Home About us Daily Reflections Special Issues Publications Ecospirituality Through The Seasons Donate Environmental Resource Assessment Service   The Latch String Is Out by Al Fritsch, S.J.

2  (1934)    Being a Depression Baby

    From the beginning til now the entire creation, as we know, has
been groaning in one great act of giving birth...(Romans 8:22)
     
    The Great Depression that followed the stock market crash of 1929
left its mark on the psyche of an entire generation of Americans, and
even more so on farming folks.  In these desperate times people got by,
but only by helping each other, reducing spending to a minimal, and
living in a self-sustaining manner with gardens, home entertainment and
hand-me-down clothes.  Depression generation people compulsively count
pennies, prepare for rainy days, keep indebtedness to a minimum, and
consider some major extravagances as sinful.  I remember that we had
electric wiring in the house, but did not get an electric hookup until
1940 just before World War II.  We used kerosene lamps in the house in
my beginning years and I still remember that cool soft light which cast
a certain cozy glow on the family.

    Land.  During the Great Depression land was the only real wealth.
The financial powers knew that good farmers could make the land
productive and eventually pay off debts when prices got back to normal.
My parents had to pay off the debt for the home building materials and
the farm as well.  They said that during 1933, the year of my birth --
during the depth of depression -- they did not make the interest on that
loan and could not make a payment from the low-priced tobacco crop.  The
bank had confidence in hard-working local citizens, and our kinfolks
were some of the fortunate ones in the county whose farms did not get
foreclosed on.      

     September Days.  I was born at our home on a frosty September 30,
1933 at 2:00 a.m. (by Mama's recollection).  I wake up each morning at
that hour and wonder the significance.  Doctor Pollack, the home
deliverer, Aunt Ruth, a sort of midwife, and my Dad have all since
passed on to earned rewards.  The good Doctor first held me high and
then held up Daddy's payment (five dollars) and said it was the first
folding money he had seen that month, explaining that he was getting
tired of chickens, eggs and other produce.  In examining me eighteen
years later, Doctor Pollack said he remembered that heart beat from my
birth.  He was always available and I remember him coming to our house
when there was a severe auto accident out front, and I peeped through
the keyhole to see him dressing a facial wound.  Nothing was too great
or too small for our country doctors.

    Baptism.  Even more important than physical birth is rebirth into
the Christian community, the removal of the original blemish and the
ushering onto the spiritual pilgrimage.  A few days after my birth I was
baptized at St. Patrick's Church by Father Rohrer and with my paternal
aunt, Margaret Yazell (a practical nurse and farm wife) and paternal
uncle, Joe Fritsch ( a successful farmer near Paris, Kentucky) as
godparents.  It was not a really public event, performed at the marble
baptistery in the rear of the Church on a Sunday afternoon and with the
ritual in Latin.  I was adorned in the same baptismal gown worn by the
generation before me.  The very short time span between birth and
baptism practiced at that time was a carry-over from days when many
newborns came down with infant diseases and died shortly after birth.
The waters of Baptism were of immense importance as the stepping stone
to heaven, and so in the minds of anxious parents, the sooner water was
poured over the infant, the better.  The parents were convinced that, if
left unbaptized, the child would not receive the glory of heaven upon
untimely infant death.

    Yes, An Interesting Year.   I must have been conceived about the
first of January 1933.  Happy New Year!  History called it a year of
mixed blessings in the midst of a worldwide depression.  Hot weather,
cold weather, good crops, bad crops, the Reichstag fire.  It is
remembered as the year both Adolph Martin Hitler (three names with six
letters each -- 666) and Franklin Delano Roosevelt came to power.  For
me when growing up the name Hitler personified evil and Roosevelt good.
Franklin Delano Roosevelt (FDR) was considered upper crust, but was able
to reach down to my people in a very special way.  He had come through
our Mountains as a youthful visitor when his Uncle Delano built the
railroads in Harlan County; FDR later stated that Harlan was the most
beautiful part of America -- and it may have been then.  

   President Roosevelt invoked a sense of reverence when we and other
bone poor families listened to his radio fireside chats.  He was
statesman/father to us all.  He gripped our country, evoking a sense of
national pride and duty.  When FDR suddenly died in April, 1945, I took
the news to the field crew.  Ed Thompson, a hired hand who was
Republican, made a disparaging remark about that great man, which
offended me deeply in that intertwined Democratic/ religious culture.
He was another father figure, a person I believed in, though more remote
than my own parents.  For me, FDR was part of the family trust.

    Reflection on Parental Influence.  Whether rich or poor, we must
thank God for gifts received.  Mine was not an affluent family but I
never thought of myself even in depression days as lacking necessities.
The poor find it easier to be sensitive to others because everything
they have received requires effort.  I owe much to the tender care and
concern by my parents and family during those infant years.  They gave
all they had for their off-spring and asked nothing from us in return.
My family gave a cherished faith that had endured for about seventy
generations from Clovis at Rheims fifteen hundred years ago.  To me it
was and is a priceless heirloom.

    Prayer to the God of Hard Times.  Great Guardian and Protector, You
have a special liking for the poor of the world.  You are the God of the
anawim, the little ones of God.  During the Great Depression days, You
were there at our side, giving us special blessings and the hope that
things would soon be better.  You cast a kindly eye on the tanned
workers of the fields and the husky folks with clean but plain clothes,
who came and stood before the basin of Baptism.  You touched us with the
waters of salvation so that someday we could save the water.  Thanks to
the candle carriers symbolizing the precious light of faith, and the
vows godparents took in my stead -- when I was busy crying.  


3  (1935)    Exploring My Local Environment
 
   Rains came down, floods rose, gales blew and hurled themselves
against that house, and it did not fall:  it was founded upon a rock.
                                      (Psalm 104: 5-6)  
 
   Great things happened to me in those first few years, but they
cannot be noted by me -- only by caring parents.  The toddler years is
when nature and environment blend together in making us the way we are -
- and to some degree define our personality.  I do not doubt that my
home environment was a major factor and was already having an influence
on me in infant years.  I can't remember 1935 except in one fleeting
moment when my sister Dorothy (22 months older) and I were being dressed
up to go to be photographed.  I crawled under the bed and my dad had a
hard time getting me out.  The existing photo tells me I did not escape
the dreaded camera.  Other than that, no memory of 1935 survived for me.
Undoubtedly from existing photos it was a year of first running when I
graduated from crawling.  I was allowed to explore our half-acre yard
with its woven wire fence, the expanding of my infant horizons.  I was
energized on farm-produced milk, which, along with vegetables, fruit and
meat, mashed and mushed into a baby food that was half eaten and half
thrown from the high chair in all four directions.  I was growing up and
so 1935 was when food waste was no longer tolerated.  Eat everything on
the plate. You need nourishment to carry on your everyday activities of
romping about.

    The Home Environment.  The white wooden frame house was built in
1930 by my dad with additional help in the foundation, framing and
roofing from his brother, Uncle Pete.  It had four 12 by 12 foot rooms
downstairs, a small cellar, and a double-window dormer of vintage post-
World War I at the head of a boxed in staircase leading up to three
unfinished second floor bedrooms.  The home seemed big to us in youth
but was of modest proportions -- smaller than the home places of both my
parents.  The place had a front porch with boxed pillars and a small
back porch.  There was a cistern to collect rainwater in the back.  The
basic downstairs flooring and wallboarding was completed in time for my
parents wedding in mid-February, 1931.  The wedding party stopped at the
house on the way back from church and the insurance salesman sought to
be the first to enter; Daddy pulled the fellow back to let his bride
enter first.

   The house had two interior brick chimneys each connected to a
fireplace and a stove hole in opposite rooms.  A coal-burning stove in
the kitchen and another cast iron stove in the living room were the
sources of heat in winter.  The upstairs, which was only boxed in and
drywalled  gradually over a six-year period when farm work allowed, was
never heated during my youthful years.  We bedded down in feather
mattresses in unheated rooms.  With enough covers we survived and
thrived.  I still hate artificial heat in a bedroom.  Over the years the
four downstairs rooms were augmented by three small upstairs rooms and
two later additions -- a bathroom and a master bedroom.  My dad proved
a superb example of what we long since championed as an ecological
builder of a modular domestic structure which expanded with the family
size.
   
