The third one of my books, Words from the Lakeside, has just been released in a second edition. This edition has a greatly expanded number of significant quips, quotes, and one liners that are now distributed throughout the book in what were empty or white spaces at the ends of chapters or stories.
Words from the Lakeside is a combination anthology and collection of quotes, quips, poems, essays, letters, short stories, and memoirs. Many of my contributions were written as early as 1960. Some of the quotes are from earlier times, dating as far back as before the Common Era.
Over many years I have collected a wide variety of sayings, letters, poems, essays and short stories - fictional and true. All of the short stories and essays are my own work along with many of the sayings and other writings. In any case, the sources and authors are acknowledged except for those marked, unknown or anonymous. Most of the fictional short stories are science fiction and most of the true short stories are memoirs from my childhood and youth years around Lake Tippecanoe in Northern Indiana. Because of the variety from one liners to complete stories, Words from the Lakeside is an ideal read for a few minutes or for a relaxed hour. Many of the true stories are actually memoirs recalling memorable happenings from a very full life. I have had a blast for a life with many contacts with wonderful and fascinating people—friends, relatives, and those sharing but a single moment. Many of these haunting experiences are shared within the pages of this book.
Parts of the memoirs are very personal revelations. Most are fond memories of treasured experiences, often with loved ones. Some are memories that carry some unpleasantness, but that is just the way with life; bad things do happen. The road will always have some bumps and maybe a few washouts.
Most of the short stories are hard science fiction, This kind of fiction is described in the first part of the blog: http://hojobooks.blogspot.com and on page 2 of the companion booklet, Books by Howard Johnson. The great thing about hard science fiction is that it is all conceivable, no magic, no ghosts, nothing technically impossible—well, maybe a few small things once in awhile like faster-than-light travel.
This book is actually a combination of two of my books, Memoirs from the Lakeside and Starring. It also contains a much larger collection of quotes, quips, and bon mots from many sources. The short pieces, one to a few sentences, are placed throughout the book in what are white spaces in Memoirs from the Lakeside. The excerpts from Memoirs from the Lakeside that follow are representative of Words from the Lakeside so there is no point in duplicating them here. The blog: http://HJStarr.blogspot.com contains several of the short stories from this book and duplicated in my collection of short stories, Starring.
I like to refer to each of these books as anytime readers that one can peruse for a few minutes or a few hours at a time. That's because
______________________________________________________
I am a member of a group of memoir writers who meet for an hour and a half every Wednesday morning. Several members read their work during each meeting, then we all can comment. It is interesting to note that often one memoir will trigger a memory of a similar or related story in one or more of our minds. Almost every meeting, one reading will trigger a memory in my mind and prompt me to write a new memoir. The number of memoirs I have written as part of this group are now a part of both of my memoir books, my from the Lakeside books.
The same improved versions of every memoir and short story included in the second edition of Words from the Lakeside are now available in two books. Again, this book, Memoirs from the Lakeside, is a very personal collection of many memoirs. I’m sure I have enough more memories to fill at least one more book of memoirs. It seems that each memoir I write prompts memories of other happenings worth writing about.
Excerpts: Parts of several sections of the book
DEDICATION
This book is who I am, what I think, what I believe, what I imagine, what I dream of, why and whom I love . . . in short, it is a collection of bits and pieces of my life—of me. It is also a testimonial to all those beautiful human beings who, through love and some blunt trauma, helped me become the person I am. Therefore, I dedicate this book with great love and affection to all of my family and friends, those persons whose actions helped create, guide, inspire, stimulate, and mold my life into the person I am today. My passionate desire to please and never to displease them has guided me in positive directions throughout my lifetime. The family members, lovers, friends, mentors and teachers who have left this earth are greatly appreciated and sorely missed. I have been so blessed by these wonderful people and many friends and acquaintances.
It includes all of the same memoirs published in he second edition of my first anthology, Words from the Lakeside. My passionate desire to please and never to displease them has guided me in positive directions throughout my lifetime. The family members, lovers, friends, mentors, and teachers who have left this earth are profoundly appreciated and sorely missed. I have been blessed to have known all of these incredible people, family, friends and acquaintances.
I have decided to list in this dedication as many of those people as I can without creating an entire new book. They are remembered in roughly chronological order. Many of these important people have roles in stories and essays in this book. I have been blessed with a close, loving relationship with members of my family, unique to each one. Those described as special were not loved any more than others. There was something different, maybe magic, about the two of us together. It defies definition. There were those, other than family, with which I felt a special connection as well. In this book, there is a description of a conversation with one of my grandparents that clearly illustrates my meaning. Those that are not listed are no less loved or appreciated. If I listed all of them, there would be no pages left for the burgeoning content already in place.
The first was of course, my mother, Ethel Johnson. A tiny woman, she was still a powerful and loving presence to all who knew her. Mom was a dedicated Christian with all of the best that can mean. She was a loving mother, in the best sense of that calling. She was also a shining example of a truly decent person to everyone she met for the entire 96 years she was alive on this planet. To my knowledge, every organization she joined in her life elected her president. She was loved by all family and friends who knew her.
My father, Howard R. Johnson, was a decent, honorable, Christian man. He was as terrific and faithful a father as a boy, then a young man could have. Our close, extended relationship continued when we were in business together for nearly twenty years. A stable, dependable man, he taught me that tears were a manly expression saying only brave and secure men cry openly. Many of the most joyous moments in my life were when I made him proud of me. I will never forget the countless happy hours we spent together, or the experiences we shared.
My grandparents, Eva May and George Dickinson, were the only grandparents I knew. My father’s parents both died before I was old enough to remember. Grandma Dick was a strong and loving woman who taught me a great deal. Granddad Dick and I had a special, close relationship that was reinforced during numerous fishing trips. Granddad Dick was a master story teller and wove his magic on me frequently, when I was quite young. He taught me much about the realities of life, and how to deal with them.
Many a time when one of his stories was being woven on their porch I would hear Grandma Dick calling from elsewhere in the house, “George! You quit filling that boy’s head with your nonsense.”
Granddad would grow silent for a moment then resume with a much softer voice.
My sisters, one a virtual second mother, the other, my nemesis during my childhood, added their individual, loving touches to whom I am. Both, like our mother and father, were deeply Christian women, but quite different in their passions and how they practiced their religion. Lois, twelve years my senior was much like our father, even being born on his birthday. A strong willed yet gentle and loving force, she and I were extremely close. Roberta or Bobbie, six years older than I, had a temperament different from Lois’s. We fought constantly when we were young, typical sibling battles, but often quite passionate. As adults we still battle occasionally over differences of opinions, but those differences have no effect on the strong bonds, of love and respect, we have for each other.
My two brothers-in-law, Lois’s husband Harold, and Bobbie’s Robert were as fine a set of brothers as a man could have. As different as my two sisters, they were a positive influence on others and especially on their little brother or Bro.
There were aunts, uncles, and cousins, who brought joy and companionship to early days. Though most are now passed away, they are all remembered fondly. Of those few remaining, several are still kept in contact if only with Christmas cards.
There are nephews and nieces and their families in almost countless numbers, the next generation now carrying the torch of family. They are also loved and treasured. There are many among the group with whom I have a special relationship. You know who you are and what I mean.
