I never thought I’d pack up all my earthly belongings, say good- by to friends and family, drive half way across the country from the east coast to the mid west where I had never been, and didn’t know anyone, to attend seminary, all at the age of sixty. Sixty is the age I thought I would start to slow down, find an easy part time job and spend time writing my memoirs about the exciting life I had lived so far. School would have been a long stretch, but seminary was off the charts of believability.
I am a religious person at heart and have spent much of my life working in and for some church of some denomination. Not being a part of one I saw myself as part of all. So seminary was never even in my sights or on my list of things to do before I die. Truthfully, I spent the last ten years of my life trying to de-accumulate my mind, getting rid of all the excess teachings and instructions I had faithfully submitted to for a great many years. As one gets older the mind can’t absorb as much and as quickly all that it could during my youthful college years. So what in the world was I thinking?
My first week of classes had me ready to go home, repack my things and get the heck out of Dodge, well actually Richmond Indiana. After receiving my three syllabi with the work that would be expected of me, I surely thought that I would not live to see the next week. I needed a U-Haul truck to carry the required books home from the book store, not to mention a second mortgage on a house, if I had one. It appeared that there was a lot more information buzzing around since my last college experience and apparently the expectation from the professors was that I would gather this information and report it back to them, and perhaps keep a little for myself as well. High goals for an older woman who at times forgets who she is and who all these people are around me. But I was already here and the thought of repacking was equally terrifying, so I got to work filling my calendar with reading assignments and research paper due dates.
My first research paper was in the History of Christianity. I went to the library to search out the three encyclopedias, just like I did during my first college experience. Instead of three sets of encyclopedias, I found several bookshelves full of encyclopedias, and they were in the middle of an entire room of the library filled with other books labeled Reference. I felt like a lost ball in high weeds. Needless to say I could not find anything, so I searched for the faithful card catalogue, only to find that a card catalogue was an extinct relic from the past and everything was now on computers. Now my relationship with computers is not a friendly one, but having no choice I went to the “beast” and tried to figure out how to even get on to the thing. Unsuccessful at that, I went home and cried. I am sixty years old. I have a college degree in Behavioral Science, I have had a successful career as a camp director, and I am not stupid. But I can’t even figure out how to check a book out of a library or even look up information I need to write a paper. Oh, of course I could have asked for help. But the thought of admitting that I was helpless to a kid that was old enough to be my grandson, if I had one, was just too much for my pride. After a night of pity partying with Ben & Jerry’s Coffee Heath Bar Crunch ice cream I went in the next day and found the Reference librarian and admitted my need for assistance and she gladly and patiently took the time to help me. I got my paper done and turned it in, feeling like I had accomplished an amazing feat. That bubble burst when the professor turned my paper back to me and told me it was a very good essay but was not a research paper. He gave me some suggestions, told me I needed to use primary sources, what ever they are, and asked me to do the paper over. This was the first of many glitches in my perfect school record I had arrived here with. My 4.0 GPA and Dean’s List credibility was quickly eroding. These are truly different times than my first college experience. Oh course, they were in the 1960’s so I guess I should have expected they would be different.
It made me long for those good ole days. I was in my prime. I could remember what I read for months after reading a book. I could go to parties after nine o’clock, not be leaving them at nine to go to bed. I could carry my books to class without straining some part of my body. I believed in stuff that was fact and able to trust in what I believed. Now I seem to be learning how all that stuff wasn’t fact at all, because of all the new stuff that has been found to disprove all the old stuff. It makes me feel unstable and unclear of who or what to believe, because we will probably just find new stuff to disprove this stuff that disproved that stuff. Now I’m lost. See what being sixty three does to you. Wait, I’ll explain quickly. Paul supposedly didn’t write all the letters he is credited to have written in the Bible. Matthew, Mark, Luke, and John probably weren’t really the authors of the Gospels. All those books in the New Testament were anonymous and weren’t originally written in the form we see them now. And they weren’t written in the order they are in either.
Now I am a woman of simple faith. I like the Bible just the way it is, written by who it says it is written by. And besides, I still believe that God had a hand in writing the Scriptures and I’m not about to be the one to tell him he messed up. Having said that, my final evaluations (we don’t use grades here) by my professors have been interesting. My New Testament professor commented that I would continue to interpret the Bible the way I wanted to. My Old Testament professor commented that I had exegetically horrified her because I attributed a Psalm to David and that he really hadn’t written that Psalm, even though my version said he did. Not exactly Dean’s List comments but apparently they see some worth in the work I do because I am still here.
I am in my third year in the Master of Divinity program. For most students this is a three year program. I, however, appear to be on the twenty-seven year plan. As I said, I am a simple woman of faith, with the emphasis on simple. The ole adage of slow but steady is the only thing I can do at sixty-three. But I still sit at times with my Ben & Jerry’s Coffee Heath Bar Crunch, smiling and thinking to myself, I never thought I’d…
Wednesday, October 26, 2011
Tuesday, October 25, 2011
TRANSFORMATION IN THE GARDEN
From Winter’s Barrenness to Summer’s Bounty
In 2004 I retired as a Camp Director and Administrator. During my ten years in that position I made October pilgrimages to Pendle Hill, a Quaker Retreat and Study Center, in Wallingford, Pennsylvania. After ten weeks of supervising a staff of fifty college age counselors and tending for two hundred girls from age four to twelve, I was ready for a break. I would gather unread books, unfinished writing projects and an unrested body and check in for a month of letting my soul emerge from its hiding place and feel the delightful silence and rest it had been deprived of for the last six months. Those pilgrimages were rich and I always left refreshed and energized to return to work at preparing for the next camp season. I did that for five years and then replaced my October pilgrimage to a six month stay in Rehoboth Beach, Delaware. (It was a rough life but someone had to do it!) But I always held Pendle Hill sweetly in my memory and deep in my heart. When I retired from camp and spent my last winter at the beach, I decided to return to Pendle Hill, this time as a Resident Student.
Pendle Hill’s Resident Student Program consists of three ten week sessions. I attended the Spring Session. I choose three classes, one of them being the Organic Gardening Class that would have a major impact on my spiritual life. The class was responsible for preparing the garden that grew a lot of the vegetables used in preparing the food for students and guests at Pendle Hill. I took the class because I wanted to be a part of the actual growing process of the food I would be eating. Centuries ago that would have been the normal way of life for all people. But these days most of us eat prepackaged and processed food that we purchase from the supermarket, not having a clue or a care of where it comes from. I wanted real food and I wanted to be a part of the process f growing, tending and preparing it to become my source of good and healthy nutrition.
The gardening class intertwined with my spiritual life and the knowledge I gleaned as I was producing physical food that would feed and nourish my body also became my spiritual food that would feed and nourish my soul. These days a great deal of what we know about God and our spiritual lives come to us prepackaged and processed from preachers, teachers, and books containing well researched and predigested thoughts and ideas of the authors. I wanted raw and organic spiritual food and wanted to be a part of the process of growing, tending and preparing it as the source of life energy to my soul and spirit.
The first day of class we gathered in the class room. Carol, our teacher and head cook for Pendle Hill, brought several trays of seeds that she had already started preparing. Some had tiny little, what looked like threads, that had broken through the seed coat. Carol explained what they were.
“Those are the roots that will eventually be the source of nourishment for the plant that will grow the fruit that will eventually be the food I will prepare to feed you all.” All I could think was AWESOME. They were so thin and so fragile it was difficult to believe they would have such an important role in the growth of the plant. I was ready to plant those seeds and watch them grow. Carol gathered us together and we put on our coats and hats and walked down to the garden. Someone asked,
“Shouldn’t we take the seeds with us?” Carol simply smiled and said,
“Not yet. Now before we go down I want you all to put on your vision glasses.” I wasn’t sure what vision glasses were, until we got down to the garden. Then I figured out why we needed vision glasses and why Carol smiled when she said, not yet.
The garden looked like a tornado had gone through the area, dropping trees, leaves and general debris all over the ground. The plants and stakes from last season were bending over, if standing at all. It looked more like a war zone than a garden. I think the phrase, ‘you’ve got to be kidding’ when through my head and reflected out on my face, because Carol came over to me and said,
“I told you to put on your vision glasses. In a month or two this will be the most beautiful place on campus. And you will be a part of making that happen.” I smiled my unbelieving smile and walked around trying to see what she was seeing. I am generally a woman of faith but this really looked pretty hopeless or scarier yet it looked like a lot of hard work, which usually is involved in creating something beautiful. But in the words of Builder Bob,
“Can we do it?”
“Yes, we can!” We went back into the building and we were each given a tray of seeds to tend until they were ready to go into the ground. I told my little pepper seeds that I would do what I could to prepare a good place for them to grow and I tried to say it like I believed it.
The first thing we did next class was to set our goals for the garden. We knew we were responsible for a large percentage of the fresh food it would take to feed a large number of people during the summer months. Knowing that information we had to determine the most efficient way o produce a variety of vegetables in the allotted space available to us, determining what plants are compatible to each other, what plants needed more sun than others and what plants grew vertically or spread out along the ground. After we determined all the factors we drew a chart of the garden and then began to arrange the work that would need to be done to attain our final vision of our garden. The first job was to gather rakes, hoes and shovels and clean all the debris that had accumulated over the winter so we could at least see the beds that were hiding under them that needed to be dug up.
Before I began my spiritual journey my life kind of looked like the garden, all covered over with debris. Life’s events, circumstances and neglect can leave a lot of debris that must be cleared away. At one point I made the intention to change the way I had been living and get more aligned with what I believed God had in mind for my life. I had to get rid of a lot of ‘stuff’ that accumulated due to my laziness, neglect and failure to be mindful about my choices that I sometimes made. I envisioned the kind of person I wanted to be and the kind of life I wanted to live, and then made set up goals steps to follow to produce those goals. Then I got to work trying to make something that was empty and barren a bit more beautiful.
The rest of our classes were outside, actually in the garden. After the debris had been removed and we could actually see the beds, the digging began. The ground was hard from laying fallow all winter. We shoveled and hoed until the dirt was loose and broken up two feet down. That would give those roots that I had been fascinated with a lot of room to dig deep and find the proper nutrients to help the plants they were going to feed and water grow strong. It took a lot of time and back breaking work to go that deep but we knew it was necessary so we did it. At night I would be exhausted and my back was in pain. But after a good nights rest and the vision in my head about the garden to come somehow made the pain worthwhile and meaningful.
Life is difficult sometimes, especially when I am digging deep to find answers to guest ions I need to grow strong spiritually. Suffering is painful but if I can keep the end goal as the vision in my head, it somehow makes it easier to get through those painful times. Suffering helps to break up the fallow ground of the heart and makes it soft and palpable. A soft and tender heart is necessary in order to feel compassion, not only for ourselves but also for others. Compassion is what everyone in this often cold and cruel world needs so, if that is the fruit of the suffering, then the work is worth the effort.
