Category Journey

Spring Cleaning Dredges Up Old Anger

normanjameson 3 Comments

My wife is in declutter mode, a seasonal psychological disorder similar to photosynthesis. Warming weather and increased hours of sunshine renew her fear that we will die inconveniently for our children, who will be forced to sort mountains of detritus left over from a full and adventurous life.

In fact, we have empty closets, a barely used attic and we decorate in what might be generously called Scandinavian Frugal. I have enough empty space in my closet to lend sanctuary to a frightened roofer fleeing the masked hoodlums of ICE.

My ankle is chaffed from the cuff and chain with which I attach myself to the bedpost for fear of being thrown out in my sleep.

Despite my Spartan home office furnishings, Sue Ellen found excess in pockets of memory-inducing memorabilia. My bookshelf was too crowded, my closet held a a photographer’s vest and an unused shelf unit.

Personally, I share the opinion of Billy Crystal, who in his memoir “Still Foolin’ ‘Em, Where I’ve Been, Where I’m Going, and Where the Hell Are My Keys?” encouraged us as we age not to throw out objects that prompt a memory. So what if that tchotchke takes up a little space? When you pick it up, hold it, rub it and lift the molecules of its texture to be raised by the gravity of your own, you remember. You go back to that day, that moment in time and you live there again.

Your body may not jump as high, recover as quickly, digest that whateveritwas with as much alacrity as it did then, but in your memory you can. And it does. And you don’t need an antacid.

And that’s why, when Sue Ellen came across a box of her own memories, and brought them to me to ruffle through and share, the voice behind my barely concealed smile said silently, “Ah, I’m right again.”

Included in her little box of memory inducing treasures were love letters from me during our brief engagement in 1975; a picture of her 1974 Korean mission team; some certificates of completion for various pursuits; and a nickel-plated bracelet on which was engraved the name of Colonel Sheldon John Burnett, and a date – March 7, 1971.

We reminisced about that bracelet, and wondered about the date. Sue Ellen remembered being one of millions who purchased for $2.50 and agreed to wear a bracelet bearing the name of an American soldier held as a prisoner of war or missing in action in Viet Nam, during what my Vietnamese friends call the American War.

Curious now, we looked up the origins of those bracelets, and what the date meant. They were conceived in 1969 by California State University, Northridge, students Carol Bates and Kay Hunter to raise awareness of missing soldiers. Bates chaired the bracelet campaign for VIVA (Voices in Vital America, originally, the Victory in Vietnam Association), a student organization that would go on to produce and distribute more than five million bracelets – as many as 40,000 a week at its peak interest.

The date, we learned, is the day the soldier whose name adorns the bracelet went missing.

Sue Ellen’s soldier went missing in March 1971, nearly three years after then Secretary of State Henry Kissinger sabotaged peace talks between North and South Vietnamese leaders to diminish the chances that Hubert Humphrey – President Lyndon Johnson’s VP – would win the presidency over Richard Nixon. Johnson had secured the peace talk agreement and the glow of that achievement would have shined on Humphrey.

Those peace talks were agreed to in 1968. A cease fire during the talks would have been likely, and the killing stopped.

The official death toll of American soldiers from that fruitless, misguided war is 58,220. Of those, 21,264 died after 1968. Including Colonel Sheldon John Burnett.

We learned Col. Burnett, from Pelham, N.H., was aboard a helicopter on a personnel transport mission to an area along the Laos/Vietnam border. The copter was shot down. Burnett did not survive the crash and his remains were not recovered at the time. On Dec. 9, 2004, the Joint POW/MIA Accounting Command identified his remains. Colonel Burnett’s name is inscribed with his fallen comrades on the Vietnam Veterans Memorial Wall in Washington, DC.

War is hell. In their quiet deliberations, even politicians know that. But when they nod, or acquiesce to the diabolical whimsy of a barely there commander in chief, they view war as some kind of video game and they watch the bombs falling on military installations, and hospitals, and schools via the onboard cameras of the planes that drop them. And somehow the fact that human beings below are vaporized, and the bombs sow seeds of hate in the next generation of sons and daughters toward those who dropped them.

The art and science of politics is to navigate the complicated landscape of differences between constituents, between nations. When negotiations “fail” or are abandoned for lack of time or commitment or personal self interest, war becomes the brutal evidence of politicians’ complete and utter failure.

“Every man has two deaths, when he is buried in the ground and the last time someone says his name,” according to a quote attributed to Ernest Hemingway Godspeed Col. Burnett and may your name, and that of untold thousands of American soldiers who politicians have sent to their deaths, be spoken of and remembered far into the future.

