Uncle Charlie's Farm

My beautiful sisters Donna and Susan.

I have been blessed all of my life with two sisters who quietly and pleasantly fill in the gaps of my life. From hardship to spiritual lack to memory lapse, they have gently corrected my mistakes, set me back on my feet and even pressed a few dollars into my hand before sending me back out into the world--all of which speaks to their superior character.

Many times when I have spun my yarns I'll get a phone call or an email gently pointing out the factual errors in my recollections. "No, that was Della" or "that was five years ago" or "Colostomy?? No! He had a tracheotomy--wrong end!"

Therefore it is my distinct pleasure to offer the following recollection which, I'm sure, will generously provide those in the know with ample opportunity to engage, direct and confide.

Uncle Charlie he had a farm, he had lots of chickens.
Uncle Charlie he loved them all, they were his friends.

The girls--Becky, Susan, Colleen and Donna--used to sing that song quite often. Or rather, Grandmere, Sarlita, Carlita and Jarlita did. At one point in our youth we gave ourselves Mexican-style names although mine, perhaps, was more Spanish Colonial as I was called Don Diego. It doesn't speak well of our parents that someone felt that, since we were emulating immigrants, we belonged in the fields. That's how we came to visit Uncle Charlie's farm: we were recruited to de-tassle corn.

First, let me say what a lousy job that is and allow me to apologize to anyone I have ever unintentionally maligned for having to do any kind of agricultural work. I might add that our parents knew what they were doing when they loaded us onto that flatbed truck and sent us out into what appeared to be endless rows of feed corn. It was dirty, boring, hard work and, after we had finished, we found our wages (hot dogs, potato salad and tall, cold glasses of lemonade) to be, however sating, wholly inadequate to the task. Right away we learned that work is hard and that, because it is hard, one should be humbly grateful for and respectful of those things which were given to us through the fruits of our parents' own hard labor.

Sometimes I know for a fact that youth is wasted on the young. I will warn you, however, that a wise youth is a formidable force of nature. Think of all the things you know now--not just the factual reality of those things but the whys and wherefores as well. Now, imagine what you could have accomplished if you had possessed all of that knowledge and wisdom when you were 18.

It's only over the past ten years or so that much of what I learned 30 and even 40 years ago has started to make perfect sense. It may be because my perspective has finally shifted, thanks to time and age, to a point where it is aligned with that of my teachers. Because I now see the world from the same angle and manner in which they did I am more able to share in their viewpoint and benefit from their experience.

If that's so, then I need to remind myself to be appropriate and deliberate in my discussions with the younger generations of my family. If I truly want to help them, I need to offer advice and guidance while looking at their world through their eyes. I need to gently and lovingly offer kind assistance in much the same way as my beautiful sisters offer it to me.

Birthdays With Aunt Myrtie

Miss Myrtle Marquis, circa 1918.

Time, it has been famously said, keeps on slippin' into the future, and as it moves inexorably on to points unknown it leaves us bobbing in its wake to sink or swim with the outgoing tide. Change is a biological imperative and a key component of God's design. New generations rise to take our place and help us step down to take our last walk into the fading light. It is the most natural of phenomena, and yet I can't help begrudge a few minor points.

I appreciate the fact that my family, once so compact and easily contained, has become a large, gangly creature that romps about like an overactive but well loved chocolate Labrador. Full of exuberance and easy affection, it runs in circles that grow ever wider and far flung. I don't know half my cousins' children by face or name, and I am even a little hard pressed to identify their parents, too. It seems sometimes that I am losing touch not only with the generation that came before but the one that has come after as well. That bothers me a little.

I want to know these younger people, and I think it's a shame that most of them have not had the great privilege to grow up personally knowing the names I hold as famous: Ira, Kate, Della, Myrtle, Lyman, Lee, Perry and more. The wistful attention that I paid to the stories they told of Poly, Eileen, Hannah and Alexander years ago is what motivates me to tell stories like this one today.

Her name was Myrtle Elizabeth Marquis Jordan, although we always called her Myrtie. She was the third sister among Hannah's surviving daughters, and I still marvel at how close she, Kate and Della were. For a long time, they did not let a day go by without visiting one another in their homes, and they even worked together in the laundry at the Old People's Home.

Myrtie lived on Oak Street, too. In fact, she lived at three different addresses on Oak. She and her husband Frank, daughters Gerry and Elaine and sons Paul and Joe lived with the Huffstutlers at 153 during World War II. After the war, they lived across Raymond Street in what we came to know as "Mrs. Purdy's house." Finally, after Frank had died and her children had grown up and left home, she lived across and a few doors up the street with her friend "Aunt" Martha Huber.