    The Atmospheric Environment.  My first exterior environment as I
romped through the yard was of as high a quality as the interior one.
The factories of Maysville included a foundry in the earlier part of the
20th century, but it closed after World War I.  This was undoubtedly
polluting.  The January & Woods Cotton Mill was most likely somewhat
polluted within its workspace but not beyond.  A small distillery, the
Browning Pulley Works, The Carnation Company and the Wald Manufacturing
Company (bicycle parts) were not major industrial polluters like the
chemical industries upstream in West Virginia.  The emerging electric
power industry was still a thing of the future.  Where we as boy scouts
camped in the Charleston Bottoms on the Ohio River has now become a
major coal-burning power plant.  When the new generating units on the
Ohio Side were opened at Manchester sometime after World War II the
local veterinarian immediately noted that livestock were getting
respiratory diseases and plants had splotches.  Because of the belching
coal-fired units above and below Maysville today -- and the larger
number of motor vehicles, the air quality has certainly deteriorated.

    Noises.  The Mason County soundscape was a delight in early youth.
When the wind was blowing in the right direction we heard the Angelus
bells from St. Patrick's at 6:00 a.m. while milking cows.  It was the
largest bell in Kentucky but was toned down or would have shaken the
church from its limestone rock foundations.  The factory whistles could
also be heard three miles away, but factory or the far less powerful
railroad whistles were never regarded as noise, only the pleasant music
that commerce was going on and people were being employed.  It would be
years later that the squealing of wheels and the revving of motors along
with constant and far heavier traffic would create noises that would
reduce the tranquility of our homestead and our part of Kentucky and
beyond.
 
   Good Road System.  Our home was in the fork of the road.  The Maple
Leaf Road, in the 1930s was "macadamized" or surfaced with layers of
small crushed rock.  The smaller road, Woods Lane, that bordered our
farm and connected with Kentucky Route 11, the Fleming Road, was dirt.
We got stuck in the mud several times and had to get Mr. Fay and his
team of horses to pull us out.  Later, the Maple Leaf Road was
blacktopped to a little over one lane and only later still again as two
lanes.  The dirt road was widened and became macadamized and eventually
became a two-lane blacktop connector route.  Traffic picked up, and the
quiet and serenity of our youth gave way to a rather busy suburban
traffic by the time the "AA" or Alexandria-Ashland Highway (Ky Route 9)
was completed about 1990 as a parallel route along the Ohio River.  That
highway cut across the back of the farm and left our homestead in clear
view of rushing traffic.  The quiet life would never be the same again,
as we witnessed motorized America from our back porch.

    Good Water.   Our house was equipped with an underground water
containing device or cistern with hand pump and cutout.  The rainwater
would only be directed into the cistern proper after the soot and other
dust would be washed off during a rain storm.  The taste of the water
was superb and various relatives would compliment my folks on the high
quality water.  Following the War in 1946, we dug out a 13,000 gallon
completely underground cistern between the house and barn and collected
rainwater off of half of that 120 by 60 building (about 3600 square feet
of roof collecting area).  It had a sand trap filter and was pumped by
an electric pump to the house for a flush toilet and for tap water.
With time and polluting powerplants we began to wonder whether cistern
water was as pristine as it was in my youth.  The only salvation for us
was that the increasing acid rain was more downwind to the northeast.
That gives Northeastern people little comfort.

   Spring of Living Water.  To this day the mystery of springs still
fascinate me as they do many others from olden times.  Celtic peoples
regard such springs as sacred and mysterious places.   Besides cistern
water, we would never hesitate while working in the fields to go to our
choice springs for refreshment.  During tobacco "setting" time (when the
plants were transplanted from seed beds to the field), we had wet
weather springs coming up in the fields;  that spring water quenched the
thirst on those hot humid late spring days in the field.  Today we would
be more reluctant to drink from springs knowing now about the spread of
giardia (an intestinal parasite that could cause internal troubles)
caused in part by the expanding deer and wildlife population in the
countryside.  We pitied Maysville folks, for they had to drink
chlorinated municipal water. In those years the Ohio River was closed to
swimming due to pollution from upstream sewage.  When we conducted our
experiment of electrolyzing water in high school chemistry, an
unexpected generation of chlorine at one of the poles turned a fellow
student's jewelry green, and terminated the experiment in the unvented
laboratory.

   Solid Waste Resources.  As farm people, we never allowed  waste
materials to leave the premises, for each homestead handled its own.
Until my dad's death no materials ever left our grounds through garbage
collectors.  The highest volume of farm waste, crop byproducts and
animal manure, were returned to the soil; over time the friendly
bacteria within the soil would transform these "wastes" into resources
which formed a natural fertilizer for the fields.  Junk iron was reused
as re-enforcement in concrete or turned through blacksmithing operations
into numerous items such as hinges, gate latches and re-enforcing rods.
Wood and paper wastes were burned in plantbeds or fireplaces as tinder.
Cloth feed sacks became dish towels.  Kitchen wastes along with dish
water became either "slop" for hogs or feed for chickens.  Meat bones
became dog feed along with milk strainer pads -- which ole Tex, our
always hungry yellow dog would catch the six-inch gauze pad in mid air
and relish the butterfat soaked treat with a quick swallow.  Outgrown
clothes were handed down to others.

   Erosion.  Some of our land was too steep to plow, but World War II
pressures induced us to till more than we should have.  Soil erosion
occurred when we had heavy rains on the sloped areas.  Lucky the war was
soon over for that land could not have borne much more disturbance.
Over the succeeding years the steeper slopes were left in pasture or hay
and the gullies were filled with rock dams and then with old hay or
brush to refill the washed places.  Soil erosion was then and still is
a major problem in Kentucky, but now land is left unplowed and woodland
has returned to previously steep-sloped corn fields in many Appalachian
areas.  Thank heavens!

   Waste Disposal.  Farmers who use more and more consumer products
have waste disposal problems. The complexion of waste materials has
changed in the course of my life.  Worrisome items such as chemicals,
paints, motor oil, tires and plastics have now begun to appear in
greater numbers.  The outhouse was replaced by flush toilets which
create their own environmental dilemmas with liquid sewage.  At our
place in 1945 we installed a serviceable septic system with a French
drain for gray water.  The more inert glass and metal containers were
partly replaced after World War II by plastic.  Rural people burned
their paper and put the non-combustibles into erosion ditches, abandoned
cellars or -- God forbid, in karst regions of Kentucky -- in the
numerous sinkholes.  Over time we systematically filled several
sinkholes with ours or farm relatives junk cans bottles and cinder,
though these weren't as toxic as today's waste.  

   However, we did recycle the greater bulk of used materials:
Ball jars used twenty or more times for next year's canned goods (there
was little processed food or food containers); scrap metals reshaped in
Daddy's blacksmith shop into hinges, hooks and support bars; yard wastes
and wood scraps burnt to prepare the tobacco plant bed; animal manure
and bedding for organic fertilizer in the field and garden; leaky
buckets and pans for flowerpots; out-grown clothes as family or needy
neighbor hand-me-downs; flour sacks for dish towels or casing for
pillows; and newsprint used to start fires.  All in all, over ninety
percent of "waste" was automatically reused.  This was a way of thinking
which was ingrained down through the years in each of us.
   
    Reflection on Neighborhood Environmental Quality.  Boosterism can
make us gloss over the deficiencies of our local environment.  And now
I realize that I have suffered from this defect.  Yes, we had a high
environmental quality during my youth in northeastern Kentucky, but we
glossed over the imperfections of filling sinkholes and the coming
wasteful culture which we would welcome without understanding the
consequences.  Part of growing up was straying from doing the right
things and later seeing, recognizing and correcting past mistakes.  At
any given time environmental awareness determines our way of acting, and
this starts very early in life.

    Prayer to the Creator.  Oh God, the Creator of all earthly
environment, thank you for preparing us in little ways to be able to
grow strong with a healthy air and water.  Keep us from ever taking such
gifts for granted.