The lovers in my life have had a staggering emotional impact on the person I am. There are stories about most of them herein. I will not provide the details, some of which could be painful to many people involved. Needless to say, each of them was loved deeply and passionately. I still care deeply for each of them and know the love shared with each diminishes in no way the love for any of the others.
Dolores was my first love, professed at 17, who became my wife and the mother of five of my children. A dedicated and devoted mother, she sacrificed many times for our children. After many happy years with our large brood, our marriage fell apart, and we were divorced. With the well being of our children foremost in each of our minds, we kept our difficulties hidden as best we could. Neither of us ever said a bad or harmful thing about the other to any of our brood. Time softened our feelings and buried our differences. We enjoyed a friendly relationship until her death.
Caroline rescued me from the depths of depression and helped me regain my lost self esteem. Her love and compassion were the most powerful forces in turning my life from the angry, damaging path I had chosen. She presented me with a beautiful daughter in 1968. For several reasons and in spite of our great affection for each other, we parted company when Kristen was three. To my boundless joy, we have been reconciled and are now friends.
Iola came into my life a few years after I left Cleveland and moved to Chicago to try to put my life back in some kind of order. Once more I stumbled into a truly exceptional woman who helped me restore my devastated self respect. Iola has two delightful daughters who became, and remain to this day, as two of my own. After a number of years together, we drifted apart when I moved to Indiana.
Barbara, my wife and companion for the golden years, brought joy and her two delightful grown sons into our marriage. She also filled my life with love and spirited activity. When I began writing seriously, she became my editor and critic. She was positively brutal with a red pen. Her efforts contributed a great deal directly to this book.
After we were married, she became a Methodist pastor and led a small country congregation in a church “in the middle of three cornfields” as she always said.
A committed Christian, she took to the ministry with a vigor and determination that grew the small church considerably. With both of us far from any family, the congregation became our family, warts and all as she frequently remarked. I was so proud of her accomplishments in the pulpit and with the many members who loved her dearly and showed it. It was devastating to us both when she had to step down because of failing health. The outpouring of accolades and tears from the congregation on her last day in the pulpit was overwhelming. She left us at far too early an age and is now missed terribly, and will continue to be.
Daphne, who came into my life possibly through the efforts of my guardian angel (story in the book) is now my passion, my lover, and my dearest friend. It is our sincere hope we can enjoy many of the golden years together and then go peacefully. She brought her own large and loving family with her along with a bevy of dear friends. They have now become my family and friends as well. Sadly, one of us will mourn the other when the time comes.
My children and grandchildren are a precious legacy of deep and everlasting love. Again, there is much about each of them in the book. I am so proud of what they have accomplished, and the individuals they have become.
Deborah, Debby, or Deb, is a delightful and energetic woman, the mother of two grown sons and grandmother of my first great-grandchild, Kelan. A dedicate career educator, she is a hard worker, leader, and friend to others. The winter I spent with her after losing Barb was a precious time of remembering, healing, and getting on with my life. It was a joyful, lifting experience at a time when I needed to be lifted.
Howard Michael, Mike, or Noward to his siblings, is the kind of son many men dream of having. He has three accomplished sons of his own. The oldest, Russ, and his wife presented me with my second great grand child, a girl named Jameson.
Roberta, Robbie, Rob is a full-time mother to three teenage girls. The quiet one of her siblings, she is a softly loving woman with deep emotions.
Diana, or Dee Dee is a vivacious bundle of energy and love. The Aunty Mame of our family, there is never a dull moment when she is around.
Melinda, or Mindy, is the delightful, loving mother to an active young son and a daughter who is a dynamo of loving energy. We have a particularly close and uniquely loving relationship.
Kristen, Caroline’s daughter, came back into my life in the summer of 2009 after a long absence to my utter amazement, boundless joy, and incomparable loving delight. Mother of two adorable little girls I met for the first time a few months later, she, her husband Vince, and those two little girls have fulfilled my long-held fond dreams of reunion with buckets of tears of sheer joy.
To the various spouses and children of my children I am especially indebted and enamored. I could write pages about each of you and your spouses or significant others, but Words from the Lakeside would then take several volumes. Let it be known you are all treasures of my heart and enjoyable to be with. Sadly, our times shared together are far too few.
To the many friends I have enjoyed during each of the passages of my life I say, thanks for the memories. Though many of you from the early years have lost touch, I remember you fondly. I especially treasure the memories and renewed contact enjoyed at our fiftieth Heights High reunion in 1996. There are many friends from the forty-five years of membership in the Euclid Avenue Christian Church now in Cleveland Heights, Ohio. Then there are the new friends brought into my life by moves and relationships. My membership in the Leesburg United Methodist Church brought new friends. My marriage to Barbara and the church she served, Morris Chapel United Methodist Church, brought more new and dear friends. Many of those I mentioned are close and cherished to this day.
Since the latest passage of my life has taken me to St. Augustine, I have garnered many new and close friends. I have become a member of two singing groups here, Singers by the Sea, and the St Augustine Community Chorus. These and the Socrates discussion group I joined have each brought new friendships. I am actively involved in The Florida Writers Association as well as several critique groups of writers. I am pursuing my thespian activities in a drama group at the Council on Aging. Also, at the Council on Aging I offer lectures on energy and global warming. These are all important new parts of my life.
Last, but certainly not least my lady, Daphne, brought her large family into my life as well as her circle of friends. With four daughters, two sons, and thirteen grandchildren, they are an impressive group. I feel a special bond with her children and their spouses who have each treated me with grace and warm affection. Those of her grandchildren I have had the opportunity to get to know have treated me in the same gracious manner. Each is now a vital part of my life. Her many friends have become my friends as well.
I close this dedication with a repeat of the true words with which I started.
This book is who I am, what I think, what I believe, what I imagine, what I dream of, why and whom I love . . . in short, it is a collection of bits and pieces of me—of my life. It is also a testimonial to all those beautiful human beings who, through love and some blunt trauma, helped me become the person I am. Therefore, I dedicate this book with great love and affection to all of my family and friends, those persons whose actions helped create, guide, inspire, stimulate, and mold my life into the person I am today. My passionate desire to please and never to displease them has guided me in positive directions throughout my lifetime. The family members, lovers, friends, mentors and teachers who have left this earth are greatly appreciated and sorely missed. I have been so blessed by these wonderful people and many friends and acquaintances.
PREFACE
Over the years, I have collected, written, and saved many stories, quotes, comments, letters, and poems. These include facts, ideas, thoughts, hypotheses, or theories from my mind and soul. My purpose in writing this book is to share these with others. I designed it to be a book one can pick up and read for a few minutes or for hours. Its content runs from single lines to multi-page stories, memoirs from my life. My own opinions on numerous subjects are sprinkled liberally throughout the book. Like every other human mind, I may be right or wrong. I try to think and also to write in a rational way, rather than emotional, especially about those subjects that require or could use serious, thoughtful effort. It is quite difficult to keep those emotions from breaking into even serious, rational discourse, but at least I make the effort. Things of the heart and soul, however, are tied much more to feelings and emotions. I hope the reader will feel my emotions as they have a powerful effect on this work in virtually every part of life where feelings participate.