14 years both a lifetime and a blip

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After growing up for 14 years in the same house, a mile outside of tiny town Wisconsin, population 788, Uncle Sam’s invitation during the waning months of the military draft started a lifelong journey that included 11 interstate moves and 23 residences.

After the Army, that nomadic lifestyle was encouraged by my career pursuit of “more and better.” We chased “God’s calling” from the plains of Oklahoma, to the mountains of Colorado, to the ocean of North Carolina.

But, stability was the hallmark of my early years. I was born at a very young age and when I came home from the hospital, it was to a 19-foot trailer I shared with my parents and older sister. And then a younger sister.

But my hardworking dad bought an 80-acre farm when I was five and I lived upstairs in a big farmhouse on the “old Peterson place” from age 5 to 19. I graduated high school in the same building where I started first grade. And, the 53 members of my graduating class were basically the ones I learned to read with, except for some transfers from a small elementary school nearby.

Almost everyone around me in rural, farm country Wisconsin was similarly stable. People didn’t come and go. They were born and stayed.

I left at age 18 for college in Iowa, then came home for the summer when I got my “Uncle Sam Wants You” invitation. I RSVP’d and that party took me to Missouri, Texas and Colorado in under two years.

When I got out, I went to New Mexico to serve in a Baptist mission, then to Oklahoma to resume my education at a different college when the school where I started declined to automatically renew the scholarships I had before I was drafted.

After graduation, I worked on a newspaper in Colorado, then for a Baptist news service in Tennessee. I followed that glistening road back to Texas for seminary, then back to Oklahoma for work and finally, maybe, to North Carolina where I live now, except when I’m on my son’s farm in Pennsylvania or fleeing winter’s chill in Florida.

Twenty-three home addresses. My daughter was six when we moved to North Carolina and it was her fourth state to live in.

And, finding some riding buddies at my second home, in Pennsylvania.

My oldest son graduated from college, worked a year, then went to grad school. After grad school he found gainful employment, bought his first house, did well in his work and moved with the company to a nearby town where he bought his second house. When he had been there four years, he told me that was the longest he’d ever lived in one place.

Ouch.

I say all of the above to say that while enjoying a warm afternoon on the deck with my wife during a late winter warm spell, I realized I’d been living in this house 14 years, by far the longest I’ve lived at a single address since leaving home. It IS my sixth house and fourth city in North Carolina since I landed there when Baptist life in Oklahoma tilted far right and I rolled off in 1987.

Fourteen years is the same amount of time I lived in the house in which I grew up – 880 miles, a culture and a lifetime, away.

I started to try to wrap my head around the similarities – and dramatic differences – between the 14 years I spent in the farm house on County B and the 14 years in Winston-Salem.

The first 14 were literally a lifetime. First grade through high school. Learning to read, to write, to secure a toehold in the social hierarchy, athletics, school plays, band, first kiss and agonizing days wondering “does she like me?”

The 14 here have been so much shorter. We came here for one job, melded into another, then another, before easing into retirement. Then we started to travel and this house is home base but we’re in it less than we’re in other places. And while the first 14 years in Wisconsin were a literal lifetime, the 14 years here are a blip. An elongated blip, maybe, but they’ve passed in the same amount of time it takes a rising sun to find its nesting place in the west.

My dad was 14 when he rode his bicycle 25 miles from Lodi to Rio, WI so he could live with his aunts Vicki and Lillian and attend high school where Lillian taught. Five years later he was a dad and a few years later he planted his family at the farm for 40 years. He envied, but couldn’t quite comprehend, my nomadic journey.

And I just realized that I’m 14 years younger than my dad when he died.

Give a cyclist some room

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One of the greatest joys from a life of cycling was riding RAGBRAI in 2021 with my three children and best buddy from the Army. From left, dipping our wheels in the Mississippi River, are Austin Jameson, Norman Jameson, Erin Frank, Nathan Jameson and Steve Moorhouse.

While riding the bike lane on Longboat Key in Florida, a large SUV glided up beside me and slowed, matching my speed. Given the culture of animosity between cyclists and automobile drivers who think the road was laid for them personally and that any other user traveling five miles per hour slower than them is an impediment expressly forbidden in the Constitution, I kept my eye on it.

I’ve had doors opened to try to knock me off my bike, soda cans tossed at me and curses cast on the wind as cars pass that I can barely hear and never understand except for their volume and intent. I always laugh when people fly by me, shouting some insult that never registers because those idiots don’t realize their words dissipate in the wind like bubbles touching grass blades.