While we were working on the soil outside in the garden, we were also tending to the seeds inside. Once the seeds had germinated, we put them in small soil blocks. As the sprouts grew we increased the size of the soil block so the roots could grow. Eventually they were stable enough to be planted. For a couple of days we would take the trays of tiny plants and put them outside for a few hours. This is called hardening off the plants. I acclimates them to the weather and conditions that surround them, a little at a time. Finally it’s time to plant them. One by one they go into the soil with enough space in between them for them to grow. Then they are watered once a day for a while and then eventually only when needed. They are pretty much on their own now to grow into what they are to be. Carol had started working with the seeds in February and at the end of May we planted them. There is no instant and immediate growth with plants. It takes time and patience and loving care.
Our work was done at the end of May. Then the Garden Interns took over where the students left off. I stayed for the summer, working in another intern position so I was fortunate enough watch the rest of the process of a seemingly ugly, useless plot of land grow, blossom and bloom into a wonderful beautiful garden. I would walk down there almost everyday to watch with wonder as those tiny seeds I took care of became huge plants filled with a bounty of vegetables that eventually filled our stomachs with fresh, unpackaged, unprocessed food. I was blessed to be able to see and eat the fruit of my labor. One day while in the garden Carol came down to pick some tomatoes for a dish she was preparing for our dinner. She came up beside me and said,
“Didn’t I tell you this would become the most beautiful place on campus?” I just smiled and shook my head yes.
I have those moments in my life when I see fruit coming forth in my life. Good fruit like “love, joy, peace, patience, kindness, goodness, faithfulness, gentleness and self control.” (Galatians 5:22,23) Then I think back to when things looked ugly, useless, even impossible and see how beauty now blossoms and blooms in my life. Then I hear God say,
“Didn’t I tell you that I would redeem my beauty within you?” I just smile and shake my head yes.
In 2004 I retired as a Camp Director and Administrator. During my ten years in that position I made October pilgrimages to Pendle Hill, a Quaker Retreat and Study Center, in Wallingford, Pennsylvania. After ten weeks of supervising a staff of fifty college age counselors and tending for two hundred girls from age four to twelve, I was ready for a break. I would gather unread books, unfinished writing projects and an unrested body and check in for a month of letting my soul emerge from its hiding place and feel the delightful silence and rest it had been deprived of for the last six months. Those pilgrimages were rich and I always left refreshed and energized to return to work at preparing for the next camp season. I did that for five years and then replaced my October pilgrimage to a six month stay in Rehoboth Beach, Delaware. (It was a rough life but someone had to do it!) But I always held Pendle Hill sweetly in my memory and deep in my heart. When I retired from camp and spent my last winter at the beach, I decided to return to Pendle Hill, this time as a Resident Student.
Pendle Hill’s Resident Student Program consists of three ten week sessions. I attended the Spring Session. I choose three classes, one of them being the Organic Gardening Class that would have a major impact on my spiritual life. The class was responsible for preparing the garden that grew a lot of the vegetables used in preparing the food for students and guests at Pendle Hill. I took the class because I wanted to be a part of the actual growing process of the food I would be eating. Centuries ago that would have been the normal way of life for all people. But these days most of us eat prepackaged and processed food that we purchase from the supermarket, not having a clue or a care of where it comes from. I wanted real food and I wanted to be a part of the process f growing, tending and preparing it to become my source of good and healthy nutrition.
The gardening class intertwined with my spiritual life and the knowledge I gleaned as I was producing physical food that would feed and nourish my body also became my spiritual food that would feed and nourish my soul. These days a great deal of what we know about God and our spiritual lives come to us prepackaged and processed from preachers, teachers, and books containing well researched and predigested thoughts and ideas of the authors. I wanted raw and organic spiritual food and wanted to be a part of the process of growing, tending and preparing it as the source of life energy to my soul and spirit.
The first day of class we gathered in the class room. Carol, our teacher and head cook for Pendle Hill, brought several trays of seeds that she had already started preparing. Some had tiny little, what looked like threads, that had broken through the seed coat. Carol explained what they were.
“Those are the roots that will eventually be the source of nourishment for the plant that will grow the fruit that will eventually be the food I will prepare to feed you all.” All I could think was AWESOME. They were so thin and so fragile it was difficult to believe they would have such an important role in the growth of the plant. I was ready to plant those seeds and watch them grow. Carol gathered us together and we put on our coats and hats and walked down to the garden. Someone asked,
“Shouldn’t we take the seeds with us?” Carol simply smiled and said,
“Not yet. Now before we go down I want you all to put on your vision glasses.” I wasn’t sure what vision glasses were, until we got down to the garden. Then I figured out why we needed vision glasses and why Carol smiled when she said, not yet.
The garden looked like a tornado had gone through the area, dropping trees, leaves and general debris all over the ground. The plants and stakes from last season were bending over, if standing at all. It looked more like a war zone than a garden. I think the phrase, ‘you’ve got to be kidding’ when through my head and reflected out on my face, because Carol came over to me and said,
“I told you to put on your vision glasses. In a month or two this will be the most beautiful place on campus. And you will be a part of making that happen.” I smiled my unbelieving smile and walked around trying to see what she was seeing. I am generally a woman of faith but this really looked pretty hopeless or scarier yet it looked like a lot of hard work, which usually is involved in creating something beautiful. But in the words of Builder Bob,
“Can we do it?”
“Yes, we can!” We went back into the building and we were each given a tray of seeds to tend until they were ready to go into the ground. I told my little pepper seeds that I would do what I could to prepare a good place for them to grow and I tried to say it like I believed it.
The first thing we did next class was to set our goals for the garden. We knew we were responsible for a large percentage of the fresh food it would take to feed a large number of people during the summer months. Knowing that information we had to determine the most efficient way o produce a variety of vegetables in the allotted space available to us, determining what plants are compatible to each other, what plants needed more sun than others and what plants grew vertically or spread out along the ground. After we determined all the factors we drew a chart of the garden and then began to arrange the work that would need to be done to attain our final vision of our garden. The first job was to gather rakes, hoes and shovels and clean all the debris that had accumulated over the winter so we could at least see the beds that were hiding under them that needed to be dug up.
Before I began my spiritual journey my life kind of looked like the garden, all covered over with debris. Life’s events, circumstances and neglect can leave a lot of debris that must be cleared away. At one point I made the intention to change the way I had been living and get more aligned with what I believed God had in mind for my life. I had to get rid of a lot of ‘stuff’ that accumulated due to my laziness, neglect and failure to be mindful about my choices that I sometimes made. I envisioned the kind of person I wanted to be and the kind of life I wanted to live, and then made set up goals steps to follow to produce those goals. Then I got to work trying to make something that was empty and barren a bit more beautiful.
The rest of our classes were outside, actually in the garden. After the debris had been removed and we could actually see the beds, the digging began. The ground was hard from laying fallow all winter. We shoveled and hoed until the dirt was loose and broken up two feet down. That would give those roots that I had been fascinated with a lot of room to dig deep and find the proper nutrients to help the plants they were going to feed and water grow strong. It took a lot of time and back breaking work to go that deep but we knew it was necessary so we did it. At night I would be exhausted and my back was in pain. But after a good nights rest and the vision in my head about the garden to come somehow made the pain worthwhile and meaningful.
Life is difficult sometimes, especially when I am digging deep to find answers to guest ions I need to grow strong spiritually. Suffering is painful but if I can keep the end goal as the vision in my head, it somehow makes it easier to get through those painful times. Suffering helps to break up the fallow ground of the heart and makes it soft and palpable. A soft and tender heart is necessary in order to feel compassion, not only for ourselves but also for others. Compassion is what everyone in this often cold and cruel world needs so, if that is the fruit of the suffering, then the work is worth the effort.
While we were working on the soil outside in the garden, we were also tending to the seeds inside. Once the seeds had germinated, we put them in small soil blocks. As the sprouts grew we increased the size of the soil block so the roots could grow. Eventually they were stable enough to be planted. For a couple of days we would take the trays of tiny plants and put them outside for a few hours. This is called hardening off the plants. I acclimates them to the weather and conditions that surround them, a little at a time. Finally it’s time to plant them. One by one they go into the soil with enough space in between them for them to grow. Then they are watered once a day for a while and then eventually only when needed. They are pretty much on their own now to grow into what they are to be. Carol had started working with the seeds in February and at the end of May we planted them. There is no instant and immediate growth with plants. It takes time and patience and loving care.
Our work was done at the end of May. Then the Garden Interns took over where the students left off. I stayed for the summer, working in another intern position so I was fortunate enough watch the rest of the process of a seemingly ugly, useless plot of land grow, blossom and bloom into a wonderful beautiful garden. I would walk down there almost everyday to watch with wonder as those tiny seeds I took care of became huge plants filled with a bounty of vegetables that eventually filled our stomachs with fresh, unpackaged, unprocessed food. I was blessed to be able to see and eat the fruit of my labor. One day while in the garden Carol came down to pick some tomatoes for a dish she was preparing for our dinner. She came up beside me and said,
“Didn’t I tell you this would become the most beautiful place on campus?” I just smiled and shook my head yes.
I have those moments in my life when I see fruit coming forth in my life. Good fruit like “love, joy, peace, patience, kindness, goodness, faithfulness, gentleness and self control.” (Galatians 5:22,23) Then I think back to when things looked ugly, useless, even impossible and see how beauty now blossoms and blooms in my life. Then I hear God say,
“Didn’t I tell you that I would redeem my beauty within you?” I just smile and shake my head yes.
Monday, October 24, 2011
THE NEW VICAR
A BABE WITH A BOB CUT AND MAGNIFICENT BOSOMS
Once a month several students from Bethany Theological Seminary and Earlham School of Religion in Richmond, IN, gather together in our classmate’s living room to watch two or three episodes of The Vicar of Dibley. The Vicar is one of the BBC’s most popular comedies that ran for ten years and is now in syndication, making a return visit to television sets in the USA. It is the story of a small village assigned its first female vicar and how lives are changed by that experience. The show still continues to be popular enough, even on reruns, to get seminary students to sacrifice an evening of study time to watch them.
With the plethora of British comedies available, one wonders why The Vicar of Dibley, and why now, in this period of the universal church. At a time when most Christian religions are suffering from a drop in membership and many ministers are preaching to empty pews, does a comedy about religious matters merely poke fun at a serious problem or could it be a help in getting people back into the church and seated once again in the pews? With the number of church goers dwindling, many believe it’s time to revisit what church and religion mean to people and then be ready to make some changes. Worldwide movements like the Emergent Church have been working on this situation for several years. While I don’t necessarily think that the writers and actors in The Vicar of Dibley see themselves as Church reformers, I do believe that their work may have that potential.