Much of the first section of this book describes concepts that make sense to me and feelings I have personally experienced. I believe one’s personal belief system will determine their religious and political beliefs, their relationships with others, the kind of life they lead, and ultimately, the person they are at any given time. The first page has two short pieces about my personal belief systems. They describe the most significant of my guiding principles. The next page describes how I try to relate to my children, a most salient part of who I am.
My freely expressed opinions may or may not be in accord with the thinking of those who read my words. This especially includes my views on both of the no, nos of human verbal interaction, religion and politics. Because both areas can be so emotionally charged and can be quite devoid of rational thoughts, there is an opportunity to offend, bring to anger, and damage feelings. Those from many emotional persuasions will surely find themselves pricked by barbs from many directions. I am no respecter of political correctness and pride myself in being an equal-opportunity offender though it is certainly not my intent to do so
The following statements are a collection of my current basic beliefs relating to interactions with other individuals. It is provided so you can better understand the basis and origin of what I have to say. It explains how I see myself and how to understand my words.
I am a believer in myself and those individuals I trust.
I trust no politician, political operative, political activist, government official, celebrity, or media reporter or talking head I do not know personally, and very few of those I do.
I see politics, religion, and culture as powerful belief systems often used by unscrupulous individuals to control others for their own purpose.
I am not a follower of or beholden to any ism, group belief system (religious, political, cultural, or other), political party, union, peer group, grant committee, dean or head of faculty, political or other boss, or corporate officer at any level. This is why I am free to express my own opinions without disrespect, concern for, or apology to anyone or any group.
I consider myself a truly independent and quite liberal individual, a realist who knows what it means to conserve, an equal opportunity supporter or offender, although any offense taken is not intentional.
I am not ever in any way controlled, intimidated or cowed by any kind of political correctness. I believe it to be a creation of the many narcissist members of the entertainment world and in particular the TV news media. These self serving hypocrites use PC to coerce people into speaking and thinking the way they determine. It is merely one more system that elitist intellectuals use to try to control others, mostly the gullible, unthinking lemmings so many people, including especially Americans, have become.
I will not accept as a fact, any words, concepts or ideas that do not meet the tests of logic, reason and/or hard science as I understand them. My opinions and beliefs are subject to change when and if new information makes a change necessary. I see the inflexible, closed mind - the mind of the fundamentalist of any flavor, religious, political, social, cultural, or other - as an evil curse on the individual whose mind is closed for any reason.
It is clear to me that thousands of free and independent individuals and groups working in a favorable competitive environment, under a capitalist system with limited government in a democratic republic, are infinitely superior to a central decision making collectivist body or government of any kind. The bigger and more powerful the government, the less freedom individuals have to grow and improve their life and the lower will be the standard of living under that government. Examples of this reality abound now and throughout history for at least the last 3,000 years. Freedom works. Collectivism always leads to impoverishment, dependency, and ultimately some form of slavery.
I believe in treating every individual with respect and honesty. These both deserve respect and honesty in return. However, I see no reason to be bound to do the same when faced with disrespect or dishonesty, but I will expect respect and honesty first.
I try to deal with every person with consideration in all of these things
—Howard Johnson - 2012
I have much respect for the knowledge and wisdom found in the words of virtually every human being. I even include those deemed foolish and unwise by the multitudes, those whom elitists and intellectuals see as far beneath them in intellect, brainpower. This applies especially to those who populate flyover country. Genius or mentally challenged, corporate president or ditch digger, priest or sinner, person of any age, sex, culture, race, wealth or education—each of these and others have their own set of knowledge from which can be gleaned words of wisdom and truth if one listens.
I do not judge the worth of a person by any of these criteria. To do so is among the greatest faults of those who shut off all sources of knowledge and understanding that could be gained from those with whom they do not see eye to eye. It extends to even the lowliest among us. This fault is usually exhibited by political or religious elitists who refuse to be involved in communications of any kind that does not agree with or conform to their personal belief system. As a result, their inbred concepts shut out more and more good, even profound knowledge because it does not fall within the limits of their beliefs, or confirm them. This is why political correctness is the political equivalent of fundamentalist beliefs in the broad field of religion including atheism. All of these are belief systems driven by emotion, and not necessarily based in reality. Simply stated, one man’s belief is another man’s anathema.
In 1969, I gave a talk on personal communication at the American Dental Trade Association annual meeting in Chicago. The following comment is from that talk. I was using one of my own strong beliefs to illustrate the often hidden but possibly immense value of listening to what even the lowliest among us has to say.
“My measure of a man or woman is not how much they agree with me, but rather, how logical and persuasive are their arguments when they disagree. I also consider what kind of emotions play in these arguments. Do they lash out in anger with words of resentment and condemnation, or do they listen and make rational judgements?”
—Howard Johnson, from a talk on communication in 1969
Especially in the areas of human thoughts and ideas, I much prefer to choose my own belief systems based on knowledge, experience, and logical thought processes, rather than adopt those of others. This does not mean I shun the wisdom or counsel of others. It means I accept such only after checking it through my own understanding of how the universe works. That may seem crazy to some. I address the following saying to them:
Those who dance are thought insane by those who can’t hear the music.
—Angela Monet
Hopefully, you will hear and enjoy some of the music of my heart, soul, and imagination which has been liberally poured into these pages. There is one other particular quote that I find describes quite beautifully how I have tried to approach life, at least for the last fifty years. It has been attributed to a number of people including Alfred D. Souza whose name appears as the author on a cup I have had for some time. Some research I conducted attributes it to Mark Twain who preceded Souza by a hundred years. The cup displays the last four lines of the words that follow:
Work like you don't need the money.
Dance as though no one is watching you.
Love as though you have never been hurt before.
Sing as though no one can hear you.
Live as though heaven is on earth.
—Mark Twain (Samuel Clemmons)
Why I Write
I am a story teller mostly, both fiction and memoirs: fabricated and remembered. I have three finished books published and three more that will be published this year. At least I am hopeful they will be finished this year. I have five more writing projects in stages from half finished to just started. There are many more in the idea stage. My writing dreams are far too big for me to accomplish in one lifetime. That alone should help keep me young at heart and always thirsting for another day, even at my advanced age. Some time back I told everyone on my email list that I discovered I was a writer, but I didn't say why. Then I read the following words of Samuel Taylor Coleridge:
"Poetry has been to me its own exceeding great reward; it has given me the habit of wishing to discover the good and beautiful in all that meets and surrounds me."
His words prompted thoughts reminding me how impossible it is for me to write all I have to say that I would like to write. Each story, thought, idea, or memory that I put into words brings forth from the depths of my mind and imagination, more stories, more thoughts, more ideas, and more memories. I am deliciously excited by writing these things. I have difficulty deserting my writing to take the time to do much else. This passion moves me so strongly that at night in bed, I often stay awake, planning how best to word this story, thought or idea.
I was an avid reader for many years devouring all kinds of literature. Once I started writingat age seventy, my reading time gave way to mostly writing time. It has been this way ever since. To me, writing is so much more rewarding. Certainly I would like my words to be read, but my main pleasure lies in the writing. I would write even if I knew no one would ever read my words.