4 (1936)    Remembering Early Personal History

   To you, a thousand years are a single day. a yesterday now over, an
hour of the night.       (Psalms 90:4)
 
   Water, Light and Fire.  Memories are some of our most precious
possessions and color our personal environment.  We reach back, pick
them out, treasure them and paint them as signposts in the beginning of
our journey in life.  Maybe, if we extend them back to our fetal
beginnings, we could find that special attraction to water, which
remains with many people throughout life.  Maybe memory stretches back
in our pre-historic past to when we human beings emerged from the water
in those distant evolutionary days.  Like moths we have an attraction to
light, which may have been that first coming into the light of life, or
is it the need for full-spectrum sunlight?  We gravitate to fire and
lighted candles, an attraction that may spring from the vestigial human
memory of controlling fire -- that primal technological triumph.  
   
   Our Memory Trust.  Many older people retain selected memories and
then lose them in their advanced years.  Recording them on paper or on
video or audio tape is a good practice.  Our early memories are
precious.  Some of my memories from my infant years of 1936-9 are still
quite clear.
   
   *  I distinctly remember when the lightning rods were installed on
the barn and house (about 1936).  The rods did save our buildings.  One
lightning strike a few years later on the barn traveled through the rods
and jumped near the bottom where one of the insulating clamps had
failed, but it was near enough to the ground not to cause major damage.
And why do I remember that event?  It was the day grandma visited and
shamed me into stop using a diaper.  In fact, I remember the exact place
in the kitchen where I had to undergo her scolding.

   * On another occasion a biplane flew over and someone parachuted out
which caused me great fear at the strange sight.  I most likely cried in
front of the Sunday afternoon visitors.  Again, the exact place where
the event occurs is part of the memory.    

   * A gobbler at my grandparents house was the type of turkey that
went after anyone he thought he could chase.  He decided to take after
me, and so I circled the house with the turkey and his feathers raised
close on my tail.  To my consternation the porch was filled with howling
relatives, until my compassionate uncle rescued me.  

    *  My brother Charlie's birth in March, 1936 when I was two and a
half is clearly remembered.  He, like four out of five of my siblings,
was born at home.  At the time of the birth my older sister, Dorothy and
I were dispatched to my maternal grandparent's farm two miles away.  The
two of us were given glasses with red diamonds (mine) and black clubs
(hers) for being so well behaved.  Most likely they were shot glasses,
but treasured as our first personal possessions.

    Other Sacred Memories.  Traditionally we had family reunions at
whichever relative volunteered for that year.  It always occurred in
summer time when all could make trips between morning and evening cow
milking times.  It meant early morning milking, Sunday Mass at 8:00 and
then traveling from two to a hundred miles over narrow roads to the
designated location.  We had a picnic lunch either on the way or upon
arriving.  We rode in a one-seater Model-A Ford with parents and three
of us toddlers.  And Dorothy would always get car sick.  A group picture
taken in the summer of 1938 or 39 at Warsaw, Kentucky tells much about
the joy and happiness of gathering with forty plus cousins for a few
hours.  

   Painful Memories.  Many people retain bad memories from early
childhood.  Some of mine include the severe thunder storms which would
send us scampering to the cellar along with our scared dog Trixie.
There was never major building damage, however, or harm to life.  At
five in February, 1939, I remember my grandma's funeral.  They brought
her casket into her living room and placed it next to her grand piano.
I didn't want to see the corpse, so I climbed the open stairs to the
second floor with my face to the wall.  Through the banisters of these
stairs I could have looked through the wide double sliding doors and see
where she lay in her pink gown and her beautiful hair piled up on her
head.  My grandpa observed my ascent and came up and insisted that I
come with him to say a prayer.  He gave me a shiny half dollar just to
do so.  I did it for his sake more than for the money.  In the back of
my mind I hear him call out to my grandma at the funeral "Why are you
leaving me?" and yet I suspect no living person has a good enough memory
to verify that 1939 scene.

   Cobwebs of Life.  Sometimes we should shake off cobwebs which make
us duck around and try to avoid the obstacles of our lives.  They are
the memories that won't go away and we need to acknowledge them.  They
may be our personal or collective memories.  I thought I knew most of
the happenings of my hometown.  However, I was shocked while visiting an
African-American Museum on the islands off the coast of South Carolina
where the first southern public school for ex-slaves was established in
1862 after the federal occupation of the coast.  I came upon an exhibit
containing a newspaper clipping with the headline "Last Lynching in
America."  Though the distinction may be shared by other places there
was the dateline "Maysville, KY."  I had never heard of such an incident
and with a reported 10,000 witnesses -- half the county.  Later, I
queried my elderly aunt with her extensive memory about the incident.
"Oh, yes," she said, "but your grandpa did not participate.  In fact, he
was in the Hill & Thompson Hardware Store and they offered him a piece
of the rope, but he declined."  Nice comfort!  But it is a community
cobweb, unspoken, and dodged.  Cobwebs can easily be removed through
prayer, not perhaps forgotten but at least an assurance that a merciful
God forgives.  We need to sweep away the cobwebs so we don't have to
spend so much energy ducking around painful memories, whether it is our
personal or collective remembrances that causes us the pain.  

   Civil War Stories.  I am part of a dwindling remnant who still
remember someone who remembered the Civil War.  The gentleman farmer
across the road, Joe Davis, would regale us with Civil War tales.  As a
very young boy, Mr. Davis' dad took him out to the fair grounds about a
mile from home and there the Home Guard, under the command of Colonel
Charles Marshall gathered volunteers to defend the home turf.  It was a
neutral armed force at the start of the War, but when Kentucky became
Union-oriented the Guard was used as Yankee fighting units.  This was
true especially during the Confederate invasion of Kentucky in the
summer of 1862.  That unit of the Home Guard participated in the great
Union defeat (their most severe in the War) at the Battle of Richmond,
when they all were captured.  The Confederates couldn't handle five
thousand prisoners, so they collected their weapons and hauled them back
south but paroled the Guard and sent them home unarmed.  Old Joe told
how after the war, Union returnees on the way home stopped by when his
family was eating supper.  The hungry soldiers barged in, speared a
whole ham off of the dinner table with a sword and rode off.  

   Reflection on Personal Sacred History.  Why concentrate on the
memories from early childhood?  It may be related to our Faith involving
a Sacred Tradition carefully handed down from our distant past.  Our
Sacred Scriptures  are products of that handing down process -- the
collective memory of a worshipping community.  We treasure this
painstaking work of handing down oral and written text, and of the
unwritten traditions of Native Americans and others.  Human memory is
fragile and passes quickly; it is worthy of the deepest respect and
should be cherished.  Memory is worth protecting, encouraging and
retelling.  Being a Kentuckian I like to tell stories which can get
embellished, if told without a formula or ritual.  So my revelations do
evolve over time.  To be faithful includes retelling the story in a
credible fashion for the good of both narrator and hearer.  They tell us
this Kentucky rural art of storytelling is dying out -- and so we should
make an effort to preserve it.

   Prayer to the God of our Fathers and Mothers:  Oh God, who filled
the people of Israel with the living memory of the covenant promises,
fill us with what is important and not with the frills of life.  You
allow us to forget events in our younger years, even when habits begin
to form and are part of our memory.  You help us remember selective
things which we often wish to remember.  Maybe precious memory is
supposed to be partly forgotten and partly forgiven.  You do not allow
us to be burdened with long memories, but a few won't hurt our spiritual
journey.  Keep us from walking backward in history and allow us to see
that the things of life which are less important are mercifully stored
away, and what is of greater importance -- that is your Love -- will
emerge as the goal of our mental and spiritual faculties.

5  (1937)    Experiencing the Ohio River Flood

   I set my bow in the clouds and it will be a sign of the Covenant
between me and the earth.         (Genesis 9: 13)

   The Ohio River has been a way of life for generations of Native
Americans, before the white people arrived, and in the past three
centuries after their arrival.  The Jesuit participation in discovery
and exploration of these mid-American waterways is quite strong.  The
Pere Marquette and Joliet Expeditions in the Great Lakes and Mississippi
watershed in the 17th century are known by many Americans.  French
Jesuit missionary, Joseph Pierre de Bonnecamps (chaplain of the
celebrated Celoron expedition of 1749), was among the first white people
to travel within the Ohio River watershed.  This expeditionary party,
and those, who followed found this river to be a winding thread of water
that flows through the Allegheny Mountains.  The Ohio River moves in a
leisurely ox-bow fashion into the great Mississippi River complex, one
of the world's great river systems.  This placid river has exquisite
photogenic beauty which implants itself on the mind's eye of every
viewer.