And there are the truck guys immobilized in lines of traffic driving onto the island who see me about to pass unimpeded in the bike lane so they turn their wheels and edge into my space, laughing all the way. I have the last laugh as I rap their truck with my knuckles and roll on, their being impotent – despite their big truck and heavy belt buckle – to bother me at all.

So, this creeping SUV concerns me until I notice its right directional signal blinking. He’s waiting for me to safely pass through the intersection before he turns right, behind me instead of in front of me, avoiding a collision.

May his tribe increase.

The summer of 1972 I took off on my bike from south central Wisconsin to ride 300 miles to Wayzata, MN to see a girl I’d grown close to during my one year at Luther College. I took off on my 10-speed Schwinn wearing cutoff shorts and tennis shoes. I carried a few cans of tuna fish, a few bucks, a water bottle and a sleeping bag.

I had no rain gear, no shelter, no tire repair kit, no helmet, no sunglasses. I’d bought the bike for ten bucks from a friend who’d left it outside all winter in the Iowa snow. And my route on Highway 16 was a major thoroughfare.

I rode 75 miles the first day, at least three times longer than any single ride I’d done before. I slept on the ground in some city park, uninterrupted except for the bug that crawled into my ear. It navigated deeper than I could reach with my finger and in my sleepy desperation I used the plastic tip of my shoe string to squish it so I could get back to sleep.

When I slung my leg over the saddle the next morning for the second leg of my trip, I was so tender I felt like I sat on the sharp edge of a sword.

During that trip, a car passed me just like the SUV on Longboat Key, but he turned right directly in front of me and I crashed into its side. I hit the pavement and the car stopped long enough for the driver to see that I was uninjured before it sped off.

That was on my mind as I watched the SUV beside me.

I’ve ridden across Wisconsin and North Carolina. I’ve ridden RAGBRAI across Iowa four times. My bike travels with me so I’ve ridden in many states and I’m always cognizant of the risk I’m at from inattentive drivers.

In 2023, 1,166 bicyclists were killed in crashes with motor vehicles, an 86 percent increase from 2010. Approximately 130,000 cyclists are injured annually on U.S. roads.

The common excuse of deadly drivers is “I didn’t see him.” That is NEVER an excuse. A driver is responsible to see everything in his path, from a pothole, to a stop sign, to a kid running into the street to chase a ball, to a cyclist in brightly colored clothes likely adorned with flashing lights.

I’m a little more nervous on the road now, at age 73, more aware of how close cars, trucks and landscaper trailers are to me when they pass; more aware of how distracted and careless drivers are generally.

And more appreciative of the rare auto driver who gives me a wide berth and slows to turn behind me, rather than in front.

Doers Wanted, Needed

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The doer pulls and talker rides while carrying straw to the chicken coop.

In a service economy, how do you find those who will serve?

Remember when the misguided guidance during Covid 19 lockdowns declared that only “essential” workers could go into their jobs? Those declared “essential” weren’t the pencil pushers. Not the multiple degreed, private office, soft hands, computer monitoring, expense account, long lunches crowd. It was the people who really keep society running: the grocers, plumbers, gas pumpers, street maintenance, garbage collectors, furnace fixers and liquor store clerks. 

When my youngest grandson was six he declined to help me shovel wood chips into the tractor bucket, despite the fact that I’d provided him an appropriately sized shovel. Sensing an obvious teaching moment, I paused to deliver an insightful life lesson.

“Corbin,” I said. “In this world nothing gets done without someone doing it, someone actually putting his shoulder to the task, picking up a shovel, swinging a hammer or carrying the load. Some people just want to talk about the job. Others actually do the job.”

With confident aplomb, Corbin said, “Papa, you’re a doer. I’m a talker.”

Growing up in a farming community in southern Wisconsin, I didn’t know many talkers. We were doers or we were not eaters.

Mine was a small town, a tiny town really, 788 people. All the farmers knew which boys were aging up to be useful during summer hay baling, stone picking and corn detasseling seasons. Prime years were age 13 to 15 – 12 if their mama was hefty – strong enough to throw bales, but too young to work for the canning factory. We were ripe and easily enticed by the dollar an hour standard wage.  

My uncle Donnie, the quintessential Norwegian Bachelor Farmer, trained me in most things “farm.” I lived on one side of town, in the country. He lived clear on the other side of town, in the country. We were three miles apart.

I still check the weather frequently, a farm life habit when unreliable forecasts influenced our decisions to cut the alfalfa today, or tomorrow. Will we have three days of sun after we cut it? If it’s going to rain before it’s dried enough to bale, we’ll lose most of the leaves and nutritional value as cow feed.