So think about writing. If there is a story or memory in you, give it the wings of the written word. Who knows how many others you may touch.
—Howard Johnson, 2011
Section I - Quotes, Comments, Letters, and Poetry
This section is from my private store of quotes, comments, and poems. Authors of quotes are acknowledged if known. HJ indicates my own writing.
I believe there are no more fitting words with which to begin this work than those of Saint Francis of Assisi. They have been a guiding light for many decent lives and a beacon of peace and love for centuries.
Lord, make me an instrument of your peace,
Where there is hatred, let me sow love;
where there is injury, pardon;
where there is doubt, faith;
where there is despair, hope;
where there is darkness, light;
where there is sadness, joy;
O Divine Master, grant that I may not so much
seek to be consoled as to console;
to be understood as to understand;
to be loved as to love.
For it is in giving that we receive;
it is in pardoning that we are pardoned;
and it is in dying that we are born to eternal life.
—Saint Francis of Assisi
Hold yourself responsible for a higher standard than anybody expects of you. Never excuse yourself. Never pity yourself. Be a hard taskmaster to yourself and be lenient with everybody else.
—Henry Ward Beecher
Truth and Belief
When truth and belief come to conflict,
it is better to change one’s belief to fit the truth
than to change the truth to fit one’s belief.
Beliefs are the creations of men
while Truths are the creations of God!
—HJ, July 7, 1986
New Serenity Prayer
Lord, grant me . . .
The serenity
to accept that there are those things I will not know,
The comfort
of reasonable beliefs to fill these voids of knowledge,
The courage
to change these beliefs when truth so dictates, and
The wisdom
to know the difference between belief and truth.
—as modified by HJ, March 1999
It makes no sense, but to the easily led masses, Getting even seems preferable to the status quo even when those who do so know they are certain to be rewarded with severe loss, pain, or even death. They become one of Eric Hoffer’s True Believers.
—from, Energy, Convenient Solutions II by HJ, 2012
To all my dearly beloved children
Your kind of father? I think only maybe. I will always try to be the best I can be for you while remaining my own kind of man. As a father, my kind of man will always try to realize his children are not his possessions, but are growing, separate human beings with their own lives to lead. He is, therefore, responsible for doing the best job he can to teach his children how to cope with the world. He does not have the right to impose his own will on them, but must protect them from danger. He must not be a pal, a dictator, a friend, a slave, or a slave-master to his children. Yet as occasions and situations dictate, he must be each of these and still more.
His relationship must be multidirectional and fluid in all respects. As the child grows, he must constantly adjust to the proper degree of control for both the child’s education and protection. He must have the strength to let his charges be hurt so they learn some cautions are in order. He must carefully protect and gauge the amount of hurt to be allowed to both the child’s age and constitution.
Likewise, in life’s decisions he must grant more and more autonomy as the child gains the experience to handle it. He must maintain a benevolent dictatorship until his charges are on their own. Democracy is suitable for a nation or group of adult equals, but it is a disaster in a family of growing children. He must also recognize it is best to loosen the reigns too early than too late since this teaches the child responsibility for his or her actions. Above all, he must know love is not possession, but sharing.
A wise man was asked how to hold love, to which he replied, “Like a small bird in the hand. Hold it too tightly and it dies; hold it too loosely and it flies away.”
I know not how you view your father now, but when you are a full person at whatever age, invite me into your life as you would a friend. If it comes to pass in a comfortable and loving fashion, I will have been the father I intended to be.
—HJ, 1965
The judgements of men are formed not from facts as they are, but as they wish them to be. They root through tons of good wheat to find three pieces of chaff if the chaff lends weight to their beliefs and argument. It is not that they want others to know the truth, but to have those others believe as they do. Beyond this, they do not care. The conceit of man ordinarily forms his criterion of truth.
—Anonymous
The best things are the most difficult
—Dartnell
To my dearly beloved grandchildren
Your kind of grandfather? Well, maybe! I wrote the previous message to your parents. Now it’s your turn. Being a grandfather is a different experience and challenge. There is no choice, little direct responsibility, some commitment and yet, still more mixed blessings. Also, there is far more good than bad. For me, one of the hardest and most necessary things to do is to keep my mouth shut when I feel like spouting volumes, at least during the years before your maturity and independence. I hereby give notice, once you’ve left the nest and become fully adult, I no longer feel constrained and will freely share opinions about most everything. I urge you to pore through this book, Memoirs from the Lakeside, or my earlier similar book, Words from the Lakeside, in which this letter appears. There is far more of whom I am in these books than I could include in any letter.
Note especially those words which urge you to be independent, self-reliant, your own person, and to make your own way in life. Don’t be a second edition of anyone; be who you are. The comfortable nest, once abandoned, can never be regained. Make your own nest where and when you choose. The silver umbilical cord must be discarded, or you and your parents will never share an adult relationship. I take great pleasure in my relationship with your parents. It is one independent human with another. I would only hope you will some day enjoy the same kind of unfettered relationship with your parents and, of course, with your grandfather.
My maternal grandfather, Granddad Dick (for Dickinson) was a marvelous companion and teacher for me when I was small. We spent many hours together, often fishing as described in one of the stories. One incident when I was quite young, six or seven probably, had a lasting and positive effect on my life. He and grandma were at our house for dinner, and mom was serving stewed turnips. When they were passed my way, I turned up my nose announcing, “I hate stewed turnips.”
Granddad turned to me and said, “Howard, you should never say you hate anything. Say, ‘I love stewed turnips,’ and you’d be surprised how good they taste. It works Howard. Try it.”
That won’t work, I thought to myself, but since I held my granddad in such respect, and even awe, I decided to try it. I then bravely announced, “I love stewed turnips” while smiling at Granddad and at the same time helping myself to a large spoonful of turnips.
I could hardly believe it. They tasted delicious! I looked at Granddad and announced incredulously, “I do love stewed turnips.”
“You see?” Granddads said smiling knowingly. “It does work, like I said it would.”
To this day I love stewed turnips and a whole lot of other things I tried the same trick on. I have always believed my grandfather’s dinner table lesson is the reason why I like so many foods to this day. There is almost nothing I am served I don’t eat with relish—if it is well prepared.
This carried over onto all parts of my life, enforced by my natural tendency to go against the crowd—to resist peer pressure. Many boys repeat the mantra, I hate school, and then feel bound to prove it. I went against strong peer pressure saying repeatedly, “I love school.”
Well, guess what? I always loved school and learning. There is no doubt in my mind I have used this principle to good effect on many other situations in my life. It is a powerful motivational force. I suggest you try it. No, don’t try it, DO IT!
There are several memoirs in this book about Granddad Dick. You may gain some valuable insight from these stories from a man who taught me many worthwhile lessons about life. He was your great-great-granddad so you carry some of his genes.
To the youngest and the next generation, even though you don’t know me or maybe never even met me, I will live on in the pages of this book as long as there are those who read it. Hopefully someone in the family will give you a copy. It’s the legacy I am leaving for you. My hope is it will live on long after I’m gone.