Martha was no relation to us, but we called her "Aunt" just the same. She was very sweet but given to sudden lapses in comprehension that somehow always managed to devolve into spirited diatribes on the exemplary character of her parakeet, Buddy. (Truth be told, while she had the dedication necessary to own several parakeets over the years she had imagination enough for only one name: Buddy.)

Myrtie was such a frequent visitor at 153 Oak that she had her own bed there in Kate's room. When it was available, it's where I slept when visiting. If it was not, I ended up on the roll-away. One night, when the house was full to overflowing, Kate made me a bed in the bathtub. More comfortable than Myrtie's bed, which had a pillow that doubled as a sandbag (or vice versa), it became my instant favorite, and I gave Kate ample reason to regret her ingenuity for years to come. (Looking back, Kate may have been trying to safeguard my 7 year old pride during an extended bout with bladder problems and bedwetting--ingenious indeed.)

Myrtie was very sweet, always singing or whistling, eager to talk and laugh. She always shared gum--something no other adult did in my recollection--but she had a habit of sticking it under the table when she was finished with it and no one was looking. None of us ever dared to say a word about it (till now). She also wore clip-on sunglasses over her prescription glasses. It always struck me as so modern and stylish--as if she were a character out of The Great Gatsby--that it still fascinates me to this day.

At some point in her life, Myrtie had developed severe hip problems. I remember how she struggled to walk and how she lurched from room to room. It's only recently (thanks to my own hip problems) that I have realized just how much pain she must have been in--and yet she never complained. Instead, she always smiled, laughed and sang hymns ("The Old Rugged Cross" was always her favorite). She was at peace with her pain. In fact, she always seemed to have that "perfect peace" for which Kate, Della and Ira were so well known.

That's not to say that things didn't affect her. After she moved to the modern high-rise public housing apartment building on State Street, I spent the night there with my cousin (her grandson) Jordie. Space was tight in the tiny apartment, and Myrtie slept on a foldaway couch (how that must have added to her pain!). Jordie and I had the floor and we were fidgety and wound up (probably full of sugar) as 12 year old boys often are. Ten minutes of that and Aunt Myrtle laid down the law: be quiet, go to sleep OR ELSE. The next day, Myrtie was back to her old, happy self.

Myrtie and I had a special bond because we shared the same birthday. Growing up, we shared many birthday parties and cakes at Oak Street as well. She always made a point of singling me out for affection but, like Kate and Della, she also made a point of reaching out to all of my cousins. Between the three of them, they created a strong, wide web of love and affection that helped keep our growing, gangly family close and warm. Theirs was a high standard of family parenting--one to which I hope we can all continue to aspire.

Ave Maria

The group lived in Powell's Valley, Tenn. for a short time.

It is an alarming story. However, there are so many gaps in the narrative that one cannot report the course of events with complete conviction and authority. It isn't just a question of time and distance. Basic human decency, morality and raw survival instinct all converge to weave a patchwork story that contradicts itself and beggars explanation. It is a story so painful that one is left searching for a redemptive thread--a lifeline that, for all its insubstantial nature is still strong enough when flung in faith to rescue even the most lost of souls.

She could not have been more than 12 when they took her from her father's home. Maria Davidson was likely out in the fields, playing with her friend Susan Wood, when the two men snatched them and fled to North Carolina. The men--Micajah and Wiley Harpe, posing as brothers but rumored to be cousins--already had somewhat of a reputation for this sort of thing and were said to be part of a Tory rape gang terrorizing patriot families who supported the War of Independence. The men took their prizes to the wilderness of Tennessee where they joined the renegade Chickamauga Cherokee community of Nickajack. Years passed there, and the men honed an inexplicable, evil delight in rape, murder and violence. Micajah, for one, was said to be convinced that he was called by God to execute judgment on certain men but Micajah was not from God. He was a murderer from the beginning and, like his father the devil, he was a liar.

The small group left Nickajack shortly before it was raided and destroyed by U.S. troops after years of criminal activity and attacks on nearby settlements. However, it wasn't the impending destruction that spurred them to move elsewhere. It was the savage murder of their companion, Doss, that made them unwelcome. Doss had complained about the brothers' savage treatment of the women and was rumored to have more than a passing interest in their welfare. The brothers brutally murdered Doss, dumped his body off the main trail, and headed to Powell's Valley near Knoxville.