Although The Vicar of Dibley is a comedy, it takes on several serious issues of necessary changes in the concept of church. The first is the most obvious, the ordination of women as priests. The second is how people see priests and what their expectations are of how they should act. The third is the place of humor in religion, if there is one. The fourth issue is the definition of what a church truly is.
Change is difficult for everyone. There is a comfort in things always being the same, even if the things aren’t working properly. The people of the village of Dibley are a mix of the wealthy and the rural farmers, mostly in their senior years, who are portrayed as “tragic victims of experimentation with hormone replacement.” Let’s eavesdrop while three of the oldsters in the village talk about the changes a woman vicar will have in their community.
“Things have to change.”
“That’s right. Look at traffic lights. If they didn’t change there’d be terrible congestion.”
“Then there’s gravity. If gravity changed we’d all go floating up into space. No one wants that.”
“There’s good change and bad change.”
“That’s right. There’s the changing of the guard, isn’t there?”
Change comes to the village of Dibley when their vicar dies of old age during a church service and is replaced by a female vicar. The ordination of women as priests was very controversial in the Church of England as this series began, and continues to be controversial in many church denominations today. Woman vicars were not received well by many in the Anglican Church. A sign posted on a church in real life said,“The Church of England Murdered Today by the parody of an ordination service in Bristol Cathedral as the first priestesses are created. Pray for those who mourn the death of their church.” Other comments broadcasted in television interviews and written in newspapers, (which are mentioned on the DVDs writer’s commentary), were just as bad. They said things like, “Anglican Vicar says woman priests should be burnt as witches.” “When you have a strong male leadership you have a strong church.”
David Horton (played by Gary Waldhorn), the chairman of the parish council of Dibley echoes the real life sentiment. “If Jesus wanted women appointed to spread the gospel, he would have appointed them. It’s Matthew, Mark, Luke, and John not Sharon, Tracy, Tara, and Debby.” Or “Our little community will not react well to the indignity of a vicar in high heels and will rally behind me in the desire to keep up the traditions that made this village and the Church of England what they are today.” Fortunately the others in the village are open to the change and want to give the new vicar a chance to at least give one sermon and then make a decision. Geraldine, the show’s vicar, preaches and the usual crowd of four is multiplied to a full house and she stays with full consent of the parish council, even an unconvinced but impressed David Horton.
Richard Curtis, the creator and main writer of the series, was inspired by a real life woman vicar, Joy Carrol. Interested in the fact that Joy was one of the first women vicars, he also saw a fun side of the women in this position. Apparently during one of his visits to her house, he saw a cup she had that read, “Lead me not into temptation. I can find it myself.” This opened the way to a more comedic approach to the portrayal of the woman vicar. Up to now the myth of vicars in general was that they were super human, super spiritual, on a par with God. When Dawn French, the actress who plays Geraldine, the vicar of Dibley, met Joy, she had this stereotype in mind. She asked Joy, “Why is a young woman like you a Christian in the first place, let alone a priest? What about having fun and being a young woman who’s going to have a good life and a good time?” Apparently Joy convinced her that one can be a priest and have fun, because Dawn claims to fashion her naughty, irreverent style after Joy.
Geraldine shows the world that female priests are good people, real people, with all the same problems, needs, and desires that all people have. She is often shown as lonely and desiring male companionship. In several episodes she develops crushes on men. When questioned by one of the villagers she simply states, “He’s a man. I’m a woman. He’s a religious broadcaster. I’m a vicar. He’s Scottish and I like Scottish biscuits.” Basically she is a woman beneath the cassock and collar. Geraldine doesn’t wear the traditional priestly cassock, except when in the pulpit. She freely flaunts her voluptuous body in stylish and colorful clothing and funky hats. She is proud of the body she has been given and offers the world the incarnation of a very generous and bountiful God. I think that is what makes her popular, not only in the show but also to the people watching it. The myth of vicars being superhuman, super spiritual, drab and uninterested in the wonder of life was simply that, a myth, and the character of Geraldine has broken it and replaced it with reality.
A sense of humor is a necessity of life, especially in hard times such as the ones many people find themselves in today. It is a necessity for a priest dealing with people one finds in Dibley, or many other villages, towns, and cities in real life. Humor is a large part of what this show is. It is spread out throughout the show, intermingled with some serious and poignant moments as well. It is this mix that keeps the humor above board so that it is not merely irreverent jokes about religion. Richard Curtis says that “because the characters themselves are very good and sincere people, they could write naughty, disrespectful stuff but one would think, no matter how rude, there was never any malice in what was said.” That is why the show can present people who are nitpicky like Frank, bright but dumb like Hugo, in strange relationships with animals like Owen, simple minded like Alice, and who say no,no,no,no then finally yes like Jim, and make them believable as real people with something that all viewers can recognize within themselves. Geraldine is simply a nice person who believes strongly in human goodness and believes all humans should be treated well, no matter how ridiculous they act. But isn’t that the true personality and purpose of a priest of the church, and the people in the church as well?
Geraldine changes the village of Dibley. They become people who care about each other, even with all of their imperfections, because that is how their vicar is. Her character is one of great appetite for everything - for chocolate and men - that makes her very human, and - for her faith and her interest in people - that makes her a very good vicar. She has a well rounded character, interested in religious matters, political issues, social issues, but most of all human issues. She is so nice she can’t turn down anyone’s
invitation for Christmas lunch, so she ends up eating four huge meals in a matter of hours. She brings Hugo and Alice together after 26 years of flirting by putting them in the same room and yelling, “Oh for heaven’s sake; just kiss each other, you morons!” She turns the picture of Jesus she has on her wall over while waiting for her date, saying, “I just don’t think it’s going to be your sort of evening.” She makes the people of the village wear white armbands to support the cause of “Making Poverty History.” She makes the people care about one another. Over the lifetime of the series there comes into being an emotional texture of people who truly need each other. It is the vicar who brings that about by her love for the people of the village. She makes a “church” out of a group of people which is what the real world of people needs today.
The real vicar, Joy Caroll, says of the show, “It has done good for the cause of women, the cause of the church and ultimately for the cause of God.” Seminary students agree that the church would do well to add a bit of the Vicar of Dibley to their list of shows to watch and learn from. With all the humor, with all the jokes, with all the naughty and possible questionable things on the show, there is at the heart of it a message of God.
Geraldine’s introduction to the village is: “You were expecting a bloke, with a beard, Bible, bad breath. Instead you got a babe with a bob cut and magnificent bosoms.” Her first sermon is a mix of humor and religious flavor. “I know a lot of you are surprised to find that your new vicar is a woman. Not as surprised as me. I was convinced all through my teens that naturally I would become a super model. And then one day I read the Sermon on the Mount and it was so fantastic, that was it. I decided there and then to
abandon the cat walk and give the dog collar a try. So here I am, at your service, totally yours, any time, any day. But if you come to see me first thing in the morning wear dark glasses.” From then on you are hooked. Here is a priest I want to know. But her speech right before the Christmas pageant is what the world needs to hear now more than ever. And yes, one hears it from a BBC comedy out of the mouth of a woman playing the role of a vicar in a made up village of Dibley, but it speaks a truth as simple as it is real.
“Two thousand years ago a baby was born in a stable, poorest of the poor. And yet during his life time he says things that are so astonishing that millions of people are still living their lives by them today.”
Once a month several students from Bethany Theological Seminary and Earlham School of Religion in Richmond, IN, gather together in our classmate’s living room to watch two or three episodes of The Vicar of Dibley. The Vicar is one of the BBC’s most popular comedies that ran for ten years and is now in syndication, making a return visit to television sets in the USA. It is the story of a small village assigned its first female vicar and how lives are changed by that experience. The show still continues to be popular enough, even on reruns, to get seminary students to sacrifice an evening of study time to watch them.
With the plethora of British comedies available, one wonders why The Vicar of Dibley, and why now, in this period of the universal church. At a time when most Christian religions are suffering from a drop in membership and many ministers are preaching to empty pews, does a comedy about religious matters merely poke fun at a serious problem or could it be a help in getting people back into the church and seated once again in the pews? With the number of church goers dwindling, many believe it’s time to revisit what church and religion mean to people and then be ready to make some changes. Worldwide movements like the Emergent Church have been working on this situation for several years. While I don’t necessarily think that the writers and actors in The Vicar of Dibley see themselves as Church reformers, I do believe that their work may have that potential.
Although The Vicar of Dibley is a comedy, it takes on several serious issues of necessary changes in the concept of church. The first is the most obvious, the ordination of women as priests. The second is how people see priests and what their expectations are of how they should act. The third is the place of humor in religion, if there is one. The fourth issue is the definition of what a church truly is.
Change is difficult for everyone. There is a comfort in things always being the same, even if the things aren’t working properly. The people of the village of Dibley are a mix of the wealthy and the rural farmers, mostly in their senior years, who are portrayed as “tragic victims of experimentation with hormone replacement.” Let’s eavesdrop while three of the oldsters in the village talk about the changes a woman vicar will have in their community.
“Things have to change.”
“That’s right. Look at traffic lights. If they didn’t change there’d be terrible congestion.”
“Then there’s gravity. If gravity changed we’d all go floating up into space. No one wants that.”
“There’s good change and bad change.”
“That’s right. There’s the changing of the guard, isn’t there?”
Change comes to the village of Dibley when their vicar dies of old age during a church service and is replaced by a female vicar. The ordination of women as priests was very controversial in the Church of England as this series began, and continues to be controversial in many church denominations today. Woman vicars were not received well by many in the Anglican Church. A sign posted on a church in real life said,“The Church of England Murdered Today by the parody of an ordination service in Bristol Cathedral as the first priestesses are created. Pray for those who mourn the death of their church.” Other comments broadcasted in television interviews and written in newspapers, (which are mentioned on the DVDs writer’s commentary), were just as bad. They said things like, “Anglican Vicar says woman priests should be burnt as witches.” “When you have a strong male leadership you have a strong church.”
David Horton (played by Gary Waldhorn), the chairman of the parish council of Dibley echoes the real life sentiment. “If Jesus wanted women appointed to spread the gospel, he would have appointed them. It’s Matthew, Mark, Luke, and John not Sharon, Tracy, Tara, and Debby.” Or “Our little community will not react well to the indignity of a vicar in high heels and will rally behind me in the desire to keep up the traditions that made this village and the Church of England what they are today.” Fortunately the others in the village are open to the change and want to give the new vicar a chance to at least give one sermon and then make a decision. Geraldine, the show’s vicar, preaches and the usual crowd of four is multiplied to a full house and she stays with full consent of the parish council, even an unconvinced but impressed David Horton.
