreeing with my father that nobody would look twice at their daughter, was on tenterhooks as to what sort of women might snare her sons."
* * *
(And, speaking of her Wyndham grandparents) "The couple's three beautiful daughters (therefore, Lady Ursula's aunts) were painted by Sargent, draped with elegant languor all over a sofa. The picture, known as The Three Graces, now hangs in the largest picture gallery in New York." (The Wyndham Sisters by J S Sargent, 1900, is in the Metropolitan Museum).
In her second book, "Laughter and the Love of Friends" Lady Ursula further displays her natural wit, and great intelligence which she exercised by visiting places of interest and asking sometimes challenging questions. She did this in her friendships as well, which made those close to her love her fiercely, and appreciate her eccentricities all the more.
A keeper of goats and purveyor of homemade yogurt, she never married but this did not prevent Lady Ursula from romantic entanglements that were, although complicated, deeply satisfying to her.
One has a sense that had she been born fifty or seventy-five years later, she would have had fewer of the limitations that were inevitable for one who was expected to conform to a particular model (find a husband and marry well).
It is good to know that as a result of these two books, she also had a broadcasting career late in life that was a popular success. Oh and in case you are wondering about her unsuspecting prospective bridegroom: Aymer (Maxwell) Maxwell of Monreith 8th Bt (1911 - 1987). He was the son of Lt. -Col. Aymer Edward Maxwell and Lady Mary Percy. He died in 1987... unmarried.
From all of that you can gather that Petworth was a tremendously rich experience, yes, for the architectural studies but also for the wonderful people we met there. all of whom seemed as delighted as possible to have some American architecture students in their midst.
Fairly early on, in our time there, a phone call came from Petworth House. An important lecture about the unrivaled collection of Turner paintings there was soon to occur. Would the American lads be willing to come and help move the furniture and set up the chairs in the very large heroic room where the lecture would take place? Would we! So off we went and had a lovely time moving rare 17th century ormolu and marble side tables and the like, from there to here. It was good of them to entrust us with irreplaceable museum pieces. But then, Lord Egremont was of a welcoming nature, and not stuffy whatsoever. Later in our time in Petworth, he hosted an annual "Jumble Sale" at the big house. So temporary booths and tables were set up for what we in the USA would call flea market items. Petworth House is graced with its own important art gallery, filled with treasures dating back to the Greeks and Romans. It was a tad disconcerting to me to see cast off clothing of all kinds draped languorously over the arms of marble maidens who must have been cousins to the Venus de Milo - well at least they had arms!
The very first week we were at North House, the Davidsons hosted a lovely reception for the townsfolk to meet us, and vice versa. It was in that large main floor room with the clever windows - and quite memorable. it was there that we first met the Wyndham family - Lord Egremont who was just a few years older than we, and his mother the Dowager Duchess, and his aunt, Lady Ursula - as well as Lord and Lady Penelope Fry. One of our number, upon being introduced the Ambassador’s wife, when hearing her first name, responded: "Penelope! That's the name of our dog!" I winced. But Lady Fry took it in stride, after all, she must have heard much worse in their various postings around the world.
Then again, perhaps not.
Our assignment for our major architectural project for the semester was to design a proposed community center type building for the town. The location was a sloping market square that was normally used as a municipal car park, or as we say in the USA, parking lot. Each student took his own tack on the project. Aware that most of the buildings in Petworth were red brick with red tile roofs, I felt that following in that genre would help what would undoubtedly be the largest building in town, except for Petworth House itself, to fit in, and seem part of the townscape. Some of the students designed quite modern looking glass and steel structures in a watered down "International Style" which had run its course by that time; and which was not the high water mark of modern architecture; or echoes of the Paul Rudolph type "New Brutalism" which was basically poured concrete chunky cave-like intrusions, now thankfully completely out of vogue.
We did presentation drawings. We made scale models of the buildings with the existing townscape surrounding. It was all quite professionally done. And then, at the conclusion of the semester, the Davidsons hosted another of the parties like the one that had welcomed us. At which we were each given an opportunity to describe the features of our designs. I was quite pleased to be told that the consensuses was that my design was the "Most Likely to Actually be Built". Not bad for a semester's work.
It wasn't all work and no play. We made several weekend trips up to London, camping out in John's office, and seeing the essentials there. Also a visit to the Chelsea Flower Show, where we missed seeing H. M. but only by minutes. We also went to Bolton Abbey for a picnic on Bank Holiday, a gorgeous day in a great setting. We went to Parham House, a showplace of Tudor architecture, not far from Petworth. To the Goodwood races, and to Chichester, often, to see the cathedral, where St. Richard (1157-1253) wrote the prayer that made him forever famous, and which sounds current as well as timeless:
"Thanks be to you, our Lord Jesus Christ, for all the benefits you have given us, for all the pains and insults which you have borne for us. Most merciful Redeemer, Friend and Brother, may we know you more clearly, love you more dearly, and follow you more nearly, day by day, Amen."
The poem had been set as a popular folk song by Steven Schwarts just three years before, and remains familiar to most everyone.
We went to Arundel Castle, which is surely one of the most fascinating castles to visit. We went to Brighton and toured the fantastical Royal Pavilion with its pleasure domes and palm tree capital columns. And once our semester was concluded, we had a few weeks to travel before heading back to Luxembourg, to meet our return flight.
While in Petworth we were - as much as possible - part of the town's doings. Fairly often, John would say, “Lads, let's look in on the pub," and we would head to The Angel. I became familiar with and well known to the postmistress - mailing many letters home to family and friends. The bake shop was also on my rounds, although not as often. For worship on Sunday, I attended the United Reformed Church every weekend I wasn't exploring further afield. I learned that in Britain, they have not one hymnal in the racks, but two. One for the words and one for the music. And they mix up which is sung with what - of course it is all very familiar to them, but some of the "new-to-me" tunes for familiar hymn text were quite different from our 1955 Maroon Presbyterian Hymnal back home. This was he first time I realized that words and music could be mixed and matched. But not the last, to be sure!
The life of faith had been central to growing up, to being at Penn State, and now, to being in Petworth. But throughout them all, I saw myself as faithful church member, but never gave a passing thought to ministry as a vocation. I was going to be an architect, just as I had determined there in front of the Hotel del Coronado at age 8.
All that changed, one fine morning while I was in Petworth.
My usual morning pattern every day was to read a short passage of the Bible and a brief devotional using the publication, "The Upper Room". Thereafter, in that semester in Petworth, I would go for a walk. Sometimes on the paths that were along the edges of the town, but more often than not, I would cross North Street and enter the side gate (via the cow yard, as they say) to Petworth Park, and walk there. Sometimes, over to the Tilington Church, and at others, here and there in the gorgeous Capability Brown designed landscape. Always, with the large facade of Petworth House in the background. No, I was not trespassing. The house and park had been signed over the National Trust. The house was open for tours on select days of the week. The park was open dally, at no charge, to enjoy, for anyone who wished to do so.
This was a formed habit, and a relaxing way to begin the early morning. One day - however - stood out from the rest. I had just completed my devotions and was out walking in Petworth Park, when I had a strong sense of God's presence, and an inner voice, saying, "John I want you to be a minister." I was astounded, both in a humbled way and a questioning way. I had never given a thought to being a minister. I had planned to be an architect ever since I had given though to what I might do in life. What did this mean? I confess I turned it over in my mind. I wondered if I was really supposed to abandon my long held plan to be an architect, or if perhaps I could be an architect who also was a dedicated church member. The idea had taken hold, this sense of call. But it was still being formed. Many years later, I was thrilled to be able to take Judy and John and Anne to Petworth, and see the very spot in Petworth Park that would alter the course of my life.
After we concluded our time at Petworth, there was enough travel time to go to the Lake District. Such beautiful scenery. One can see why Wordsworth and so many others were inspired by it. But eventually it was time to go back to Luxembourg, to catch our return flight home on Icelandic airlines. Which did not go according to schedule.
We got to Iceland just fine. But we were made to wait for many hours in the airport lounge as we were given unhelpful "updates" about the need to do repairs to our plane. Eventually they served us an evening meal - I know hot dogs were the main feature. Did you know that hot dogs were a national dish of Iceland? It was news to me. So gathered there in the airport lounge, we all had supper, not knowing when we would continue on our journey to New York. When I say we, I mean all of the architecture students who had been in England, in Germany, and yes, in Italy (since that program did happen after all), as well as the art history majors, and I believe English majors as well. The entire plane passenger list consisted of Penn State juniors. We waited and waited. Long into the evening there came an announcement the we were going to be put up at the local hotel (owned by the same corporation as the airline), for the night. And so we were bussed there. The place wasn't bad, it just wasn't home. We all wanted to get home.
That didn't happen immediacy the next day. No. After they served us breakfast, they told us that the plane still wasn't ready, so they were taking us on a tour of the highlights of Rekjavick. Which I am sure you would have been just as excited about as we were. Where did they take us? All over the capital city. We saw the big cathedral church, we saw the town square, we saw the thermal fed pools in which people splashed about even though the air was below freezing. We were taken to the edge of their fair city to see the first houses ever built on Iceland, little huts dug into the ground like the sod houses of the Kansas prairie. We noticed that every building in the city was built out of reinforced concrete and painted cheery seaside colors, to combat the darkness of the long arctic winters. We were informed by our chatty tour guide that they could not build out of wood, because the early settlers to Iceland brought along their sheep, and the sheep had eaten all the trees. Indeed, the tour guide was especially proud of the trees in the town square, which were no larger than an ornamental dogwood or crab apple tree in the USA. Not exactly the towering redwood. But Icelanders were impressed.
We were also taken to the home and studio of Iceland's most famous artist, to see it and him, and if we wished, buy something he had created. I cannot say if anyone bought an example of his art, but the home was memorable since it consisted of igloo-like vaguely Art Deco concrete dome "rooms" somehow connecting the others, kind of like a planetarium, and just as cozy. Be it ever so humble.
After a long day of seeing everything there was to see, they finally took us back to the airport and put us on the plane (presumably fixed) and off we went to JFK. In more recent years, a number of acquaintances have made a trip to see the wonders of Iceland. No thanks. Been there, done that.
Still, there was that senior year at Penn State to complete. I always like to finish what I start, so there was no way that I was going to change majors for my senior year, even with that call I had at Petworth Park. So while I completed my senior year, I looked at the "what next". I had as I saw it, three options. One would be to completed my undergraduate work and go to seminary, which would fit that call event, obviously. The second would be to complete my undergraduate work, and then work in an architecture office for some time, how long, remaining open-ended. The third would be to go to architecture graduate school. I researched all three. As a result, I discarded the seminary option. For, if one were a Presbyterian candidate for ministery, one had to study both Greek and Hebrew. Nothing could have appealed to me less. I wasn't willing take on those dusty old languages of the Old and New Testaments. So that was that.
I applied for any number of positions in architecture firms. I thought I had a pretty good portfolio to show these potential employers. And they agreed. I heard from a number of them that my work and my potential were of the first order. But, you see, we were just coming out of the recession of the mid 1970s in which the building trades and architecture had been so hard hit that these firms had laid off their employees right and left. Things were staring to look up in 1976, however, to a firm, they were hiring back people they had let go; people who had work experience. They weren't hiring newbies just out of college. Disappointing as it was, that ruled out option number two.
What was left? Option three, of course. To apply to and be accepted in a master’s degree program in architecture. I discovered that VPI in Blacksburg, Virginia, had three different masters programs, and while two of them held absolutely no interest whatsoever, the third sounded as if it had been designed especially for me. It was a program bringing together people from architecture, landscape architecture, urban planning, sociology, and various other disciplines in order to try to respond creatively to the needs of the inner cities. This sounded as if it has great affinities with my architecture/ministry focus. Design that was intended to make people's lives better. To this, I applied. I was accepted. And I was also hired as a graduate assistant. The path was made clear.
Or so I believed.
Before we leave the vocational aspirations of architecture students at Penn State in the mid-1970s, I must relate one story. There were precious few firms that came to Penn State to recruit us (one of the failings of the PSU architecture program was job placement of its graduates), but one of our professors had a friend at SOM (Skidmore Owings & and Merrill - Frank Lloyd Wright dubbed them the "Three Blind Mies"), the biggest architecture firm in the country. This high ranking fellow came all the way from Chicago to meet with we who were seniors. We crowded into one of the design studios to hear him speak. There was so much impressiveness to SOM it was hard to take it all in.
In our class, about one third of the students were women. This is notable, since the field of architecture lagged far behind most of the other professions such as medicine and the law, in addressing the fact that until that period, women had not been admitted to these professions readily. Several of the women in our class were among the very best designers, obviously talented, and therefore should have the prospect of a vital career ahead of them.
The SOM big wig, in all of his grand talk, didn't say one thing about opportunities for women there. So when it came time for Q & A, I asked, "Can you tell us what opportunities there are for women as SOM?" He was befuddled with the question. Noticeably and absolutely. But he collected himself and then replied, "I suppose we are always in need of a color theorist." What? That was it! Obviously, he was out of the Loop, both literally and figuratively speaking. If you guessed that the whole room was put-off and indignant, you are correct. As a result, not one of our number made even the slightest move toward applying to SOM. Male or female. One hopes they and similar firms have wised up in the succeeding 50 years. Meanwhile our most talented woman architectural student went on to operate her own practice in eastern Pennsylvania to great success. Hooray!
So, I completed my senior year, and graduation day arrived. My folks came up to State College for the festivities. The commencement exercise were in Beaver Stadium because no indoor venue at PSU could have held us all. The day of graduation dawned overcast, and devolved into rain by the time we were all assembled there. Miserable.
Sarah Caldwell - director of the Opera Company of Boston - was then at the height of her celebrity, and someone had prevailed upon her to leave the exclusive precincts of Boston and make her way into the wilds of Pennsylvania. She had been to the campus in February of that same year, to direct the specially commissioned bicentennial opera "Be Glad Then, America". You have heard it, I am sure. But now, it was May. And here she was, all set to send us off into adult life. What advice would she offer? Would she liken life to a production company? Would she utilize the harmonies of music as a metaphor for success? Would she stress the value of creativity combined with hard work? All of those were potential themes based upon her notable career. What would Sarah say? We waited with baited (albeit moistened) breath. And as you know, I am a keen and attentive listener to sermons and speeches.
At the given moment, the semi-divine Sarah proceeded to the podium, and launched into her address. I have been wracking my brain for any snipped beyond one that she shared with us that day, as all of our mortar boards warped festively in the rain. But the only words I recall had to do with her penchant for conducting while wearing bedroom slippers. There must have been more. But it was forgotten long before the closing exercises that dreary day. And I am not sure Sarah ever knew what a truly ditzy impression she made. Anyone's unknown and unheralded scatter-brained third cousin once removed would have been a better choice for a commencement speaker.
Off to Graduate School - Fall 1976
Fortified and inspired by the elevating thought of conducting opera companies and other groups in fuzzy slippers, I prepared to go to Blacksburg and start my studies as well as my teaching, as part of the master’s program I have outlined. I had made one flying visit to Blacksburg, and seen the campus and also found a room to rent in a home near it, where the dear landlady was in the habit of renting rooms to students - a habit no doubt that began when Beauregard Jackson Butler was a student before the War. If you have to ask which war, you aren't from the South, bless your pea picking heart. Actually the college was founded some years after Appomattox Courthouse, but you get the idea.
So I was all set. I had the course, I had the job, I had the room to rest my head. And as summer blended into fall, down the Shenandoah Valley I drove, and on to the campus of VPI, which is situated beautifully on high tableland surrounded by the mountains. The new beginning was exciting; I anticipated great things to come.
Ha!
In later years I began calling it "My Week in Graduate School". Accurately.
At the beginning of my week, I was to go to a meeting, at which all of those involved in the graduate studies in the architecture department would be present. So off to the designated meeting room, I went. I was shocked - shocked - when I got there that they were only four other people present. I wondered if perhaps we had gotten the wrong time, or the wrong room, but apparently we gotten that part right. It was another part we didn’t get right, but we were soon made aware of. For, into the room came the vice chairman of the architecture department. (Generally speaking, all Corporation Chairmen, Cabinet Secretaries, Presbytery Executives, and the like seem oft to send their vices to convey their bad news). He introduced himself, and began to explain why were we were the only ones there. During the summer, the administration had decided to phase out the particular program to which we had applied and been accepted. The interdisciplinary program, dealing with solving urban challenges. He said, "We let everyone that was coming from other majors know that it was not continuing, but we knew that since the five of you were coming from an architecture department, that you would want to take one of the other two masters study programs in the architecture department." Yes, those words exactly. Do you hear how ludicrous that it is? You’ve made up our minds for us? Instead of communicating to us? That might’ve been the worst part of the information we received. I mean it was extremely disappointing that the program that I thought was exactly right for me was no more. But if I had been told that, in the same way that the other non-architecture students had been told, I may have made up my mind to still come to Blacksburg. Or, more likely I would’ve said "No thank you I’ll pursue another avenue".
I guess they wanted their tuition from us, and our teaching gifts for their undergraduates. Or that they thought we were idiots.
So, I arranged to meet with this same vice person later that day, at which I let him know that I was going to be withdrawing from the program. He didn’t seem very happy about it, especially considering that I was to have been teaching and they would have a hole there, but I had made up my mind. So we worked out the details and the refunds, and all of that sort of thing. And we parted on a cordial note, never to meet again. Me, wondering what in the world I was going to do in the weeks ahead.
I went to the house where I was lodging, and as I entered, the dear sweet lady that ran it said to me, "Your parents have been trying to get in touch with you". And I thought, "Oh jolly... The people from the architecture department have already called them and let them know that I was making this decision". Because I hadn’t let them know yet. I was quite displeased about that. But I went to the little phone on the stand in the hall that the students who rented in the house were allowed to use, remember this was in the days before cell phones, how did we do it? I have no idea. And just like ET, I phoned home.
My mom answered, and I could tell by her voice that she was distressed. She sounded way more distressed than I thought was warranted given the circumstances. I soon learned that neither the vice squad nor anyone else from the school had called her. They had not been in touch with her at all. My parents had no idea that I had made this decision to come home. My mother was calling because her mother had had an accident at home. We had been aware that she wasn’t as sharp as she had been. And my grandfather had someone coming in for two afternoons a week, just to help out with this and that. Well, that particular day the person came in and drew my grandmother a bath, and then helped her get in the tub, and withdrew, to give her some time by herself to bathe. And that was the problem. Because my grandmother decided that the water wasn’t hot enough. And she turned on the hot water to warm it up. Well, the thermostat for their hot water heater was set way too high in that house. And she ended up scalding her heels, the back of her legs, and her bottom. To the point where she had to be hospitalized with third-degree burns. Or is it 4th.
After my mother told me that, I then filled her in that I was withdrawing from graduate school. And we both agreed that as upsetting as it was - it was very upsetting, that my grandmother was hurt so badly - I was going to be a big help to my parents if I came home. Which for the short term is what I did.
Apparently, my grandfather had been covering for my grandmother for a number of months, perhaps more than a year. We should’ve known it when after having not driven for a number of years, he had gone back to driving. It was because my grandmother really couldn’t anymore, but we didn’t know that. So they had to make a decision, or he did, what would they do after the hospital? The decision was made that they would sell their house and move. My aunt and uncle, having never had children, truly had more space to accommodate them, and at least on the surface, a simpler setting for them to go to, since there would’ve been only two generations under roof, rather than three. So it was decided that they would go to my aunt and uncle's, where my uncle was a minister, in Shamokin, Pennsylvania.
The next number of months were spent with Mom and I going from Lancaster to Coatesville every single day, seven days a week, spending the entire day at my grandparents' house, and helping go through all of their many belongings, to make the decision about keep it, or donate it, or throw it away. We worked extremely hard. My grandfather insisted upon looking over absolutely everything to make a determination on what would be done. It was quite taxing.
The fact that he wanted to see everything before he decided about it made sense. But it was a long, tedious process. They had moved several times without going through things that they had, since the 1950s. And this was the late 1970s. Both my grandfather and my grandmother were pack rats. They also had very nice things, as well as things that were meaningful only to them. For instance there were albums filled with old greeting cards. Not just the ones they gave to each other, but a vast collection of Christmas cards from people that they had known many decades before, who would only sign the card with their name, and it would be a stretch to say that there was anything sentimental about them. That’s just an example. Plus my grandmother had squirreled away this and that, which would eventually be for me when I got married, or rather, for my bride. They weren’t in logical places, they were wrapped in old Turkish towels in various and sundry forgotten drawers. So we really did have to go through absolutely everything. And I am sure we missed something or other.
It would’ve been impossible for anyone person to do it by themselves. Mom and I had a huge job doing it, the two of us. From the dust that was raised by all of this, I developed hives. I’d never had hives before. Even known what they were.
Finally, we were done with this Herculean task. My grandparents' house sold. And they moved up to Shamokin. Which was a good temporary solution, but temporary was shorter than any of us imagined. Because my grandmother went downhill very rapidly. With the dementia that she had. The whole concept of Alzheimer’s disease was entirely new at that time. We were just learning about it. Up until that time old people just got "senile". That term had been used forever (from the Latin and French its use in English dates to the 17th century). She went through a time where she was aware that her mental faculties were fading, which was really the worst. And then she got to the point where really she couldn’t be cared for at home, and she was in a lovely nursing facility, and seemed content. It was interesting that her digestive sensitivities that had bothered her for a number of years went away absolutely once she had gone into this twilight of dementia. Mom and I would make visits to the nursing home every week or so. It was a long drive to Danville, Pennsylvania, from Lancaster, very challenging mountainous terrain in the middle of the state. A long way up and long way down. And while we visited with my grandmother we would talk with her as if she were completely with it, because we were convinced that something was getting through if not everything. She always seem to be glad to see us. She always listened intently to what we talked about, or looked at the photo albums or other things that we brought to look at. (No Christmas cards from the 1950s, those were long gone), So I think that we made a positive difference for her in those twilight years.
After the work of dismantling a whole household that took many months, there was no way I was going to look into going on to any graduate school. I just wanted to find a job, and have some sort of normal life.
If you know anything about Lancaster, you know that one of the businesses that was long associated with it was Armstrong Cork Company. And if you are of a certain age or older, you will remember that all of the dwelling magazines always had full-page ads from Armstrong, showing the use of their various products, since they wanted to promote the sales thereof. They had a design staff in house, creating thematic rooms showing off the latest flooring, or wallcovering, or whatever they were promoting. I thought it would make sense for someone with an architecture background who lived in Lancaster already to work for that design team. And I applied for it. I was really interested in getting it. The woman who was in charge of the program there at Armstrong was very encouraging. I’d gone through the interview process and was told it decision would be made soon. "Soon" is a relative unit of time. Like "moment". So, I waited.
And then I got the phone call. No not from the woman at Armstrong Cork Company. But a gentleman who introduced himself as Tom DePaul, of DePaul design. A company I had never heard of. He began the conversation, "By now you’ve heard from Armstrong you did not get the job..." Hmm. By then I had not heard a peep from Armstrong, and I firmly believe to this day that they gave him the sad job of letting me know I didn’t get that job. And he wasn't even a vice chairman, or vice executive presbyter! But the lady that was in charge of the program had told Tom about me, and Tom was expanding his interior design business, and wondered if I wanted to come an interview. Which, naturally, I did.
And a very enjoyable and interesting job it was. Tom had formerly worked for Armstrong, so a segment of his design business had to do with doing trade-show displays. Which were incredibly creative. Another portion of his business was doing interiors for residences and smaller businesses such as doctor's offices. Also very interesting. And then, with a friend, who had an architecture practice in the same building as ours, he was one of three people who had taken on the project of renovating a big section of downtown Lancaster, which was called Old Town Lancaster. A large part of what I did in the time that I worked for DePaul Design was working on these very interesting houses. The earliest of which dated to about 1810, perhaps earlier, and the newest of which dated from the 1920s. There were upwards of 70 or 80 houses involved. The area had been condemned during the Lyndon Johnson’s Great Society program and then sat vacant for well over a decade. At which point, this group of investors and designers had proposed and been accepted to revitalize the entire area. It became a desirable neighborhood for people in Lancaster who were interested both in history and in the opportunity to live conveniently near the center city. And it has remained a popular place to live, 45 years on. Many the kitchens and baths in the houses, I designed. I also designed some aspects of opening up walls and making stairways more interesting. The exteriors of all these houses had to remain of their time period. So it was a case of the outside looking old, authentic, and well maintained, and the inside being modern and up-to-date.
That was just one aspect of the work that I did. We also set up model homes. Nowadays, there are people that do staging, and only staging. Back then there were not, generally. However, we did staging. And we did it right down to making it look like the people who lived in these places had just stepped into the next room. Family photographs on table tops, books and magazines on end tables, and so forth. One of the places we staged was in the month preceding Christmas, and we did a whole Christmas tree and wrapped presents theme. I don’t know what they did with that part of the display once the new year arrived. But by that time, our work there was done.
One day Tom said to me, "I want you to go over to York County and visit with this husband and wife who have a historic home out in the country there." And I said "OK what’s the project?" And he said, "They have a house with a collection of antique furniture dating from late Chippendale to early Federal. And they want some guidance on reupholstering one of their sofas." He said "And they’re paying a handsome amount for our consulting fee." "OK" said I, “Off to York I go."
And so I did, and found the place and was welcomed very warmly by this couple, and their several golden retrievers, and we went into this really beautiful historic home, where everything in it was impeccably chosen. They ushered me into a large living room, and had me sit on the sofa in question. I thought I was going to have to propose creative ideas one way or the other. But it really wasn’t bad. They had already done most of the work. They had two samples of nearly identical damask in a dark cranberry color. One had a pattern that was ever so slightly smaller than the other. And my job was to tell them which one was the appropriate one to recover the sofa upon which I sat.
I decided that the best thing to do was chat about the merits of both for a little bit. Asking them questions and drawing them out. Through the course of that conversation, it was very clear to me that they both were leaning in one direction rather than the other. So, after having given them a chance to talk about it for some time, I said, "Listening to you very carefully and looking at these samples, both of which are entirely appropriate for the time. I believe you’re going to be more pleased over time with swatch A," Swatch A being the one that they had talked about most favorably. Now, you would’ve thought that I had handed them the moon on silver platter; they were so ecstatic about my consultation. After that, we had ice tea and cookies and a lovely afternoon was had by all. I gave them exactly what they wanted and needed. They needed someone to affirm their choice. I find that when you listen to people you get an understanding of where they’re going or what their best guess is, to make a decisions. Not just having to do with swatches of damask for Chippendale sofas. But in every other aspect of life. It is very much like Harry Truman said about raising children. "Find out what they want to do, and encourage them to do it."
Early on in my time at DePaul Design, Tom said "We do a lot of handholding in this business". Meaning, often times when people are going through big life changes, one of the things that they can do to feel like they’re managing those changes is to change their decor. He was absolutely right. And often times it’s a very satisfactory psychological solution to whatever they’re going through, so I wouldn’t ever want to minimize that. But I don’t think anyone has ever put on their résumé that they are an expert in handholding, Then again, I think I could.
We had another client, who wanted her kitchen redone. I’d been doing a lot of kitchens, so I was given the task. I met with the clients, chiefly the lady of the house, providing input. By the time we were done with the meeting I realized that if she had a room three times as big as football stadium, we still couldn’t have shoehorned everything into it that she thought she wanted. This lady had absolutely no idea of the limitations of four walls. But I gave it a stab. I put in everything except one item. Well, no, she wasn’t very pleased with that, because I didn’t have that one item. So then I did another design that had that item, but of course that meant I had to take something away. Again, it was lovely but not quite what she had in mind. I talked with Tom about it, and his answer was "Why don’t you do three designs for her. Do a presentation with all three. And ask her to make a selection." I did as I was told. But I had this strange sinking feeling, even before I began. And that proved to be the case. She liked all three alternatives, but couldn’t decide among them which one she like the best. And could I put all three together and give her what she really wanted? By this time the project as she envisioned it was getting to be about the size of Grand Central Station. But I soldered on, and eventually devised a solution that she said yes that would work. I mean this must’ve been revision 8 or 9 or 20 I don’t know. It certainly seemed that way. That’s what they went with. Later, we received the most charming letter, saying it was all she’d hoped for and more. I don’t know that there is a point to that story, but it is memorable.
I was doing a great job in my job, and enjoying it, but somethings seemed missing. The best way to describe how it was missing, was that I was designing things in my sleep. In other words in my dreams, I was working on projects, either real or imaginary. And while some people find a great deal of satisfaction from what their dreams tell them, I was losing rest, not sleep but rest, by all this design work at night. It was exhausting. All the while I kept asking myself, "Just what was that call I received in Petworth Park and how am I supposed to answer it? And I realized more and more, that I was intended to answer it by going to seminary.
As a result, I ordered some catalogs from some seminaries. Keep in mind this is something like what I had done during my Penn State senior year. Here it was only a few years later. So the materials were pretty much the same. Being a good Presbyterian one catalog was from Princeton Theological Seminary. Being a good Pittsburgh Presbyterian, one catalog was from Pittsburgh Theological Seminary, which I’m glad to say is the oldest Presbyterian Theological Seminary in existence. People who go to Princeton (founded in 1812, and it is NOT part of the famous university by the same name even though their campuses abut) would like you think otherwise; but they came along a number of years after Pittsburgh (founded in 1794). Look it up if you don’t believe me.
In addition to those two, I got one other catalog, and it wasn’t from a Presbyterian seminary. It was from a United Church of Christ seminary, that happened to be almost within walking distance from our home. Lancaster Theological Seminary. Yes the same seminary that Jim Glasse was from, the President thereof, who had been at Penn State and preached at the University Chapel Service my freshman year. I was pretty sure that I wouldn’t go to Lancaster Theological Seminary; nonetheless, it made sense to look into it for comparison purposes, simply because it was right there.
You can see what’s coming.
Here’s how my exploration of the three places developed. First let’s talk about Princeton Theological Seminary. My senior pastor at Highland Presbyterian Church, Ross McClintock, who had not gone to Princeton, told me that I really had to think about going to Princeton, because once you graduate from Princeton, their placement office tracks you and mentors you for your entire ministry. He was right about that. They have a very well-established network, that does an awful lot to promote ministers to pulpit search committees, and does an awful lot to say to ministers, "You’ve been at your church about four or five years, it’s time to think about the next move, and here is the church or set of churches that we recommend you consider." And of course, great references to those churches come along with the suggestion. If you track most ministries of most graduates of Princeton seminary, you will find that about as long as they stay in one congregation is eight years. It’s because somebody in Princeton, New Jersey, has said, "Time to move along!"
So I went and I talked with the powers to be at Princeton, and what I discovered was they had absolutely no idea what to do with a second career student who had a degree in something other than a pre-ministry humanities sort of a focus. I was a little too ahead of my time. If it had been 10 years later, every seminary in creation was flooded with second career students, and it’s been more and more so ever since. Back then, the average student at Princeton Seminary had only taken the summer to catch their breath after they graduated from some sort of liberal arts college, before they started their fall semester at Princeton. Even though I had been out of Penn State for only a few years, I was considered very old compared to most students. Princeton acted not only like they had no idea what to do with me, but they were way too rarified for me. Well, you know how well that sort of an approach went over with me back when I thought I wanted to go to Carnegie Mellon. It rubbed me the wrong way. If you were to say, "John you don’t sound like you’re much of a Princeton Theological Seminary fan", you have read between the lines successfully. So one way or another, Princeton was off my list.
But of course being a Pittsburgher, I love Pittsburgh and I thought "It makes all the more sense that I would go to good old (oldest!) Pittsburgh Theological Seminary. After a false start, in which a snowstorm kept me from going for my initial interview there, I went, I saw, and I came away realizing that the problem was with them not with me. They were between presidents. And they were like a rudderless ship. It was very obvious they had no idea what they were doing, or where they were going, or what their future might be. Which doesn’t really instill confidence in anyone. And I had had one fall start with an indeterminate graduate school program way down in Blacksburg, I certainly wasn’t interested in participating in another similar bump in the road caused by an institution of higher learning that had no idea what was it about. So reluctantly, I crossed Pittsburgh Seminary off my list. And I’m glad I did. Later I would get my doctorate from Pittsburgh, and it was a thoroughly satisfying experience for me. But by that time, Sam Calian had been at the helm for a number of years. He saved that institution, not only by his wisdom and theological insight, but by building the endowment to be the envy of any college or university anywhere.
So what did that leave? It left Lancaster Theological Seminary. Right around the corner, over by Franklin Marshall College, I passed by it every day on my way to De Paul Design's office. So I made an appointment to go and speak with the dean there. And I explained to him my story, and he was very attentive. I told him that I just wasn’t absolutely sure that I was ready to go back to being a full-time student. And he responded, "Why don’t you do this. Why don’t you take one class this semester, while you’re still working for DePaul Design, and see what you think of it".
That was some of the most brilliant advice I’ve ever received. Why didn’t think it up myself; I don’t know. But it was exactly right for me. I did take one course. And I found that I very much liked it.
Lancaster Theological Seminary - 1979-1982
That class I took was probably the most interesting class being offered at the seminary at that time. It was called, "The History of Pastoral Care". Which was a great subject. Thinking about how you reach out to people in need and make them aware of God‘s presence and blessings, at times of difficulty. This class was taught by the Rev. Dr. Donald C. Wilson, who had been for a number of years, the renowned pastor of First Presbyterian Church in Lancaster. Don was a brilliant man, and an outstanding preacher, and had a fabulous ministry. At the time that he was teaching this class, he had been recently diagnosed with terminal cancer.
So yes, the class was the history pastoral care. But it was also an opportunity for Don to invite us in to his own journey. He was doing a lot of theological reflection on it. And he invited us to do that as well. So there was a firmly spiritual dimension to the class, which I will always treasure.
Don was, at that time, eager to see the beginnings of a hospice organization in Lancaster County. Hospice was still cutting edge at that time. Unlike today, when it’s obvious that if you have someone that’s approaching death, hospice can provide all kinds of wonderful support, both to the individual and to the individual's family, In those days, so much of it was unknown, that it took a lot of convincing. It took a lot of education. Don and his wife Barbara were exactly the right people to take that on. They knew so many folks in the Lancaster community, and had a high reputation. So when they spoke, people listened.
I think it’s fair to say that without Don and Barbara's hard work in this regard, it would have been a number of years before hospice would have gotten a foothold in Lancaster. But as a result of their vision, it began, and to this day at thrives, and is served by wonderful people whose chief aim. and calling, is to provide all the palliative care that they can. It is Don and Barbara's legacy.
On the strength of that class, I made up my mind that I would enroll in seminary full-time. Which meant that I was letting go of my job at DePaul Design. Tom told me, "John, I’m really sorry to hear it, because I was going to make you the office manager". Something that I hadn’t suspected at all. But it was gratifying to know that he appreciated what I’d been doing.
So it was that I went to seminary.
Lancaster Theological Seminary is situated right across the street from Franklin and Marshall College. It’s in a leafy academic setting. The Lark Administration Building, which is the main building for the seminary, is built in an architectural style not unlike the Castle at the Smithsonian Institution. So it’s impressive in that mid Victorian red brick and stone Romanesque sort of way. Several other buildings reflected that style, as they morphed into Collegiate Gothic. And then there are newer, but we would call institutionalized international style buildings rounding out the campus. The campus is compact and cozy.
I had some outstanding professors when I was there. I especially liked the fact that they knew what their mission was, and that was chiefly, to prepare people to be pastors in congregations. Some seminaries pride themselves in their stuffy academic aspirations. They act as if all of their graduates will spend all of their lives in dusty libraries scribbling away at theological treatises, of the kind that you needed to stop every five minutes and look every other word up, because while a simpler word would have done perfectly well, thank you very much, the fancier the word that you use, the smarter you will appear to the man or woman in the street. Its elitism sounds silly, and it is silly. But one of the seminaries at that time, (and I suppose still to this day), within the Presbyterian Church USA, takes that approach.
I’m not convinced they’re doing their students any favors. Surly they are not doing the best they can to prepare their students for what it’s like to run a meeting, conduct a funeral, or baptism, plan a budget, and in general, be pastoral. They need a different approach. The mainline churches aren’t what they used to be. It is a long time since the 1950s. When newly-minted minsters were going out to the local churches while churches were booming. It was almost as if all you had to do was open the doors, and in came all the people. In the last half of the 20th century, and the first several decades of the 21st, that is not in the norm. You’re fortunate if you happen to be at the right church, the right place, at the right time, in a new growing community when it becomes extremely popular, grows like topsy, and so there is a proportion of those new residents who are looking for a church and find yours. But all too often, where Presbyterian congregations are situated, they are in old growth neighborhoods. They might be lovely, but they’re firmly established. There are precious few new people moving in. The work of finding and welcoming prospective members is much more challenging.
Further, there have been several things that have happened over the course of those years that have not contributed to the health and well-being of any congregation. One being the recession of 2008. Which pulled the rug out from under many congregations. Specially, if they were located in the communities that lost so many jobs that people simply had to move away, if they were still to make a living.
And then there’s Covid 19. Several studies indicate that in general, Christian churches will have lost about 1/3 to 1/2 of their members during the pandemic. It’s unlikely that they’ll get many of them back. More studies need to be done to decide, are these people simply not doing anything with regard to life of faith? Or are they comfortably anonymous in their family rooms, watching whatever worship service they prefer via live streaming? Which would give them the benefits of: a). Not having to figure out what to wear to church, b). Not having to drive to and from church. c). perhaps most important, not having to put anything in the offering plate to support whatever church they are watching. Human nature is such that once people experience a different way of doing things, and accommodate themselves to it, they will not go back to former habits, even of many decades standing, that are what churches expect of their members.
All that was in the future. As for teaching people how to be pastors, Lancaster Seminary did a fine job of that.
Most of the friends that I made in seminary were part of a different denomination than mine. Oh, there were about a dozen students at the seminary at that time who were Presbyterians. There were two professors, and the president of the seminary, who were Presbyterians. But the vast majority of people at the seminary were members of the United Church of Christ or the United Methodist denominations. So when we all got to the point of being graduates, seeking a call to a church, I was not in competition with any of my friends.
I can’t say how much I benefitted from that. Because I am not a competitive type person. That is not my approach. I am much more collaborative, relationship building, and the like. But I’ve observed graduates from some of the other PC(USA) seminaries, who have spent their entire ministry in cutthroat competition with their "friends" who graduated at the same time. And whenever they get together they gossip along the lines of, "I have news". The news is always about who is going where next. They need to get hobbies. I’m glad I didn’t have to deal with any of that childish nonsense.
This care of alumni extends in another direction, as well. I don’t know if it was ever thus, but in the era in which I served in ministry, there were a fair number of people who were serving rather large and noticeable congregations, got themselves into as we call it "Deep Doo Doo". Usually, had to do with sexual impropriety. In other words, having an affair with a member of the congregation. When such a thing happened, the graduates and administration of that particular seminary close ranks to the point, where it was invariably the case that after the pastor left the church where he had had "zipper problems", and spent a suitable amount of time, no more than a year or two, serving as an interim minister somewhere or other, then lo and behold, he got called to a bigger and better church than the one where the incident happened. Never of course with the wife that had been cheated on. And often times. the new wife was the one who cheated with him! Is it any wonder church members become discouraged, when they look to their leaders, not only for theological insight, but as role models of a living faith? You notice in this section I do not mention names. I do not have to. Those who have lived in the last 40 to 50 years know specifically which seminary, and precisely which pastors.
While we’re on the subject of ministers who do things that they shouldn’t, even though in the course of my narrative I haven’t even graduated from seminary, yet, I must address one other issue. Which wasn’t as prevalent when I was in seminary as it became in the succeeding decades. And that has to do with congregations leaving the denomination. The Presbyterian Church USA has seen a lot of that, but they certainly aren’t the only denomination that has. I speak, however, from the perspective of a pastor in my own denomination. And will say this:
There are a group of pastors who, over the course of the last 40 to 50 years, have as they put it "lead" their church out of the denomination. Huh? What a stupid term. Without exception, these pastors have committed a terrible error. There is no kind way of saying it. Why do I say that? After all, the pastors may possibly say that they have deep-seated convictions that their denomination has gone left when they should’ve gone right. They moan that it has taken some stands that are controversial or unpleasant, or that rubbed the wrong way alongside their particular interpretation of Scripture (although they hate the word interpretation they do it all the time). Well, shouldn’t ministers be allowed to say that they don’t like what the denomination is doing? Yes, they should. We live in a deliberative body that is the Presbyterian Church (USA). When two Presbyterians get together, there are always three opinions about what should be done. That’s no surprise.
One of the strongly emphasized principles - rules and guidelines - of the Presbyterian Church is this: we deliberate, we vote, and then we work together based upon the results of that vote. No matter how we voted, beforehand. That’s what makes a group or organization actually function, rather than fall apart at the seams. But some people are more interested in seeing it fall apart at the seams, aren't they? It is so much easier to tear down than to build up.
It is also lazy, sloppy, and reprehensible.
And so, there developed within the denomination this cause, or that, that was headline grabbing. And could be repeated endlessly. And it brought a certain cross-section of church members into a camp that said, "If they aren't going to do things the way we think is right, we are going to take our marbles and go home." In other words we're going to leave the denomination, with our building, and its resources, (all of which are the denomination's), and with any other thing that isn’t nailed down, and some of that, too.
The first time I had to put into words my contempt for the pastors who lead their church out of the denomination, happened when I was serving at Fox Chapel. One of our church members there spent part of the year at a Presbyterian Church in Lakeland, Florida. One day, after our adult Bible study class, she said to me "John I just don’t know what to do. Our church in Florida is thinking about leaving the denomination. Our minister is advocating that. And I have friends on both sides of the issue, I certainly don’t want to offend anyone. But it’s very upsetting and distressing. And I said, "Jean, it is upsetting and distressing, and here’s my view of it. If a minister has deep-seated feelings about the way its denomination is conducting itself, that minister has two options, either accommodating himself or herself to that, or respectfully removing himself or herself from the denomination. However, this is an action the minister should take alone - as in by himself or herself." (I am writing this to be inclusive but you understand that almost every pastor who does this is male). "In other words they are sworn to serve within the denomination as best they can. If they find they can’t serve within the denomination, they can go. But they shouldn’t take one church member, or the church and congregation, with them. Ever."
What I said then, I believe to this day. And I believe if Dante were writing about the Presbyterian Church (USA) in our time, these pastors who lead congregations out of the domination would have their own very special place reserved, a circle in hell where they could all sit around together and pay the consequences of their chosen actions. I would put it stronger than that, but I’m trying to be diplomatic.
In later years, when I was serving in Orlando we had a minister called to be the senior pastor of one of the largest congregations in the denomination. I was serving on the Committee on Ministry at that time. We had the job of making sure the person was a good fit for the church, and the approval or not rested with our committee, as it does in every presbytery. This fellow was known to be very narrow-minded in his theology. So much so, that it was a concern. To address the concern, someone asked him directly whether he promised NOT to lead his new church out of the denotation. And there he sat, as if butter wouldn't melt in his mouth, promising he would not do that. The same thing happened on the floor of Central Florida Presbytery, and he again answered that he would not do that. Even so, within about two years, he proved that he had been a liar before the committee and the presbytery, as he "led" the church out of the denomination. Has he no shame? Reprehensible. He will have to give an accounting for those lies, one day.
Back to the days when I was a student at seminary. I met a lot of people that I liked, I love the fact that, unlike Penn State which was so gigantic, you really could get to know everyone on campus. And I especially liked the fact that these professors who had outstanding credentials, also welcomed us calling them by their first names. To a person they did a great job. I don’t think I would change anything, where my theological in education is concerned.
And among the other results of being at the seminary, I met Ernie, my best friend for life, there. We were in the same graduating class, taking many of the same classes. We discovered that we had many interests in common, including the church, and church music, but also history, and reading, books of a wide variety of subjects. Ernie was of the same mind as I, where these things are concerned. And what a sense of humor, too.
He invited me and several other friends to dinner at his home in Harrisburg. Like me, he was a commuting student, but he commuted farther than I did. I went to dinner and had a pleasant evening except for the fact that Ernie had a cat, and I am highly allergic, and usually when I go visit someone that might have a cat, I take as a preventative, one Sudafed. Seems to solve the problem for me. Whether that is medically sound or not, I don’t know, and I don’t care. But I hadn’t done that in preparation for this event, and I found myself with runny eyes and sniffling because my head filled up. You can guess that I felt somewhat embarrassed that there I was having a lovely evening, but how could you tell, with the barely stifled allergic sniffles? But that was soon forgotten. We enjoyed friendship at seminary, and participated in each other’s ordination services, and we’ve kept in touch by letter, (yes, those old fashion snow mail things is that you send with a stamp, in an envelope), or once email became the norm, by email. In the days when it was by letter, it was by return mail. So we’d be in touch once or twice a week. But in the days of email, almost every day we'd exchange one, and the subjects we shared were and are far ranging.
I have to say that it helped keep my sanity through the most challenging and ridiculous events of ministry, because I could write to Ernie: "You won’t believe what this person did!" And then I would tell him. And then he would write back to me "Oh you think that’s amazing, well let me tell you what happened here". And then he would tell me something that would make any minister's hair stand on end, it was either so ridiculous or so stressful. It didn’t make these issues or people go away. (I would love to figure out how to do that). But it did help the coping with them get much better, to be able to say to someone who was in the trenches, and knew where of you spoke, "And then this happened…." I am so eternally grateful to Ernie for being my friend all through ministry and into retirement. And I hope that I’ve been a good friend to him, as well.
I met other friends at seminary, some I’ve stayed in touch with and some I only see if there’s a reunion or by happenstance. It’s a good group of people, who as a whole have had the well-being of the church and its members at heart from the get go, and have lived that out in various places, both the United States and further afield. Thank you all for the wonderful ministries that you have undertaken. And completed. And thanks for sharing part of the journey with me.
I don’t think it’s happenstance how life suddenly circles around to a new spot. While I was at the seminary I became a resource consultant Parish Resource Center, which was the brain child of the Christian Education Professor, Doug Whiting. It was a brilliant idea. Instead of churches duplicating efforts in buying all kinds of resource materials, why not have one centralized location with all of those materials, the best of the best, and churches could subscribe to it. A key component was that you had people who greeted you at the door sat down and talked with you about what you were working on in the church, and then, because they knew these resources backwards and forwards, could help put together a plan for anything from worship on Sunday morning, to Sunday school lesson, to a church-wide retreat, to a building program. It really was a wonderful concept. And I was one of about six resource consultants at the time. One of the other resource consultants was Dana Schlegel, who became a friend then, and it is a friend now.
Dana, at that time, was engaged to be married. The wedding date had been set. All sorts of prenuptial celebrations were happening. And then, a short time before the wedding was to take place, the bride-to-be got cold feet and called everything off. Dana was devastated. Truly undone. I knew I couldn’t make all that go away. But I thought I could be a good supportive friend. And so, without saying the why of it, I said, "I’m going to Washington DC on day X. Do you want to come along?" Of course day X was to have been his wedding day. Like I said, I didn’t mention that. But I very intentionally found a way for him to be doing something that was interesting, distracting, and out of town.
During the time that I worked in architecture at DePaul Design, and while I was at seminary, I was involved in a number of ways at the church I had grown up in, Highland Presbyterian Church in Lancaster. I was involved singing in the choir, which at that time was a very large choir, 60 or so, and very well-known in the larger community for having just about the best church music anywhere. It was directed by Dorothy Rose Smith, we called her Dottie Rose. She had conducted choirs in Germany that she had founded when her husband was stationed there as a part of Armstrong World Industries leadership. She wrote anthems, a number of which we performed by premiering them. We also sang the more challenging sacred music of the standard church repertoire. I love to sing. I cannot read music. So I learned basically by being in those rehearsals and by rote, I also had two very good singers on either side of me in the choir, so I had stereophonic unintentional coaching.