Now, I check the weather because I want to know if it’s going to be warm enough for a bike ride, dry enough for pickleball or sunny enough for a beach day.

Us hay haulers and stone pickers typically had a main farmer we worked for, someone who would call us first when he needed a hand, someone who asked if we’d be available in three days.

But not everyone cut hay on the same day, so we were glad when the phone rang with work for others. In addition to my uncle Donnie, I liked to work for Bob Manweller or Donovan Selle because they paid $1.25 an hour. Mrs. Selle put on a mean feed, too, and her pretty daughter managed to make herself discreetly visible.

I’ve been a doer my whole life – my wife would say people pleaser – and I swelled with pride when my dad bragged about my work ethic to friends: the way I split wood to feed the basement furnace, or cleaned the stable or mowed the yard. More than the doing, seeing what was done is the source of deep satisfaction for me.

Last year we had to reshingle our roof and put in a new furnace. I couldn’t do either one of those tasks. I did reshingle our first house in 1977, a house so small that when I put in the order, the salesman asked if I was going to cover only part of the house.

But this roofline is much more complicated. And furnaces are huge jobs, and who can fathom the pipes under the kitchen sink and where does the contents of my garbage can go on Thursdays and how does someone in Charlotte restart my modem in Winston-Salem, and when my car tires want to meander how does a guy realign them?

An average of one college a week closes its doors in this country, partly because demographics reveal fewer 18-year-olds, and partly because young people are re-evaluating the benefits of college, realizing that doers can start a career much sooner than talkers and four years later, have no student debt.

Here’s to the doers in the economy. May their tribe increase.

The day I turned old

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I turned old on August 30, 2025. I know the day. And the hour. And the moment.

No wonder the young lady stood to offer me her seat.

For much of my life, I looked younger than my age. I was a husband, father, and owned my second house before I shaved every day.

About age 26, I was in the barber chair with my hair wet and glasses off and my wife walked in, ready to take me home when I was finished, since we managed with one car. The barber noticed that she caught my eye, and asked, “Is that your mother?”

Later we listed some furniture for sale, some of our original “we-need-something-and-this-will-do-until-we-have-money,” pieces. A college girl called, said it would be perfect for her dorm, and arranged a time to come pick it up.

When I answered the door, she looked at me and asked, “Is your mother home?”

To say I was devastated is to say the Johnstown Flood was a trickle. I was floored. It took me days to get over it. Evidently, I still haven’t.

I was a college graduate, Army veteran, working a professional job with national connections and a college girl sees me in my Saturday morning T-shirt and jeans and asks if my mother is home.

I told her my mother lives in Wisconsin, 640 miles away, but if she’s here for the furniture, I can help. And then my wife picked me up off the floor.

Eventually, the sirocco winds of life aged my face, bleached my hair to arctic blonde and added enough wrinkles that I didn’t have to say, “No, really” anymore when my age came up.

My oldest son shares some of my facial features and when I’m introduced as his father, his friends invariably say, “I could’ve guessed.” I keep hoping one day someone will mistake me for his older brother.

Which brings me to the fateful day when the harsh reality of simple observation by a stranger shattered the mistaken impression that all the mirrors in my house are broken. I walk past a mirror, see the image it reflects, and I know that grizzled face can’t be me.

And yet.

In Budapest, Hungary at the beginning of a Danube River cruise taken to celebrate the 50th anniversary of marriage to a beautiful woman I had bamboozled long enough to convince her to marry me, the curtain came down on my illusion.

I stepped onto a tram car and a young woman stood to offer me her seat.

Glass shattered. Ego crumbled. Humility fallen over my shoulders like a granite yoke.

I implored the innocent to return to her seat. Over a language barrier, my pleading eyes, exasperated face and arm motions made my intention clear. “Please. No. Take your seat. ARRGGG.”

She politely declined, and I resolutely remained standing, amid the laughter of our traveling colleagues.

The insult of reality was exacerbated the next day when on a similar tram, my wife was warned that a conductor was on board and was checking tickets. In Budapest persons over age 65 ride public transportation free.  The local was kindly warning my wife that she needed a ticket.

Sue Ellen graciously informed her that she didn’t need a ticket, because she was 70. To which the kind commuter expressed astonishment, of course.

She then looked at me, seeing I was with Sue Ellen, and I swear I heard her ask, “Is that your father?”

 

‘/

Are you as good as dead?