—HJ 2009
He who knows not and knows not that he knows not is a fool.
Shun him!
He who knows not and knows that he knows not is a child.
Teach him!
He who knows, and knows not that he knows is blind.
Lead him!
He who knows and knows that he knows is wise.
Follow him!
—Many versions and sources, Persian saying, Sanscrit, Confucius
Time goes, you say? ... ... ... ... Ah no! Alas, Time stays, we go.
— Henry Austin Dobson
Power tends to corrupt, and absolute power corrupts absolutely. Great men are almost always bad men.
—John Emerich Edward Dalberg Acton
I found solace in nursing a pervasive sense of grievance and animosity against my mother’s race. There was something about her that made me wary, a little too sure of herself, maybe and white.
—From Dreams of my Father - Barack Hussein Obama
Enigma
We place the pieces in the puzzle randomly,
Fitting each together with the one before it.
One doesn’t fit. It is taken out,
Turned around. Replaced,
Only to find that it doesn’t fit again.
Can the pieces be altered?
Or the puzzle changed?
Or is the only solution in
Putting the pieces into a different maze?
—Deb Archer to her father, HJ, 1972
Epilog to Enigma
The puzzle is nearly complete. The picture almost whole.
Only a few random spaces remain.
Too many pieces are left over and none of them fit
And we keep finding more pieces
And more pieces and still more pieces!
Another puzzle? Another picture?
More pieces, more puzzles, more pictures!
The puzzles that were wholes
Become pieces, small random pieces
That seem to fit still greater puzzles.
We find more puzzles that are pieces
And few fit . . . and the enigma starts over . . .
Full cycle . . . at another level . . . ?
—Reply to “Enigma” sent to Deb Archer by her father, HJ, 1972
Remembering Easter Sunday, 1945 - 67 years ago today
I awakened early to what was to be a busy day. It was still dark, but the birds were announcing the day was about to begin. The first thing on my schedule was the big, downtown sunrise service at the Cleveland Public Auditorium. The Cleveland Heights High a capella choir was to sing, and I was in the second tenor section. The service was to begin at 6:30 and we were to be there no later than 6:00. I was granted the use of the family car as my parents were to be taken to our church services by some church members who were also neighbors. That meant I would have to leave home by about five in order to have time to pick up a couple of other choir members, get downtown, park, and walk to the auditorium by 6:00.
I would have picked up my steady girl, Dolores, who also sang in the choir, but her parents were attending the service and she was to go with them. The drive downtown was brightened by the clear, blue sky of a warm and gorgeous spring day. Daffodils and narcissi were blooming everywhere. Even a few early tulips were showing off their colors. One spectacular passage, Cedar Hill, was down a small gorge through the Euclid Escarpment. It was ablaze with bright yellow forsythia clinging to the sides of the gorge. The air was filled with the fresh fragrance of spring. I don’t remember, but I know the birds were singing their hearts out as we drove down town.
We parked the car, walked to the auditorium, and to our dressing room in good time. After we donned our choir robes, I had the chance to talk to my sweetie. We made arrangements to meet with her and her parents when the performance was over. Soon Strick, our choir director, George F. Strickling, lined us up for a warm up before our stage entrance. I don’t remember much about the concert, or even any of the songs we sang. As a teen, deeply in love, I was probably too busy trying to catch Dee’s eye while we were singing. From my position in the back row on the extreme left of the semicircular arrangement of the choir, I was in her line-of-sight from where she stood in the first row on the extreme right.
I was to meet Dee and her folks after we finished and changed back into our Easter finery. We were to meet outside the side entrance. We actually ended up meeting in the hallway on our way out. One look at her in her Easter outfit and I was overwhelmed. Her bright yellow dress was set off by a spectacular, dark blue, wide-brimmed, straw hat. She was positively the most beautiful girl I had ever seen, and she was my girl. I couldn’t get over looking at her. To use some of today’s vernacular, she was drop-dead gorgeous. To make it even better, we were about to walk up Euclid Avenue in Cleveland’s Easter Parade, me, walking with the most beautiful girl in the world. I was walking on air, proud as a young man could possibly be.
The aura of her in that gorgeous yellow dress and that spectacular hat, spun a magic spell that held me all day long. I cannot remember another thing about the middle of that day other than watching her. After her folks headed for home, Dee joined me while I took my two passengers home. Soon after we dropped the second one off, Dee carefully removed her hat as I pulled to the curb. Soon we were wrapped in an embrace and a lingering kiss. We just couldn’t wait until we could park in front of her house. I remember later events clearly, sitting with her in front of 2705 Saybrook Road, sharing tender love words, and kiss after kiss until she had to go inside. Tomorrow was a school day and her curfew was 10:00.
As I drove home down Meadowbrook Boulevard, visions of the days events flashed through my mind. I was totally and deliriously in the grasp of young love, and loving every minute of it. All I could think was, how could I possibly be so lucky?
—HJ - Easter Sunday, 2012
Sunrises and Related Experiences
I don’t remember my first magical sunrise experience as a single one, but rather a series of many over time that morphed into a mingled memory. My merged memory was certainly of fishing trips with my father and possibly my grandfather as well, over a number of different times. It was on Tippecanoe Lake in Indiana during repeated early morning fishing trips. These trips happened frequently during warm, lazy summer mornings starting when I was as young as five.
The scene before my wide expectant eyes is emblazoned on my memory like a motion picture or video. I see the pervasive grayness of a misty or foggy first light over the mirror smooth waters of the lake. The ghostly, barely visible black of forest trees at the water’s edge is outlined by the pale first light of approaching dawn. The stillness, the cool dampness, the relative quiet save the voices of awakening birds, was intoxicating. I can see the gentle bow wave, hear the rhythmic splashes of the oars in time with the slow surging of our small rowboat as I feel my father’s repeated strong pull and return of the oars. I can sense the boat reaching for a favorite fishing place as I peer from my perch on the front seat.
The unmistakable cry of a loon adds an almost mystical aura to the serene scene. The quiet magic is soon broken by the raucous crow of a rooster, then the barking of a far away dog. As we move past Pierce’s Point toward the wider expanse of the east end of the lake, even the shadowy ghosts of the forest trees at the shore on our left fade into the grayness and disappear. We glide in silence over the shimmering surface, making a V of small waves. The oars create pairs of expanding circles of waves punctuated by sets of small whirlpools on each side. These regularly spaced disturbances reach off behind the boat in parallel rows, dissipating slowly as they fade away stretching out behind the boat and into the smooth surface.
A sudden splash gives evidence of hungry fish as they chase minnows at the surface. After nearly an hour rowing to the best fishing spot, my father peers deep into the clear water to watch for the sight of ghostly green water weeds barely visible in the depths. When he spots the first of the weeds, he reverses the oars and backs the boat a few lengths into slightly deeper water, there to drop the anchors. He lifts the length of concrete filled two inch pipe serving as the front anchor, checks to see if I have a secure hold on the rope and am prepared before he lets it go. I control the rope until it reaches the bottom, then snub the rope and wind it around the front davit. Meanwhile, he places and secures the rear anchor.
About this time, a bit of gold showing through the fog announces to the world the sun is winning its morning battle with the fog. Directly overhead the center of the dome of gray is slowly turning blue.