The choir was a very congenial group people of all ages. And had choir parties from time to time. One of the parties I went to, there was this older fellow who was standing off by himself. I thought, "I’ll go over and say hello." The man I said hello to, the husband of one of the choir members, was Al Jewell. And he and I became lifelong friends, until he passed away.
Al was from New England. He was in Lancaster because he was an executive with one of the companies there. He was roughly my parents' age. We found that we had a lot in common. And before long he proposed that we teach an adult Bible study class together. Which I was glad to do. It was on the eighth century BC profits. It was really great to plan and teach it with Al. He had a much better understanding of what it was to teach a Bible study class that I had. And to make it interesting to a group of adults. So I learned a lot from that. It started a lifelong practice of co-teaching, with church members, who in every regard. were usually committed to study the passage, and to convey its meaning to those who were taking part. So to Al, I say thank you very much. And of course this makes me think of other fine co-teachers, such as Bill Martin at Fox Chapel and Bob Samson at Wekiva.
I sang in the church choir up until my second year of seminary. And then I stopped singing in the choir. Not because I didn’t like singing; I loved it. Not because I didn’t like the choir; I loved them. However, I had a choice. I could either go to choir rehearsal on Thursday night. Or I could spend Thursday night studying for my weekly Hebrew language quiz at the seminary, first thing Friday morning. Languages don’t come easily to me. So I found I had to give up singing in the choir, in order to be ready for those quizzes.
It was probably the right decision. But I have to say, as life's unfolded, I certainly have gotten a lot more out of sacred music than I have out of Hebrew. For people who absolutely love languages, and studying in the original, my hat is off to you. One of my fellow seminary graduates - Charlotte Whiting, wife of professor Doug - made a commitment to reading her Greek New Testament every morning for her devotions. That’s great. That would’ve put me off reading devotions for all time.
It’s good to have the scholarship that allows one to know what was actually meant by those words that we see in English in our Bible. But at some point, we have to trust the people that came before us who have made that study their life's work, and who have been part of authorized translation teams for scripture, or who have written copious commentaries on the text. It’s not as if we don’t have the Bible in English. And thank the Lord for the people who gave their lives to make that possible.
And then the time came for me to graduate from seminary and receive a call to my first church.
SOUTH BEND (1982-1986)
So how do you get to South Bend? Well I got there by airplane. But that’s not what I mean. God’s hand was involved in the entire process.
As I was finishing up at Lancaster Theological Seminary, I was beginning my search for my first call to ordained ministry, I filled out the proper Personal Information Forms from the denomination.
When you do that, you indicate geographically where you are willing to consider a call. I never like to be one who thwarts the inclinations of the Holy Spirit. So I checked the box that said: Suggest my name anywhere. Even so, because I’m very fond of my family, and my dear friends, I only sent out my PIF to churches that were inside a 4 hour radius drive of Lancaster. I was willing to consider going wherever the Holy Spirit want me to go, but I wasn’t going to draw undue attention from places that were far away from what was familiar.
God has a marvelous sense of humor. If we pay attention to it. It is often teaching us things that we didn’t know that we needed to know. I think it’s a way of strengthening our faith, and keep us close to God, and helping us mature as followers of Jesus Christ.
In this instance, God's sense of humor was hard at work. Because, one fine day I got a phone call from my friend Barry, who was serving as the associate minister at First Presbyterian Church of Elkhart, Indiana. I had known Barry since I worked for him on the staff of First Presbyterian Church of Lancaster, during seminary days. He had since accepted a call out in Indiana. Barry was serving as one of my references on my PIF. And of course, had a copy of it.
Barry called to let me know that he had given my PIF to be hand-carried from him, by his Christian Education committee chair person, Kay Carter, to First Presbyterian Church of South Bend, where she had formerly been a member, and where they were actively seeking an assistant minister. Kay did that. Barry’s phone call was to let me know that it happened. I thanked him. And promptly forgot all about it. At the time, there was a solo pastorate not far from Lewisburg, Pennsylvania, and assistant pastor position in Annapolis, Maryland, that appealed to me the most. I had not heard from either that they were ready to call me. But it seemed likely. And both of them were in that four hour radius.
Time passed. Then one day I received a phone call from Phil Sorenson, the senior minister at first Presbyterian Church of South Bend. Phil was calling me to say that they had narrowed down their search for an assistant minister. And that I was one of three candidates. The chief emotion that I felt at that particular moment was surprise. I really had forgotten that Barry had had Kay take them my PIF. In my state of surprise, I listened as Phil went on to say that he was hoping that we could schedule a time when I could go out to South Bend and have an interview, and preach in what’s called a neutral pulpit. I like to say that neutral pulpits are painted beige. But that’s not what we mean by neutral. What is meant, is that the potential minister preaches in a church other than the one he might be called to, and other than the one that she is currently serving. It’s sort of a quietly out-of-the-way place, so as not to draw too much attention, because the search committee and the minister are still both making up their minds about but if this might be a good match or not.
So the visit was scheduled.
In the time between then and the time when I flew out, I received another phone call from Phil. The other two candidates (of the three they were considering) had each been for a visit the two weekends prior to my planned visit. He called me sometime between the second visit, and my visit, and said: John, we are really looking forward to your visit. And we really hope that things work out well. He did everything short of telling me that they’d been underwhelmed by the other two candidates.
Meanwhile, I had been thinking, I will go, but I am much more interested in these other prospects, that are much closer to home. And I told myself, and my parents, and several of my best friends, if there was even one thing wrong with the visit, I wasn’t going there to serve.
On the appropriate weekend, out to the Midwest I flew. My plane taking me through Pittsburgh to Chicago, where I changed planes and flew into South Bend. If you’re familiar with South Bend, you know that it isn’t noted for long stretches of sunny days and blue skies. Although it can be quite beautiful when those are happening. That particular weekend, the weather was absolutely marvelous. It was late spring.
Soon thereafter, I met with the entire search committee. Now I must say that I have had the good fortune to have wonderful people on every search committee that I have met with, and eventually been called by. But this one outshines them all. I don’t know how the church managed it, but they had the finest leaders of the congregation, and by that, I mean people who had long experience, had tremendous energy, were extremely personable, wise, and helpful beyond expectation. More about that as the story unfolds.
As we met together, I felt that I had a pretty good sense of all the members of the committee were except one. A man who had a crew cut, when crew cuts were long since out of fashion, and who said almost nothing during the interviews. The next morning, I was scheduled to preach at the neutral pulpit. Two of the search committee members picked me up to take me there, that is to Ridgedale Presbyterian Church. A wonderful church that has since closed. These two members of the search committee were Sue Madden, and that fellow that I couldn’t quite figure out, Donald Taylor.
They had planned that before we went to church we would have breakfast. So to breakfast we went. And it turned out that both Sue and Don had been to England recently. In finding that common ground, the conversation at breakfast was congenial and relaxed. Absolutely what one might hope for, when one is then going on to preach what we call a trial sermon.
I liked the way that the Ridgedale Church was laid out. It was wide but not terribly deep. The sight lines were excellent. And there was a congregation of people I’d never met before, as well as these eight people on the search committee that I had spent some time with and had gotten to know in the interview. It was very easy for me to find their faces in the crowd, and since they had chosen to seat themselves in scattered positions, it meant that during the course of the sermon, I made sure that I looked at them all, which also meant that I looked at the whole congregation. You would be surprised how many ministers don’t do that. They mostly could look at their notes. Or they look in one particular direction most of the time. Something which a search committee would be quite aware of.
I’m sure there was lunch after. I want to say that it was at the lunch, that it was communicated to me very clearly, that I was their choice for the position. I had a wonderful time during the interview. Not one thing happened to make me think otherwise. So I could sense that this really might end up happening
The weekend had been scheduled in such a way that I was to go to Elkhart, rather than directly home, after my time with the search committee. To spend some time with Barry, his wife Lee, and their two children. It made sense, I’d flown out all that way, why not stay just a little bit longer. And it didn’t cost the church anything more for me to go back on one day than another. But the main reason was because Barry had asked me, Are there any things that you’re hesitating about in considering this call?
I had mentioned to him how much I enjoyed going to the beach. And I was wondering, being way out there in the middle of the country, how I would feel about being so far away from the beach. He said, There’s no problem about that. And indeed, we spent that Monday at Tower Hill, on the beach at Lake Michigan. It was a great way for me to sense that having a beach nearby was going to be a plus. It was only 45 minutes away from South Bend
On the flight home from Chicago, I was on the plane before the person that was assigned the seat next to me. Lo and behold, the person who came in and sat down was the President of Lancaster Theological Seminary, Jim Glasse. You’ll remember from earlier chapters the Jim is someone whose preaching I had admired since the first year I was at Penn State. I had an admiration for him then, and now. He was a fine leader. And faithful. So he said, John how are you? And I said, Jim I think I’m going to South Bend Indiana to accept a call there. Jim getting on the plane was just a bit more confirmation of what was going on with God‘s will.
Between the time of that visit, and my begging ministry in Indiana, I was ordained to the gospel ministry. In those days it was more common than it is now for a person to be ordained in their home congregation. Since then, the trend has shifted, and the general rule among most presbyteries, is that the person is supposed to be ordained in the congregation to which they’ve been called. This is unfortunate when you’ve been called a very far distance from home. Because it puts the travel burden on any of the people that you might like to have take part in the service, or be present for the service. If someone were to ask me my recommendation, I would say let’s go back to the general rule of people being ordained in their home congregation. Either the congregation they grew up in, or the congregation that they’ve served as a seminary intern. Then do an installation service in the new congregation. Ordination and installation services are so similar in format, that no one would miss out on the celebrations. Fellow Presbyterians I hope you’re listening to this.
My ordination was an absolutely wonderful occasion. Because my home church was no more than a 10 minute drive from the seminary I had attended. And no more than 15 minute drive from the high school I had attended. So I invited lots of friends, fellow students, colleagues in ministry, professors from the seminary, and more. My friend Jean, who was the first woman ordained as a priest in the diocese of Delaware, had been ordained some months before. I was quite taken by the clergy procession that began her service. So I planned the same. What a thrill it was to have every one of my professors from Lancaster Theological Seminary, wearing their doctoral hoods, sharing in the procession, along with Highland Presbyterian choir, of which I had been a part. The music was splendid. The leaders in the worship service did a fine job. A wonderful step to help fulfill my calling.
And then it was off to South Bend.
I had an assortment of castoff furniture, most of which had belong to my maternal grandparents. So it came with a lot of memories from childhood and beyond. However, as it sat on the curb before it went into the moving van, it looked like a real hodgepodge. I wondered just how I would make my apartment in South Bend feel like home. I shouldn’t have worried. It all worked together well. Most of that furniture was with us for many years. Some of it is with us now.
So I moved to South Bend, Indiana. Which is also where the University of Notre Dame is located. I had any number of people say to me, when they heard I was being called to South Bend, Are there Presbyterian Churches in South Bend? They assumed that all the churches there would be Roman Catholic.
The reality is there were five other Presbyterian Churches right there in South Bend. First Presbyterian Church was by far the largest of them. Next came Sunnyside Church which was just across the St. Joseph River, on the east side of town. Scattered about were several other churches including one of the oldest Hungarian Presbyterian Churches anywhere.
I had found an apartment in a complex that overlooked the St. Joseph River. If I went out on my balcony and looked to the right, I could see it. The setting was lovely, quiet, about a mile and a half from the church, along a winding drive beside the river, but also through a neighborhood where most of the houses dated from 1900 till about 1930. With my architecture background, I found something interesting around every bend. Over the course of living there, there were several houses that stood out, not because of their size, because of there are distinctive architecture.
I was installed as assistant pastor of the church on Sunday, September 19, 1982. Professor Doug Whiting came from Lancaster to preach. The first time I served communion was on World Communion Sunday, October 3, 1982.
I went to work. Having a range of responsibilities. In addition to assisting in worship every Sunday, and preaching 10 to 12 times a year, I shared in hospital visitation and pastoral care, weddings, baptisms, funerals, and the like. I worked directly with the board of deacons, the board of the church owned camp, which was called Redbud Trail Retreat. I worked with the mission committee and its church in society subcommittee, with the Christian education committee, taught Sunday school, both for children, and for adults, I was what you would call a generalist assistant pastor.
I should probably explain a little bit what an "assistant" pastor was in the Presbyterian Church, since that designation no longer exists. An assistant pastor was someone who was called to assist the senior pastor, therefore with much involvement of the senior pastor in the calling process, and the person was called, not by the congregation, the person was called by the session. That means although I preached what we call a trial sermon or a neutral pulpit sermon for the committee, I did not preach a sermon the day that I was voted to become the pastor serving there. Put a bookmark in that thought because it’ll come back later.
In addition to pastor, and assistant pastor, the other designation for someone who is working full-time in a local parish was associate pastor. Unlike an assistant pastor, the associate pastor was called by vote of the whole congregation. The thought was when I was called as an assistant pastor that if everything was going to the church's liking, and mine, at the appropriate time, they would change my status to associate pastor. Which they did in a matter of months. (I was installed as the associate pastor First Presbyterian Church of South Bend on Sunday, March 9, 1983, at 3 o’clock in the afternoon.)
So there I was, away outside my four hour from family and friends circle, single, new in town, new job, and while I was excited about all these things, my new colleague Phil had kindly said to every member of the search committee, John’s going to be out here on his own, within the first month find something to do with him to help make him feel welcome. And every one of them did. Some of them took me to lunch. Some of them took me to dinner. Many of them invited me to their homes for a meal. And all of them were as friendly and warm as could be.
You remember Don, the man with the crew cut who I first couldn’t figure out? His wife and he invited me to a picnic in the park along the Saint Joe River, on a weekday. I met them there, and we sat at a picnic table, and Dottie had prepared a beautiful picnic lunch. We enjoyed sitting there and talking together. A lot of their conversation was about their family. They told me all about their eldest daughter Donna, who was recently married, and had moved to LaGrange, Georgia. About how she and her husband Mike were involved in their church in LaGrange. And any number of other things that made me feel that if I happened to bump into Donna unannounced I would probably know who she was right away. It was a great conversation and it went on for a while. And then they switched gears, and told me about their youngest daughter Karen. Who was going to be married at First Presbyterian Church that December, and they told me about the man that she was marrying, and that they would be living in Muskegon, Michigan. Again, I felt as if I knew her even though I had not met her. After that, Dottie said, And we have another daughter. She didn’t say her name. She didn’t say where she lived. She didn’t say anything else about her. Now maybe it was because we were getting close to the allotted time before Don had to go back to work at Bendix. I don’t know. But there was just a bit of mystery that hovered around that other daughter.
Eventually the mystery would be solved.
You can imagine what it might have been like for me to be doing so many firsts in ministry. Preaching was not a first. And leading worship was not a first. I had done those in a number of places. My pastoral record book has a long lists of churches where I had preached and led worship while in seminary. Teaching wasn’t a first either. But a lot of the committee responsibilities were new. I’d never worked with the board of a Christian camp before. And even though they had a person who was the director of the camp, dear Art Gorman, I was the minister that was linked to their meetings, as well. Art was also our youth director. The two responsibilities combined into one full time job, which Art did exceptionally well, with energy and imagination and loving care. It was great to get to know Art and his wonderful wife Ginny, and their daughter Alyssa. We keep in touch regularly to this day.
I’d never worked with a Christian education committee or its subcommittees before, and I enjoyed getting to know Carol Kilbourne, who was Sunday School Superintendent and shared in the leadership of the Christian Education Committee. I had never worked with a Mission Committee before. Donna Beem was the chairperson of that committee. And the subcommittee for Church and Society, led by Jan Mehalick, kept us connected and active in our current issues and problems before the local community.
I had arrived in August, so my first deacons meeting was in September. The board of deacons is charged with what I would call in-reach. That is the care for the congregation itself. Plus there’s an interesting overlap always in a board of deacons, with a concern for local mission and the care for those in need. The deacons met on September 13 of 1982. I’m not a person who remembers dates, except when they really stand out in that way. One reason why is because it was my birthday. The meeting wasn’t terribly long, maybe an hour and hour and 15 minutes. One of the deacons was celebrating his birthday that day. And they all knew it. And so they wished him well. And we sang happy birthday. I didn’t want to spoil his thunder by saying it was my birthday too. So I just kept quiet.
After the meeting was over, the moderator and vice moderator, the secretary, and the treasurer of the board of deacons were asked by the moderator to linger to cover some calendar business or similar. And I was asked to stay as well. It was the end as we were gathering at the far end of the table. That I first had a chance to talk with the secretary. Now at the opening of the meeting, everyone had around and said their names for me. To me, the most interesting thing was when we got to the secretary of the board of deacons, and she said, My name is Judy Taylor, and my father Don was on your search committee. Ha ha! That mystery daughter was revealed!
So after we conducted the follow up business we needed to, Judy and I chatted a little bit more. And then I said, You know what why don’t we keep talking together but why don’t you come over to my apartment for a Coke? And Judy accepted. Of course we were in our own cars. And she followed me. And she was thinking to herself. My mother won’t believe it, that I’m going to a minister‘s apartment, by myself, to have a Coke. Except the other thing that I learned later was after that picnic in the park, Judy‘s mother said to Judy, You’ve got to meet the new minister, he’s darling! It's nice that she thought I was darling. I must’ve made a good impression, and not spilled too much of the lunch on my clothing. Judy at that time had said back to her mother, There’s no way I would ever date a minister. It’s another one of God's never-say-never things; God's sense of humor.
We got to my apartment. Judy came in. We sat down on the sofa. We talked for a few minutes and then I said, "You know what. I have some Drambuie and cheese and crackers that would probably be better than just having a Coke." So I went to the kitchen and brought it back out. What I didn’t realize was that she was sitting there in my apartment thinking, Wow, real furniture, not plastic crates. So I guess my grandparents' cast off furniture, plus what I had bought to round it out made a favorable impression.
We talked a long time. And we discovered a lot of interesting things. Mostly that our view of life was very similar. Judy said that her parents were always the last ones to leave the church parking lot every Sunday. And I said, That’s our family too. When Judy went home, I thought What a great evening. And I was hoping that she and I could get to know each other better.
Over the next several months, that did happen. The first event that falls into the category of a date; it had to do with a wine-tasting fundraising event that was held at the Notre Dame ACC. We had a good time there. Then we had to leave and go to the church, because the church's acting group, the Presbyterian Players, was putting on a show. And I had the responsibility of introducing it. I have to say my focus was a little fuzzy after being at the wine-tasting.
Through the time when we were first dating, we both of us (but didn’t admit to each other) were thinking this is too good to be true, when’s the other shoe going to drop. Certainly there’s something about the other person that we’ve missed is going to make this not be as great as we thought it was. That did not happen.
One of the things that we discovered when we were talking that first night, was that both of our families had vacationed year after year at Bethany Beach Delaware. I mean her whole family vacationed there. Our whole family vacationed there. For many years. But if we ever crossed each other‘s paths, we certainly weren’t aware of it. That particular year, Judy‘s extended family was planning a family reunion at the beach. As our friendship grew into romance, I thought to myself, Wouldn’t it be great if I could convince my parents to come with me to the beach and we would rent a place nearby that same week that Judy‘s parents are at this family reunion that Judy and her sisters and so forth were already going to. So I proposed that idea to them. And they thought it was a great idea.
I had an ulterior motive. I was going to ask Judy to marry me. In fact the ring was being made. By Joe, the jeweler and Apple and Weber, the jewelry store that mom managed in downtown Lancaster. Joe was doing a great job of creating just what I requested. And the larger plan was this. I would have Judy drive with me to the beach, rather than by herself or with her parents. So that we could stop in Lancaster, and I could show her places that were special to me from my growing up years, my high school, the seminary, the church, and so forth. And then the day that we were scheduled to go to the beach, I first would take her to Longwood Gardens in Kennett Square which you’ve already heard quite a bit about. Because I thought the great thing to do would be to propose to Judy at the gazebo in the Italian Water Garden there.
Well, it went according to plan except for certain details. For instance, the ring box that Joe gave me was the biggest ring box I have ever seen in my life. I thought, how in the world am I going to put this in my pocket till we get down to Longwood, without Judy seeing it. The best I could think of at the time, probably because I was nervous, wasn’t hey John why don’t you put it in a smaller box, but rather, put the box in the pocket that’s furthest away from where you hold hands when you walk together. It was a strategy that worked but it was pretty awkward.
The other thing was on that beautiful day, as we drove down to Longwood from Lancaster, Judy looked at me. "Are there any restaurants nearby? I’m starting to get really hungry."
Now my idea had been that as soon as we got to Longwood, we would take a nice leisurely stroll down to the Italian Water Garden and then I would propose to her. But apparently, we were going to have lunch first. Fortunately Longwood at that time had a restaurant out on the terrace overlooking their gorgeous fountain display. So we sat there under one of those umbrella tables, and ordered what seemed like an eight hour lunch. Judy enjoyed her lunch thoroughly. I was so worked up about what was coming, that I don’t think I ate more than about three or four bites of lunch. And then even though I had planned to go all the way down to the Italian Water Garden to propose, time was moving on. There are two other gazebos down in the area where all the fountains are. And so I said, "Let’s walk in that direction." Which we did. And we approached the gazebo on the right, if you’re looking from the conservatory.
As we got closer, to my disappointment, there was a young mother, with a little boy who was about four. And who had more energy than five kids his age. I thought this isn’t exactly the romantic mood I was trying to create. Fortunately she saw the two of us approaching hand-in-hand, and maybe she saw the giant ring box in my left pocket, and she scurried little guy out of there.
So it was after all a beautiful romantic setting, in the midst of one of the prettiest gardens in the world. Under a gazebo, and I proposed to Judy, and I’m happy to say that she said yes. Although you probably have figured that out by now.
So, Judy and I were engaged on July 23, 1983, at Longwood Gardens. Then our next step was to drive down to Bethany Beach, Delaware. And we were almost there, when Judy looked at me and said, "When you asked my Dad, what did he say?" Oops! That was a big thing for me to overlook. I couldn’t quite believe that I had. And how to fix that.
Well, what we came up with was this. When we got to the house. I would ask Don if he would come out to the car and help me carry things in, since more than half of the stuff in the car was provisions that Dorothy had bought ahead of time and given us the job to bring to the beach in our car. And then I thought, when he comes out to the car I will ask him and as long as he says yes, the sun will shine and I will be right with the world.
And it worked more less, except Dottie wanted to be helpful. So out to the car she came following us, but about the time we got to the trunk and I was opening it, she was almost at our elbow; so I had to ask him really quickly. And he smiled and agreed right away. But Dottie caught on to what was going on. Not that she was disappointed. How could she be? After all I was (in her words) "darling"! But seriously, they are both two wonderful people, and I felt very privileged that I would be a part of their family, and welcomed so warmly.
Meanwhile in the beach house, which belonged to Aunt Jean, Dottie's sister-in-law, all the rest of the family was already there. And they were all in the living room, which as I remember was pretty small when you got all the family in there. And they were all sitting around kind a like you sit around in a doctor's waiting room. Pretty close together
Judy had been in there talking with everyone, and even though they all had previously been taking bets on when I was going to propose to Judy, absolutely no one noticed that she was wearing an engagement ring! She said she was using her hands as dramatically as if she were Ethel Barrymore, waving them here waving there. Nobody caught on until she went right up to her sister and put her hand in front of her sister's face and said look. Well about the time everyone was exclaiming, Don and Dottie and I returned to the house.
I could probably spend all of my time talking about South Bend, talking about Judy and her family. And the time leading up to our engagement, and the whole time we lived in South Bend after that. We had a standing invitation to lunch on Sundays. I’ve often said to Dottie and Don and Judy that I knew when I was no longer company, and when I was considered part of the family, the first time that Dottie repeated a menu. Which for any number of meals, she did not do. I don’t know how she kept track of it all. I mean it was in the days before computers.
Now Judy had said to me that she needed eight months to a year to plan the wedding. I guess she spoke from experience having watched both of her sisters do that. But in less than two months, she had everything squared away. She found the dress, she found the veil, found a cake, we decided what color the napkins would be, all those things that you need to do. Plus we’d asked my colleague Phil, and my uncle Jim, if they would share in the worship service and they readily agreed. The young ladies that Judy had in mind for her bridal party all said yes. All my friends who I asked to be groomsmen all said yes. There was really nothing else to be planned.
So truly we could’ve gotten married in the late fall. But we had scheduled the wedding for Memorial Day weekend. Which we picked because we thought of all the people who had to travel to be there, having that extra day might be a real help.
Also in 1984, the church celebrated its 150th anniversary. The special dinner was at the Century Center of South Bend, overlooking the Saint Joseph River. The dinner was held on May 2, 1984. I offered the invocation, and jokingly said to the congregation I was planning to be back to offer the invocation 50 years from then, in 2034, for the 200th anniversary, and I hoped they would all be there too. I would be 80 - so we shall see.
May 1984 was a busy month indeed!
Judy and I were married in the Sanctuary of First Presbyterian Church of South Bend on Sunday, May 26, 1984. My colleague the senior minister Phil Sorensen, and my uncle James Yolton were officiating pastors.
And all of that happened just as we planned. And it was all lovely. Except I also hit on the idea that on our way from Rhode Island to Lancaster we would have lunch in Manhattan, at the Rainbow Room. Great idea! Pretty fancy place. Great views of the city. So of course on our drive from Rhode Island to Manhattan Judy was in a dress and stockings and I was in a suit although I drove with my suit coat off. It was the hottest day of the year. Possibly the hottest day of the century. And that was the day the air conditioning in my car decided not to work. It wasn’t that the car was old; quite the opposite it was new. Only a few months old. A Buick Century. Absolutely beautiful silver exterior red interior. And I was crazy about that car. Until I wasn’t. But more about that later.
So anyway we got into Manhattan and we parked, which is no small feat. And we went to Rockefeller Center, to the RCA building, and we’re in the lobby when we saw sign that said the Rainbow Room is closed for a private event today. Well we knew it wasn’t our private event. So there went that idea.
Fortunately I was aware of another restaurant right around the corner. That had many of the same pluses as the Rainbow Room, that’s a restaurant that was called the Top of the Sixes because it was located at 666 5th Ave. People who are into the spooky biblical numerology would never have darkened the door, of course. But I’d been there before, and I managed to escape unscathed. So that’s where we went. We had a lovely lunch overlooking the spires of St. Patrick’s Cathedral, and Saks Fifth Avenue. And then we got back into our car and headed to Lancaster. And the first place we found a rest stop, we stopped. The place was so jampacked that we couldn’t even get inside to do what we stopped to do. Which was to change out of our fancy clothes and then do a T-shirt and shorts. So I go found the furthest spot in the parking lot and we took turns standing guard while the other person changed their clothes in the car. And then we headed on to Lancaster.
And my parents were very glad to see us. And we got ready for that reception that was going to happen the next day. Not too long before we were to be going to bed we got a phone call from the church saying, the air-conditioning is broken. OK, at that late date there’s no way that you could let everybody know go somewhere else instead. So we said we will go ahead and do it and we’re hoping that maybe the air conditioning will be fixed by tomorrow. Well of course it wasn’t. So although the reception itself was beautifully planned, our reception was a whole lot warmer then we might’ve guessed!
For the first number of months that we were in South Bend after the wedding, we were still in my apartment. But then we got a notice that they were almost doubling the rent. Which was crazy. It was out of keeping with most of the other apartment complexes in the area, it certainly wasn’t the fanciest by far. So since that wasn’t going to suit our budget, we hit on the idea of finding a little house to rent. Which we did on Emerson Street in Mishawaka. It was a 1920s bungalow. The people who were renting it to us formerly lived there for many years, and then they had built a house out in the country. So it was their baby. It turned out to be a great spot for us. The rooms were spacious, they let us repaint the master bedroom which sorely needed it. And they were glad with the end result. In fact so much so that when it came time to leave, they re-rented the place the next day after the potential renters toured it, with all of our things in it.
If you haven’t lived in a bungalow you don’t understand maybe what I’m saying. If you grew up in a house that was built in the 50s 60s or 70s, as lovely as those houses are, in general the main rooms are much smaller than you find in a typical bungalow. Plus there’s a porch. Everything that you need is on one floor, kind of like a ranch house but different. The house had a very small yard. Which I took care of. It was so small that I thought it didn’t make sense to buy a gas mower. So I went to the Salvation Army store, and bought a push mower. With which I could cut all the grass in less than an hour. The only challenge being the front yard, because the house sat up almost a full story from the sidewalk, and the front yard was very steep as it got close to the sidewalk. I latched upon the idea of tying a rope around the handle of the push mower and letting gravity help me; so I would push the mower and it would roll down the hill cutting the grass. Then, I would haul it back up with the rope; and then I moved over far enough to do the next row. I’m sure it looked funny. But it worked like a charm.
In October, on the weekend of the 20th and 21st, Judy and I attended a leadership conference in Washington DC, at the invitation of John Hiler, our congressional representative. We had the opportunity to meet a number of well-known figures, including Supreme Court justice Sandra Day O’Conner, and Bob and Elizabeth Dole.
Events in the life of the church that stand out include summer times events at the churches camp: Redbud Trail Retreat. My first visit to Redbud Trail Retreat was with the senior citizen fellowship group that was part of the congregation, called the NTO‘s (short for never too olds). And that was a good name for them because they were pretty active. And enjoyed all the different get-togethers trips that they did. Within the first week that I was there, there was a knock on my office door and standing there was a church member Jo Coy. Jo and her husband Bill were longtime members of the chancel choir. And she had for many years been the driving force behind the NTOs. She let me know that they were all going up to Redbud that day for a picnic, and I was invited to go as well. "Why don’t you follow me in your car?" she said. Ha! Easier said than done. To say that Jo had a lead foot might have been an understatement. All I can remember is that off she went, tearing northward, and I did the best that I could to keep up. Trying to avert my eyes from the posted speed limit signs. Which we were exceeding the entire way.
Redbud had been purchased by the church a number of years before, to be used in a multitude of ways. But primarily as a place that church families could gather, throughout the summer, swim in the spring fed pool, to boat on the St. Joseph River, have picnics and barbecues, and so forth. The church also did a full summer time schedule of community service camps, and partnership with various social assistance agencies in South Bend. For many of the children who came to Redbud it was their only opportunity to get out of the city, and to be in a place surrounded by fresh air, woodlands, and the flowing waters of the river. A magical place.
The picnic there was delightful with the NTOs. It wasn’t my last outing with them, and certainly not the last of my outings to Redbud Trail Retreat.
One of the other NTO outings that really stands out for me was going up to Diamond Lake for similar outdoor kind of at picnic event, at the home of church members there. A truly lovely home, with a big boat house, and a dock. After we had lunch, the owner/church member offered to take as many of the NTOs out on his big pontoon boat as wish to go. Which is a nice slow genteel way to enjoy the water. I hung back, primarily because there was only so much room, I wanted to make sure all had a chance to enjoy it who wished to go. After Blair pulled out with his passengers on the pontoon boat, his wife said to me, "Would you like to see our Chris-Craft?" Would I! So she took me to the boat house, opened the doors, and there was a prewar all wood gorgeous Chris-Craft. And I raved about it appropriately (it was really a special boat). She said, "Would you like to go out in it?" "Of course," I replied and she said, "Great, let’s go." And so we got in the boat and off we went and we zipped along.
That in itself would be a great story. But there’s more.
Because out there on the lake, we suddenly saw a storm brewing. I don’t think I’ve ever seen a storm roll in as fast as that (and I've spent a lot of time in Central Florida where it rained every day in the summer, and the weather was changeable in an instant). This was no gentle zephyr. This was a whopper of a storm. Mrs. Warner made haste to get back to the boathouse. But as we went skipping along in the Chris-Craft, all we could see was the pontoon boat being violently rocked up and down, and back and forth. Truly, those in the boat were lucky to reach shore, unscathed.
In contrast to Lancaster, I experienced a different kind of Presbytery in northern Indiana. In Lancaster, Presbytery was about the same size as Lancaster County, with some spill-over in Chester County. So not a huge geographic area. It’s called the Presbytery of Donegal. And of course, it went back to pre-colonial times.
In South Bend, I was part of the Wabash Valley Presbytery. Which took in almost all of northern Indiana. Except for the areas over by Fort Wayne. Which meant that when we went to a Presbytery meeting it was an all-day event, including a very long drive to and from.
The first presbytery meeting I went to, the elders and the senior minister and I were all in one big land yacht of a car, and off we went for at least a two hour drive to get there. I was very fortunate to have in the car with me, a longtime member of the church, elder Kenneth Earhart. Kenny had worked for the bank forever. He knew everyone in town. And they all knew him. He’d been a member of the church forever, and had the same deep knowledge of the congregation. On the drive, he told me the history of the church, as it was interwoven with the history of the city. Because, for the most part, the movers and shakers of South Bend were also members of First Presbyterian Church. So I got to hear about some of the families that I would meet as my time at the church unfolded. And not in a gossipy way but certainly in a way that fleshed out these people's personalities, and lives, and history. As a result, I knew many of their joys and sorrows even before I met them. I'll always be thankful to Kenny for doing that, because I absolutely love that aspect of ministry where you get to walk with people during all the different events of their lives, and the best way to do that, is to know their story.
It may have been that presbytery meeting, or the next one, in any case, it was early on in my time in South Bend. One of the commissioners to Presbytery from our church was Ruth Roll, the wife of Jinks Roll, who had been on my search committee.
Ruth lived a long full life. At that point, she was in her 60s, because her husband had just retired as the supervisor of the Indiana toll roads. Ruth had as her career in real estate. I’m sure she was absolutely wonderful at it. Because not only was she engaging and energetic, but she also had a way of getting you to respond favorably to suggestions that she made. I can remember one occasion when she called me and said for her first opening line: John is it a beautiful day? To which I replied it certainly is. And then she followed that up with, John are you having a great day, of course I said yes. And then when she asked her third question, she was asking me to do something, and since I had said yes the first time, and yes the second time I was on a roll and said yes the third time, without giving it a whole lot of thought. Later I said to her how much I appreciate her style and doing that. She knew I really meant it, and then I sort of got a kick out of it. And I followed it up by saying, "You know you asked me the first time I said yes and you asked me the second time I said yes and I was on a roll so I said yes the third time I was on a roll - a Ruth Roll!"
Before that, was this presbytery meeting. We had our long drive. I’m sure the conversation was enjoyable. I’m sure there were several others in the car with us. But when we got to the church, which I think was either in Crawfordsville or Wabash, into the church we went. Both churches have a great Victorian style to them. We went to the sanctuary and at the back of it she introduced me to someone from Church A and then we walked a few steps and she introduced me to someone from Church B and so forth down the aisle till we sat somewhere near the front and after we sat down having been introduced to 11 different people, all from different congregations, Ruth looked at me and said, "You know all those people I introduced you to? And I said, "Yes?" She said, "I’m related to every one of them!"
Another fascinating member of the congregation was Phyllis Dunlap, who along with her husband Logan who was one of the most beloved doctors in the community, were advocates for all things Presbyterian, especially all things Presbyterian mission.
Phyllis had grown up in the church. In fact her maiden name was Bailey, and her father, Charles Tupper Bailey, was the senior minister of the church from 1920s to the 1950s. He must’ve been a wonderful man, because everyone whoever knew him said so. To the point where you really wish that you had met him. But when you were around Phyllis, you almost felt like you had met him. Because she was the best of daughters, in keeping his memory alive and shining.
Phyllis invited us to her home number of times for dinner. One of the times, we were invited, Glendora Paul was the guest. Glendora Paul was a Christian from India, had come to United States, and was centered in her ministry in Pittsburgh. It was wonderful to get to know Glendora then and there. And then in another chapter in my life, there we were in the same town. She always had such a quiet but strong was about her, you can understand why people are eager to engage in mission, having her story.
The Dunlaps lived in a lovely turn of the century home that backed up to the Saint Joseph River. It had a style that I would say a colonial meets foursquare. With a double height portico and balcony in the front. There are a lot of houses in the southeast that were built by prosperous people, that look almost identical to this house. It had one sibling out on the same street, two doors down from it. And they helped create a lovely streetscape. I tell you this because I liked the house then. And I came to like it again later. When it was home to then South Bend Mayor Pete Butigieg and his husband Chasten, before Pete was named Secretary of Transportation by Joe Biden.
I helped organize and coordinate what we called “Hands of God" worship symposium, on November 8-10, 1985. Our guest speaker was Dr. Paul W. Brand, medical missionary and author. Most of the events were held at the church. But we were invited to a dinner in honor of Dr. Paul Brand, a friend of the Dunlaps, a remarkable British physician surgeon who was the first person to operate successfully, to cure hands this disease, that is leprosy. If you can find his autobiography "10 Fingers for God", please do read it some of the stories that are in there, I got to hear that night at dinner. And I’ve always cherished having had the opportunity to know such a great and good man.
One day, the telephone rang, and it was the associate Presbytery executive Carol Mc Donald on the other end. I’ve been in South Bend about a year at that point. John, she said, I’m thinking that you would be a good person to serve on the worship task force of the Presbytery. I knew that new members of the Presbytery were asked to serve on committees their first year, because they were getting acclimated. And I figured out how they found me, but I like Carol, and I trusted her judgment, so I said will tell me more. She said well this is the committee that’s in charge of designing the worship services that we have at Presbyterian meetings. And what we try to do is come up with worship services that are innovative without being gimmicky, that people can take back either in partner and fall and to use them in their own congregations. It’s a fairly small group of people. And all of them are interested in worship and liturgy and hymns. I thought you’d fit right in and contribute a lot. So I said yes.
Well, we got underway and it was a very congenial group, we always had a good time together, we always manage to go out for lunch and an interesting place and whatever little town or big town that we were in.
One day when we were over meeting in LaPorte, we were planning a worship service around the theme of Pentecost. And David Iker who was on the committee and later was well known as the editor of the purple him now, who is it that time the organist and parish steward at the first Presbyterian Church in LaPorte, said to me, there aren’t any good hymns for Pentecost. John why don’t you write one.
I’d never written a hymn before. I tried my hand at poetry here and there, especially when I was in high school. And I was quite aware of Jane Parker Huber, who was writing new words to existing him tunes. And this is what David head mind something along those lines. So I agreed. I was kind a like the bumblebee Who, although the laws of physics said should not be able to fly, flu anyway.
I’d never written hymn before. But I didn’t know that I shouldn’t. So I wrote it anyway.
If you are writing new words to an old tune familiar, is better than not familiar, and I thought about what tune would I use. After some thought I focused in on a tune by Sir Arthur Sullivan, who is operettas I had loved many years. He written the tune for the him come you faithful raise the strain. A great Easter him, but one that is underutilized, because it only has two verses, and the lyrics in an Arab somewhat obscure for some people. And I thought, I like that tune so much maybe I can give a little bit of new life, if I write words for a different location than Easter. So that’s what I did, for the Presbytery.
Since it was Pentecost, I took as my text acts chapter 2, and stayed very close to it in the writing of the him. And I was pretty satisfied with the result. And when they saying at the presbytery meeting they seem pretty satisfied with the result. But better yet with Linda Joe McKim and the other members of the. Committee that created the 1990 blue hymnal for the Presbyterian Church got a chance to review it, they decided they liked it well enough that they would put it in the Hymnal. Where there went there at stays. He went on to be in several other denominational homeless as well. I’m going through a lot worse, that my very first him found an audience as they say. And the rest is history. I’ve been riding him is ever cents. Some of them probably will never see the light of day. But others have grown long legs and got many places. Which is great because I can’t go all those places. But in some ways, and connect those places in the spirit, through those hymns. So thank you Carol. And thank you David. And thank you to all the other members of that task force. It was a real joy to serve with you. And if anybody thinks nothing good can come out of a Presbytery committee meeting, I’ll be the first to say not true.
Down the years, my hymn texts have found their way into at least a dozen different hymnals, as well as three still in print anthologies of just my hymns ("Swift Currents and Still Waters", published by GIA; as well as "We Turn to God" and "God is the Singer's Friend" published by Wayne Leopold), and set as anthems by several dozen composers, as well commissioned hymns marking a particular person's connection to a church, and church and college anniversaries.
Just a few of the many highlights are:
Selected Commissions:
"O Celebrate God's Love!" Commissioned for the ecumenical committee for the celebration of the city of Lancaster PA, 250thanniversary.
"Faith is Our Heritage!" Peachtree Presbyterian Church in Atlanta; 75th anniversary hymn
"Open to God!" For Tusculum College, Bicentennial Hymn. (1794-1994).
"Welcome God With Joyful Singing" Commissioned by Gwendolyn Jensen, the President of Wilson College in memory of Debra Bowen.
“You Know the Way” AKA “O Troubled Heart” written for Glenn Rudolph as the text for his work commissioned by David Billings in memory of Marilyn D. Carroll, at Parkwood Presbyterian Church, Pittsburgh, PA.
“We Look Outward, God of Blessings!” Commissioned by Pittsburgh Theological Seminary in honor of the Rev. Dr. Carnegie Samuel Calian, President of the Seminary, on the occasion of his retirement.
"Draw Near in Peace" Music by Glenn Rudolph; a commission for Worthington (OH) Presbyterian Church.
“God May Your Presence Here” in honor of Don Wilkins on the occasion of his retirement as organist and choral director at Fox Chapel Presbyterian Church, Pittsburgh.
“O Praise the Lord! O Praise the Lord!” with original tune by Bill Rhoads; commissioned by Highland Presbyterian Church in Lancaster PA for their anniversary.
“God Calls the Church to Endless Song” a hymn in honor of the ministry of music of Sharon Miller.
“Bring a Song, O Come Rejoicing!” - Fox Chapel Presbyterian Church Fiftieth Anniversary Hymn. (1953-2003)
“We Sing of Hampton” a hymn for the 2005 bicentennial of Hampton Presbyterian Church in Gibsonia, Pennsylvania. “May We Call to Fond Remembrance” - Written as a retirement hymn for Lee Nichols, who followed me as associate minister at Fox Chapel Presbyterian Church. Commissioned by the church.
I have also enjoyed entering hymn searches aka hymn competitions, down the years, and a number of my hymn texts were selected by the jurors as winners, including:
O God of Love, Grant Us Your Peace", written for and winner of The Hymn Society's 1985 search for new hymns on World Peace.
"Praise God for Days Long Past!" Published in the 100th anniversary 1992 Mission Yearbook for Prayer and Study (PCUSA) and distributed nationally by the Presbyterian Historical Society for the first annual Presbyterian Heritage Sunday May 24, 1992.
“God Bless the Work Your People Do” Winning Hymn, written for the Macalestar-Plymouth United Church’s 2009 search (14th) for a new hymn to be sung on Labor Day.
“Now Is the Time to Speak” - Winning Hymn, written for the 17th annual Macalestar-Plymouth 2012 Hymn Contest.
“The Hymns that Lead to Faith” Winning Hymn for The Hymn Society in the United States and Canada search called “Formed in Faith; Shaped by Song”.
You can see a sampling of some of my hymns by going to my hymn blog: New Hymn Texts by John A. Dalles
When you are a new minister you are new to most everything. One of those things was weddings. I’d never officiated a wedding before I went to South Bend. And I must say though I had a very good practical education at Lancaster Theological Seminary. I don’t recall us ever talking about how to do weddings. Maybe I slept through that particular lecture? But I don’t think so. I think it just wasn’t ever taught. Which seems odd, since ministers end up doing a lot of weddings in the course of their ministry.
For my first wedding I was to do the marriage of the daughter of two very active church members. And she was about the same age as Judy. And well I prepared for it very carefully, I have to say I was pretty nervous about getting it right. South Bend, although it was a big church did not have volunteer wedding coordinators. Which meant that the minister conducted the entire rehearsal, as well as of course the wedding itself. So I had to be ready to put all the bridal party through the paces on Friday night, so that they would do everything the way they should on Saturday
Well, for Jill and Scott‘s wedding, things seem to flow along beautifully. Maybe I’d made good notes. Maybe I was prepared? But no I don’t think so I think it was because Bob and Carol Goshert were such wonderful people. All I can picture from that Friday rehearsal, as well as from the wedding, is Carol smiling face in the front row. Looking as if she could’ve been happier to have me doing it than anyone else that she could think of. I think she felt that way. But even if she didn’t, she certainly convey that feeling to me. What a gift that was!
I did weddings large and small while I was there in South Bend. And the smallest is probably one of my favorite weddings of all time. Bill Knipes was well into middle-age, and had a very modest job. He was a very kind and caring person, but there were things about his style made that a parent. He had settled into a solo life, with his chief hobby being a ham radio operator, his his focus outside of work, I don’t think he expected to fall in love and get married. But that is exactly what happened. He met Teresa, the two of them were kindred spirits, and they asked me if I would do their wedding.
They didn’t have two pennies to rub against each other. They didn’t want to get married in the sanctuary of the church, not because they didn’t like it, but it was too fancy.
So what they devised, was ingenious. And I would advise many young people today to consider doing likewise, or something very similar. They selected a location in one of the city parks. With that was a small boardwalk type dock right o the St Joe River. They figured out what time sunset would be. They invited their friends to be there at that time. Where they said their vows to each other. They also invited their friends, if they wished, to bring along a picnic, so that after the wedding, everyone could sharing a meal together. Do you understand, other than the price of the marriage license, and whatever they chose to wear that day, there was really not much of an expense involved. And it was one of the most beautiful weddings I’ve ever done. Not only because of the later in life love that the two of them found together, but also in the simple beauty of being in nature as the sun set. And then the joy of gathering around picnic tables with the others who were there because they were happy for Bill and Teresa.
Judy's and my wedding took place the sanctuary in South Bend. And we were presented with a bit of a challenge. Who to invite or not to invite, we had such a wide range in groups of friends. Large families. And of course the congregation. Judy had grown up there. I was serving there. The only logical solution seemed to be that we invite everyone in the congregation. And that was a happy and good decision because, everyone came! There were more people at our wedding and they were on a packed Easter Sunday morning.
It was lovely in every way. My colleague Phil, and my Uncle Jim, both ministers, shared in the service. One of our distinct memories of the service was Uncle Jimmy singing the hymns. Or maybe I should say not singing hymns. Because I don’t think he could carry a tune. Which was made a little bit more obvious because the ministers had microphones on them for a tape recording of the service. This was just before the time when video cameras became available. So sometime after the honeymoon ,when we listened to the wedding on tape, we heard Uncle Jimmy the monotone angel.
As I said Judy thought she would need months and months to plan, but she really didn’t; she found her dress in about a month and she found her veil soon thereafter. All the other things came together. We got married late and evening, 7:30 because that that time it still was proper etiquette if you were going to be wearing tails, not to get married during the daytime but only at night. My how things have changed! The girls attending Judy all wore beautiful soft yellow dresses with what we would call a dip hemline so that it was knee length in the front and ankle length of the back, a style that was made popular in the late 1920s. My only request was the Judy carry calla lilies. Which of course has been a traditional bridal bouquet for a long time. But certainly was unusual request in the early 1980s. I just wanted to revive that trend, which has continued off and on, since.
As you can imagine, the receiving line took 2 1/2 hours. And the reception was right there in the church social hall and it was jam-packed it was a big social hall but it was filled to the gills. Maybe you were there? We are glad you were!. We had hors d’oeuvres, and wedding cake, and champagne fountains flowed with sparkling white grape juice. I had asked my brother-in-law Mike to hid my car. Because I was correcting my suspicion that it would’ve had all kinds of things done to it and have been found, by my colleague the senior minister. So that was kept as much of a secret as the location of our wedding night. After a very full evening, late into the night in the wee hours of the morning really, Mike got us to our car, and we headed off. We gave the parents envelopes that were sealed to be opened only In the case of an emergency, telling where we were going.