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While collecting shellfish in Australia, Eric Nerhus was bitten almost in half and swallowed by a 10-foot shark.

Swimming 25 feet below the surface, Nerhus, 41, was grabbed over his head by the shark, which took half of Nerhus’ body into his mouth. He was as good as dead.

Thinking quickly, he reached up and poked the shark’s eyes with the chisel he used to collect abalone.  The shark open its mouth and Nehus wriggled out.

Nerhus estimates he spent two minutes inside the shark’s mouth and said his chest was protected from the shark’s sharp teeth by the lead-lined vest used to weight him down as he scoured the ocean floor. He swam to the surface in a cloud of his own blood, where his son helped him into the boat and rushed him to a hospital.

The 2010 movie “127 Hours” featured the dramatic story of Aron Ralston whose arm was pinned to a rock wall by a suddenly shifting boulder while he hiked Utah’s Blue John Canyon.

No matter what he tried to dislodge his arm, he was trapped. After four days his water ran out and he drank his urine. On the sixth day, Ralston realized he was as good as dead.

Then the 27-year-old mountain climber did what he’d always known he had to do, but could not bring himself to do when he thought there was an option. Using his own body weight for leverage, he broke both the bones in his forearm. Then, with his pocketknife Ralston cut off his arm below the elbow and applied a tourniquet. He then rappelled 60 feet to the canyon floor and started walking.

He walked seven miles before encountering two tourists who called for a rescue helicopter.  

What’s the point?

Neither Eric Nerhus nor Aron Ralston are dead. At that point in their lives when there was no prospect for more life – when they were as good as dead – they found a way.

Ever thought you were “as good as dead?”  Or wished you were?

  • In the midst of company chaos, your boss approaches you with a grim face;
  • A truck in the approaching lane veers into yours;
  • You discover your father’s debilitating illness is hereditary;
  • At a conference in his office, your docor leans forward and says, “I’m sorry.”
  • Your job loss has led to anxiety, depression and a mortgage foreclosure;
  • You face an impossible financial burden to make good for a child’s accident, illness or bad mistake;
  • A dark secret you’ve carried is suddenly revealed.

Jesus’ friend Lazarus was not only as good as dead. He WAS dead. Then Jesus exercised his power of life over death and he raised Lazarus, demonstrating to us though we be as good as dead, we still possess the life option.

The same is true for a host of other biblical characters. Young David could have killed King Saul (I Sam. 24) when Saul was relieving himself in a cave and David crept in behind him and cut off a piece of his robe. Saul was as good as dead and didn’t even know it.

Joseph had a coat of many colors (Genesis 37), and was his father’s favorite, when his jealous brothers threw him into a cistern to die. He was as good as dead.  

Shadrach Meshach and Abednego were thrown into the fiery furnace; Daniel was tossed to the lions; Jonah was swallowed by the great fish; the adulterous woman dragged for stoning by an angry mob.

Why did God rescue them? Because God had a higher purpose for their lives and something in that near death experience equipped them for that purpose like nothing else could!

Your faith isn’t feeble in the face of life threatening odds. It’s most flaccid when you operate only in the realm of your own abilities, when you’re deluded enough to think you can “do it yourself.”

My favorite traditional hymn is “A Mighty Fortress is Our God.” Verse two says, “Did we in our own strength confide, our striving would be losing.”

Remember, when your dreams and promises appear to be as good as dead – yet they breathe. Aron Ralston wandered out of the dessert after cutting off his own arm. Eric Nerhus fishes again. Childless Abraham, whose body the Bible says was as good as dead, became the father of a nation.

Senior adult groups have many adorable names. One of my favorites is the ADY – Ain’t Dead Yet – Club. Circumstances may conspire to make you feel you’re as good as dead, but guess what.

You Ain’t Dead Yet.

One is the loneliest number

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My mother-in-law, during last days in nursing care.

In August 1971 anonymous government functionaries conducted a lottery to determine the order in which 19-year-old boys would be drafted into the Army, thousands of them eventually to die in the politicians’ war in Viet Nam.

They drew my birthday first. No. 1. It was the only thing I’ve ever “won” except a case of beer at the Rio Fireman’s Picnic, and the hand of my wife. I was too young to claim the beer, and my wife was almost too young to marry.

From that day on, the musical hit “One” by Three Dog Night became the soundtrack of my life as I went off to college, hoping to get a semester in before I received my draft notice. It’s resounding assertion that “One is the loneliest number that you’ll ever do,” pounded time after time out of my reel-to-reel tape player, putting to music the angst of a life on hold.