   Memories of the Flood of 1937.  I only remember the 1937 flood
through the concern on my parents faces when viewing the flood. We lived
on high ground and it was only by venturing in our trusty Model A down
the curving Lexington Pike hill and going into the upper streets did we
see the damage.  From a distance up the hill the once placid silver blue
thread of water had become a brown raging torrent.  It told us then and
was never allowed to die in my bones that we must respect mother nature.
The lesson even sunk into the mind of a four-year old:  it is risky to
build on the flood plains.  We must learn how to minimize the dangers of
working close to the powerful forces in the natural world -- and floods
are some of them.  

   I clutched my Daddy's hand as we stepped over the railroad tracks
and observed the place where the Louisville & Nashville Railroad Station
stood and saw the flood tide over that station and covering vast areas
of Maysville.   St. Patrick's Church was just barely above the flood
level, and so Sunday Mass was not interrupted.  People had taken refuge
in free public place and charitable supplies were collected and
distributed to the community at different places.  The conversation
turned to the coffins which could be seen floating down river along with
buildings, trees and dead livestock.  Who were the folks in those
floating boxes and where were they from?  The Kentucky National Guard
was mobilized to prevent looting, bringing flood victims to safety, and
keeping general law and order.  The guards also had the duty of keeping
spectators at a safe distance.

    River Life.  Maysville grew up as a river town during the early
1800s.  The first flatboats came down the Ohio River in the late 1700s
bringing the first settlers to our so-called "Buffalo Trace" portion of
northeastern Kentucky by that river route.  The slightly more popular
route was overland through the Cumberland Gap -- the route of the
central Kentucky settlers.  The river-routed settlers had a dangerous
venture, negotiating river snags and Native Americans who were
unfriendly to the hostile takeover of their natural hunting grounds.
President Andrew Jackson never forgot rebuffs from his early years in
Kentucky, including his racing days, when his northern neighbors were
fierce competitors.  Upon becoming President (without Kentucky's
assistance), he vetoed the Maysville Road Bill, something which only
interests political scientists.  The bill would have allowed a primitive
interstate system to extend from the National Post Road at Zanesville,
Ohio south to the Ohio River at the river ford at Maysville, and then
beyond through Lexington, Kentucky and on to Florence, Alabama.   Those
towns are listed on old cast iron road signs that we passed every day on
the school bus.  In fairness, the bill only dealt with the Maysville to
Lexington road segment, and Jackson's policy opposed federal funds for
internal improvements.  However, Jackson's veto sealed the fate of
Maysville and the ascendance of Cincinnati as Queen City of the West.

   The Boat Traffic.  River traffic remained important for transporting
some bulk trade as well as passengers until replaced by the railroads at
the end of the 19th century.  Steamboat whistles punctuate the beautiful
trail of water even to this day, especially when the excursion boats ply
the river.  Today commercial barges, with long rafts containing coal and
other bulk products, move among the few ferries that still cross, one at
Augusta, Kentucky and another at Anderson Ferry (near the Cincinnati
Airport).  Through the work of the U.S. Corps of Engineers, a series of
dams has transformed the Ohio River into a chain of beautiful lakes,
one after the other.  These "lakes" are filled in summertime with
motorboats and even some sail boats.

     Railroad Transportation.  The Chesapeake and Ohio Railroad was
essentially cut by the Great Flood.  These iron rails extended along the
Ohio River after the Civil War.  Maysville became the terminal of a
small single track line that ran to Lexington.  As a child I saw the
roundhouse and former passenger station for the Louisville & Nashville
spur line.  The rail network was excellent in my parents youth, for they
were able to take frequent trains to a host of Kentucky places at
relatively low fares.  In fact, my mother as a young girl could take the
L&N to Johnson Station in Fleming County and be within sight of her old
1815 brick birthplace.  Such train (or bus) travel is not available
today.

     The Flood Wall.  Some time after the 1937 flood and subsequent
smaller floods, a proposal was made to get Federal money to build a
flood wall in Maysville.  The opponents were probably right.  Mr John
Cochoran, who operated a paint business, was outspoken in opposing the
wall.  Some critics wrote in the town papers that he wanted to keep his
paint sales, and so John offered all flood-related paint victims free
paint to prove his opposition to the wall.  He and others argued that
the breezes would not flow as they had in the past, if a flood wall wind
break were created.  My more politically-minded Aunt Toots supported him
100%.  And besides the wall opponents argued, the town would be enclosed
by a literal wall on three sides and the steep bluffs on the south.  To
them it would be Maysville's confining kiss of death.  As a matter of
fact, these predictions did come true, and the town has abandoned the
valley and moved businesses, the high school, the college, many homes
and the hospital to the plateau above the original town.
 
    Reflection on Respect for the Forces of Nature.  God's covenant
with the Earth given to Noah after the Great Flood did not promise a
lack of calamities, only no reoccurrence of that mighty flood.  These
nature-related events which occur quite often result because human
beings get in the way of an Earth being continually created right now.
We develop the flood plains; we build houses unable to withstand heavy
winds or earthquakes; and we think we are protected from lightning in
some exposed and vulnerable places.  True, unexpected calamities do
occur and they are the times that show our human weakness and dependence
on God's ongoing providence.  They are also opportunities in which we
can thank God for the way people help one another during the calamity.
And of equal importance, they are times to act wisely and to ensure that
such calamities do not happen again.  

    Prayer over the Waters.  O Jesus, you were baptized in the Jordan
and you healed at the waters of the pool at Bethesda;  make us aware of
the saving power of water and yet know and respect water as saving and
as able to yield life in moderate amounts and destruction when in
superabundance.  Give us all strength to flourish in tranquil times and
to avoid the uncontrollable -- and these include the calamities that
happen at unexpected moments.  


6  (1938)    Choosing My Spirit Creature

   When he has brought out his flock, he goes ahead of them, and the
sheep follow because they know his voice.  (John 10:4)

   Some say you are never to ask another person what is his or her
spirit creature, a term some Native Americans use to indicate a
particular type of animal with which a person has an affinity.  Our
spirit creature may change with time or it could be chosen for life.
Our selection is acquired through reflection on our human experience or
through a natural affinity for a certain particular species.

    My First Spirit Creature.  I began milking cows by hand at age five
and I was already getting the cows in from the field at that very early
age.  A large amount of time in my early life was spent at the back side
of the cow, and I came to know cows as much by their bags and teats as
by their full body stature.  These cow back sides are impressed on my
memory.  I found that I could scratch a cow between the ears just behind
the skull bone and they came to expect this pleasure at our next
milking.  I can still feel the warm flank of the cow on my forehead on
cold winter days.  I remember well in summer having to guard my bare
feet lest the cow inadvertently stepped on them and I would have to lift
the hoofed foot off.  Throughout life I have had a relationship with the
bovine, and the cow was then as now my spirit creature.  When jogging
about six years ago in an area near Point Reyes in California on one of
my environmental resource assessment trips I came upon a herd of buffalo
in a field next to the road.  My affinity extended to them immediately,
and I felt a close kinship which they seemed to respond in their own
dumb way.  However, I refrained myself from going over and kissing their
noses as we would do with certain more gentle members of our cow herd.
They just didn't seem like the type to afford such affection.  

   Many Animals Assist Us.  We have relationships with many types of
animals during a lifetime, which include pets, wildlife, farm stock,
beasts of burden and even the birds of the sky.  In one way or another
the animals lift our spirits and improve our disposition -- and most of
all they are what they are.  Dogs have a total loyalty to their
"masters" or special friends, and are willing to even die for them.
Birds seem to know when we are listening and their song becomes
especially melodic when singing for an audience.  Horses bond with the
rider in well described ways.  We benefit from these relationships with
animals, and our well-being and quality of life is improved by their
presence.  The mentally challenged can benefit from these affinities, as
do the lonely, fearful, sick and those of us who regard ourselves
healthy.