We were thinking that we were going to the Taj Mahal, or Xanadu. Now we went to the Holiday Inn in Elkhart Indiana. And because of the length of the receiving line, when we got there, we realize that we weren’t sure whether we were more tired or hungry. Fortunately or unfortunately, there was a McDonald’s open, and somewhere around one or two in the morning, we ate our evening meal.
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First Presbyterian Church being situated downtown, it was quite common for people to stop by for some kind of financial assistance. The deacons had worked that out very beautifully. There were a number of deacons who were taught how to accept request. Request did not come in directly from the person in need. Request had to come from social service agencies, who would get in touch with the deacons, and then the deacons would decide how to help and how much. It really was a very good system, addressing a very sad situation. We found that whenever we broke her own rules or procedures of how to do this, things turned out badly.
For example there was one day when I said looking at couple appeared at the receptionist window, with one of those big old fashion baby carriages. I mean even then it was old-fashioned. The kind that were popular from about 1900 to the second world war. With the hood that could move forward or backward. If you don’t know what I’m talking about you can Google it online.
And they let us know that they need diapers and they need formula for their baby. It was all swaddled insides of you couldn’t even see the baby. The volunteer receptionist was in a bit of a dealer as to how to proceed. However the senior minister came out at that very moment. And said charitably, of course will help you. Specified a fairly modest amount to cover diapers and formula. Reception desk, who I think was a member of the board because that time, somewhere quietly made the suggestion that maybe we should not have the money directly to the couple but rather have someone go with them to the nearby corner drugstore to purchase these items. Our daytime custodian Sam readily volunteered to do that. I think there must’ve been quite a crowd standing around in the office when I think about the fact that I saw it all go on and the receptionist was there and the senior minister was there and Sam was there. Anyway it was very nice that Sam did that.
So somewhere out of deep breath recesses of the office the petty cash was brought. Give it to Sam, and he accompanied the couple the block or so to the drugstore. His instincts were good. After he purchased the diapers and the formula for the couple he walked away from the drugstore but double back and he was right, they went into the store, and headed back those items, to get the cash. And as he said, I never saw the baby, I don’t think there was a baby. I think that was just maybe blankets. You have to feel sorry for people that are in such desperate straits that they rely upon this kind of subterfuge. Except of course I fear that they were supporting some sort of unhealthy habit with that money.
There were a lot of very creative stories that were told to us. If these people that told us the stories would’ve set them down, they probably could’ve published a book, and made pretty good royalties from them. They certainly would’ve at least made an interesting episode for TV drama.
Another day, all the stars aligned in a bizarre way for this to happen. The church had an alarm system. Which meant that when the doors were closed and the alarm was on, if the doors were open it would set off the alarm. At some point on this particular day the security company came to service the alarm. That same day at the same time a man appeared at the Reception window of the church. Saying that you need to get to Chicago. Didn’t have any money to get to Chicago. Could we help. The receptionist called me. I came up greeted him, he repeated his request. And I said no we don’t hand out any money directly here. Which was the deacon policy. However we support various social service agencies that do help people that are in need of travelers aid. So I’m going to suggest you go to one of those places. And about that point the guy from the security company looked at us and said do you want to be inside or outside because we’re going to start testing the system and I’ll take over half hour. So make up your mind now. And I thought we really don’t want this guy stuck inside the church for the next half hour or more. So I said oh OK will step outside. And it was winter time. And I did not have a codon. But we stepped outside onto the front porch. And we continue our conversation where I was explaining to him which social service agencies to go to. And he wanted to know what their addresses were. Well I do have that in my head. But there was a phone booth just down the block behind the church. On the side of the church facing the Tribune building parking lot. The same parking lot at my office windows looked up to. I said well I can look it up let’s go to the photo booth and I’ll look it up. So he’s continuing to tell me about his particular approach to his problem. As we walk to the phone booth and then I go into the phone booth to open the phonebook, all of which sounds reacquaint in this day and age, but the other pages were there, I was able to look up these agencies or so I thought. Then as I was the midst of doing that the guys conversation took a sort of weird turn. And uncomfortable turn. Where he said pointing to the cars in the Tribune parking lot. I don’t know why I bother with this. I know how to hotwire car. I could just go over there and hot wire car and I can drive to Chicago. And I am trying to be very kind and very past wants to go no you write it want to do that you are probably just get the help that you need is not that far… Da, to which he responded or I could just hold up somebody on the street I have a gun it’s right here in my pocket you want to see my gun. And I’m standing there stuck in the phone booth with this guy blocking the exit to it. Telling me he’s going to show me the gun that he has in his pocket. And I was chattering because of the cold, or that’s a good excuse for why I was chattering.
Meanwhile back at the church, The receptionist, the secretary, the financial secretary, and the senior minister and all gathered in my office looking out my window toward me in the phone booth being held hostage. They could see the things were not going terribly well. So as soon as the security people said that you could leave the building, my colleague the senior minister headed my way. So the next thing that I saw you came, with his trench coat on, looking a little bit like Inspector Clouseau, and a little bit like McGruff the crime dog and he walked right up to the man he was blocking my way out of the phone booth and said I won’t have you intimidating our staff members. You need to leave right now. I’m expecting you to go away not bother us anymore. I am in the phone booth think you don’t say that he has a gun well somebody something about his demeanor must’ve been convincing enough the man walked away. And peace descended upon the scene.
I associate a completely different event with this same time period. That it took place in the area of the big front lawn along Colefax Avenue, and the door to the office, is perhaps why. It was a day in which the pruning o the gorgeous row of hawthorn trees along the front to fate church was taking place. One lone man, up in years, was out there painstakingly caring for the trees, as he did each year. At some point, a rather self-satisfied woman stopped in at the church for some reason known only to her, and she looked the gardener man up and down with one of those withering glances. She then announced to me that the fellow out there working on the trees was certainly shabby looking and did nothing for the panorama of the church grounds. Yes, dear reader, people really are that that obtuse and rude. You would be surprised how frequently they incorrectly assume that their minister wants to hear their inane, critical observations. At any rate, I looked out along the terrace where the gorgeous hawthorne trees were planted, and saw there the exact person I expected to see. I took a deep breath, but forgot to count to ten, along the lines of the advice of Thomas Jefferson, and then said, "Oh, I am surprised you don't know Mr X... He is the retired chairman of Such and Such Bank." In other words, he could have bought her entire net worth for a small fraction of what he had sitting in petty cash. The woman did one of those double blinks that say, "I am trying to not look as stupid as I really am" and tried to make a quick exit. But I was way too aggravated by her rudeness to let her off lightly, so I was right on her heels, and said, "Here, let me introduce you to him," before she could make her getaway. Of course, the retired bank chairman was pleasant and one might even say courtly toward her, while all she could do was smile one of the tight lipped smiles of the chronically insincere. One of my proudest moments. It is good for ministers to know their flock, and by that I mean, know what they do in all those other hours beyond the hour or two one sees them on Sunday morning.
One deacons' retreat we held at Redbud bore this out completely. We were to split up into pairs and interview the other person and ask a series of three or four questions. One of ghe questions being, "Tell me something that people don't know about you." The man I was paired with was a very kindly and thoughtful and quite unassuming person. What I learned when I asked that question was that he had been shot down during WWII and was in a Nazi prion camp for some while. You would never have guessed it from knowing him as a fellow deacon or usher or friendly face at the pot luck dinner. But such things are well worth knowing. Every person has a backstory worthy of knowing and appreciating. Especially, for a minister to know about their own flock. But some people do not get that at all.
In another setting, and another church many years later, I was going to visit a member of the congregation, early on in my ministry there. Someone that I hadn’t met yet. I didn’t know much about him even though he and his wife were in worship every Sunday and were always pleasant at the door following the service (may their tribe increaser!). I stopped by the office of one of the members of the staff, and said, "Tell me, I know he is retired, but what did Mr. Kittinger do for a living?" I thought it might help to break the ice when I went to see him in the hospital. The staff member gave me the kind of look that you get when you spell the word wrong at the blackboard in school, "Oh I don’t know," she said, "and I don’t care to know. We had a minister here once who only cared about what he thought were the important people. So I have made it a point NOT to know these things, so as not to be biased".
My goodness! Let’s not get to know our members, so that we might not be biased? Certainly one of the silliest, strangest statement I’ve ever heard in ministry. But not the only odd statement from that particular staff member in the 23 years I served Wekiva.
Sometimes the things one learns are quite lovely, or humorous, and sometimes they are quite hair raising, when you get to know and love your people.
In the humorous ddepartment, we had in South Bend another retired bank president who lived in the Ridgedale neighborhood, a very nice community, and had a very large piece of property on which he kept raccoons. Yes, raccoons. He was popular with the raccoons, but not so much with his other neigh bars who found the care and attention he gave those bandit-eyed critters. I always thought it was amusing that he, a former bank officer, kept animals that looked as if they were safecrackers, on his land. (Hi, Roland!)
In the hair raising department, there was one older couple who were kindly and sweet, but their back story was almost impossible to believe. Apparently the wife had something against her husband and her way of dealing with it was to slowly poison him by hiding the lethal substance in his food. The word got out and they somehow managed to weather that, and were together into their senior years. Seemingly as content as could be. However, one always watched to see what dish this gal brought to the church covered dish supper, and avoid sampling it at all costs. Just one example of why the philosophy,"I have made it a point NOT to know these things, so as not to be biased", is just plain idiotic. And you can quote me!
There was one Thanksgiving where all of Judy's family were getting together for a reunion at her cousin's inn in North Conway, New Hampshire. How charming, right? To be in a Grandma Moses type setting for the holiday, surrounded by all the family. Well, it would have been, except we were the only family members of four generations not able to attend, because I was not given the time off, by the señor minister. Yes, I know, it was wrong, but I was not in a position to fight it. So, disappointed as we were, we decided to make some lemonade of these sour lemons, and thought about people we knew would be on their own for that day. And we invited them to our house, and fun was had by one and all. Especially by our dog, Lucky. Up until that time, Lucky was uninterested in people food. He had never had any, not even the smallest crumb. But that all changed that Thanksgiving. Our of our guests, Lillian, was a widow, and she lived alone in her 1950s pink and sea foam green ranch style house. Not completely alone. With her was her dog Rosie, the last gift that she had received from her husband "P. Ray" before he passed away. Rosie was pampered, out of her owner's soft heart and perhaps some other soft place further up in her anatomy. Every dinnertime at that pink and minty abode, Lilian set a place for Rosie at the table and Rosie sat on her own chair and dined from her own dish, along with Lillian. I know there are some pet owners out there who do this, too. But face it, it is not exactly normal. Well, Lillian was quite taken with Lucky. So much so, that when it was time for our traditional dessert of pumpkin pie, Lillian invited Lucky to share her slice, by placing his paws on her lap, and his face in the dessert plate, and chomp away. What a disaster! Nothing was off limits to Lucky after that Thanksgiving Day.
But there is more to the story. After all the guests had departed, and we had cleared away the meal and washed the good china, and put it away, we received a phone call from Lillian. She was distraught. Why? Certainly not over the pumpkin pie debacle. Nope. She got home only to realize that she was missing an earring. Which was, you guessed it, among the other last gifts of the long lost "P. Ray". She had looked high and low, in her Thanksgiving frock and in her gigantic Oldsmobile 98 land yacht, to no avail. Had we by chance found it? We had not, but we said we would search for it diligently, and then report back to her what we learned. Which we did. But while we were searhching, Lillian could not bear the suspense, and so she hopped into the land yacht and drove back to our house. Our search having been completed about the time she berthed the behemoth, we told her the sad news. The errant earring was nowhere to be found. We escorted Lillian back to her carriage of choice, and were making our solemn farewells when we looked down on the pavement. There it was! The missing jewel! It was also flattened like a proverbial pancake, having been run over at least once and perhaps twice by Lillian's own massive tires.
Lillian was a dear a soul, so we were very sad that had happened - even though we were still perplexed about the puppy-meets-pie incident. Lillian was always interesting, and no more so than in the years she served on the Session of the church. She was a collector of wigs, or she had the most creative hairdresser in town. Probably both. Because you never knew from one month to the next what color Lilian's hair would be tinted. It ran the gamut from brassy blonde to cotton candy pink, to the fabled blue rinse, not to mention the henna tones so beloved by the pre-Raphaelites, presenting in awe inspiring wonder what they lacked in naturalness. Imagine the spectrum of colors in a sunset by Maxwell Parish and you have Lillian's radiant range of ravishing rinses.
Members of the congregation were quite aware of my undergraduate degree in architecture. And it wasn’t long before I was told, bt Bill Moe, the architect husband of a member of my search committee‘s, "John did you know that one of our church members is an original Frank Lloyd Wright client and lives in her Frank Lloyd Wright home?" What fascinating information. Bill arranged, very soon, for me to go and meet this wonderful woman. Gertrude Mossberg.
Gertrude welcomed me warmly to her home, showed me all around, but better yet told me about working with Mr. Wright as they built the house, she and Herman her husband. The story is a great one; I’ve told it before, including on Wikipedia, but I want to put it down here.
Herman had grown up in Chicago. He put himself through the University of Chicago. His bus stop to go home each day from the campus, was on the same corner as the Robie House. Considered then and considered today one of Frank Lloyd Wright's masterpiece of the prairie style. It was during this period that Herman told himself that he was ever successful in his chosen field, he hoped that one day he could build a home like that.
Fast forward to Herman and Gertrude being married and having a daughter Anne, and living in South Bend in the Sunnymead neighborhood, a collection of very charming tudor-esque frame houses. By that time, Herman was a successful owner of lithography company. As lovely as their home was, it certainly didn’t look like the Robie House inside or out. It was the late 1930s, and Wright's star was in the ascendant once more. He had created Fallingwater, the Johnson Wax building, and these other projects were making their way into popular home decorating magazines. Wright was having a wonderful resurgence of interest.
Now, Herman had never forgotten his dream from his college years. So he wrote a letter to Frank Lloyd Wright and asked Mr. Wright if he might recommend one of the architects that had trained as an apprentice with him, who could design a house for he and Gertrude in the style of Frank Lloyd Wright.
Wright was never one to miss an opportunity where deep pockets might be, and so he wrote back to them in his customarily breezy style, "Why have an imitation, when you could have the original? Why don’t you and Mrs. Mossberg motor up to Spring Green, and I will tell you about the house that I shall build for you."
So they made arrangements to drive up to Wisconsin. The day that they arrived it was bitterly cold. And they arrived at Taliesin before Mr. Wright, who had been off looking at a site in the Kalamazoo area for some other clients. More about that later. Remember, Mr. Wright was by this time elderly by any standards, especially the standards of those days. So when he and his entourage arrived back, after their long drive from Kalamazoo to Spring Green, Wright was thoroughly exhausted and chilled to the bone. So the first glimpse of the Mossbergs had of him was of his apprentice, architect Wesley Peters, who was very tall man indeed, carrying Mr. Wright into the house.
After a suitable time elapsed, Mr. and Mrs. Wright greeted Mr. and Mrs. Mossberg and they had dinner together. And they talked about the house that Wright would build. After dinner, as was the custom among the fellowship at Taliesin, there was to be some entertainment. Sometimes it would be a movie screening, sometimes there would be a special poetry reading, this particular night it was a piano recital. One of the very talented members of the Fellowship sat down at the grand piano in the theater, and she played Beethoven’s "Moonlight Sonata". The Wrights and the Mossbergs were seated side-by-side in an alcove, and when the music had concluded, Wright turned to the Mossbergs and said: "Ah! That man Beethoven! The only genius this world has known! Save my own!"
At which point Gertrude turned quietly to Herman and whispered, "What have we gotten ourselves in for?" What indeed!
Anyone who’s been to the Mossberg Residence knows that what they got themselves in for was one of the finest homes that Wright designed, ever. And Gertrude would’ve been very first to say that. In fact, she once told me that the best education she ever had, was living in a Frank Lloyd Wright house.
The initial design that Wright did for them was a long low one story house, that turned its back to the street, and opened to the garden behind. However when those plans were shown to the developers of the Ridgedale neighborhood, they pointed out that the neighborhood covenant required all the houses be two-story houses, not one story. To which Wright wryly replied, "That’s all right, I’ll give you a one story house, that looks like a two-story house!" And that’s what he did.
Because now this two-story house had, on the second floor, the daughter’s bedroom and bath, and a sort of balcony loggia area. It gained a lot more than extra bedroom space. Because Wright designed the staircase to be exactly like the one that goes down into Bear Run at Fallingwater, that is, it hangs from the ceiling on long thin steel rods, so that each tread floats in the air and has nothing below it.
Upstairs, there was a large bedroom. Pretty much the same size below the daughter’s bedroom was the master bedroom. And ensuite bath. The bedroom has a lovely fireplace in it. And then, the rest of the bedrooms were down a single loaded hallway, the hallway facing the street with little tiny windows that neighborhood children often referred to as Noah’s Ark windows back in the day.
When Judy and I were married, Gertrude very sweetly called me and said. "John I’d love for you to have some of your friends stay at my home when they come out to South Bend for the wedding." What a wonderful offer. I would’ve loved to have stayed there myself! I thought of my friends Allan and Betsey Jewel, and I just knew instinctively that they and Gertrude would get along famously. As they did. In fact, I found out that the night before the wedding, they gathered around her piano in that big Frank Lloyd Wright living room, and opened their Presbyterian Hymnal, and sang hymns together. I would’ve loved to have been a fly on the wall, to see and hear that.
And the day after the wedding, Gertrude invited the guys that were my ushers in the wedding party to come and have a tour; since she knew that they all had architecture backgrounds as well.
I’m going a little out of time sequence here but I might as well keep all my stories about Gertrude in one place. Because they’re wonderful. She called me one day, and said, "John, I have a group of 50 architects from England who are coming to see the house. Now I really can’t walk around and show them the house. So here’s what I propose. Let’s switch into two groups, I’ll sit in the living room with half of them and tell them about the building of the house and living in the house, while you take the other half on a tour of the house. And then will switch and do the same thing with the other 25." Sounded like a great plan to me, and I readily agreed. And that’s exactly what happened. Many months later, not sure how many, Gertrude called me again, and said, "I have a group coming over from the Frank Lloyd Wright Home and Studio association. All of them are owners of Frank Lloyd Wright houses, or big supporters of the work of the home and studio. And I was wondering if you would help me do the same kind of tour we did with the British architects?" I said, "I’d be glad to do that". She said, "They’re here in South Bend to see my house, as well as the DeRhodes house."
Now that the DeRhodes House was about a block and a half from the church I was serving. Dating to the high point of Wright's early prairie style years, it truly is a jewel box, a masterpiece of design. And it was at that time and for many years later owned by a couple who were painstakingly restoring it step-by-step. I had tried to be in contact with them to have an opportunity to visit. And it just didn’t happen. I don’t think they responded to these kind of requests very often.
At any rate, the group from Oak Park arrived as scheduled. And Gertrude talked with half. I took the other half on a tour. And then vice versa. Fun was had by one at all, and then their leader said, "Now it’s time to get on the bus and head into the city where we will see the other Frank Lloyd Wright house". They bid Gertrude fond farewell, and thanked me for what I have done. It wasn’t until they were going down the front walk that the lightbulb went off over my head. The owners of the DeRhodes House didn’t know any of these people who are coming to see it. And they had never laid eyes on me. And these folks from Oak Park had just spent a good hour or more with me, so they wouldn’t be at all surprised to see me again, on the next house visit. So I hopped in my car, follow the bus, and by the time they were getting off of it, I stepped right into the midst of that crowd. I had my introduction to the house that I had so much admired from the outside. And it was a real treat.
I might as well describe that house here. It sit at a right angle to The street and is a long rectangle. On the main floor of the living room is in the front, and because it’s a rectangle it forwards it windows on three sides and the dining room is on the back I’ve roughly the same proportion as the living room and with the same great vistas through the windows. Any metal is wet right like to call the reception room. These rooms are actually one huge room. The spaces are divided by low bookcases and square pie Laster ‘s. The entrance to the house is several steps lower than the house itself on the east Side, and the kitchen and service rooms would shake up a little bit more room than the entrance, or on the far side of the reception room beyond the stairway. Upstairs there are four bedrooms.
It is unlikely that you’ll be able to slip into a tour of that house as I was. I’m not saying that to be superior. I would love for you to be able to see the house. And you can. If you go to Buffalo, New York. Rather than the South Bend, Indiana. Because they’re right beside the Darwin D. Martin house, is the Barton House, which was built for Mr. Martin’s sister and brother-in-law. It is a mirror-image of the DeRhodes house. The exterior is finished in brick rather than stucco, but inside, what you find, and beautifully restored, is essentially the DeRhodes House, but one in which you can visit. I encourage you if you’re ever in that area to see it by all means. It’s a comfortable family size house. Beside it, the Martin house next-door is a tour de force, money is no object kind of home. The Barton House is the kind of house that you could put your feet up of an evening read a good book by the fire, not feeling overwhelmed by it. These two houses, Barton House, the DeRhodes House, or among my favorite rights designs.
During my years in South Bend I also wanted to learn more about Mr. and Mrs. DeRhodes, the clients who built that lovely home. And so in my free time would permit I did some research. And I learned an awful lot. Mrs. DeRose had been married once before, to one of the wealthiest industrial was in South Bend, who was roughly the same age as her father, and his children from his first marriage we’re roughly the same age as she. Some years after his death, she met Kersey DeRhodes, and suitable courtship, they eventually became engage.
DeRhodes was a self-made fellow, who was involved both with banking, and car dealerships. In those early days of the automobile.
In her growing up years, and years of marriage to her first husband, Laura had gotten to know her neighbors, the Roberts family. Mr. and Mrs. Roberts had two daughters, and their younger daughter Isabel was about the same age as Laura. They became fast friends.
If the name Isabell Roberts sounds familiar at all it is because Frank Lloyd Wright created a showplace Prairie Style home for her in River Forest, Illinois. The reason she was able to I have such a home, was that she was an employee in the Oak Park studio. And indeed, it was she who introduced Laura and Kersey DeRhodes to Frank Lloyd Wright. Which resulted in a home that Wright design for them. Another result was that when they got married, the wedding was held in Berwyn, Illinois, the suburb right next to Oak Park. And the minister who performed their marriage was Frank Lloyd Wright’s famous uncle Jenkins Lloyd Jones. There’s more to the story, as regards me and my architecture hobby, but I’ll wait for it to unfold.
One of the other things that I learned about the DeRhodes House was that Mr. DeRhodes died many years before Laura did. She lived in the house on into the 1950s. Her obituary in the South Bend Tribune stated that she was buried in Highland Cemetery, out on Portage Road, which is one of two cemeteries I went to most often when I did committal services for members of our church. I thought to myself, on a free day I’ll go out to the cemetery, ask in the office, because I’d like to see where she’s buried. One day, I did exactly that. The result was quite interesting, Her niche in the mausoleum spot was there. Yet, there was no marker or inscription. So I called our wonderful South Bend funeral director Bill Welsheimer, whose family had done the arrangements for the service when Mrs. DeRhodes passed away in the fifties, and I said, Bill, I was at the cemetery and looking for the grave with Mrs. DeRhodes, and I was surprised to see there was no marker on her niche in the mausoleum. He said, John we have all of our records from that time. Let me take a look at them. And he did, and after he read through them, he called me back and he said, You know you’re right; somehow it got missed, a follow up on placing the marker on her niche. But don’t worry about it; I’ll see what happens. What a great thing for Bill to do, to ensure Mrs. DeRhodes memory, for all of those Frank Lloyd Wright fans in the future who might want to follow her life story. For this, and for all the special attention you and your family gave to people who were grieving the loss of loved ones, thanks Bill!
Here, I should say a word or two about funeral directors. They do not get the credit they deserve. As a pastor, I can tell you that I have had the honor to work with outstanding funeral directors in each city I have served. Bill Welsheimer and Norm Bone (the only person I know who can wash a car in a three piece suit and look as impeccable after as beforehand) were standouts in South Bend. Paul Ajak, Tom Smith, and the Freivogels in Pittsburgh, as well as the people at H. Samson, one of the oldest funeral homes in the nation, which I believe was bought and absorbed by Freivogels in the past decade. (They did Lillian Russell's funeral, so you know they go back a long while). In Orlando, Todd Degusipe is also among the very finest; and we enjoyed discovering we had shared Pittsburgh roots which added a further appreciation. Please, friends, know that this particular minster feels very blessed to have worked alongside you when people were feeling their saddest. You always helped them feel comforted. A tremendous gift. Here I magic also add a few somewhat humorous notes about funeral directors I have known. H. Blaine Waddel was the funeral director in Aspinwall for a very long time, before he retired and Paul Ajak bought his firm. Mr. Waddel was conscientious. He did however, in his later years, look a bit frightening, tall and lanky, usually in a large black overcoat. I doubt he wished to convey that image of the Grim Reaper, but he did it quite well, especially on a bleak February day in Western Pennsylvania.
But back to South Bend. One particular day, I was conducting a funeral with the arrangements by Norm Bone. As is the custom, the minister rides with the funeral director in the lead car, and the hearse follows, thereafter the limousine with the family, and then the other mourners in their own cars, for a procession from the church to the cemetery. On this occasion, we drove the long stretch out Route 23 to St. Joseph[h Valley Memorial Park. The cemetery chapel and mausoleum are situated just off the busy intersection of Cleveland Road and Grape Road, with a big sweeping curved driveway up to the main entrance. All very impressive. We turned in to the cemetery driveway, and there in front of us was a long line of cars, parked. Obviously for funeral that was happening before our own scheduled committal. Norm leaned forward over the steering wheel, blinked, and then said, I know what's happening here. The minister forgot. Norm was right. For as we idled there in the driveway, with no room for our procession to move forward, in came a drab Plymouth sedan - at Indianapolis 500 speeds - which double parked by the hearse, and then out of it came a minister with his robe turned under his arm, which he put on hasty as he sprinted into the chapel. Naturally the thought occurred to me that I was glad I was not that minister! I cannot say I ever forgot a funeral, or a wedding. Poor fellow.
Yet another memorable funeral took place at the end of my ministry at Fox Chapel, just before I moved to Florida. The service was for a charter member of the church whose daughter and son are roughly my age, and who have been dear friends since 1987. The service was held in Homewood Cemetery which is the final resting place of many Pittsburgh industrialists with notable names such as Henry Clay Frick and Robert Pitcairn. The cemetery has a gorgeous chapel, most churches would love to have it as their sanctuary. However, the family wanted to go to the gravesite, rather than be in the chapel, for the committal. All well and good, except it was February, the snow was six inches deep, and the roads were icy. As usual, I was riding in the minister's car, a huge black Cadillac. Those are heavy cars. Which was made apparent when we got to the cemetery, and the funeral director needed to check with the office before proceeding. So, he got out of the car but left it running (it was bitterly cold). And there I was, in the front passenger seat. All of the sudden I had the strange impression that the car was no longer standing still. And it wasn't. We were on a slight slope, and the pavement below the tires was a sheet of ice. The big car was slowly sliding sideways, off the blacktop, and into the grass, after which there was a big drop-off. Frightening? Yes. Thankfully, the car stopped sliding once the two right side wheels were off the pavement.
Back to my architecture hobby. I know you want to say this fellow had no time for ministry because he was doing so much with architecture. Which isn’t true at all. But I did put as much architecture exploration into my days off that I possibly could. Here, an aside might be helpful. Ministers need outside hobbies and interests having nothing whatsoever to do with their church, love it though they do. It is a perfect way to renew and refresh, on a regular basis. Good for mind, body and soul. I know minsters who golf, who go to concerts, who hike, and so many other positive hobbies to keep them well-rounded. I also know some ministers who have no hobbies. The church is their one and only interest. This is not an avenue for long term contentment. Upon retirement, for instance, what in the world will they do to add interest and meaning to their lives, if they have not nurtured a set of other interest? Sadly, some descends into deflated spirits and energies. It can be prevented. And a set of hobbies is always better than just one.
One of the hobbies that I fostered from early days onward was architecture, not surprisingly. I was still single when I first moved to South Bend. I put up a cork board in my den. And on that, I put a map of northern Indiana southern Michigan, central and upper Illinois, and southern Wisconsin. And then I put pushpins in all the places where they were Frank Lloyd Wright buildings. My usual activity on my days off would be to pick a direction, go in that direction, and photograph the exterior of whatever Wright building happened to be there. Before I took the photographs I always, if it were residents, knocked on the door, and then my business card, and ask them for their permission to walk around the outside of the house and take photographs. People were always very gracious and said yes. I think they probably like the fact that I didn’t assume.
Fast forward to when Judy and I were dating, and then married, but still living in South Bend. Judy enjoyed these same excursions, as she would go with me. There was one thing that happened differently, from before, when I went by myself. I fully expected that they would say yes. But that is not what they said. Instead, they said. Come right in; we’d like to show you around the house. This happened again and again, so frequently that I realized I must’ve seemed much tamer, (maybe domesticated?) with my adorable redhead wife at my side. The end result was we got to know a number of people who were either original Wright clients, or longtime owners. In all cases, they had great stories to tell, not only about working with Mr. Wright, but living in one of his houses. What a treasure for us personally. Some of these friendships have lasted many decades.
Ther was, at time, and still is today, a rather special organization for the St. Joseph County Scholarship Foundation. It was created right after the Second World War, when several bright souls realized that there were a number of organizations in town that gave their own modest scholarships to graduating high school seniors, to help them pursue their college education. They conceived the idea, Why don’t we pool our resources? And that’s exactly what they did. This Foundation was able to fund many more students than the individual organizations that supported might have. It drew leadership from all walks of life, who had a real concern for the well-being of the community and its people. One day, our church treasurer, Kate Colton said to me, John, I’d like to propose you for a board member for the Saint Joseph County scholarship foundation. What an honor. They held their regular meetings at an historic downtown hotel, and they were gathering of people who made good things happen. A goodly number of them were members of our congregation, and our sister congregations, Christian and Jewish.
Whenever people get together for a meal, and a minister is present, the minister knows to expect to be invited to offer grace before the meal. In fact, I jokingly say I have a prayer embroidered on my shirt cuff, my "off-the-cuff" prayer, for such occasions. In contrast, the Scholarship Foundation gave me plenty of advance notice that they would be asking me, so it allowed me time to consider and craft the prayer in the way I thought would be most helpful. I can still remember, after the first time I led the foundation in prayer, a very influential member of the community, a member of the downtown synagogue, came over to me and she said, I just want to thank you for the prayer, which I felt included in, rather than excluded from. Surely, one of the most appreciated compliments I’ve ever had. I have heard all too many ministers couch their prayers for a diverse gathering in such narrowly sectarian words that it feels as if they have no clue who the people are, seated before them. An unfortunate and unappreciated mistake.
Before we leave my stories about Gertrude Mossberg, there are several more I wish to record. One was the day she telephoned me and said that she and her Circle members were all getting older, and it was hard to see where one of the front porch steps began and the next one ended, these being built of the same Belden brick as the house itself. Gertrude would normally have called Jack Howe with this request as she had with others down the years - since he was the apprentice who was assigned to and lived with the Mossbergs during the construction of their home - but I believe he was no longer practicing architecture. The request was that i design for her a railing for those front stairs, and a similar one for the back stairs. I was glad to accept the assignment, and said i would look in my many books on Wright and find one that was similar to emulate. Ha! That was when i realized that Wright hated railings, and never used them in his buildings. What to do? It was only then that I thought of one of the stores Gertrude would tell of building the house. Sh was dismayed by the plans because there was no basement. Wright was adamantly opposed to basements. He had turned down clients who has insisted on them. So Gerturde was on a patch of thin ice. But when he asked her why she needed a basement, she said that she needed a place for her preserves. "Then you shall have a basement!" Wright deglazed. And so she had. Remembering this, I called Gerturde and asked about the basement stairs. Was there a railing? Yes there was. I asked if i could come and see it. Yes again. So I did, and I based the new railings on that one, with the provision that they are in channels in the brick, so that one can remove them easily by lifting them up, and hide them away if professional photos of the house are being taken. Even so, the Mossberg House appears on the cover of one of the fine Japanese monographs about Wright's work. Along with my railing!
In addition to getting a basement out of Wright, Gertrude also got another feature that was not being put into any of his Usonian houses at that time. The initial plans showed the kitchen (Wright called them the Workspace) with a taller ceiling than the rest of the main floor rooms, with a skylight above, and no windows. A very far cry from what is expected in the expansive HGTV model kitchens of today, and even then, unheard of. Wright had about that time told a women client that her insistence upon windows in her kitchen made her unworthy of a house by his design, rolled up the blueprints and left never to be seen again. Here was Gertrude, probably unaware of that incident, who said in all innocence, "Mr. Wright, where are my widows?" Wright replied, "Why do you need windows?" To which Gertrude answered, "To see my birds; I love to feed the birds." "Oh, you love the birds," said he, "then you hall have a window. The revised drawings had not simply a window, but a whole row of floor to ceiling french doors, so Gertrude could watch her birds.
Wright was a charmer when he wanted to be, but in these and other ways, he was out-charmed by Gertrude. Gertrude was charming, of that there is no doubt. It wasn't until some years later that I had an additional insight to this fact. I was reading about Wright's earliest years in Chicago, where he was helped, guided, influenced by his famous minster Uncle Jenkin Lloyd Jones and his Aunt Susan. Ther were photos of Jenkin, with a full bush and old fashioned beard, and alongside him, Gertrude Mossberg. Well no not really, it was Aunt Susan, but the two resembled each other to a remarkable degree. Gertrude looked so much like Wright's beloved aunt, it's no wonder she ended up with a basement and a kitchen full of windows!
I must tell you about my dear friends Eleanor and Bob Sweitzer, who were in the best sense of the word pillars at First Presbyterian Church. They live in South Bend all their life, overcame some early tragedies, and had a very wonderful life together. And a large circle of friends. One day, Bob invited me to go with him to Rotary. Which at that time was such a large organization that they had their lunches at the Convention Center. So there we were, in this big modern building, overlooking the St. Joseph River, having a very congenial lunch. When one of the eight or so men at the big round table with us told a joke. Not the kind of joke that most people would choose to tell. Because it had within a racial slur. It made me feel uncomfortable, and it looked like there were others at the table that were every bit as uncomfortable. Because but then, Bob did something beautiful and bright. He turned this man who was a friend of many years standing, and said to him by name, I’ve known you a long time, and I know you don’t really believe that. It was one of the most eloquent corrective statements that I’ve ever seen. And of course, quite brave as well.
I continued to do hymn writing. I entered the Hymn Society of America’s 1985 search for new hymns on world piece. My hymn text, entitled, “O God of love, grant us your peace”, was chosen as a winner.
I suppose we should talk about dogs. Since they will figure in the story often. At some point along the way we got a Labrador Retriever puppy. The cutest little thing you ever saw, all black and furry and with tiny feet. Deceptively tiny feet. Because on one occasion, we were out of town, and Judy‘s parents watched the dog for us. He tripled in size in a week. He was all Lab, except maybe we think there might have been a little German Shepherd in there. We named him Lucky, because we got them at the Humane Society, and figured he was lucky to be alive.
One evening, we were over in Elkhart having dinner with our friends Barry and Lee and their kids, and as we were having dinner Barry said, John, did you know that John Galloway is looking for an associate pastor in Pittsburgh? And I said, At Fox Chapel Presbyterian Church? He said, Yes. I asked, Barry are you interested in that position? And he replied, No, I am interested in having my own church when I leave Elkhart. I decided to call John Galloway the next day.
John was pretty encouraging but also said that they were pretty far along in their search. He told me to send my PIF. I said it was five years old. He said to put a letter with it of what I'd done since. So that’s what I did. That search committee got interested in me. At one point they had us go for an interview. In fact, they had it all set up for us to go for an interview, on a particular weekend. Then, almost at the last minute, I got a call from John that said, Change it to next weekend. He didn’t explain. This was all going on in the summertime, when my colleague Phil was out of town on vacation for the whole month. What was going on, which was an explained to me later, was that John had gotten a call from Phil, who was a friend from seminary, who said that he and Lucy would be coming through Pittsburgh, and they wanted to stop and visit with John and Susan, and go to church at Fox Chapel. If I hadn’t change my weekend, we would’ve been there at the same time. And Phil would be thinking to himself, Who is minding the church back in South Bend?
I know it sounds like I was being super sneaky in the process but I really wasn’t. I didn’t get the invitation to go visit Fox Chapel until after Phil was on vacation. I didn’t think it was right to bother him on vacation with this news. So I talked with the chair of the Human Resources Committee of the church. I explained to him that I wasn’t looking in general, but this was one of those opportunities that I didn’t want to ignore. And was it all right with him if I worked things out to be away for a brief time? And that I would tell Phil all about it when he got back. Which I did. At any rate we went out to Pittsburgh had a great weekend there, then, back to South Bend. I filled my obligation to tell Phil about what was going on. After he’d been back from vacation. I was surprised that I didn’t hear much more from the committee. Later, they wanted me to come for a second visit. I was interested in the church and of course I agreed. But it was sort of puzzling to me. So I went for the visit. By this time it was late July / early August. Again it seem to go very well indeed. I got back to South Bend and resumed normal life, waiting to hear from them.
It’s a strange thing when you get interested in possibly going to a church somewhere else. It makes you begin to think, If this isn’t meant to be maybe something similar is. Do something similar, might be similar geographically. I said to Judy, By the first week in September we’re going to know one way or the other. I also thought, All right let’s take a look at what churches are open and see if there’s something similar out there that I have to be paying attention to.
Otherwise and there it was. In fact, it was the church that my mother’s parents had been members of for most of their lives, the church that my mother had grown up in, she sang in the cherub choir there, and she learn to walk in high heels there. Which is not exactly something which springs to mind when you think about what you learn in church. But that’s the way it is.
Yes, it was something similar because it was actually the nearest Presbyterian Church to Fox Chapel Presbyterian Church, that is, the Aspinwall Presbyterian Church. So I put together an envelope that had an introductory letter, and my Personal Information Form, some bulletins and other things from the church, and had it all ready to mail out, if and when I heard from Fox Chapel that I wasn’t going to be asked to go there.
September 1st came and went, and there was no word from Fox Chapel. September 7th came and went, and still no word from Fox Chapel. Meanwhile there on the desk was this big envelope that was addressed and ready to go to the chair of the search committee at the Aspinwall Presbyterian Church. So I decided I would take it to work with me, and mail it on my lunch hour. I forgot to take it with me that morning. But no matter, I was always going home at lunchtime to let Lucky, the dog, out and to eat my lunch. I went home at lunchtime. Lucky was not cooperative that day. Even though the backyard was small and fenced, Lucky was very energetic and could at times be way too playful for his own good. It was a day like that. By the time I got him back in the house I was feeling frustrated. I walked out the front door and had the key in one hand, and that envelope in my other hand, when heard the phone ringing inside the house. Should I go back in or not? I wasn’t in the mood to deal with any phone call.
But I went in, and I’m glad I did.
Because on the other end of the line was Vern Koch, calling me to say that they were extending an invitation to become an associate pastor is a Fox Chapel Presbyterian Church. Which I was delighted to hear. What I didn’t know was that the chair of the Aspinwall search committee, lived next-door to one of the members of the Fox Chapel search committee. They were friends. And even though they belonged to different Presbyterian churches, they often talked about what they were doing at church, especially since both them were serving on the search committee!
Imagine how inconvenient and worse it might’ve been, if he had received in the mail that envelope, from one of the two finalists for the position at Fox Chapel. God works in mysterious ways is wonders to perform. We did eventually get to Pittsburgh. And we had a lovely weekend. And a good interview experience.
Yet, things seem to move ahead very slowly. It wasn’t until some years later that I was made aware of what was going on. At the beginning of the research, the senior minister John Galloway had said to the search committee that he had one particular person in mind for the position. So, based on his wishes, and his huge popularity with the whole church including this committee, most of them focused on that particular candidate. He was a good candidate. A good minister. And he would’ve done an excellent job, had they called him.
And then some months later out of the blue John Galloway got a phone call from me. Based upon Barry having told me that they were looking for an associate minister. John and I knew each other from when I was in seminary in Lancaster, when he was serving First Presbyterian Church and York, PA. He liked the idea of my coming to serve there. So he let the committee know that he wanted them to take a very serious look at me. So they dead. Even though he had shifted his focus and let the committee know that, a number of them had already focused on the other candidate. So there was a rather lengthy period of time, before some sort of unanimity could’ve been formed. I’ll always be grateful to the people who felt a strong sense that God was calling me there. Because I felt the same thing. These dear friends and their families have continued to be friends all through my life.
I didn’t know any of that backstory until long after we had moved to Pittsburgh. If I were to sum up my years in South Bend I would say that they were very happy. The congregation was a wonderful place to serve. Northern Indiana was a great place to live. Yes it has long and cold winters, but the rest of the year makes up for it, as does the warmth and friendliness of the people themselves. I had an opportunity to do many things in the church, in the community, and in the Presbytery. It was there that I met Judy, and there married her. It was there I first became involved in the Worship Task Force of Wabash Valley Presbytery, which led to my being asked to write hymn texts. Some thing that it never crossed my mind before. But something that has ever since been an important part of my faith expression.
I probably could’ve stayed there for many years, and have been perfectly happy. It wasn’t easy to say goodbye. But I have no doubt that God had something new and different in store for me. I had to be faithful. And so I was.
A couple of times as I made decisions while I was in South Bend, I received dubious advice from my colleague the senior minister. The first of this was when I purchased my 1983 Buick. Which I ordered, because four-door sedans were commonplace for a Buick Century, but not so much two door coupes. Which is what I wanted. So after it arrived, I took ownership of it, of course, I was driving to work. I wasn’t really looking for compliments or comments, one way or the other. I was happy with it and that was what mattered. However my colleague look at it and said: Enjoy it, because it’s the last new car you’ll ever own. I guess a pastor father of four children with far-ranging responsibilities could say that knowledgeably from personal experience. But it wasn’t exactly the kind of response that you think you’re going to get, if anything is said at all. Oh well.
The other comment that was made was when I accepted the position at Fox Chapel. My colleague said, (this was after I accepted the position), "You don’t want to do that. You’re going to be pigeonholed as an associate pastor your entire ministry. If you want to leave here, go to be a pastor of a church, not an associate pastor. If you don’t do that now, you’re never be a pastor, and always be an associate pastor." From observation of other graduates of his seminary, he may have been right in general. But it’s also a rather stereotypical point of view. As the years unfolded, I didn’t end up being the first or the last person to do more than one call as an associate, who eventually went on to serve as a senior minister.
There came a time when assignments on the staff were being reshuffled. And when that was happening, for the first time, there was a thought that was rather heavily in the air, that because I was already on staff, perhaps my responsibilities would be re-defined, to include working as the youth director. All of which may have made a lot of sense to someone looking at it from a distance. But when you’re the person being discussed, and you haven’t been consulted at all about it, it’s a little bit disconcerting. I did let the Human Resources Committee know that had that been part of the original job description I would never have applied for the position. That ended the discussion.
FOX CHAPEL PRESBYERIAN CHURCH (1987-1997)
One of the things that moving to Pittsburgh brought was our first home purchase. Up until that time we had rented. One of the members of the congregation we were going to, Wilma Stoebener, was a realtor along with her husband Harry. Some of the dearest people to ever walk this earth. Very quietly they had a long-standing tradition of not only helping new ministers of the church find a home, but also waving their realtor fee. What gift! It helped stretch our new homebuyers' budget considerably.
I don’t know if every first-time home buying couple is as nervous about that big financial step as we were. We were blessed because we had a little nest egg inheritance from my great Aunt Alisanne (Mom's youngest maternal aunt). Which gave us down payment money. A lot of people don’t have down payment money. They have to scrimp and save to get it. We had kept that on reserve for just this occasion. So we were a step or two ahead of the game, from the beginning.
The other big plus was that the church had a practice of providing a second mortgage for their incoming ministers. Which was a great practice. And probably necessary, because real estate in the Fox Chapel area and nearby was about the highest that was in all of the Allegheny County. So if you wanted to be in the same school district as the church, you had to really sharpen your pencils to get something that was livable, that was also affordable.
Sharpen pencils we did. We came up with a target figure. I remember this was in 1986 going into 1987; our target was $48,000. Yes, I know it sounds like an incredibly low number. But it seem to work with our anticipated income. So on the appointed day Wilma met us in the parking lot at Fox Chapel Presbyterian Church and we got into her big Chrysler Newport sedan. As she greeted us warmly and then she said, “You said you wanted to aim for about $48,000. We will start there." And I thought, We’re in trouble. We weren’t really. Because Wilma understood better than we did, even though in those days of extremely high mortgage rates, what we could or could not afford. (The mortgage rate was something like 14%. Which would sound wild and crazy to people living in the first part of the 2020s. And it was.)
Anyway we began looking at a house that was perfectly fine but extremely modest, from the 1920s, in Blawnox, Pennsylvania. Which was in the school district, and then we looked at a number of other houses. By the time we were done looking, we narrowed our top choices to three. One was a red brick with slate roof small Tudoresque style house in Glenshaw, which meant that it landed outside the school district. The second was an 1860s farmhouse on Middle Road. I do mean on Middle Road. Its porch pretty much touched the road as it went by. The house had big rooms; the living room and dining room were both about 20 x 20. Which felt really nice and spacious. The kitchen hadn’t been touched since the 1920s. It would have needed a lot of work. There were five bedrooms. So it was a lot of house for the money. Even with the disadvantages mentioned.
The third house was about as far out in Indiana Township that you can get, and still be in the school district. It was a three-story very vertical house with one car garage that went into half the basement and a finished room, power room, and laundry room in the rest of the basement. Three bedrooms on the top floor. And one bathroom up there. An L-shaped living room and dining room, with a kitchen tucked into the other corner. It was a very popular floor plan for the time period in which it had been built, which was sometime in the late 1960s. And used a lot for town houses. Because ours was stand-alone. There was one small window at the foot of the stairs on the side. The rest of the windows were facing to the front or the back. The advantage of this house, addition to fact it didn’t need much attention, was that it was on a site that had a level driveway (a rarity in Pittsburgh),, and being 3/4 of an acre, it had a stream running through the front yard (quite a bit lower than the house itself) and that whole front area sweeping up to the one side in the back was woods rather than lawn. Which meant that when the leaves fell in the fall, they fell into the woods, and didn’t need any raking. That turned out to be a huge advantage. As you can guess this is the house we ended up with. We had a lunchtime conversation at Cross Keys Inn where we decided this was the one we would put a bid on. And so we did, and it was accepted.
I had gotten home for dinner just fine. But after dinner I turned around to go back to meet with the prospective bride and groom for an upcoming wedding. It was still snowing and a good layer had coated the road. I tried to go up the double S curve winding road by Emerling Park. It didn't work going forwards; I tried backwards. I simply couldn’t get up the hill. Finally after trying any number of times, I went home in defeat, and I called the church, where George Glassburn our nighttime church sexton, and charter member, answered the phone. I explained my predicament and said, "Pease when the family couple shows up give them my apologies and tell them that we can reschedule." You remember this is in a time before cell phones. So there was no other way for me to contact this couple.
George said "John I’ll do what you asked me but I doubt anybody’s going to show up the weather is so bad." George was 100% correct.