“One is the loneliest number that you’ll ever do…

“It’s just no good anymore since you went away

“Now I spend my time just making rhymes of yesterday.”

Then the resounding, pounding refrain:

“One is the loneliest number

“One is the loneliest number

“One is the loneliest number that you’ll ever do.”

Every time that song surfaced on the radio or in sequence on my Three Dog Night album, I sank emotionally. No. 1 in the lottery. Draft certain. One is the loneliest number. The saddest experience.

Thoughts of “one” and being alone jumped at me recently while I stood in line for a table at southeastern America’s food oasis, Cracker Barrel. It hit me when the hostess asked the lady ahead of me, “How many?” and she responded, “One.” The loneliest number.

A sudden sadness for her and others being alone hit me like a gut punch through a curtain of memory.

One is the loneliest number that you’ll ever do.  And it’s a growing trend in America. We’re in an epidemic of loneliness. It’s not just aging widows and widowers. It’s younger people isolated by screens who possess no ability to communicate with real, live people.

Lacking meaningful, human to human connection can increase the risk for premature death to levels comparable to smoking 15 cigarettes a day, according to an advisory from U.S. Surgeon General Vivek Murthy.

We once called on a young man who visited our church to encourage him to become involved. He said he walks into his apartment on Friday night after work and doesn’t leave it until Monday morning. Week after week. Crawling out to visit the single adult class we led was a major effort.

The prevalence of single-person households is unprecedented historically,  rising from seven million to 38 million since 1960. 

I don’t equate “being alone” with loneliness or depression, but community involvement and social interaction is the leading indicator for health in senior adults. Of course many single adults lead vigorous, joyful, involved lives and God bless them.

It’s just that as I approach my 48th wedding anniversary I know the deep satisfaction life with a loving partner brings. I think of the shared joys, sorrows and triumphs of raising our three children, and of their loving spouses and our seven grandchildren. I would wish that common good for anyone.

Beyond that, what are the implications for a society in which so many of its members live as single, unaffiliated, isolated souls? Think – as I’m sure they are – of long term health, housing, community, end of life?

And yet, one out of four of today’s 50-year-olds will have been single their whole lives. Never married, never partnered.

Social isolation is associated with a higher risk of dementia and other serious health problems in older adults — while having positive social relationships can help people live longer, healthier lives.

In other parts of the world, nearly four in ten older adults live with extended family, an arrangement that mitigates aloneness. But older adults in the U.S. rarely live with family. 

Our culture almost demands we go it alone, that we not “need” anyone or anything. Yet that is not the preferred condition of most single adults I know.

And when the person ahead of me is asked, “How many?” her “One,” sounds like the saddest experience she’ll ever do.

“I never thought about it”

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Much of the remodeling and landscape work on my son’s renovation of a 200-year-old house and barn in Pennsylvania is being done by Amish. Their work is exemplary, consistent and dependable.

Amish settled in southeastern Pennsylvania in the 1720s, leaving behind in Europe the persecution of their “strange” and separatist beliefs. Amish emphasize humility, family, community and separation from the non-Amish world, which includes a reluctance to adopt modern conveniences such as cars and electricity.

The Pennsylvania Amish community in Lancaster County is the largest in the United States, numbering about 30,000, double its size of 20 years ago. They’re distinctive for their simple dress, beards, bonnets and horse drawn buggies.

We wanted to give visiting relatives an authentic Amish experience, without being “ugly Americans” who gawk or get our legs caught in tourist traps that exploit this set apart people. So, who better to ask for advice than Aaron, a white bearded, retired farmer now working for his son’s landscaping company on our project.

To my delight, Aaron suggested simply that if we wanted to experience Amish life in Lancaster County, “Come to my farm. I’ll show you around.” We made a date two weeks hence.

I texted a couple days before the appointment and was concerned that I didn’t hear back. But on a beautiful fall afternoon we pulled into his manicured yard and Aaron and Barbie, his wife of 40 years, appeared immediately. Since they hadn’t heard from me, they wondered if we were coming.

I mentioned the text I sent earlier. Then we both laughed. Their telephone is in a building separate from the house, to be used for business purposes only, and of course, is not mobile.

We took seats in their recently constructed house, modern and perfect in every way except that there are no electrical outlets, nor lamps, nor counter appliances, nor overhead lights. Designed to let in lots of sunlight, a propane tank on wheels with a filament bulb on a tall rod provided light when darkness falls.

A propane powered refrigerator graced the kitchen. While electricity is considered a convenience too worldly, workarounds with generators for power are apparent in the barns. Rules and restrictions governing humility and simplicity vary by area bishop.

