What's a Church of Christ boy to do?

I recommend the post of a new blogging acquaintance, entitled "What's a Church of Christ boy to do?", found here. Dissatisfied with the limitations of Restorationist theology, he is contemplating Orthodoxy, among other options. Where he is now, I once was. His is a well-written essay, and he invites response. For those unfamiliar with Church of Christ issues, this is an excellent primer. By all means, check it out.

Reflections from a Road Trip: the Deep South

A new generation meets the storyteller


[This brings my summer travel posts to a close. I plan to stay home for a while.]

In 1776, the British army recruited an 18-year old German boy from northern Bavaria to fight the American colonists. After 2 years of doing that very thing, the young man followed his conscience, defected and joined the Revolutionary Army. War's end found him in North Carolina where he in turn found a wife. Johannes died in 1816 in Georgia, a modestly prosperous yeoman farmer and Primitive Baptist preacher. For the last 30 years, this man's descendants have gathered for a reunion in different parts of the South. These are my mother's people, though she gave little thought to these get-togethers. In the 30 years, I have missed perhaps three. My wife and I attended this year's event in LaGrange, Georgia, and then drove on to Savannah, where we spent a couple of days before returning home.

Without going into any great detail, I will simply post some observations from the trip, in a Best and Worst format, as follows:

Best mid-sized Southern city:

Jackson, hands down

Most picturesque small-town Episcopal church:

Church of the Holy Cross, Uniontown, AL

Most photogenic decaying Southern mansion:

behind the Church of the Holy Cross, Uniontown, AL

Most surprising:

Selma, Al, much more than the Edmund Pettus bridge, with an interesting downtown, not yet in total decline, with impressive churches and the stand-out Mishkan Temple Synagogue

Best eastbound travel tip:

Alabama police are apparently serious about the 45 mph posted along Highway 80's eternal construction

Best location for a remake of Gone with the Wind or any other moonlight-and-magnolias Southern potboiler:

Greenville, GA, with a row of authentic antebellum mansions lining the western entrace to town, culminating in a Norman Rockwall courthouse square

Most eye-catching Orthodox temple:

St. Innocent Orthodox Church, Macon, GA

Favorite Savannah squares:

Monterrey and Lafayette

Favorite Savannah view:

Cathedral of St. John the Baptist as seen across Lafayette Square from the second-story windows of Flannery O'Connor's childhood home

Silliest church sign:

seen in front of Reidsville Baptist Church, Reidsville, GA: "Youths: Confused about Jesus' Second Coming? Watch the Left Behind movies here." ho-boy

Most idyllic Southern hamlet:

Ailey, GA



























Bridesmaids in Forsythe Square


Friendliest Fruit Stand:

McGuinty's McApple Orchard, Rochelle, GA

Most beautiful Baptist Church:

First Baptist Church, Plains, GA


























Midnight in the Garden of Good and Evil


Ugliest Baptist Church:

Ladonia Baptist Church, Phenix City, AL


























In Bonadventure Cemetery


Competition between old-time downtown Jackson eateries--The Mayflower vs. The Elite Cafe:

The Elite Cafe has a slight edge until The Mayflower's bread pudding is factored in, leaving it a dead-heat




























Best westbound travel tip:

If you fill up with gasoline and visit the restroom in Jackson or Vicksburg, you can make it to Texas without ever having to even stop in Louisiana

Reflections of a Road Trip: Pirates in the Piedmont

In early July, I tapped the frequent-flyer bank and spent 4 1/2 days in North Carolina. The ostensible purpose of the trip involved meeting fellow researchers at Blowing Rock, near Grandfather Mountain. Most of the time, however, I shuttled between Charlotte and Salisbury, in the heart of the Piedmont. The Appalachians are certainly beautiful, but they don't hold my interest for long. I guess I am more of a rolling-hills-type-of-guy.

My visit just happened to coincide with the Highland Games at Grandfather Mountain. While these Scottish festivals are often heavy on affectation, this one is the granddaddy of them all, as authentic, I suppose, as these sorts of things can be. I visited our clan tent, ate a Scottish meat pie, and watched some good ole-fashioned pole-tossing, duck herding and Scottish wresting (just like Turkish wrestling except that the contestants are not first slicked-down with olive oil.) And of course, there was the obligatory Celtic band (that I was never able to actually see for the crowds) and the ever-present din of bagpipes (which somehow seem appropriate here in the mountains.) That said, I still have the sneaking suspicion that the whole thing is merely an excuse for men to strut around in kilts and pretend they are laird o' the manor. Oh well, I have done worse myself.





















Charlotte epitomizes the much-ballyhooed up-and-coming New South, with little time for the quaint distinctiveness of our various regions. (Bill Kauffman has some excellent observations on this aspect of Charlotte in a recent article, here.) On my first night there, I attempted to look up a first cousin that I had never met. One of my dad's brothers was something of a ladies' man, you might say. Swarthy and handsome, with a pencil mustache, he cut a dashing figure as a young man. Just before the Second World War, he married a stunning California girl, much too beautiful for her own good. Neither my uncle nor his new wife particularly behaved themselves while apart during the conflict, and not surprisingly, their marriage was a casualty of the war. Loraine went on to other marriages (as did he), and from the look of things, did quite well for herself in a material sense. I am intrigued by a snapshot of her taken 20 years later, in 1965. Even at that time, she was a dead-ringer for Audrey Hepburn. Anyway, there were 2 children of this marriage. The daughter was murdered years ago, and the son, I learned, lived in Charlotte. I especially wanted to meet this cousin, if for no other reason than he bears my grandfather's exact name. I googled and found the address and decided to just show up unannounced--"Hi, I'm your cousin"--at the front door. When I arrived at their house, the car was in the driveway and the lights were on. I rang the front doorbell. Nothing. After a couple of minutes, the blinds parted and two eyes looked out at me for a moment, and then disappeared back into the house. I rang the doorbell again. After a while, I began to feel foolish standing there on the front porch. So, I left my card in the door and moved on. It is a bit funny to realize that others may view one as a suspicious-looking character.



The next night, I chose a restaurant downtown for supper. The meal required 2 draft Yuenglings, so I deemed it prudent to sit awhile on a bench outside before driving back to the motel. I relaxed in front of the nearby Charlotte Metro Station. I am a sucker for any train, subway or tram, and enjoyed watching the sleek new train pull into the station. The high-rise behind me was outfitted in futuristic multi-colored neon tubing running up the building. While sitting there, the lights started flashing in sequence. An audio recording accompanied the light show so that each time a neon light flashed, it triggered a creepy laugh-like soundtrack. Until then, I had been sitting in silence, admiring the train. Now I felt as if I were intruding, almost as if the building was laughing at me. Suddenly uncomfortable, I made my way back to the safety of my room. I am sure Charlotte is a lovely city, and snap initial impressions can often be misleading, but, I'm just saying....