The repeated barking of dogs, the voices of children, and other morning sounds carry crisply across the still waters, announcing to us and the world that people ashore are starting their day. The gray dawn fog is no longer. A brilliant sun rises higher in a clear blue sky and takes control. A slight breeze begins ruffling the satin smooth surface of the lake. All the activities of a summer day on the lake are about to burst forth. As water activities liven the lake, I know our fishing trip will soon be over.
I can recall many similar dawns, stretching back to the time before memories. I hope to enjoy many more dawns of different kinds over many years to come. I love dawns and sunrises. The pastel, reserved and quiet colors of sunrise are so different from the bold displays of sunsets. In similar fashion, there are vast differences in lake activities between the quiet mornings and the busy afternoons and evenings with all types of water activities in full swing. Pale sunrise colors are in stark contrast to the bright pinks, brilliant oranges, and deep crimson colors of sunsets as are displayed on the cover of this book.
Another memorable sunrise, a specific single event, happened in the summer of 1943. My sister, Bobbie, and I worked at the same Howard Johnson restaurant in Shaker Heights, Ohio. At twenty-one, she was a waitress and could serve drinks from the bar. I started as a bus boy, then graduated to the ice cream, counter, and finally to the sandwich table where I learned all manner of sandwich building from hamburgers and BLTs to westerns and clubs.
Frequently I rode the four miles to work on my bicycle with my sister seated on the cross bar. We kept to the side streets rather than chance busy Lee Road with all its traffic. One late Saturday night—actually early Sunday morning after closing and after we had performed all of our clean up chores—we headed for home on my bike. First light was beginning to show in the east as we wound through deserted side streets. By the time we reached the dam on the upper Shaker Lake, the sun was beginning to peek over the horizon. Enthralled by such a gorgeous setting, we stopped, got off of the bike, sat on the grass, and watched the sunrise. We sat—and talked—and marveled—and drank in all the magical sights, sounds, smells, and other sensations of an awakening and thoroughly fascinating world. I clearly remember a robin perched on a high branch, giving voice to his morning song with great enthusiasm. We must have stayed there mesmerized for half an hour or more. Then reality snapped down on me. I had a hundred plus Sunday papers to deliver before breakfast and getting ready for church. I don’t remember for sure, but I think Bobbie helped me with my Sunday paper route.
Another magical dawn, also at Lake Tippecanoe, happened in late October of 1945, before I entered Purdue University. I am fascinated by wildness and go to wild places whenever I can. The swamp and woods at the east end of the lake, near where my first recounting of sunrises occurred, was the wildest place I could get to easily. For more than a week I lived on my own, off of the land in the high ground woods and the nearly dry swamp in an area of several hundred acres. I packed an arctic sleeping bag, a boy scout cooking kit, a few utensils, matches, some crackers, salt, and butter. On my belt was a hand ax and a sheath knife. In my jacket I had my emergency rations, a large bag of peanuts and several Baby Ruth candy bars. I dumped everything into the same little boat used in the first sunrise story. It now sported a tiny outboard that powered it as I headed for my adventure in the wild.
Living off of the land is another story for another time, but I learned about finding and cooking edible water plants, mostly their roots. An accomplished fisherman, I had no trouble getting adequate protein from the fish I caught with my tiny pole and hand line. About the fourth night, a fierce fall storm blew in from the northwest. I was prepared, or thought so. I located my camp for the night on the eastern side of the high ground. Knowing a storm was coming, I picked a spot of dry sloping ground with good drainage. It was beside the downed trunk of a large tree. I spread my waterproof ground cloth and rolled my sleeping bag out, the head almost against the tree trunk. I rigged the rain guard over the head of the sleeping bag before fixing my supper.
The first blast of wind and rain hit suddenly, before I finished cleaning up from supper. I scurried inside my sleeping bag putting my boots under the rain guard near my head. I was wet, but not soaked. From beneath the rain guard I saw my view of the woods to the east disappear in a fury of wind, water, and leaves. I knew I was in for a rough night. Branches of different sizes fell all around me. The woods to the west gave some protection, but in return contributed hazardous missiles in the form of wind-blown branches and pieces of branches. After the first furious blast of wind, the storm slowly died down. By this time, my sleeping bag was covered with leaves and wood debris. Fortunately, though several large branches crashed down nearby, none of them hit me. After the violent storm front passed, it was followed by steady rain. The sound of the rain lulled me to sleep, probably around eight or nine.
I awoke suddenly, a bit wet and cold. My rain guard gone, I was looking at a clear, starry sky overhead. I found the rain guard draped over the log above my head. The pegs holding it had pulled out of the now soaked ground when a swirl of wind had flipped it over the log as I slept. It was cold, probably below freezing, but I was still warm inside my now damp sleeping bag. I checked on my spare clothes, mostly socks and underwear, wrapped in a towel inside the foot of the sleeping bag. I was happy to find my feet, socks, and all my clothes were quite dry. I decided to stay put until daylight.
First light of a clear, crisp October day crept slowly through the trees to the east. I watched the telltale pale blue sky turn pink, then orange, then yellow, all pastels. Then a sparkle of sunlight burst through the forest. The billions of insects silenced weeks before by the first frost left the woods deathly still. An occasional bird call gave some comfort. Then the raucous quacking of a nearby flock of ducks rent the silence. A scuffling sound startled me as a squirrel ran frantically past a few feet away. Hot on the squirrel’s trail was a black fisher intent on making the squirrel its next meal. The world was awake to a new day.
A favorite James Whitcomb Riley quote describes the scene, “Suns and skies and clouds of June, and flowers of June together, you cannot rival for one hour, October’s bright blue weather.” This would prove to be just such a day.
It was December of 1955 when my wife, Dolores, and I together with our daughter, Deb, five, and son, Mike, two, were camping in the Florida Keys in our new Plymouth station wagon. We were in Bahia Honda State Park camped right at the shore. Deb was sleeping in the front seat while Mike and Dee were in the back of the wagon on a twin sized mattress. I was outside in a sleeping bag atop an air mattress on the ground near the car. It was quite cold, probably near forty, when I woke up to an early beginning dawn. Not yet prepared to get out of the warmth of the sleeping bag and face the day, I repositioned my body, so I could watch the sun rise over the Florida Straight. As it grew lighter, the scene appeared virtually colorless. The water and the fog above the water blended seamlessly into the gray of a haze-filled sky. Water, haze, and sky were all the same brightening gray with a slight blue cast. When the sun began to burn through the haze, it was colorless as well, virtually white against the gray.
The only sound early was of the waves lapping against the seawall. As the dawn light brightened, sea gulls began calling as they flew overhead. The world was waking up. The full sun was shining silvery through breaks in the clouds. Still the scene was almost colorless. The haze gave way to a bright, crisp, cool, colorful day with blue sky and white pillows of clouds drifting past green trees and above a blue and white ocean. I pulled my clothes on and ventured out of the sleeping bag. It wasn’t long before I had a fire going to warm my hands and later cook our breakfast. By the time I had baited and cast our fishing lines out into the water hoping to catch mangrove snapper, my crew began tumbling out of the car. Today would be a new adventure for our little family from far away Ohio.