   Crow as Special Creature.  Spirit creatures may change in the course
of our lives as we identify with different characteristics of animals.
I have so admired the crow during my lifetime that it would have
undoubtedly been the spirit creature of choice had I not participated in
making war on this numerous and intelligent creature.  Crows seem to
have many human qualities -- except those of human cruelty.  Crows are
communicative, loyal, comical, agile and highly socialized.  We
youngsters plotted once how to slaughter the crows which crossed our
farm on their way to their Ohio roost each evening.  We hid with guns on
the north side of a brow of a hill where we knew they skimmed over on
their bee-line home.  We never even got a shot off as the lead crow
turned a somersault and veered sharply to the east out of range of our
simple firearms.  We watched with amazement as they formed a detour that
evening from horizon to horizon with a half-mile semi-circle around our
waiting guns.  We swore they knew a gun from a stick.  

    Crow Struggles.  The crow threatened our farm economy, for the sky
would darken in the morning and evening with crows moving from north in
Ohio to the corn fields of our portion of Kentucky.  They were smart
with sentinels and lookouts, as they stopped on their way to either
uproot the one- or two-inch corn for the seeds, or break into the green
ear and tear up the corn causing most of the ear to rot; they then moved
on to another ear.  Their squawking was especially galling to us poor
dirt farmers who depend so much on grain crops.  They seemed to laugh at
us and had no respect.  Had they just feasted on a single ear it would
not have been so bad, but to tear up immense areas by ripping the green
shuck and allowing the mold to grow was beyond our endurance.  

   A War of Defense.  To counter these seemingly hostile incursions we
did just about everything such as carrying guns in the cab of the truck,
and then whipping out the weapon and shooting from the running board of
our truck.  We always got a few crows that way.  Another sure gimmick
was shooting into their nests in spring time when they were hatching
their chicks, but even we warriors considered this somewhat
dishonorable.  We preferred killing the not-yet-streetwise immature
crows and one of our hired hands, Clyde Dunaway, would take them home
and fry them like young chicken.  The amount of meat per crow was
sparse, but it was tasty.
   
   War can be Gruesome.  I believe it is important to know that my love
for animals came after the more savage period of growing up with guns
and battle plans.  I do not say I would do what follows now, but it was
part of the rocky road to respecting all wildlife.  At that time in the
atmosphere of World War II our reasoning was that crows -- the enemy --
did not like to see any of their kind lost in battle.  In the spring,
when we could count on getting a few of their inexperienced young ones,
we would wire them on poles in the corn fields.  It's far more effective
than scarecrows, which always made good perches for their sentinels.
They would make valiant efforts to unloose the corpse but seldom
succeeded.  The crows really hated our dastardly acts, but over time we
each developed a love/hate relationship and some respect for each other.
In winter they would come after hog killing and partake of the internal
organs.  We did do some shooting with some loss to their forces at these
hungry times, and some desperate farmers resorted to dynamite, but then
they would wait until after we got tired to return to the feast.  So
much for fighting wildlife and, while gruesome, it sure beats killing
deer or rabbit for the fun of it.

   A Lesson that Daisy Taught.   One of my favorite homily/retreat
stories is how our milk cow Daisy (they all had names) taught me as a
mere youth.  Once and only once this occurred.  I was perhaps ten and I
was sent back into the field to find the cow that was laden with a calf
and bring her to the barn.  As always, when calving occurs it is
generally in a remote corner of the farm.  When I found Daisy the big
event had occurred and a little wet blond calf was staggering around.
At the same time heavy dark clouds were piling up in the western
horizon, and I was old enough to know that it would most likely storm in
a short while.  The calf was too heavy for me to carry such a distance.
I panicked as the cow would circle back to the calf as I tried to drive
her home.  The dance lasted a few moments and then I almost gave up.
Daisy gave me a nudge and I looked back and there she was with the calf
right behind.  I walked faster and faster and the animals followed --
the only time I ever knew this to happen to me.  We three reached the
barn before any downpour.  The lesson I learned that stormy night was
not to drive others, but to lead them.  Things go better that way.  

    Other Livestock.  I was never acquainted with sheep and lambs
because we could not raise them profitably in our part of Kentucky, due
to packs of wild dogs attacking and killing them.  I think they would
have been a blessing, but we did not have the joy of such creatures
around.  Sheep and lambs make the Bible stories more understandable, and
show us an insight into the culture at the time Christ lived in the Holy
Land. The same applies for goats.  Kids are so loveable and make great
pets.  A decade or so ago I and my associates tried a goat-raising
venture for a short time, but the goats seemed to know exactly where we
did not want them to go -- and went there.  They would hop on an
umbrella magnolia sapling or fruit tree and break it down in a wink.  We
tethered them, but they would get tangled in the rope and we had
passersby stop and complain;  we even feared they'd report us for
mistreating animals.  Our woods (or any forest) was no place for goats,
even though visiting children loved them.  We donated them to the
International Heifer Project.  When young, our hogs were cute is
piglets, intelligent gluttons.  When older, the energetic porkers rooted
up the sod unless ringed, and they smelled badly or, more precisely,
stunk.  But they were our principal meat source in my early years and
considered of great value.
     
    Reflection on Caring.  My spirit creature has been a help.  My
life's experience is a journey from treating certain animals in an
uncaring and often mean-spirited manner, through a general disregard for
certain ones, to a tolerance and curiosity for animals, and then
gradually through learning from favorite animals a more gentle and
sensitive approach to all fauna.  I was sensitive enough in early youth
to confess killing a songbird with a "clod," and I thought I heard the
priest chuckle while he asked "with a what?"  I had to explain that our
Kentucky clay becomes as hard as a rock in a dry summer and someone
could kill a bird with a piece of dirt.  In one respect, I was very
sensitive to certain creatures (songbirds) and merciless to those
regarded as pests (crows).  As I have matured my sensitivity broadened
to where I would not harm a scorpion or a snake in recent years.
Lately, I despise zoos for the lack of freedom for caged animals.  I was
especially struck a fe years ago on seeing an orangutan sitting and
facing away from the viewing public.  She seemed to be embarrassed that
these visitors were gazing at her.  After a long journey in my treatment
of select animals and having a spirit creature, I now have developed a
compassion for all of them.

    Prayer to Learn from Other Creatures.  O Creator of all life, make
us ever more mindful of the companionship and friendship, the assistance
and blessing that you give to us in the wildlife and all animals that
are all around.  Being more in keeping with what You expect of us, we
gradually change from being rough and hard of heart to more mellow and
compassionate.  Our individual lives often pattern those of the Chosen
People and their attitudes to their neighbor.  With time attitudes may
change for the better, and that includes our relationships to other
creatures.  We need your help, for we have seen animals as threats (the
crows), or destructive (goats), or dangerous (snakes), or for our total
benefit (pigs).  Most animals are quite innocent and charming, if
properly respected.  They are truly companions to us.  Our attitudes are
part of our spiritual growth and are some of the most interesting parts
of our journey through life.  Give to us the heart of St. Francis, who
spoke of and to his sisters and brothers of the animal kingdom, and they
responded with affection.  Help us to do the same.


7  (1939)    Awakening to the God Within

   This mystery that has now been revealed through the Spirit to his
holy apostles and prophets was unknown to any in past generations.
                                  (Ephesians 3:5)
   
   On Friday, September 1, 1939, the day the Second World War started,
I began my formal education at St. Patrick's School in Maysville,
Kentucky.  My formal education would not end until Vietnam War (1970)
three decades later.  There was a heap of homework, books, chalk dust
and teacher patience required during that period for I was a master of
becoming distracted, sleeping with my eyes open, and playing a few
tricks on others when no one was looking.  I was introduced into a world
of learning to read and to write, to do arithmetic, and to recite aloud
-- a practice I dreaded because I could not easily put the words
together in a coherent pattern (perhaps a mild form of dyslexia).
Looking back, a major portion of what I learned were things that my
self-interest allowed me to pick up on my own.