Salisbury, on the other hand, was altogether inviting. Located midway between Charlotte and Winston-Salem, the city is far enough removed from either to avoid (so far) the sprawl inching its way. I found the town to be one of the most impressive I have visited. Salisbury is a quarter of the size of the city where I work, but its downtown is actually much larger. The beautiful old commercial buildings are still in place, functional and in good repair and housing actual businesses. The library (again much larger than in my larger city) is a beautiful Georgian brick building, in perfect harmony with the surrounding neighborhood. A graceful 3-story spiral staircase anchors the structure, with the library teeming with actual patrons instead of just warehousing the homeless. Apparently the city fathers decided generations ago to maintain and beautify their downtown, with mature trees, crape myrtles and statues lining the thoroughfares. In 1950, my city had a town square that people now would drive many miles to see. The short-sighted businessmen would have none of it and had nearly wiped it clean within 20 years. Ever since, town leaders have been fighting a losing battle to "revitalize" downtown. Would that we have had leaders of the caliber of those in Salisbury.





















The rural Rowan County Piedmont is as pleasant as any you might find: sturdy farmhouses, ancient red oaks, towering Presbyterian churches of Georgian brick every few miles, acre upon acre of soybeans, and corn reaching to the sky. My great-great-great-great-great grandfather settled here from Lancaster County, Pennsylvania in the 1750s. Some brothers and innumerable cousins poured into the area between 1750 and 1785. They formed a web of connections with a half-dozen other area families that holds to this day. I suspect I could stop at most any farmhouse and in short order establish a connection of some sort. Wood Grove is the oldest surviving house in Rowan County, a 3-story country manse built by my kinsman in 1774. After 235 years, the place remains in the family. My extended kin fill the 4 most historic church graveyards in the area. When they first arrived, my Scots-Anglican family tried to establish an Episcopal church in the area. Fierce opposition from their Scots-Irish Presbyterian neighbors prevented this from ever happening. After a final attempt in 1769, my family settled in to become solid, respectable Calvinist churchmen. But my particular line did not stay here. In 1784, my ancestor moved on to the next frontier, this time in Georgia. The next generation settled the frontier in Tennessee, and the next Arkansas, and the next Texas. Nowhere did they establish the connectedness with a particular place as did those relatives who remained in Rowan County, North Carolina. My Piedmontese cousins stayed put and prospered, becoming fat and happy. Or so it would seem.




















My Arcadian idyll was tempered a bit on my drive from Wood Grove Plantation to the old Thyatira Presbyterian Church. Two observations reminded me that the region I was in the process of romanticizing was in fact, very much in the 21st-century along with the rest of us. The fields of corn parted and flowed around a 5 acre home place. The woman of the house--certainly old enough to know better--was out by the road, mowing the yard with a push mower...in a thong bikini. For all practical purposes, she was mowing the yard in the nude. Upon arriving at Thyatira Church (the oldest Presbyterian church in central North Carolina and one of the state's most historic structures), I couldn't help but notice the sign out front. The following Sunday, they were having "Contemplation Sunday." What in the Sam Hill is a Contemplation Sunday? What it told me is that the wells are drying up here as well.

Of course, religiosity is still alive and kicking in North Carolina, as befits the home of both Billy Graham and Heritage USA. Indeed, the state seems to be ground zero for AM radio religious broadcasts. I listened to a fair sampling of them on Sunday afternoon after Liturgy in Charlotte, while I wandered along the back roads of Rowan. One preacher assured his audience that the Bible would be in heaven. Somehow I never envisioned eternity sitting with a Bible in my lap, highlighting and cross-referencing proof texts. Of course, bibliolatry can even carry over into the naming of churches, such as the storefront King James Baptist Church. One probably wouldn't want to walk in there with a NIV Study Bible. Another radio evangelist illustrated his sermon with examples taken from the Civil War...excuse me, The War of Northern Aggression. He explained to his flock that the only people who referred to it as the Civil War were "Yankees and other ignoramuses" (that would be...me.) AM religious broadcasting is much more entertaining that talk radio.





















For me, the real insight came from my day in the county courthouse, pouring over old deeds, wills and estate settlements. The people I was tracking were certainly an acquisitive bunch, accumulating land and slaves at a quick clip. And they seemed a litigious group, as well, showing no hesitancy in suing the kinsmen who sat across the aisle in their Presbyterian churches. They purchased, sold and traded slaves with cool indifference. Back in graduate school, my professors warned us repeatedly of presentism, that is, the projecting of contemporary values onto the past. Much of what passes for the popular understanding of American history is simply that. And I am not unfamiliar with the type and tone of the documents I was reviewing. That said, some of them simply took my breath away. Slaves were divvied-up between children as nonchalantly as one divided the kitchen utensils. Sometimes a will would contain a provision for one heir to receive a particular slave and her children, except the 2 oldest, who were to go to another heir. A 1827 deed I remember in particular. A debtor of my most prominent kinsman deeded him 2 slaves in partial payment of his obligation. The document contained instructions to the grantee to sell the slaves as quickly as possibly to apply to the debt. The servants were identified as Clarissa age 3 years thereabouts, and Porter about 18 months.

Reading through the county histories and cemetery records rounded-out the picture for me. Prosperity and Presbyterianism characterized antebellum Rowan County. And while this continued on after the war, the society had something of a dark underbelly. A number of high-profile and grisly murders seemed to crop up far too often, the most sensational occurring as late as 1906. A tension persisted between the white over class and their former slaves, now tenants. It would seem that a thin veneer of culture, sanctimony and piety covered over what could be termed a brutish society.

On my last day there, I determined to drive back out to Thyatira Cemetery. I uncovered an intriguing story concerning the hanging of 3 pirates back in the 1700s. What pirates were doing this far inland is a mystery to me. I suspect that they might have been merely highwaymen. No matter, they were captured and strung up in quick order. The elders of Thyatira Church agreed to allow them burial in the churchyard, but with one caveat--their names could not be inscribed upon their tombstones. Only a skull and crossbones would be allowed on the stones--perhaps as a warning to future pirates. I could not leave the state without seeing these graves. Thyatira Presbyterian Cemetery covers several rolling acres enclosed within an ancient rock wall. The gravestones are aligned in the straightest lines I have ever seen in any cemetery. Maybe it is a Presbyterian thing. It took me a while to find the graves, but sure enough, there were the 3 smalls stones, each carved with a fading scull and crossbones.

In looking down the rows of monuments marking the earthly repose of these respectable planters and merchants and churchmen, I could only think of acquisitiveness, of greed, of thirst for power, of trade in human flesh, of families torn-apart, of Clarissa and Porter. Pirates all, rows and rows of pious pirates. This is not to condemn this particular community, for they were no better or no worse than their contemporaries in like circumstances...or us, for that matter. But I walked away a bit thankful my family left here before succumbing to these particular temptations (to be sure, they found others along the way.) I suddenly stopped and walked back to the pirates' graves, to do the only thing I knew to do. Before each of the 3 stones, I crossed myself and chanted the haunting and unforgettable words we sing at Orthodox funerals:

With the saints give rest O Christ, to the souls of Thy servants, where there is neither pain, nor sorrow, nor sighing, but life unending.