We asked Aaron why farm implements roll on bare steel wheels, with no rubber tires. He said it’s a bishop’s rule to keep people from going fast.

Daily life is guided by simplicity and a pace slow enough to appreciate the smell of freshly turned earth or cut grass or a grandson’s grasp of your leg as you walk the fields together. No doubt outsiders romanticize these things about Amish life, but the truth is starker. Anyone dependent on modern conveniences woven so completely and unconsciously into daily life that we don’t even realize our dependence, would find it very difficult to shed them in favor of a slower, harder, more deliberate life.

For that reason, Aaron said, they do not encourage people not born into the Amish community to “convert” to their faith and culture.

As a young sharecropper, my grandfather walked behind a mule pulling a plow. But when he gained access to a tractor, he embraced the innovation and convenience wholeheartedly. Amish farmers are content with their mules. Whether tractors, telephones, automobiles or microwave ovens, they recognize that innovations do not necessarily contribute to a better, fuller, deeper life.

Sitting together in a comfortable living room, a Bible and reading glasses atop a small table by their chairs, we asked this 62-year-old couple if they were granted permission to embrace any single modern convenience – the kind of utility they see every day as they live among “outsiders” – what might it be?

Silence.

After a while I suggested to Barbie that I thought she might say “electricity.” She smiled meekly and said, “I considered that.” When pressed for his answer, Aaron said, “I’ve never thought about it.”

Whoa.

Aaron farmed 50 acres with mules, raised eight children, six of whom have 33 children, raises dogs and tobacco for extra income, gave the farm to a son and now works another son’s landscaping business, is a stalwart in church and community, and he’s never thought about what mechanical, transportation, electrical, communication tool available to others he might like for himself?

All the while he lives among outsiders who think camping out overnight to be first in line for a new phone model is logical and that instant gratification is too slow. We’re bombarded by constant messages that we will be happier if we grasp, strive and reach for the next purchase, entertainment, or experience that will somehow endow us with the satisfaction Aaron has just by living a simple life in a caring community of like-minded folks.

“Content” is the only word to describe a man whose lifestyle barricades him against the onslaught of television and social media, who has never thought about embracing modern conveniences. He is content and committed to a way of life that is set apart, not conforming to the world. Romans 12:2 He evidently thinks about such things no more than a fish considers water.

Few modern Christians are consciously set apart from the world. Our most significant symbol – the cross – has been so co-opted and adulterated that it no longer retains significance as a Christian symbol.

Maybe that’s why we admire the simple, quiet, slow – contented – pace of Amish life.

Before I met Aaron, I’d never thought about it.

What Color is Your Duck?

normanjameson 3 Comments

I was not a self-assured little kid. I lived in the country and wasn’t particularly athletic, didn’t know my way around the terminology of machinery as it seemed my friends did. I was reticent in a crowd of my peers. But I was an early, voracious reader and I felt confident in the classroom.

white duck on grass field

Photo by Christian Bowen on Unsplash

At least until Mrs. Roberts assigned a coloring project that I blew.

Louise Roberts was my first grade teacher. She was lovely, kind and patient. But my most vivid memory of my nine months with her (not the same nine months as each of her sons experienced) is the zero she gave me on a coloring assignment.

I’m quite certain it was she who delivered my first academic trauma. First grade seems right for that kind of project. I doubt it was second grade, because Mrs. McGowan never would have given me a zero.

Mrs. McGowan lived in the county seat of Portage, 14 miles and a half century from my little school in Rio, and possessed a sense of savoir faire. She loved her students enough to invite a select few one at a time to her house in Portage overnight to give them a taste of “city life.” Portage had 10,000 people, to Rio’s 788.

I was one of the lucky chosen for an evening in Portage with Mrs. McGowan and her husband, a local official. She made dinner, then they drove me around the city, and introduced me to city hall and the jail. Come to think of it, maybe she was trying to “scare me straight.” Anyway, she was sweet enough that she would have given me a second chance, not a zero that haunts me 64 years later.

Mrs. Roberts’ assignment simply was to color the animals pictured on the white sheet of paper she distributed. I forget what all the animals were, but the ducks… oh, the ducks.

What color are ducks? In all of my six years of limited exposure to Disney and storybooks in which ducks floated in ponds near where Snow White lay waiting for the kiss that would bring her back to life, or beneath the tower that held Rapunzel, the ducks were white. Pure, innocent, naïve images floating blissfully about the main story characters to remind us that even when things appear to be going smoothly, we need to paddle like crazy.