Richard Curtis, the creator and main writer of the series, was inspired by a real life woman vicar, Joy Carrol. Interested in the fact that Joy was one of the first women vicars, he also saw a fun side of the women in this position. Apparently during one of his visits to her house, he saw a cup she had that read, “Lead me not into temptation. I can find it myself.” This opened the way to a more comedic approach to the portrayal of the woman vicar. Up to now the myth of vicars in general was that they were super human, super spiritual, on a par with God. When Dawn French, the actress who plays Geraldine, the vicar of Dibley, met Joy, she had this stereotype in mind. She asked Joy, “Why is a young woman like you a Christian in the first place, let alone a priest? What about having fun and being a young woman who’s going to have a good life and a good time?” Apparently Joy convinced her that one can be a priest and have fun, because Dawn claims to fashion her naughty, irreverent style after Joy.
Geraldine shows the world that female priests are good people, real people, with all the same problems, needs, and desires that all people have. She is often shown as lonely and desiring male companionship. In several episodes she develops crushes on men. When questioned by one of the villagers she simply states, “He’s a man. I’m a woman. He’s a religious broadcaster. I’m a vicar. He’s Scottish and I like Scottish biscuits.” Basically she is a woman beneath the cassock and collar. Geraldine doesn’t wear the traditional priestly cassock, except when in the pulpit. She freely flaunts her voluptuous body in stylish and colorful clothing and funky hats. She is proud of the body she has been given and offers the world the incarnation of a very generous and bountiful God. I think that is what makes her popular, not only in the show but also to the people watching it. The myth of vicars being superhuman, super spiritual, drab and uninterested in the wonder of life was simply that, a myth, and the character of Geraldine has broken it and replaced it with reality.
A sense of humor is a necessity of life, especially in hard times such as the ones many people find themselves in today. It is a necessity for a priest dealing with people one finds in Dibley, or many other villages, towns, and cities in real life. Humor is a large part of what this show is. It is spread out throughout the show, intermingled with some serious and poignant moments as well. It is this mix that keeps the humor above board so that it is not merely irreverent jokes about religion. Richard Curtis says that “because the characters themselves are very good and sincere people, they could write naughty, disrespectful stuff but one would think, no matter how rude, there was never any malice in what was said.” That is why the show can present people who are nitpicky like Frank, bright but dumb like Hugo, in strange relationships with animals like Owen, simple minded like Alice, and who say no,no,no,no then finally yes like Jim, and make them believable as real people with something that all viewers can recognize within themselves. Geraldine is simply a nice person who believes strongly in human goodness and believes all humans should be treated well, no matter how ridiculous they act. But isn’t that the true personality and purpose of a priest of the church, and the people in the church as well?
Geraldine changes the village of Dibley. They become people who care about each other, even with all of their imperfections, because that is how their vicar is. Her character is one of great appetite for everything - for chocolate and men - that makes her very human, and - for her faith and her interest in people - that makes her a very good vicar. She has a well rounded character, interested in religious matters, political issues, social issues, but most of all human issues. She is so nice she can’t turn down anyone’s
invitation for Christmas lunch, so she ends up eating four huge meals in a matter of hours. She brings Hugo and Alice together after 26 years of flirting by putting them in the same room and yelling, “Oh for heaven’s sake; just kiss each other, you morons!” She turns the picture of Jesus she has on her wall over while waiting for her date, saying, “I just don’t think it’s going to be your sort of evening.” She makes the people of the village wear white armbands to support the cause of “Making Poverty History.” She makes the people care about one another. Over the lifetime of the series there comes into being an emotional texture of people who truly need each other. It is the vicar who brings that about by her love for the people of the village. She makes a “church” out of a group of people which is what the real world of people needs today.
The real vicar, Joy Caroll, says of the show, “It has done good for the cause of women, the cause of the church and ultimately for the cause of God.” Seminary students agree that the church would do well to add a bit of the Vicar of Dibley to their list of shows to watch and learn from. With all the humor, with all the jokes, with all the naughty and possible questionable things on the show, there is at the heart of it a message of God.
Geraldine’s introduction to the village is: “You were expecting a bloke, with a beard, Bible, bad breath. Instead you got a babe with a bob cut and magnificent bosoms.” Her first sermon is a mix of humor and religious flavor. “I know a lot of you are surprised to find that your new vicar is a woman. Not as surprised as me. I was convinced all through my teens that naturally I would become a super model. And then one day I read the Sermon on the Mount and it was so fantastic, that was it. I decided there and then to
abandon the cat walk and give the dog collar a try. So here I am, at your service, totally yours, any time, any day. But if you come to see me first thing in the morning wear dark glasses.” From then on you are hooked. Here is a priest I want to know. But her speech right before the Christmas pageant is what the world needs to hear now more than ever. And yes, one hears it from a BBC comedy out of the mouth of a woman playing the role of a vicar in a made up village of Dibley, but it speaks a truth as simple as it is real.
“Two thousand years ago a baby was born in a stable, poorest of the poor. And yet during his life time he says things that are so astonishing that millions of people are still living their lives by them today.”
Friday, October 21, 2011
THE ART OF JOURNALING
“If you have built castles in the air, your work need not be lost; there is where they should be. Now put foundations under them.” This quote by Henry David Thoreau has hung on my wall in every place I have lived for the past twenty years. You see, I am a dreamer and I have built many castles in the air and find myself continually trying to find ways to build those necessary foundations that turn dreams into realities. One of my long time dreams is to be and artist, specifically a writer and poet. My brothers and sister are artists, graphic artists and painters. I like to draw and paint with words. My medium of choice is journal writing. I love the process of simply writing just to write. Will it lead to anything? I don’t know. Will I be a well-known writer someday? I don’t know. Will I walk into Borders or Barnes and Noble someday and see my books on their shelves or in people’s hands as they enjoy their coffee? I don’t know. For me it isn’t the product, but the process, which draws me to my love affair with writing.
My journal is like my best friend. It is there whenever I want or need to talk. I can share the most horrible thoughts my brain can conger up and know that it won’t reject or think less of me. It is always there, always receptive and open to me, always waiting for our times together. Who could ask for a more loyal or faithful friend?
My passion for writing really started while I was in high school. Mr. Moran was my sophomore English teacher. Every class we spent the first ten minutes writing anything we wanted to but we had to do it quickly and without really thinking about what we were writing. Today it is known as free writing and it keeps the critic in your head at bay. After the ten minutes were up we read our stories to the class. Mr. Moran and the other class members praised each reading for its imagination and creativity and we had fun learning to just be free with our minds and our pencils and paper. That is one of the functions of my journal. It’s that safe place to just write and not be concerned with rules or outcome or if it is good or bad writing. It just is, and that is good. I think that freedom is a universal need for every soul. No critic, no performance anxiety, no reason except the excitement of doing it. I am thankful to Mr. Moran for planting a seed that is a true foundation in my life.
I’ve had many mentors in my life who have made writing a delight to me. John Boy Walton, from the TV show The Waltons, was my dream boyfriend for a long time. He narrated the show as the oldest child of a family growing up in Virginia during the depression years. His dream was to be a writer and show after show he would write and share his stories with me (and the rest of the TV audience). I identified with him in a big way and that show added fuel to my real dream of being a writer myself.
Lillian Hellman, played by Jane Fonda in the movie Julia was another expression of my dream. My favorite scene in this movie is when Lillian is trying to write a screen play and she gets stuck, so she walks out on the beach trying to find the right words, talking to herself as the waves come up and lap at her feet. I would close my eyes and feel like I was right there, frustrated and then elated because the right word came and the story continued.
A true and real life mentor and my all time favorite writer is May Sarton, who lived by the ocean in Maine and talked a lot about her life of solitude, her writing, and her life in her house by the ocean. Her book, Journal of a Solitude, was probably instrumental in my deepening love of keeping a journal. Mentors are important people in one’s life that encourage and support us to find what our hearts are attracted to and then do
whatever that is. For me it was and still is writing, especially journal writing.
One of the top lessons I learned from all of my mentors is if one is going to want to be a writer, one must write. I had written stories and poems on and off during my high school and college days. When I graduated from high school I had planned on going to college and becoming an English teacher. I had applied to a teacher’s college in western Maryland and went for my interview. Unfortunately I didn’t have very good grades. I had A’s in English and Physical Education (the two subjects I really liked) but C’s and D’s in the others and pretty low tests scores. The woman interviewing me was more interested in what I couldn’t do and told me I wasn’t a good candidate for their school and that I should think about a junior college. The funny thing about that interview was that I noticed she had missed the top button on her blouse and had continued the error down her front. I remember thinking that I may not be smart enough for their college but at least I could dress myself properly. Needless to say that experience didn’t do much for my self-esteem but actually it turned out ok. The depression and hopelessness gave me good fodder for the hippie poet I was to become in the late 1960’s.
A great thing about journal writing is that you don’t need to be an academic wizard to write in one. No one is going to check it for mistakes or content. It’s your little hide away and no one can tell you you’re not smart enough to write in one. Anyone can and everyone should take advantage of this great freedom to live life, share thoughts, and build castles in the air in a journal.
I guess I took this woman’s words to heart because I flunked out of junior college and majored in the 60’s culture for about ten years. I hung out in coffee houses with other writers and poets, filled notebooks with poems about war, lost innocence, and a lot of existential nothingness. My best friend and I would sit around, candles dripping down Chianti bottles, drinking wine and talking about how as writers we would live destitute on the streets and then become famous after we died. I had fully embraced the writer’s life but was wondering if this was really what I had been dreaming about all these years.
Fortunately after the late sixties came the early seventies and a new movement struck my fancy. The lost hippies were turning to Jesus and it was during the Jesus Movement that my life turned around. I had an encounter with Jesus, what some might call a born again experience and my spiritual journey began. In 1973 I began an intentional practice of writing every day in a Journal. I still continue that practice to this day. I make a cup of coffee and get my Journal and Bible and I sit in bed for about an hour. Sometimes I write first, free write anything that comes to mind. Sometimes I read first and then write a meditation about what I have read, interacting with the text in order to make it mine. This is my morning quiet time, my Morning Watch, my time to get my thoughts gathered and settled before my day, filled with other people and other’s thoughts, began to need attention. It’s like offering the first fruits of the harvest to God and asking for his blessing on the rest of my activities for the day. I rarely miss a day and when I do I walk through the day feeling like something (or Someone) is missing. At the end of each month I read through the pages and highlight in different colors things that stand out to me. Inspiring thoughts, meditations to be worked on more, ideas for writing projects, and so on. Once a year, either New Years or my birthday I read what I have written through out the year. It’s like a review of what I did for 365 days. I see where I have grown, and find areas I need to grow more in and make them goals for the next year. My journal is like a living partner to me. It truly is the most important companion I carry with me in this journey through life.
