Category Archives: Learning from mistakes

The Descent Into Hell

05 Tuesday Apr 2016

Posted by in canoeing, Events, Learning from mistakes, Life along the River

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Shannondale Community Center

When we can’t turn around and go back, when we have no choice but to go forward into a place where we do not want to be, when we find ourselves in that place and do not want to be there….

One stretch of the Current River has always been problematic for me and for those with me, either because of the weather that day in storm or miserable heat or some other unexpected development. Below Round Spring to Jerktail Landing is that stretch. Few signs of civilization are evident, and that in itself isn’t a problem as long as the trip is going well. The most redeeming feature of the ten miles is the Courthouse Cave with its beautiful large flow stone near the entrance, but that is only a short paddle below Round Spring. Long relatively straight vistas of the river follow with series of shoals that prove that you are in fact descending steeply into an area where the mountains seem to grow taller by the minute and deeper into wilderness. Beyond Jerktail is an equally long stretch to Two Rivers Landing.

My partner on one trip was Tom, a big, good-natured youth with a gentle heart. We had started out the day at the tail of ten canoes, but by the time we reached this stretch we were in the lead of many tired canoers, trying to set a pace that would get us to Jerktail Landing before dark. He had worn flip-flops, against my advice, and had lost one of them when we were collecting the gear from one of the overturned canoes of people in another group along the way, so his tender feet were suffering every time we had to find our way through the shoals and his weight meant that we had to step out of the canoe frequently onto the rocky river bottom.

We had set our take-out for Jerktail Landing, although this was the first time for the new Shannondale Director Jeff Fulk to go to Jerktail. The ten mile bus ride (towing the canoe trailer behind) down the narrow , winding, rutted gravel ridge road down to Jerktail Landing was no fun for him and his two young sons with him. After paddling all day we were all-in when we arrived at the large peninsula rockbar that was Jerktail, and the canoe behind us was just within sight. Our ten canoes were probably stretched out along the river about half a mile. Jerktail itself is more barren and desert-like and larger than any other rockbar on the river, and we had to paddle several hundred yards around the rockbar to reach the Landing. Right away when we reached the Landing, Tom and I were relieved to see the Shannondale bus, but we noticed that no one was standing around it. In fact the Landing appeared to be deserted until we saw some people at a distance standing and pointing toward the river shore.

Then we saw what they were pointing at—the largest diamondback rattlesnake I have ever seen , basking in the sun at the edge of the river in the middle of the landing area. It looked to me like it was big enough to be a python but it was unmistakably a diamondback rattlesnake, something I never expected to see nor hope ever to see again in the Ozarks. We did not approach the Landing but found a calm spot near the opposite bank to wait for the other canoes, wondering what we would do if the rattlesnake did not move.

We waited for a while until the snake decided to move, and it gradually made its way along the shore until well clear of the landing area before Tom and I and all of the rest of the canoes ventured to make our way toward the landing, and before Jeff and his sons left the security of the bus. It had only been a few minutes but, as time goes, it had seemed like hours.

Some years later Jeff told me that he had never made arrangements with another group for taking out canoes at Jerktail Landing. Nor did I ask for it.

 

 

Courage Comes in Varied Guise

22 Tuesday Mar 2016

Posted by in canoeing, Caring, Death, Learning from mistakes, Life along the River, Suffering

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Shannondale Community Center

After Rod became a participant in Zion Church, he also showed strong support for Zion’s youth fellowship and frequently lended his adult help to the youth causes and events. This included sharing his vacation time in the renewed service and recreation trips to Shannondale. Knowing that Rod was new to canoeing and not comfortable in water, we tried to persuade him of the safety and enjoyment potential of the activity, assuming his careful attention to a few basic canoeing instructions. These included wearing his flotation device, learning how to read the waterway in front of the canoe, practicing some basic paddle strokes, and, of course, leaning toward an obstacle downstream when the paddlers inevitably lose control of the canoe and the current pushes them against it. His nervousness was obvious as the time approached for canoeing. Others novices were likely just as nervous, but unwilling to show it. We paired new canoeists with more experienced ones, and hoped that they would have time to learn “the ropes” before they ran into any challenge that the Current River might offer.