My other daring adventure driving in a winter snow happened under almost the same circumstances. One of those days where the snow began sometime after lunch, so that by 5 o’clock the roads were all a mess, a layer of what was now ice, on top of which was powered snow. Now one of the ways that I would go home would be down Powers Run Road to a busy stretch of Freeport Road, and then take that to Harmarville and go out 910. It was not the most direct route. And it was the road that was the steepest. Powers Run Road does a double curve, at the top, and then once you go around the double curve is very steep descent. And what lies below is a T intersection with Freeport Road. Where you really have to stop, because it’s a busy road. And what’s beyond that is a downhill steep bank and the Pennsylvania Railroad tracks, and then another steep bank and the Allegheny River. As you’re going down on the right side the land falls away into a deep valley. And on the left side, the land goes up a steep wall of hillside. So basically there’s no forgiveness room in any direction. However road crews in the area were very good, and this was the road that usually got salt and cinders before any of the others. So, I intentionally said to myself, I’ll go Powers Run Road, because it’s likely to be cleared and the others aren’t. Which was a logical thought, until I did the double curve, and then realized that it hadn’t been touched at all. I thought as I started skating down that long descent, I’m a goner for sure.
Thank heaven for Pittsburgh potholes! Which are famous. Because Powers Run Road had as its berm on the right hand side, the biggest the biggest jumble of crumbling potholes anywhere. So, very gingerly, I maneuver the big car so that half of it was on that berm where all the big potholes were, and the other half was still on the main pavement. The potholes were so plentiful and so pronounced, they helped me slow the car down as much as possible, as I crept downhill to the intersection of Freeport Road. There’s only been a few times when I have been concerned driving in the snow. I don’t usually mind it. But that was a notable and spectacular exception.
One of my chief responsibilities as associate pastor at Fox Chapel was to welcome new people to the area, and invite them to become members of the congregation. Mostly I reached out to people who had already found us in worship, but not always. The local newspaper published real estate transactions. I always wrote a handwritten welcome letter to the new people. I let them know that we were there. Whenever people are looking for a church, whether they’ve just moved within the city to a different neighborhood, or from across the country, a note of welcome is generally a good starting point.
Over the course of 10 years, I was in lot of homes, talking with people, inviting them to become members. I think after the 10 years I served there, at least 1/3 of the folks who were members of the church had come through one of my new members classes. That was very gratifying. Many those people are still members of the church today.
Another of my responsibilities was to work with the fellowship committee. Over my time there, we instituted some annual events that the congregation enjoyed. An annual strawberry festival. An annual watermelon festival on the Sunday closest to the Fourth of July. And an annual root beer float Sunday, which was always on the weekend of Labor Day. Which was a draw on what is traditionally one of the down Sundays of the year, attendance wise.
We also instituted a series of committee prayer breakfasts. Where we brought in an outside speaker of some repute. And we invited the entire community to come and share in the event.
One year, our speaker was to be Frank Harrington, the longtime pastor of Peachtree Presbyterian Church in Atlanta, then the largest church in the denomination. Even though we had arranged for Frank to stay right close to the Fox Chapel Yacht Club where the breakfast with being held, after he was in the air on his way to Pittsburgh, his secretary called to let us know that because he belonged to a particular golf club in Atlanta, it had reciprocity with the Duquesne Club in Pittsburgh. So, he had made reservations to stay there instead. The Duquesne Club a great long-standing institution. The only problem was it was in downtown Pittsburgh. That meant that whoever was fetching Frank would have to go all the way downtown in weekday in rush-hour traffic, pick him up, and then drive him back to the location where the breakfast was happening. But no matter, that’s how the arrangements were changed, by him.
When the Presbytery found out that Frank was coming, they decided to so have a piggyback event later in the day, they weren’t paying for the travel expenses or the lodging expenses all they would have to pay for was another honorarium for Dr. Harrington. And the big day arrived and he flew into town and we took him to one of the old establishing famous eateries downtown Pittsburgh, Judy and I, and the minister and his wife responsible for the later presbytery related events. We had a lovely dinner. After dinner was over we all said our goodbyes, but Frank managed to engineer that the other couple departed, but we stayed. After it was just the three of us, Frank said something along the lines of, John this is your hometown and I know you love it. Maybe you could take me on a tour before I go back to the Duquesne club.
With my interest in the city, and my interest in architecture, I was probably a good choice for anybody to have a tour. So, sometime after 10, probably closer to 11 we set out for a tour. And I decided the best thing to do was to take Frank to Mellon Square; it was a showplace then and now, created in the 50s, in a late Art Deco Early International Style, to serve as sort of a front porch or outdoor living room for the city of Pittsburgh. Standing there, I was able to describe many plate points of interest that were visible. We were just about done and he looked at me and said, John I’d like you to come to Peachtree Presbyterian Church and work for me on my staff. Well that was a surprise! Certainly out of the blue! The thought had never occurred to me. But it was an awfully nice complement, coming as it did from the leading Presbyterian Church in all the nation. I thanked him and I said please let me give it some thought.
The next morning, wonderful Judy volunteered to fetch Frank from downtown and bring him out to the Fox Chapel Yacht Club where the community breakfast was being held. Frank had resisted the timetable we suggested, and opted to be picked up somewhat later. Making getting to the Yacht Club dicey with rush hour traffic. So down Route 28 she went, and then it was not as well-designed as it is today, by any means. She picked him up outside the Duquesne Club, and back up Route 28 they proceeded. Meanwhile, since I was in charge of the breakfast, I was at the Yacht Club, making sure all systems were go, encouraging all the volunteers and so forth. The time to get started drew nearer. Up at the head table, I was asked by my collegue the senior minster where was Frank? Where indeed. I said I would go and check.
Out to the lobby I went. By that time most of the attendees had gotten their name tags and programs and were seated in the ballroom. I went up to our wonderful church member Betsy Weigand, who was doing a fabulous job of keeping things organized, and she said, "Why are you here, why aren't you at the head table?" I told her that the senior minster was worried because Frank had not yet appeared. Betsy said, "What can you do about it?" Keep in mind this was before the days of cell phones. I answered, "Nothing whatsoever, but it makes the senior minster feel as if something is being done!" We both had a giggle over that one, and I still think it quiet funny.
Meanwhile, on Route 28 North, Judy had run into a traffic jam just beyond the intersection with Route 8. Traffic was at a dead stop. Frank, in the passeger seat, leaned to his right, broadly. Judy asked him what he saw. "Nothing, the berm is clear as can be." Judy got the hint, maneuvered the Dodge Dynasty onto the berm, and as fast as she felt was safe, drove along until she got to the western exit to Aspinwall. Of course, this was all illegal. Exiting there, she still had to go through Aspinwall and most of the Waterworks to get to her destination. Wonder of wonders, she had zero red lights along the way, and she deposited Frank at the doors to the Yacht Club exactly at the stroke of nine. The breakfast was a success, but it was all anti-climax after that adventure which i refer to as "Uncle Frank's Wild Ride".
John is born.
When we made our move from South Bend to Pittsburgh we had no idea what was on our immediate horizon. With our arrival there, came the happy news that we were going to have a child. In those days, it was highly unusual for people to try to find out the gender of their child beforehand. So we moved forward anticipating and not knowing.
Judy likes to joke that she found out that she was pregnant a week or so too late. If she found out before the move, she wouldn’t have had to deal with moving boxes and unpack them.
So there we were in our new house, creating a new nursery. Because we didn’t know whether it was going to be a boy or a girl, we came up with what we thought was a great neutral color scheme plan. By using pastel yellow and pastel green, the room would be a happy room for a baby boy or a baby girl. In those days wallpaper borders were en vogue, and they truly were a nice way to add some color and interest to a room. We selected the wallpaper border using the yellow and the green, that was principally illustrations of teddy bears with balloons. Interestingly many years later we found out that our daughter-in-law Tara‘s nursery I had the exact same wallpaper. I like when those kinds of conjunction of events happen. I don’t think of them as happenstance.
So we eagerly prepared for Johnny’s arrival. We went to Lamaze classes. I learned how to be a birth coach for Judy. At least one of the things I learned I used for myself as well. The simple idea of picturing yourself in your favorite place when there’s pain coming. I did that several times when I went to the dentist. Pictured myself on the beach at Oak Island. It was a nice way to close your eyes and refocus while the drill was drilling.
We got closer and closer to the big day. It turned out to be the big night. We had gotten ready for bed, when she said I think it’s time. We were both pretty calm, cool, and collected about it. Judy said, I want you to take a picture of me beforehand because you’ll never be as big of a transformation and how I look from now and when the babies born. So she stood at the end of our hallway on the second floor wearing a black jogging outfit with a little bit of white trim. We laughed later when we saw the photo, because by wearing black and taking the photo straight on, you could scarcely tell that she was pregnant. And of course we didn’t see the photo immediately, it was before the days cell phones with cameras. We had to take the picture take the role of them film to be developed, wait for that processing to happen and pick it up. Even with the fast service that some of the photo departments at pharmacies offered, it was a while before we saw the joke and laughed.
So off we went to Magee Women’s Hospital. Which is a good 40 minute drive from our house. No matter. as the baby was not in a hurry at all. We got to the hospital got Judy checked in. And then we waited. And waited. And waited. We got to be breakfast time and nothing happened Judy said You might as well go for breakfast. It was a fast food place of some kind on the other side of the hospital parking lot, so I went over there, and I brought the breakfast back so I wouldn’t miss anything. A while later the obstetrician appeared and checked how things were going and then said you’re going to have a baby by noon today. It was just before 8 o’clock in the morning. I said are you sure? And he said yes. And I said OK. So JUDY and I decided that we would call my parents, whose day off it was (Monday), and said if you leave now, you’ll arrive here in Pittsburgh about the time the baby arrives. So that’s what they did.
Even so, the baby was going about this in a rather leisurely manner. And as it happened, when they looked later at their parking ticket at the hotel garage, it showed that they arrived about 40 minutes after the baby was born.
Of course the baby was John Taylor Dalles. That was the baby name that we had selected if it was a boy. The tradition in my family was that you were named for both of your parent's fathers. So John was for my father, and Taylor was for Judy‘s father. It was his last name not his first name. We decided that if we named him John Donald Dalles then somewhere along the way it would be shortened by somebody to John Don Dalles which we thought sounded like a pro wrestler. It was nice that the Taylor name was continuing on to another generation, because having only sisters, it was ending as a last name with Judy‘s generation.
It was wonderful to be able to be in the delivery room with Judy when the birth happened, to see Johnny as he arrived, and to welcome him into our lives. And in an amazingly short amount of time they told us that if we wanted the grandparents to come into the room they could. Which they did. So that was a happy experience for one and all. And soon after that Judy‘s parents came from South Bend to be with us, to see the bed baby as well.
Our church members Bill and Barbara Martin were so excited about the baby‘s arrival, that they wanted to help us celebrate. They knew that Judy‘s father loved to golf. Bill was a member of the Oakmont Country Club. So he invited Don to golf with him. This was the second day after Johnny was born. Bill said why don’t we all have dinner together at the club afterward. So there we were with the teeny tiny baby in the little pumpkin carrier in the Grill Room at Oakmont with the Martins, who like my mother were graduates of Wilkinsburg High School. I said perhaps we were predicting something in this guy's future; here he is he’s not even a week old yet and he’s at a golf course. Both of his grandfathers, my father who died when I was 10, and Judy‘s father, were excellent golfers and loved the game. As it turned out John is also an excellent golfer. Although he let his golfing slip into the background when he became so involved with the crew team, and marching band, during high school.
I loved absolutely every minute of become becoming a family of three. John was an easy baby, sleeping through the night much sooner than expected. And very contented. Maybe it helped that we were not nervous or fussy new parents. But suffice to say he was a joy from day one, and is still today. One of the joys I had was do officiate for his baptism at Fox Chapel Presbyterian Church. Both sets of grandparents joined us for that happy celebration. I did not realize that some ministers didn't think they should baptize their own children , kind of like doctors not operating on family members. To me it seems the most natural and special thing to do. Some time afterward, reflecting on what I had done, my colleague the senior minster said he regretted he had not baptized his three children.
It took longer than we thought it might, for our first child to come along. So we sort of figured that’s how it was going to be and we hoped that eventually we might have at least one more child. But as it turned out that happened much quicker. Anne was born 17 1/2 months after Johnny. In fact as much as we can tell she was conceived on our first getaway that we had after Johnny was born. Our church members the Stanitzkys told us that they would like us to use their vacation home at Hidden Valley in the Laurel Highlands, but only on one condition, if they could watch the baby. This is a family of six children, and they had been doing for some years foster care of infants. So they were well-versed in what to do. Probably a lot more well-versed than we were even though we did a lot of prep for being coming parents. So if we went to Hidden Valley, and before long after that, we discovered that our second baby was on the way.
Interestingly enough we had a baby girl name already, because we had selected it the first time we were expecting, and hadn’t used it. We did come up with a boy name too. But as it turned out, we didn’t use the boy name, we used the girl name. By this time, it was more common for people to know the gender of their child beforehand. If it could often be determined during a sonogram. When Judy went for her sonogram, I said to her if you find out whether it’s a boy or a girl, I don’t want to know I want to be surprised. Which I probably shouldn’t have said to her because that put a lot of pressure on her if in fact they did tell her. And they did. So then she had to keep this a secret throughout her pregnancy. And she did! Since this pregnancy was also at least officially a mystery to us when we got the second bedroom ready to be the new babies nursery, we again said We need to plan on a color scheme that would work for a baby boy or baby girl. So this time around we came up with a color scheme that included blue and pink. Thinking well that’ll go with either. We also made an absolutely adorable wall hanging that was a big bunny rabbit, in profile, it was stuffed, like it was quilted. And out of a chintz fabric that used both pink and blue. I have to admit I thought the room looked a little bit more appropriate for a little girl than for a little boy, even though the walls were painted pastel blue. I may have mentioned it as we did the work on it. Judy just nodded her head and smiled. Of course she was fine with the room looking more like it would be for a girl then for a boy. I just didn’t know it, at that point.
So the time came for the new baby to arrive. And as we done the first time we hopped in the car headed over to meet Magee Women’s Hospital. And this time when we later looked at our parking ticket from the hospital garage we discovered that our new baby arrived within 40 minutes of our getting to the hospital! This baby was in no way going to take her time. For a little girl she was, Anne Elizabeth Dalles. That’s been Annie‘s personality all along. Always anticipating and eager to know what the next event will be. I often joked, as she was a toddler and in elementary school age, that if we were doing something amazingly adventurous, like going over Niagara Falls in a barrel. She would, just as we were going over the crest of the Falls, look at me and say "What are we doing exciting, NEXT?" Which is a wonderful trait to have, to anticipate things that make life extra special.
One of the things that stands out for me about Annie‘s arrival is that the obstetrician Bob Thomas who delivered her looked at us right after he delivered her, and said, We know what happens when a baby stops depending upon its mother, and takes its own first breath and its heart is beating on its own. But we don’t know how that happens. And that’s the miracle. Bob was a member of our church, in fact he was one of my new members at the church. I’ve often thought how wonderful it is when persons of faith let their faith show. It was probably something that he felt fairly natural about doing, since he knew he was talking to his minister and his wife. But it was a wonderful thing for us, and we have treasure it ever since.
Another moment that stands out for me when we brought Annie home, was that as we left the Magee parking lot, we crossed Fifth Avenue and went up the steep hill by Presbyterian University Hospital. As we did, we hit one of Pittsburgh’s many deadly potholes. Ka-boom! The muffler fell off the back of our Buick Century. We just laughed and kept on going. Sometimes in life that’s the way to approach it when unexpected things happen, just laugh, and keep on going.
Not long thereafter we hand to replace the ill-fated 1983 Buick Century which had everything go wrong with it all at once, soon after we were in Pittsburgh. It was the picture of planned obsolescence, and went to pieces so rapidly it was almost like one of those scenes from a Keystone Cops comedy where the doors pop off, the bumpers likewise, and the exhausted belches smoke like it belongs to Hyacinth's brother-in-law Onslow. Except it was NOT a comedy. At any rate, we decided on a while Dodge Dynasty, which was a lot of car for a low price. Its styling was a bit dated even then, except that it somewhat resembled a Cadillac Seville. Which we did not base the purchase on, but one nebby church member of our age or thereabout s began telling everyone she could, "The Dalleses bought a CADILLAC!" Nope, Sue. Not so.
Nebby by the way is a Pittsburgh word.
But back to our kids. One of the things that were so impressive was that John was so good, when he was very young, at being a gregarious and outgoing little guy. So much so, that you would’ve thought that he was the master of ceremonies at every gathering. He always did a wonderful job being very welcoming and shaking hands with the grownups, and generally just being a delight to have around. It was really so wonderful to watch how, even an early age, he worked the room as they say. He was putting his natural gifts to use.
After Anne came along, and for about a year or so maybe a year and a half, this was very evident. And then it was one Sunday morning where I watched this amazing thing happen, The four of us were standing talking with somebody in the office area at the church, and John was being his usual gregarious self. And Anne, who obviously had learned from her brother about how to do things, followed suit.
So she too was being very gregarious. And I saw a lightbulb of understanding go off over John‘s head, as he watched his little sister. And then he literally took a step backward, and breathed a huge sigh that was obviously one of relief. As if to say, OK good I’ve done my part; now it’s Anne's turn to do hers. And ever since they pretty much follow that pattern. It’s not that John isn’t outgoing, he is. It is just that he lets his sister shine, to allow himself a little bit of room or distance.
Judy had a great system for the kids when we traveled in the car. Which we did a lot of since we were frequently driving the six hours to South Bend or the four hours to Lancaster from our home in Pittsburgh. In addition to their two car seats, there was a big sheet that Judy tailored for the back, which was spread out underneath the car seats to catch all of the stray whatever’s, mostly crumbs from whatever they snacked on as we were driving. Picture crumbled up animal crackers and you get the idea. No matter. They also had these wonderful plastic flat tubs, the top of which served as a play surface and writing desk. So they could get out a book and read it by leaning it on the surface or they could get out a coloring book and some markers and they could write things on there.
One particular day, when we were driving to our vacation location (in the "non-Cadillac Dodge"), and when the kids were very young, we had been in a restaurant doing the usual thing, keeping them entertained with crayons on the back of the restaurant paper placemat, coloring, playing the games like tic-tac-toe. One of the things that we were doing was writing our names. Which meant primarily that we were coaching both kids about how to write their names.
Then we got back in the car and continued on our way. We were probably 45 minutes long on our drive, when from the backseat John chimed up, "Anne, you wrote your name!" We thought, "Yeah right!" Judy must’ve been driving because I remember distinctly turning around and looking at the backseat. Anne was all of maybe a year and a half; she was certainly under two. And there it was, her name A-N-N-E, the E was backwards; but everything else was exactly as it should be.
I said, "Anne, I can’t believe it; that’s really great, you wrote your name!" Upon which, John got his marker and wrote J O H N for the first time. He must have known for quite a while how to do it, but that was the first time that he wrote his name on his own without prompting. So they both did it on the same day.
All through their growing up years were many moments it felt like we had fraternal twins, rather than separate in age by 17 1/2 months. That was a good feeling. They were good entertainment for each other, and the groups of friends that they made crossed over from Johnny’s friends and Anne's friends.
Our kids were involved in various extracurricular activities. John was in a little softball team. He was involved in soccer. Anne was taking dance lessons. We were at every event, and we enjoyed it very much. Judy loves to tell the story about the day that the soccer team was playing and Johnny and all his friends were chasing the ball. At that point the concept of zoned defense in offense was not really part of their little soccer team's strategy. So wherever the ball went, everyone on the team followed; It was fun to watch. Especially, the day that the ball went into a giant mud puddle. And they all stood around looking at it from the edges of the puddle. As if to say, what in the world are we going to do now. We certainly can’t jump in to that muddy water can we? Until one of the parents yelled out go for it and then they all dashed into the puddle at the same time. Johnny went home wearing only his underwear that day. Everything else was mud encrusted and had been peeled off and put in the trunk.
I can remember Annie‘s first dance recital, which she and her best friend Kelly Martin were involved in. They were up on the stage ready to do all the little routines that they had learned. The music began, and all the little girls were up there dancing away like Ruby Keeler. Kelly’s father Dave had his video camera on his shoulder; this was back in the days when video cameras were the size of regular TV production cameras in Hollywood. At some point Annie and Kelly got into a conversation. I think it was all about what comes next in the routine, but it could’ve been about anything. So while all the other little girls were doing there steps that they learned, Annie and Kelly were standing there just chatting away on stage. It was a funny moment. And we didn’t realize how funny until we saw the video played back. At the point where they stopped dancing, and start chatting together, Dave could not stop laughing. So in addition to them not moving and doing their dance, the entire stage bounces up and down from the camera having been on Dave’s shoulder. Classic.
Anne and Kelly had been classmates at the Fox Chapel Presbyterian Church nursery school. Through them we became friends with Kelly's parents Karen and Dave. Dave was for many years the head pro at the Pittsburgh Field Club. There are certainly things that one understands when one serves an organization such as a church or country club that one shares in common. So even though I do not golf, i "get it" as does Dave about ministry. We have been friends for well over thirty years, and the miles and the unfolding of time have kept the friendship very special indeed. You will hear more as the story unfolds.
Our kids went to Hartwood Elementary School which was not far from our house. Maybe a mile a mile and a half. They rode the bus. I can still remember the first day that Johnny went off to kindergarten. There he stood at the end of the driveway. The bus rolled up. And I thought, “The wheels on the bus not only go round and round, they are taller than he is!" No matter; off he went to school. He was a great student. And he thoroughly enjoyed being at school.
Anne soon followed. With a twist. They both got on the bus, and went off to school, John to first grade and Anne to kindergarten. Which was a half-day experience, in those days. And most parents pick their child up at noon. As Judy did. Which was wonderful except that when it came time for Johnny to go home on that first day, he looked around and realized his little sister was not on the bus. And he refused to let the bus driver leave the parking lot until his sister was found. He’s always been very responsible and very thoughtful. That’s just one reminder that it’s part of his personality, and a wonderful character trait.
While Johnny’s sports activities took place, as you would expect, outdoors on the fields set aside for them, Annie’s practices for her dance classes were inside a very strange little building in Aspinwall. It was a second floor dance studio. And parents could come and be there while their children were doing their rehearsals. But we were relegated to the only thing I can say is it was like a little tiny balcony that was in effect the third floor. So we would go up that steep and narrow stairway, where there were some ancient rickety folding chairs set in untidy rows. But from there you could not see what was going on downstairs. It wasn’t really a balcony (or if it was the front end of it had been walled off probably back when Coolidge was in the White House). So you sat up there for an hour, more or less bored as tears, because you couldn’t see what was going on. Judy and I were there one day during these rehearsals, and I said to Judy oh I meant to bring along something to read. I think I’m going to go over to Towne Drugs and get a magazine. Towne Drugs is a longtime pharmacy fixture in Aspinwall. I don’t know how long it’s been there. I think as long ago as pharmacies have been in existence. So I walked over the half block or so to where the pharmacy was, and walked in intending to buy Architectural Digest or some similar magazine. And no sooner had I walked in, then a lady came into Towne Drug with five Yorkshire Terriers on leashes. Five! It was like doggie heaven.
Judy and I had talked about eventually getting a dog. And we had narrowed it down to either a Miniature Schnauzer or a Yorkshire Terrier, because both fit the size criteria, plus both were as hypoallergenic as dogs can be; they didn’t shed and so forth. After experience with Lucky in South Bend, we really didn’t want another dog that shed, if it all possible. Not only for allergies, but also for the general upkeep.
So into the drugstore walk this woman with five Yorkshire terrier‘s, I paid attention. The woman behind the counter of the drugstore knew the woman with the dogs. She said to her "What are you going to do with all those dogs?" And the woman said, "I’m going to sell the three puppies."
I perked up at that moment and said "Do you have any females?" Because that was another part of the criteria at that time. "Yes, one." said she. As I said "Oh, OK." And then I bought my magazine and off I went. I got back to the dance studio and Judy said "Did you get your magazine?" and I replied, "Yes but I almost came home with a puppy." And then I described this experience at the Towne Drug store and by the time Annie‘s rehearsal was over, we were on our way back to Towne Drug to find out more about the owner of the dogs. The woman there called her and, the dog owner said yes come right along. When we arrived at her house a few blocks away in Aspinwall, she was sitting there on the front steps with this little puppy. Judy took the puppy from her, and the dog kissed her face, and nestled under her chin. And the rest was history. We came home with that adorable little dog.
What a wonderful dog Tuppence was, without any question. Sweet and smart. And she loved our children as if they were her own puppies. Even though she had a kennel cage for her bed, she took turns each night sleeping with John or with Annie. And I really do mean, she alternated each night. The kids would be put to bed and Tuppence would stay with us while we watched TV in the living room. At bedtime she ran up the steps and then stood at the top, wagging her tail, waiting for me to come up the stairs. And I would get to the top of the stairs and say to her, "Who is it tonight." She never forgot whose turn it was.
I’ve been really fortunate to work alongside people who were a joy to work with, by and large. I want to highlight the two secretaries that I worked with the most during the time I was at Fox Chapel. When I first arrived, the secretary that I was to work with was Diane Ayres. And she was an outstanding secretary in every way. Extremely efficient, always accurate, thoughtful easy to work with. A good friend to the other secretaries in the office. I really can’t say enough about her abilities. She was also single. But she didn’t want to be single. And so the rest of us who were fond of her and wished her well, hoped that just the right gentleman would come along to sweep her off her feet and be her life partner.
I can recall one particular workday, when the copier machine in the work room had gone on the blink. And so the copier company had been called, and a repair man had come to fix it. One of the other secretaries buzzed a bit about this young man, I suppose because she thought him quite good looking. She talked with Diane about it; and I can still see Diane blushing as a result. Of course these conversations were quite quiet, because the secretary‘s desks were not terribly far from the workroom. The upshot was, there was this guy, and here was Diane, and maybe they should get to meet.
Not being shy, I went back to work room and struck up a conversation with the guy. I happen to mention that if he had any questions he could certainly ask for Diane, because she could help answer them. I figured why not grease the skids a little bit in that direction.
Fast forward to later in the day. I had come back from lunch. It was mid-afternoon before I was again out in the secretarial area. And there was a staff member there that hadn’t been there in the morning. I said to them, "There was this guy here this morning repairing the copy machine, and the secretaries were kind of hoping to strike up a conversation with him, to see if he was single, and maybe see if he might be interested in getting to know Diane." At which point a disembodied voice was heard from the workroom, saying: "I am still here!" I suppose you could say I’m not much of a matchmaker!
At some point along the way Diane took a job elsewhere, and left Fox Chapel Presbyterian Church. Appropriate interviews were conducted, and a new secretary was hired. Her name was Mary Ellen O’Connor. Mary Ellen is one of the sweetest people that I’ve ever had a chance to work with. Truly kind and thoughtful. At that point, her several children were grown up and out of the house. And she was on her own.
She got off to a bright and cheery start the very first day. When the phone rang, she would answer in her welcoming voice. It may not have been the first phone call but it certainly was one of the first, when the phone rang, and she picked up the phone and said in smiling tones, "Fox Chapel Yacht Club!" To which slip of the tongue, the rest of us all dissolved in laughter. Mary Ellen was still at the church after I left. And then during a time of stressful uncertainty in the life of the church, she parted ways with the church office, and went to work as a realtor for Howard Hanna, the biggest real estate concern in Western Pennsylvania. I’m sure she was an absolutely wonderful realtor there, just as she was an absolutely wonderful secretary at the church. Sadly Mary Ellen is no longer with us. She was diagnosed with cancer and passed away number of years ago. I often think those last stressful times at the church might’ve had some contributing factor to her contracting that disease. What a shame. What at a loss.
When I was called to the church, every desk had an IBM Selectric typewriter, which was absolutely the height of office equipment in those days. Computers were sort of on the horizon. One kind member of the congregation had given a computer to the church. And one kind of volunteer who knew computers had spent at least two years trying to program the Wang in order to have some sort of helpful role in the life of the church. It never really got to the point of being utilized. But a year or so later it was determined that all the staff members should have a PC at their desk. And so, of those PCs were ordered, delivered, and placed on everyone’s desk. At that point Selectric typewriter was put on my credenza behind my desk, for occasional use.
The church secretaries received some training in the use of the computers. Not so I, nor the other program staff. Well, I guess I received training, and here it was. The financial secretary came to the office and showed me where I turn the computer on and off. She showed me where I would have to be changing the password every month. And then she told me where "help" was to be found on the computer, and she said, "If you need any help go there". That was the sum total of my training. Thank heavens for Miss Rank, my typing teacher at Hempfield High School, who gave me a comfort level with the keyboard. And thank heaven for FreeCell, because that game helped me hone my mouse skills! But as for the rest, the help button became my friend, and every time I figured out how to do something new, I would leave my seat and go out in the secretaries' area, and say, "I just figured I had a move paragraph from one place to the next", or something like that. We did a lot of sharing of notes and helping each other figure out just what to do with a computer.
It’s hard for people of today day to imagine that we used to put a piece of paper into a typewriter and type away on it, and if we want to have more than one copy we used a carbon. If we made a mistake, we used white out. There was no such thing as the Internet or Google that one could search for stuff online. In those days if I was working on the sermon and wanted to have factual information that wasn’t available to me in my books, I would call the Carnegie Library and ask for the Ready Reference desk. They always had the answer to what I was looking for. What a far cry from today, where it’s very easy to type in the search engine "how do I" and fill in the blank, and you get 100 different answers. Or "what time is it in place X?" And it tells you without you having to calculate what time zone place X happens to be in. Convenient? Yes undoubtedly. I wouldn’t go back to the pre-computer days. And occasionally when I am at my desktop, my laptop, or using my smart phone, I think about my friend and former Penn State roommate Evan, who wanted as his dream to have a computer in his home. Well, Evan, that dream came true. I wonder what your next dream is?
We had so many wonderful members of Fox Chapel, among them were many who I nurtured into membership. Indeed in 1997, at the end of my time at the church, I asked everyone to stand that had been there when I arrived, in 1987, and thanked them for welcoming me so warmly, and then I asked everyone to stand who became a member in my new member classes, and told them thank you because they made me look good (laughter ensued). That second group comprised over a third of the church membership.
There came a time when the church began to consider expanding its facilities. A lot of people who came to Fox Chapel in those days said there was no need to expand. They felt it was a wonderful place just as it was. On one hand there was some truth to it. But the reality was that the building committee and or the architect, had made an odd choice for Pittsburgh, when they built the new Sanctuary. Because they placed it in a very good location, but they never truly connected it to the rest of the building. Oh there was a rudimentary open air covered walkway, an open courtyard, which had been dubbed the Garth, although no one actually used that term, thank heavens. And if the church had been located in central or southern Florida, or somewhere like Arizona, or New Mexico, or Southern California, the concept of an open air Garth between the Sanctuary, and the rest of the church structure might’ve made a lot of poetic sense. But it made absolutely no sense in Pittsburgh, where for at least half of the year the weather was not conducive to going outside to get from one building to the other, especially if one didn’t take along one's coat, mittens, and hat.
Now, I know why they built it that way. Conveniently situated across the river was a church that had been around forever, but had a similar sort of arrangement. An outdoor courtyard. It didn’t make sense in 1890, and still didn’t make sense in the 1960s to have a cold drafty open air breezeway kind of an affair between one building and another in Western PA. Fox Chapel saw the light first. But Shadyside, if you go there today, is blessed with the Sharp Atrium area that is based on the one at Fox Chapel. Don’t let anyone tell you otherwise.
It was hard to convince the leaders at that time that such a space was necessary. An atrium sounded awfully la-de-da pretentious to some Pittsburgh people. Here, I must say that old Pittsburgh tends toward the subtle - modest restraint even when they are particularly well-heeled. Nothing lavish or over the top glitzy. Indeed, if you run across Pittsburgh people who are lavish and glitzy, chances are they are new to the area and new to their more than sufficient funds. Atrium sounded lavish and glitzy to some, at that time.
So the suggestion was made (by me), "Why not call it The Gathering Place, in all of the building program brochures and publicity?" If you were to ask around who came up with that name, no one could probably tell you, and that’s fine. It was my name; I came up with it. And it turned out to be more palatable for people, who understood by the name that it’s a place where people can actually gather. Rather than the place that people have to hurry through to get warm again at the other end. Has that term ever been used since it was completed? No, never. It has been called The Atrium ever since it was completed. But it helped sell the idea. It helped fund the idea.
It was exciting to watch the transformation of that area into something usable. It is beautiful; it is functional. It’s great for coffee on Sunday mornings. It’s great for small weddings. I’m glad to say I officiated at the first Atrium wedding there. It’s also great for gatherings before and after memorial services and funerals.
Fox Chapel‘s charter member with a heart of gold, Wayne Strohm was in charge of overseeing that building program. And he did a wonderful job, as a volunteer, making that happen. Near the project conclusion, he came and knocked on my door one day. Wayne said that they had to move the corner stone, in order to complete the Atrium. And they were now ready to put it in place in a nearby location, in the wall leading to the Sanctuary. Before they did that, he wanted to know if there were things that might be of interest to people in the future, about the church, that we could put into the corner stone. And he also made a point of saying was there was anything of mine they could put in the cornerstone.
With that, I remembered echoes of the time that I was in second grade, and the church in Chula Vista was placing their cornerstone. And asked for contributions from children in the Sunday school. And I knew that something of mine was there, which, made me feel like I had something to contribute to the church, young as I was.
So here was another corner stone, another Presbyterian Church. And I gathered together things that I thought would be of interest to future generations. Our church newsletter, a church bulletin, a copy of the new 1990 Presbyterian Hymnal. Also, because Wayne asked, a copy of my book of hymns. So who knows when the cornerstone will be opened. But when it is, they’ll be something there that might cause somebody to say, "I wonder who this John Dalles was and what his association with the church might’ve been". And if the session records are still intact and available, maybe they will flip back to the 1990s era. But if not, I still know that I made a number of contributions to the church in those 10 years that I was there. And like a good Boy Scout, left it in a better condition than I found it.
Judy sang in the choir in South Bend, as she did also at Fox Chapel in our early yers there. The choir at Fox Chapel was exceptional, in that it presented fabulous scared music each week, and special musical services at other times, and unlike some large church choirs, almost everyone was a volunteer. There were four paid section leaders of each vocal range. Other than that, the remaining fifty or so members of the choir were members of the congregation who loved to sing. The choir had several parties during the year, and wonderful parties they were. They always invited the ministers to attend, and we did, of course would have any way since Judy was a choir member. The Christmas party was usually at the home of John and Dee Hoyt; as was the very first one we attended. When it came time for dessert, we found ourselves in John's study along with several other couples of our age. These became some of our dearest friends, both then and now. The Cannons (Nancy and Craig who was a section leader) and the Vinsons (Carey and Tracey sang in the choir). Down the years since, we have shared in many life milestones together, and you will come across them again as my story unfolds.
Here, I need to mention that one executive presbyter along the way was known to say that ministers should never have friends who are members of the church they serve. What? Not have friends among the people you are with week after week, and whose lives are connected in ways congenial and spiritual, with your own? Ridiculous. I wonder how many ministers took that amazingly bad advise and ended up at the end of a lifetime of ordained ministry, friendless? Probably more than can be counted. How very sad. I am sure that the advice was given because at some point or other some dud of a minister ran into some sort of difficulty that had to do tangentially with having friends in their church. And then, what was said from the executive presbyter was a way of "dealing" with that problem. Presbyterian judicatory leaders at every level have this ridiculous tendency to over-legislate behavior. To create general rules to universally address the odd exceptions. So the list of rules gets longer and longer, and the red tape gets more and more tangled. In an effort to fix that, in the early 2000s, the PC(USA) adopted a new Form of Government, that was noticeably thinner than before. It was a noble effort on the part of those who wrote it, to streamline the unwieldy bits and bobs of rules that had accumulated like junk in the attic, down the decades. It was an excellent reform, and I admire the people who spearheaded it, including two executive presbyters from Central Florida Presbytery, Paige McRight and Dan Williams. Thank you both! As for the ones who create obscure and silly rules or "guidelines" to deal with exceptions, shame on you. It is a gross disservice to every hard working and faithful minister.
Back to friends in the church of whom we have had and do have many. In our Fox Chapel days we formed friendships with many who are dear to us. Christine and Dave, Dorothy and John, Dee and Speed, Craig and Nancy, Carey and Tracey, to name a few. Thank you for your love and friendship down the way and for all that we have shared together.
During our Fox Chapel years we managed to get to both sets of parents fairly often, or they came to us. The drive was four hours door-to-door to East Petersburg, and six if you went the other direction to South Bend. At Thanksgiving time, we would alternate from one year to the next. That would be after the Thanksgiving morning worship at the church. Our car would be all packed and ready to go, and off we went, as soon as worship was done. We made good use of the rather boring drive, in that the person who was not driving did the Christmas cards. So by the time we returned home, they were ready to mail. Of course we could not get away at Christmas with worship services on Christmas eve. So we reminded our parents that they were welcome every year to come to our house for that holiday. Judy's parents had to do every third year, with two other daughters in the mix. My folks came every year, as they later did when we moved to Florida. We are so glad they did.
Sometimes the kids went to the grandparents for a visit without us. That was a fun time for the grandchildren and the grandparents. On one of the visits to East Pete, Mimi took them rafting on the Pequea Creek. A nice slow meander between farmlands and woods. A few years later i was out there with them, and said why don't we do that? Ha! We got to the edge of the field, with our inner-tubes, and i looked down the bank and saw rapidly flowing water. It was like being at the edge of the rapids at Niagara. And I read to Mom, "So how do we get in?" She said, "Like this!" and she jumped into the fast flowing stream and was down river, and round the corner, and gone from our sight, before we knew what had happened. Dubious i nonetheless did the same, as did our kids who were both still in elementary school, and not beyond first or second grade. Wooosh we went, with more thrills than Infinity Falls at SeaWorld. Later we learned that the purveyors of rental inner tubes had neglected to tell us that during the the winter the upstream dam had failed, and the flow of water was much increased from when John and Anne had first share this riparian adventure with their grandparents. Who needs thrill rides!
That same visit we decided to go over to Easton, where Crayloa had just opened their first interactive theme attraction. We were there on the day after opening day, and the place was crowded. So crowded that we had to join a big crowd in front of the place filled with every child in the tristate area and their parents. Can I say it was a miserable experience? The parents were spending the waiting time whacking and scolding their little charges who were whining and fussing with or without the slaps. It was a nightmarish pandemonium. I looked at Mimi and said, "Lets leave." Which we did. we ended up going to one of the many caverns nearby and touring it, to the kids' delight.
By that time John and Anne were experienced spelunkers. They had first ventured into the netherworld in Tennessee. We were there because dear Mary Sutphin had insisted we go - and stay in her timeshare there. The cave was one of those that have a very old stairway that led down about sixty or more feet, simply reinforced concrete in mid-air with rudimentary plumbing pipe handrails and no side rails at all. The kids were very young. I would guess 3 and 5. We determined that one parent (Judy) would go first, the two kids next and the other parent (me) thereafter. Gingerly we started our descent. We had not gone more than a few steps when Johnny said, "Mommy?" Uh oh, thought I - the excursion is done for. Judy said, "Yes John?" To which he said, "This is the coolest thing we've ever done!"
Mary also sent us to Williamsburg. We also went there to visit Judy's Aunt Jean and Uncle Clarence of the "Scramble" story. Again, the kids were very young. So we meandered over to Colonial Williamsburg with the plan to walk around a while but not tour per se. That plan was jettisoned when they saw kids their age going in and out of the tannery. "We want two do that." they said. We explained to them that the ticket were expensive, and if we bought them we would be spending the whole day going in and out of all the buildings up and down the street. Could they do that? They assured us they could, and so they did. Our big moment of the day was in the Governor's Palace. We were going up the grand staircase, when we came across a gentleman docent in full pre-Revolutionary garb including wig and three corner hat. Anne saw him and gave a gasp. And then said, "Look! George Washington!" At which moment the docent, who truly did resemble our Founding Father, doffed his hat and gave her a long courtly bow, right there on the landing.
While we were in Pittsburgh we were often back in South Bend for visits. One visit found me going on my own up to Grand Rapids, to see the Meyer May House, which had just been complexly restored to its original condition by Steelcase, whose entire business began by making steel office furniture designed by Wright for the Larkin Soap Company in Buffalo. Steelcase had spared no expense. The restoration is among the best anywhere. I was one one only a handful of people on that tour. As we stood in the living room, the docent told us about the room and the restoration, including tracking down the original books in the library and having them authentically rebound. She also said, "Of course all of the art pottery is by Teco as specified by Mr. Wright". I had never heard of Teco, but the matte green pottery certainly was appealing. When we got back to Pittsburgh, I called Frances Taylor, who was a church member with a great antique shop in Blawnox. I asked her about Teco. She said she didn't know about it but would find out. Later that day she called me and invited me to stop by the shop on my way home, since she had some things to show me. Indeed she had. Two books, one about Teco and the other an overview about the Art Pottery movement. What i gleaned was that Wright had expensive tastes. Teco was way beyond my range for collecting. But I also learned that matte green art pottery was made by many USA compnies in that time period. So began my interest in American Art Pottery which continues to this day. Here are photos of some of the pieces I found at one time or another, most of which I have since sold in my Etsy shop:
I bought the books from Frances and was off to the races. I made antinqing a regular hobby and drew the family into it as much as possible. Anne and John were usually with us when we happened upon a shop sign that said "Antiques". So we interested them in collecting something they were intersted in. John collected antique marbles, and Anne, pretty china animal figurines, mainly dogs. But they could spot good art pottery from rows away. "Look Dad, there's piece of Weller!" "Shhh!" I would reply. "You're right. But...The shop owner doesn't need to know that we know what it is." The kids eventually tired of collecting, and so, when I would see a sign on the way and say "Antiques!" they would groan and moan. Which was funny in and of itself. More often that not I would say it, even if I had no intention of stopping.
I am also famous for taking what I call "The Scenic Route". Which may or may not appeal to my family depending on the day. If possible, I love to get off the interstate and see what can be seen at 45 or 55 rather than 70 miles per hour. We have made some very pleasant discvoeries in dozens of states while on the scenic route. And if we happen upon a thrift store (or as Anne says I should call it a "Vintage Shop") or an antique shop, all the better.
At the church, things were changing. The senior minister departed to the Main Line to serve the church where his father had been the minister many years before. So, our church needed an interim senior minister. I mentioned the fellow who was finishing up his interim pastorate at my home church in Lancaster. He was well thought of in that role there, and so one would expect him to do likewise in any church thereafter. One would be wrong in this assumption, sadly. They did indeed invite him to come and serve. Now, when the former senior minster left, the church was on a very good footing, with a highly effective staff, and with a congregation of 2000 members whose theological views were diverse, and yet who worked together quite well and even appreciatively of other viewpoints than their own. All of that was to change during the interim. And not for the better. By the time he departed and the new permanent pastor was called, almost every member of the program staff had left, beforehand. The congregation was changed into having learned the bad habit of taking notes about whatever in the sermons they did not approve of, and the morale was lower than a frog's belly. I believe that interim ministers who do their work properly must follow the motto, "First do no harm." This particular fellow must have been oblivious to that concept, intentionally or unintentionally.
If you are wondering what sort of things were said that the church members objeced to, I will offer just one of many. In one sermon, that can still be found in the church archives, he stated to not be surprised when you get to heaven to find Hitler and Mussolini there. Let that one sink in for a moment. He obviously was unaware of Michelangelo's painting of the Last Judgement in the Sistine Chapel, and its Gospel origins with the Lord.
"Was it really that bad?" someone will ask. Actually, worse. And not just on Sunday mornings. Within the first few month that this fellow was on the scene, his administrative assistant came to me quietly and told me that he had demanded that she give him all of the blank baptismal certificates (close to 200, as we ordered them in bulk). He then proceeded to sign his name as the minister of recored for each one, kind of like signing a bunch of blank checks. It was a very passive aggressive way of claiming the privilege of doing all of the baptisms for himself, and cutting the other associate ministers out of consideration. I am not making this up folks. Now consider that most of the young families in the church had joined in one of my new members classes, that many of the new parents were of similar age to our own, and had other children who were near in age to and friends of John and Anne, and what would you conclude? That they might ask me to do their new baby's baptism. So, not being a passive aggressive person, but knowing that such people are bullies, I found an occasion to say to the interim, "I have asked your administrative assistant to order a new set of baptism certificates; since I am sure there will be parents requesting that I do their child's baptism." (In fact, many did so). As bullies do, he backed off. But he sulked like King Saul.
This is a good time to talk in general about the relationship between senior ministers and their associates. In South Bend and at Fox Chapel before this particular interim senior minister appeared on the scene, there was a collegial understanding that many specific duties of ministry were shared among all of the ministers. Whether it was hospital visitation, baptisms, weddings, or funerals. These were not considered the purview of one particular pastor. There was no demarcation of "turf" issues. So, specifically, any church member couild contact any minister, should they be seeing someone to officiate in any of these important pastoral rites of the church.
This was not the case with the interim who came on the scene at Fox Chapel. He had major issues with protecting what he mistakenly thought was reserved for himself alone. I suspect that is the way he conducted himself throughout his ministry; more's the pity. Sometimes ministers who have this approach do so because they sense a certain "status" (as in, "I did the Vanderbilt wedding" or "I was asked to conduct the Rockefeller funeral.") La de dah. It points to a level of insecurity that suggests the person was not well-suited to serve as anything but a solo pastor, if that.
Throughout my ministry, I was intentional in encouraging the associate ministers with whom I served to accept freely and willingly any request for their services at funerals, weddings, or baptisms. Indeed, in the many years I served at Wekiva, I made sure that if a wedding request came to the church receptionist, that the asscoiate pasor had the first opportunity to do the wedding or not, which in many cases augmented his salary with the resultant honorarium from the family.
Turf wars among minsters on the same church staff are entirely inappropriate on every occasion. No exceptions. If you are a minister reading this, understand that.
Back to the unfortunate interim minister at Fox Chapel. He was picking off the program staff one by one. One for instance has to do with my dear friend the organist and choir director, Larry. He was and is outstadingly talented, and also very personable. Sometimes with music professoinals you get one but not the other. Larry made the making of sacred music a joy for all who participated. He directed from the organ bench and I used to say to him he was the only person I knew who could bring in a whole section of the choir by raising one eyebrow just so. True. In this interim period, as all of the program staff members were leaving the scene like the Von Trapp children on the stairs, due directly to the interim senior minister's pushing therm out, one day Larry buzzed me from his office, at the far end of the building. He told me he had seeming he wanted to talk with me about, could he come up to my office? I said of course, but my intuition told me exactly what he was going to say. Specifically, that he had come to the point where working with this interim had become intolerable, and he was considering leaving, too. I primed myself for the pep talk: Don't be hasty; this too shall pass... Larry arrived and told me that he had already found a new position teaching in a college, with the other part time positoin he already held at another college, the two could even out as full time remuneration. So he was leaving the church. I tried to point out what I had prepared to say but it didn't not mater. Larry was burned out by the intentional negative office politics. I also said, "Larry, the only setting that is more political than the church is academia". Which is true. But the die was cast. One more outstanding staff member was pushed out, with no reason whatsoever except the whim of the interim minister..
"What about you?" someone will ask. "Did this interim try to push you out, as well?"
He sure did. In fact, it happened in this way. The interim asked me to go to lunch with him, at what he would have considered to be a fancy restaurant. Now, he had been at the church for more than a years and had never done this before. So I figured he had an agenda. Indeed. There were few pleasantries. After we had placed our order, but before the meal was brought to the table, he broached his subject. He told me that he was sure the the search committee was drawing close to making their decision, and that before they did, I should find a new position elsewhere, because i was too well-liked at the church for the new person to get established as he should. Hello? There are so many things wrong with that statement that it is hard to take them all in. But, in response, i cut to the chase. And told him that because Anne was now in first grade and therefore in school full time, Judy had gone back to school to become and RN. And I had promised her that we would not make any sort of a move, until she was done, if then. So his idea of my going elsewhere wasn't going to happen. And as you can guess, we ate our lunch in absolute silence.