I have committed myself to a life of contemplation and simplicity. I have few possessions. Among those possessions are boxes filled with my journals. A flooded basement took and destroyed my journals from 1973 to 1986. But safe and secure in my storage bin are my journals from 1987 through this very moment in time. Every time I move, which is way too frequently for me, I ask myself why I keep lugging these boxes filled with my past life from place to place. Sometimes I arrogantly answer that when I am dead and famous someone will use these papers to write my biography.
But really the answer is I still use them as writing material.
In one of my past lives I was a Camp Director. It was a summer camp but I worked year round. The main benefit of that job was I only had to be on property during the summer and could work from anywhere else I wanted to during the off-season. I chose to work from Rehoboth Beach in Delaware.
I rented a townhouse about ten blocks from the ocean and lived down at the shore from October through April for four years. I had to do about twenty hours of camp work per week but the rest of the time was mine. This became my Writer’s Retreat. One year I brought all my journals down and read through them all. I discovered that these journals were like a compost pile of thoughts, dreams and goals. Here written in these journals were my castles in the air that I had been building all these years. As I gathered the rich material I came out with several real writing projects. These are the projects I hope to develop and make foundations out of, foundations for my life, for my vocation, and for my ministry. They await my time and my energy and I believe that time is quickly approaching.
Throughout my sixty-two years writing has been the constant. The themes and contents have changed but not the Practice. I love the process of writing. I write with pen and paper because I like the feeling of connection that they give me to the work and the words. I don’t dream of being a famous writer anymore, although I wouldn’t turn down an offer if it came my way. I’ve also come to see that there are a whole lot of people who write better than I do and that is truly ok. What I do know is that only I can say what I want or have to say and therefore only I can write it. I am not concerned with the product as much as I am the process. That is why I am passionate about keeping a journal. There is something in the process of writing that connects me to my self, to the environment that surrounds me, and most important to the God who created me and loves me and to whom I have devoted my life to love and serve. Even if only God and I are the only ones who read what I write I will be fulfilled as a writer. I am my ministry and writing is a part of the process that makes me who I am.
My journal is like my best friend. It is there whenever I want or need to talk. I can share the most horrible thoughts my brain can conger up and know that it won’t reject or think less of me. It is always there, always receptive and open to me, always waiting for our times together. Who could ask for a more loyal or faithful friend?
My passion for writing really started while I was in high school. Mr. Moran was my sophomore English teacher. Every class we spent the first ten minutes writing anything we wanted to but we had to do it quickly and without really thinking about what we were writing. Today it is known as free writing and it keeps the critic in your head at bay. After the ten minutes were up we read our stories to the class. Mr. Moran and the other class members praised each reading for its imagination and creativity and we had fun learning to just be free with our minds and our pencils and paper. That is one of the functions of my journal. It’s that safe place to just write and not be concerned with rules or outcome or if it is good or bad writing. It just is, and that is good. I think that freedom is a universal need for every soul. No critic, no performance anxiety, no reason except the excitement of doing it. I am thankful to Mr. Moran for planting a seed that is a true foundation in my life.
I’ve had many mentors in my life who have made writing a delight to me. John Boy Walton, from the TV show The Waltons, was my dream boyfriend for a long time. He narrated the show as the oldest child of a family growing up in Virginia during the depression years. His dream was to be a writer and show after show he would write and share his stories with me (and the rest of the TV audience). I identified with him in a big way and that show added fuel to my real dream of being a writer myself.
Lillian Hellman, played by Jane Fonda in the movie Julia was another expression of my dream. My favorite scene in this movie is when Lillian is trying to write a screen play and she gets stuck, so she walks out on the beach trying to find the right words, talking to herself as the waves come up and lap at her feet. I would close my eyes and feel like I was right there, frustrated and then elated because the right word came and the story continued.
A true and real life mentor and my all time favorite writer is May Sarton, who lived by the ocean in Maine and talked a lot about her life of solitude, her writing, and her life in her house by the ocean. Her book, Journal of a Solitude, was probably instrumental in my deepening love of keeping a journal. Mentors are important people in one’s life that encourage and support us to find what our hearts are attracted to and then do
whatever that is. For me it was and still is writing, especially journal writing.
One of the top lessons I learned from all of my mentors is if one is going to want to be a writer, one must write. I had written stories and poems on and off during my high school and college days. When I graduated from high school I had planned on going to college and becoming an English teacher. I had applied to a teacher’s college in western Maryland and went for my interview. Unfortunately I didn’t have very good grades. I had A’s in English and Physical Education (the two subjects I really liked) but C’s and D’s in the others and pretty low tests scores. The woman interviewing me was more interested in what I couldn’t do and told me I wasn’t a good candidate for their school and that I should think about a junior college. The funny thing about that interview was that I noticed she had missed the top button on her blouse and had continued the error down her front. I remember thinking that I may not be smart enough for their college but at least I could dress myself properly. Needless to say that experience didn’t do much for my self-esteem but actually it turned out ok. The depression and hopelessness gave me good fodder for the hippie poet I was to become in the late 1960’s.
A great thing about journal writing is that you don’t need to be an academic wizard to write in one. No one is going to check it for mistakes or content. It’s your little hide away and no one can tell you you’re not smart enough to write in one. Anyone can and everyone should take advantage of this great freedom to live life, share thoughts, and build castles in the air in a journal.
I guess I took this woman’s words to heart because I flunked out of junior college and majored in the 60’s culture for about ten years. I hung out in coffee houses with other writers and poets, filled notebooks with poems about war, lost innocence, and a lot of existential nothingness. My best friend and I would sit around, candles dripping down Chianti bottles, drinking wine and talking about how as writers we would live destitute on the streets and then become famous after we died. I had fully embraced the writer’s life but was wondering if this was really what I had been dreaming about all these years.
Fortunately after the late sixties came the early seventies and a new movement struck my fancy. The lost hippies were turning to Jesus and it was during the Jesus Movement that my life turned around. I had an encounter with Jesus, what some might call a born again experience and my spiritual journey began. In 1973 I began an intentional practice of writing every day in a Journal. I still continue that practice to this day. I make a cup of coffee and get my Journal and Bible and I sit in bed for about an hour. Sometimes I write first, free write anything that comes to mind. Sometimes I read first and then write a meditation about what I have read, interacting with the text in order to make it mine. This is my morning quiet time, my Morning Watch, my time to get my thoughts gathered and settled before my day, filled with other people and other’s thoughts, began to need attention. It’s like offering the first fruits of the harvest to God and asking for his blessing on the rest of my activities for the day. I rarely miss a day and when I do I walk through the day feeling like something (or Someone) is missing. At the end of each month I read through the pages and highlight in different colors things that stand out to me. Inspiring thoughts, meditations to be worked on more, ideas for writing projects, and so on. Once a year, either New Years or my birthday I read what I have written through out the year. It’s like a review of what I did for 365 days. I see where I have grown, and find areas I need to grow more in and make them goals for the next year. My journal is like a living partner to me. It truly is the most important companion I carry with me in this journey through life.
I have committed myself to a life of contemplation and simplicity. I have few possessions. Among those possessions are boxes filled with my journals. A flooded basement took and destroyed my journals from 1973 to 1986. But safe and secure in my storage bin are my journals from 1987 through this very moment in time. Every time I move, which is way too frequently for me, I ask myself why I keep lugging these boxes filled with my past life from place to place. Sometimes I arrogantly answer that when I am dead and famous someone will use these papers to write my biography.
But really the answer is I still use them as writing material.
In one of my past lives I was a Camp Director. It was a summer camp but I worked year round. The main benefit of that job was I only had to be on property during the summer and could work from anywhere else I wanted to during the off-season. I chose to work from Rehoboth Beach in Delaware.
I rented a townhouse about ten blocks from the ocean and lived down at the shore from October through April for four years. I had to do about twenty hours of camp work per week but the rest of the time was mine. This became my Writer’s Retreat. One year I brought all my journals down and read through them all. I discovered that these journals were like a compost pile of thoughts, dreams and goals. Here written in these journals were my castles in the air that I had been building all these years. As I gathered the rich material I came out with several real writing projects. These are the projects I hope to develop and make foundations out of, foundations for my life, for my vocation, and for my ministry. They await my time and my energy and I believe that time is quickly approaching.
Throughout my sixty-two years writing has been the constant. The themes and contents have changed but not the Practice. I love the process of writing. I write with pen and paper because I like the feeling of connection that they give me to the work and the words. I don’t dream of being a famous writer anymore, although I wouldn’t turn down an offer if it came my way. I’ve also come to see that there are a whole lot of people who write better than I do and that is truly ok. What I do know is that only I can say what I want or have to say and therefore only I can write it. I am not concerned with the product as much as I am the process. That is why I am passionate about keeping a journal. There is something in the process of writing that connects me to my self, to the environment that surrounds me, and most important to the God who created me and loves me and to whom I have devoted my life to love and serve. Even if only God and I are the only ones who read what I write I will be fulfilled as a writer. I am my ministry and writing is a part of the process that makes me who I am.
WHY I WRITE
Two things being a ‘Navy Brat’ did for me was to give me a lot of adventures and a lot of time alone. This sounds like fertile ground for a future writer to grow up in. I moved thirteen times before I entered eighth grade. School systems varied from place to place so I was always playing catch up in my studies. This helped me to be a very self disciplined student because I had to do most of the catching up on my own. Of course, it also explains why I barely graduated from high school but that is another tale for another time. During those formative years I also learned how to entertain myself, always being the new kid on the block. I made friends pretty easily, thanks to my excellent baseball skills. I would find the game, join in and hit a few homeruns and it was instant acceptance, not only for me but also for my little brother, who couldn’t play worth beans, but if he didn’t play, neither did I. If I wasn’t playing ball or war (that’s what kids on Navy bases play), I actually liked playing by myself. I had a set of cowboys and Indians and I would play with them for hours, making up stories and acting them out. I also played with paper dolls and acted out stories that any of today’s soap operas would be knocking on my door to buy. Oh the dramas I could think up. I wish now that I had written them down. I am sure that I would be famous and would have Oprah on my show. But they were just stories that I had fun making up and are now lost in space somewhere.
I did begin writing my dramas down when I got into junior high school. I would come home from school after a bad day and I would sit down and write my day over. I would be the star, the popular kid, and everything I did or said was fantastic. This actually made me feel better at least until the next day when I had to return to school as the real me.