Larison on Cantor, the "Judea-Christian tradition" and other silliness

Reaching out to the Muslim world may help in creating an environment for peace in the Middle East, but we must insist as Americans that our policies be firmly grounded in the beliefs of the Judeo-Christian tradition upon which this country was founded. ~Eric Cantor

So Cantor means that he will offer support to opposition Maronites in Lebanon and work to realign U.S. policies in the Near East to favor Armenia, right? No, I guess that wasn’t quite it. When he says that policy should be “grounded in the beliefs of the Judeo-Christian tradition,” maybe he means that we should repudiate aggressive warfare, collective punishment and indiscriminate bombing, especially when those methods also adversely affect local Christian populations. Oh, that’s not it, either? Of course, it means exactly what you would think that it does, which is that we must support Israel to the hilt with support defined as the embrace of the most hawkish, counterproductive policies possible.

As is usually the case, Dr. Larison calls it just exactly right. Read the rest of the post, here.

Die, Crocs, die!

This, I like.

h/t to Rod.

Obscure Destinies

My good friend, novelist Milton Burton, occasionally posts a short story on his blog. His latest submission is a good one, loosely based on an actual event, if I am not mistaken. You can check it out here.

Reflections of a Road Trip: In the Amish Country

It has probably been 18 years or better since I last visited Lancaster County, Pennsylvania. This region is the very heart of Amish country, or at least that which is well-known to the non-Amish. At the time it struck me just how perilous their situation was, with incredible societal pressures bearing down on them. And not just from society in general, but from the mere specifics of their particular location--in a populated area much too close to the growing city of Lancaster. I wondered how they would be able to hold out. The fact that Lancaster County is one of the most beautiful in the nation does not help matters. But upon my recent visit, I am heartened by the fact that they seem to be holding out very well indeed. The city of Lancaster sprawls out along the Lincoln Highway, sucking up the old Amish communities of Paradise, Kinzers and Gap. Tourist enterprises seemed poised to swamp Intercourse and Bird in Hand along the Old Philadelphia Pike. But the Amish agricultural world begins immediately behind the commercial strips. By the time you have traversed several hundred feet, the sense of their world begins to take over. In short, the ramparts of defense against modernity seem to be intact.

I did not venture here to gawk at the Amish. My ancestors of the surname I bear came into the Pequea Valley from Scotland in 1720. My particular forebear, a younger son, moved on to the North Carolina frontier in the 1750s, but others of the family stayed here for a number of generations. Using the wonders of modern GIS technology, I was able to overlay their 1734 land patents onto a Google Earth aerial. So doing, I was able to pinpoint exactly where their farms were located. I wanted to see this land, as well as visit the Episcopal Church they helped found in 1729 and a couple of the old graveyards where my people buried. So, the Amish aspect was incident to my main purpose. They came later and bought up the land of the original English and Scots settlers (like mine). Today, my family's original homestead in the New World is a pristine Amish farm. It couldn't be in better hands.





















Old family farm (now Amish), Lancaster County, PA

I must say that I would have made a terrible Amish person. I am too much a product of the modern world, I suppose. But it is hard to say, looking at their world from the outside. That said, I have tremendous respect for these people. Regardless of what you think about the theological underpinnings of their way of life (which I largely reject), the culture is a silent and damning rebuke to the excesses and wreckage of modernity. The contrast could not be more stark. I stayed at an old tourist court on the Lincoln Highway. Having driven from far western Michigan the day before, I was a bit fatigued and slept a little later that Saturday morning. By the time I started my day, the tourist hordes were already milling around Paradise. Taken as a whole, we were not a pretty sight--shorts, tee-shirts and flip-flops seemed to be the uniform of choice. None of us seemed to have missed many meals. After frequenting the tourist shops along the highway, many of them would probably cap-off their day in the Amish country by taking the kids to the nearby Dutch Wonderland Amusement Park, as touted by countless billboards featuring their grinning purple spokes-dragon. For you know, nothing says Pennsylvania Dutch and Amish like purple cartoon dragons.

But once you actually drove through the Amish farmlands, a different pattern of life was being played-out. This was no "weekend," but a work day like any other. The laundry was already hung out to dry on lines stretching from the farm houses to their barns. Barefoot girls were mowing the yard with manual push mowers. Men were in the fields harvesting. Young boys were moving cows from the dairy to pastures across the road. Young families were loaded into their buggies (pulled by the most beautiful horses imaginable) on quick trips into Intercourse or Bird in Hand for provisions. Everyone was brown, lean and angular. One sensed a discernible rhythm to their lives, in vivid contrast to the aimlessness of we weekenders.

I was to have supper with new friends Richard and Fran at the historic Revere Tavern that night. Their families had both lived in the area for 10 generations or so. In fact, Fran's family had owned the neighboring farm to my family back in the early 1700s. Her people had stayed put, and as a consequence she knew most everything there was to know about the area, and not only knowing everyone there, but how their family fit into the context of a 280-year local history. I found it all very European.























White Horse Tavern, Lancaster County, PA

I met Richard earlier in the day, as we walked around St. John's Cemetery, with its gravestones dating back to the 1740s. He took me on a tour of the church itself. The present structure is the 3rd, built in 1834. For lunch, we grabbed a sandwich and a couple of Yuengling lagers at the White Horse Tavern. A local family (still in the area) built this establishment in 1740. The original building survives, and most importantly, it has always been a tavern. As it is located halfway between my family's old farm and their church house, I feel confident that I was not the first of my line to put my feet under the bar there. Richard and I talked of the various pressures on their Amish neighbors. First, there is the simple fact that they have staked out a counter-cultural existence amidst the swirl of a modern world. This is exacerbated by the fact that their lands here are not isolated, but close to cities and sliced by highways. This in turn makes real estate prices sky-high, with the choice Amish land coveted for both residential and commercial development. Finally, there are simple demographics. The Amish marry young and have large families. I passed a young couple in their buggy on a back road between Paradise and Intercourse. Their very young son sat on the bench between them, while the wife held the baby. I thought it an idyllic Amish country scene. As I passed them and looked in the rear view mirror, I saw that their 3 older children were sitting on the buckboard behind. As I say, this was a young couple, and there will surely be more children beyond these 5. This is typical. Simply put, not all of these young Amish can remain here. There is not enough land for all of them to farm. So, many move on to other Amish communities in other parts of the country. Also, the young people are given a choice about the time they are 17 or 18. For a year or so, the teenagers are allowed to sample the modern world, to drink and party and experience the outside for themselves. I had seen a documentary about this before, so I was not unfamiliar with the practice. Afterwards, they choose whether they want to remain Amish or not. Richard told me that there had been tragedies. Teenage boys, trucks and alcohol are often a lethal combination. Four teenage Amish boys had been killed in a recent pile-up on the dirt road that runs beside my family's old farm. Lord have mercy.





















St. John's Episcopal Church, founded 1729

I asked Richard about one sight that caught my attention. I saw a couple of Amish men mowing their yards with new zero-turning radius riding lawnmowers. Apparently, there is some loophole, or dispensation when it comes to this sort of thing. He knew of one man who had an underground electrical line into his house which powered a washer and dryer. And, it was not unknown to see the occasional Amishman sitting at the end of the bar at the White Horse Tavern. But by and large, the center seems to be holding.