The new minster did indeed arrive, and the interim departed (he would have been sent packing by the HR committee had things dragged on longer; they were many miles down that particular road). I knew the new minister. Indeed he had grown up at Fox Chapel, so he was truly coming home. Can you imagine how delighted he was to do that? It seemed a good new chapter in his life and the life of the congregation was unfolding.
The search committee charged with finding him did a wonderful job, and as this sort of thing goes, very confidentially. Still and all, as they did their work, various things happened - mostly comments made by people who thought they were in the know - that were not particularly helpful to that committee. Several high ranking staff members who had gone on to another church were telling people at Fox Chapel, including me, that the committee would be calling, as one of them put it, "The obvious choice." I mentioned several senior ministers serving elsewhere as possible "obvious choice" but was told, no, and instead this sage mentioned only one (other) person. Similarly, a very "well-connected" couple in the congregation, who had formerly been members of what was then the largest congregation in the denomination, went to their old church for a visit and were told by their very influential senior minister there that the candidate would be Person X. Would you be surprised to know that when they recounted that to me that Person X was also one and the same as "the obvious choice"? Naturally I kept mum about all of this, as one should. But it caused me to ponder.
And then one day I had a phone call from the chairperson of the search committee, who was a charter member of the congregation and whose abilities were outstanding. She had also served on the local school board for decades, and so she knew all about deliberative process and the potholes they might bring. She said to me, "John, I am concerned that the church staff is talking about who our candidate will be. Word has come to me that they are saying we have decided on someone. In fact, we are still very much at work. The staff needs to be cautioned to not speculate in this matter."
In response, I said, "Please take out a pad and pencil and write down what I am going to tell you. The rumors are not coming FROM the church staff, they are coming TO the church staff. And being spoken at large. For example, the former senior minister of the church has said that you will be calling "the obvious person" and mentioned a name. The long-time former director of Christian Education has said she knows who the candidate will be, and mentioned the same name. And members of this church who visited their past church in Atlanta have returned with the news given to them by the pastor there, that the candidate will be (lo and behold) the very same person. So, while I have no idea who your choice will be, your committee needs to know that if it is not this often named person, that they are going to be the most surprised congregation in the entire denomination."
She thanked me for the helpful information.
Of course you are now wondering, did they in fact come to the conclusion to call "the obvious person"? Well, I leave it up to you whether they did that or not. But in general terms, I have to say that the hard work of any pastoral search committee is made even harder by people who either think they are in the know, or want to be though of as being in the know. In fact, there are any number of other instances I could share on this subject. And I may do that in the future. Suffice to say that the committee completed their work, and brought a candidate to the congregation, which they in due course voted upon to be the new senior minister.
And so the newly called senior minister arrived at last.
I will say that he had a big job to tackle, not only because of his installed predecessor, but also because of the hornets nests that the interim had stirred up. I doubt that anyone would have been able to have a fruitful ministry following the damage that interim had wrought while there. A group in the congregation was now in the bad habit of taking notes on sermons to jot down whatever they disagreed with - all because of the outlandish content of the interim's sermons. No matter the new person was there. And no matter that he was much more sound, theologically, than the interim. The upheaval the interim had created in what had been a congenial congregation before he meddled is still being dealt with, more than three decades later.
I can hear you thinking, has the statute of limitations run out on this? No matter. It is all true, sad to say. And frankly, the story should be told.
About this time, the Dodge was getting up beyond 100,000 miles (we did a lot of driving in it, especially to Lancaster and South Bend, but also to vacations in North Carolina). There was nothing major wrong with it but it seemed the better part of wisdom to replace it before there was. I ended up finding (after much searching in those days before the internet) a 1990 Volvo, gold in color. I had driven one similar to it that had been available for sale at the used car lot in Blawnox but it had "gotten away" from me. So I called every used car dealer in Allegheny County, and finally found this one in a small dealership in Etna specializing in used foreign cars. We went to see it, on a dark and stormy night, all four of us. Anne was by that time about four. The car was inside a small garage/showroom but in the back, as it was being brought up to snuff before truly offered for sale. The front and back sests were were out of the car at that moment. Even so, it was exactly what I had been searching for, so I told the dealer that I wanted it and put down a deposit. Which did not go over well with the younger set. Indeed, as we were leaving, Anne tearfully said, "Daddy, I don't want that car!" "Why not?" "Because it doesn't have any SEATS in it!" Well the seats were back in it before long, and we bought it and this car eventually was the one that both John and Anne drove to and from high school. One of the best cars I have owned. It was dubbed first "The Queen Mary" and later "Hank the Tank".
Wekiva - 1997-2019
One fine day I was in the Green Room at Fox Chapel. I must tell you that it is much as it sounds: A room in which the ministers gathered before entering the sanctuary for worship. I suppose in some churches it is called, in Phoebe Dinsmore's round-tones, round-tones,"The Sacristy". There, we would go over the bulletin one more time, quickly, and have a prayer asking God to guide what we did in worship. But the room was there as a kind of quiet haven for anyone who wished to have a break from the busy office. I had only used the room in that way a handful of times. On that particular day, however, i wanted some quiet away from the interruptions of the phone and so forth. So I told Mary Ellen where I was going, in case of any real pressing phone call. Otherwise, to please take messages.
I had not been in the Green Room very long before the phone buzzed. Mary Ellen said that I might want to take that particular phone call. So I did.
"John, this is Nancy W. Huskey," came a voice on the other end of the line. "I am calling to ask if you might be interested in coming to Longwood, Florida." Caught off guard, and very vague on my Florida geography, I replied, "Nancy, where IS Longwood, Florida?" She briefly explained it was in the Orlando area. Fine. We had been to Orlando with the kids for vacations, so that placed it. Before I could answer, Nancy asked, "How old are you?" which of course is a no-no. But I told her. "That's good," said she. (In later years, I liked to reminder her that I didn't put her on the spot by asking how old she was!).
One thing led to another, as she told me about her church, which she never mentioned by name. That led to her sending me the church information form, and soon thereafter came a phone interview, which led to a visit to meet the PNC. Now remember, I had not heard the name of the church pronounced aloud by anyone; so I did not know how to say it. Not wanting to get it wrong, throughout the long weekend of interviews, i said things like, "What do you thing is special about YOUR church?" "When did you join YOUR church?" No one on the committee batted an eye or figured out that i was not saying the word "Wekiva"! Since that time, I have learned that Wekiva is said to be a native American word signifying either still water, or living water. More on that later. The church is named for the Wekiva River which flows through its area, and is one of the unspoiled waterways of Florida. But during the interview times, all this was not yet made known to me. (By the way, it is pronounced Weh-khai-vah, rhyming with Godiva - or if you prefer - saliva!).
The committee determined that they were interested in hearing me preach at a neutral pulpit, meaning not their church and not mine, so as to maintain confidentially as the interview process unfolded. The Central Florida Presbytery assigned a location for me to preach, at the Westminster Presbyterian Church on the unusually sounding Red Bug Lake Road. Why would anyone name a lake for a red bug, and why would they perpetuate it by naming the road for the lake? Odd that. So I preached there, the Sunday after Christmas, which every minister will tell you is know in clergy lingo as "Low Sunday", as in very low attendance.
Even though there weren’t many people present, they were all very friendly. Now, keep in mind that this was supposed to be a very hush-hush clandestine thing. The people at Fox Chapel were not to know that I was there, and the people tat Wekiva were not to know that I was there.
So the service went fine. Westminster was affectingly known as the little church with the big organ. As in every church in creation, I stood at the door to greet people as they depart after worship.
The first friendly couple out the door shook my hand and said "Glad you were here", and then said, "You’re from Pittsburgh; do you know John and Wilberta Pickett?" Ha! Well, yes of course I knew John and Wilberta Pickett. Wilberta was the chair of the worship committee at Fox Chapel, and John was the church treasurer. They were both in the choir and Wilberta often substituted for the organist in worship. They were our friends. I saw them almost daily, year after year at Fox Chapel. Who would’ve thought that of all the neutral pulpits in the world, I would be at one where people have this immediate connection? As it turned out, the gentleman worked for Westinghouse, which had a branch down in Orlando. Of course its headquarters was in Pittsburgh, where John Pickett worked. I don’t know if the connection was ever made between them and John and Wilberta, before I announced my call to Wekiva. But it’s one of those events that reminds me over and over again that it is a small world when you are a Presbyterian.
After that, things unfolded as they should have as far as my call to the church. As I accepted, sensing that God‘s hand was in the midst of it all. As much as I dearly loved my 10 years at Fox Chapel, it seemed time that I’d be serving as the senior minister at my own church.
As we were about to make our farewells to Fox Chapel, as we were moving to Florida, Martha, one of the very busy and active elders of the congregation, when referring to my last sermon, said, 'You aren't going to make us cry are you?
The thought had never crossed my mind specifically. But I realized that that was very good advice. Because if the sermon moved in a way that tugs at the heartstrings, it’s very possible that I might tear up, as well as others tearing up. While they could sit quietly in the pew and daub their eyes, I would have to continue preaching. And I didn’t want to be in that predicament.
So therefore, I thought of three funny incidents, that happened in the 10 years that I was at Fox Chapel, and I made those the illustrations for the three points of my sermon. Drawing upon appropriate scriptural passages for each. The farewell Sunday turned out to be a very happy gathering, rather than teary-eyed one. And why not? Ten years of faithful service in a relationship between a minister and a congregation are always worth celebrating with thankfulness and joy, so is the opportunity for a pastor who has served long and well to go surrounded by the congregation's blessings, before doing likewise at another church.
In contrast, I have heard ministers in their final sermon in the church basically take as their a theme, "You’re not going to know what to do without me, and you’re going to have a hard time surviving. The roof will cave in. The new ice age is upon you!" Oh, they may couch it in a little bit more subtle terms, but for heaven sake what’s that all about? A misguided ego, no doubt. Then, another misguided approach is to preach a sermon that sounds like the achievements paragraph in the senior yearbook, "I did this and I did that and I hung the moon and I made the stars twinkle...!" ad infinitum. Sheesh. Humility is not that person's long suit.
Any minister who wishes to be the "best ever" before or after, has an entirely misguided approach to ministry. If you want the people who come after you to not do as well as you, then you have already done the congregation a gross disservice. If you strive, after leaving, to perpetuate your memory to the point of seeking to undermine the pastor or pastors who follow you, you are completely derelict in your duties. The proper approach is that under the leadership of your successor, the church will go forward in a strong and healthy way, to achieve new and notable things for God. If you act like that, then you have it right.
The other thing that I have seen from departing pastors is omitting to say thank you to the congregation for the years spent together and the relationships developed and the accomplishments made. I heard one pastor as he was departing give the congregation a long résumé of the things that he accomplish while there, but never once gave the slightest impression that anyone else was involved in making it happen, whether human or divine. Never one word of thanks to the congregation. My guess is they didn’t really consciously grasp the fact that they were not being told thank you, at least, in that moment. But it left them with an uneasy disconnect. Certainly, I have not heard too many comment fondly about that pastor since that pastor moved onto the next place. That speaks volumes.
You can never say thank you too often. Throughout your ministry and throughout your life. By this I mean in person, as well as by personal notes. Not an email, not a text. But real paper, real pen, real envelope, and real stamp.
Don’t miss an opportunity to say thank you. If you are grateful, and I hope that you’ve perfected an attitude of gratitude, then say so. People are not mind readers. Say so, because even the most generous of others - whether it’s congregation members or family - is glad to hear your word of thanks. Are people not taught that anymore? More's the pity.
Our move to Florida itself was somewhat complicated. We didn’t find a house immediately. And it took a lot longer to sell our house in Pittsburgh than we would have wished. As for finding the house in Florida, I must’ve looked at 40 or 50 houses, but half of them with Judy, about half of them on my own. Because I came down to Florida and began on May 1, but Judy and John and Anne did not join me until July 1.
When it was announced that I was going to Wekiva, I received a lovely note from Gladys Lang. Her husband Bick had been the founding Pastor of Fox Chapel Presbyterian Church, and was justly famous for his friendly invitations to new residents in the school district. It was often said of Bick that he beat the moving truck to the new residents' homes, to tell them about Fox Chapel Presbyterian Church. So much so, that in his tenure at the church he grew it from an empty field to a congregation of 2000 members. I had met Bick and Gladys on their occasional visits to Pittsburgh after their retirement. They were usually the guests of Lois and Mel Mellott, a great fellow and well known attorney in a firm that bore his name. I was aware that Bick had died within the past several years.
In the letter, Gladys said that I would be surprised to learn that she was a member of my new congregation. I was indeed surprised. The last I had heard they were members of the Maitland Presbyterian Church. Gladys went on to say if there’s anything she could do to be helpful as I moved to Florida, she would be glad to do it. And I knew that she was sincere. Both Langs were famous for their hospitality. When things had not worked out for finding a house in Florida, I got in touch with Gladys and asked her if perhaps I might be able to stay in her guest room until Judy and the children arrived and we had a house of our own. Which was anticipated to be about two months. And she readily agreed, and made me feel quite at home. There’s another one of those it's a small world when you’re Presbyterian things.
Even before I began on 1 May, the church was eager to have me on site and visible to the congregation. And so they asked me if I would come down and preach on Easter. Which I did. And Judy and the kids came along. We used it as a house hunting trip, as well. But the most wonderful aspect of it was that word had gotten out that I was going to preach there on Easter, and three former Fox Chapel families who had relocated to Florida before our move came and joined us in worship on that day. So there were all these familiar faces in the congregation, the McClays, the Smiths, and the Hecklingers, and I can’t say enough about how wonderful it was that they were there. Again, another it's small world when you’re a Presbyterian thing.
Eventually, we did find a house. In fact, we were all set to bid on a house as our first choice. But there were two houses on that street, so one day at lunch I drove over to that street to make sure that we had the right address for the house we were bidding on. You remember this is before the days when they were real estate listings on the computer that you could look at in the flesh. Lo and behold, the house we were interested in had a sale pending sign out. Which moved us then to the second choice. Which is the house we eventually purchased. And we lived in for 23 years. It was in the Wekiva neighborhood, in the school district that most of the church members children also were in, and was an ideal place to raise children.
We could not have bought the house without help from dear friends who guaranteed the loan for our mortgage. Because our Pittsburgh house had not sold, nor would it for - if you can believe it - two years. There we were, paying two mortgages all that time. You might ask what was the causes. There were two. One was that at the time we moved, PharMore went bankrupt and with it, hundreds of employees of roughly our income status and modest home size flooded the market with houses for sale within a four mile radius. It was a mini-recession in our area and the real estate competition was very stiff. The other reason had to do with the person who we were given as a listing agent. When we knew we were moving, we immediately contacted our dear Wilma, who I am sure would have done anything to secure a buyer for us. But just then, her husband Harry became quite ill, and she was stepping back on any work, to care for him. Instead of leaving us find a realtor on our own, she helpfully told us she had asked another realtor to represent us. We knew that other person, she and her family, as well as her elderly widowed mother, were all members of our church. But as the weeks and months dragged on, it became quite clear that she was not the right agent to represent our home, because she was used to only million dollar plus listings, and frankly had no clue how to sell a very modest home. So, month-by-month, we paid mortgages on both houses. It was only when one of our choir members at Wekiva, who was a very forthright and energetic realtor, asked if she could help get our house sold, and then partnered with a a new agent in Pennsylvania, that the house at last sold. Thank you, Jane!.
The day that we moved in tour Coble Drive house, John and Anne, who were excellent swimmers, spent the day in the backyard pool, while we sifted, sorted, and organized the boxes as they came off the moving truck. All we had to do was glance out the window every moment or two, to see them splashing about and having a great time, in that pool. It served us well down the many years that we were there, as a place where they could bring their friends, and for family get togethers. And once they had homes of their own, they knew the pool was always open on the weekends for family to come and swim.
A pool and a palm tree were my only requirements for what we were going to find as a house in Florida. We met both of those, in fact the yard had half a dozen palm trees. Soon we augmented the landscaping in other ways, including planting some citrus trees, which gave us very nice oranges, lemons, tangerines, and grapefruit down the years.
John and Anne enrolled at the Wekiva Elementary School, conveniently located in our neighborhood. The neighborhood was filled with bike paths, and nearly every child bikes to and from the school. This was new for us. We were used to them getting on the bus at the end of the driveway, but in Florida they were going out of the driveway around the corner and out of sight. We got used to it but it was a little scary when it first began. There they were in third and fourth grade, off on their own on their bicycles.
Wonderful Tuppence, our Yorkshire Terrier, made the move with us. You will recall that she had this habit every night of sleeping with one of the other of the children and alternating each night, and never forgetting who she slept with the night before. She was just such a sweet girl and she very responsibly thought of John and Anne as her puppies. Kind of like Nana in Peter Pan. The first night we went to bed in our house in Florida threw Tuppence off completely. Because unlike in Pittsburgh where all of the bedrooms were relatively close together on the second floor, in our Florida house the master bedroom was on one end of the house, and the other three bedrooms were at the exact opposite far end of the house. The kids had gone to bed already. It was time for us to head to bed. And we started down the hallway toward the master bedroom. And dear Tuppence planted herself in the hallway and gave us a very stern expression. Like why in the world are you abandoning your children at this moment? I looked at her I said, "It’s OK, they’re fine in their rooms. But if you want to sleep with one of them go right ahead and do that." To which she looked down the hall toward their room, and then look the other way down the hall to our bedroom, gave a huge sigh, and trotted into our room, where she for the first time slept with us rather than the kids. Which she continued to do the rest of her life. As if she were saying, "My work here is done..."
After we moved to Florida, one of the things that we discovered, was that Anne wasn’t being challenged by the literature that she was reading as part of her schoolwork. We wanted to be as helpful as we could in her not being bored in finding things to read that she enjoyed. We had a conversation with her teacher, who suggested the books of Madeline L’Engle. To which I said. "Of course why didn’t I think of that myself." So we began buying for her Madeleine L’Engle books. At some point along the way, when I realized how much she was enjoying them, I wrote a letter appreciation to Madeline, and she wrote back to me, and then soon thereafter came an autographed copy of one of her books, for Annie. Well that began an ongoing correspondence with Madeline that lasted until her death. It was very nice to be able to have that kind of a contact with someone who’s works are admired so greatly.
Whenever you begin at a new church, there are things that you’re aware of that need to be done. In addition to the routine things that every minister does at every church. And then there are those things that somehow or other escaped mentioning during the interview process.
In the case of Wekiva there were two. I’ve often wondered if they were supposed to have been mentioned to me by a particular person on the search committee, but that person chose not to mention them until after I had accepted. That seems very likely to me, in retrospect. I don’t think it would’ve changed my sense of call whatsoever to have been told. And it might’ve been a lot more helpful to be aware of these things beforehand. I would say to all search committees everywhere, are there pressing and unusual issues at your church? Make sure that every candidate knows whatever a minister will need to know, that would be helpful once they arrived. To do less than that is to do yourselves a disservice, as well as the potential candidate.
The first of these two things that I was informed was that there was a lawsuit against the church by a man who had served as a temporary organist. He really wasn’t on staff. He was paid a stipend for the work that he was doing . Which apparently was substandard work.
They were many problems. He was often late for rehearsals. He yelled at both the adults and the children at rehearsals. He often played the wrong hymn tune during worship. There were other complaints. However the human resources committee of the church had determined they were not going to address those issues as they came to a head, because it was Advent. And what in the world would they do without an organist during Advent and Christmas?
What they could’ve done was find another substitute. Duh.
But they didn’t do that. They kept this fellow, inapt as he was. And then once the New Year arrived, somebody from the committee let him know that his services were no longer required. At which he probably blurted out, "That is not why you are firing me you are firing me because I am gay and because I have AIDS!" Both of which were brand new bits of information for the human resources committee.
He went to the media. One of the three major TV network news stations actually picked it up, without any basis, or fact checking, and reported it as if it were the gospel truth. Shame on them for sloppy journalism. It was also in print in various places and of course there was this lawsuit, which by the time I went to the church six months later was hanging over their heads like the sword of Damocles . And lucky me, I was the new senior minister who got to sort through the mess. Fortunately the mess did eventually get sorted through with a tremendous amount of help from our wonderful Clerk or Session Aubrey Jones, who chose to be the official church representative to the insurance company that insisted that we settle the matter out of court. Which was probably very wise. Of course the details were to remain confidential. But here’s the strange thing. When I mentioned this to my friends Allan and Betsy Jewel up in Rhode Island, their mouths were agape. They said, "Tell us the name of that organist again?" And I told them. And they shook their heads and then told me that he had done exactly the same thing at their church in Rhode Island . In other words he was a serial schemer, as far as flagrant lawsuits were concerned.
I found out about that almost at the time that I was arriving at the church. As I say, it would have been very helpful to me if someone from the search committee had told me all about it beforehand. The fact that it was not told to me has caused me to wonder if perhaps someone was supposed to have told me, but did not. So it was a surprise, and an unpleasant one at that.
Believe it or not, this was not the only lawsuit hanging over the heads of the congregation. They also had a member who did a slip and fall on the front walk (this was also before I arrived). I don't think of it as the other unmentioned surprise, that will be recounted next, but it was in fact never told to me before I was on the scene. So I suppose you could say it was surprise number three. This gal, who was of a certain age as they say, chose to sue the church, even though her own insurance had paid all of her expenses and she had made a full recovery. She was back to attending the church and going to her ladies Circle group, and fawning up to the temporary associate pastor. All the while the suit dragged on at a snail's pace. As in the other suit, the church's insurance company insisted on doing the negations and did an out of court settlement, the amount of which was to be kept confidential. Far be it from me to divulge but very soon after said settlement this woman appeared in the parking lot behind the wheel of a bright shiny new Toyota Avalon, and with no qualms of having caused distress among the leaders of her church. Yes, people can be very very obtuse.
The second surprise didn’t come to light until the first month, when I was attending my first meeting of the long-range planning committee.
If you hear the term long-range planning what do you think of? I think of a group of people who are charged with looking to the future and seeing where the church should be or could be going. But this particular committee had another assignment of which I was totally unaware until I went to the meeting.
At the meeting there were a number of gentleman - no ladies - all of whom I had met at some capacity within that first month. And another gentleman that I didn’t recognize was there, as well. Hmm? When he came in the door, he just happened to have a set of blueprints under his arm, and right after the opening prayer, he unrolled the blueprints. To reveal a very ambitious project to expand the size of the church to about double what it was at that point! Hello? Was there some reason that the search committee didn’t mention this in any of our interview conversations? Did they think perhaps that the chairperson of the committee had already told me, so they didn’t need to bring it up? I don’t think these questions will ever be answered but the reality was there I was absolutely blindsided by the blueprints. What I didn’t realize was that the committee members were very nervous about showing them to me, because of my architecture background. You would think that they’d be pleased to have someone with an architecture background coming on board in a time they had a massive expansion plan. But no, they were instead nervous that I would want to change what they had already been working on. Understandable but unreasonable.
So the architect explained the various features of the addition. and then somebody on the committee said, "John what do you think?" All I could think was my church administration professor from seminary saying to all of us, never start a building program in your first year at a church. Ha! The horse was out of the barn. They were long into this planning process. I mean if they had blueprints; they had been working at it for a long while. So to answer them I said, "What does the Session think of it?"
And they paused, then someone finally said, "The Session doesn’t know about it." I am thinking wow this is really a messed up process, if these people are going off willy-nilly and coming up with blueprints and the Session doesn’t know that they’re doing it. And someone on the committee continued, "They have given us a budget to explore the possibility of expanding the church", and they had run with that budget. They had hired a design build-firm, and had told them what was needed, and the architect had created these drawings, but the Session had never seen any of it.
So I said, "Maybe the next step is to share this with the Session. So how about at our next Session meeting, if you Mr. Architect are willing to come and join us, we can show them what the committee has in mind." Which is what we did. And that began the process toward completing these additions and renovations. But there were a number of steps that had to happen in-between.
I should mention thsta I did have a hand in some fine tuning of the design. One was the courtwyard wall outside the new link building. I urged that they angle it where it met the ofiringal educaiton building, so that the kitch would not lose its window. Otherwise all our good kitchen volunteers would not have any way to see outside. A second tweak was to put doors between the nursery classrooms for the youngest children, from crib to todders, to twos. and to make them dutch doors, so that the little ones would be aware of the next step in their church classrooms before they actually graduated to them. It was a boon for our nursery school who use the same rooms for the same purposes during the week. The third idea that was also implemented was to create d a covered walkway on the link building in the courtyard, so that people could walk in the shade or shielded from the rain out there. This also came in very handy for the seating of families when we did a committal service in the courtyard.
These were relatively simple changes.
But the last one I will mention was more elaborate. I mentioned to the committee that church members will give the most to new worship spaces, and next to new classroom spaces. It was clear we were not going to build a new sanctuary. I said, "I think we need something that will serve as an inspiration to the congregations s they consider the plans, and their pledges." Someone said, "You mean like steeple?" AndI replied, "Yes." The architect's eyes brightened up, and he asked if we wanted him to draw a possibility. He ended up showing us three options at our next meeting, and the committee eagerly selected one of them, the campanile that graces the church and serves as both its landmark and its trademark.
I knew that we had to publicize what we were doing. To get the word out to the congregation. Get them to be enthusiastic about it. And therefore to feel that it was a worthwhile venture to give money to in a building campaign.
Now remember Fox Chapel had just been through a building campaign. And while I was not the person who was chiefly responsible for working with the fundraising, I had had a part to play. And while I wasn’t chiefly the person that was involved in the design of the building, I had parked play. So I was bringing some expertise that not everyone would’ve had, thank the Lord!
So we took some time. We had some special events that the whole congregation was invited to. We created some literature explaining the addition. And we began to go and search for someone to help us with the building campaign funding.
There again I turned out to be the person to have the most experience about this. Which really surprised me, but there it was. In other churches that I had served in, we would’ve had a dozen or so people that would’ve had financial background, fundraising expertise, and the like. But there didn’t seem to be anyone who felt they could do that at Wekiva.
So, remembering the building campaign that we had had in Pittsburgh, I suggested that it made sense we have someone from the outside come in and work with us on how to raise the funds. And we identified three different organizations that could do that, including a gentleman who I knew already, who happened to have been a fundraiser for the Presbyterian Church USA. But when I contacted him, at the behest of the committee, he said that he and another fellow from that agency had gone out on their own and now had their own business. And we would be among the very first that they’d be working with in this independent phase of their career. So he was put on the list to come and visit explain it to us. As were two others. David happened to be the first on the list, he came and spent an evening with our committee, and on the strength of what he presented, they said they didn’t need to talk to the other two they were very happy with what David was proposing to do. Which I think was a fine decision for them to made.
Now we thought we were all ready to go with the campaign. And after we described to David what we had done thus far he said. "It looks like you have about a year‘s worth of work to do before we launch the campaign". Which came as a surprise to me. But not necessarily an unpleasant one, since I much preferred the possibility of success, than jumping into these waters, like jumping into the raging Pequea Creek, with a little chance of finding my way to the end of the process without some sort of mishap.
So we had the campaign, it was in many ways a success. The project was more ambitious than the church was ready to take on at that time. So we had to scale back, somewhat. But we managed to double the amount of usable space under roof, to provide a brand new organ for the church, to build a freestanding bell tower, to expand the fellowship spaces, to completely upgrade the Sunday school rooms. And to install an elevator. I’m sure I’m forgetting something but it was a big project.
The second of my most unfavorite lunches in my forty years of full-time ministry took place surrounding the fundraising campaign for this building. We had a couple who retired to us from Toms River, New Jersey. He had been an executive with a large corporation up there. And was indeed very impressive, at no place more so than in his own mind. They had invited me to come to their house for lunch. Which I thought was just sort of a nice pleasant getting to know you to chat kind of thing. No. I was grilled on just how this building was going to be paid for. Because there was a need to take out a construction loan, and the paying of the pledges for the building campaign were to stretch over three years. He was absolutely sure that it was doomed to failure from start to finish. Which is not exactly the kind of thing you want to chat about over sandwiches and soup. Bon appetite, indeed!
Jumping around a bit, I will say that some years later he was asked to serve on the Session. He accepted. The whole time he was in his three-year term on the Session he kept making comments about how in his New Jersey church, elders served for six years not for three; it was very much allowed by the Book of Order. Which was technically true. But it was highly irregular for anyone at Wekiva to serve for six years consecutively. Even if they came back on the Session later, they had a couple years where they were not serving. But I kept the idea in mind.
One of things that I had to do a senior minister was make assignments for what committees every Session member would work on during the course of the year. This fellow had been assigned to the finance committee, his first choice, and was into his second year, as we were coming to the end of the year and the third was about to begin. The usual thing to happen if you served on a committee for a year or two was that in your final year on the Session you would be asked to chair that committee. So I asked him. And he immediately declined. Which made it quite difficult for me to find someone else to serve in his stead. But I managed to do that. And then we got to the end of his third year or near that, when he let it be known to me that he very much expected to be asked for another three year term. And I said "Bob I’m sure that we can submit your name to the nominating committee for consideration. But I wouldn’t get my hopes up too much if I were you, because you were unwilling to step up to the plate and take on the responsibility of charing the finance committee when you were asked. Our Session is not large enough to have people on it that don’t take the responsibility for leadership." As you can imagine he didn’t like hearing that answer, accurate though it was, and is.
Or you might listen to this and say, "John you really had a problem with this fellow". And I’m going to say, "No, this fellow really was a problem. Period." Why do I say that? Because he dealt that way with all of the office staff. Indeed our absolutely wonderful administrator of the church office, who would never say an unkind word about anyone, did have an unkind word to say about him and his pushy style. That assessment, entirely correct, speaks volumes.
But in spite of the uncomfortable lunch, we managed to raise the money and build the building and from the day that it opened, people used it and lived in it like it had been there forever. As they have done ever since. Almost thinking nothing of the fact that at one time it was never there.
The effort took a tremendous extra-mile giving on the part of many church members, who responded faithfully and hopefully. Unlike the fellow of the lunch. I was part of the "lead gift" committee during the fundraising portion of the project. This meant we identified as best we could those members whose track recored of generosity suggested they might be able to make large pledges to the campaign. The "ask" happened in person, with two from the committee visiting in homes or taking the person to lunch. Those doing the visiting had already made large pledges, so they could speak from their personal commitment level. In several cases, I was asked to be the second person doing the visiting. I learned a lot. One potential giver offered a princely sum, but only under the condition that it would be matched by the giving of non-members of the church. No doubt that was because he had witnessed fund raising for museums and other community organizations. But really, who would give to a church building campaign who was not a church member? So that gift went unmatched and the giver gave a very, very modest gift instead. People, if you are going to give to a cause, give what you can with all your heart and without putting unusual conditions on the gift.
Another potential giver asked the church member with whom we were meeting what he was pledging, and he gave a nice round sum. She responded, "Thats exactly the amount I was thinking of." It prompted me to wonder to myself if he had promised an even larger gift, if it would have been exactly what she was thinking of. We will never know.
Back when I was at Fox Chapel and their building program was underway, one of the older members of the church told me quietly that she was wondering why no one had contacted her about a lead gift. "I have talked with the trust officer at my bank, and I know exactly how much I would be able to give." Well, it turned out when I made the inquiry of the lead gift chairman he had not realized that this member has the wherewithal to make a lead gift. She in fact had a handsome gift to give. I know it made her glad to do it.
Back to Wekiva. So one fine day, one of the lead gift committee members asked if he could meet with me. I figured there was some pastoral concern he had come across while masking one of these visit. No. When he and I sat down in my office, he asked me to consider being a lead gift family. I assured him that nothing would have made me happier that to do so, but it just wasn't possible. At that time we were stretched very thin, still carrying two mortgages. Here's the interesting part. Within two weeks of that meeting, our house in Pittsburgh finally sold. Judy and I thought and prayed about it and decided that we had done without for two years, and gotten by, so we felt we could do so for the next three years, the length of the giving period, at the same amount as the mortgage for the Pittsburgh house. We felt blessed that we could be among the lead givers.
Perhaps here is the point to mention a pastor's family's stewardship commitment. I do so because I have heard contrasting opinions to my own. For example, when in Pittsburgh the first time, one of the other ministers on staff made a point to say to me that he and his wife did not give to the church because he considered that the salary he made was less that he would have made in the private sector and the "difference" was in effect his "pledge". I thought it a skewed version of reality. When I first went to South Bend, in my initial call, I filled out a pledge card, and submitted it. A week or so later the fabulous financial secretary Pat asked if she could speak with me privately. Yes of course. She came with a concern. She said that she wondered if I had filled out my pledge card in error, since it was so high. "It places you among the largest annual givers." She shared without breaking any confidences. And I assumed that my annual income would have been a fraction of what some of the church members earned annually. I share that not to pat myself on the back - far from it - but instead to say to ministers everywhere, give as the Good Book recommends, it will bless you and bless those you serve. It reminds me of what my wise and dear friend Al Jewel once said to me, "Betsy and I did not fully experience God's blessings until we began giving sacrificially."
In my years at Wekiva, about once a year, the former senior minister of the church before my immediate predecessor would stop by for a visit of a Sunday. He would come to worship, unannounced, and he would glad-hand the people that knew him from way back then, and every time he would say to me, with a sweeping gesture of his arm, "Everything you see was built while I was the minister here". Do you know that he never came back for another visit after all the renovations were constructed? It’s too bad, because I would’ve been tempted to say to him, in truth, "Almost everything that you see here was not here when you left this church".
This is probably a good place in which to discuss the general idea of relationship with other ministers, as well as other program staff members of a church.. And we will begin with relationship with your predecessors in the position and church that you were serving.
Keep in mind, one of the ordination vows for deacons, elders, and ministers is, Will you be a friend to your colleagues in ministry? That’s every bit as important as every one of the other ordination vows. But it’s one that I have noticed down through the years some ministers seem to go completely blank on, in the living of their days.
When I went to South Bend, my immediate predecessor associate pastor had gone on to "bigger and better things" as he might’ve put it as the senior minister of a church out in Colorado. I can tell you that in the five years that I served there, I never heard a peep from him. Good bad or indifferent. And I have to say that rather than hearing things that were bad or indifferent, I’d rather hear nothing at all. So that’s fine I’ll just leave that where it lies.
And then I went to Fox Chapel, where the position I was holding was completely redefined from anyone who might’ve come before. There was someone who vaguely had a similar job description, but not really. And he and his wife had been very unhappy at Fox Chapel, because they chose to feel as if they were second or third class citizens because their income was not what some of the church members had at their disposal. It was an attitudinal problem on their part. Certainly very few people at Fox Chapel made us feel that way. They were warm and friendly and welcoming, and good to be around. Once again I never heard anything directly from my processor, if this fellow can be considered such. However there was another staff member who thought that he walked on water, and routinely she would make glowing comments, that made him sound like Saint Francis of Assisi and Mahatma Ghandi all rolled into one before breakfast. That’s fine.
And then I went to Wekiva. My immediate predecessor had gone off to one church and then would move every few years to two or three more as he continued hopping around in ministry. You have about the same effectiveness as Bugs Bunny, doing that. He made some unfortunate choices when he served Wekiva. The main one was that he focused his doctoral dissertation on the poor behavior and foibles of his predecessor! Which were of an inappropriate relationship type. But why in the world would anyone do that? You can make the argument, well the church needs to heal from the past in order to move on. I suppose. But it was mostly gossip, somewhat veiled in technical language. And it did the church absolutely no good. I don’t think it did the pastor any good either, since he ended up being quite uncomfortable there, after his ill-conceived dissertation was made very public, by he himself. The Clerk of Session, Aubrey, begged him not to send out that letter. But he did. In that, he more or less sealed his fate. It did not take long for the people to make their wishes known. Still and all, in a friendly and collegial spirit, Judy and I invited he and his wife to come to our home for dinner when they happened to be back in Central Florida for a wedding. They declined, which was disappointing to us, but I am glad we made that invitation...
And then I served as interim senior minister of Shadyside. My predecessor there had had a ministry of about 6 1/2 years, that had some real successes, and had some real challenges. He never reached out to me, even though I reached out to him early on and invited him to do such. I’m hoping to he was happily ensconced where he’d gone off to next. And considering some of the dynamics near the end of his ministry there, it’s likely that Shadyside (or some specific persons there) will never hold a warm place in his heart. Even though there are members there who deeply appreciated his ministry. Early on in my interim ministry there, I made sure that the bronze plaque in the narthex with the names of all the past senior ministers was updated with his name and dates of service. No one else had even thought to do it, and it was the right thing to do. Not only fitting to mark his time of service, but also say to whomever came to visit as the potential next senior minister, we value our pastors here.
Sadly, predecessor pastors often want to leave the impression that the summit of all positive existence occurred when they were the minister at the church. What that mean is no one else can be as good as they were, no matter what. And what they either overtly or covertly do is undermine that next pastor's ministry. It may or may not work. But in the long run, they will have to answer for what they did.
In contrast, my approach is to say to the next person who comes along: "I’m glad you’re there, I hope that you help the church in wonderful ways in your chapter of ministry there. I will not hover or be involved, but if there’s something I can do to be helpful, please know that I’m in your corner and will be glad to help."
I also have found it good to say to associates with whom I've worked, "I will be your number one support while you are here, and your number one cheerleader when you tell me it’s time that you want to seek a new call". Which I have done in every instance. Sometimes appreciated, sometimes not. But that’s not my problem is it?
I will say that one of the aspects that comes into all of this is a sense of competition. I’ve said before I am not a competitive type, I’m a cooperative type and encourager and a team player. So when I come across people who are competitive, it just seems silly and immature to me. We are here to work for the same thing and that is the well-being of this congregation. Why would we pit our abilities against somebody else’s? Let them thrive in what they’re good at, let me thrive in what I am good at, and as we combine the things that we are good at maybe we can spell each other in that regard. It just makes sense doesn’t it. Isn’t that what teamwork is all about?
Some people just can’t live that way. If they see someone else at work who is doing good things or great things, jealousy appears. I don’t think jealousy has any place in the Christian life. Certainly it doesn’t seem to in Scripture. I don’t recall Jesus pitting any of the disciples against any other his disciples, so much as seeking for them to be understanding and work together cooperatively. Maybe I need to reread my Bible where this is concerned, but I don’t think so.
But we live in a culture where to get ahead is to do better than the other guy. Or other gal. And if we can make them look small, it will make us look big by comparison. At least that is the theory. Which holds absolutely zero merit. I prefer to think only along the lines of my dear friend and the world's dear friend Fred Rogers' observation: "I think that those who would try to make you feel less than you are, that's the greatest evil."
If you agree with me, that’s great. If you don’t agree with me, guess what? "If that's your idea, you're wrong", as wonderful W. S. Gilbert says.
When i arrived at Wekiva, there was a mood prevailing in the staff members that was blocking positive progress. The attitude helped me realize that there are generally only two different approaches to life. One is, "Let’s give it a try, and if it works, great; if it doesn’t, no problem we just move on." The other is to be afraid to try something. Because, it might go wrong. And if it does go wrong someone has to be blamed. I found people fall into one of those categories or the other.
Let me just say that I wholeheartedly endorse the first. And I think the problems that are created by the second attitude far outweigh any risk taken.
I’ve been in situations, where something new is tried, all the effort that’s put forth is excellent. But it really just wasn’t the right thing at the right time. You can tell my attitude already. But instead of simply saying, "We tried it; we gave it a good effort. We found out it really wasn’t the thing to do, so we will try something different." Instead of saying that, people look for someone to point the finger at. To say something along the lines of this: "If so-and-so hadn’t said or done such and such right at this particular moment, the outcome would’ve been better."
Now, I’m not saying that isn’t possibly true. But if your whole approach to trying something is recriminations if it doesn’t work, then before long no one‘s going to put forth any effort to try anything, for fear having that finger pointed them. So inertia sets in. And meanwhile, what does that do to a team that is supposed to be trying to lead a congregation, or any other organization? Yes, you guessed it; it rips a team apart. After all, if you point the finger at someone else and say, "It's their fault" then it’s hard to get beyond that in the future.
That attitude was killing Wekiva when I arrived there. So let me encourage you to try the first approach. Every time.
That’s not to say that you might have some valid reasons for being disappointed with someone who doesn’t fulfill stated expectations in one way or another. And certainly there are acts of negligence, or worse, that people may do that call for official action from the human resources committee.
But in general, go for it, give it a try, take a risk, step out in faith. There we go. That’s the real crux of the matter isn’t it. I think people with the first attitude are people of faith. And I think the other folks, probably need to bolster their faith and sooner is better than later.
Here's an absolutely funny and true story.
One of our longtime church members, Larry, let us know that the company he worked for was getting rid of an old safe. The safe was truly old. It came from the late 1920s early 1930s. And it was quite handsome. Although basic black, the front was decorated with true Art Deco triangular flair, and the colors were awesome, orange and green, which people sometimes forget were big Art Deco colors. That’s because so much of the Art Deco photography is in black-and-white. Truly, art and architecture need to be photographed in full color to be experienced fully.
On the appropriately planned day, the safe was to be delivered and brought into the church. It was a Saturday morning, when no one else was at the church, and a small group of guys had agreed to do the work of getting this big safe, which was about the size of a refrigerator, into the church office.
These were extremely conscientious volunteers for the church, and they made a good team. However, each one assumed something that none of them had done. And that is, no one had turned off the security alarm system for the church office. So they opened the door to the office and they were rolling the safe up the sidewalk and maneuvering it through the door. When all of a sudden the local police officer arrived in his squad car. And he walked over to these four guys, with that safe on a dolly as it was wedged somewhere between the inside and the outside of the church office.
And then they had the task of explaining: "No officer, we weren’t taking the safe, we were delivering the safe!" It was a very Laurel and Hardy moment.
One of the new programs that we initiated at the church, was a church-wide yard sale. In which each of the church committees sponsored booths, in which they offered for sale secondhand items that might be of general interest. It was a little bit of a friendly competition between each of the committees, the one that sold the most, got to keep half the proceeds for their committee's work. A nice little bonus. And everything else went to mission causes.
It was a great social event as well as money maker. And took a huge amount of effort on the part of all the volunteers. Year after year, it raised significant funds to be used for mission. Surprisingly it was initiated and sponsored by, the stewardship committee. And Greg, we have you to thank for the idea, and Heidi, for overseeing it so many years, followed by Anne and Lillian. Great work, all!
One year, a nice bright sunny Saturday, we were having the sale. And I was standing in talking with Vic our property manager. When his daughter Becky, who lived out of town, but was there for the weekend for the event, came up to us excitedly, with some thing in her hands. "Look what I found!" she said, "This is just perfect and it will fit right over our sofa in our family room!" And she displayed a large painting, that she had found for a reasonable price, and was going to be taking back home with her at the end of the weekend. And then after we were done congratulating her, she went off to look for other finds.
At which point Vic smiled at me and said, "She could’ve gotten that for even less." And I said why? And he replied, "Because Martha and I are the ones that donated it to the yard sale!"
Yes fun.
Some thoughts about preaching. Let me say something about ministers who spend a lot of time in their sermons talking about where they’ve been and what they’ve done in a previous location. In almost every instance, the congregation doesn’t want to hear it. (Bold, italic, highlighted in yellow, and underlined). No matter how fascinating the story is, what it does to the congregation, is say, "There’s something in the past I value more highly than you; there are people from the past whose example stands out in ways that you can hardly appreciate," and so forth.
There was, for a number of years in a big downtown church in one of the cities that I served, a pastor who always referred to events in sermons as if they'd all happened to him. "When I was with Washington crossing the Delaware." was about the only length to which he did not go. "When I was in Paris this happened, when I was in Rome this happened. When I stood at the top of the great pyramids," on and on and on.
Ministers must remember that there are members of the congregation, no matter how prominent they may be, who will never get the opportunity to go more than a few miles outside the county in which they live. For one reason or another. So such stories are automatically off-putting when couched in the personal. (Especially when in fact they did not happen at all!)
What this means is if you want to draw upon such experiences, which are legitimately ones that you yourself had, then, rather than saying when "I was standing at the Wailing Wall in Jerusalem", to say, "'At the Wailing Wall in Jerusalem this happened..." Notice that you aren’t saying "I". You are drawing people in, by assuming that at one time or another they would like to do that, whether or not they would actually get to. But you’re not setting yourself apart from others by saying, "And just as I signed the Declaration of Independence", or "When I was with Patton freeing Europe", or whatever else.
I know there will be those who disagree with me, but making a point in a sermon that draws people in rather than pushes them back, is an art that must be developed and cultivated all costs.
On the other hand, there are shared aspects of ministry together that can be lifted up without drawing undue attention either to the pastor or the specific members of the congregation. To say, "We’re so glad we were able to build that Habitat for Humanity house, because we know it makes a difference in the community". That does not necessarily cast a spotlight on any particular individual who worked hard at building it, but says this is a team effort from the whole congregation, whether by being there with a hammer, or by giving contributions toward it, or by praying for a good outcome. Any of which any member of the congregation may or may not be able to do. But it’s including people, rather than excluding people. "We" language is always preferred to "I" language.
While we’re on the subject of things that make me wince during sermons. One of them is for a minister to say, "As I got up this morning, I realized that I didn’t want to say what I was going to say". Instead of A, I’ve decided I’m going to say B." Who cares? Why not simply preach the newly prepared sermon that you’ve decided to preach, even if it was an idea that came to you in the middle of the wee hours of Saturday night? What do you think you’re accomplishing by boasting that you were able to pull off a different sermon at short notice? I suppose it might be a way for pastors to fend off any criticism that it is not as polished as hoped. But it doesn’t do anything for a listening congregation to say that. Nothing at all. There are no exceptions to that. Jettison such an approach, starting today, and never ever use it.
There’s another no no that I’ve heard more than once from pastors. And that is on one of the big Sundays of the year, say Easter for example, scolding a congregation that they only come on Easter and they’re not seen at other times. What in the world does that accomplish, except say to those who manage to get out of bed and break their habit of staying at home, and make their way to church that day, usually with family members, and looking to create a memorable day, and have the person up there in the pulpit tell them what awful people they are because they’re not there the Sunday after Christmas. Or in the middle of August. There’s nothing right about it at all. Don’t do that, people; don’t do it. There are no exceptions to this rule.
Ministers usually have particular theologians that they are very fond of. And so they rightly draw on them for inspiration. I would say go sparingly on how often you refer to that particular theologian. Whether it’s Luther, or Calvin, or someone of our modern era, or anywhere in between. Congregations can only take so many quotes from Kierkegaard, before they glaze over like a box of Krispy Kreme doughnuts. And there are congregations that have no idea who Kierkegaard was. And care even less.
With that, you have to gauge the congregations' level of interest in things theological, and temper the message to meet them where they are. If every thing is so academic and erudite that it would fit into a professional journal beautifully, it may be too academic and erudite for any Sunday morning. Not that you don’t want drop on the basic themes that are within it, but there’s a whole different way of speaking to a congregation clearly, than there is in writing a treatise with footnotes.
I recall that one year we had a guest preacher, well known, and he had published a number popular books on the Christian faith, who came for a long weekend, and preached on several occasions during the weekend. At one point he was describing one of the finer points of Presbyterian belief, but in a way that was very basic. I mean more basic than one would get in a confirmation class. To me it felt like it was too basic. Until the person next to me, who I trust implicitly, said, "That’s the first time I’ve heard that explained in a way that I can grasp".