When I was a junior in high school I had the best English teacher I ever had. The first ten minutes of every class Mr. Moran had us simply write whatever came to mind as quickly as we could. Then we would read them to the class. I loved doing these exercises and knew that one day I wanted to be a writer. My head got a little big as I soaked in all the encouragement Mr. Moran gave me. Fortunately my senior English teacher was equally good, and tolerant of the creative nature I had developed. Several times I would ask for extensions on writing assignments simply because “I’m just not feeling inspired.” It sounds weird now but I think I actually believed it. Mrs. McGrab apparently did too because she always gave me the extension as well as an A on my paper. I took one of those vocation tests seniors had to take and way ahead of everything else I scored ‘author’. A distant second was ‘teacher’. That sounded good to me so I began to order my life in that direction.
English and Physical Education were my favorite classes and I got all A’s in them. Unfortunately the other subjects paled both in my interest and in decent grades. I managed to graduate but it took a lot of pleading and begging and extra credit work. I had applied to a teacher’s college in western Maryland and went for my interview. The woman interviewing me wasn’t impressed with my ability to ace two subjects and looked more at the other subjects and my overall test grades. She told me I wasn’t a good candidate for their school and I should think about a junior college. The funny thing about that interview was that I noticed she had missed the top button on her blouse and had continued the error down her front. I remember thinking that I may not be smart enough for their college but at least I could dress myself properly. Needless to say that experience didn’t do much for my self esteem and I entered a junior college knowing that my diva status was gone forever. But actually it turned out ok because the depression and hopelessness gave me good fodder for the hippie poet I was to become in the late 1960’s. Allen Ginsberg’s Howl, Lawrence Ferlinghetti’s Coney Island of the Mind, and Leonard Cohen became my new studies and I hung around with other poet’s in coffee houses and in the parks. I flunked out of school and majored in the 60’s culture for about ten years. I filled notebooks with poems about the war, about lost innocence, and a lot of existential nothingness. I became my art, dressing in black (beret included) and smoking cigarettes (the kind you rolled yourself). My best friend and I would sit around, candles dripping down Chianti bottles, drinking wine and talking about how we would live destitute on the streets and then become famous after we died. Sad but true; the diva had gone to the dark side.
Fortunately after the late sixties came the early seventies and a new movement struck my fancy. The lost hippies were turning to Jesus and it was during the Jesus Movement that my life turned around. I had an encounter with Jesus, what some might call a born again experience and my spiritual journey began. Instead of writing down and out depressing poems and songs I was writing Bible studies and praise and worship songs. Instead of protesting war, I was praising God and offering an alternative answer to the emptiness that the 60’s left in its wake. I found a goal and a purpose and a ministry.
I returned to school and got a degree in Behavioral Science. The program was like heaven for me. I had a choice of 2 tracts. One was attending class and taking exams; the other was independent study and writing papers. I chose the second and spent two years writing my way to a degree. This time I had a 4.0 average and was on the deans list (for good stuff this time) throughout my stay there. All that, and being able to button my blouse correctly! The world was mine for the taking.
In 1995 I ran into the daughter of the owner of a camp that I had previously worked at for thirteen years. She offered me a job and I returned to Camp after a twenty year absence. Times had changed a lot and so did camp policies and procedures. In my first camp experience we pretty much followed oral tradition. Now everything had to be in writing. Part of my job was to do just that. I had to put Valley Mill Camp on paper. I developed and wrote staff handbooks, parent handbooks, policy and procedure notebooks, training manuals, reports, and who does what charts, so that we could pass an accreditation visit from the county, the state and The American Camping Association, who governs camps nationwide. I would sit and stare at the bookshelves full of my work and yet I never considered myself a writer during that time period. I longed to get back into my right brain and make my living writing poetry and doing my journal workshops and writing material that would help people get to know God better.
Evelyn, my boss, called me the wordsmith of Valley Mill but I saw myself as anything but that. It’s strange how a perception of what a writer is can make a difference in how I saw myself; Camp director, administrator yes, but writer, no, even though that was about 80% of what I did in those positions.
One of the blessings of being employed by a summer camp year round is that I got to spend my winters anywhere I wanted. I moved to Rehoboth Beach, DE and lived there from October through April for four years. This was my time to do my writing. I developed a daily schedule and kept to it. I wrote every day, working on projects that I wanted to someday do something with, like publish them and perhaps become a famous writer. All of them remain unfinished in my project file and are just waiting to be resurrected someday; a book for my workshop on keeping a journal, a book on discipleship and stewardship, a spiritual autobiography, and a book on Camp orientation for caring counselors. They are patiently awaiting their due time and attention.
Throughout all these years writing was the constant. The themes and contents have changed but not the practice. I love the process of writing. I write with pen and paper because I like the feeling of connection that they give me to the work and the words. I don’t dream of being a famous writer anymore, although I wouldn’t turn down an offer if it came my way. I’ve also come to see that there are a whole lot of people who write better than me and that is truly ok. What I do know is that only I can say what I want or have to say and therefore only I can write it. I am not concerned with the product as much as I am the process. It’s the process of writing that hooked me from the very beginning. I could make myself feel happy by sitting down and rewriting my day. I have kept a journal since 1973 and I write in it every morning. If I miss a day, something is missing for me in the way that day goes. There is something in the process of writing what connects me to my self, to the environment that surrounds me, and most important to the God who created me and loves me and to whom I have devoted my life to love and serve. I am my ministry and writing is part of the process that makes me who I am.
I did begin writing my dramas down when I got into junior high school. I would come home from school after a bad day and I would sit down and write my day over. I would be the star, the popular kid, and everything I did or said was fantastic. This actually made me feel better at least until the next day when I had to return to school as the real me.
When I was a junior in high school I had the best English teacher I ever had. The first ten minutes of every class Mr. Moran had us simply write whatever came to mind as quickly as we could. Then we would read them to the class. I loved doing these exercises and knew that one day I wanted to be a writer. My head got a little big as I soaked in all the encouragement Mr. Moran gave me. Fortunately my senior English teacher was equally good, and tolerant of the creative nature I had developed. Several times I would ask for extensions on writing assignments simply because “I’m just not feeling inspired.” It sounds weird now but I think I actually believed it. Mrs. McGrab apparently did too because she always gave me the extension as well as an A on my paper. I took one of those vocation tests seniors had to take and way ahead of everything else I scored ‘author’. A distant second was ‘teacher’. That sounded good to me so I began to order my life in that direction.
English and Physical Education were my favorite classes and I got all A’s in them. Unfortunately the other subjects paled both in my interest and in decent grades. I managed to graduate but it took a lot of pleading and begging and extra credit work. I had applied to a teacher’s college in western Maryland and went for my interview. The woman interviewing me wasn’t impressed with my ability to ace two subjects and looked more at the other subjects and my overall test grades. She told me I wasn’t a good candidate for their school and I should think about a junior college. The funny thing about that interview was that I noticed she had missed the top button on her blouse and had continued the error down her front. I remember thinking that I may not be smart enough for their college but at least I could dress myself properly. Needless to say that experience didn’t do much for my self esteem and I entered a junior college knowing that my diva status was gone forever. But actually it turned out ok because the depression and hopelessness gave me good fodder for the hippie poet I was to become in the late 1960’s. Allen Ginsberg’s Howl, Lawrence Ferlinghetti’s Coney Island of the Mind, and Leonard Cohen became my new studies and I hung around with other poet’s in coffee houses and in the parks. I flunked out of school and majored in the 60’s culture for about ten years. I filled notebooks with poems about the war, about lost innocence, and a lot of existential nothingness. I became my art, dressing in black (beret included) and smoking cigarettes (the kind you rolled yourself). My best friend and I would sit around, candles dripping down Chianti bottles, drinking wine and talking about how we would live destitute on the streets and then become famous after we died. Sad but true; the diva had gone to the dark side.
Fortunately after the late sixties came the early seventies and a new movement struck my fancy. The lost hippies were turning to Jesus and it was during the Jesus Movement that my life turned around. I had an encounter with Jesus, what some might call a born again experience and my spiritual journey began. Instead of writing down and out depressing poems and songs I was writing Bible studies and praise and worship songs. Instead of protesting war, I was praising God and offering an alternative answer to the emptiness that the 60’s left in its wake. I found a goal and a purpose and a ministry.
I returned to school and got a degree in Behavioral Science. The program was like heaven for me. I had a choice of 2 tracts. One was attending class and taking exams; the other was independent study and writing papers. I chose the second and spent two years writing my way to a degree. This time I had a 4.0 average and was on the deans list (for good stuff this time) throughout my stay there. All that, and being able to button my blouse correctly! The world was mine for the taking.
In 1995 I ran into the daughter of the owner of a camp that I had previously worked at for thirteen years. She offered me a job and I returned to Camp after a twenty year absence. Times had changed a lot and so did camp policies and procedures. In my first camp experience we pretty much followed oral tradition. Now everything had to be in writing. Part of my job was to do just that. I had to put Valley Mill Camp on paper. I developed and wrote staff handbooks, parent handbooks, policy and procedure notebooks, training manuals, reports, and who does what charts, so that we could pass an accreditation visit from the county, the state and The American Camping Association, who governs camps nationwide. I would sit and stare at the bookshelves full of my work and yet I never considered myself a writer during that time period. I longed to get back into my right brain and make my living writing poetry and doing my journal workshops and writing material that would help people get to know God better.
Evelyn, my boss, called me the wordsmith of Valley Mill but I saw myself as anything but that. It’s strange how a perception of what a writer is can make a difference in how I saw myself; Camp director, administrator yes, but writer, no, even though that was about 80% of what I did in those positions.
One of the blessings of being employed by a summer camp year round is that I got to spend my winters anywhere I wanted. I moved to Rehoboth Beach, DE and lived there from October through April for four years. This was my time to do my writing. I developed a daily schedule and kept to it. I wrote every day, working on projects that I wanted to someday do something with, like publish them and perhaps become a famous writer. All of them remain unfinished in my project file and are just waiting to be resurrected someday; a book for my workshop on keeping a journal, a book on discipleship and stewardship, a spiritual autobiography, and a book on Camp orientation for caring counselors. They are patiently awaiting their due time and attention.
Throughout all these years writing was the constant. The themes and contents have changed but not the practice. I love the process of writing. I write with pen and paper because I like the feeling of connection that they give me to the work and the words. I don’t dream of being a famous writer anymore, although I wouldn’t turn down an offer if it came my way. I’ve also come to see that there are a whole lot of people who write better than me and that is truly ok. What I do know is that only I can say what I want or have to say and therefore only I can write it. I am not concerned with the product as much as I am the process. It’s the process of writing that hooked me from the very beginning. I could make myself feel happy by sitting down and rewriting my day. I have kept a journal since 1973 and I write in it every morning. If I miss a day, something is missing for me in the way that day goes. There is something in the process of writing what connects me to my self, to the environment that surrounds me, and most important to the God who created me and loves me and to whom I have devoted my life to love and serve. I am my ministry and writing is part of the process that makes me who I am.