Life in a frontier settlement, however, proved difficult for the men and they resorted to stealing livestock and supplies which they then resold to other members of the community. Throughout the course of their association, the Harpes had presented the women as their wives. However, the dynamic within the group became somewhat skewed when Micajah legally married Susan and Wiley wooed and married a local Methodist minister's daughter, Sally Rice. It is perhaps at this point that Maria, with the alarming sobriquet of "supplementary wife", became "Betsey Roberts" and was regarded as Susan's sister despite the fact they looked nothing alike.

About a year after Wiley and Sally's marriage, the group met up with John Langford at an inn near Rockcastle River in Lincoln County, Kentucky. Langford befriended the group and, seeing that they were destitute (and that all three of the women were pregnant), bought the group breakfast and joined them on their journey along the Wilderness Road. It proved to be a fatal mistake. Days later, the Harpes emerged from the woods leading Langford's riderless horse. Langford's body was later found not far from the road.

The group was arrested and put in the Lincoln County jail on Christmas Day, 1798. After two months of plotting, the Harpe men escaped and left the women behind--not surprising as all three were heavily pregnant and it would have been nearly impossible to travel with them in the dead of winter. During the course of the women's 100-day confinement, all three gave birth. Betsey had a son. Susan and Sally each had a girl.

All three women were put on trial for murder. Susan was found guilty. Sally was acquitted. Only Betsey was found not guilty. Because the same evidence was presented against each of the women, the judge offered Susan a new trial. However, after four days, the Attorney General declined to re-try her. Having convinced the local townspeople of their innocence and their desire to have nothing further to do with the Harpe men, the women were released and sent on their way. As an act of charity, the townspeople took up a collection, gave the women a horse and outfitted them for the journey home to Tennessee.

What should have been a celebration of release from both the prospect of jail and the years of squalor and abuse at the hands of the Harpe brothers quickly took an inexplicable turn that defies explanation. The three women and children traded the horse for a boat and headed for Henderson County to rejoin the men.

Why? What possible reason could they have had for willfully going back to such a wretched life? Looking more closely at the circumstances of their situation, one can perhaps begin to understand. First, it cannot have been an easy decision to make. Surely, the three women felt themselves to be between a rock and a hard place--Betsey especially so. While Susan and Sally had the benefit of legal marriage, Betsey had no official designation other than the contemptible "supplemental wife." To complicate matters, she could not have been more than 17 at the time. She had no real family, no standing in the community, an infant son born out of wedlock and no advocate. The women were supposed to be heading "back to Tennessee" but where? They were driven out of Powell's Valley when the men were discovered to be stealing livestock, and Nickajack had long since been destroyed. The prospect of returning to North Carolina--even if she could recall where it was she had lived--must have been too daunting to Betsey. What family could have welcomed an unwed mother and rape victim after years of living amongst thieves, scoundrels and murderers?

Returning to the Harpes did not improve their lot. In fact, it made it far worse for the brothers, wanted with a $300 bounty on their heads, had gone from bad to worse by teaming up with an enterprising band of Ohio River pirates operating out of Cave-in-Rock in what would later become Illinois. The association, however, was short lived. The Harpe group was asked to leave after Micajah and Wiley had driven a man and a horse off the bluff onto the rocks below for their own private entertainment.

The departure from Cave-in-Rock established a momentum that fueled the Harpes' destruction and left a trail of bloodshed in their wake. After a spree that claimed the lives of nearly 40 people, Micajah was finally shot, captured, killed and beheaded. Susan, to her disgrace and horror, was forced to carry the head back to Russellville, Kentucky where it was placed on a pike for all to see. Wiley, having fled, abandoned Sally and made his way to Natchez, Mississippi and was eventually captured and executed.

Again, the three women found themselves incarcerated, examined and eventually exonerated. For a time, the three remained in the Russellville area. Sally later moved back to her father's home in Tennessee where she married a respectable gentleman and raised a family. Susan, too, was said to have returned to Tennessee where she later died. Betsey stayed in Russellville until--in 1803--something curious and unique happened: she met a man who drew her out of the darkness of her past and into the light.

Given that the facts are incomplete, I believe I'm entitled to take creative license as I turn to the matter of one John Huffstutler, a second generation Swiss-American immigrant from North Carolina who, I like to believe, had been looking for his missing childhood friend, Maria Davidson.