   The Facilitators.  The good sisters of St. Francis came from
Clinton, Iowa and were of Kentucky roots.  They considered our school a
mission, and they fitted in quite well and never complained except about
the tobacco spittoons in banks and the post office, and the juice and
wads in the street gutters.  These noble religious women gave selflessly
and generously with virtually no pay (a few hundred dollars a year
besides room and board) and much work.  They wore heavy black habits in
the humid Kentucky weather, had to walk several blocks and climb about
forty steps to their convent perched on a steep hill, and worked and
prayed long hours.  We did not appreciate what we had at that time in
the selfless service of the sisters, and only later did I come to
recognize that a sense of social justice and love of the Earth had its
roots in the messages of the Sisters of St. Francis of Clinton, Iowa who
taught us (giving about 500 person years of service to our Parish over
eighty years).  In later years I have been able to assist them in
assessments, talks and request for donations.  In turn, they have often
given support to our public interest work even with limited resources.

   Mysteries Surround Us.  I enjoyed the revelation of deeper mysteries
which still remain, but were identified and reflected upon to some
degree.  While in grade school, we first heard of the Trinity and how
the vestiges of this deepest mystery were found in the world in which we
lived.  St. Patrick's shamrock stood as a symbol and probe to reach to
deeper mysteries.  This was the beginning of my spiritual quest of
asking why, why, why?  Besides the supernatural mysteries that stretch
out into the truly indefinite future, there are natural mysteries which
can be studied and penetrated by reasoning; these include the answers to
a thousand questions we have had at various times in life.  Finally
there are practical day-by-day mysteries which others help us solve.
   
    What is an Example of a Mystery?   In the second grade, we prepared
for the reception of the sacraments of Penance, Holy Eucharist and
Confirmation all received within a two-week period in May, 1941.  Sister
Imogene had her hands full.  (Sixty years later at age 97 she said she
still remembered faces, but not names of her students).  She quizzed us
on what is a mystery, in the hopes we would focus on the Real Presence
of Christ and the mysteries mentioned in our primary catechism.  In my
example, I told the class about how we had in our cellar each spring the
100-egg incubator which would suddenly come alive with all those chicks,
when it had been totally silent the evening before.  The eggs were laid
at different times.  How could this be, except that the start of life
was a mystery?  Sister appeared somewhat frustrated and the class was
doubly confused.  I didn't understand that the mystery was in a small
lit kerosene lamp, which allows the eggs to start warming and thus hatch
out as chicks.  Still it was a mystery to me -- and others.

   Other Mysteries Unfold.  I was deeply disappointed through my
impatience that mysteries did not unravel rapidly and that it took time,
much time, to learn.  To my added surprise was that the unanswered were
accompanied by a growing list of other mysteries, and there began to be
mysteries of interconnected mysteries.  Answers never ended the process,
but opened it up to more questions.  It was the ending one hears in
scientific presentations that "more work has to be done."  Was life
always going to be this way, or would things clarify themselves in some
distant future date?  It took time to become comfortable with the
learning process -- and the inability to get definitive answers on all
matters.  We learn some things will have to be only partly answered and
others remain unanswered mysteries.  

   Why did I dislike School?  I can only surmise after thinking about
my crying bouts in the early days of the first grade that it may have
had to do with where I was seated.  It happens that every time I smell
natural gas today my mind immediately pictures the last seat in the row
number two from the wall in that first grade room.  The seat was near
the room's hissing natural gas heater.  I have never liked that smell of
natural gas and most likely didn't then, but some small amount of
escaping gas was something I simply had to contend with during that
time, amid the utter embarrassment of my own sister, Dorothy, and all
the others in the immediate vicinity of that stove, including shy
Catherine Stanton who sat right across the aisle.  It's a time-lapsed
explanation for a miserable time in first grade.

   Why Geography?  I came to like maps and the places beyond my home.
We were told, if we jumped off a wall in the back of my house we would
go down, and down was related to the Mountains (a topographical
impossibility -- but a sociological possibility), to Tennessee and to
Hell.  Somehow I got confused and thought that going to hell and
Tennessee were about the same, and one of my first unraveling of
mystery was the puzzle map of the United States given as a gift at
Christmas.  With this map I was able to know the shape of every state --
including Tennessee -- and where each is adjacent to the next.  Even
today I'm surprised that many adults do not have that picture --
imprinted in my mind in the first grade.  Hands on knowledge is deeply
imprinted.  It was good to share the pictures of the geography books
with my Dad, who enjoyed geography as well.  I dreamed I would someday
travel to many of these far off places.  One distant land was Japan, a
country we were studying about in the third grade in December, 1941 when
Pearl Harbor was attacked.

   Why I liked Summer?  Summer was the time away from school.  I
awaited the warming sun and lengthening days with eager longing.  It
meant freedom from confining seats, recess games which I found somewhat
boring, and harsh bells announcing the changes in programs.  It really
wasn't so much freedom from books and reading, for I liked these
throughout the year -- only the pressure to follow rigid routines.
Surely, summer meant more farm work, but little more than on a school
day, which demanded getting up earlier in my teen years to milk the cows
and farm work after school as well.  However, summer had its freedom,
namely no winter clothes.  Summer meant being barefoot, moving at the
pace of an "Indian trot" across the cow paths, and having long days to
play and enjoy summer rains and fruit-bearing trees -- cherries, plums
and peaches.  Summer and freedom were synonymous.

   Why Fascination with Numbers?  I learned to count even before formal
schooling.  I learned to add, subtract, multiply and divide as well as
fractions and other mathematic mysteries which came easily.  But with
this ability I went on to count everything in sight and have to some
degree continued that to this day, such as the number of tobacco plants
set in a day and season, the time of day and the day of the week, the
thermometer reading outside,  the number of telephone poles on the way
to and from school, the steps it took to get from one place to another.
I must know which mile marker it is on the highway, how much money is in
the wallet, and how far to the next town.  Upon preparing to enter the
Society of Jesus, psychologist John Reinke, asked what happened when I
missed count.  I told him I never did and he chuckled.

   Why not Environmental Subjects?  Environmental subjects were absent
from the global psyche in the middle years of the twentieth century and
from my life.  Subjects taught have importance because all knowledge is
related.  However, part of the mystery journey involved asking some
practical questions:  Why were rivers not able to be used for swimming?
Why was there a thick haze around some factories?  Why were floods so
devastating?  Why were some chemicals kept away from the kitchen?

    Reflection on the Quest for Mystery.  Why do I continue to ask
questions from the earliest times until now?  Why say why again and
again?  Is it because God beckons and draws us to the heart of Divine
Mystery?  Yes, I seek answers, finding some are far too deep for the
moment, and realizing that yearning to know is yearning for God.  While
I am wrapped in mystery, I am so often tempted to run from the beckoning
call and to follow some who idolize their own mental powers, boasting
that they can solve anything.  But from the humble people and other
creatures of my life I find true believers who have learned to live with
Mystery, even though such living takes an eternity.

    A Prayer to the Source of Mystery.  Oh Great Source of all Mystery,
You are the one who draws all to You.  You nudged us in youth to ask
questions and extend our curiosity to broader vistas.  You draw us ever
closer to yourself, a quest that ultimately is such a proof for your
existence.  Never permit a child's wonder to leave us.  Let new
unexplored worlds and the "why asking power" give us new horizons which
will continue to the end of this life.  And let the shadows of
unanswered mystery open to the brilliance of your Presence.  


8  (1940)    Celebrating Feast Days

   God blessed the seventh day and made it holy, because on that day
God had rested after all the work of creating.  (Genesis 2:3)
   
    Major family feasts of the year such as Christmas, Thanksgiving and
Easter are being eroded by commercial interests and sports events.  The
thrust by business interests is to create a peer pressure for
outspending others in cards, gifts, edibles and services that require
ever higher financial expenditures.  When we were growing up, four
dollars per person was a sizeable undertaking at Christmas, but it later
grew to four hundred and is now over a thousand per person per event.
Likewise, the escalation for weddings and funerals is even tragically
higher.  Christmas shopping starts in earnest around Thanksgiving season
and extends to New Years thus blending in two other events into the
buying season.  Easter becomes fashion season.