I chose Cedar Grove as the place to put into the river. From Cedar Grove the flow was moderate and there would be few places where portaging would be necessary due to shallow water. The river was relatively narrow there. My impression was that snags, rootwads, boulders, and other obstacles were rare in that part of the river, so Rod and other nervous beginners should have time to gain some skills before they faced more challenges downstream. We did everything but promise that they would have no problems. Even if they overturned their canoes, the river would be shallow enough in most places for them to stand up in the river and set the canoe right again, and we would be there to help. Rod accepted our encouragement and suppressed his fears.

The day for canoeing came, and the morning was cool and a little foggy, but the sun promised to burn the fog away quickly and open us to a clearer late morning and afternoon. We got an early start, and the Shannondale bus left us on the Cedar Grove beach. There was no turning back. We distributed the gear, lined up on the shore in the order that we would depart, reviewed a few basics, praised God for the beauty surrounding us and the opportunities ahead of us, and sent off one canoe at a time. Rod’s canoe was not first but among the early ones. I was probably in the last canoe, to be in a position to help the stragglers and less successful ones. The river turned to the right immediately after the put-in, so no one left on the shore could see what the canoes ahead of us were facing after the turn. Trees and brush obscured the way forward.

Right after the turn there was a snag difficult to avoid, even by an experienced canoeist, and, as it happened, the snag collected debris over a hole that was deeper than any of us was tall. Rod’s initiation into canoeing came during the first hundred yards as his canoe overturned into a pile of debris. Most of the canoes managed to avoid the obstacle, but Rod’s and another canoe overturned and they needed our help to collect themselves and their gear and get started again. Rod did not accuse us of malicious intent, but he well could have. It was evidence of his good nature that he did not complain (at least aloud), he did not give up (with nowhere to go but downstream), and he did keep going (although I could sense his relief with every break we took).

Rod continued to accompany us on trips, and he even succeeded in canoeing the next year and the year after that. Along the way in years to come, he decided to devote himself to other useful business while the rest of us canoed. He had taken his life in his hands enough times without finding a way to “enjoy” it.

The Ethan Allen Roast

11 Friday Mar 2016

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Shannondale Community Center

While we walked through the Rock House shortly after we moved in, Shannondale Director Jeff Fulk had noted in passing that the old overstuffed rocking chair with the springs sticking out of the seat had seen better days. No one could sit in it comfortably without one of the springs poking him in the wrong places. I thought he was probably right.

It happened a couple of days later, after we had been out working in the rain most of the day. When the time came for the campfire that evening, and the temperature was warm and inviting, we looked around for dry kindling, but most of the wood on the forest floor was well-soaked from the day’s downpour. The evening was too nice to waste after a nasty day, so we gathered around the campfire pit anyway. Jim Wilson was ready to tell some tales. The rest of us couldn’t compete, but we could add a few tidbits to keep him going. But what is a campfire circle without a campfire?

The old chair came to mind. Inside. Dry. Just a few yards away. I had a hatchet. I asked for a couple of volunteers to come with me. Soon we were lugging the old chair outside into the campfire area.

Some of the members of our party registered some reservations. Nonchalantly I noted that we had enough money to replace the chair. I chopped off a few pieces and got a fire going, enough to dry out some damp wood and keep it going. Then for whatever reason—I don’t remember—I left the scene. When I returned someone (or ones) had toppled the remainder of the chair onto the fire and the resulting blaze was reaching as tall as the bottoms of the pine tree overhead. Fortunately for us, the tree was still wet from the day. Fearing the worst I called for help to bring some buckets of water from the house, and we successfully dampened the blaze down to a manageable size before the tree above us caught fire.

 

The Gift of Carrot Cake

09 Wednesday Mar 2016

Posted by in Caring, Learning from mistakes, People, Volunteering

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Shannondale Community Center

We were at Shannondale Community Center for a summer week of service and recreation in the Current River NSRP. Jim Wilson was our guide with his many years of experience in construction as we repaired and applied vinyl siding to a house that had seen many additions with sidings in various degrees of disrepair. The elderly widow who resided there was very grateful for our crew of adults and youths who were helping her achieve a long-held dream.