The ducks I was to color were presented to me on a sheet of white paper. So, very logically, I colored the other animals and left the ducks alone. White ducks on white paper. That’s the color of ducks.

When I got the assignment back with a big ZERO on it, I had the temerity to ask Mrs. Roberts why. She said I didn’t do the assignment because I didn’t color the ducks.  “But ducks are white,” I said, a nascent lawyer arguing for the defense.

“You should at least have colored the bills and feet,” she said. I could see her point, but how about a second chance? Maybe they were albino ducks.

Fortunately, I recovered from that initial academic setback and grew up avoiding drugs, thievery, rock and roll and mayhem.

Thank you Mrs. McGowan.

Committing Errors and Omissions

normanjameson Leave a comment

Oh good grief, will that lady please sit down so the rest of us can see?

I’m at the spring school concert for one of my grandchildren, who is dressed in white shirt and dark pants somewhere on the third row, right side, there, in the shadow, just beyond the edge of the light. Yeah, him. Take your finger out of your nose, buddy.

But the lady, and a dozen others, are making it hard to see my kid at all because they keep popping up, holding cameras, iPads, and phones at arm’s length to record their little darlings’ anonymous instant. Me, I’m trying to sit back, focus, and be in the moment so that the images and sounds in real time are seared into my memory.

I won’t need to pull up a grainy, dark, blurry picture to remember the grainy, dark, blurry image of the event I saw – through a viewfinder.

Studies show you will remember something better and appreciate it more if you concentrate on the moment with your own eyes, instead of looking at it through a viewfinder.

Elizabeth Loftus, a psychological science professor at the University of California, Irvine, says when our concentration at an event is to record it, it’s like we are offloading the responsibility of memory from our brain to our phones. Or, we’re so distracted by the photo taking process that we miss the moment altogether.

People upload 30,000 hours of content to YouTube – every hour.

I’m not sure if there is an exact parallel to the “losing the moment to a photo” idea, but I’ve discovered a strange phenomenon relating to journaling and memory. I’ve been transcribing my handwritten notes from journals of 50 years ago when I was in the army. Everything was new and not so wonderful for a young, pacifist country boy who grew up in a town of 788 people now thrust into a world of strangers being trained to kill people.

Still, there were friends, events, churches, girls and Kodak moments from those years that I’ve shared with people ever since. Special moments, meaningful events and forks in the pathway of my journey seared into my memory.

Yet, I’ve discovered that many of the most memorable, transformative, fulfilling moments of those days went completely unmentioned in my journals. Stories that made it through my memory dozens of times during the past half century never made it through my pen.

When I first realized the omissions, it struck me as strange. What I’ve come to believe, in a totally unscientific insight, is that I didn’t write down such significant things because I knew they were so memorable I’d never forget them. Things like:

  • My first ski trip when we encountered girls from church at the top of Monarch Mountain. It was my first day on skis and I’d done well and wanted to impress them. After we chatted a minute, we all turned to go down the hill and I immediately fell. Trying to catch up, I fell again and didn’t see them the rest of the day.
  • After wearing a full leg cast from a ski injury I had my buddy drive me to the base hospital to get it off, carrying my bike along with us so I could ride it home. Ha. My leg was useless until I’d rehabbed it.
  • A spur of the moment trip to Tacoma to see a girl I’d met through her cousin in Wisconsin.
  • After saving for a big ski trip to Vail, buddies Steve, Paul and I brought a fourth, Dennis, from Florida. He hadn’t skied, but said he was a surfer, so we thought if he could surf, he could ski. Wrong. After sleeping in the heatless van in the parking lot, waking to a quarter inch of frost inside the windows, we spent the morning at Vail, the premier ski area in Colorado, with him on the bunny slope. He never got it and we abandoned him.
  • Or, feeling compelled to back out of a trip to San Antonio to see a friend I’d met when stationed there, feeling I shouldn’t go. Hours after I was to leave, my mom called to say my cousin Dickie had died in a one-car accident. I went home to Wisconsin instead.

So, what prompts recollection of these events as I transcribe my journals? As I’ve gone through chronological entries, little butterflies flap around in my mind, whispering, “Didn’t this or that happen about this time?” We are an accumulation of our memories and each works in some kind of symbiotic relationship with others.

It’s kind of like how the things we eat work together in our bodies for nutrition and health. Who knows how an orange releases enzymes from a pork chop? Or how fish digests better with a glass of white wine?

I don’t. But thinking about why I wrote about fairly mundane things without recording events I considered very significant then and since makes me scratch my head.

Now, please scooch aside ma’am…I need to get this pic.