   Thanksgiving was always a family day in our home.  Many would come
including some who occasionally had nowhere else to go.  And so the
table was always filled.  When grandchildren came, my parents extended
the table and added another one.  The average was about two dozen people
who gave thanks and enjoyed America's traditional meal of turkey,
cranberry sauce, pumpkin and mince meat pies, baked oysters and
sweet potatoes.  It was one of those rare days off, except for the cow
milking which was actually an everyday affair.  In rare cases, when we
were behind in farm work and wanting to get the tobacco crop to the
early December market, we would spend part of Thanksgiving Day in the
stripping room.

    Immediately after Thanksgiving was when Mama started the Christmas
baking.  She would diligently gather hickory nuts in mid-autumn and
preferred the larger one which could be picked easily for her famous
hickory nut cake.  She started picking nut on the gray late November
days and smashed the hard nuts with an old-fashioned iron.  It took
talent to hit nuts only so hard as not to mash the meat in the shell
compartments.  After much labor of love, two quarts were picked and then
it was cake baking time -- and that included fruit cakes and jam cakes
and transparent puddings as well.  Hickory nut cakes were covered with
caramel icing and stored with the fruit cakes which were saturated with
Bourbon, wrapped in towels, and placed in closed tin containers until
Christmas.  Selected relatives and friends got slices and portions of
the cakes depending on the number in a family, sweet tooth, degrees of
appreciation, and services rendered during the year.

    Bringing in the Cedar Tree.  Each year we would go on the Sunday
afternoon before Christmas out into the field and select one of the wild
cedar trees which grew abundantly in limestone soil.  Scents filled the
room and made this for us the smell of Christmases past and to come.  In
the depression years, we were quite frugal and would only receive about
one or two gifts each, but the sight of the tree with shining lights was
long remembered.  It was a happy day getting the lights strung and a sad
one when we took the decorations down.  Why did Christmas have to go
away for such a long time -- another whole year?

    Mistletoe.  The old elm tree on Uncle Pete's place had a healthy
outcropping of mistletoe, but it was located out on branches which were
dying and unsafe to try to scale.  We had two ways of getting mistletoe,
by shooting it with a shotgun and getting some sprigs that fell or by
lassoing it with a weighted rope.  Either way once captured, the
mistletoe created a nice opportunity to kiss all the girls and womenfolk
who happened under the somewhat hidden Christmas decoration.  

    Santa Claus.  My jovial Uncle Ed would play Santa Claus for the
youngsters.  He was the one who lived in adjacent Fleming County which
was on Central Standard Time, and we, Eastern.  He would come down and
celebrate New Years with us and then race back home to usher in the New
Years a second time.  He was known to live in the fast lane.  In even
our youthful years we were far too practical to even think Santa could
reside at the North Pole and do all those chimney climbs.  I came to
believe that Santa was really hired people from the local businesses who
would dress up and play the part of the charitable bishop, St. Nicholas.
In fact, we were as afraid of these costumed people, as any young child
who adheres to the traditional North Pole dweller.  It played havoc with
the fairy tale type of imagination -- and maybe why I hate novels.
However, I am convinced that hating unrealistic tales is a healthy
practice because those raised on fairy tales continue to turn their bad
conditions into make-believe good ones.  I won't argue this position.

    Christmas at School.  Perhaps because gift exchanges got out of
hand, our high school principal, Sister Cecil, suggested a high school
name drawing exercise with her full body exuberance.  I felt I could
sabotage this event by slipping in the name of our noble president.  At
the end of Sister's walking around the room with the box of names she
came to the front of the assembly and announced, "I have one left over;
who didn't get a name?"  To which, Jamasene O'Neill replied, "Sister, I
got Harry S. Truman."  Thereupon my brother Charlie turned and gave me
an over-the-glasses smirk, that was enough to betray the culprit, though
I had told absolutely no one about the dastardly prank.

   To this day I do not mind giving some sort of humorous gifts or
poems or something unusual, but I find traditional gift-giving somewhat
disconcerting.  So many in the world need so much and we need little
because we have the basics.  True, the opening of gifts gives a
momentary thrill, but the practice smacks of a form of materialism that
I find wrong and beyond what needs to be done. I like the habit of
limited gift-giving (which made the proper school practice and my
dastardly deed more difficult to comprehend -- except I have not
remained consistent in life).  I have heard that some families draw
names for gifts and limit gift values, which can be one way to check the
rampant commercialism of Christmas.

      Easter.  Religious-wise, Easter is the more focused feast day for
Christians, and it was becoming so for our family as well with the
reforms in liturgy which were beginning as we grew older.  Easter comes
after a period of Lenten fast which I found could be endured but not
loved.  Really the end of the fast from candy was so rewarding that I
would count the days to Easter.  As kids, Dorothy, Charlie and I would
wait on the cistern top next to the back porch door for the Holy
Saturday noon whistle to blow with a supply of candy, and then
officially break the fast with a mouthful of sweets.  The next day was
filled with the multitude of altar candles that we had to light.  Our
nostrils were filled with the faint sweet scent of lilies, and we rang
hand bells at the Gloria to the limits of endurance.  Then there were
the expected Easter baskets for us altar boys with their eggs and candy.
We hurriedly exited from church to observe all standing around in their
bright spring clothes and bonnets.  We were expected to exchange a good
word to hundreds of returnees from the industrial north but I would be
remiss because I thought they betrayed us by leaving.  And besides, what
I reckoned that brought them back was the smell of Kentucky ham and
bourbon as much as the desire to see the home folks.  Our Easter meals
were unique like our neighbors including our world famous "Mason County
Transparent Puddings," which Mama actually modified by making them from
homemade red plum marmalade, real butter and sugar.  Easter meals also
included fresh horseradish which we had to grind a few days before,
wilted dandelion salad, and fresh bread along with various canned
vegetables.
 
      Easter Eggs and Easter Water.   Hunting Easter eggs by the young
tots is a happy event.  But it can be traumatic for those who are weaker
or less competitive.  I have tried for years to tell the participants
that there are so many eggs for each person.  It is more in the spirit
of Easter to imitate Christ and serve the weaker members by helping them
find their eggs first, and then let younger ones help older persons to
complete the hunt.  In some ways I have found that Easter egg hunts can
devolve into the entire rat race that personifies our culture and leave
some devastated for a few moments and others jubilant in a very wrong
way.  There is also a very valuable environmental lesson:  we have
limited world resources or regional ones in the limits of our vicinity.
There is sufficient quantities for all, if we dare to share;  there's
never enough, if greed prevails, for weaker members go without and
stronger ones have plenty.  

    Easter Blessing.  The annual ritual practice I like best as a child
that is religious and yet pertains to the land and its produce is
filling a jar with blessed Easter Water and going around to all the
fields (without telling non-Catholic neighbors of our Messianic Secret).
We performed this practice ever year that I was growing up at home.   We
reverently sprinkled each field with the water and asked God to bless us
with rain during the year and to bless the natural fertility of the
field to make the needed crops grow.  We seemed to realized that a
simple act of faith was realized through this blessing trip.  May life
spring forth again.  May the spring showers fall gently on the land.
May we be of a reverential and thankful attitude during this season.

     Reflection on Personal Sacred Time.  I have discovered that there
are certain activities associated with Thanksgiving, Christmas and
Easter which can be quite proper.  Likewise there can be some which can
be detrimental to the very religious spirit that they strive to
engender.  We have to take special care to be cautious and to find these
feasts as opportunities for proper spiritual growth.  When I remember
something to be grateful for, I am faithful to the feast.  I try to
assist others in small ways, though some spend the holidays serving
others at soup kitchens.  I try to see feasts as sacred time, that is,
a period set apart for celebration but one in which we also express
gratitude for friends, community, good health, and a multitude of other
benefits.  Life becomes a time of proper preparation for these sacred
moments, and time itself takes on a more solemn character as we mature,
and it seems to quicken with each passing year.