The lady of the house helped in various ways. She gave us access to her inside toilet (which was not always available in the project houses we tackled). She provided water and iced tea for our refreshment. She pointed out the nest of copperheads in the patch of weeds at the east side of the house, and warned us that baby copperheads were as dangerous as adult ones, so we were very careful when we removed them to work there (They were very cute.). On the second day, when we were eating the sack lunches we had prepared as usual at breakfast in the Shannondale kitchen, she came out of the house with a beautiful carrot cake in a sheet cake pan—enough for all sixteen of us, though some of our group declined the gift. Several of us felt the obligation to have a piece of the cake, whether we liked carrot cake or not, because she had gone to the trouble of preparing it for us in gratitude for the work we were giving to her. I thought the cake was delicious. Danielle ate the cake but not the frosting. We finished the siding project soon after lunch and went on to other things.

That evening one of our group began to feel unwell and turned in early, skipping the campfire at the end of the day. I heard her vomiting as I went to bed. Not long after that someone else was headed to a noisy stomach-emptying in the common bathroom where we stayed. An hour later another one succumbed. The bathroom was becoming very busy, and no one had the luxury of being able to wait. Fortunately, the group shower house and toilet facility was not far away, and part of the group stayed at the community center building with its two bathrooms. About 2 A.M. yours truly of the iron stomach began to take my turn. It was a long miserable night, but as we compared notes, we came to the unavoidable conclusion that it was not an intestinal virus. Everyone who had eaten the cake with the cream cheese frosting had gotten ill. Everyone who had turned down the cake, and Danielle who had eaten the cake but not the frosting, had remained well. No one got a lot of sleep that night.

The morning dawned beautifully, and some of our group enjoyed breakfast. I had some toast and a little coke. We had promised to tackle another task, which was to help an area resident move her household furnishings into storage until another place became available. Enough of us were in good shape to do the job, and most of the rest of us tagged along, getting stronger as the hours passed.

As miserable as the night was, I would not have changed it. From that point on “carrot cake” became our humorous code phrase for anything that was a well-intentioned but questionable gift. Sometimes we learned to say “thanks” but “no thanks,” but it is always a challenge to be gracious when refusing a gift.

One More ‘Stupidest Things I Have Ever Done’

04 Thursday Feb 2016

Posted by in Events, Faith, Learning from mistakes, Life along the River, People

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Rock Creek Wilderness, Oregon

Returning to Shannondale along the Current River in Missouri was one of my fond dreams when I came to Zion Church in Burlington. Dean Moberg said that he also was eager to return, with his pleasant memories of getting to court his wife-to-be at that camp. Therefore, we planned a trip with Dean and Jeri, Art Klein, and several fine high school young people. We camped at Peaceful Point at Shannondale the first couple of days, did a service project—cleaning up and painting some camp facilities, and proceeded to canoe the river, putting in at Cedar Grove, canoeing to Pulltite in the morning, and reaching Round Spring in the late afternoon, a  twenty-mile trip  on the first day.

That year I had suggested  that we  do what I had done with other groups earlier, which was to carry food and gear with us in canoes, stay overnight on the river at one of the campgrounds or gravel bars, and canoe the next day another twenty miles to Two Rivers. The Current River’s… well…fast current, of course, had enabled this ambitious agenda with groups that were largely novices, as well as heavy rains on the days prior to previous trips. On this year of return, the river was quick, but not so quick, and the rains that came, came on the second day of our planned canoeing.

The second day opened gray and overcast, but seemingly warm enough, so “we” decided to go ahead with our planned trip, all the way to Two Rivers. (I don’t know if my enthusiasm was operative in the “we” or whether it was really a consensus.) We hadn’t been on the river more than ten minutes when the rain began, and, at first, it was gentle and warm. Not very long afterwards, it ceased to feel warm . Most of our group did not bring raingear. We stopped at a rock overhang and brought out the box of large garbage bags (along with duct tape, the other requirement for any trip we planned). At least everyone had an improvised raincoat for the rest of the trip. In addition to the dampness, the temperature began to fall.

Finding another rock overhang with just enough space for all of our group, and everyone beginning to be both tired and cold, we stopped for lunch.  We needed a break from paddling, the energy from the food and drink we had packed for the trip, and also warmth from somewhere. My matches were wet, but, fortunately we had smokers with us. Art used his lighter and the few items that were still dry to get a smoky fire going, providing just enough warmth to thaw us out a little, when we took turns standing near it.