On my way out of Lancaster County, I passed along the back roads of the southern section of the county, on my way to Port Deposit, Maryland. I was interested to learn that the Amish are not merely huddled in the touristed area east of Lancaster, but are in fact scattered all over the county. Everywhere, I saw young Amish walking together in groups or taking the family buggy out for a ride together. Apparently, Sunday afternoon after church services is the free time that young Amish have to seek out their peers and hang out together, as young people are wont to do. This is how it should be.





















Family plot, St. John's Episcopal Cemetery

Reflections of a Road Trip: What I like about Missouri

On my recent travels, I spent the better part of 2 1/2 days in south-central and southwestern Missouri. I had not been in the state since a hurried visit to my aunt and cousins in St. Louis at age 14. So, I had little prejudice about Missouri, one way or the other. I think we Texans can often exhibit a Texo-centric view of things, particularly when it comes to other states. An acquaintance of mine--a stock-broker--encouraged me to outline my itinerary to his co-worker, also a college-educated broker. Upon doing so, he replied, "all blue-states, huh?" Well, yes, I guess you could put it that way. I let it pass and spared him my editorial comment on the relative merits of red-state vs. blue state (a near useless distinction, anyway.)

My paternal grandmother's paternal side settled in Missouri in the early 1840s, and my branch of the family peeled-off to Texas immediately preceding the Civil War. So, even in my genealogical musings, Missouri fits into the narrative as hardly more than a way-station to Texas. While in the state, I did visit the rural graveyard and found the marker for my 3rd-great-grandmother who died in 1855. When I am in cemeteries, I often wonder about the lives of the departed. She grew up in Litchfield County, CT where her people had lived for 150 years. After marriage, she and her husband and their ever-expanding family pushed on to Ohio by 1815, to Indiana by 1825, and as a widow to Missouri by 1845. Before her death, I wonder what she made of this, her last home in these rolling hills of central Missouri?

Two of her children pushed on to Texas in 1859. As a whole, the family was Republican, Unionist and Campbellite--only 1 of which would serve the family well in the Texas of 1861. I suppose the westering impulse had become ingrained in them, but I do wonder why they made the move. For I was to discover that this part of Missouri was both productive and not at all unpleasant in appearance. The countryside I visited was quite pretty, with rolling hills and a good mixture of forest and farm land--not beautiful in the classical sense, but in its own way, much better. The farmsteads themselves completed the picture, neat and modest--perhaps not the large farm complexes one associates the Midwest, but not at all characterized by the creeping trashiness that has taken root in much of rural America. There seemed a certain sameness to the houses in this corner of America--not that there was no diversity or character, but rather there did not seem to be the great disparity between rich and poor that one often finds in my part of the country. What this tells me is that, in some ways, society is better ordered in Missouri than in my home state.





















I started not to post this picture of the yard sign I passed on a Missouri back road, as it could be something a cheap shot, an all-too-easy opportunity to poke fun at certain elements of American society. Clearly, these folks have an agenda. "Christianity" can be a useful word when used sparingly, but it is NOT that in which we believe, or at least not that in which we should believe. Perhaps that is our problem--the substitution of belief in the Father, Son and Holy Spirit as cited in the Nicene Creed with an all-encompassing systematic abstraction labeled "Christianity." Nor have I ever been one to wrap myself in the American flag, so to speak, and have no doubt that my views on American exceptionalism would damn me in the eyes of the owners of this sign. I have no idea what it means to "think American," but I am afraid I would not like it if I did. I could agree with the last item, unless of course it was lumped together with other items to project some ideological agenda, as is the case here. And while I take issue with each and every item, I have to admit that there is a certain plain-spoken straight-forwardness about the sign which I have to respect. I think Missouri is that kind of place, and I can certainly deal with that.

And Missouri offers up surprises along the way, for those who have eyes to see. East of Ash Grove I passed this incredible octagonal stone barn, like none I have seen before. I was not the only one stopped by the roadside for a better view. I had to chuckle a bit at the faded civic boosterism of the "Ash Grove: Home of the Ash Tree" sign. Of course this is certainly better than that of Gainesville, Missouri (located much too close to the Arkansas border, apparently) which proclaims: "Welcome to Gainesville, Home of Hootin' and Hollerin'."

Ash Grove is struggling, it appears, with its most logical future as a bedroom community for nearby Springfield. I passed through this growing city twice and stopped once. I do not have a feel for the place yet, and it would be unfair to judge. At first glance, all appeared to be shopping centers and commercial strips and mega-churches along the highways, such as the intriguingly named "Truth Church." I never found the center of the city, though there is undoubtedly one somewhere. My time was limited, so I did not linger long here. It is hard to say exactly where the South ends, but one senses that by Springfield, you have crossed over that line. Anyway, I think Springfield deserves a second look one day.

In the countryside, Missionary Baptist, Methodist, Church of Christ and pentecostal churches predominate. So, you can imagine my surprise, in a particularly remote stretch of back road, when I stumbled across St. Francis Church. They billed themselves as Anglican, and "traditional Episcopal." Now what you expect in this neck of the woods. More power to them, I say.

Before leaving Missouri for points north, I had to find the grave of my cousin Mary Jane Barbee, who died in January 1884 in Ash Grove. She was related on my paternal grandmother's maternal side, the first cousin of my great-great-grandmother (though it is doubtful they ever met, considering the different worlds in which they lived.) She came of age in Jackson, Mississippi, at a time when her uncle was in the governor's mansion and her father and another uncle in the legislature. Her father, my remote uncle, was an attorney and politician, who prospered mightily in land speculation stretching from Alabama to Texas. He was most well-known, however, as an early preacher and writer for the Christian Church (note: until the late 1800s, the term Christian Church was most often used to designate the current denominations of Disciples of Christ, Churches of Christ and independent Christian Churches.) His oldest daughter was educated by tutors, spoke French and was an accomplished pianist. In 1853, she married Dr. Barbee, an up-an-coming young minister in the Christian Church. He had been a medical doctor in Cincinnati, only to abandon his practice for the ministry after being converted from Presbyterianism to the Christian Church by none other than Alexander Campbell himself. Up until 1862, he pastored the Linden Street Christian Church (now Lindenwood) in Memphis. When the city fell, the Barbees decamped to her parent's farm in northern Mississippi.

The family was pretty well busted up by the war, and in its aftermath, Dr. Barbee worked as a college president, first in two institutions in Kentucky, then one in Kansas City (which he called "the ugliest city in America") and finally a new college in Ash Grove, Missouri. At each location, Mary Jane was his ever-constant and invaluable assistant, both in administration and teaching. Wherever they lived, she conducted music classes for the students and townspeople alike. Soon after arriving in Ash Grove, she succumbed to tuberculosis, and her grave became the first in the new city cemetery.