    Prayer to Spend Time Well.  Oh God, who rested on the Sabbath,
teach us to celebrate together the mysteries of our Faith and the gifts
you have given.  Retain and allow us as family to grow in joy and
happiness, and help us find the time to give special attention to others
on these special feasts.  Help us to celebrate precious time together
and to be mindful of the things given and hoped for in the future.


 9  (1941)    Riding the School Bus

   Happy the gentle:  they shall have the earth for their heritage.
                                       (Matthew 5:4)

    Everyone, even youth need "down time," a period when they can learn
to reflect and slow down their hyperactive impulses.  One might say that
waiting for and riding a school bus for about five to six thousand hours
in a lifetime would be quite a waste of time.  Yes, it could be but, in
the light of the full scheduled and mobile current age, it can also be
a time for reflection.  This can prove to be a golden opportunity,
provided it is well used.  How could one action stamp an entire life.
I rode the same school bus twice a day for over an hour each way for
twelve years with portly and gentle Jim Lurtey at the wheel.  Many of us
riders spent more time with him than we did with our dads or any other
male authority figure.  He ruled with a firm hand, but his domain was
his private bus.

   The Daily Tour.  Every day for twelve years our bus passed the block
on which Uncle Tom (the slave in Uncle Tom's Cabin fame) was sold.
Harriet Beecher Stowe, the novelist whom Lincoln called "the little lady
who started this Civil War," observed the slave sale while visiting a
cousin in Washington.  We went past the building where pioneer Simon
Kenton was jailed for disorderly conduct, and the only remaining cabin
built with logs from the flatboat which brought settlers down the Ohio
in 1787.  Our bus ride was a journey through history.  We rode with
descendants of the Marshalls and Lees of Virginia who gave our country
that first Chief Justice and the head of the Army during World War II.
The Marshall family were neighbors and we shared stories and helped each
other throughout the years.  We also rode with poor kids who did not
have shoes and others who came and went with the fortunes of their
families. We rode with the grandkids of immigrants who came from Ireland
with hardly more than their clothes on their backs.  But we never rode
with the black kids who made up a tenth of the county's people.  They
had their separate segregated buses and schools.

   Consolidated Schools.  Even though we rode the same bus the
destinations of the routes changed over time.  When I started school in
1939 there were twelve high schools (eleven public and one private).
When I graduated there were five public high schools.  Since then,
consolidation has meant the decrease to one public and one private.  We
often think how great it is that all students in a county can be bunched
together and allowed the services of drama teachers, specialized
equipment and larger libraries.  But there is a loss which is only
discovered later.  When grade schools are lost through consolidation,
many small rural communities lose their soul, for the presence of youth
is missing on school days, and the small-town young acquire friends who
live in the county seat and prefer to go beyond the local confines
during off-school hours.  The local community is no longer the center of
life for the youth.
   
   Light Hearted. They installed a blinker light in the village of
Washington sometime in the course of the twelve years, and I said aloud
that it was the first innovation in Washington since pioneer days.  That
drew a rare bus laugh.  Looking back, one wonders how could we spend so
much time on a bus which wasn't very comfortable at that, with its very
hard imitation leather seats.  We had to joke and make up stories or we
would have gone crazy.  If story-telling had an origin, it occurred on
a long ride over the same route year after year.

   Heavy Hearted.  I believe that things can fester when we have the
time to reflect.  In some ways they may be harmful, if about the wrong
subjects -- and that is often the possibility and risk.  But like the
rest of the gifts that we have, free time can be a time of social
festering as well.  We had the Jones family who came to school in the
autumn without shoes, and these were the only ones who were barefoot in
our relatively prosperous world.  They would get runny noses late in
fall and then quit coming.  One of my great regrets is that we never
offered them shoes -- though we later gave clothes to other poor
families in Smokey Holler, which was the poor end of the county.  But
why didn't some of us help the barefoot Jones?  I get upset about people
who talk about barefoot hillbillies, especially the second word of that
phrase.  This is the last acceptable ethnic slur -- and it hasn't been
fully contested yet, and that is something I must help do before I die -
- God willing.  Someday, if enough time permits, I will support and
promote an Appalachian Anti-defamation League.  

   Angry at Heart.  My anger would grow very intense as we passed up
the black folks who lived down the road from us.  Charley Smith's family
were very fine neighbors.  They were hard-working, charitable and
thoughtful in every way.  I worked with his son, Dennis, as a companion
during the hot summer months.  We had scythes, one on each side of the
fence, and cleared hundreds of feet of fence rows in the cultivated
fields on our farm.  Such sweaty work bonded us as friends.  Yet each
school day, the Smith children had to go to a nearby one-room school in
a small station wagon;  we whites could ride the public school buses
(Mr. Lurtey's bus was leased both to the public and the private school)
to a gathering point and all Catholics would ride the one bus to St.
Patrick's School.  These segregated busing practices no longer occur.
 
   Eating Together.  There was some salutary progress accruing even in
our early years on the segregation question.  We were in the land of
hemp-growing slaves and freeholders, where there was a mix of Kentucky
Henry Clay Emancipation and of the birthplaces of Presidents Abe
Lincoln, Jeff Davis and General Albert S. Johnston.  Our journey toward
proper race relations was slow even though there were early efforts in
the 19th century.  It was the custom at wheat threshing time in July, to
segregate the blacks and whites for meals, even though both were given
exactly the same foods. We as a family made a rare collective decision
on social occasions.  We thought it was time to integrate the tables.
When blacks worked for us we were all to eat at the same table, for if
we went to church we would all receive Communion at the same rail --
though our Church was at that time quite white.  While Charley Smith had
a great discomfort with this new practice, his son went along with it,
showing that times were changing.  The integrated eating decision was a
liberation, the beginning of the changes needed in an entire culture
awaited the 1954 Supreme Court Decision: Brown versus Board of Education
which essentially started the process of desegregation of educational
facilities.  

   V-E Day, May 8, 1945.   We celebrated the whistles on V-E (Victory in
Europe) day with Mr. Lurtey stuck under the bus trying to fix something
while all the kids were milling around on the Maple Leaf Road.  When the
whistles started blowing, we agreed with him that we should just retrace
the route and celebrate a free holiday.  Once home again, we raced to
the very back field to tell Daddy and the hired man who were disc-
harrowing (the first tilling after plowing) ground and planting corn.
Those whistles meant the war had ended in Europe.  Peace was certainly
in sight and the local boys would soon return from the war.  

   Long Waits.  The reason for the lengthy bus rides was that the bus
had to go to the central school in the district (The Washington School),
unload for the school day and then take the Catholic kids from the other
buses and bring them to St. Patrick's, four miles away.  This was a
total of 50 minutes from start to finish and resulted in us getting to
school at the end of the morning Mass or after it had let out.  We had
to leave school about three o'clock, before the last study session -- a
burden which I considered a privilege.  Occasionally, the waits at the
public school for all the buses to arrive from the distant high school
was just too much, and so some of us would walk home from school when
the weather permitted.

   Reflection on the Need for Silent Time.  I still find commuting to
any destination by public conveyance a pensive period.  I can just sit
and leave the driving to others.  It is a time to recount the activities
of the day and mull over those issues which I had to set aside because
of the day's regular busyness.  I often see kids being dropped off by
overly concerned parents at the school doors and wonder if they are not
missing the quiet time that comes on a bus.  Today's youngsters also
need reflection time.  Parents and teachers tell how kids must be kept
busy, and one wonders whether this is simply a statement of how
hyperactivity has taken over their own lives -- and the adult
supervisors do not know how to cope.  Would that we all had more silent
space, those times when creativity is invited to flourish and God's ever
so silent first call may be given a chance to be heard.

   Prayer for Quiet Space.  Calling God, You spoke to Samuel but he did
not hear.  You called again and again, and finally the wise elder Eli
told him to listen and say a prayer response showing that he (Samuel)
was listening.  Allow all of us the opportunities for listening.  These
moments of call can be considered as wasted time or as opportunities.
Make them moments in our lives when we are able to listen to your call.
Help us treasure these times and see them as needed for our own health
and discipline.  Give all, especially youth, the gift of time to raise
their hearts and minds to You, to say "thank you," and to plan for
things to come in their lives.

The Latch String is Out -- Copyright © 2002 by Al Fritsch