We had no choice but to continue downriver. There was no place to pull out of this section of the river until we had paddled ten more miles to Two Rivers, where there was a store and a phone to reach our Shannondale driver, who would pick us up and save us from ourselves.

Our only hope to avoid hypothermia was to paddle like the devil and avoid the usual tipping of the canoes. Since these seemed too much to hope for, our only hope really was to pray like the…saints, even if we weren’t.

Never was I happier to have three determined adult helpers and a mostly good-natured and forgiving group of high school young adults. Together, urging each other on, we made it. When we finally reached Two Rivers and our Shannondale helper picked us up, I hurried to rent the Goat Barn for our overnight accommodations, instead of setting up our wet tents. We made liberal use of the hot showers and established the custom of closing our canoe trip with a visit to Salem’s Pizza Hut.

(Some readers may offer corrections to this memory and life-lesson; they are welcome!)

 

Heat Pump Heaven

27 Wednesday Jan 2016

Posted by in House, Learning from mistakes, Seasons

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We appreciate our heat pumps. The theory behind them is irreproachable—reverse refrigeration—taking heat from the outside and putting it inside in winter, and taking heat from the inside and putting it outside in summer. A local company installed our main floor unit fifteen years ago and the lower level unit fourteen years ago and then promptly went bankrupt. We found a good serviceman to keep the units in repair, after lightning did some damage to the upper unit’s electronic components. Although the manufacturer was a reputable company, he reported that it contained several outdated parts. He kept it going for us nonetheless. The lower unit, on the hand, has never given us a bit of trouble. It keeps plugging along, passing every inspection.  Finally, a year ago in the fall, when the upper unit fan and compressor warned that they did not want to survive another winter, we decided to find a replacement.

We examined several alternatives and finally narrowed the search to another major manufacturer. A Trane would replace a Carrier. It sounded like a very good system, but when it was installed it did indeed sound like a train. The blower, starting out as barely a whisper, built up the wind pressure of a gale in a Midwestern thunderstorm, pillowing the vinyl flooring in the bathroom and kitchen. A few days later we recalled the installer, who adjusted it to a moderate wind, saying that it had been set for Florida, instead of an Arkansas setting. Florida homes require such a tempest because of their high humidity. I accepted the explanation. The Arkansas setting provided a tolerable breeze, and the flooring stayed where it belonged.

We finally got the missing panel delivered for the air handler, which somehow had gotten lost in New Orleans, and the programmable thermostat that had been promised finally replaced the temporary manual adjustment model. By that time, our winter stay concluded, and the need for neither heat nor cool was evident in the mild spring, summer, and early fall visits that followed.

Our November stay provided the first serious test of our new system since February as the outside temperature fell to freezing, and we let the thermostat kick into action. Very little happened. The blower provided markedly less sound than it had, and the heat, drifting out of the vents, was warm enough, but lacked motivation. When I checked the crawl space where the air handler is located, I found the problem. The return air vent, stressed by the new fan pressure, had collapsed, flatter than a proverbial pancake. Not much air was going to get through that vent, which had severed its connection to the rest of the house.

We called back to the installer who was very quick to come and replace the return air vent with a solid metal vent wrapped with thick insulation. They took no responsibility for the collapse of the earlier system, which probably would not have held up in either Arkansas or Florida, so another investment was needed on my part, making this the equal to earlier estimates for a geothermal replacement, much to my chagrin, although who knows what unforeseen costs would have come with that installation?

Now, comfortably ensconced in our Ozark home with a balmy 72 degrees inside while the wind blows at 25 mph in the 25 degree temperature outside, all is right with the world.

The Church between the police and the hood

23 Saturday Jan 2016

Posted by in Caring, Church, Faith, guns, Learning from mistakes

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We smelled smoke as soon as we entered the church. It was the fall of 1968, and the fourth Sunday that we went to worship at First Presbyterian Church of Chicago, located in the middle of the south side community of Woodlawn, a few blocks from our apartment. The usher said that someone had firebombed the church office, and many of the records had been removed before the fire, so it was clearly an effort to cover the theft of the records; more than likely it was the Red Squad, a unit of the Chicago Police Department. Fortunately, the fire had been reported and firemen had arrived to put out the fire before a lot of damage occurred.