Dr. Barbee remained in demand for preaching engagements, and he traveled extensively. He seemed frustrated with the reception he received in San Antonio, Texas. Barbee was shocked by the perceived looseness of society there, where the Germans "counted beads, said 'Ave Maria' and drank lager beer." As a preacher of the Christian Church/Church of Christ persuasion, used to moving with church circles in the upper South, he was unequipped to deal with the free-spirited nature of San Antonio. Dr. Barbee died at a church convention 8 years after his wife.

By this time, the sons had located in Kansas City, where they pursued careers in insurance and journalism. A daughter, Allie, had located in San Antonio, to continue her father's work there. She was a noted church worker, in the very best sense of the word. Allie contributed articles and poetry to the various church publications of the day, and devoted her time to working in the orphanages and benevolent institutions in the city. And in her last years, she was alone, as her husband--a failed businessman given to drink and gambling--had committed suicide. Allie succumbed to tuberculosis at an even earlier age than her mother.

Only one of Allie's children married and had children, and about ten years ago I had occasion to correspond with the grandchildren of this son. He had been a successful sugar broker fairly early in life, and his family moved in the affluent country-club set. Pictures of this family shared with me seem to all revolve around golf course or pool settings, or those featuring evening gowns and cocktail glasses. The family was not large, just barely hanging-on you might say. They were unknowing and indifferent, it seemed, to anything before their grandfather established himself in the San Antonio moneyed set. Religious considerations did not really seem to enter the equation at all, much less any knowledge of the particular faith in which 3 generations of their immediate ancestors had devoted their lives. This particular faith, I might add, was once important to me as well, as it sifted down by fits and starts through 5 generations from Mary Jane's cousin to myself.

I found the later chapters in that family's saga to be all rather sad. Prosperous they were indeed, in the finest tradition of American success stories. Perhaps things would have been different had they all settled-in around Ash Grove. As it is, Mary Jane's monument stands starkly alone, devoid of any other family. I think faith can be nurtured and maintained in places like Ash Grove. I found that to be the case the Sunday I worshipped there--not in the restorationist Christian Church downtown, the church of Mary Jane's family (and once of this distant cousin), but rather in the little Orthodox temple on the outskirts of town.

Not Another Convert Story

Recent travels and work demands have preventing me from keeping up with the blogs I like to frequent. I've tried to remedy that situation this long holiday weekend. Over at Fr. James Early's excellent blog, I discovered that I had completely missed an on-going series, detailing one couple's conversion to the Orthodox faith. I heartily recommend the blog in general, this narrative in particular, and have links to each section of the story at the end of this post.

That said, conversion stories can be a bit tricky, and should come with lots of cautionary admonitions. Even the word convert comes with some baggage, but until someone comes up with a better descriptor, it will have to suffice. First, each account is obviously particular to the person affected, and their reaction will not be exactly replicated by anyone else. In 2003, I walked into a Bulgarian Orthodox church with my good friend and travelling companion. When I walked out, the course of my life had changed (though I didn't realize it at that moment). My friend was right beside me the entire time, but walked out thinking it merely quaint and colorful. That is how it works--our life-changing experience will go unnoticed by our neighbor.

Second, we are often too quick to broadcast our experiences, either out of genuine excitement about the course we have embarked upon, or perhaps exhibiting some need to validate our decision. When I first started blogging, I posted some accounts of my experience. Today, I would probably leave them unwritten. And while I have often alluded to what happened in my case, I have never given a full-throated, complete account of what actually transpired. I can tell my story--but even after 6 years, am reluctant to pontificate upon Orthodoxy itself, and am careful to steer the narrative away from that angle.

And finally, a bit of perspective often changes our narrative somewhat. As we are first constructing the story, it is hard to resist the temptation to portray ourselves always as "Noble Truth-seekers," and those from whom we come out from amongst as "hidebound and pig-headed traditionalists." In time, we come to better appreciate the foundations we received in our former communions, and the part it played in our becoming Orthodox. In time, we realize that our conversion was probably messier and less noble than our telling of it suggests. In time, we can see the part that pride played in our actions, often even to a greater degree than in the church we left behind.

But these "convert stories" are part and parcel of the American Orthodox landscape, perhaps as in no where else. Maybe this is because the change is or should be so removed from what is normative for our culture. What I have noticed is that while each story is unique, one aspect holds true for most: namely, the catalyst for pursuing Orthodoxy is some exposure to and/or experience of Orthodox worship. That is certainly the case with the story I have linked, my story, and most others I can recall. Those conversions based solely on intellectual inquiry, be it theological or historical, do not seem to hold, in my experience. Clearly this is not due to any deficiency within Orthodoxy itself, but lies rather in the motives and approach of the convert. When someone becomes Orthodox as a mere intellectual choice, one made between competing ideologies and based on their own understanding, then they are free to choose something else later on. And they often do. Simply put, the Orthodox faith is infinitely bigger than that, and choices made under those assumptions may fail to account for the cosmic dimensions of what is actually happening.

Another reason this particular story resonates with me is the fact that this couple came out of the Church of Christ, my former religious affiliation. The young man was a missionary to Estonia, where he bumped-up into Orthodoxy. Leaving the Church of Christ can be traumatic, and not at all the same as switching say from Baptist to Methodist to Assembly of God, etc. For the Church of Christ is a restorationist sect, as are the Mormons and the Jehovah's Witnesses. Unlike the other two, the Church of Christ has mainstream Protestant Trinitarian beliefs (though they wouldn't use the word), but they believe that they "restored" the New Testament church in the early years of the 19th century. For them, church history begins at Pentecost and then stops cold at the end of the 1st Century, going underground (I suppose) until the early 1500s when the Reformation started out right but just didn't go far enough, and then picks back up in the early 1800s with Alexander Campbell finally figured out the correct interpretation of Scripture, thus "restoring" the church. [The irony is that the Church of Christ is distinctly ahistorical in tone, and has failed to instruct its members in even its own particular history. Consequently, modern members are uninformed, unconcerned and/or dismissive of their heritage, causing something of an existential crisis within the church. For without adherence to this narrative, the "distinctive plea," as they used to say, of the Churches of Christ becomes meaningless.] So, when one leaves the Church of Christ, the thinking is (or used to be) that one is not merely going from one Christian denomination to another, but one has in fact left the church. This understanding is not nearly as universal as it was a generation or two ago, but the thinking does persist. When one becomes Orthodox from this kind of background, it can become messy. Such was the case with me. So, this couple's story is of particular interest to me.

I now have very few remaining associations with my old Church of Christ friends (and family). Undoubtedly, there is enough blame to go around on both sides. But I do know some of them used to check out this blog to see just how far I had fallen. Perhaps some still do. It is my prayer that they read this couple's story.