It was 1981, and I was on the beach of Grande Isle about ten miles out from Olongapo in the Philippines. I had sailed out to this R&R island on a Hobie 16 with Jingo, the Lieutenant Commander and XO of the US Carrier Coral Sea. We had with us the bathing suits and boat shoes we were wearing, two large beach towels, a waterproof bag containing our billfolds, socks, and a few pocket items, and a fifth of Chivas Regal provided by the XO. We spent the day exploring the island where we found the remains of the American fort built after the Spanish American war. We climbed over two long six inch guns still mounted in their emplacements and dated 1906. When finally we stumbled out of the forest into the beach area, we were tired, hungry and a bit woozy from the portion of scotch no longer in the bottle.
We stopped at the beach restaurant and had a hearty meal, the contents of which I have no memory. When we had finished our meal, and much of the remaining scotch, we were in no condition to sail the fifteen miles back to the mainland. It was either take the motor launch back and return in the morning for the Hobie, or sleep on the beach. There are no sleeping quarters on the island, and everyone including workers are supposed to leave for the naval base on the last launch at 11:30pm. With the only option being sleeping on the beach during a warm Philippine night, we said in unison, “The beach.”
We had to sneak off and find a comfortable place to hide from the Shore Patrol who searched for and herded the last stragglers onto the launch. They paid no attention to the bright white sailboat pulled up on the sandy beach not far from the pier where the launch tied up. After the launch had pulled away, we found a smooth area of soft sand, spread our beach towels out, polished off the remaining scotch, and promptly fell asleep.
Very early the next morning, Jingo woke me and said, “Do you hear that noise? Something’s on the beach, and I think it’s coming toward us.”
At first I couldn’t hear a thing. Then I heard it, a soft, scraping sound as if something was being dragged across the sand in short spurts, scrape - scrape - scrape.
“Yea, I hear it, but you can’t see a damned thing on this beach on a moonless night. What do you suppose it is?”
“Are there salt water crocodiles around here? I’ve heard they come out of the water at night and eat people.”
“Thanks a lot, Jingo. That’s a comforting thought. I’ve not heard anyone mention crocs. Lots about pythons, monkeys and wild pigs, but no mention of crocs.”
The rhythmic sound continued and seemed to be coming closer. With no flashlight or matches, we were locked in place by the blackness. We couldn’t even see to move our sleeping quarters. Unable to see our watches, we had no idea what time it was.
“I seem to remember crocs have excellent night vision.”
“Damn, Jingo, That’s encouraging. You really know how to cheer a fellow up.”
“Let’s be prepared to run. Both of us in the same direction toward the water. Don’t head up the beach or we could run into those trees we passed on our way here.”
In fun, I said, “I can see the headlines now, ‘Two Americans disappear from Grande Island. Local authorities suspect crocs got them.’ I wonder if they’ll send out a rescue party?”
“Now who’s telling the scary stuff?”
“Shit! There are no crocs out here. They’re all in Australia.” As I finished my tease, I noticed the sky in the east was barely starting to show light. “Look! It’s morning and will be light soon. You know how quickly the sun rises in the tropics.”
It can’t be too soon for me.” Jingo said.
As he spoke the sound changed. Each scrape was now accompanied by a rustling sound like papers being ruffled about, and it was quite close by.
“What in the hell is making that noise?” I said sharply.
“I don’t know, but it is definitely quite close. Damn I wish I could see.”
In the pinking blue light of a rapidly expanding dawn, faint silhouettes of shapes were becoming visible. Before long we could see those indistinct shapes on the beach more clearly. Then we both saw something move a few feet away. It became obvious the rustling sound was caused by a creature moving through the dried palm fronds littering the sand near the tree line. Whatever it was, it was not a crocodile. It was oval shaped and about three feet long. In the rapidly increasing light, we saw and recognized a huge sea turtle moving away from the water.
“That damned critter must be mixed up. It shouldn’t be heading away from the water at this time. It will dry up and die in the heat of the day,” Jingo remarked. “Let’s carry her back to the water. She must have gotten turned around in the dark on her way back from laying eggs.”
It turned out to be a monumental task. I have no idea how much it weighed, but we couldn’t lift it, especially with amazingly powerful legs and flippers flailing away. We managed to turn it around and head it toward the water. We watched for nearly an hour as the exhausted critter flopped its way down the beach and into the safety of the sea. During its journey, we watched the pinkish, sea-gray dawn morph into a bright, clear, sunny day. We stayed out of sight while the first launch arrived, then picked up our belongings and headed for the restaurant to fill our empty, growling stomachs. No, we were not hung over, the advantage of drinking high quality scotch over an entire day. The sail back to Subic was fast and fun now that we could see where we were going.
How to Find a Wife
I had been single for nearly fifteen years after a short, disastrous second marriage. It had been a serious mistake from the day we spoke our vows. Past sixty, I was happy living alone on a lake in Northern Indiana. A year before, I had broken up with a wonderful lady after a five-year relationship. We discussed marriage, but when she was ready, I wasn’t, and when I was ready, she wasn’t. We remained dear friends even after we broke off our relationship. Perfectly happy living alone, I rarely experienced feelings of loneliness. With many friends, I attended the nearby Leesburg United Methodist Church regularly, and sang in the choir. Living alone and being lonely are very different things. I certainly enjoy being among people, but have also experienced many pleasant and quite comfortable times being alone. A few times I had felt the terrible loneliness that sometimes strikes one among people, even in a crowd.
One morning, early in July, I sauntered into the offices of The Paper in the nearby town of Milford. I was there to place an ad for a salesman for the personal computer business I had started a few months before. A scruffy-looking man of about thirty stood at the counter talking to a lady I assumed to be an ad taker. He wrestled a crumpled scrap of lined yellow paper from his pocket, carefully flattened it on the counter, and spread a crumpled five-dollar bill atop the yellow paper. Paying no attention to their conversation, I waited until the lady behind the counter turned to me when the young man left.
She smiled as she spoke, “Can I help you?”
I unfolded the ad copy produced on my computer and handed it to her. “I’d like to place this ad for a computer salesman.”
“If you’ll wait a few moments, I’ll have a want-ad taker speak to you.”
I was a bit mystified. “Aren’t you an ad taker? What was the bit with the guy who spoke to you?”
She laughed, “I run the singles column. He was giving me his requirements for a lady friend. Hang on a sec. I’ll get someone for you.”
“Wait a minute. Tell me about it,” I sputtered as she turned to go. After all, I was single and unencumbered. I wanted to know what it was all about.
She turned and grabbed a paper from a stack behind the counter. Shuffling through until she found the right page, she spread it out on the counter in front of me. “Here’s last week’s column. You can get an idea by looking at these. Do you think you might want to place an ad?”
After skimming through the ads I commented, “I’ve never even considered anything like this. How does it work?”
“As you can see, there are no addresses or phone numbers in the ads. We provide a PO box number here at the bottom of the page. An interested party simply sends a letter to that PO box with the ID number in the ad. You come and pick up those letters, and then it’s up to you. The usual first meeting place is a restaurant or other safe public place. We suggest a lunch as the first meeting. Then if you both want to pursue further contact, a date can be set.”