John's marriage to Betsey stands as a testament to her innocence and her redemption from the hell on earth in which the Harpe brothers had imprisoned her. Not only did they raise a large family (at least five children) over the course of their 60-year marriage, they also moved to Illinois and helped settle Hamilton County in the 1820s. Their son, George Washington Huffstutler (G.W. to the family) continued their legacy by marrying Susan Stelle (a cousin of one of Illinois' early governors) and raising a family of 10 children.

As a family story, Maria's history was never known until my cousin Becky and I stumbled across it while researching our family's line. Understandably, we were both horrified by what we found. "What kind of legacy does this leave us?" she asked. Having dug a little deeper beneath the surface, I would like to believe it is a legacy of hope and a testament to the power of faith and redemption. It's a legacy that speaks to the fact that no one is so lost that God's love and power cannot reach them. A legacy that stands on the old scripture "If we confess our sins, he is faithful and just to forgive us our sins, and to cleanse us from all unrighteousness." (1 John 1:9)

Don't Tell Me About Your Lifestyle

Kathleen and Jim with Cheryll, 1970.

Most of my memories of my cousin Kathleen revolve around the small, private war she fought against her parents and the other older adults in our family. As a baby boomer, I think she was the first of our generation to experience what it was like to have different life expectations than our parents.

It cannot have been easy growing up in a family of steadfast, unchanging Christian values against the backdrop of one of the most tumultuous periods in American history. There must have been times when she felt caught between a rock and a hard place. Her friends had so many things--color televisions, life-size dolls, closets full of store-bought clothes--while she (and the rest of us) had only black-and-white screens, rag dolls and home-sewn jumpers. It didn't help that our family had no money or that illness and circumstance demanded frugality from all of us. She could have become bitter about our lack but instead she became inventive and inspired--a crusading Auntie Mame of our very own who led us on a seemingly never-ending series of adventures.

Perhaps it is a little ironic that, perceiving a lack of "fun" in our lives that Kathleen introduced us to freedoms and activities that are unavailable to kids today. I saw my first drive-in movie (Live and Let Die) with my sisters Susan and Donna, cousins Becky and Colleen along with Kathleen, her husband Jim and daughter Cheryll. Eight people in one car must have been bad enough but Kathleen (surely silently screaming "Live! Live!") made sure each of us was liberally supplied with popcorn, candy and soda. I shudder today to recall that Jim calmly allowed a few of us to watch the adventures of James Bond while perched on the roof of his beloved, fire-engine red Charger.

Jim was always Kathleen's silent partner in crime (which, incidentally, is a shame because he happens to be wickedly funny). With his help, Kathleen simultaneously horrified our parents and delighted us by giving us our first lessons in driving (I was 12), taking us bowling (rented shoes!) and making that most pernicious of childhood dangers--candy--freely available (tooth decay!).

Strangely enough, Kathleen and my father were cohorts of a sort. Both regarded "bored" as a four-letter word, and both constantly pointed to the myriad of activities available to us that could be undertaken without parents. Fireworks, for example, were best watched from the roof (although they did require a certain hushed secrecy and ready access to a ladder). If a parent absolutely had to be present, then he or she was expected to chauffeur us from one suburban display to the next, chasing the bright explosions across the county until we were too tired to "ooh," ah" and "oh."

However, whereas Dad had a tendency to counsel caution for fear of inevitable lifechanging ínjury, Kathleen urged abandon for the sake of joy. Challenged by authority, her response was a call to arms, "Don't tell me about your lifestyle!" and she preached a message of curiosity, exploration and wonder. Thanks in large part to her, my cousins and I share a love of laughter, board games and good chocolate. Hers is a legacy I fondly remember.

So much of what we experienced as kids has been lost over the years. There were times when we could roam literally for miles on foot without causing our parents any concern. We could chat with people we hardly knew or didn't know at all without fear of being compromised in any way. We could build houses in alien trees, cavort with strange dogs and ignite ill-gained cherry bombs without any adult supervision whatsoever. The world is a darker place today with a dearth of open spaces and a surplus of fear. It's not safe for children any more, and we have to accept that. At least that's the way it seems until I hear those immortal words in my head: "Don't tell me about your lifestyle!"

Time After Time

While time may not be on my side, it is certainly on my mind. It seems to flow at different rates lately depending on my level of interest, access to distraction and depth of ambition. Sometime it runs away from me. Other times, it lingers pensively, studiously contemplating the pot upon the stove to legislate that, no, it shall not boil.