Part 1

Part 2

Part 3

Part 4

Part 5

Part 6

Part 7

Part 8

Part 9

Part 10

Part 11

Part 12

Part 13

Part 14

Part 15

Part 16

Part 17

Part 18

Part 19

Part 20

Part 21 (the podcast)

Reflections of a Road Trip: Orthodoxy in the Heartland

On my recent loop through the Midwest and upper South, I took opportunity, whenever possible, to visit Orthodox churches and institutions along the way. While I have been fortunate to visit Orthodox churches and monasteries in the Balkans, the Levant and the Caucasus region, my experience with American Orthodoxy has heretofore been limited to our mission in East Texas, the Dallas-Fort Worth churches, and churches and monasteries around Austin and San Antonio. So, the opportunity to connect with like-minded folk in Missouri, Wisconsin, Pennsylvania and Tennessee was of great appeal to me. In every locale, I was reminded of what a small world we American Orthodox inhabit. Everywhere I went, I met people who knew Orthodox Christians in Texas that were also known to me. While on one level, this speaks to our meager numbers relative to the general population, on another level it speaks to the tightness, if I can use that word, among American Orthodox believers. And it is this last factor, rather than large numbers, that I believe will stand us well in the years ahead. Please bear in mind that these observations are those of a layman who first stumbled into an Orthodox church only 6 years ago, and was received into the faith some 2 ½ years after that.


I stayed for two nights in the remote, unoccupied home of an Orthodox friend. In time, this house and a considerable amount of surrounding acreage may very well become a monastery. There are still some jurisdictional issues to resolve, so for now, I will not venture any further about the specifics of this prospect. To my delight, an Orthodox library was already well underway, with a 1,000 plus books on the shelves, and several hundred more still in boxes. With a full kitchen and my only companions being the rabbits in the front yard, and the wild turkeys in the back, I could have lost myself amidst these books for days. But, I was expected in Minneapolis, so I restricted my stay to one day and two nights.

Remembering my time in this library, as well as a recent post by Owen, has started me thinking about the role of "intellectual inquiry" among those on the road to Orthodoxy. It seems to be a common component in the construction our conversion narratives, if you will. I have likened it to being at a beach resort, then leaving the hotel pool and wading out into the ocean. Or as I have noted to friends familiar with my previous religious affiliation, “I no longer have to check my brain at the foyer.” The danger here, though, is that by so doing we reduce the Faith to an intellectual construct, and one that merely competes with all the other intellectual constructs. Owen has wisely observed that what is often going on here is not so much a feeding of true intellectual hunger, but of ideological hunger—a desire to validate that which we have already decided to believe.




















In the library

I was undergoing no particular religious crisis or existential meltdown prior to being found by the Orthodox faith. While recognizing the limitations of my sect, I nevertheless believed we had the best take possible on things. I believe it was Fr. Stephen Freeman who said something to the effect that the only reason to become Orthodox is to find Christ (if it wasn’t Fr. Stephen, then it sounds like something he would say.) This I have found to be true. On June 9th and 10th, 2003, I caught a glimpse of a relationship with Christ (and the Trinity) that I never knew possible. Looking back now, I recognize that all my subsequent actions were in pursuit of appropriating that vision in my own life. And part of that process was the immersion into the literature, beginning with the writings of St. Ignatius, which irretrievably weakened my existing theological presuppositions. Subsequent readings, if I am to be completely honest with myself, were less of a honest comparison of Orthodoxy up against Protestantism, but rather a quest for knowledge about the decision I had more or less already made. With no access to Orthodox worship, these readings were invaluable in answering my questions and doubts. But that said, my first impetus towards Orthodoxy, my resolve to pursue it, and my commitment to stay the course came from standing in worship, not from my reading. Once Orthodox, I can now swim out into that ocean as far as I can manage. But like I often advised my son, there is a time to “step away from the books.” As we mature and become more sure of our footing on the American continent, I suppose we can engage in the requisite discussions of methodology and missiology--that is, as long as we do not lose sight of the fact that the Orthodox faith is experiential, and that the old "come and see" approach will trump all others.

I had the great privilege to attend Divine Liturgy at the Theotokos (Unexpected Joy) Mission in Ash Grove, Missouri, a small, struggling old town about 15 miles northwest of Springfield. Fr. Moses Berry is the well-known priest (and native son of the area). Without directions, the church would be a bit hard to find, located on a little-traveled country road, on the outskirts of town. The day before, the church had hosted the 2nd annual Southwest Missouri Folk Music Festival. I understand it was quite a success, lots of music and food, with plenty of visitors to the church and grounds. I think Fr. Moses even sang a bit. The temple itself is not large, just a modest log structure with attached hall. I asked Fr. Moses about the size, and he replied that it was “just right.” The parish contributed much of the labor during construction, and as I result, I believe the building is paid for. The iconography was well-done and appropriate for the space. The iconostasis was of Missouri red oak.






















Theotokos (Unexpected Joy) Orthodox Mission, Ash Grove, Missouri

I arrived in time for the Hours, and observed that most everyone was in line for Confession before services. All of the women wore headscarves. By the time everyone finally filtered in, we were about 35 in number. Most seemed to be local converts, though I did detect a Serbian (though married to a Missourian), and Asian Indian and a couple of Russian dancers (who had driven up from their Branson gig.) Additionally, there were 3 or 4 nuns, and I have no idea where they were from. This was Pentecost Sunday and Fr. Moses' homily was a memorable one. I have not yet lost my amazement at the shepherdic tone of Orthodox homilies. I spent the better part of my adult life being "preached at" and sitting through Sunday morning sermonizings. Fr. Moses even referred to us as "children." A nice touch, that. Coffee hour talk centered around the events of the day before and the work that went into that endeavor. Despite the onion dome, I came away with the impression that here was a group of Orthodox Christians thoroughly integrated into the rhythm of their particular local culture. There is much "a doing" these days among our hierarchs, both within and between jurisdictions. Important speeches are being given, new scandals are unfolding, significant conferences and seminars are transpiring--all focusing on the future of Orthodoxy in America. As fascinating as these developments are (and they are), I believe the real story is right here, in places like Ash Grove, Missouri.






















Theotokos (Unexpected Joy) Orthodox Mission, Ash Grove, Missouri

While in Springfield, I stopped in at a Barnes and Noble, in search of a Sunday newspaper. While there, I made a quick swath through the religion section. I was surprised to see, there on the top shelf, a nice stack of Orthodox Study Bibles. I do not know if this is commonplace in other parts of the country, but it is definitely not yet so in Texas. I suppose I have mixed feelings about this. I have to recognize the role the OSB played early on with me. Mainly it was the back of the Bible that helped me along--the lectionary, learning the basics of morning and evening prayers, the psalms as prayer, etc. And even some of the commentary was helpful in getting me over some obstacles. And while the OSB has received criticism, I must say that I still use it. The criticism, though, is not what worries me here. My reservations involve the marketing of Orthodoxy as a boutique, niche religion, with the OSB presented in a collection of other niche Bibles, from which the American religious consumer can choose. Even so, I suppose I am more glad they were on the shelf than not. I pray that they will sell quickly, and that they will cause their readers on the path to enlightenment.