The Chicago Police had entered the church a few months before and confiscated the weapons that the church had collected from members of the area gang that had taken the name “BlackPStone Nation” as part of an agreement to trade weapons for jobs and opportunities. The “P” in their name supposedly meant “Peace,” but not everyone was persuaded of their intent. The church had objected to the way the police had acted, but not the idea of removing weapons, because that was their plan all along, and they hadn’t decided what how they were going to eliminate the weapons in their possession.

Whatever the church had tried in order to create peace in the neighborhood and that necessarily involved working with the neighborhood gangs, had come under suspicion by the police and some of the political leaders of the city, although other leaders had encouraged their efforts; the church and its pastor, John Fry, kept trying. If the gang leaders ever had good intentions, in cooperating with the jobs and opportunities programs, some of which were funded through the federal government, they eventually gave up when the church came under relentless criticism and was subjected to warrantless searches and fire-bombings.

So we worshipped, prayed for peace in the neighborhood and jobs for the young people, and listened to amazing and prophetic preaching from Pastor Fry. Fry published some books about the issues, notably, Fire and Blackstone, testified before a Congressional Committee, and lectured around the country on efforts to work with one’s neighborhood.

Months later Jan got a job as interviewer with the Illinois State Employment Service on 63rd Street, and she tried for a year to combat the hurdles of inadequate resources, job discrimination, and miles to go within the city environment for people to get to job interviews, much less to land a job that paid enough to keep making the trip. By that time, I was working on projects that took us to other churches within the city. Pastor Fry moved on. Efforts to establish peaceful work and education programs for the young adults of the South Side largely fell apart. Gang leaders and many of its members eventually landed in a cycle of prison, release, and more prison, until they either died or retired. Last time I checked, First Presbyterian was still there, smaller and older, trying to serve the neighborhood, gangs are still operating in the neighborhood, and politicians still are covering their….

Becoming a Draft Counselor

18 Monday Jan 2016

Posted by in Citizenship, Events, Faith, Growing up, Learning from mistakes

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Chicago skyline 1970

I was almost finished with applications for conscientious objector status when a physician informed me that the question had no personal significance since I would not pass the physical examination anyway, even if I wanted to serve in a non-combatant role. Since I was opposed to the U.S. involvement in the war in Vietnam, I looked for other constructive ways to be involved. In the fall of 1968, as we took up residence in Chicago and I continued graduate studies for ministry, I entered the American Friends Service Committee training for draft counselors.

Having training in law would have been an advantage in dealing with the selective service system and legal precedents in the cases that we studied, in order to give helpful information to people who came with concerns, both draft-eligible men and their families. Having more experience in counseling also would have been useful, but some of that came with the counselees as they presented their questions. Motivations and concerns varied greatly, and responding equitably and sympathetically to people who held different beliefs and values was challenging. Enough trained people participated as counselors that it was not overly demanding for each of us who entered the volunteer AFSC network, and that was important as I tried to balance all of the requirements of study, work, service to others, and being a new husband. It could have been much harder, and I still would not have faced a fraction of the hardships that several of my friends and family, and especially my family-members-to-be, were facing in Vietnam.

Those who came with questions included people who were conscientious objectors, people who were simply draft avoiders, people who wanted to help others in their family or friendship circles who were having trouble dealing with the variety in draft boards and their practices, people who were in the military service but unwilling to fight in Indochina, people who were already in trouble one way or another, and those who were interested in all the options that were available before they committed themselves. We all had a lot at stake, and, although I was glad that an all-volunteer force replaced the selective service system, finding ways to serve our country as good citizens was in front of all of us in ways that have not been matched afterward.

Serving our country as citizens remains a universal duty, but being willing to kill people who differ with us in perspective, who are not threatening us, as persons or as a nation, in any direct or meaningful way, is not justifiable. Often personal judgment must be set aside, but too often conscience has been set aside as well, in responding to the orders that come from a chain of command.

We are now in the gap between the Vietnam War’s foggy beginnings and ignominious ending fifty years ago. I still puzzle about how to honor those who served their country as soldiers and those who served their country as resistors, then and now. The phrases “serving our country” and “defending our freedoms” pass easily off the lips of many people. The reality is much more complicated and difficult.