I learned a lot from that comment. Simplify. Simplify. If you doubt the power of simplifying, please read the devotional works of Mother Theresa. She seldom uses a word with more than two syllables. Sheer simplicity. And yet her words are deeply profound.
Anther observation about sermon illustrations. Pastors sometimes appropriate something that happened to someone else and tell it as if it happened to them. I know of two well-known people in the late 20th century who did that when I was present, telling the same story, each of them, as if it had happened to them. The story was a very moving one, about a person who entered a sanctuary who was unlike those who were members of the church, and who made his way up to the front of the church, thus causing great consternation to the other worshipers. Until the person relating the story (a) Becky or b) Bryant) left the chancel and went and sat with him. Demonstrating Christian love and acceptance.
Stirring, right?
The problem was, I knew that it had been told in the 1920s by Clarence Edward Macartney, at First Presbyterian Church of Pittsburgh (I had the book with it in it on my study shelf), and not about himself, but rather, something that had happened to - of all people - Robert E. Lee!!! To Becky and to Bryant, I can only say, shame on you. Give credit where credit is due.
This reminds me of another occasion in Fox Chapel where we had a guest preacher on Labor Day Sunday. He told a particularly moving story about a man who had been a non-believer all his life, but when he was dying in the hospital, his wife's church members showed him every sort of comfort and support. As one of his last acts he wrote a message on a Kleenex box, something along the line, "In this harsh world, draw your breath in pain to tell my story... I was wrong". It is a completing and true story. The preacher failed, however to give the proper credit. It was told - famously - by Fred Craddock, about his own father. Remember, people. Always give credit where credit is due.
Early on in my ministry at Wekiva we had many many visiting friends from elsewhere. The first year we were in Longwood, our guest room was not empty between Labor Day and New Years Day. We loved it. Between the weather, the theme parks, and business conventions, it seems everyone comes to Florida sooner or later, kind of like that cafe in Paris. In addition to invited and expected guests, we also had various drop-ins.
One set of drop-ins, in particular, makes me giggle to this day.
The surprise visitors were the longtime Director of Christian Education at Fox Chapel, Janice, and her older sister Lois. If I tell you that these two never-married ladies looked very much like an elderly Queen Elizabeth II, and the Queen Mother, on a walkabout, you would get a perfect picture of how they looked.
Lois had been a Presbyterian missionary in Africa. Both Janice and Lois had been very much involved in the life of the Fox Chapel church. In addition to her official duties as the Director of Christian Education, Janice was also the senior minister's "right arm", as he called her. Often in dealing with personnel issues, or administrative details that he wanted to be sure were covered in a manner that he found acceptable, but didn't want to do, himself. In all this, Janice did a very good job, she was especially good at wielding the hatchet when a staff member needed to go, and upon her retirement from Fox Chapel, she then followed the senior minister to his new post on the Main Line, and was working on staff there for him.
So the sisters appeared. I welcomed them warmly. I took them on a tour of the church, talking about the congregation as I did. When I had concluded the tour, we returned to my office. They told me they didn’t have much time to spare. And it was then that they divulged that my former colleague the former senior minister from Fox Chapel had commissioned them to come and see all about my church, even (as Janice said) providing the funds for their extra gasoline for them to drive out of their way. Hoo boy, he must have been overcome with curiosity!
As they were ready to depart, Janice turned to me and said, "I approve."
As lovely as it is, that she approved, I must say that I did not move 1000 miles away, and take on a raft of new responsibilities, in order to gain anyone’s approval. But this anecdote tells a lot about the various people involved, doesn't it?
The vast majority of our visitors from afar were before, during and after our time of serving Wekiva, very dear to our hearts. We shared in family milestones together, as well as relaxing vacation type pursuits. Our kids and theirs stayed close and remain so thanks to social media. I had the joy of officiating at some of their weddings, and that brought a special joy to my heart.
Speking of weddings, i have done many of them down the years. The busiest wedding year was at Fox Chapel, when I did 32. And that only leaves 20 unscheduled Saturday's in the year! Memorable weddings are sometimes so because of the people involved, and sometimes so because of what happened at the wedding.
I have officiated at 221 weddings. 343 baptisms. 255 funerals. So far. Some notable facts. The oldest persons whose funerals I officiated were both born in 1886, which is 68 years before I was born (they were at South Bend, George Swietzer and Ella Harrison). Remarkable, right? The last time I did a funeral for someone who had been born in the 1880s was in 1995 (at Fox Chapel, for Margaret Elterich, who had been born in 1898). I also did her grandson's wedding (Skip Charles, in 1987). I have married one child of a couple whose wedding I also performed, some 27 years apart (Bill and Karen Tippins, 1994, and Alexander Dor and Kara Tippins, 2021), photos of the first of these weddings appear below, with each member of the wedding parties standing (or kneeling!) in the same spot. Both in the Chancel at Fox Chapel.
I have married several siblings from the same family including Jill Goshert and Scott Olbin, 1983, and Jeffrey Goshert and Denise Orr, 1985, at South Bend); and Amy Bowser (1985) and Holly Bowser (1986) at Fox Chapel. I did the wedding of a couple whose parents' home we many years later bought (1988 Ron and Vanessa Tranquill, at Fox Chapel) I have married several of my cousins (Pamela and Bill Emery at Bucknell Chapel in 1990; Chrissie and Gary Butterworth, in Arlington VA), and I have married several people whose baptism I also did, including both of our own children, and some of their lifelong friends. All of these have been such a joy to share in, and have aded immeasurably to the happy experiences of ordained ministry.
I have several funny wedding stories which could make up a separate chapter in these memoirs. Several happened in Pittsburgh. One involved the unity candle. Another, the wedding music. Another, the groom's faulty memory. Yet another, which happed to a colleague at South Bend after we had left there, had to do with the bridal train. Here's more about each.
The unity candle story goes like this. At the rehearsal, the bride produced a unity candle that h er aunt had made. She wanted to use it in the ceremony, and wanted it to be kept at the church overnight for safe keeping. One of our volunteer wedding coordinators who had been assigned this wedding, took it in hand. The next day, all seemed to be in readiness. The groomsmen entered the church from a side door in the Chancel, with me. Then each of the bridesmaids processed. At last the bride herself. When she arrived to her appointed spot beside the groom, she looked at me and whispered, "Where's my unity candle?" I replied, "Isn't it there?" "No" was her answer. In those days, wedding videos were only permitted by using a tripod, which was hidden from the congregation by the big wineglass pulpit. The bride's brother was serving as the videographer there. He heard this exchange, and whispered to me, "Do you want me to find it?" And I nodded yes. So he promptly slipped out the other side Chancel door, and down the stairs to the basement level of the church, which had a halfway that went the length of the building, just below the main aisle of the sanctuary.
I proceeded with the wedding service. Stretching it out as much as possible to buy time. I threw in several extra prayers, took my time with the wedding homily and so forth. All the while keeping an eye on that door for the brother to reappear. I was almost at the point of pronouncing the couple man and wife, when he emerged, breathlessly, holding the candle. "Do you still want to light the unity candle?' I asked the bride. She nodded yes. "Okay, stay where you are until I give you the signal."
With that, I went over to the spot where the brother (hidden behind the pulpit unseen by the congregation) was holding the candle. I took it from him, and held it with both hands, directly in front of my chest, and with very deliberate steps, waked to the communion table, placing it there as if it was as precious as the coronation crown at Westminster Abbey. I then returned to the couple and indicated that they could move forward and light the candle, which they did, as our ever-at-the-ready organist Larry, played some appropriate traveling music without missing a beat. Soon the service was concluded.
At the reception, not one, but three young ladies who had been in attendance came up to me individually and said the following:
"I loved the symbolism of not bringing the unity candle into the church until after the vows and rings... And when I get married, I am going to do the very same thing"!!!
So, if you are ever at a wedding where they don't bring in the unity candle till the end, now you know where it all began, friends!
For another Pittsburgh wedding, I officiated at the glass room at Phipps Conservatory that - then and now - is set aside for such marriage ceremonies. It is very pretty setting, arranged like a formal French garden, with parterres in the main space, surrounded by slightly elevated walkways which are used by the standing guests to watch the wedding. No chairs are provided.
When I met with this couple to plan their wedding, they told me that the music would be provided by a violinist they admired from favorite restaurant they frequented. Fine. It wasn't a church wedding, nor were these two church members, so the usual stipulations of the church organist providing sacred music did not pertain. So the day arrived. The groom and I were in place. The violinist was ready, and struck up the processional music. I had expected some familiar classical work for violin, but no, the violinist chose to play "A Pretty Girl is Like a Melody". And in came the bride, weaving her way through the parterres, just like a Busby Berkeley chorus girl. I had a hard time keeping a straight face. As much as I enjoy Lucille Ball walking down the staircase with the big headdress to that same song, it struck me as just as funny in that setting. If not more-so.
One of my Pittsburgh weddings involved a lovely couple with whom we had a lunch meeting to plan the event. We hit it off, and they said, "We should get together just to enjoy an evening." we agreed. A little while later, the groom to be invited us over to their apartment in the Oakland neighborhood of Pittsburgh, on a particular day and at a specific time. We drove over as the time appointed, and parked our car a block or two away (parking in Oakland is always a challenge) and then walked to their apartment, which was a converted industrial building. There was a security panel out front, and we took some time figuring out how to work it, but at last we goth through and let them know we were there. There was an odd moment or two of silence, and then the groom to be said, "I'll be out in just a minute". He came and opened the door and led us back to their place. When he opened the door we could see that the living room was not very pulled together, and the bride to be (a grad student at the time) was wearing very casual at home clothes, and surrounded by open books and notebooks on the sofa on each side of her. It did not take long for us to size up the situation He had forgotten he hand invited us, and he ashy never mentioned it to her. After a few pleasantries, we excused ourselves and made our farewells. All was not lost, however. We then went round to our favorite local restaurant, Tai Pei, and had a quiet meal together. The next day, the groom phoned me and apologized (again) and then asked me where Judy and I had gone on our honeymoon. I told him, and he then told me he hadn't yet planned theirs. This was the Wednesday of the wedding week. (!!!) He did manage to get the planning done before the big day, miraculously.
The South Bend wedding happened to our freind David who had succeeded my colleague as the senior minister at First Presbyterian Church. It was a big formal wedding. The sanctuary was full. The bridal attendants had each processed in turn, and it was time for the bride and her father. As she approached the double doors from the Narthex to the Sanctuary, she turned to the church custodian, and not wanting it to be tangled on the way, said, "Would you please do my train..." He was surprised but very pleased to be asked. The doors opened, and down the aisle they went. The bride. Her father. And the church custodian, grinning from ear to ear, and bearing the train all the way to the Chancel.
Most weddings go smoothly and without any such mishaps - but the ones that do not are particularly memorable for the minister.
One wedding at Wekiva brought this bit of adventure. We were "minutes out" for the ceremony to start. I was in my office donning my clergy robe. Charter church member Bonnie, the wedding consultant, appeared at my door noticeably agitated. She informed me that the bride and groom were arguing and it seemed likely that the wedding would not happen. "You have to come and fix it." she said. I replied, "No, they need to work it out themselves. Let me know what they decide." After all, it was their life, and they didn't need any third party convincing them to do something they were not fully prepared to do. To Bonnie, keeping up appearances mattered. It was her view that it was a glaring social gaffe of the first order for them to be jeopardizing the ceremony, what with all of the assembled guests. Would you be surprised that they managed to come to the conclusion on their own that they wanted to get married after all? All these years later, they are still happily married with three children.
Bonnie was a dear soul but when it came to weddings, her belief was that every wedding should look as if it was happening in the fashionable western suburbs of St. Louis, circa 1950. So everything had to be done according to her particular version of just so. All well and good, but sometimes she took things to extreme. For example, at the rehearsal, I would invite all of the bridal party to take their places as they would be during the service. They were then asked to stand in place while the bride looked the scene over, and approved of who was where, etc. Here is where Bonnie came in. After the bride gave her okay, Bonnie went to each of the wedding party in turn, and placed one of those round quarter-sized colorful stickers on the carpet between their feet, so they would know precisely where to stand the next day. Dozens and dozens of weddings, dozens and dozens of stickers. All went according to Bonnie's plan. Until one wedding rehearsal. After the rehearsal itself was over, there was a time to ask questions before the group was dismissed. At that point, I was seated in a front pew, and Bonnie was responding to the questions, standing with her back to the Chancel. There on the Chancel steps behind her were the ring bearer and flower girl. Cute little preschool aged kids. They had discovered the many stickers on the floor. How exciting! As little ones are want to do, they began playing with them, moving them here and there, and everywhere, according to their whim. I wish you could have seen Bonnie's face when at last she noticed what was happening, and discovered that the new placement was anything but orderly. Too bad the bridesmaids and groomsmen didn't get to stand at their new sticker locations the next day, it would have been like a game of Twister that had gone terribly wrong.
I have had to refuse to do only two weddings One because the bride to be tragically took poison to try to end her life, so as not to get married. Obviously there were many reasons for that wedding to not go forward. When I visited her in the hospial as she was being treated with a constant flow of activated charcoal, she confessed that she regretted what she had done, but did not know how to tell the erstwhile groom of her desire not to proceed with the wedding I asked if it would help if I let them both know that under the circumstances I could not officiate. She was hugely relived.
The other wedding I had to refuse was due to the lack of communication from the bridal couple. I had asked them to schedule the first of three required meetings with me, to do pre-marriage counseling and to plan the wedding. When it came time, i got a last minute phone call that one or the other had to work and could not come We rescheduled. The day that meeting was to happen, there came another call, saying that the groom-to-be could not come but the bride-to-be could. I responded that they both needed to be at whatever meetings we had. And gave them a large list of possible dates to reschedule yet agin. They never replied. I tried phone calls. No response. i tried writing snail mail letters, still no response. This went on month after month. Until we were five weeks out and still no reply. I will never know what was going on with their relationship, since they were unforthcoming. But I did see that to proceed without even one meeting with them would spell disaster the day of the wedding. So I wrote and told them they would have to find someone else to officiate.
The mention of funerals and memorial services causes me to reflect upon another matter, being with church members when they were near death, or at their dying. By and large, these moments were peaceful. Upon occasion, if I was the only person present, I have had the dying person tell me something that has been on their heart and mind. It is always of the nature of making one's peace before one's passing. Something I would encourage everyone to do, if they sense that their end is near. In the middle ages much was written about making a good death, in the Christian context. The idea is not outmoded, even though it is not talked about or taught with any frequency in the 21st century. That is a shame. Because I can tell you as someone who heard these final unburdenings of the soul, it did much to bring about an atmosphere of freedom and peace at the last.
In contrast, I have also been alongside those who held on stubbornly to their sense of having done no wrong, when in fact the opposite was true. Their last hours were, invariably, fraught with torment. The opposite of peace. I would encourage everyone who reads this to make a plan, that if they can ask for forgiveness, express regret, offer the olive branch, or whatever else is required - before they take leave of this earth - that they make every conscious effort to do so. I realize that death comes so suddenly to some, that these moments are not provided. But when one's life is slipping toward its close, there is important work still to be done, to make amends in the here and now, rather than face the consequences of not having done so, in the hereafter. If this sentiment makes you feel uncomfortable, perhaps it is because I am speaking to you.
I will offer one example from my own experience, of someone who spoke in order to make things right, just before he died. This was a remarkably gifted and accomplished doctor, who had risen to the top of his chosen field. He had a lovely wife and a number of young adult children. He developed a condition that was terminal and inoperable. As he did, he also became quite gruff and sullen toward his famly. This baffled and saddened them. In his last moments as he lay in his hospital bed in the same hospital where he had conducted his brilliant medical career, he said this to me, "John, do you know why I have been so hard on my family recently? It's because I do not want them to miss me too much, once I am gone." I understood what he was trying to do. I also understood that he intended for me to share these words, when the time was right. Which I did, on my first visit with the family after the funeral. They told me what I shared with them made all the difference in the world.
Speaking more generally, when a church member is approaching his or her fineal days and bedridden and the time is growing short, and especially as so often is the case, they have did they are ready, a minister's pastoral presence can serve as a kind of permission for them to let go. To know that they go to the Lord, and that all will be well. I have the sense from a number of such moments, that just by being there, offering a word of appreciation and thankfulness to the person, and praying a gentle prayer that asks God to surround them in that moment and each moment, greatly relieves any anxiety they might have. Emphasis on thankfulness, and gentleness, but most of all, brevity.
Our first full year in Florida, saw the loss of a number of dear family members. Grandma Lucy, and Aunt Gracie, and Uncle Jimmy. And also the loss of our dear friend Allan Jewell. We planted four citrus trees in our yard as memorials to each of them.
I have to mention about Allan‘s death, that it was not caused by old age or illness, he was killed by the driver of an 18 wheeler truck. As he was pulling out of his church parking lot. He’s one of two people that I’ve been close to that were killed by tractor-trailer drivers. I don’t think in either of these horrifying cases that the drivers faced any consequences whatsoever. The second was our friend the Reverend David McDonald, who was our fund raising specialist for the building campaign at Wekiva.
Transitions to new pastorates are filled with joyful new shared experinece between a congregation and a minister. This was certainly so, when I took up the work at Wekiva. There are sometimes a few surprise and not of a positive kind. These need to be weathered one way or another. For example, early in my first month at Wekiva, one of the staff members was overheard to say - referring to me - "This one is going to be harder to train than the last one." By train, of course, the person speaking meant to manipulate to their will. Really? The sentiment was plain wrong, no matter the setting.
The most momentous event in our early days in Florida, was that on April 6 of 1998 Judy was diagnosed with breast cancer. This came as a complete surprise to us. However about six months before, our dear friend Christine had gone through the same ordeal. And Judy and I had talked about what we would do if she faced it, so we had talked about it in theory. The other wonderful connection with Christine, is that Dave and Christine were in Florida visiting his parents, and Judy actually went to her surgeon meeting with Christine at her side. What a wonderful support in that and so many other things. We thought it very ironic that in Pittsburgh, we knew the entire medial community, and we would have known exactly what care providers to have chosen, but in Florida we were so new, we had none of that knowledge. Nevertheless, we sensed God's presence throughout. In the doctors who treated Judy, whose care was beyond outstanding.
I mentioned that Christine went with Judy to her surgeon meeting. I believe t here was something pressing at Wekiva that prevented me from going, but that seems ridiculous now. There were several such occasions where the tone of specific church members and/or staff was basically that the minister had no life outside the church I would say to all ministers, don't ever allow that to happen to you. Define boundaries and maintain personal and family priorities. Even though Christine was the perfect person to go with Judy, I wish I had made a different choice that day. But here's what happened. I went home midday to let the dog out. As I was backing out of the garage to back to the office, I had one of those clear but so infrequent moments, in which I got a direct spiritual message. "This is going to be hard, but Judy is going to be alright." It brought me tremendous peace. And more. Because sometime after that, when Judy was on her way home, she telephoned me. I told her i had something important to share. She said she did as well. Judy went first, and told me she had the same inner message I had heard, and at the same moment. We held on to that throughout her treatment and her recovery.
We told our children as soon after her diagnosis as possible. I felt it was important that they not association that sorry news with any location in our home. So we went to one of the pocket parks in our neighborhood to tell them. We aslo let the conjuration know as soon as possible. One of the deer charter members told us afterward how impressed we were that we did that. Our response was, of course we did, we need your prayers.
Judy had her surgery very quickly after the diagnosis on 16 April and she did well, and was recovered enough that by 27 April she joined me as I gave the opening prayer at the 95th annual AAA convention at the Orange County Convention Center. Our friends Ellsworth and Joanne had invited me to do that. Former Notre Dame Head Coach Lou Holtz was the speaker. And Judy and he had a very meaningful conversation together, because his wife was also a recent breast cancer survivor.
In August 1999 I signed a contract with GIA Publications of Chicago to represent 130 of my hymn texts and to prepare an anthology to be presented at the July 2000 Hymn Society Convention, in Boston. On September 28, 1999 was the debut of "Together in Song" which is the Australian Book of Praise, which included one of my hymns, the annual proceeds of which I assigned to the Walter Burley Griffin Society in Australia. Griffin and his wife Marion Mahoney Griffin were prairie school architects in Chicago before they won the competition to design Australia's new capital Canberra. You can read about that elsewhere on this blog.
In the first years of our being in Florida, Judy worked nights at the hospial in Winter Park, and thereafter at Florida Hospital Altamonte Springs. In addition to fulfilling her desire to serve as a nurse, it also helped us parent our kids, because if one of us was at work, the other one was at home. I woiuld get the kids up and off to school, Judy would greet them when they got home, we would both be with them for dinner, after which I usually had some church meeting or other in the evening. I would get home in time for Judy to go off to work.
I had long been interested in family history. In these years, I had the ability to do a lot of research on line. Judy's dad brought us "Family Tree Maker" already loaded with whatever information he had from his mother, and that Dottie had from her side of the family. Which was pretty extensive. He loaded the program on to our computer and then showed me what was what. As he traced back one of his family lines, I noticed a name that leaped off the screen, from my Pennsylvania history. George Clymer. I knew he was someone from the Revolutionary War era of note. But I did not want to say anything, before doing more research on my own. Which I did after Don and Dottie had returned to South Bend. My recollection had been on target, as I learned that George Clymer was one of the signers of the Declaration of Independence, and was one of those raider birds, a double signer, since he had signed the US Constitution as well. This was fascinating news to me. So, as I often did, I shared at the dinner table what I had learned. And I looked at John and said, "If we had known that when you were born, we could have named you 'George Clymer Dalles'."
To which John repiped, "Get real, Dad!"
More sleuthing on my side of the family brought the news that one of my ancestors has also served on the Constitutional convention. Further, when it came time for the big vote to approve the Constitution, Judy's ancestor was in the room where it happened, ready to vote. But there wasn't a quorum. Some of the representatives were not there, including my ancestor, who as it turned out was around the corner at the pub, and had to be fetched!
Another amusing note is from Dottie's side of the family. One of her greats was a Pennsylvania Dutch Oberholtzer, and in fact, the sister of Henry Clay Frick's grandfather who shortened his name to Overholt and became a hugely successful distiller - Old Overholt Whisky is stlll being sold, I believe. When I told Dottie that she was therefore related to Henry Clay Frick, she said, "So, where's the money?" Clever!
Going back on my maternal grandfather's side, in a different line, was a young man who had been a constable in the city of Pittsburgh, and who died while serving in the Mexican War. He was part of a very small group of close friends whose most-remembered member is Stephen Collins Foster. There are accounts of this congenial group of young people available to read about, carefully preserved because Foster had such an impact on American song. I like to picture them all gathered around the piano singing his songs together. Such as, "I Dream of Jeannie" and "Way Down Upon the Swanee River". Nice thought.
My maternal grandmother, whose family had come over from England in the second half of the 19th century, used to tell me. "We're related to Rudyard Kipling, you know." When I told that to the kids at one or another dinner time, they said, "Well, are we?" I had not explored that line at that point, but decided to do so. It took me about a month of my late night online sleuthing, but I was able to confirm the connection. Which meant that we were also connected through his mother, one of the four celebrated Macdonald sisters, to other notable relatives in that line, including Stanley Baldwin, Edward Poynter, and Edward Burne-Jones. All of this was confirmed to me by a Kipling relative in England, who assured me that my research was correct. Some months later, as I was at work in my office, the receptionist buzzed me and said, "Mr. Kipling is here to see you." What? I expected to see the old fellow himself, perhaps in jodhpurs and pith helmet. It turned out that my online corespondent was in Florida for a vacation and had dropped by in the chance I might be there. I called Judy who was with her mother shopping at Publix, and said, "Drop what you are doing, we are having lunch with Mr. Kipling!" And so we did.
All of these and other genealogy discoveries have helped put a face on history for me, and for our family. I know that some people put an inordinate amount of pride into who this or that ancestor was; that is not my point of view. I am glad to think of someone I am connected to having be at this or that place. It makes the story that much more compelling.
My genealogical searches which were all conducted after the children were asleep in the late evenings, back in the era when Judy was working nights, led me to my grandfather's great uncle, being one of the key figures from South Fork, Pennsylvania, involved in the story of the Johnstown Flood. That jogged my memory to go back and read David McCullough‘s book on the Johnstown Flood. And yes there was Joseph Wilson, mentioned in several places. That led to my writing to David McCullough, to thank him for including someone in our family tree in the story. He was very kind and wrote back, and we had other correspondence after that.
Because Joseph Wilson‘s testimony was also posted on the Johnstown Flood Memorial website, I wrote to the ranger there, and thanked him for posting that. He wrote back and said that Joseph Wilson was one of his favorite personalities from the Flood, and they had someone who portrayed Wilson during the summer, telling his part of the story. He then added, "But what I’d really like to do is to be in touch with the descendants of families who were members of the Cub, to learn what they may or may not recall, or have been told, about the Flood."
Well, that was an understandable goal. And I was in a somewhat unique position to be able to help him in that regard. Because I knew that some of the members of Fox Chapel Presbyterian Church were directly descended from some of the South Fork Fishing and Hunting Club families. So I began what has been an ongoing pursuit of the stories of the family members who made up the South Fork Fishing and Hunting Club. My original research is now in several placers, including forming the bulk of what appears on the website of the Johnstown Flood Memorial (which fails to acknowledge my blog as their chief resource), and on many of the Wikipedia articles on various Club members.
In the couse of the studies, i first talked with our Fox Chapel Presbyterian friends Sue and George Huff. George seemed unsurprised when I asked him. He told me that growing up, he had no clue that his grandfather and great uncle had been members of the Club, and he did not learn this until after his father died and he was going through his father's papers. He said that the Johnstown Flood was never discussed by the family. One by one, I got in touch with descendants of most of the sixty or so families who had been Club members. To a person, they all said the same thing; no one ever talked about the Flood or the Club and they knew little or nothing about either. You can read the bulk of my original research on my blog devoted to the members of the South Fork Fishing and Hunting Club, here: Profiles in Time
This is entirely in keeping with the pledge that the Club members made in the immediate aftermath of the Flood, to never speak of it. They were all as good as their word. I am glad to say that in some instances, I helped these descendants fill in a part of their family history that had been lost. Hello, SFF&HC descendants, all; I like to think of you as my 'other congregation'!
Of all the fascinating people I researched, two stand out as particularly interesding. One is John George Alexander Leishman, who had an illustrious career at Carnegie Steel and as a US ambassador in the years preceding WWI. You can read all about him on Wikipedia, and because I wrote it, I am the reason that you can. The other especially notable figure was Cyrus Elder, the only member of the Club who lived in Johnstown (most lived in Pittsburgh, a few in Greensburg). Cyrus was also the only Club member to lose members of his family in the Flood, who died when their four story house was swept away, never to be seen again. When I found his great great grandson George, we began a friendly correspondence that lasted until George's death. At one point, he said, "You know about the desk, don't you?" I did not. He then told me that the desk that had been Cyrus's grandfather's had been sent out to the cabinetmaker to be refinished, the cabinetmaker's shop being on higher ground, it was the only thing from the Elder house to survive the Flood. And when it had been sent to the cabinetmaker, they had forgotten to empty one drawer, in which was kept the famly Bible, with all of the family history. Soon thereafter, George decided because of my interest in his family story, to donate the desk to the Johnstown Flood Memorial - where it can be seen today.
Month by month, as all of my research was beaaring fruit, I would talk about these things at dinner. I did not know how much of it was being processed by our kids, until we heard a great story from one of Anne's teachers. In that class, each of the kids was to research a U.S. state of their choosing, and to do an oral presentation about the state, mentioning things like the state capitol, state bird, state tree, and so forth. Anne chose Pennsylvania, naturally enough, since it was her native state. In due time, Anne gave her presentation. After which the teacher said, "Is there anything else you would like to tell us about Pennsylvania?" Anne replied, "Yes, I would like to tell you about the Johnstown Flood." She proceed to do so, off the cuff, for twenty minutes!
History was not the only dinnertime topic we engaged in. I recall one dinner time, as we were having spaghetti, that John asked his mother about a particular surgical procedure. Judy told him all about it, in meticulous detail. As she did, he was all smiles, nodding and learning from Mom. But I saw Anne turning three shades of pale, looking at her plate of spaghetti and tomato sauce as Judy told about the surgical procedure. Anne then put down her fork, looked at me, and said, "I'm not hungry any more."
When Anne went to middle school, in preparation, John let her know that when she was at the school, he didn’t want her to say hello in the hallways, or in any other way acknowledge him. He was trying to stay cool, and at that point he wasn’t really sure whether having a younger sister at middle school was to be considered cool by anybody.
Both the kids were in the marching band. And marching band practiced in the summer for several weeks, just before the new school year began.
The year before, John had been in marching band, but of course Anne was in elementary school. So this was a change. The first day that band practice began, a number of the cute girls who were in John‘s class, were also very friendly with Annie. John picked that up pretty quick. And he decided that having his particular younger sister was pretty cool after all, and potential for getting to know some of these cute girls.
I have to say that from then on, throughout their high school years, Anne and John developed a remarkably large and wonderful group of friends. I think the fact that there were the two of them, separated by just one grade level, lent support to these networks of very nice friends.
Another thing that lent support to it was the fact that there was a lot of crossover between friends at school and friends at church. John became very active in the crew team, and during his high school years, there were as many is a dozen other Wekiva Presbyterian Church families whose kids were also involved in crew . That meant every Saturday when we went to regattas, there was a whole group of us that sat together, enjoyed conversation, and at the appropriate moments when our kids' boats went by, jumped up and cheered them on and then went back to our conversation. It was a time when it felt, in those days, it would last forever, but it was over all too soon.
Another thing that we did, and I give Judy all the credit for it, is that we encouraged the kids to do movie nights at our house every Saturday night. So a large group of the kids would gather in our family room, they would bring along possible movies to watch. Everything went great. They watched two movies during the course of the evening. We would greet them, and then we would disappear into the woodwork until the first movie was over. And then we would host the food for them to have during intermission. Judy had a lot of great recipes that she made; her queso, and her meatballs were especially popular with the kids.
It was a running joke that I had, (typical dad joke kind of thing), I kept telling them that I had a copy of "The Phantom of the Opera", the silent version, and I would be glad for them to be able to watch it if they wanted to. This got rolls of the eyes and groans. Naturally they never did choose to watch it. Poor Lon Chaney.
Also. our house was the setting for pool parties, and a number of special birthdays for the kids while they were in high school. I remember for Anne's 16th, that we had a black-and-white birthday party, where the kids got dressed up, we had a full size cut out of Marilyn Monroe that they stood beside to get photographs. And they all had a great time together. I think there were about 70 kids who came. At one point I said to Judy, "Look at this; this is really unusual. There are so many different groups represented. There are the academic kids, the athletic kids, the free spirit creative kids, and more." I said, "You wouldn’t necessarily expect to see them all having a good time relating to each other, but they’re here because of our kids." We were and are really blessed to have such wonderful kids.
Which is what I felt all along from the time they were young. I would say to them, "I’ve enjoyed every stage that you’ve been in, I just wish that each one had lasted a little longer." Time does fly.
I suppose I should talk about when they learned to drive. I took the approach in teaching them, that they were bright intelligent people. And so they would be able to do this. That gave them a sense of confidence. The first time that John had his learner's permit, we drove from our neighborhood up to the town of Mount Dora and back again. That was a great run, because there were suburban streets, commercial smaller streets, there was town driving, there was country driving, and there was four-lane highway driving at 65 mph, which in most places was top speed limit. So we drove up to Mount Dora, Anne was in the backseat so she went along with Johnny and me. When we got to Mount Dora John did just fine, as he had done throughout the drive. When we got to the parking garage he told me he wanted me to park the car. And I said yeah I’m fine with that I’ll do that. I know he could’ve done it but I thought was very nice he did that. For some years, as an adult, his daily work had to do with driving a patrol car. I can say I remember when.
The Route 429 limited access road to the west of Orlando was new then, so it was another great way to get them used to driving at highway speeds on a limited access road. It’s now a very busy road. But back then it was relatively unused and a great starting point.
A year and a half later it was Annie’s turn. I’m sure John must’ve had crew practice, because he was not with us on that drive up to Mount Dora that we did, repeating what we’d done when John was first driving. We drove up along 44, which, again, gives great four-lane highway experience. Anne did great, driving into and out of Mount Dora. On our way home, I asked her if she wanted to go the country way, and she said yes. So we took 46 across to Sorrento and then came down through Apopka. When you are in Sorrento, you make a right hand turn to head towards home. When she made that turn, and started up the little hill that was after it, she said, "Dad you must really trust me a lot, or you must be really good at pretending to do that." And I asked why. Anne said, "Because there was a huge 18 wheeler on my tail all the way from Mount Dora to where I made the turn, and you didn’t seem worried about it all." And I said, "I was well aware that he was there, and you handled it perfectly. As I was sure you would do."
I think when we give our kids that sense of being sure of their abilities, they 99% of the time will rise the occasion, and meet or exceed expectations. I’m always amused by the way that the media portrays parents teaching their kids to drive. They always make it look like it’s much more of a challenge than it actually is. And in this I followed the lead of my stepdad, who was the one who took me out my first day of driving. There we were in good old East Petersburg, and then on Lancaster County country roads, on that Saturday morning. And then we got to a busy road and he said, "Turn here". And I said. "This is really busy". He said. "You can handle it." And lo and behold, I could.
I suppose I should also mention the first time that Anne drove on the 429. We got on the road just north of Apopka, and we headed in the direction generally southward. Back in those days we didn’t have an E pass, so when it came time to be at a toll booth, you had to pull in, pay the toll collector, and continue on; which Anne did. Except that she was about 4 feet away from the toll booth, perhaps a little bit more. So she had to open her door to hand the quarters to the toll taker, before she pulled out. I watched all this and said nothing. After Anne was back up to speed going down the highway, she said, "I’ll try to be a little closer next time". And then we both laughed. The car for all of these adventures is the same one that had its seats removed the first time we saw it, the Volvo pictured below:
Once John was driving, we had him drive that old gold 1990 Volvo sedan that we had brought to Florida with us in 1997. Driving to and from school, and staying for the after-school activities, primarily marching band with Miss Berry, the band director. One of our family's heroes. She could silence a full auditorium with the slight raising of one eyebrow. She had some catchphrases that have been our kids watch wards ever since, including "To be on time is to be late". Cindy loved her kids and would do just about anything for them. Judy treasures working with her as a band parent and president of the band board. A significant time in all our lives.
Back to high school driving... After Anne got her license, the plan that was stated was that they would take turns each day, driving. And we got about a month into that and Annie quietly said to me, "Dad, Johnny won’t let me drive to and from school". I said OK. I waited a day or two and then when we were sitting at dinner I brought up the subject by saying, "So how’s the sharing of driving going?" At which, Anne grinned from ear to ear, and John looked down at his food. After which, he confessed that he had not been sharing the driving with Anne. I said reminded him that was what we had agreed to. But said, "We can do this a different way if you want to. You know, John, for a year you’ve been driving and Anne has been your passenger. Maybe we should switch it out, and for the next year have Anne drive, and you’ll be the passenger". To which he said,"Don’t worry Dad, I’ll share with Anne". So that ended that. One of my more brilliant fatherly bits of problem-solving, I must say.
Cars are an interesting subject. My used 1990 Volvo was perfect for our kids, because it was big and solid, and because it had a very slow pick up. It would go just fine once it got up to whatever speed you wanted. But it had this unique personality. You would press on the gas and it would be as if the car was thinking to itself, "I wonder what he wants me to do?" And then after a bit, it would start to accelerate like, "Oh yeah maybe he wants me to go faster". This was great in the hands of our novice drivers. We never really worried about their safety. We knew that they were good and thoughtful drivers. And that was born out. They never had any mishaps.
There was one opportunity when John was coming home from crew practice, where the car gave him some trouble. He pulled into a gas station, and I believe that someone at the station looked at it for him. But what I know for sure is that he decided the best thing to do was to have AAA tow the car. Which was right. Except for the fact that although officially Judy and I were both members of AAA (I, since age 16), the kids were not. But that did not deter John. He just told the operator from AAA to add him to AAA membership. Just fine. But I thought it was pretty resourceful of him.
Another mention of cars. One day we were driving home from church. Judy had John in her car, and I had Annie in mine. You understand that most minister families have to go to and from church on Sunday morning in more than one car, unless the whole family is eager to be at the church many hours before the worship service begins. I don’t recommend it to anyone. So we were driving past the high school on our way home. Anne said to me, "If John gets the gold Volvo when he goes to college, does that mean I get a new car when I go to college?"
Now I don’t think John taking the Volvo had ever been discussed. But I said, "I thought when you went to college you could share a car." Because they were both going to UCF. Anne gave this long sad face look. "Besides", I said, "Moving in and from college, Mom and I can drive you; it’s not that far away". She looked even more dismayed. To which I said, "Oh you don’t want your friends to know that you have parents do you?" At which point we both broke out in laughter. That was the case.
Annie had made up her mind on UCF when she was a junior. John had not made up his mind yet. We were at a big college fair night at Seminole Community College; it was filled with people from all over the southeast representing their colleges. And as we walked around Anne stopped at the UCF table. And the gentleman at the table asked her a little bit about herself. He wanted to know had she taken the SAT. Yes she had. "And what was your score?" And she told him. It was a very high score. He looked quite pleasantly surprised. "And what is your class ranking?" And she told him. "Here, young lady come and talk with me." So they went around the other side of the table to a couple of chairs that were there. And they sat down. And they talked for a few minutes. And then Annie came back and re-joined me, and I said, "What did he say?" She was all smiles. And she said, "He told me that if I applied in August of this coming year. By September I will have been accepted to UCF." Which is exactly what happened. Anne didn’t consider going anywhere else.
We had said to both kids that they could go anywhere they wanted, but they would have to make up whatever difference, if it was an out-of-state school. An in-state school had all kinds of benefits through the "Bright Futures" program for good students, and so we hoped they would go to one of the Florida universities. They were fine with that. John looked at four schools. In addition to UCF, he also first looked at USF, University of Florida, and Florida State. We went with him on the tours for all except for UCF, and we had good experiences at all three places. Although the one that everyone in the general populace was the most impressed by (calling it an "Ivy League of the South" school), UF, was the one that impressed me the least. Maybe I’ll tell that story at some point. However John determined to go to UCF as well, and I’m sure much of it had to do with the fact that his longtime girlfriend Tara was already there.
All this time I had continued to write new hymn texts. A thoroughly enjoyable avocation. In July 2000, the anthology of my hymns from GIA "Swift Currents and Still Waters" was published. It has 52 of my hymns and some of them are my best known, subsequently appearing in various denominational hymnals.
On June 18, 2000, was the groundbreaking for the new additions to Wekiva Presbyterian Church. At my insistence, both of our children were involved in the groundbreaking ceremonies (one after each worship service), to symbolize what was happening then was for the future. How true. Now, two of our grandchildren have attended nursery school in some of the rooms that were created during that very addition.
On September 15 through September 30 of the year 2000 Judy and I were on a family trip to Europe. Judy ‘s parents wanted us to see places that were special to them. Also on the trip were Donna and Karen, Judy ‘s sisters. Mike and Jim, their respective spouses were also invited. But Mike was too busy with work, and Jim and Karen were fast moving toward a divorce. We had a wonderful time, and it whet our appetite to return in future.
On October 6, 2000 my hymn, "Celebrate the Gift of Music" was chosen as the Presbyterian Association of Musicians. Anniversary Hymn, and therefore, distributed to all of the congregations in the PCUSA denomination for their use.
On July 1, 2001, I was invited to give the invocation for the Optimists International Convention at the Orange County Convention Center. My Optimist's assigned host turned out to be my high school calculus teacher, Mr. Duarte. That’s one of those wonderful small world stories. I saw his name-tag and said, "You taught me calculus in 12th grade!" and he smiled (as Optimists are want to do!) and said, "And you got a B minus!" True. But I was glad to tell him that as a result, I aced my college calculous course.
As of May 1, 2002 I had exceeded as senior minister of Wekiva the tenure of every one except for the founding pastor. My immediate processor had been at Wekiva a one month short of five years. On that Sunday, my fifth anniversary serving as the pastor of the church, we also dedicated the "Living Water" New Testament Stained-glass windows in the Sanctuary. On Sunday, August 4 the congregation surprised me with my 20th anniversary of ordination celebration. My parents were present for the event and I was given a clergy tartan stole on the occasion. In Christmas 2002 we were with Uncle Bob and AnnaMarie and their family, as well as Judy‘s mother, gathered in Kissimmee, Florida. The highlight of which was family recipes from Grandma Lucy and Aunt Gracie, that made everything taste the way Christmas is supposed to taste.
In 2003, Wekiva hosted Central Florida Presbytery, at which I was elected to be a commissioner to General Assembly the following time that it met, and so I was sent to General Assembly in Denver where I was an observer. Judy and I made time to go to Tim Harger‘s wedding at Myers Park Presbyterian Church in Charlotte, North Carolina on July 19 of 2003. I officiated at my associate pastor's wedding on June 14. I served on the commission of Presbytery to merge College Park Presbyterian Church, and wrote their plan of union. I had asked our Executive Presbyter Paige McRight if there was a template for such mergers, and the answer was no, not in our Presbytery or anywhere in the denomination. So I created it from scratch, intending it to be a conversation starter and expecting that it would be much edited before being used. No, it pretty much stood as it was, and served the congregations that were merging very well. Which was helpful when I later served to chair the merger commission for Grace Covenant Presbyterian, because I used that as a template for them. If you think that I have a continuing fondness for those two Orlando congregations, you would be absolutely correct.
My hymn "Easter Proclamation" was set to music by a professor at Saint Olaf college, John Ferguson, and was first sung there on Easter 2004. It was also a sung on the same day at Highland Presbyterian Church, Fox Chapel Presbyterian Church, and Wekiva Presbyterian Church. It’s hard to be three places at one time, but through my hymn, I was able to do just that.
During the first half of 2005, Judy and I sponsored a new hymn search with the journal "Reformed Worship". I went to Lancaster for Mimi‘s 75th birthday, in April. We made a trip up to Epharata, where for many years was wonderful store called Donnekers. There I helped her shop and select a lovely new navy blue suit. I told her that it was a birthday gift from us. And got a kick out of saying that she would be going to church in her "Birthday Suit"! (Insert uproarious laughter here).
Anne was inducted in the National Honor Society on May 15, 2005. John had likewise been inducted in 2004. So very proud of them both.
In early 2004, I began thinking of how we might get the word out, meaning the Good News of Jesus Christ, to people who did not or could not join with us in worship. Remembering from my Pittsburgh roots the fine example of Dr. Kerr, offering the very first anywhere broadcast of worship on the radio, i considered that. But the cost seemed prohibitive. Which meant that TV was even more out of the question. However, we did have one rather new communication tool that could - maybe? - be considered. I was aware that some businesses were using computers to hold distance meetings. Could that technology be used to good effect, in sharing worship services via computer?
You know from my college days that while I had a friend who conceptualized the future of in-home and in-office computers, I had zero understanding of whether my idea could work, or not. But we did have, in the church, someone whose entire business was along the lines of helping businesses use computers for innovative communications. David was our youngest charter member, having joined Wekiva with his wonderful parents John and Glendora when in middle school. So I called David and told him my idea of broadcasting via computer. The idea was unheard of at the time; which might be had to imagine. It just wasn't being done.
David liked the idea, and took some time to research the possibility. After which, he called me and said, "John the technology just isn't there. It cannot be done." I was disappointed but there it was. I set the idea aside, and concentrated on other things.
Some months later, Dave called me. His first words were, "John, we can do it!" "Do WHAT?" I asked, having forgotten the what-seemed-to-be-closed computer broadcast idea. "We can send out the worship service by computer," Dave replied. He invited me to his office, so he could explain how it could be done. So there we were in his big conference room, near Altamonte Mall on Central Parkway, and he stood at a big whiteboard that stretched the whole length of the room and diagrammed how this would work. I have told him since, that I pretty much lost being able to follow the particulars, soon after he began. He filled the board with the details, which looked like an elaborate equation by Albert Einstein, and as he reached the end of his presentation, and the end of the room, he turned round smiling. Waiting for my response.
"So, we take the video in the church.." (I pointed to the left end of the board)..."and it ends up in people' homes," (now pointing to the right end of the board), was my answer. "Yes! Exactly!" I did not confess to him until later that all the other information in-between had escaped me. Dave had been helped by one of his employees, whose brother in Puerto Rico had done something along these lines, (I believe once and done), though not ongoing. The plan, we soon set in motion. Dave took charge of all aspects of it, from the camera, to the volunteers who took the videos. And on the first Sunday of January, 2005, Wekiva became the first church anywhere to begin live webcast of worship. Which the church has done continuously every Sunday since that day. Eighteen years and counting.
Nowadays, the live streaming of worship is common practice. In January 2005 we were the only church anywhere, doing it. Something I hope Wekiva never forgets; since it is a unique part of their heritage. Live worship webcasts started at Wekiva Presbyterian Church.
We attended Aunt Marie’s funeral at Arlington National Cemetery on May 10, and Judy and I met Mimi and Papa there. The date was the anniversary of Uncle Roger‘s plane being shot down; that is, May 10, 1967. Sadly, Aunt Marie had developed Alzheimers in her later years, a fate that befell several of her sisters as well - Aunt Bae and Aunt Teenie. Alzheimers has a different effect on different people. Some become sweet and content, then again others become quite crotchety. The latter being the sad case with all three of these sisters of my father.
We were invited out to South Bend so that I could do the renewal of marriage vows for Jim and Robin Brown, and we stayed at the Red Horse, the guest cottage on their grandparents property. That was a lovely occasion. The vows had been and were renewed in a covered bridge. Our guest cottage had a copper bathtub, which was a wonder. Such a tub holds the water's warmth much longer than a standard porcelain tub. Ahhhhhh...
I preached at Highland Presbyterian Church, my home congregation, on September 4, 2005. They welcomed me warmly as always.
The most momentous news of the year was that I received word from the Lilly Foundation that I was a 2005 recipient of a Clergy Renewal Grant. I had written my proposal to visit sites in Europe that were inspirational for famous hymn writers down the years. And that my family would accompany me on the trip. The grant having been approved, we had before us a journey that was truly awesome. Sweeping from Ireland to Italy in six weeks. The trip was to be taken in June and July 2006.
On May 22, 2006 our son John graduated from Lake Brantley High School. With us at the celebration were his grandparents Mimi and Papa, and Grammy. On June 10 we departed for Dublin on the first leg of our Clergy Renewal Grant trip. Many aspects of that are now in a small book that the kids made for us to remember it by. Suffice to say, that it was a once-in-a-lifetime experience, to be able to go galavanting with a purpose across Europe with our two children, returning to the USA on July 24. Below is a photo from the trip, of John and Anne at the Colosseum in Rome. By the way, we checked in April of 2023, the column is still there.
While on our Europe trip, we visited Petworth Park, in Sussex, where I had felt called to ministry back in 1975, it was good to show it to Judy and our children.
Another notable fact is that as of August 1, 2006, my 24th anniversary of ordination, I achieved the welcome status of being the longest-ever serving senior minister of Wekiva Presbyterian Church, and of course, my time there would continue another thirteen years, until 2019. It is an accomplishment that I am grateful for and very pleased about. And it is unlikely that long of a tenure will be surpassed anytime soon.
Ever since the first one, with Karen Greenawalt portraying Fanny Crosby, I’d been writing and presenting those interview style sermons for a while, and on September 3, Annie shared with me an interview sermon. She portrayed Jane Laurie Borthwick, the Scotts Presbyterian author of hymn texts, including "Come Labor On" and "Be Still My Soul". (Yes we visited sites connected to Jane Laurie Borthwick on our trip; but did not get to the famous cottage where Aunt Jane helped to raise her two nieces, the Findlater Sisters, or see the loch into which they summarily dumped her 60-plus years of diaries upon her death. Really girls, what were you thinking! What a loss).