St. Nicholas Orthodox Church, St. Isaac the Syrian Skete, Boscobel, Wisconsin

Upon leaving my friends in Minneapolis, I had a long drive in store to reach my cousin's in St. Joseph, Michigan. Even so, I made time to enjoy some of the beautiful back roads of Wisconsin, including a stop at the St. Isaac of Syria Skete near Boscobel. This skete is well known among American Orthodox, being one of the premier suppliers of icons. The Church of St. Nicholas there was a log structure also, though much larger in size than Ash Grove. I was particularly impressed with the the interior of the church, and the use they had made of the space. Quite a few relics were on display, as well. The abbot was gone when I made my visit, so I was not able to visit with him. Instead, I talked with the nice lady who manages the bookstore and takes all the phone orders. She gave me a short tour of the compound, letting me see the iconography studio, as well as pointing out the other buildings on the site. I have to admit, the rest of the site did not compare with the church. For while the Church of St. Nicholas was pristine, the rest of the grounds looked like a mobile home park that had seen its better days long ago. All the other buildings were modest, aging mobile homes—often cobbled together in odd arrangements. Only later, when visiting with Owen, did I learn the reason for this. The skete apparently does a good business with its icons. But the money is not necessarily plowed back into their skete, but generously distributed among 20+ other monastic institutions. In short, they are doing exactly what should be done. Why should I think that monastics, having renounced the world, would live in anything other than humble dwellings? So, the problem was all in my view of things. I have found this to often be the case.
























Christ the Savior Orthodox Church, Harrisburg

After Michigan, I found myself in the Amish country of Lancaster County, Pennsylvania. When Sunday rolled around, I drove up to Harrisburg and attended Christ the Savior Orthodox Church, an long-established OCA parish. The temple itself was a bit modernish, with lots of light. The church seemed to have a large ethnic component, as I would expect to be the case. The service was all in English, however. There were certainly older members present, but the church had a sizable number of younger couples, with children of all ages. I suppose there were 150 or more in attendance (eventually.) About a dozen or so Ethiopian or Eritrean members were in attendance. None of the women wore headscarves. The service was somewhat more abbeviated than those to which I am accustomed. And of course, there was the whole pew thing. Of course, I have been in "pewed" Orthodox churches before, but I have noticed that often worshippers are hesitant to use them. Everyone seemed pretty settled-in to them here, which of course is the danger, I suppose. In looking over their church bulletin, they seemed to have quite a few outreach programs and that sort of thing. And I found people to be quite friendly to this visitor. They have an excellent and energetic young priest in Fr. Stephen. I hung around for the Slavic Food Festival following services. Here, I ate my first perogie (sp.) I have heard a lot about this ethnic staple from our priest, a Pittsburgh native. I found them to be nothing more than a somewhat more greasier Georgian kinkhale, with cheese substituted for meat! My best memory of Christ the Savior was from the food festival: one one picnic table under the trees sat 3 old men in caps, animatedly conversing in Russian while at the table right next to them were 3 Ethiopian men doing the same in their language. While Orthodox parish life can be very localized, one never looses sight the global (and cosmic) reach of our faith, which helps temper our innate Americanism.




















The Ethiopians and the Russians, Fr. Gregory



Three days later, I found myself in Nashville, Tennessee. I decided to look up my old friend, Fr. Gregory, who chrismated me at Holy Trinity Cathedral in Dallas in November, 2005. He is now with Holy Trinity in Nashville. I must say, the church is impressive, setting atop 10-15 acres of the most prime real estate along the Franklin Pike. When I walked into the hall, he recognized me immediately, and introduced me to his friends around the table as "the Church of Christ elder who started reading St. Ignatius." He showed me around the church and we talked of the differences between Nashville and Dallas. The church there had not the wealth of his former parish, but was a working church where everyone seeming to chip in. I was surprised to learn that the church had no debt.

























Holy Trinity Greek Orthodox Church, Nashville

Before leaving Nashville, I stopped off at the Alektor Cafe and Door of Paradise Book Store, near Vanderbilt. This combination cafe/coffee house/book and icon store should be a required stop for all Orthodox travelers through middle Tennessee. I do not know all the particulars, but believe it is the effort of a Greek Orthodox priest and his family. I know there is a Greek Orthodox mission nearby. The establishment seems to attract quite a following--from students to women on luncheons to coffee shop habituties to the inquisitive of all sorts. For most, the icons are just quaint, pretty decorations. But for some customers, who knows? I wish them all the best. And I highly recommend their Russian spiced tea.


























Alektor Cafe and Door of Paradise Books, Nashville



I stayed in Memphis my last night before the drive home. I suppose this was the most satisfying of all my Orthodox encounters. I attended Vespers at St. John's, an Antiochian parish in that city. St. John's has its roots in an old EOC group that came into the Antiochian archdiocese back in the day. They were able to purchase a Presbyterian church whose membership had dwindled and were ready to decamp to the suburbs. Consequently, St. John's is located in the leafy, established neighborhood around Rhodes College and Overton Park. In fact, the church is unique in that it remains very much a neighborhood church, where members walk to services. Many of the founding member bought homes in the area, and this emphasis has persisted. Today the church averages about 325 in attendance. After services, I met a St. Tikhon's Seminary student returning to Texas, who just happened to be a good friend of one of our parishioners. Again, that small world thing. This was a old-fashioned friendly church, in the way in which we Southerners are accustomed. After Vespers, a meal was served in the hall below, before class that night. I talked with a young lawyer who was a member there. He had been Southern Baptist before becoming Orthodox. As it turns out, he had been to Lebanon and Syria, as well. It seems his sister lives in Beirut. I inquired about this and he told me that she was a Southern Baptist missionary to Lebanon. Sometimes being too cynical by half, I replied, "don't they have enough problems?" He went on to explain that there were actually Baptists in Lebanon, but from his sister's au currant evangelical perspective, they were still stuck in the 40s, singing those old standby Baptist hymns, etc. Consequently, these Southern Baptist missionaries were bypassing these established groups, seeking to introduce Chinese-style house churches to the Lebanese. Like they say, you cannot make this stuff up.


























St. John's Orthodox Church, Memphis

I left before class due to an appointment I had with my friend Owen, also a member there. Babysitting detail prevented him from being at church himself. After his wife got off work and relieved him, we met at the Poor & Hungry on Madison Avenue. The P&H was my kind of joint, with a clientele you'd never see in the line at Luby's. Smoke still hung heavy in the place, as the smoking Nazis have not yet taken Memphis. Years earlier, someone had drawn caricatures of the corrupt political establishment (but I repeat myself) in the city, and stapled the likenesses to the ceiling of the P&H. We sat right underneath one depicting of Harold Ford and his "Harold Ford Mortuary and Machine Shop." I enjoy watching his son on MSNBC's Morning Joe. In Memphis, this sort of thing is all taken in good stride. The proprietress of the establishment reminded me of my Aunt Polly. And I know my aunt would have been right at home on a barstool here, as she was in the ice houses on the north side of Houston. I learned that the owner was the sister of the original owner, a well-known local trasvestite, who before he died had the surgery and crossed over, you might say. Anyway, a few hours spent here, over a couple of pitchers of Yuengling lager, with my friend Owen, discussing things of a decidedly ochlophobic nature, was the perfect cap to my road trip. I'm not sure, but I believe we solved all the Orthodox Church's jurisdictional problems before we left. I don't exactly remember, now. All the best, Owen.



