Thursday, October 20, 2011
WILL THERE EVER AGAIN BE A NORMAL DAY AT CAMP?
“O.K. girls, let’s circle up.” I have heralded this call every day of the camp season for the last ten years. It is part of my job here at Valley Mill Day Camp for Girls to assemble 200 girls from the ages of 4 to 12 and a staff of about 50 college age kids around the flag pole in front of the covered bridge for our daily singing and flag ceremony before we begin our daily activities of swimming, canoeing, archery, drama, gymnastics, and horse back riding. We sing a few of those silly camp songs, post and salute the flag as we repeat the pledge of allegiance and then the final call of “First Period” and the camp day begins, again, everyday from June through August, every year from 1965 through this year of 1975. This is my life and I love it. I go into the office for my morning meeting with Skipper. She is the owner and director of the camp and I have worked my way up through the ranks to be her assistant director. We go over our agenda for the staff meeting at lunch. She reminds me to order the popsicles for afternoon assembly and then I am off on my rounds to make sure all is well in our little corner of the world.
I started working at camp the summer I graduated from high school in 1965. Our next door neighbor was friends with a woman who owned a private day camp for girls, so he set me up with an interview. That was the first time I saw Valley Mill Camp. I turned into the driveway and parked the car. There in the middle of a small suburban area in Colesville, Maryland, was a small Mecca of woods and open fields. I walked across a red covered bridge and knocked on the door of an early American house, built in the 1800’s. I felt as though I had stepped back in time. A tall, thin very athletic woman in her 40’s opened the door and invited me in.
“You must be Pat. I’m May McEwan but everyone calls me Skipper. Come on in.” We walked up into a small living room and I sat down. She went over to a stairway and yelled, “Bob, Pat’s here.” I heard someone coming down the stairs and then saw a dapper looking gentleman with a wide smile on his face. “Bob McEwan,” he said as he extended his hand to shake mine, “but everyone calls me Mr. Mac.” We all took a seat and began the interview. Apparently they thought I would be an asset at camp, because I left with a contract and was told to report back to the house on Saturday for an opening staff meeting. I left there an employed adult setting out on a new journey and was delighted it would be working at a camp. Many of my childhood summers were spent going to camp and the memories of those times were rich in my mind.
I was excited about working with Skipper and Mr. Mac. Little did I know then that she would become the most influential person in my life. In the ten years that I worked for the camp I found Skipper to be an amazing woman. She could do anything and everything. When she walked into a room, you knew she was there whether or not she said a word. She commanded your respect just by being in your presence. She loved nature and wanted to create a space where others could develop that same appreciation. She instilled in me the belief that whatever was worth doing was worth doing well and simply being adequate at things was not acceptable. She held herself, her family and her staff to a very high standard. She was loved and respected by everyone who came to know her and her belief in people changed many lives for the better, including mine. During my first thirteen years at camp she went from boss to mentor to friend. I became her assistant director and her intention was that I would become director when she was ready to retire. My whole life came to revolve around camp and my future was determined and set. A moment in time on Saturday 13 July 1975, changed the course of my life forever.
After my meeting with Skipper I started my rounds. I saved the pool for last because they were in full swing preparing for our yearly Water Ballet Show and I knew there would be a lot of things they would need. When I went up there before lunch I found Skipper in the water.
“Keep those toes pointed and no splashing.” She was helping one of the older girls with her ballet leg.
“Knee straight and keep those toes pointed. Here, let me show you.” Skipper was part of a professional Water Ballet Team and it was one of the activities that set us apart from the other camps in the area. Every year we would write numbers and teach the kids the different skills and then we would invite the parents so the kids could show off. Skipper oversaw each group as they prepared for the day. She worked with the group of girls and then would work with individuals who were having difficulty. She wanted the show to be perfect and it usually was, thanks to her patience and expertise.
Our staff meeting went as usual. Skipper and I met afterwards to go over any last details for the over night the older girls would be having. She really was a hands on director, allowing me to do my thing but always available if I needed anything.
“Yep,” I said,” it’s all good. Do you think you can come up for the campfire and singing? The girl’s would like it if you came.”
She smiled and said, “I have some things to do but I might come up for a song or two.”
“Great”, I said and went off to do the shopping for food.
The overnight went well. There is nothing like a clear night, hot dogs and s’mores over an open fire and of course the singing around the campfire.
The next morning we got up and cooked breakfast and then got everything packed up and waited for the parents to come and pick up their kids. Skipper came out and met me as we were walking down the hill.
“We missed you last night, Skipper”, a few of the girls yelled as they ran over to her.
“Yes, I was going to come up for a song or two but got busy. How did it go?”
“It was awesome…Oh there’s my mom. Bye Skipper, see you Monday.” The kids loved Skipper and she loved them back.
“So Pat, I’m going kayaking out on the river this afternoon. Want to join me?”
“I would but I didn’t get a whole lot of sleep and I have a friend coming in for the weekend.”
“Next time.” We chatted for a few minutes more and then I started for home.
“See you Monday. Have a good run on the river,” I said as I got in my car and left.
That evening as I was getting ready to go out to dinner with my friend, the phone rang and I answered it.
“Hello, may I speak to Pat?”
“This is Pat.” I couldn’t quite tell who it was; the voice was so soft and low.
“Pat, it’s Mr. Mac.”
“Oh, hi Mr. Mac. I’m just on my way out. What can I do for you?”
“Pat. I am here at the hospital. There has been an accident. Skipper is dead.” I was speechless for a moment. “What? How?”
There was silence and then he spoke. “Skipper is dead. She went out into the woods and didn’t come back. So I went out looking for her. She shot herself in the head.” There was total silence for what seemed like eternity. Finally the silence was broken.
“Pat, I need you to go out to camp and do some calling. The staff needs to be told. I have decided to cancel camp on Monday so the family can get things together. Can you do that for us?”
“Of course, I’ll get right out there. Mr. Mac…”
“I need to go now Pat, thank you.” He hung up. I stood there with the phone in my hand in disbelief.
I called a couple of my good friends who worked there as well, told them what had happened and asked if they could come out to camp and help me. The rest of the evening and the next few days were a haze. No one could believe it. We did what we needed to do. The family left to gather themselves and I took care of the details at camp. We called and cancelled camp and alerted the staff. Most of them came out to camp on Sunday just to be together. Surely this was a horrible nightmare. This couldn’t be happening. But it was.
On Tuesday the busses full of campers arrived. The family and I gathered them all together for our usual assembly. Mr. Mac told them that Skipper had died and encouraged them that camp would go on as usual. Skipper would want it that way. He turned to me.
“ Pat, lead a song and then proceed with a normal camp day.” I led Barges with a cracking voice and then called out,”First Period”. The staff and kids went on to their activities; Mr. Mac and the family went into the house. I stood for awhile at the flag pole, not sure what to do. For me there would never again be a normal camp day.
From my first day of camp in 1965 until my last day of camp in 1978, I never saw my time at camp as a job. It was a relationship with a place and the people. A relationship that was made up of many meaningful experiences, many happy and sad times, and many lifetime memories. But as I look back, the place truly was the person who created and developed it, and that person was Skipper. She was Valley Mill Camp. After her death her daughter Evelyn moved from Iowa and took over Skipper’s job as director. I continued working there out of loyalty to Skipper, but my heart was never quite in it. In 1978 the family sold the property and moved the camp to another location about forty minutes away. I was expected to continue on but I decided it was time to leave and get on with my life. The life that I thought was all planned out disintegrated and it was time to find a new plan. On the last day of camp in 1978 I did my last flag ceremony, worked my last work day and said good- by to a family I had felt a part of for 13 years. Or so I thought.
Twenty years later, on a November morning, I walked into Woodside Deli, a favorite breakfast spot in D.C. I had come in with my friend Kathy. Suddenly I heard my name being called. I turned around and there sat Evelyn, Skipper’s daughter. I was totally surprised. We gave each other a big hug and I sat down.
“I can’t believe it. How are you? What are you doing these days?” Evelyn seemed as surprised as I was.
“ I just moved back from Massachusetts and I’m looking for work. How are you?”
“I am just fine. Still keeping Valley Mill going.” My heart leaped a bit.
“Say, if you’re free this week why don’t you come out and visit. Tom and Mary are out there and Dad is living out on the property. You’ve never even seen the new place, have you?”
“No, I haven’t. That would be great. How about Tuesday?”
“Sounds good to me. Everyone will be so excited to see you.” She gave me a big hug and then just looked straight into my eyes. “It is so good to see you, Pat.”
I drove out to camp on Tuesday. I walked into the office and there was Tom and Mary, Skipper’s other two kids, now adults. They both gave me hugs and then we just sat in the office and chatted like old friends. I couldn’t take my eyes off of Mary. She looked just like Skipper, as I remembered her. We went for a walk around the property. It looked like the same camp only in a different place. Somehow it felt like home, even though I had never set foot on the property before today. We went back into the office, poured some coffee and sat and talked. Suddenly Evelyn looked at me.
“You know, Pat, if you are looking for work, I could sure use your help here. You know what it takes to get a camp up and going and it would be good to be working with you again.”
I took a deep breath and smiled. Then I looked up on the wall and saw a picture of Skipper, running white water in her kayak. It was taken at a Championship race in 1974.
“I was there the day she won that race.” I hesitated and then said, “O.K. I’ll do it. What do you want me to do?”
By the time camp opened that year I was working full time, year round. In three years I became the director of the Girl’s camp, fulfilling my destiny that had been shattered two decades ago. The most important part of my job, besides taking care of 200 little girls from the age of 4 to 12 and supervising a staff of 50, mostly high school/college age kids, was to keep Skipper’s memory alive. She had a vision long ago for a place where kids could be kids, learning about nature and learning to love being in the out of doors. It was my mission to keep that vision alive. She taught by example and as a director I followed in her footprints. When I interact with the staff I remember how she interacted with me and the others who were on staff. When I interact with the children I remember how she interacted with the children, many of whom are present staff and have their kids attending as campers the camp they attended.
I will probably never know the truth of what happened that July night to Skipper. She was such an amazing woman, a confident woman and a woman who loved life. On July 13, 1975, my world and the worlds of many others who knew and loved her were thrown into a tail spin. This was not a woman who would so violently take her own life. It just wasn’t possible. She was too strong to take such a weak way out of this life. Later I learned that Skipper was a much stronger and confident woman than May was, even though they were one and the same person. May was unsure of herself, suffered from very low self esteem and felt alone and lost in her marriage with an unfaithful husband. These truths were well hidden from almost everyone who knew her, even knew her well. As close as we had become, I did not know them, until one night when Evelyn and I were enjoying a bottle of wine after a very hectic week.