On the 12th of November of the same year, Johnny shared with me in another interview sermon, portraying Dr. Isaac Watts, whose grave was among our targeted landmarks on our trip. Soon after he did so, we had a community Christian choir for a fellowship event at the church. The director gave a small introduction to each piece they presented. Before one of them, referring to the author of the piece, he asked our congregation, "Do you know Isaac Watts?" As if on cue, all of them said "Yes!" and pointed to John! Such fun.
As I say, both of these hymn writers' sites were among those we visited on our Europe trip. I have a good photo of John beside Isaac Watts tomb. We had to pay the cemetery guardian to open the gate for him to see it up close. In spite of being away on the Lilly Grant, I preached the usual 42 times in 2006.
In 2007 we presented a slideshow PowerPoint of our summer Lilly Grant trip as a way of thanking the congregation and helping them understand what we were doing; this was on Sunday, January 14 at the fellowship dinner, and it was very well received.
I served as one of the chaperons on the Lake Brantley Band trip to Washington DC with Judy and with Anne, March 8-13 of 2007. On that trip we had a tour guide assigned to our bus. She did an okay job But our small group of kids were seated at the back with Judy and me, and from time to time I would add some commentary. Unknown to me until it was announced, the kids had requested that I do the bus commentary. Oops!
We had a tour of the White House, which I had visited many times since 1965, if you can believe that. In earlier times, each room had a docent. In our times now, each room has a security guard who doesn't give tour commentary. On one of my visits during the Nixon years, I was part of a group seeing the mansion, when the docent said, "I must ask you not to touch the silke wall-covering, which is newly installed and exactly the same as the fabric that was hung on the walls during the Monroe administration. Special looms had to be re-opened in France to create it." At which point two middle aged women near me reach out their hands, rubbed the fabric up and down, and said "Ooooooh!" Of course those same omen would have ignored it completely had the docent not drawn our attention to it!
On the visit in 2007, I became the accidental tour guide to the White House for our group of kids. I remember in particular pointing out one of the two John Singer Sargent paintings (It was in the Green Room, along a wall we passed directly, with not velvet ropes between it and us). That one is a landscape The other is the portrait of Theodore Roosevelt.
On May 1, 2007 I marked my 10th anniversary as Pastor Wekiva Presbyterian Church it was also the church's 30th anniversary. They presented me with a gift of a crystal vase for the occasion. On Friday, May 11, I attended my 25th seminary reunion at Lancaster Theological Seminary. I stayed at East Pete with my parents. We took Ernie Shaffer to dinner at The Horse Inn, where we had all eaten 25 years before.
On May 22 Anne graduated from Lake Brantley High School. Mimi, Papa, and Grammy were all here. On May 29 my parents sold their house in East Petersburg in anticipation of their move to be near us in Florida. They had lived in it since it was built in 1971. They came to Florida and enjoyed apartment living together, here near us, for a good 10 years.
There were some churches that I chatted with at a level beyond initial conversations, while I was serving Wekiva. Some were very thoughtful and gracious. Others were quite haughty and off-putting.
My advice to PNCs is this: Treat each candidate with the same courtesy you would if they were a member of your family. Even if you rule the person out, communicate with them often, clearly, and kindly. Not to mention, promptly. Some PNCs have a first group of finalists and then, under that, a second group, and so forth. Sometimes, they narrow their field down to one or two. I always say to a search committee (as I have when serving on the Committee on Ministry) that if a person is among your top choices, they are sure to be among other church's search committee's top choices, as well. And then the matter comes down to many factors, including how you are treating the potential candidate. Other factors include the style and character of your church, the location of your community, the relative soundness of all matters at your church including financial and membership cordiality, and of course, the question of what you intend to pay the new minister. Some of these you have every control over. Others are simply a given. For instance, if a potential pastor is in conversation with a church in Santa Barbara and a church in Charleston West Virginia, her or his incliations might be to one or the other due to any number of factors, including how inclusive the congreation is, what the weather is in February, and the cost of housing. You cannot change the last two, and if the first is not yet addressed, then the candidate understands that, loud and clear. Such factors are there before you start looking. However, if you exceed the other church in kindness, courtesy, communication, and friendliness, there is every chance that candidate might prefer you over some search committee that is all business, or treats the search process like a series of basic training tests you must pass. Attitude is everything. How you come across is vitally important, more than I am stating here.
When my parents discovered that my dad had major health problems, and when he had one kidney removed, he was told by his doctor he should stop working. Which he did, far beyond when most people have long since retired. They began to think about whether they should stay in their home or not. It was paid for, but they were getting to an age where the upkeep wasn’t something they could do on their own. They looked at a number of different options, including moving to a retirement community somewhere in Lancaster County. There were several options available to them. They also considered moving near us. Which we had been encouraging them to do for a good while. Because it seemed like we were in Central Florida to stay.
The week of Anne’s graduation from high school, was also the week that they went apartment hunting. I should say we went apartment hunting together with them. And they found a place they liked. On the basis of that, they made the decision to relocate to Florida.
They spent over a decade together in Florida, happily in real retirement. Very close to family. They were in an apartment closer to our church than our house was, and they were only about 4 miles away from our home. This was a joy for one or all. And that reality hit home that first fall. When we took them to the band concert at the high school. Now at this point both of our kids were at UCF, having graduated one and two years before. As we sat there listening to the great music that Cindy Berry‘s band was presenting for us, there was an intermission. At the intermission, Mom looked at me and said, "If we had moved here a few years ago that would be John and Anne up there on stage." She said it wistfully. I said, "Yes exactly".
If your heart is tugging you in a particular direction, and you possibly can, don’t put it off. Go ahead and act upon it, now. Especially with something that you plan to act on eventually. I might say the same about going back to further education, or trying your hand at some new job or form of employment, or other things like that. If you’re convinced that this good thing will enrich your life‘s experience, and won’t be of detriment to anybody, don’t delay. Don’t put it off. Eating your vegetable so you can have your dessert is a great concept for children at the dinner table. But as an adult, sometimes we put off the dessert so long that the ice cream melts and life isn’t quite what you anticipated it would be after putting it off so long.
Just before my parents moved to Florida, there was another church, and they got so seriously interested me that they offered me the position. They did that the very week that my parents were to move to Florida. My parents had gone through about a year's worth of pairing down possessions, getting the house ready to list for sale, listing it, and then having it purchased. So they were all ready to go. We had planned time away, so that we could be with my parents as they packed up their house, and to go to the closing with them, and drive down to Florida together.
All that was on the calendar, when I received the phone call from the search committee of this church, saying I was their one and only candidate. The call was unexpected, since I had not heard anything from them for some months. It wasn’t in the community we were in, nowhere near where my parents were moving to in just a week! In a different state. In a very lovely community. That search committee's invitation was a wonderful complement, and so much more. An affirmation of my experience and what I might have to offer them. However, the timing was completely wrong. I thanked them, but declined. My parents moved as planned and made a new home and were part of our lives in Central Florida.
Most minsters have such stories to share. I share them for both the ministers and the search committees, as a reminder that many twists and turns are to be expected. Remember to do your best, search committees, to communicate clearly and kindly to all, in the process. Our modern communication tools are so many and varied, there is no excuse for not doing so, except perhaps laziness or some misguided attitude of superiority on the part of a PCN. A wise minister will see these things and say, "No thank you" very quickly.
Both John and Anne were at UCF in the fall of 2007.
On January 5 of 2008 we were able to have dinner with Pittsburgh Theological Seminary‘s then-new President Bill Carl and his wife Jane in Orlando.
We received a nice visit from our friend Carey Vinson on February 25. He was in Orlando on business. I looked out into the congregation and saw a familiar face and I thought who is that man doing (as I am won't to say) "his Carey Vinson impression"? Actually it was Carey himself. He surprised us more than once by doing this. We also had multiple visits from other friends including Dave and Karen Martin, John and Wilberta Pickett, and others of our Pittsburgh friends down the years. Both the Picketts and Craig Cannon sang with our choir on their visits; just as they did back home.
On March 13, 2008, I met with Isabel Roberts' cousins Bill and Sarah Hogoboom, in Saint Cloud, at the Veterans Memorial Library which Isabel designed. I learned a lot of family information about Isabel that would have otherwise been forgotten. My notes from that friendly occasion have helped guide my research. As I write this I know that Bill has since passed away and I believe Sarah may be in a long time assisted living faculty, in Madison, Wisconsin. My letters to her have been returned to me, unopened, addressee unknown, in recent months.
We lost our wonderful Yorkshire Terrier Tuppence on April 15. She was such a good and loyal member of the family, and had lived to 17 1/2 years of age; a nice long life. She always thought of John and Anne as her own children, and of course had been with them the greater part of their lives. I would recommend a Yorkie highly to anyone seeking s dog. Smart, loving, loyal.
After some time of grieving, and then more time searching we found Brantley, our wonderful Yochon on April 26. We had intended to get another Yorkie, but this little fellow selected us, and are we glad he did. We have never had s such a special dog. He had thie ability to communicate with us nonverbally, as if by the power of suggestion. Often, I would find myself getting up out of my chair, and going to his dish, and filing it (finding that it was low on water, or alternately, of food), or opening the door. He had not barked, nor indicated the need, but simply looked at me, and I got up and it was not until I got where I was going that i realized that I had subconsciously picked up on what he was asking.
He adored our kids, and eventually our grandkids. His favorite holiday was Halloween, which he considered his very own occasion for people to to come and see him and make a fuss over him. Why else would they all be coming to his door?
He also knew when a family dinner was about to happen and would watch by the window until everyone arrived. After seeing a segment on TV of a German Shepherd that could say"I love you", Anne and I decided to teach Brantley to do the same. It took no more than a day of practicing before he got it, and that was what he routinely said to us thereafter. No ordinary bark would suffice.
He was not especially fond of the pool but we determined to teach hime to swim and to get in the pool when we were in it. He would enter the pool by leaping on to an inflated raft, and surf the pool until he decided to take a dip. We always made sure the his pool towel was on one of the lounge chairs, so that he could jump up on it when he got out of the pool, and scoot back and forth to dry himself. I suppose there are other dogs who do all of these things, but to us he was a standout, for sure. Always loved snd forever missed.
On May 25 was the 50th anniversary Highland Presbyterian Church. I was invited to preach. I was present to dedicate the 50th anniversary him, "I’ll Praise the Lord" which I wrote for that time, with music by my friend organist and choir Director Bill Rhoads. I also took part in the alumni concert that afternoon, standing between the same two fellows that I used to stand between back in my pre-seminary days.
I surprised the college mission trip that Judy, John and Ann were on, by appearing at the closing worship on Friday, June 20, in Oak Ridge, Tennessee.
August 1, 2008 marked my 26th anniversary ordination at a lunch with Mimi and Papa and Judy at Terra Mia, in olde Longwood.
On September 26, 2008 our son John and Tara Rogers became engaged. John proposed to Tara at the Excedra in the same small park in Winter Park where Bruce and Kathy had been married, lakeside, amid the Spanish moss and curving white columned landmark. Quite romantic!
On November 1, 2008 my hymn text "Celebrate Hope" was chosen as the wining entry in the Self Development of People hymn search tol be disbursed to all Presbyterian Church (USA) congregations to be sung on the first Sunday of Lent in 2009. There was a big engagement party for John and Tara on Saturday, December 13 at Kathy and Bruce’s. My Christmas cantata was presented at Wekiva on Sunday, December 14, called "One Cold Clear Night in Bethlehem", with music by Dorothy Frisch.
In 2008, the economy collapsed all over the United States. Florida was especially hard-hit, and our county, Seminole County, was singled out by one of the three major national TV networks, to showcase just how bad it has gotten. It was bad. We lost a lot of church members, who had to move somewhere else, out of state, in order to have jobs and put food on the table. It was mainly because the housing industry, and construction in general, had come to a screeching halt. No one was building anything. And for the first time in over 100 years, the state of Florida actually lost population rather than gained population. It wasn’t pretty.
In the midst of all of this, one of the longtime members of our Lake Brantley School District school board initiated the idea, shared by many service organizations and religious organizations, they would each take on the responsibility for a school, to provide food for weekend meals to take home, for those families of students at their school who were on food assistance, but didn’t have the resources for the weekend. It was called the Red Bag Program.
Somehow or other our mission folks, who are always on top of things, missed the opportunity to go to the initial meeting about this new program. But when it was about a year underway, they had a second introductory meeting, which I attended.
The program was so compelling, and so much along the lines of the many other fine things that our mission committee was doing, and I brought the idea back to the church. They immediately jumped in with both feet. And in addition to our monthly food donations, which helped the local assistance agencies, we added the Red Bag Program. The red bags being cloth tote bags that church members were encouraged to fill with specific kinds of items, and bring to the church for distribution. It’s a program that continues, and continues to make a positive difference in the community. It’s a good example of how local government, and local not-for-profit service organizations and congregations can partner together. Sometimes people get so agitated about the concept of church and state separation, that they miss opportunities for church and state cooperation. This is a good model for the future for any community.
On May 23, 2009, Judy and I shared our 25th anniversary with a renewal of our marriage vows. We threw the party, and paid for all of the expenses; and to share in our joy, we invited the entire congregation.
On June 10, 2009 a film that included my photos and text about Isabel Roberts was shown at the Guggenheim Museum in New York City. An article on Isabel Roberts in Ida Ryan that I wrote appeared in the summer 2009 "Reflections" journal of the Orlando Regional History Center.
I received back about 64 hymns that GIA had had in their portfolio since 1999, but had never published. So they are now again under my copyright. I also signed a contract with them for 14 hymns to be included in an anthology. On August 10, 2009 I received word that my hymn text had been chosen in the 15th annual McAllister Plymouth United Church hymn search, entitled, "God Bless the Work Your People Do". The world premiere of my Easter cantata called "The Dawning Day" took place at Holy Trinity Episcopal Church in Southbridge, Massachusetts on April 4, 2010. In July 2010 we were in Birmingham, Alabama for the annual meeting of the Hymn Society where I presented a sectional on my new book, "We Turn to God", published by Wayne Leupold Editions.
In May Annie graduated from UCF. Soon thereafter, Anne was on her way to Pueblo, to seek her first "real" job there, near her boyfriend Steven. As things unfolded, the move did not yield the kind of job she hoped for. So having tried valiantly there, she returned to UCF to earn her master's degree.
John and Tara were married at the church October 23, 2010, I officiated at the wedding. It was a happy day for one and all.
In 2011, we began what’s called the Wekiva Legacy Society, where church members can provide for the future of the church in their wills. We also began the Wekiva Presbyterian Church Facebook page. I administered it throughout the rest of the time that I served at Wekiva. We engaged in a very successful program called "The Bible in 90 Days"; we had at least 90 participants who read the entire Bible using that program. I was elected the moderator of Central Florida Presbytery for 2013, on September 11, 2012. My hymn, "O God Renew Your Church We Pray", was selected as the winning entry in the United Theological Seminary hymn search, on July 2012.
In 2011, I also began my Etsy shop. Initially, it was a way to market some of my vintage America art pottery, and became quite successful quickly. You can see some great photos and informaiton about the American art pottery I collected on my art pottery blog: Vintage Art Pottery
Some while after the shop was established, I bought my first vintage watch. A very nice Longines. The day it arrived, and I unpacked the package, Judy and Anne were with me. I showed the watch to them, and right then and there, before it was even on my wrist, Judy said, "You could sell that in your shop!" True. And so I began offering vintage watches. Over time, the watches became the primary focus of the shop. Even though for the first decade I sold art pottery as well, I stopped featuring it in 2021. For a while, I also featured men's vintage neckties, but I suspended that section of the shop around 2016. The collecting and marketing of vintage watches has become of great interest and satisfaction to me. Ninety percent or more of my customers are great, apperceive, and easy to deal with.
By and large, the happy associations from among my clients are such that I feel I am doing a lot to add joy to their lives. I have had bridal couples buy vintage watches to give as groomsman gifts. I have had people thrilled that they could replace their long-missing watch with an identical model. I have had customers buy watches for military reenactments, television advertisements, and live theatre productions. I have had some famous A-list celebrities among my watch collecting clients. I had one client create one of the best collections of Gruen watches anywhere, with my help. Naturally, many of these watches went as "one-of" birthday, anniversary, Valentines, or Christmas presents. I have reunited a family of a MIA pilot with their famly member's vintage watch. How good it is to be a part of each of these many happy celebrations. Today, I have sold nearly 3,000 watches, and counting.
In the course of collecting these watches, I have found several that remain in my personal collection and will not be sold. Frank Lloyd Wright's Hamilton watch, George Palmer Putnam's Cyma watch given to him by his wife, Amelia Earhart, and on a more personal note, Dr. Hugh Thomson Kerr, the long time pastor of Shadyside Presbyterian Church's Hamilton watch. All of these were found, by the way, in general online listings on eBay. In all three cases, the sellers did not seem to know or care much about the original owners. Here, as an aside, let me say a word of praise for vintage watches that are engraved with some kind of personalization on the back. Many collectors shy away from watches with any sort of personalization. Which is to my gain! If you know how to do genealogical research, this personalization can tell you much about the original owners of these watches. As was the case in all three I mentioned, here. You can read about them on my watch blog: Timeless Timepieces
2013.
I shared in the investiture of our church member James DeKleva, as Seminole County Court Judge. On February 8, 2013 at Seminole State College. On April 26, 2013 Annie became engaged to Steven Sandoval; he proposed at the UCF reflecting pool. We all celebrated the next day at a breakfast restaurant in Orland, and Mimi and Papa were with us.
2014 I officiated for Anne‘s wedding to Steven at Dubsdred Country Club, out of doors on the terrace, on February 22, 2014.
The birth of our first grandchild, Taylor Anne Dalles, occurred on April 9, 2014.
In 2015, Judy and I did a trip in September-October for my friend Ernie Shaffer‘s retirement celebration; we also went to see Aunt Evie, Aunt Shirley, and many Pittsburgh friends. We were able to see so many of them because we attended the Fall Fair at Fox Chapel. We also visited Judy‘s cousin Don and Dorothy Drayer in Virginia on our drive home. 
2016 "The Hymns that Lead to Faith" was chosen as the winning hymn in the Hymn Society contest. Papa died on May 16, 2016. We had just celebrated his 94th birthday, a few days before. We took Papa‘s ashes to Pennsylvania that September.
More Central Florida Years
In 2017, my parents celebrated their 49th wedding anniversary. Pretty remarkable for what was a second marriage for them both. We had a lovely dinner celebration, and since their anniversary is also St. Patrick's Day, everyone wore green. It was a happy and memorable occasion, at one of our favorite restaurants in Maitland.
As well as Papa was doing on that occas"ion, it was not to last. We sensed that he had set his 94th birthday as his next "goal, and he did indeed reach it. On the way home from his birthday party, I said to Judy, "We need to find him the next goal..." But it was not to be. He passed away only a few days later. But not before John and Tara had shared with him some happy news that we would not hear for some time yet.
That next big news was that they were expecting our second granddaughter Cameron Joy Dalles who was born on January 28, 2017. We continued our Monday grandparent day, having now not one but two little girls with us. We loved having Cami and Taylor with us on Mondays.
There were changes with the older generation as well. At Judy's suggestion, Mimi (my Mom) moved in with us on March 17th; which would have been Mimi and Papa's 50th anniversary. It was a good move for her and for us. As Judy said, we had a whole half of the house empty, and Mimi was at her apartment, which she loved, but paying rent, which was getting to be an unnecessary burden for her. After she was with us several months, she admitted that living by herself had been pretty lonely.
Judy, and her sisters, and their mother made a trip to San Antonio. It was one of an ongoing series of annual get togethers in which just the sisters and their mom had some time away. So that left at home, Mimi and me, and Annie and I hatched the idea that maybe this would be a good time to do a yard sale.
We were in many ways getting rid of things that we had to consolidate, in order to welcome Mimi and all of her things to our home. And Anne was trying to whittle down the things that she and Steven didn’t need anymore, as well. So the night before, Annie schleped all of those things over to our house, and very early the next morning, we were at the ready, having put all of her and our things out in the driveway, to lure potential buyers to come and browse.
Now, as this was going on, down in San Antonio, things weren’t going exactly as planned. That’s because before she left South Bend, Dottie had decided to leave her winter coat in her car at the South Bend airport, because she was sure that she wouldn’t need it in the balmy weather of Texas. This was a miscalculation. San Antonio was experiencing a cold snap, and Dottie was there for a week, without the proper outerwear.
Now, you might’ve thought that she would’ve gone to a nearby Walmart or similar, and purchased a warm but inexpensive coat for the vacation. But that’s not what she chose to do. Instead, she decided that she would wrap herself in one of the blankets from the hotel room, as Judy and her sisters wheeled Dottie around the sites of San Antonio.
Judy actually sent me a photograph of Dottie wrapped up like Julia Stewart Gardner in the loggia as painted by John Singer Sargent, in a white blanket, from her chin to her heels. She was also wearing her sunglasses, which only added to the humorous effect.
Well, we were not to be outdone in Florida. And so from inside the house we produced two white blankets. Which Mom and I wrapped around ourselves, from ankle to chin. And then we put on sunglasses. And Annie took the photo of us. We were all laughing so hard, I’m amazed the photograph was in focus. And then of course, we sent the photo to Judy, where I’m sure she did not show it to her mother, but I think she showed it to her sisters.
The blankets, and the mirth that ensued, were the only successes of the day. We sold very few items. When the day was done, Annie and I made several trips to the Goodwill donation center. When we were loading the second of the trips, she looked at me and she said, "We should’ve saved the middle step and gone directly from these things being in our homes to being at the donation center." I thoroughly agreed. And it will be a very rare and unusual circumstance if I ever I do a yard sale again.
I’m sure that Annie feels the same way.
About this time, we also hit on the idea of making some very nice fabric framed one word sayings, that might be used on a wall, or hanging from a doorknob, or similar. We got Judy and Mom involved in this crafting project. We all had fun doing it. The end results were very attractive. But they did not strike too many folks as something they had to have. We tried them at the church wide yard sale. We also tried them in a separate shop on Etsy. But our big effort was yet another "oops". We decided to participate in a craft show up in Leesburg (near The Villages, the fastest growing community in the USA). It was a day-long commitment. Please underline the word LONG. We three (Anne, Judy and I) staffed the table. We had not been set up long before we gathered that we were the only people from more than about five blocks from the fire hall where this gala event was taking place All the other people, whether stand holders or "shoppers" knew each other by their first names. We were looked upon as interlopers, and in their eyes, we were. Never mind that one of the Lake Brantley Hight School parents had more or less twisted Judy's arm to get us to participate. So you are wondering how the sales went. Not one sale all day. Boring? Yes. Disappointing? Of course. Will we do that ever again? Nope.
By the way, the hottest sales were at the table next to ours, where two women of a certain age were selling wine bottles that they had emptied all by themselves (!) and decorated with silk flowers, feathers, and the like, for festive centerpieces. If you like that sort of thing. Which apparently a certain slice of the populace of Leesburg, Florida, does!
Mimi's move prompted another similarl move. Grammy (Judy’s Mom) moved in with Judy’s sister Donna in Rochester. Donna always does things right. She began this process by asking Judy how it was going having Mimi with us. On the strength of that, she then asked Dottie to move from South Bend, where she was living in a very lovely retirement community next to St Mary's University. It had been a good several years for her living there. She could do all the things she wanted in the town where she had lived since the mid 1950s, and had any number of friends from church who also lived in the same community. Even so, when one of her best friends there passed away, it was quite hard for her. Donna found a new home with a beautiful in-law apartment, right across the street and bought it and sold her old house in a matter of a week, and before very long, Dottie was a resident of New York.
Our lives were happily full because of our multi-generation Central Florida living. We loved being so near Anne and Steven, and John and Tara and their girls, which allowed us to have impromptu get togethers all year long. Every Sunday afternoon I would tell them, "The pool is open!" And more often than not, they would join us poolside. Such a blessing!
Vacation times in 2017 were built around the weddings of family members and dear friends. This took us to St Louis in July, for Chris and Anna McClay’s wedding, along with a vacation ramble that found us getting our kicks on Route 66 (see the photo), and visiting the Abraham Lincoln and Frank Lloyd Wright sights in Springfield, Illinois. We flew out on July 4th, certainly a novel experience for us. Upon landing, Judy went to get the rental car while I found our luggage. When I met up with her, she told me that the kind lady at the rental car counter had asked her if we were traveling with children, and when Judy said that we were not, she offered to upgrade us from a practical sedan to a red Camero. What fun. Another memorable moment was when the plane landed and pulled up to the gate. the first and second string airport workers must have had the holiday off,. because the folks who were working tried numerous times to connect the jetway to the plane, even to the point of the pilot getting into the act and maneuvering the plane itself. It was a scene worthy of the Keystone Cops. Back and forth, to and fro, and the plane door and the jetway never connected. After about 40 minutes of this, someone wised up, and it was then that one of the old fashioned wheeled staircases was brought out to the plane instead. We were tempted to give the sort of wave to the crowds that the President and First Lady do when exiting Air Force One, but this being the Fourth of July, there wasn't any crowd worth waving to.
Later, we were off to New York in August for nephew David and Becky’s wedding in Rochester. A lovely day and memorable because of all of us being together. In fact, Anne and Steven had proposed that the four of us go a week early, and see some of New England before heading to Rochester, which we did. Our vacation travels included seeing the gorgeousness of Acadia National Park, where we did not see the sunset (clouds rolled in at the last moment!), but did see the sunrise from the top of Cadillac Mountain (the next morning). We also had a side trip to Manhattan where we saw Billy Joel at Madison Square Garden.
And we made an October visit to Pennsylvania for Chris and Sara Shibe’s wedding with visits to Longwood Gardens and to see Papa’s newly placed headstone. When driving from Longwood to the churchyard where Papa's ashes are interred, we traveled along Doe Run, the same route that Mimi followed each day when she worked at Upland Country Day School The fall weather was breathtakingly perfect, and we enjoyed seeing the farms decorated for fall, as well as a lovely doe who stood in a wooded leafy stretch of the road, as if to prove that the name of the stream and the road were absolutely correct. We also enjoyed some Gulf time at our favorite spot on Longboat Key, with Judy’s Mom and sister Donna.
It may sound as if we didn't do any work. Quite the opposite is true. For the bulk of the year we worked hard and were kept busy – Judy as an RN at Florida Hospital Altamonte and me, as senior minister of Wekiva Presbyterian Church, which celebrated its 40th anniversary and my 20th anniversary as pastor on the same Sunday. Anne designed the logo for the 40th anniversary celebration. And yes we survived Hurricane Irma.
Our second grandchild Cameron Joy Dalles was born on January 25, 2017. I was invited to write the World Communion Sunday sermon by the Peace and Global Witness office of the Presbyterian Church USA. This was prompted in part because of my article about the history of the origins of World Communion Sunday. In March we took a cruise on the "Epic". In the summer we took a trip to Nappanee, Indiana, for nephew Brett and Aubrey‘s wedding. On June 30 we were in Pittsburgh for Naomi Cannon‘s wedding; I officiated at Fox Chapel Presbyterian Church. Judy and I spent our 34th anniversary on a cruise on "Pride of America:" that took us to most of the best locations in Hawaii which was absolutely wonderful.
By this time, as you may well imagine, I was not keen to go looking at any other church, and had pretty much guessed that I would be continuing at Wekiva until what time, if any, i decided to retire. There was a real thought on my part that I would probably not retire until Judy reached her magic retirement age as well, meaning that I would continue to do full time ministry till about age seventy-two; since she is five years younger than I. Our lives were happily settled; we had family all around us, and many friends as well. We enjoyed our home and neighborhood, and all things Central Florida. What would the point be of uprooting and going elsewhere?
But the Holy Spirit is always at work, sometimes in surprising ways.
We went to Pittsburgh for Dorothy Boyer‘s 70th birthday in Pittsburgh, at that time I was also interviewing with the search committee for Shadyside‘s interim senior pastor position. Which I had learned about from Carey Vinson, who was by that time not only a member of Shadyside, but an elder and the chairman of their personal committee. One thing led to another. It happened like this...
PITTSBURGH AGAIN – SHADYSIDE – (2019-2021)
So one fine day much like any other, I was in my office at Wekiva when my phone rang. On the other end was my long-time friend Dr. Carey Vinson. Do you remember Carey from earlier chapters? He and his wife Tracey had been members of Fox Chapel when we went there. And throughout the time that I serve there. But sometime while I was in Florida, they made the move from Fox Chapel Presbyterian Church to Shadyside Presbyterian Church. Down the years we have kept in close touch, even though we were for many years, a thousand miles away from each other.
In addition to the friendship contacts, I had heard from Carey once before about official church business, when he had been asked by Craig Barnes who was then the senior minister at Shadyside, to call me and find out how we were able to do live streaming of worship. Which I’ve talked about before. So when he said he was calling about something at Shadyside Presbyterian Church, I wasn't surprised.
What he told me was that he was chairman of the Human Resources Committee. And that the committee had formed a search committee to find an interim senior minister. Carey was calling me to ask, "Do you know of people to suggest?"
Almost without pausing. I said, "Yes." And he said, "Who?" And I said, "Me!"
I believe several things had led me to being ready to say that so immediately. One was what my grandmother said to me when I was quite small,"John, today we are going to Shadyside Presbyterian Church." As if it was almost heaven. And the other was what happened the day that Judy and I went to the afternoon concert there. Both of these stories I shared with the good folks at Shadyside once I had been asked to go and serve them as their interim senior minister. They understood, as did I, that it seemed meant to be. But I am getting ahead of myself. Back to the phone call from Carey.
Even though I was ready to move back to Pittsburgh, and take on this new responsibility, such things take time. There were several interviews. Several trips to Pittsburgh. Meeting not just with the Human Resources Committee members, Jayne, Carla, Bob, Carey, and so forth, but also as things got closer to conclusion, with the Committee on Ministry. That is the committee from the Pittsburgh Presbytery that was responsible for assessing whether or not this was a good match, and whether to approve it.
The interviews with the committee members were lovely in every way. What a great team of people they were, and are. I especially appreciated the lunch at the venerable Shadyside restaurant, called The Casbah. Where we lingered and chatted for a number of hours after our meal was concluded. I also deeply appreciated the drive through Oakland and out to the airport that Jayne Adair Cox gave me, as I was returning to Orlando. I can distinctly remember that as we drove through the main part of Oakland, with the Mellon Institute on one side, and the old Bellfield Church's tower where WQED began on the other, talking about our mutual friend. Fred Rogers. Jayne related moments that she shared at Fred’s bedside in his last days. Which is her story to tell, not mine, but it was a treasure to hear it. And I related some of the things that I’ve already shared about my friendship with Fred. Just one of those extra bonds that you could say, "It’s almost as if Fred was there, or brought us together, and is looking upon us favorably." What a gift.
But back to that visit to the Committee on Ministry. The way they work is that, there is someone from the Presbytery staff, along with a half dozen or so committee members, and then there is the incoming pastor. And we sit down. And we have a conversation about this that and the other thing that has to do with the minister, with the church, and whether this is a good match or not. All of that is pretty standard procedure in every Presbytery. So while I was eager to put my best foot forward, and excited to be there, I wasn’t particularly anxious or troubled. In fact, we had a very nice conversation together.
As we got near the end of the conversation, one of the members of the review committee asked me if there was anything that I was worried about or had questions about. And I said, "I know what a fine tradition of preaching Shadyside Presbyterian Church has. I’ve known who Craig Barnes is, throughout my ministry. I know that even on a bad day he’s a great preacher. So I’m wondering, as much as I love to preach, whether my sermons will be able to match Shadyside‘s expectations." At that point Mark Roth, an elder from East Liberty Presbyterian Church who was on the committee, said. "You don’t have to worry about that, they’ve listen to lots of your sermons and they like them." Which was a reassuring word to hear.
Then they had me leave the room. Again, standard procedure. I was out in a little chair in the hallway, sitting all by myself. It wasn’t a terribly long period of time before they called me back in. The person who came to get me was the Presbytery staff representative The Rev. Dr. Beverly James. Beverly had a long and fine ministry in the Presbytery. And in her work for the Presbytery staff, had often been called upon to go into church situations that were pretty delicate or dicey. Even though we didn’t know each other well, we knew each other from when I’d been at Fox Chapel. And there was sort of a mutual admiration between us that already existed.
I went back into the conference room and sat down. And then one of the people in the room, Beverly, gave me the verdict. "John we are very pleased to tell you that we have approved you’re going to Shadyside Presbyterian Church as the interim senior minister, and to serve in any other church in the Presbytery in future." Which was unexpected, that second part, but very nice to hear. It gave me a measure of encouragement, that if we move to Pittsburgh there might be some other opportunities to serve as an interim, after Shadyside.
And then began a rather hectic time of putting our house on the market, packing things up both at home in the office, flying up to Pittsburgh to look for a house, and then making the move itself, driving over the course of two days from Florida to Pennsylvania in the deep midwinter.
There were several things that sort of made this unusual. One was that after we knew were coming to Shadyside, but before we had figured out where we were going to live, Mom fell. She was taking her dog Lady to the groomer. They had gotten out to her car, which was parked in front of our house. As they were getting into it, someone walked by with another dog. Lady was immediately interested in that, and made a dash for that dog. And Mimi did not let go of the leash. So down she went in the middle of the road. Which was the second time that Lady caused Mimi to break her hip bone. And the third time that a dog had caused it. You would’ve thought we were wised up at some point along the way wouldn’t you? But there are those who think that lightning doesn’t strike twice in the same place; certainly not three times! Nonetheless Mimi was rushed off to the hospital. Over the course of assessment of a number of days, Dr. Nguyen her wonderful orthopedic surgeon said that since the break which was just below the prosthetic hip seem to be in place, it might be best not to try surgery, but to try rest and then rehabilitation. Which is what was happening.
So literally when we went to Pittsburgh to look for a house for ourselves and for my mom. we had to look for a house that had certain rather unusual amenities. First of all we wanted to be an on one level, or at least be accessible to all levels if one wasn’t very mobile. Now anyone that’s ever lived in Pittsburgh knows that you’ve eliminated 99.9% of the houses already just by saying that. Yes there was a time when ranch style houses were popular there. But because Pittsburgh is so hilly, the front doors of the ranch style houses are normally up one exterior flight of steps, to the front door. With the basement and garage underneath. Typically. But more than that, houses from almost every other time are built vertical rather than horizontal. So we had our work cut out for us in that respect. And then because Mom was still driving, and we hoped that she would continue to do so, once she was done with rehab, we need to be able to park three different cars, easily. There again, that eliminated any number of places. And then our budget pretty much eliminated anywhere close to Shadyside Presbyterian Church. The single-family houses within a five or ten block radius sell for upwards of $1 million. Not even slightly within the realm of possibility. And if by some stretch, one of the homes were, affordable, they did not meet the other criteria. And there were precious few that were affordable.
So we had our work cut out for us. So did our realtor.
There’s another story. In the 10 years that we had lived in Pittsburgh we had gotten to know many realtors, the majority of whom were members of Fox Chapel Presbyterian Church, and whom we considered friends and acquaintances. How in the world do we pick one realtor, without offending the others? I really didn’t want to do that. After much soul-searching and thought, we decided to work with Rob Strohm. Rob had been in high school when we had gone to Fox Chapel in 1986. We had other happy associations including my having baptized his first child, Coleman. So we asked Rob, and he readily agreed. We flew up.
We began our search on Monday. We ended up seeing 26 houses in six different school districts. Far and wide. But that first day as we were driving to one of the places we looked at, Rob said, "You know, Dr. Tranquill is thinking of selling his house." And I said, "On Walnut Ridge Drive?" Because I knew Dr. Tranquill; I knew where his house was. One of my favorite streets in Fox Chapel School District. Rob said, "Yes." To which I replied, "Rob we need to see that house."
All through the week, our house hunting continued up hill and down dale, everywhere from Turtle Creek to Richland Township. If you know Pittsburgh you know that’s a pretty wide swath. Meanwhile, Dr. Tranquill was in Virginia visiting his son Ron and daughter-in-law Vanessa, whose wedding I had done 33 years before. He returned home the day before we were to fly home. Rob worked it out that we would be able to come look at his house that Friday morning, before we went to the airport and returned to Florida. So that is what we did. And when we got to Cecil‘s house, we walked in, and he greeted us warmly. We chatted a few minutes, then he said, "John sit down here and let’s talk." Which I did. Meanwhile Judy and Rob and our friend Karen Martin proceeded to look at the house. So while I chatted with Cecil, they walked into the dining room from the kitchen where we were. And I could hear Judy say, "This feels like a home." She hadn’t said anything like that about the other 25 houses we looked at; so that sounded promising. And then they walked across the hall, to the living room, and I heard Judy say, "This reminds me of Arbor Drive." Which was the home that Judy grew up in, in South Bend. And I figured: Sold! And I was right.
Now, it wasn’t until we had made the move, and settled in the house maybe three or four weeks, when the light suddenly dawned on me, and I turned to Judy and said, "You know, I never saw the second floor of this house till after we moved in!"
The happy circumstance of doing that, buying a house in Indiana Township, was that we were really back in familiar territory. We had lived in Indiana Township for 10 years, a quarter of a century before. This was actually a little closer to things like the Waterworks, and Aspinwall, and the on-ramp to Route 28. Which was good, because even so it was about a 35 minute commute in good traffic, over to Shadyside Presbyterian Church, and there wasn’t any direct way to go. Distance in miles in Pittsburgh is much further than distance in miles in Orlando. It’s just the reality of the winding roads, that started out as trails through the forest that were created by the Native Americans, and then became farm cart roads amid the fields, and then gravel, then paved. Well, kind of paved; Pittsburgh is famous for its potholes.
We arrived in Pittsburgh on a Thursday, and I started working on that Monday. We got into our house little bit later than planned; Karen and Dave Martin very kindly invited us to stay in their home. They were in California visiting their kids. Their home was literally right around the corner from our new house. It worked out beautifully. Except at one point the entire school district lost power. And there we were in February. I woke up in the wee hours and realized it was about 40° inside the house. I worried about our safety. So I started calling at the motels in Harmarville. Asking them first, "Do you have power?" And second, "Do you accept dogs?" Since we had both our dog Brantley, and Mom‘s dog Lady, with us. On the third call, I got a yes. I made the reservation. We packed up pretty quick. And headed down to warmth. We never do things easily.
It was still very frosty and cold, I think it snowed overnight and the roads were somewhat icy, the first day that I headed into Shadyside Presbyterian Church to begin work there. I remember having turned left onto Fox Chapel Road from our street and then turned right to continue on Fox Chapel Road where it splits with Guys Run Road, driving along the long row of evergreen trees at The Enclave, and having a huge smile on my face. Because I was so happy to be doing what I was doing. Never mind the weather. Never mind the stress. Never mind all the effort that we exerted to get there. Never mind Mom and her hip mishap. All those were very real factors. But more real than all of those was that I was going to do some thing I knew I was absolutely supposed to be doing.
In spite of the cold February, the congregation welcomed us so warmly. The staff had a lovely lunch gathering to say welcome. The congregation had a wonderful reception after my first Sunday there. Interim ministers don’t get "installed", the way they install permanent ministers. But they gave a welcome every bit as great as that. The spread of delicious food that chef Steven had prepared was just the kind of thing that would boggle one’s mind. And the whole congregation tucked into it enthusiastically! The whole congregation, except me. I was so busy being welcomed by this that and the other person, that it wasn’t till the room at the end was down to about 20 people left. I felt so extremely lightheaded, I had to sit down. And then out of the remains of the repast, came a plate with some food on it. Which was extra-delicious, because I was famished.
There were certain things about Shadyside that were unique to it. Yes, the Richardsonian Renaissance architecture, which is splendid beyond measure. Yes, amazingly high-quality sacred music, really second to none that I’ve experienced in any church anywhere. And those were things that were expected. One expected the liturgy to be great. One expected things to be done in a quality sort of way, and they were. But the wonderful happy surprise, was that these were real Pittsburgh people, these Presbyterians at Shadyside; which means they were extremely warm, welcoming, friendly, and faithful. What a great congregation! And what fun to be part of it all. It really brought joy to my heart.
I should probably say a few words about the senior minister‘s office at Shadyside because it is unlike any other senior minister‘s office I’ve been in. Now, I’ve described before what the office at Peachtree Presbyterian Church in Atlanta was like. This one was not as extensive or grand. But it was plenty grand. It was all wood paneling, with a curved bay that was actually a tower on the outside of the building, behind where the minister's desk was; so that to my sides and back was a 180° view of both the church and its grounds stretching to Amberson Avenue. Another unique feature of the office was the fireplace. Which is beautiful. And which I actually put into use once or twice in the two years I was there. At some point somebody said to me, "You know about the secret panels, don’t you?" Secret panels? Shades of my friend Scotty's house in Coatesville! Shades of Nancy Drew! Shades of Pittsburgh's own Mary Roberts Rinehart! "Oh yes." they said. And proceeded to press the hidden latch behind the minister's desk, where there was a curved panel that opened, inside of which was a mirror for the minister to check whether one's clerical collar was on straight. And an opportunity to hang something in there, if one wished. Although not deep, it was handy. And then on the side of the office opposite the fireplace were three sections of paneling that also swung open to reveal hidden bookcases. Not only was the office beautiful and interesting, but it was situated three steps away from the door into the chancel part of the sanctuary, on the side where the pulpit was. Which meant that you were really close to where you were holding forth every Sunday. And you were also really close to where the choir would rehearse on Sunday mornings before worship. Every Sunday morning as I was going over my sermon, I would be treated to a private concert listening to the choir as they rehearsed. Fabulous! During the week, I heard the organist and assistant organist as they practiced. Wonderful!
One of the tasks of an interim senior minister is to help a congregation come to terms with their own history. Now, when we see that stated, most people leap to the conclusion, there’s some thing in the church's history that was problematic, that needs to be resolved in order to move forward. And in some cases, that may be part of what’s going on in a time of transition. However, it’s important for an interim minster to take the longer view of things. And to lift up those aspects of the church's history they should rightly be proud of, or look to as worthwhile accomplishments in the past, and to inspire them in the future. Always remembering that these accomplishments were made possible by the guidance of the Holy Spirit.
One thing that I resolved when I went to Shadyside, was to lift up and celebrate their history, and in every instance that I did, I also said that we can use these things as inspiration for how we are being the church right now, and how we hope to become the church in the future.
It wasn’t until the end of my interim there, that one of the long-time church members who has served as both an elder and a trustee, said to me that I was the first minister who ever said the words "Shadyside Presbyterian Church" from the pulpit. This is absolutely astonishing to me. (Thank you Dan for telling me). The church has so many notable accomplishments in its history. Mentioning just a few, the first broadcast of worship on radio, and the inauguration of World Communion Sunday. But there are many others.
Now, there is a different approach. And that is to try to erase the accomplishments of predecessor pastors. I’ve seen other ministers do that. I think it serves absolutely no positive effect. And there is also an approach whether it be an interim, or a succeeding pastor, to draw the spotlight upon the weaknesses of the preceding pastor. What good is that? It doesn’t bring about a sense of healing. The pulpit is not the place for it, nor are official letters to the congregation, whether they are stand-alone or in the church newsletter. And certainly it would be the wrong thing for any minister to make the subject of their doctoral dissertation the foibles of the pastors who came before them. I’ve seen all of this done. It has hurt rather than helped congregations in every instance. Without exception.
I believe that that the many sermons that I preached at Shadyside, most of which had specific Shadyside and Pittsburgh historic or geographic illustrations, did much to build up the congregation. They already knew that Pittsburgh was a special place. They knew that their role as Presbyterians in Pittsburgh had a wonderful heritage. As much as I could, I included those things. So I quoted every one of the previous ministers. Well, except ones whose works were unsearchable. They, especially Dr. Kerr, preached so well and served in such a noteworthy way, the people who remembered them were gratified to hear again something that they said. And for those that came long before them. It was a tonic to know something of that early history. I enjoyed it a lot, too. I knew a good portion of it already, and I enjoyed doing the additional research. And I enjoyed picturing those predecessors, sitting at the same desk, and preaching from the same pulpit, as I. By the way, I have posted many of my Shadyside era sermons on this blog; if you scroll back, you can read them there, exactly as preached. As for other sermons from early churches, both Wekiva and Fox Chapel have extensive archives you can access on line, with many of my sermons.
Our wonderful Yochon, Brantley died the day before Easter in 2019. This was hard on all three of us, Judy, Mimi, and me. He and Lady and made the trip up to Pittsburgh and the acclamation to the new surroundings beautifully. We will always treasure that little fellow. Soon after, I suggested to Judy that we find another dog, but she was still grieving in such a way that she was not ready to take that step at that moment. However as we got to late spring, we did have several attempts to find a rescue dog that also fit the criteria of being small enough to travel to and from Orlando with us, and to not shed. One candidate seemed like a good fit until he bit Judy's hand - twice - within the first five minutes we were driving home with him. Back to the shelter he went. That little guy was as cute as could be, but he had a sad history that had made him unpredictably vicious. No, we were not going to take him to a dog psychologist and try to get that ironed out. Maybe someone else later did.
Fast forward to July. We went to a summer family reunion vacation in Gatlinburg, Tennessee, in July, with Judy's mom, her sisters and families, and also my mom. It was a treat to explore a part of the USA we had not seen before. The Great Smokies National Park is among the most visited in the National Park System. It was busy but not unreasonably so. We enjoyed the great outdoors and even saw a momma black bear and her little cubs. They are such beautiful animals.
And there on the Fourth of July we found our little Yorkiepoo. Both daughter Anne and I had told each other that we thought we would find our new dog in Tennessee. I was so certain of it that I pictured us driving along and seeing a sign for "Puppies for Sale" at some farmhouse along the trip. No. that did not happen. When we arrived in Gatlinburg for our week of vacation, I immediately went on line and looked at al of the animal shelters within an hour's drive of where we were. But not one of them had a dog that fit our needs. That seemed to be that. Until the Thursday before we were to go home, when I had the light bulb go off: What about Craig's List?
Sure enough, on Craig's List were three potential sources for our new dog. As one does with Craig's List, I emailed each. Never heard back from one. The second said that their dog was sold. The third said they had one of the litter of three remaining. I emailed back and asked if I could come and see it the next day, beacuse I was sure they wouldn't want a visit on that day, July Fourth. No, they said to come along. Which I did, and there was a little black ball of fluff with white toes and sparkling black eyes, who came home with us.
Much discussion ensued about a name. When I suggested Bendix, which was the company Judy's dad worked for forever, she agreed. And so Bendix he is.
The first day he was with us, we went up to tour Clingman's Dome as did many hundreds of others. As our then title granddaughter Taylor took little Bendix around on a little red leash, they were much more interested in that tiny puppy than the grand scenery.
When we returned to Pittsburgh to serve Shadyside, we thought we would rekindle friendships from long ago, and we did. Most of these were friendships that we had happily maintained, although geographically at a distance, all through that time in Florida. We also discovered in addition to our friends the Vinsons, there were about a dozen other families who in the course of the 23 years that I’d been in Florida, had made their way from being members at Fox Chapel, to be members at Shadyside. It was a real joy to look at the congregation, and see them there - Janet and Wes, Nancy, Ray and Marilyn, Paul and Susie, John (every Sunday!), Carey and Tracey, and more - as well as the smiling faces of the new friends that we were so fortunate to make while we were there. Many new friends. As I said, it’s a warm, welcoming congregation.