At the P & H

Reflections from a Road Trip: At My Aunt's

First stop on my recent road trip was the state of Arkansas. We Texans tend to give our neighbors a bad time of it. But this state offers up surprises that do not fit our stereotypes. Much of the eastern portion of the state is part and parcel of the Delta and all that implies culturally. Little Rock, despite the Clinton Library, is not bad for a medium-sized Southern city. In the north and east, one finds rich agricultural lands, as pretty as you please. Towns such as Booneville and Brinkley are as picture-perfect an example of pristine small town Americana as one would hope to find anywhere. But my destination, however, was in the very heart of the traditionally poor and remote Ozarks, fittingly only a few miles from the creepy ruins of the now-defunct “Dogpatch, U.S.A.”




















I visited my aunt, who lives here with her husband, on 40 acres about ¼ of a mile off the Buffalo River. Perhaps only 3 acres of this tract lies in the narrow vale, and of that maybe 1/2 of an acre is cleared. Bears and elk come down the mountain into their back yard. Aunt Sis, my dad’s only sister, is the last surviving sibling on either side. As such, she is also my last window into the now lost world of my father’s youth in the Hill Country of central Texas. She and my uncle are holding on at age 85, in the mountain cabin they have shared for the last 35 years or so, since retiring from St. Louis. The area is now very much a tourist destination, popular with kayakers and canoeists. But it was not always so, and poverty is still close at hand here.





















My aunt and I have a close rapport. She knows I enjoy hearing the old stories, and she enjoys retelling them. I listened intently to the anecdotes that came to my aunt’s recollection. I heard the story of my dad and his younger brother, left at home while my aunt and the grandparents went to town. The boys found their mother’s cutting shears and gave each other mohawks, then stripped down (a bit) and rode bareback all over the neighborhood, whooping and hollering, pretending to be wild Indians. There was the interesting story of my great-aunt’s parrot who “spoke” Portuguese. But mainly we talked much of a neighboring Coryell County family from the 1920s and 1930s. The warm associations of these people have carried forward in the collective memory of my family to this day. The Falkenbergs were German. My aunt remembers him as a giant of a man, but a gentle patriarch. He liked to sit in a rocking chair on their front porch, puffing on an enormous hard-carved pipe. She was noted for her thick German bread and homemade cheese. Mr. Falkenberg brewed his own beer, Prohibition or no. He and my granddad, whom he called "Enri," were best friends. Both were “Ferguson men,” which while putting them on the opposite side from Prohibition and the Klan did not necessarily put them on the opposite side of the political corruption of the day. The two families were in and out of one another’s homes. My aunt recalls getting a little “tight” from Mr. Falkenberg’s home brew that they passed around. She also remembers him saying grace in German before meals: “Mein Vater der kunst in Himmel…” Seventy-five years later, she still expresses regret that her oldest brother did not marry Selma, one of the Falkenberg girls. This led to another story that was entirely new to me. During the late Edwardian years, my granddad’s oldest sister was supposed to marry a young man of the community (stay with me here), the brother of grandmother’s youngest aunt’s husband. Both families were well-acquainted with one another and everyone approved of the match. But something happened and they did not marry. In fact, the young man never married and died an old bachelor. In time, my great-aunt married the brother of her sister’s husband. There were no children, and by all accounts, the marriage was not a happy one. There is an untold story here, somewhere…a tale of heartache, disappointment and resignation. I believe that there is a secret, hidden narrative—the true one—to all our lives. It is borne and acknowledged only by us, unless we are fortunate enough to slay our pride and pour it out in our tears before our God.





















The stories of these farming families are fading fast. If I survive my aunt, I may be able to pass them along, but only imperfectly. It will not be my recollection, but only my impression of her remembrance. The stories I coaxed from my dad are no longer as fresh as I thought they would always be. To the extent that any are passed to my son, he will not have the context that even I had, hearing them from my dad. This is the way of all things. David Bentley Hart has recently written that “the past is a fiction of the present.” Undoubtedly so, but hopefully the fiction will not be too fanciful.

The only subject I shy away from with my aunt is that of religion. For you see, she is a Jehovah’s Witness (or in the garbled English of my Greek Orthodox friend, “Jehovian Witnesses.”) Certainly there was no tradition of such in my family. My cousins explain that whoever knocked on her door that particular day would have got her, and it just so happened that it was the Witnesses. Her children were raised Episcopalian and were largely grown at the time. Neither they nor my uncle would have any truck with it. So, this has been a solitary road for my aunt (though seemingly the Witness community provide her with the social interaction she craves.) I have been told that perhaps my uncle moved to Arkansas, at least in part, to get away from the Witnesses. The joke was on him, however. For when they pulled up to the property, the yard was full of Witnesses, there to help them unload. Apparently the hills are full of them. I would never argue with her, but there is little in the way of common ground here, other than just a general agreement about the folly of modernity. I get a bit uneasy when the conversation turns in this direction, as I know that I am being “witnessed” to. We are all seeking, and at least she admits so honestly. Lord have mercy on us all.

Their oldest daughter lives in the county seat, about 16 miles away. In my mind, she was always the glamorous one of us cousins. As a long-time flight attendant, she flew the Atlanta-Dublin route twice a week. With this profession, my cousin was able to jet here and there around Europe with ease. I now know this to be a demanding job, physically and emotionally taxing, and hardly glamorous. But even as a youngster, I looked with awe on those who traveled the world. Upon her retirement from Delta, she sold her condo outside of Atlanta, and relocated, somewhat incongruously, to the Arkansas Ozarks. While a cheaper lifestyle was certainly part of the equation, the primary motivation was to attend to her aging parents. My cousin purchased a home that is something right out of a Norman Rockwall painting. Her back yard, full of fruit trees and flowers, is home to 2 dogs, 3 cats, 7 chickens, a duck and 2 birds. To support herself, she purchased a little mercantile establishment in the nearby crossroads of Parthenon. Here, she is the sole proprietress of the Parthenon General Store, which she describes as a Mom-and-Pop operation, but without the Pop. She makes all the purchases and stocks the store herself, working 6 ½ days a week. Often she is too exhausted to attend Mass, as the nearest Catholic Church is over in the next county. Along the way, she hovers around the periphery of her parent’s lives, running interference and doing those things which permit them the luxury of living their “independent” lives. My uncle can still drive my aunt to the doctor’s office, but if a hospital visit occurs, then my cousin shutters her store and takes off to do whatever is necessary. At times this life can be incredibly frustrating, and she becomes impatient with the petty, small bickering that goes on, as a matter of course, between two people who have grown old together. But this is not for their ears, and she continues to be a daughter to her aged parents.

I contemplated these things while sitting in a rocking chair in her store. Life takes funny turns. My cousin, who spent a lot of time in Europe, with friends and acquaintances from all over, surely never imagined she would be working the counter of a store in Parthenon, Arkansas, bantering and joking with the hay-haulers coming in to replenish their supply of Levi Garrett snuff. Once, the course she has chosen in life would have not been remarkable at all, when “doing the right thing” as they say, was instinctive and commonplace. Not so, these days. But a life well-lived has its consolations, and abounds with small graces.