“That seems simple enough.”
“This month we’re having a promotional special, two weekly ads for five dollars.”
My curiosity was instantly piqued. “I think I’ll take you up on your special.” I then wrote out the following brief ad:
D/W/M, 62, 5'10", self-employed computer engineer/scientist/poet. I love the outdoors, sailing, fishing, waterskiing, biking, fall colors, fresh snow, the smell of spring, moonlight on the water, singing, and my large, loving family. I’d like to share an active life with a like-minded, independent woman. I’m not looking for a subordinate. Write Single No. 5653 in care of The Paper.
After paying my five dollars and also placing my ad for a salesman to the correct person, I headed for home wondering what this momentary lapse in my usual conservative nature would bring.
About two weeks later, I picked up more than thirty letters, to be followed several weeks later by another bundle of nearly thirty more. I couldn’t believe there would be so many responses to an old coot. They had a wide range of both quality and content. One was written on a single page of lined paper, in pencil, with terrible grammar, and many misspelled words. The other extreme was one of two pages, impeccably composed with near-perfect grammar and spelling, and in beautiful handwriting. The engineer in me prompted the organization of the letters, rating them from one to ten based on my impressions of the writers. Naturally, I started at the top of the list with the only one that rated above an eight. Here is the text of that letter:
July 18, 1990
Hi,
I’m Barbara. I’m a forty-nine-year-young legal secretary who’s still going to school. Just finished my first of two years at IUSB in the paralegal program.
My first love has to be music (big band) and ballroom dancing. I do enjoy light classical, and I sing in my church choir.
I’m a nature lover beyond a doubt and especially enjoy listening to and watching the birds at my feeder. Needless to say, I love flowers and have them everywhere, especially those that will attract God’s critters! I look forward to being out of doors as much as is possible. And really enjoy camping and don’t do enough traveling! Being near or on the water gives me my tranquility.
I enjoy gourmet cooking (and preparing and eating it). I like to try new dishes and make dining an experience rather than just something one must do.
To sum up, I’m an incurable romantic and a cockeyed optimist! I have blond hair (with some silver for highlight, of course) and blue eyes. I’m 4' 11 ½” tall and weigh 107 lbs., and I meet life head-on!
If you think we might have some things in common and could be friends, I can be reached at 848-5780.
When I called the writer of this letter, her mother answered and said that Barbara was out. I gave her my name and phone number and asked her to return my call. I continued down the list until I made several dates for lunch. As a result, I met several ladies resulting in a number of interesting experiences. The first was a quite timid, longtime secretary, several years younger than I. She spoke meekly when I could get her to speak. Tall and slender, she was pleasant but had never married and was definitely not my type.
The next lady was the opposite. By the time we finished lunch, she was planning our winters in Arizona. About sixty, this farmer’s widow was small, muscular, and sported a blonde beehive hairdo that added at least four inches to her height and could probably have withstood a tornado. Her years on the farm showed in her local speech idioms and calloused hands. She was a formidable presence despite her diminutive size. That lunch was our first and last contact.
I then met a pleasant, plump, attractive lady almost my age. Her clothes, the car she drove, and her general demeanor showed at least the trappings of wealth. It soon was apparent to me that she was lonely and still seriously mourned her husband who died a few years earlier. Near the end of our lunch, I realized how vulnerable she was and became concerned she might fall prey to an unscrupulous man after her money. I asked if she was active in a church or other women’s group.
Her negative response prompted these words I recall exactly, “To me, you seem a pleasant but vulnerable lady. I don’t think you are ready for the dating game. Why don’t you join a church or other organization and become active with a group of women? When you feel secure in the fellowship of those women, then you might reconsider entering the dating game.”
Nearly a year later, I received a phone call from her. She said my words had been some of the best advice she’d ever received and thanked me repeatedly. She had done what I suggested and was now active in a group of church women who had become dear friends. “I don’t know if I’ll ever look for a man again, but thanks to your advice, my life is now much fuller and more rewarding.” That was a marvelous reward for speaking to a near stranger of a genuine concern.
During this time, Barbara, the lady with the letter I placed atop my list, had been playing phone tag with me. I discovered later that, during that time, she was in the hospital having sinus surgery. It was mid-August before we connected after exchanging many phone calls for at least three weeks. We set a Sunday afternoon dinner date at the Holiday Inn in Goshen. I arrived before the appointed time and waited in the lobby. After waiting and waiting and waiting, I was wondering if I had been stood up. About half an hour after I arrived, a young lady came over from the check-in counter.
“I hope this is not a prank, but would you happen to be Howard Johnson?”
When I replied in the affirmative, she said, “There’s a lady on the phone who wants to speak to you.” The ensuing phone conversation went something like this:
“Hello?”
“How’s your patience quotient? I’m terribly sorry, but I got lost. I’m calling you from a filling station in New Paris.”
New Paris is eight or ten miles from where I was waiting. “How’d you end up in New Paris? That’s not even near US 33.”
“I’m not familiar with Goshen and must have taken the wrong road.”
I laughed. “You probably went straight where US 33 turns left. That’s why you ended up on Indiana 15.”
“How far away am I?”
“My guess is about ten or twelve miles.”
“I’m so sorry. It will take at least twenty minutes to get there. Do you want to cancel?”
“No, I’ve plenty of time. Come on over.” I then gave her directions to the Holiday Inn and sat down to wait.
Nearly a half hour later, a diminutive female walked swiftly and with determination across the parking lot and into the lobby. I knew it was Barbara as soon as she stepped out of her car.
“I’m so terribly sorry,” she said as soon as we met. “You must be a patient and understanding man.”
After our introductory conversation, we entered the nearly deserted dining room and sat down for dinner. I don’t remember much of the conversation, but we hit it off right away and our dinner stretched out for several hours. We were definitely kindred souls, delighting in each other’s company. We parted reluctantly after making arrangements to see each other again.
During the next few years, we were frequent companions and met each other’s families and friends. Barbara soon started attending the Leesburg UM Church with me, joining me in the choir. We became deeply committed to each other. Friendship Sunday at church, in October of 1992, I stood up in the choir loft during the “Joys and Concerns” part of the service. After a short preamble, I bravely uttered the words, “I would like to ask the little lady seated in front of me if she will marry me.”
No one including the minister, my friends, or Barb knew this was coming. Don Shanks, our pleasant but often tongue-twisted minister, blurted out, “I don’t know if this is a joy or a concern.” Turning to Barb he added, “Is there an answer?”
Caught a bit off guard, Barb replied, “What could I say In front of all these people but yes.”
With her reply, the entire congregation applauded.
Wallace Huffman, a member of the congregation, was videotaping the service that Sunday and captured the entire thing, including the proposal and acceptance. The following May 29, 1993, we were married in an unusually emotional ceremony fashioned after the Quaker wedding of my grand niece, Deanna, that we experienced and loved a few months before. Another member of the church videotaped our wedding, and, in cooperation with Wally, presented us with a tape of both events as a wedding present. In the years since then, we have often viewed that video and relived those delight filled moments.
____________________________________________________
No comments:
Post a Comment