One of these friends, who was never a member of Fox Chapel, but had connections to it, had been in touch with me on and off all through my time in Florida, because of his love for the architecture of Shadyside church, and his keen awareness that I appreciated it too. Tim Engleman is this generation's historian of Shadyside Presbyterian Church, of both its people and the place. We’d been at the church maybe a month maybe a little bit less, when Tim and Connie invited us to lunch. As we were having lunch, he said to me, "Have you experienced the Shadyside Lock yet?" which caused me to scratch my head figuratively speaking. Shadyside Lock? What in the world is that. I think I must’ve asked the question.
He said that one of the senior ministers from the past had talked about the Shadyside Lock. And explained it to be that moment when the senior minister starts to preach, and every head is turned and every eye is focused in the direction of the pulpit. And I said, "Yes!" with an exclamation point. "That happens every Sunday. I’m just astounded by how attentive they all are."
He said, "That’s because they really want to hear what you have to say. And you have good things to say. So they appreciate it." What a wonderful affirming statement that was. I love to preach. And I received a lot of good feedback in every church that I served. But my sermons were never as universally commented upon favorably as they were in those two years in Shadyside. Thank you my friends, what a gift! It warms this pastor's heart.
There was a lot to be done. After twenty-five years, the wonderful John Walker designed organ needed to be refurbished. Mark Anderson the organist / music director of the church was in charge of that. Because Shadyside is blessed with a solid endowment, the trustees said there was money there to pay for it. Which was a pretty sizable amount of money. We were in a meeting of the Property Committee when Dan, one of the members, near the end of it, after we had talked about the organ repairs said, "I think we should open this up to the congregation, to let them make contributions toward it." And I’m sitting there thinking, "Why would we do that? When there’s funds available elsewhere, why would we ask them to stretch beyond their annual stewardship in this way?" But Dan had thought it through thoroughly, and he put his money where his mouth was. He said, "I know I’d give to it, if we did that." And indeed he did, very generously. "Well, you’ve got nothing to lose." thought I; so I said, "Yes, let’s do that", in a bright and chipper sort of way.
So, we did. As a result, more than half the cost of the repairs was given to the effort, by people who had the opportunity placed before them. I say that in an encouraging way, to pastors who are wondering how in the world they are going to pay for a special project. Pray about it. Plan for it. But don’t forget to ask; provide the opportunity for people to share what they have.
In the darker recesses of every congregation are those difficult situations the pastor has to deal with that, because of their confidential nature, often don’t reach the ears of most members. I’ve talked about several of those from Fox Chapel. And without being indiscreet I will say that we had a situation that was already long in existence at Shadyside, that persisted. I’m glad to say that during my time there we managed to put it to rest completely. Another item in the plus column, even though most everyone won’t ever know anything about it.
When I went to Shadyside, there were three full-time associate pastors. There had been a number of comments made by various leaders of the church that perhaps we had more staff members than we needed. That is an understatement. For example on the staff Shadyside there were six people doing the job that Patty Joyner did, herself, as Wekiva. And roughly the same number of congregants. Patty, I know I told you this, but again, thank you! And you did it all so gracefully and well.
It’s not to say that everyone of those people didn’t work hard and give their all, and were people the congregation appreciated and that I liked very much. I certainly didn’t want to give anyone a pink slip it when they were exceeding their job responsibilities. However. I had in the back of my mind the thought that if any of the associates were called to serve somewhere else, that we probably wouldn’t search for a replacement for them, but rather reassign their responsibilities. And that’s what happened when one of them was called away to a church in the south, to be one of eight associate ministers at that next church.
As we did the redistribution, we decided that we probably needed a part-time person, to work with the youth; and lo and behold we had someone right there who was able, willing, and ready to help out in that regard, as a person associated with Shadyside for a number of years, she knew it through and through. So we were fortunate in that regard. We streamlined the staff a little. Not a lot. I’m sure it will be more streamlined and more will need to be done in the circling years, but as I’m learning to say, I’m retired, that’s not my problem. For those who’s problem it now is, you genuinely have my prayers and my good wishes.
The architectural splendors at Shadyside are such that, if I needed a quick momentary break from what I was doing in my office, all I need to do was get up from my desk and walk a few steps and I’d be in that wonderful sanctuary space, to appreciate its beauty, and its all inspiring grace. I confess I took a lot of photographs while there. What did we do before we had cameras in our cell phones? I did a fair amount of posting of those pictures on Instagram, which was my way of sharing what I was doing, almost like a diary, but it was also another way to help build up the congregation. Whenever I posted some thing about Shadyside, I used the tagline, "There's always something special happening at Shadyside Presbyterian Church".
Our communications director picked that up, and used it from time to time. I must say Peter Bodnar the communications director is second to none in the areas of supporting the life of a church in all kinds of communications, publications being key. He works extremely hard. I wonder if he knows how good he is. I know it’s part of his faith, that he does this work. And being an active member of his own church, and supporter of his own denomination's work, his vocation and avocation come together, for good.
From February to August things moved along at a pretty good clip. We were moving forward in the transition time. The congregation was in a great mood. Attendance was up. Giving was up. All the things that the interim pastor hopes to see.
2019
Then came August 2019. When, one Thursday, I began to feel a stiffness in my back. That made me wonder that I must have pulled a muscle or something. Or moved wrong. Whatever. It was uncomfortable. So I took some aspirin and thought that it would go away. But I also noticed that I was a little short of breath when I walked upstairs. But that, too, was probably just a temporary situation, thought I.
The discomfort continued for several days. Judy kept saying, "You really need to go check that out". And I kept saying, "No, I’ll be fine." Until it got to be Saturday late afternoon. And Judy insisted that we go to the walk-in clinic in the Waterworks. Which we did. "I’m sure it’s nothing," I said as we were heading down Fox Chapel Road. But then I added, "If it is something more than that, let’s find out where John Power has privileges, because I’d like him to be my doctor if I need one." John Power, the excellent cardiologist, was a long-time Fox Chapel Presbyterian Church member. Someone that I brought into the church through one of my new members classes, along with his wonderful wife Kim. In that time when I served as an associate minister there.
So we got down to the Waterworks and went into the clinic and they were not busy, and they took me back and hooked me up to an EKG. They ran the EKG, and as the results were printed they fell out of the machine and onto the floor. Judy was sitting alongside it. She looked at the EKG and realized that I really was in distress according to the print out. And so she picked it up and waved it in front of the nurse and said, "Take a look."
Before long, the physician on duty came in and said, "I think probably do you want to go to the emergency room to have this further checked out." And we decided that before we went to any emergency room we wanted to have John Power point us in the right direction. So Judy put in a call to him. No, we didn’t have his phone number, but Judy called our friend Christine, who was at the wedding of a mutual friend. Christine called Kim, and John called us almost immediately. Judy explained what was going on. John said, "Send me a picture of the EKG." The Internet service at that clinic was not functioning. So in a minute or two John called back and said, "I haven’t gotten that photo yet." And Judy said, "Yes, I’m trying to send it but it won’t go." John said, "That’s all right. I’m only a minute or two away; let me come down and take a look at it myself." Which is what he did.
When the doctor that was on duty at the walk-in clinic heard that John Power was coming he said, "Wow, you must be really important!"
John came in to the consulting room, and sat down on the stool, read the report, and then in a very calm delivery said: "Yes I think the doctor is right; you probably should go to the ER. But not here at Saint Margaret’s. I'd like you to go to the ER at Shadyside Hospital, which is my hospital. And Judy, I don’t think that you need to drive John; let’s just call an ambulance and have them take him. And, since it’s Saturday, I know that the Cath Lab is not in use, it’s closed. So I’m going to have my team come in. I will take care of this right now, rather than having to find a place on the schedule for Monday." It was all calm as could be, almost matter-of-fact. Which did a lot to keep me calm. Other than my back was uncomfortable, I was chattering away and making conversation, oblivious to the seriousness of the situation. The ambulance quickly came. I was loaded up in it. And in less than 20 minutes, it was across the river, up the hill, and into Shadyside, where I was whisked through the emergency room without a pause, into the elevator, and up to the Cath Lab. Where when I was wheeled in, John’s team was already assembled, scrubbed in, and ready to go. Amazing!
I said to them, "Thank you so much for giving up part of your Saturday to be here." And they looked at me somewhat astonished that I said that. But I do like to let people know that what they do is appreciated. Then John went to work. And it’s a good thing he did, because he found four blockages, three of which he each opened and put a stent in, then and there. All very smoothly and successfully. The fourth blockage was, according to him, an old one, and he was running out of dye, so if he explained later he thought we would wait till Monday to take care of that one. Which is exactly what happened. So between Saturday evening and Monday I rested. Which is sort of an understatement.
On Monday, before they took me back into the Cath Lab John said, "This is an old blockage; I’m not sure whether I can get it open or not, but we need to try." So off to the Cath Lab we went again. If you've ever had one of these procedures, you know that you aren’t really asleep for it. They must use some sort of local anesthesia; but you’re awake. And there’s this little screen curtain that sits across your body about at the level of your chest. And then the doctors work on you, with implements entering you through your bloodstream at the groin area. So John was seated at my right side, and I could see him in profile, his back and part of his head, as he went to work. I don’t know how long it took, but there came a moment when he stopped and straightened up. He looked at me and smiled, and then he wheeled his chair all the way around the back of my head, to about where my left shoulder was. At the same time, one of his team wheeled a computer screen over there, right next to him, where I could see it, on my left side. Then he explained what he had just done. Saying, "John, look at this. I first tried this". And the video was running and I could see what was going on. "And that didn’t work," said he. "Then I tried this," and there was the video still running, "and that didn’t work, either. But then," he said, "I did this!" And sure enough you could see the blockage being opened. I’ve never seen anyone as happy about anything in my life. Which I know was genuine, and on my behalf. I loved watching and hearing an expert talk about something that he had done that he was pleased about.
So, as you might expect, for several days I was in the cardiac ICU. A very busy place. Most of the other people who were there were heavily sedated, and if they were fed they must’ve been fed through an NG tube. I’m sure I was on some kind of pain medication, but it must not of been much. And every meal time, they brought me a tray with food on it. Not that lying flat on my back (as I was cautioned I must do) made it the easiest thing in the world to maneuver a fork over a plate on a tray that’s somewhere an inch or two above your chest. It was an interesting experience. The other thing that was quite interesting was that they must’ve done all kinds of important things in the cardiac ICU at night. There was a lot of coming and going, and none of it was quiet. There was a lot of banging on doors, there were lights going on and off, I was able to see into this room or that as people came and went, or had a break. But let’s just say I don’t think I got a whole lot of sleep. Also, at one point, I asked one of my nurses, all of whom were wonderful, "Who’s that distinguished looking man in the lab coat that I keep seeing?" And she explained that he was the physician in charge of the cardiac ICU. Not that I ever had a chance to speak to him. But my curiosity was satisfied.
I had some wonderful visits while I was there, from people that were concerned about me who were able to get into an area that usually didn’t accept visitors. Especially Rev. Lee Nichols, who followed me at Fox Chapel as the associate minister with the same description of duties that I had. And while I had served there in that capacity for 10 years, he served for 20 years, before his retirement. I like and admire Lee, although our opportunities to be together were very few in the 23 years that I was down in Florida. But he came in with a big smile on his face and a great handshake, and we talked for a while. Lee said, "If there’s anything I can do to be helpful to you, please let me know." Normally I would’ve just said something like, "Oh, thank you very much." But looming on the calendar only days away was a memorial service that I was to do at Shadyside. Both of the associate minsters were unavailable to do it. And I guessed, correctly as it turned out, I probably wouldn’t be out of the hospital, let alone in a condition to do that service at that time. So I asked him if he might consider doing it. "Oh yes," he said, "that’s not a problem at all." Which took a huge weight off. Thanks, Lee!
As the time drew nearer for me to go home, Dr. Power decided that I should have an external defibrillator, a vest-like a device that one wears, temporarily, to assess how the heart is functioning, and to be there in case of any incident. He came to see me to talk about it, and begin his conversation like this: "John you preached a sermon once…" And I’m thinking to myself, "What? John remembers this sermon that I preached a quarter of a century ago, more or less? I don’t remember what I preached two Sundays ago!" He went on to describe what I had said, in such a way that it did come back to me. What he quoted made sense in light of what he was talking about, about this being a hopeful step. But the fact that he remembered my sermon was remarkable to me.
I was scheduled to go home later that day, so he sent the person who was in charge of fitting me for the device. She’s a nurse. And she was part of his team, but she also was a representative of the company that made the external defibrillator, right there in Pittsburgh, in fact just a few miles from our home. I’d been chatting with Judy on the phone, talking about when she would come to pick me up. And when I finished, everything went blank. I wasn’t uncomfortable, I wasn’t feeling any distress, I was just gone, literally. Unconscious. I’d gone into V fib. Not that I knew it at the time.
The nurse sprang into action. She knew immediately what was going on. She called the code, and everyone came rushing to work on me. Thank the Lord they did. Of course, I was unconscious and unaware of all these things. The next thing that I was aware of, was hearing myself groaning. I suppose I might’ve been groaning because two very large men were working me over, trying to bring me back.
I opened my eyes, and there around my bed were 11 or 12 people. Way down at the foot of the bed, I could see my nurse of the day. Next to me at my right, was that distinguished looking gentleman from the cardiac ICU. I looked at him. And I smiled. And I said, "It’s nice to see a familiar face!" At which point he looked at everyone else around the bed and said, "You can go. He’s going to be fine." And so I was.
Some people, when they have a near-death experience, describe some wonderful scenes. A warm and welcoming white light. Someone they love that’s been gone, reaching out a hand to them. Perhaps Jesus himself. I didn’t have any of these experiences. The only thing I experienced was complete and utter peacefulness. Which I remembered after I was revived. More relaxed than when you’ve had a great night sleep. Unconcerned about anything at all.
Which, I think has given me an added sense of reassurance, that at that time when we leave this world, and going to the next, it will not be a frightening experience at all. But rather filled with goodness and peace and love. That’s something to hold onto.
When I’ve told people that I didn’t see that light, or the face of our Lord, they say, "That’s because it wasn’t your time yet". Which is true; it really wasn’t. Which over the course of the next days and weeks made me feel certain that there was more to be done, more to be learned, more, in the way of growing, living, and sharing with others.
As a result of that incident, my doctor made the decision that I should have a defibrillator inserted within my chest, rather than an external one. You understand that if you go into V fib, and you’re not in the hospital, your chances of survival are extremely low indeed. Sightly less than 10 percent. So I was extremely fortunate. John Power wanted to prevent anything like that happening once I went home. So, wonderful Dr. Barrington put in my defibrillator / pacemaker. I don’t think I’ve ever met a happier man in my life. I suppose if I were smart I would find time to get together with him and ask him what his secret of happiness is. Genuine joy radiates from him and gives his patients a great deal of assurance. What a blessing!
I’d been in the hospital a total of nine days. And I took a total of a month off, including those nine days, before I went back to work. A month total. Including the time in the hospital, and the time of recuperation at home. It wasn’t until later that I learned that when Bob Holland was the senior minister at Shadyside, after his heart attack, he took off three months plus. I would not have wanted to do that. But I often wondered whether the church members who had been there in Bob's era, and were still at the church as I was serving it, had any notion that I really worked hard to get back as quickly as I could to serving them?
At first, when I was at home, I didn’t do much. Which makes sense, recuperating. The weekend before I went back to work was Labor Day weekend. And we both thought it was a good idea for us to get away at least for a few days. Which we did by going up to Rochester, New York, to be with Judy’s sister Donna, side visits to the Grand Canyon of Pennsylvania, where Bruce and Kathy’s relatives had a farm, and where Bruce and Kathy were just finishing their tiny house, on that farm, as a place for them to stay when they visited. Bruce had gone through an incident like mine, and had a pacemaker, as well, so we were in the same club, now. It was good for both of us that we had that time, if only briefly, to get together.
In going back to work, I went almost as if nothing had happened. I had said to Donna’s minister in Rochester that I was going back for half days, and he laughed and he said, "We ministers know what that means." Meaning, "Yeah, right; there won’t be any half days, it’ll be full days, plus." He was right. Not that I would want it any other way.
On my first follow up visit to Dr. Power, I said, "I cannot tell you how grateful I am for all you have done for me." He paused a moment and then said this: "John, usually when I have had success with a patient I credit it to my education, and my experience, but not this time. This time Someone Else was in charge, and I just assisted."
2021 was quite a momentous year, as far as life decisions and changes go. We began the year with my continuing service as the interim senior minister of Shadyside Presbyterian Church. My two year interim contract was to end on Sunday February 14, also Valentine’s Day. The church was still in Covid 19 restrictions mode, so worshipers were not yet gathering in person. The staff was by that time presenting the entire worship service on Sunday mornings, on a webcast, live.
You will forgive me if I mention again that back in 2005, when at Wekiva Presbyterian Church, we began the live webcast of worship the first Sunday in January, ours was the first church anywhere in the USA to initiate such a program. It prompted a phone call from our friend Carey Vinson, who was by then a member and elder at Shadyside. He was serving on the Human Resources Committee there, and had been deputized by the then senior minister Craig Barnes, to get in touch with me to find out how we were doing the webcasts. According to Carey, his exact words were, "If John Dalles is doing live webcasts, why aren't we?" Why indeed. I filled Carey in, as to what we were doing, but I have never claimed to have the technical know how to do it, and so, I gave him the contact information for our charter member David Larson, who had made these webcasts possible. I am sure that David provided much helpful information, and probably offered to help make it happen at Shadyside, but the church leadership at Shadyside did not take any steps to initiate the service. Fast forward to Covid and 2020. When what was considered way back then was actually implemented. It was a special joy to me that it happened on my watch, as they say. I had long admired Dr. Kerr for initiating the first-ever regular radio broadcasts of worship from Shadyside on KDKA. His innovative leadership served to inspire my idea about live webcasts at Wekiva. It seemed appropriate that I should institute at Shadyside what I had begun before any other church anywhere, at Wekiva. Such webcasts are commonplace, now. But they were unheard of, before we started providing them in January of 2005. Between 2005 and the present day, churches went from "nobody's doing it" to "everyone's doing it now".
Shadyside had not implemented live webcasts in those intervening 15 years, because they could not agree on what technology to use, and they also were reluctant to do what we did at Wekiva, rely upon volunteers to run the program. Covid 19 changed all of that. Suddenly the need was patently clear, and the resources were found to engage professional help in providing the webcasts, along with a very able member of the Shadyside staff. They were supported by Peter Bodnar, the director of communications at Shadyside, who did and does such a fine job that the quality of these productions is unsurpassed.
This is not an original insight to me; it’s one that I came across before I went to seminary, and which I have continued to pattern how I have done ministry for 45 years or more. It comes from Robert Raines, who at one point in his writing says, "Ministry is in the interruptions."
What that means is, you as a minister may have something that you’re working on, let’s say that spellbinding sermon you are to preach on Sunday, or planning key events for the coming year, or fine tuning aspects of the church's budget, or any other number of other things that are important that a minister must do on a daily basis. And then comes a knock at the door, or a buzz from the receptionist, saying, "Mr. or Mrs. X Y Z is here." Or, "Can you speak with such and such?" If it is all humanly possible, the minister should set aside what he or she has been working on at that moment, and take time for the person who has come to see them. Without looking as if they are interrupting. It may not be of vital interest of the minister. But it is a vital interest of the person that’s there to see them. That’s where much of ministry takes place.
I know of at least one instance where a minister took the entire opposite approach. He was seldom in the church office, was not easily reachable by phone or text messages, and insisted on certain things that to me are quite astounding. Such as claiming that it takes 40 hours in the course of a week to prepare a sermon. It shouldn’t. No matter how deeply you study, how hard it is to form pithy phrases, no matter how many times you need to rehearse. The reality is if you’re taking 40 hours a week writing your sermon, you’re taking at least 20 hours too many. This particular pastor claimed he could not work in the church office while crafting the sermon, and had to be alone at his quiet study in his own home. Well, I suppose. But no I don’t think so. It’s a bad idea to sequester oneself away from the church for such long periods of time. Unless there’s a pandemic going.
And the reality is, unless one is a lion of the pulpit, in a large multi-staff church, whose only official responsibility is to hold forth on Sunday mornings, (and in Presbyterian Church (USA) there are no more than 10 of those at any one time), it is always a dereliction of duty to neglect the other important work in ministry, by isolating oneself.
I’ve heard ministers saying that they’re introverts; this is, senior ministers of churches. Pardon me, but you need to get over it Rev. Introvert. Because ministry is all about engaging with people. One can learn to be available, one can learn to be empathetic, if one wishes to put forth the good effort to do so. All too often, people use the phrase "I am an introvert", to take a short cut to do only the things they want to do, not do the things one should do, but find distasteful.
One of the great marks of a leader, is they don’t ask anyone to do what they would not be willing to do themselves. Ask yourself if that’s your approach. If it isn’t, then you have plenty room for improvement.
Is another technique that I have seen done by some pastors, with regard to shirking their responsibilities, is to always blame the family. "Well yes I would love to come to this event or that event, but I need to be with my child at such-and-such". It may be perfectly true. But I have found that some ministers use their children as their excuse so frequently, that two things happen. The church members who hear it over and over again begin to wonder what sort of time prioritization problems the pastor has. And the children who are being used as "the excuse", get the direct impression that they are being used in such a way. It’s not a sense that "Oh mom or dad loves me so much that they will not do their work." As it is, "I must be a terrible burden to mom or dad, if they can’t do their work because of me." I know it seems a subtle difference, but for the children involved, it makes them tend to resent their minister-parents and to resent the Christian church, and then as those children become adults, and the minister wonders why their kids never darken the door of any church, they don’t seem to realize that they had a hand in that inevitable result.
I suppose this is a good place to talk about the role of the minister‘s family. When Judy and I were married, she asked me specifically did I expect her to wear high neck blouses and play the piano? Which made me laugh out loud. I knew she was serious, but she also went about it in a whimsical sort of way. No, I expected neither. I was not attracted to her because she wore high necked blouses. She dressed stylishly then, and she still does now. "I want you to be yourself," I said. "Other than being in worship on Sunday morning, I have no specific expectations. You can become involved in the life of the church as little or as much as you wish."
Which she did. Depending on the time and the place, Judy sang in the choir, served as a deacon, was a volunteer leader of the youth ministry, both in teaching and in chaperoning youth mission trips, helped build new chancel furnishings, made many church fellowship dinners, and more. Judy responded to the words "Become involved in life of the church as little or as much as you wish," in ways that she enjoyed and that benefited the life of the congregation.
When I was at Penn State, the senior minister Jake‘s wife, Gretchen, who was herself a professional and had a very successful career, was in church every Sunday. Not only that, but she almost always wore the same hat, which was a dark red felt hat that looked quite nice on her. But it was her way of making sure that the congregation saw that she was present. She didn’t stand out overly much, but she didn’t blend into the woodwork, either. I always thought that she was a tremendous asset in saying, "I’m here because I appreciate what my husband does and because worship is important to me, and the proof is right there before you". However, she did not choose to become involved in boards or committees of the church, nor did she share in leadership of the women’s organization of the church. And it worked. I know that some pastor spouses will say to themselves, "Wow, she was lucky that she didn’t end up having to do more". But I hold up her example to you as a successful way of a clergy spouse doing more than enough.
A fair number of clergy spouses sing in the church choir. If they love to sing, and doing so brings them pleasure, more power to them. It’s kind of like the red hat that my college years pastor's spouse wore. It’s hard to miss someone up there in the choir loft. And so, again, it’s saying: I’m here, I’m a part the team ministry; even though I am certainly, like the First Lady of the United States: unpaid in my role.
But there are those clergy spouses who are paid in their role. I’ve known a number of churches where the pastor's spouse was the Director of Christian Education, or the director of the choir, and yes, there are clergy couples. All of these roles must be entered into very intentionally and cautiously. It can work, or not. The congregation and the clergy couple can end up in awkward situations if one is not exceedingly careful. I won’t say more about that, but to say that I’ve seen minister couples go through a lot of sadness because what they went into bright eyed and bushy tailed turned out to become as problematic as a noose around the neck.
Congregations may have their own expectations of clergy spouses, and those expectations may be entirely unrealistic. Here’s a good example. On one particular occasion when I was speaking with a pastor nominating committee, and Judy was present with me, they felt comfortable enough with us to tell us the shocking news, that when one of their other candidates was present, the pastor's spouse had the audacity to wear red shoes to the interview. Hello? Am I missing something here? Something about that community and their peculiar approach to life that said that a clergy spouse should not wear red shoes? Now I know that was a number of years ago, and it’s possible that such sentiments have disappeared from that church completely, but I would say that if you’re talking with a congregation that has that sort of approach, unless you agree with it entirely, you’d be much happier going elsewhere or staying where you are. By the way, Judy had red lizard pumps that I had picked out for her - quite beautiful - but she did not wear them to that particular interview weekend. Just by luck, I guess!
If congregations feel that their clergy spouse needs to look down at the heels, dowdy, unfashionable, and the like, again, that’s a congregation to avoid completely. Of course, we are in a whole new era, in which congregations learn what it is for there to be a husband of their pastor. I would say to every church member, let your clergy spouse show you how it is done. It is done in as many ways as there are are individuals in those positions. Appreciate it.
Return to Central Florida - 2021
My time as interim senior minster at Shadyside Presbyterian Church, which had been a complete joy for all three of us, was drawing to its close. The Human Resources Committee honored us on our last Sunday in an unusual way, because of the pandemic. They invited church members to come to a 'drive-by' farewell event after worship, where Judy, Mimi, and I, along with Peter, stood in the circular drive in front of the Parish Hall, while many church members drove past wishing us well. There were even a few walkers, since so many church members live within several blocks of the church. And there was a giant teddy bear to tie in with my farewell sermon illustration, peeking out of a sunroof like the Grand Master of the Rose Parade. Thanks Lloyd! A memorable event.
My initial thought, when we accepted the call to Shadyside was that after my interim service to that congregation, it was more than likely that I would serve one or two more congregations as interim pastor, before retiring. You will recall that when I went to Shadyside, Beverly James (speaking for the Committee on Ministry at my interview with their subcommittee) announced to me before the entire group that I had the approval of that official group, to serve at Shadyside "and any other church in the Presbytery..." Which was gratifying and which I took to heart. Fast forward to just after I completed my time at Shadyside, when another congregation in the Presbytery found itself without a senior pastor, and looking for an interim minister. The church was the closest congregation to our home, just a few miles down Fox Chapel Road, and it was the church that I had served as associate pastor for ten years, a call that had concluded a quarter of a century before. To say that it was a congregation that I know well is an understatement. I had brought about a third of the members into the congregation by the time my ten years of service there had concluded. Of course, married, baptized, and conducted the funerals of a great majority of the families, and knew many of the members who were serving in leadership positions. It made sense for me to let the interim minister search committee know of my interest, and there probably wasn't anyone as qualified to serve that particular congregation. Indeed, in the first few months when I was at Shadyside, the then senior minister of Fox Chapel Presbyterian Church and I had one of several lunches together, and at that lunch he asked me about interim ministry and said, "I am going to be retired soon, and when I do, I hope you will consider being the interim senior minister at Fox Chapel." All of which made perfect sense.
But it was not to be. One day I received a phone call from a support staff member at the Pittsburgh Presbytery, who informed me of a 'guideline' of the Presbytery (not a "Book of Order" rule, however) that because I had once served that congregation, I was ineligible to serve again as interim minister. Truly, one of the most illogical and harebrained 'guidelines' of many in our PC(USA) politics. You can Imagine I was extremely disappointed. And not only for myself personally, but also for the future health and wellbeing of that congregation.
One other comment needs to be mentioned, with regard to this sad chapter. Soon afterward, the interim search committee sent an update letter to the congregation. In it they had a portion that told the congregation that they had offered the position to an unnamed someone, who had declined. Now, knowing that many people in the church had encouraged the committee to consider me (each telling me AFTER the fact that they had done so), I could see from the way that the letter was worded that the strong impression that would be made among many many church members would have been that it was I who had been offered and declined. Nothing was further from the truth. There was only one thing to do. I communicated in writing with many friends who would otherwise have gotten that erroneous impression, and summarized what actually happened, just as I have here.
It was the right thing to do. So many of them gave me the confirming feedback that indeed they had thought the letter was referring to me. I am including this in the memoirs to clear up any lingering misconceptions out there.
Now, as I said, at the time when we moved to Pittsburgh, my thought had been that once I had concluded my time at Shadyside, be it long or short, I would perhaps do one or two more similar interim pastorates before we eventually returned to Central Florida. But, in mid-February, as noted above, no such opportunity had yet presented itself. The other two opportunities then in the Pittsburgh area were all too far for a reasonable daily commute, especially considering the many evening meetings which would have essentially made any normal home life impossible. So, to guarantee a monthly income and more importantly, health insurance coverage for us both, I then researched retirement and found that it was a good, practical option. I had not intended to retire quite that soon, but I was already beyond the Social Security 'magic number' for persons born when I was, so I was fully vested in the program. And I had a marvelous conversation with Clark Simmons, who is a representative of the PC(USA) Board of Pensions, whom I had known for more than twenty years, who filled me in on the particulars of being a retired Presbyterian minister. All systems were "go".
So, I retired.
One of the the benefits thereof is being able to look back and reflect upon moments of importance. I have found it mostly helpful to do that. Certainly the many tremendous blessings far outweigh anything else. Whether it is the blessing of family, or of work, or friendships, or of making a difference in others' lives for the better. I am a thankful, positive, and upbeat kind of a person, and appreciate beauty and goodness wherever they are to be found. I have sensed God's guidance through it all, sometimes in the moment, and at other times, afterwards. Almost all of the pages in these memoirs focus on the good and great events of my life.
As of April of 2021, lots more was to come. Even when we sold our house on Coble Drive, we envisioned returning eventually to the Longwood area, because all of our family were well-established there. So in a sort of casual way, I began looking online at the real estate market in the Longwood/Wekiva area. Anyone who had been looking to buy a home in that time period was well aware that home prices had skyrocketed astoundingly during the pandemic. This was especially true in places with plenty of warmth and sunshine; as, in this era, more and more people were choosing to work remotely. As a consequence, Central Florida's real estate market was hotter than the weather in August. So we figured it would be a long while before we actually found something we liked that would also fit our budget. And we were in no hurry. We loved our Pittsburgh home, especially having made it just what we wanted with our recently completed renovations, and we loved being near our Pittsburgh friends. So, I looked at what was for sale, but identified nothing of interest.
Until one Thursday night, near midnight, when I was browsing real estate listings online, and saw a house that suited our needs, that was near to the children and grandchildren, and that was in a location that would not be unfamiliar to us. Surprisingly, it was listed well below what it was worth, and well below comparable homes then for sale. Judy was already in bed and fast asleep, so I sent the link to her phone, knowing she would be up Friday morning before me. When I joined her with a coffee cup in hand, the next day, she said, "I really like that house." "Do you?" said I, "I do too. We should find out more about it."
Things moved at a rapid clip thereafter. At noon on that very day, Anne drove past the house, and reported back that the house and neighborhood were very nice. An already scheduled open house on Saturday found John and Tara and the girls touring the house. That afternoon our Florida realtor Sandy gave us a virtual walk through. We told Sandy we were interested. Sandy said that the seller was accepting offers until 6 the next day, Sunday. We hustled to get our offer in by the deadline. And we waited. It seemed like a long wait. But we received word from Sandy that our offer had been accepted, Monday at dinner time. We had just sat down to dinner with Dorothy and John, the first time we had dined in a restaurant with friends since the Covid pandemic began, when the cell phone rang. It was Sandy. With news... We had bought a house, sight unseen, in less than five days.
Then we had to sell our Pittsburgh house. Our wonderful friend and realtor Rob guided us so skillfully through that process that it sold in one day. We spent the next month packing and preparing for out move. We had the worst moving company imaginable, and the man from the Pittsburgh title company that did the closing was just plain unpleasant and inept. If it could go wrong, it did. We have thankfully weathered the storm, and have moved into our home, and found that it is every bit as much to our liking as we had hoped it would be.
Another adventure that occurred simultaneously with the move was that Judy encouraged me to replace my Solara convertible which had served me so well and so trouble free, with something newer. Mainly so we would have a car with four doors, so Mom could ride in the back which was impossible for her to get two in teh Solara. You understand that the Solara had been so fun and so problem free that I would not have been repacking it otherwise.
As I thought about what I needed, my focus became four door sedan (for three adults to enter and exit easily), but with a retractable roof (which limited it to just one car, the Lincoln MKZ). I was willing to go with a car with a big sunroof, but I knew how much I liked open-air driving, so that was my preference. Our nephew in Rochester, David, helped us, as he was at that time working for a large dealership there. We went up to look at cars, and in the used car lot, not even checked in by the dealership mechanic yet, was exactly the car I was seeking, a 2014 model. We bought it, and went back the next week to pick it up. We returned to Pittsburgh that weekend and for the next two weeks, I enjoyed driving it and getting to know its features.
Then, on a Sunday a scant two weeks later, Mimi and I decided to go to worship at Shadyside; since they had just resumed in-person worship. We were nearly there, when we were T-boned by a huge old Econoline van. Mom's side of the car was greatly damaged, but she was not, and fortunately, while her door was completely staved in, it still opened and closed. So, we limped home. The next day it went to the body shop, where it languished until the insurance company decided whether it would be totaled or repaired. The insurance company eventually said it would be fixed. I let the auto body shop known that the clock was ticking and that we were to move on a particular date. They did not finish their work until a day or two before. This was all added to the stressors of this particular move. Later on, I read that the MKZ was among the highest ranked cars for crash safety for the year 2014. I am sure that the Solara would have fared much worse, and we ourselves.
In the past 20 years, the car I was driving at the moment was hit three different times by extremely careless drivers, and they all involved what I would call oversized vehicles. The huge F-150 truck that rear ended me while I was stopped at a red-light in front of Lake Brantley High School, the big rattle trap car that backed into our rental van in the food mart in Pueblo, Colorado, and then the tank-like van that ran the red-light at Stanton and Negley in Pittsburgh. The first must have been texting or similar. He claimed that he "did not see me", which is ludicrous; since I was the third in line of the three cars that had long been stopped at a red-light that he was approaching. I guess he did not see the red light either. Dumb. The second event (T-boned, while the driver backed up into us), resulted in her claim that I was going much too fast (which I was not, I was carefully creeping forward to find an empty gas pump) in the parking lot of the convenience mart. The third happened because the car in front of the van turned right on red, and the driver of the van assumed incorrectly that the light had changed. He never bothered looking at the cross street, or the traffic light, and plowed into our car without engaging the brakes.
I have observed that drivers are worse now than they have ever been. Distracted, and impatient. Defensive driving is essential nowadays Covid has brought out a level of anger and recklessness behind the wheel that is alarming. I have begun "counting" the number of bad drivers that I encounter on an everyday drive - say to and from the post office. There is never a "zero" day. Sometimes the numbers are in double digits, on a route of no more than 12 miles round trip. Be careful out there, friends.
You will recall that Anne and Steven's foster children were with them for nearly a year. And then, at the end of July they were sent, courtesy of the courts, to live in Arizona with distant blood relations, with the plan they would be adopted by them. That did not work out, whatsoever. So, as a result, after being out west for two months, they were returned to Anne and Steven. We are so impressed by the loving care that Anne and Steven are giving to these children, and can see what remarkable strides their children have made since returning to a safe and loving home. All the family joins with Anne and Steven in providing love and care, and we are glad to be doing that. And we celebrated their formal adoption not long ago. A fabulous day in the company of extended family and dear friends.
The late summer through the present finds us reconnecting with our family, and a few friends, but Covid and then Mom's limited range has kept most of our socializing quite limited. We enjoy having dinner, usually at John and Tara's, sometimes at our house or at Anne and Steven's, with the whole family, once a week. We have annual SeaWorld tickets and many weeks will find us there with some family membors, mostly. We enjoyed our first Christmas in our new home, when there were 15 family and friends with us, and it served well for hosting that happy gathering. We have made one trip back to Pittsburgh for dentist and cardiologist visits, a practice we plan to continue. When you find people as wonderful as George Weurhle and John Power, you do not wish to go anywhere else. On those return visits, we get to be with some of our lovely Pittsburgh friends, old and new. Although David and Karen are now in Palm Springs after 35 years or so in their Highview farmhouse. We are so glad we were able to share time with them during our Walnut Ridge Drive era; and are hoping to visit them out west, soon.
Ever since retiring, I have had people ask me, "What are you doing in retirement?"
There has been so much to do, with our move from Pittsburgh to Orlando, our new house, and so forth, that I can say I am never bored. I think that is the key. If you have worked for forty years or more, retirement can be a blessing, if you have activities and interests to enrich your life, and by that I mean your sense of accomplishment and wellbeing. The possibilities are endless. A cluster of interests can provide a full and fulfilling retirement time.
I think the saddest folks in retirement are those who cannot let go of the past, and who cling all too tightly to what they did way back when, whatever that was. Retirement is a new chapter, that you alone can write.
I am thoroughly enjoying spending time with the family and friends. Although Covid restrictions have been hard on the second of those. As family, we get together at least once per week for family night dinner. What a treat to be together, and to get caught up on our week. We also do a fair amount of impromptu get togethers, and that is one of the chief joys of being back in Central Florida. I am grateful for the pattern set by other ministers who I admire, who, upon retirement, made nearness to their family a priority. I think of Bob Eckerd especially in this, but many others come to mind.
My daily activities include running my online vintage watch shop, which I have done for a decade, plus. This will come as a surprise to some, since it a hobby that grew over time, and one that I didn't much speak of, heretofore. Some people play golf in their spare time; even when working full time; some play the stock market, and so on, so many other hobbies that take time and cost money. My chosen interest in vintage watches is akin to these, and more to my liking.
I began it as a way to sell some of my vintage art pottery, which I continued to include in my online shop, up until 2021. But it has morphed into a watches-only venture. Focusing on the vintage watches has brought me a lot of enjoyment, both as a collector and as a seller. I have found some great items that I have added to my permanent collection, which is small and select (truly, there have been a handful of watches that I have sold that afterwards i have wondered if I should have). Among the keepers are three stars, both because of what they are - great watches - and more so because of who was the original owner (George Palmer Putnam, Amelia Earhart's husband, a gift to him from her; Frank Lloyd Wright, a thank you present from the Kauffman's of "Fallingwatter" fame; and Hugh Thomson Kerr, the celebrated 20th century pastor of Shadyside Presbyterian Church).
I have learned a tremendous amount about many varieties and makers of vintage watches in the process. Indeed, someday I might write an article about the watches that I particularly admire), As an added bonus, as I tell the family, "It is the only hobby that I have ever had that doesn't cost me anything. In fact, it pays me". Judy says I am not really retired, I work from home! There you go.
In keeping with my love for Shadyside Presbyterian Church and for my native Pittsburgh, since retiring I have written a history of one of its most compelling members, Susan Lee Crabbe, the benefactor of the Pitcairn Crabbe Foundation. That work required a lot of research, which was not unlike the work I did when researching family history, and South Fork families (to which Susan has a direct connection), and Isabel Roberts. Digging and detective work of that kind, I find to be quite enjoyable. The writing of it was completed between July and December of 2021. My resultant article is published here on the blog, just a few posts before this one, and will served to help my friend Tim Engleman, the Shadyside Presbyterian Church historian, as he chronicled the Pitcairn Crabbe Foundation's history. Upon completion of the article, I let key leaders at Shadyside Presbyterian Church know of it, and have had fabulously positive responses from people I respect highly. My work in this is not concluded, I hope to learn more about Susan and her life as time progresses, and when I do, I will add that to the post. Already, it is as full and rich as a good novel.
I continue to write hymn lyrics, something which I began in 1982, with my first hymn, "Come, O Spirit" written for Wabash Valley Presbytery's celebration of the day of Pentecost. I am pleased when I can provide a new hymn for a church, college, or organization marking a special moment in their history, or provide a text for a fine sacred music composer, as well as when I submit a hymn for consideration in a hymn search, and it is chosen by the judges. At this point, my hymns are represented in more than a dozen denominational hymnals and published hymn collections, and are also published in three books that are collections of my hymns, only.
Some of the texts have been set as anthems by creative sacred composers, and I appreciate them all, and am glad to be able to work with them. Recently, I wrote a new text for my friend and sacred music composer Glenn Rudolph of Pittsburgh, for an anthem he composed the music for; and he set another hymn text I wrote based on Psalm 11.
As I have done. down through the years, so too lately I have been writing anniversary hymns for congregations, including: the 175th anniversary of Trinity United Church of Christ in East Petersburg, Pennsylvania (the town where I grew up). They will sing the anniversary hymn on Sunday October 29, 2023:
The 300th anniversary of Derry Presbyterian Church in Hershey, Pennsylvania:
The 300th anniversary of South Church in Bergenfield, New Jersey, who will sing the hymn in their anniversary worship on October 21, 2023:
And the 200th anniversary of Memorial Presbyterian Church in St. Augustine, Florida (the oldest Presbyterian Church in Florida):
In addition to these completed hymns, I am also in the process of writing anniversary hymns for other congregations, including a 175th for Fort Street Presbyterian Church in Detroit.
I am so honored to be able to play a role in the marking of these historic moments in the lives of these remarkable congregations.
And yes, please do get in touch with me if you would like me to write a new hymn text for you.
I continue to research the historic architecture of Central Florida. The architects who were active in Orlando in the 1920s - about ten to twelve - are all beneficiaries of my research, In that I have published or augmented (mostly published) Wikipedia articles about each of them, so that other researchers can come along and add to them as more is learned. First and foremost in my interest in this subject is Isabel Roberts, who was sidelined by architectural historians as the office manager and client of Wright, while they ignored her architectural training in New York, her work in the Oak Park Studio, and her groundbreaking architectural partnership with Ida Annah Ryan in Central Florida. All of these accomplishments are now fully documented in print, so that only the most obdurate retrograde architectural historians persist in pooh-poohing her architectural professional gifts, and relegating Isabel to work at keeping the office running and Wright more focused than he would have been without her, rather than granting the truth, that even Wright himself, in a letter to the AIA, stated that Isabel was an "Architect", with a capital "A". I mean, how blind can an architectural historian be, to ignore both architecture and history! It's just plain dumb.
Central Floirda is blessed with many remaining works by Isabel and Ida. They are all in what we would call a Mediterranean Revial or Spanish Revival style, which was called by all the Central Florida architects "Spaniflora". I have seen one particular architectural historian say in print on "Wright Chat" that these works are of no value architecturally. (!) Well, that is one man's opinion. As for the architects who worked with and for Wright, after they abandoned the Prairie Style (which became outmoded around the time that Woodrow Wilson left office), they went on to design buildings in their own chosen styles. Only the Griffins in Australia continued with what is recognizably a sophistication of Prairie Style themes. Barry Byrne created works that were proto-art deco, but immediately identifiable as his, and not at all Prairie Style. Isabel's dear friends William Drummond (also a next door neighbor, whose family was so close to the Roberts the they vacationed together for many years), and John Van Bergen went all English Tudor and Colonial, as was the mode in the 1920's, with aplomb and to great success. No, the architectural historians are off base when they say such styles as Colonial, Tudor, and Spanish Revival are unworthy. They are certainly more aesthetically pleasing, and livable, than the ugly Lloyd Jones house in Tulsa, the originally non air-conditioned (!!!) all glass Farnsworth House in Illinois, and the cold prisonesque brutalism of Boston City Hall, all of which, though interesting they may be, were dead end ideas. Isabel and Ida created successful residential and commercial architecture that was at the forefront of Orlando's design ideas in the 1920s, is still prized by its owners today, and should be remembered and celebrated as such.
Even with all we know, more research about Isabel is required, especially the cryptic quotation from Eric Lloyd Wright that she was at one time "Isabel Roberts Jones". Jones? Does that suggest she was married, if briefly? Does that suggest, moreover, that she was married to someone related to the Lloyd Jones family? Probably. I hope to sleuth that one out. Let me know if you know anything about it. It would explain how Isabel came to work for Wright when the Oak Park studio was new, and why Catherine and Frank treated her more like a family member than simply an employee. Oh, and while on this subject, I was rereading Brendan Gill's biography of Wright, "Many Masks", which is highly entertaining. I remembered that Gill strongly implied that Wright paid for the Isabel Roberts House (I sincerely doubt it, there was no need to, her family was well off). He also implied there may have been some sort of a romance between Wright and Isabel; since his horse was often seen tethered in front of the home that she and her mother Mary and sister Charlotte built in River Forest. Highly unlikely. If Isabel was ever romantically involved with any gentleman, it would have been the still-mysterious Mr. Jones. After moving to Florida, she formed a business and domestic partnership with Ida Annah Ryan. They were two spinster ladies of a feminist conviction. If any implications about Isabel and romance are to be made, those are the ones that have a factual basis. Wright was way too busy with Mamah, to have any other sorts of dalliances, especially one with an employee who was also probably his former cousin-in-law.
The spring of 2022 found me involved in helping to create a documentary that focus on the work of Ida Annah Ryan and Isabel Roberts. This has also provided me the impetus to do more research on them, and to find several previously unknown additional buildings, and an entire seaside neighborhood that they created in the 1920s. I am sure more will emerge as time unfolds.
A number of mostly monthly articles published by the Orlando Foundation for Architecture chronicle some of my research and are accompanied by photos I have taken. Most of these articles or a version thereof are posts in this blog.
In retirement, I am writing these memoirs. The results of which are here for one and all to read. You will note that I chiefly emphasize the places in life where i have found joy, peace, enrichment, beauty, spiritual understanding, wisdom, humor, and love. My goal is to tell the narrative, with both the events and the people highlighted, that have been my blessing to experience and know.
What am I doing in retirement?
Perhaps the answer has to do with what I am NOT doing in retirement. Retirement has its privileges. Although I gave 100% to every position that I held, "and then some" as the late UCF President John Hitt said, i am learning a new, helpful mantra in retirement, "That isn't my problem...!" I do not say that easily, it is a a new thing for me to say such a thing at all. Family, friends, vintage watches, architectural history, Pittsburgh history, and more. I don't know how I find the time. There is surely plenty to keep me contentedly occupied.
Occasionally, acquaintances are surprised that I am not serving as an interim or supply preacher somewhere nearby. i may do something along those lines at some pointe in the future, but not now. In July of 2022, Mom - who has lived with us a decade plus - fell in her bedroom, tripping over the corner of her bedspread. She went down hard, and broke her hip right near her artificial hip joint. The surgery required for repairing it was extensive and the outcome was far from assured. Thereafter she spent a goodly number of months in a rehab setting at Village on the Green. Eventually she was released and came home in November of 2022. We reconfigured the downstairs so she doesn't need to try going up and down a flight of stairs (she couldn't do that). She now gets around with a walker at all times, and Judy and I have not left her alone since. Normally at least one or the other of us, or both, is at home, at all times. Sometimes our kids give us a break for a rare evening out. But it is a full time job for two, making sure she is as healthy as possible. As someone has said, "You are running a one-person nursing home." Exactly. There would not be time to serve in any church setting now or for the foreseeable future, even if I wanted to.
As the months progress, we are seeing more and more relief from the pandemic. I refuse to us the words "the new normal". Ugh. How distasteful! Like the influenza pandemic of a century ago I prefer to believe that the Covid times were abnormal, and we will get though them and return to the true normal. May it be soon, and last a long while thereafter.
1 comment:
John, reading this I see that our friendship began when you were a junior in HS - and I had thought it was earlier. Reading about your time in the Burgh made me think about my mother’s family and growing up there. And San Diego - my younger son is stationed on North Island Air Station now. Love time walking the beaches around Hotel Del. I remember your time with Troop 99. Please contact me at marijean.long93@gmail.com. Retirement perks include travel.
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