I may not ever know the truth of that night. But I do know I miss the presence of one of the most influential people in my life. I do know that many lives were affected by her life and that many lives were drastically changed by her death. I do know that her memory lives on in her children, her children’s children, all that were fortunate to be a part of her staff, and all the kids who have gone through Valley Mill Camp in the 53 years of its existence. I do know that she is present with me each day as I circle up the girls of Valley Mill Camp, as we sing our silly camp songs and as I smile and loudly yell out ”First Period.”
I started working at camp the summer I graduated from high school in 1965. Our next door neighbor was friends with a woman who owned a private day camp for girls, so he set me up with an interview. That was the first time I saw Valley Mill Camp. I turned into the driveway and parked the car. There in the middle of a small suburban area in Colesville, Maryland, was a small Mecca of woods and open fields. I walked across a red covered bridge and knocked on the door of an early American house, built in the 1800’s. I felt as though I had stepped back in time. A tall, thin very athletic woman in her 40’s opened the door and invited me in.
“You must be Pat. I’m May McEwan but everyone calls me Skipper. Come on in.” We walked up into a small living room and I sat down. She went over to a stairway and yelled, “Bob, Pat’s here.” I heard someone coming down the stairs and then saw a dapper looking gentleman with a wide smile on his face. “Bob McEwan,” he said as he extended his hand to shake mine, “but everyone calls me Mr. Mac.” We all took a seat and began the interview. Apparently they thought I would be an asset at camp, because I left with a contract and was told to report back to the house on Saturday for an opening staff meeting. I left there an employed adult setting out on a new journey and was delighted it would be working at a camp. Many of my childhood summers were spent going to camp and the memories of those times were rich in my mind.
I was excited about working with Skipper and Mr. Mac. Little did I know then that she would become the most influential person in my life. In the ten years that I worked for the camp I found Skipper to be an amazing woman. She could do anything and everything. When she walked into a room, you knew she was there whether or not she said a word. She commanded your respect just by being in your presence. She loved nature and wanted to create a space where others could develop that same appreciation. She instilled in me the belief that whatever was worth doing was worth doing well and simply being adequate at things was not acceptable. She held herself, her family and her staff to a very high standard. She was loved and respected by everyone who came to know her and her belief in people changed many lives for the better, including mine. During my first thirteen years at camp she went from boss to mentor to friend. I became her assistant director and her intention was that I would become director when she was ready to retire. My whole life came to revolve around camp and my future was determined and set. A moment in time on Saturday 13 July 1975, changed the course of my life forever.
After my meeting with Skipper I started my rounds. I saved the pool for last because they were in full swing preparing for our yearly Water Ballet Show and I knew there would be a lot of things they would need. When I went up there before lunch I found Skipper in the water.
“Keep those toes pointed and no splashing.” She was helping one of the older girls with her ballet leg.
“Knee straight and keep those toes pointed. Here, let me show you.” Skipper was part of a professional Water Ballet Team and it was one of the activities that set us apart from the other camps in the area. Every year we would write numbers and teach the kids the different skills and then we would invite the parents so the kids could show off. Skipper oversaw each group as they prepared for the day. She worked with the group of girls and then would work with individuals who were having difficulty. She wanted the show to be perfect and it usually was, thanks to her patience and expertise.
Our staff meeting went as usual. Skipper and I met afterwards to go over any last details for the over night the older girls would be having. She really was a hands on director, allowing me to do my thing but always available if I needed anything.
“Yep,” I said,” it’s all good. Do you think you can come up for the campfire and singing? The girl’s would like it if you came.”
She smiled and said, “I have some things to do but I might come up for a song or two.”
“Great”, I said and went off to do the shopping for food.
The overnight went well. There is nothing like a clear night, hot dogs and s’mores over an open fire and of course the singing around the campfire.
The next morning we got up and cooked breakfast and then got everything packed up and waited for the parents to come and pick up their kids. Skipper came out and met me as we were walking down the hill.
“We missed you last night, Skipper”, a few of the girls yelled as they ran over to her.
“Yes, I was going to come up for a song or two but got busy. How did it go?”
“It was awesome…Oh there’s my mom. Bye Skipper, see you Monday.” The kids loved Skipper and she loved them back.
“So Pat, I’m going kayaking out on the river this afternoon. Want to join me?”
“I would but I didn’t get a whole lot of sleep and I have a friend coming in for the weekend.”
“Next time.” We chatted for a few minutes more and then I started for home.
“See you Monday. Have a good run on the river,” I said as I got in my car and left.
That evening as I was getting ready to go out to dinner with my friend, the phone rang and I answered it.
“Hello, may I speak to Pat?”
“This is Pat.” I couldn’t quite tell who it was; the voice was so soft and low.
“Pat, it’s Mr. Mac.”
“Oh, hi Mr. Mac. I’m just on my way out. What can I do for you?”
“Pat. I am here at the hospital. There has been an accident. Skipper is dead.” I was speechless for a moment. “What? How?”
There was silence and then he spoke. “Skipper is dead. She went out into the woods and didn’t come back. So I went out looking for her. She shot herself in the head.” There was total silence for what seemed like eternity. Finally the silence was broken.
“Pat, I need you to go out to camp and do some calling. The staff needs to be told. I have decided to cancel camp on Monday so the family can get things together. Can you do that for us?”
“Of course, I’ll get right out there. Mr. Mac…”
“I need to go now Pat, thank you.” He hung up. I stood there with the phone in my hand in disbelief.
I called a couple of my good friends who worked there as well, told them what had happened and asked if they could come out to camp and help me. The rest of the evening and the next few days were a haze. No one could believe it. We did what we needed to do. The family left to gather themselves and I took care of the details at camp. We called and cancelled camp and alerted the staff. Most of them came out to camp on Sunday just to be together. Surely this was a horrible nightmare. This couldn’t be happening. But it was.
On Tuesday the busses full of campers arrived. The family and I gathered them all together for our usual assembly. Mr. Mac told them that Skipper had died and encouraged them that camp would go on as usual. Skipper would want it that way. He turned to me.
“ Pat, lead a song and then proceed with a normal camp day.” I led Barges with a cracking voice and then called out,”First Period”. The staff and kids went on to their activities; Mr. Mac and the family went into the house. I stood for awhile at the flag pole, not sure what to do. For me there would never again be a normal camp day.
From my first day of camp in 1965 until my last day of camp in 1978, I never saw my time at camp as a job. It was a relationship with a place and the people. A relationship that was made up of many meaningful experiences, many happy and sad times, and many lifetime memories. But as I look back, the place truly was the person who created and developed it, and that person was Skipper. She was Valley Mill Camp. After her death her daughter Evelyn moved from Iowa and took over Skipper’s job as director. I continued working there out of loyalty to Skipper, but my heart was never quite in it. In 1978 the family sold the property and moved the camp to another location about forty minutes away. I was expected to continue on but I decided it was time to leave and get on with my life. The life that I thought was all planned out disintegrated and it was time to find a new plan. On the last day of camp in 1978 I did my last flag ceremony, worked my last work day and said good- by to a family I had felt a part of for 13 years. Or so I thought.
Twenty years later, on a November morning, I walked into Woodside Deli, a favorite breakfast spot in D.C. I had come in with my friend Kathy. Suddenly I heard my name being called. I turned around and there sat Evelyn, Skipper’s daughter. I was totally surprised. We gave each other a big hug and I sat down.
“I can’t believe it. How are you? What are you doing these days?” Evelyn seemed as surprised as I was.
“ I just moved back from Massachusetts and I’m looking for work. How are you?”
“I am just fine. Still keeping Valley Mill going.” My heart leaped a bit.
“Say, if you’re free this week why don’t you come out and visit. Tom and Mary are out there and Dad is living out on the property. You’ve never even seen the new place, have you?”
“No, I haven’t. That would be great. How about Tuesday?”
“Sounds good to me. Everyone will be so excited to see you.” She gave me a big hug and then just looked straight into my eyes. “It is so good to see you, Pat.”
I drove out to camp on Tuesday. I walked into the office and there was Tom and Mary, Skipper’s other two kids, now adults. They both gave me hugs and then we just sat in the office and chatted like old friends. I couldn’t take my eyes off of Mary. She looked just like Skipper, as I remembered her. We went for a walk around the property. It looked like the same camp only in a different place. Somehow it felt like home, even though I had never set foot on the property before today. We went back into the office, poured some coffee and sat and talked. Suddenly Evelyn looked at me.
“You know, Pat, if you are looking for work, I could sure use your help here. You know what it takes to get a camp up and going and it would be good to be working with you again.”
I took a deep breath and smiled. Then I looked up on the wall and saw a picture of Skipper, running white water in her kayak. It was taken at a Championship race in 1974.
“I was there the day she won that race.” I hesitated and then said, “O.K. I’ll do it. What do you want me to do?”
By the time camp opened that year I was working full time, year round. In three years I became the director of the Girl’s camp, fulfilling my destiny that had been shattered two decades ago. The most important part of my job, besides taking care of 200 little girls from the age of 4 to 12 and supervising a staff of 50, mostly high school/college age kids, was to keep Skipper’s memory alive. She had a vision long ago for a place where kids could be kids, learning about nature and learning to love being in the out of doors. It was my mission to keep that vision alive. She taught by example and as a director I followed in her footprints. When I interact with the staff I remember how she interacted with me and the others who were on staff. When I interact with the children I remember how she interacted with the children, many of whom are present staff and have their kids attending as campers the camp they attended.
I will probably never know the truth of what happened that July night to Skipper. She was such an amazing woman, a confident woman and a woman who loved life. On July 13, 1975, my world and the worlds of many others who knew and loved her were thrown into a tail spin. This was not a woman who would so violently take her own life. It just wasn’t possible. She was too strong to take such a weak way out of this life. Later I learned that Skipper was a much stronger and confident woman than May was, even though they were one and the same person. May was unsure of herself, suffered from very low self esteem and felt alone and lost in her marriage with an unfaithful husband. These truths were well hidden from almost everyone who knew her, even knew her well. As close as we had become, I did not know them, until one night when Evelyn and I were enjoying a bottle of wine after a very hectic week.
I may not ever know the truth of that night. But I do know I miss the presence of one of the most influential people in my life. I do know that many lives were affected by her life and that many lives were drastically changed by her death. I do know that her memory lives on in her children, her children’s children, all that were fortunate to be a part of her staff, and all the kids who have gone through Valley Mill Camp in the 53 years of its existence. I do know that she is present with me each day as I circle up the girls of Valley Mill Camp, as we sing our silly camp songs and as I smile and loudly yell out ”First Period.”
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