Mumps the Second Time Around

09 Saturday Jan 2016

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Bridge in Autumn

We had lived in the Paxton area for several months but had not yet established a family doctor. Doctor Hilgenberg at Tolono, Illinois, had served our growing family for twelve years before we moved to Paxton. He had delivered two babies, David and me, and seen my family through a multitude of young adult and childhood illnesses, but we needed a doctor close to our new home. Our neighbors recommended Dr. Peterson, who had earned their loyalty through many years of sacrificial service.

I had been ill for a several days with an increasingly severe sore throat. Dad and I climbed the long dark stairway to Dr. Peterson’s office on the second floor of a downtown business—he carried me the last half of the stairs. We entered a crowded waiting room and sat for what seemed like an eternity to my seven year old internal clock. Finally the nurse called us into the doctor’s examining room, and Dr. Peterson gave his diagnosis. It was a simple case of the mumps.

“He’s already had the mumps,” my father answered. He had them a year ago when his brother did.”

Dr. Peterson was not perturbed. “He has them again. It happens sometimes.”

We went home and resumed the waiting for the mumps to take their course. As the days wore on, the fever increased, as did the swelling and pain, not only of my throat, but in my chest and in the joints in arms and legs. Mom and Dad became more anxious as I became sicker, and they decided to try the new clinic that had just opened with some physicians new to the community.

Dr. Noble was not well-known, as Dr. Peterson had been, and he was exceptionally sober and reserved. “Not mumps.”  I recall that he mentioned two more words—penicillin and hospital, which led to a conversation about how to care for me at home and come in for a shot and exam every day for the next as yet undetermined number of days.

That is how I began second grade, at home, making regular trips to the clinic for shots in my sore butt, and doing homework assignments while lying on the couch, with occasional drawings and letters from my classmates that my teacher, Mrs. White, included with the assignments  sent home with Mom. As I gradually began to feel better, it was a treat to receive the attention of classmates from a distance. I was ready some weeks later to go back to school, but I soon learned that I was behind everyone else in my class and had some catching up to do. When reading aloud I was the slowest and far from the smoothest.

Dr. Noble listened to my heart everyday and told me that I had developed  a murmur, but it wasn’t too bad. From that point on I could always feel my own heartbeat and assumed that everyone else could, too.  

Sneaking into the Christmas Gifts

16 Wednesday Dec 2015

Posted by in Events, Growing up, Learning from mistakes, Seasons

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Happy Holidays.

My brother and I never had a reason to be in my parents’ bedroom when they were not there. The room was upstairs in a ‘newer’ wing of the hundred-some year-old farmhouse where we grew up. We gained access to the bedroom by going through the bathroom that replaced one of the three tiny bedrooms of the original story-and-a-half cabin. (You might say that it became the ‘Master Suite’ except that there was only one ‘inside’ bathroom in that house, and everyone used it when it worked, which was only part of the time.) Obviously my parents were not at home when we went into their bedroom. My older brother, David, must have been about thirteen, and me, eight, when this event occurred. We felt safe in sneaking in.

David thought he knew where the Christmas gifts must be kept—in the little closet at the far end of the bedroom. He opened the door and rummaged through the clothing and shoes to get to the hidden part of the closet, and he said that—sure enough—there were packages back there. Did I want to see what I was getting?

Of course, I wanted to see. What was I doing in that room with him if I didn’t want to see what I was getting for Christmas? What eight year old boy wouldn’t want to know ahead of time? At that moment something told me not to look and not to ask and not to let him tell me. I shrank from knowing ahead of the time how my parents wanted to surprise me.

My brother became a generous man. Perhaps it was an early manifestation of his generosity that he was sharing with me this escapade into sneakerdom. He certainly didn’t have to include his bothersome little brother in this opportunity. He didn’t need me as an accomplice either. It is not clear in my memory that my mother discovered this intrusion into the back corners of her closet, but she was observant and she probably did, and my brother probably paid for the infraction of unwritten Christmas rules with the humiliating insight that he could not be trusted in that day’s responsibility.

Among the many gifts coming from my parents that I do remember from those childhood years, I do not remember what I received on that particular Christmas, except the knowledge that I could be tempted, and that finally I could resist the temptation of knowing what I wasn’t supposed to know ahead of time. I could wait and be patient and learn in due time. That, and what my brother learned, were the most important and memorable gifts from that Christmas.