We think of time as a progression, a pointed movement along a singular, firmly rooted, linear track that deviates neither to the left nor right but instead rolls sonorously off towards a horizon we can only describe by its opposition to our current location. The past--presumably fixed behind us--is then. This, beneath our feet, is now. And there? There we shield our eyes from the light of the setting sun and nod to tomorrow.

Time, however, is an illusion. It's an elaborate system that we--spiritual beings caught in corporeal frames that fade and fail--employ in a vain effort to control the circumstances of our lives. Time, in a very real sense, isn't real at all.

This is why God is able to tell Jeremiah, “Before I formed you in the womb I knew you, and before you were born I consecrated you; I appointed you a prophet to the nations.” (Jer 1:5) Because God was, is and always shall be, He exists completely always. Because He did not become God over time but instead is the same yesterday, today and forever more, we know that God does not--indeed, cannot--change.

Therefore, because God exists at all points and at all times, He has complete knowledge of us. We have free will to make our own choices, but He already knows what those choices are and will be. He already knows all outcomes, and He seeks to reassure us that He is always there, always accessible and always the same--yesterday, today and forever more.

Suddenly, time no longer seems so pressing.

Out the Back Porch

Della, Eileen and Frank on the front porch at 153 Oak.

It made a sound like a rifle, but it was not a rifle. It was a simple, wooden screen door that Ira had outfitted with a heavy-duty steel spring mechanism that snapped it shut with a resounding CRACK! every time we barreled through. That sudden report was very telling, and it immediately identified the unseen visitor by name and reputation. If the sound were loud, convulsive and echoing, for example, one immediately knew that it was Susan, running at top speed through the kitchen, out the door and down the steps to the garden beyond. If there was a hesitancy to the point of a softer, double knock, it was Donna, stepping out on the back porch to evaluate Susan's activities and decide whether or not she wished to participate. If, having been held open as far as possible and then let go until the door slapped shut with a noise like a cannon, it was me--just for the sake of pure cussedness.

The door wasn't always disruptive of the neighborhood, however. There were lazy days of summer when--two houses down--you could hear it open and shut with a sense of quiet satisfaction that merged with the rising song of the cicadas in the backyard mulberry tree. It was a good bet, then, that whoever had walked through that door did so with a cold glass of lemonade or, even more enticing, an oversize cone of ice cream. We heard--and responded to--that siren call better than any plaintive shouting of our names.

Summer's heat was kept at bay in other ways as well. Kathleen had birthday parties in the backyard with a small, inflatable pool and a handful of swimsuit-clad friends. Better yet, we ran through the hose, spraying each other and shrieking until Dad--aggravated with the sound and lacking conversation with Kate, Ira and Della--came out to warn us that excitability (that most childlike of emotional experiences) led rapidly down a darkening path to "somebody" getting hurt.

Our forays into the yard on summer Saturdays were curtailed by the line of wash stretched across the backyard. A sturdy cotton rope sailed from the back porch to a pole set in the ground.The long, lazy sections--heavy with sparkling white linens--were propped up with gray, weathered lumber Ira had specifically cut for the purpose. Too short for laundry folding duty, we were tasked with policing the clothesline and ensuring that Kate's pristine wash didn't touch the ground and that the summer winds, which lifted the maples with sudden soaring sighs, didn't carry away her sheets.

It was the tiniest of yards and yet, to a child, it was the largest of worlds with plenty of opportunity for adventure and exploration. A mysterious old well, filled in with a century of trash and dirt, beckoned to the archaeologist in me, and I happily dug and scrabbled in the dirt for hours on end. I was fascinated with the shiny, soft pieces of jet I found, not caring that they were actually humble chips of coal intended for the home's original heating system. Susan, Donna, Becky and Colleen almost always played in the garden, picking flowers and weaving them into strands so they could play "wedding" or some other game specifically designed to proceed without male accompaniment (hence my fascination with coal).

In summer, rainy days were filled with storm, and Kate, Ira and Della were keen to keep us occupied and away from the windows where, we were sternly assured, we could draw the lightning cast down from above. Those were the afternoons when we huddled around the dining room table and collaborated on one of Della's many puzzles. She would assign each of us a particular section, reserving the expert challenge of a cloudless blue sky for herself if only to keep us children from becoming frustrated.

Nights were sometimes stifling in summer's open window heat and humidity, and yet they were always magical in the safety and security they provided. There was never any fear of the dark or longing for Mom and Dad in the middle of the night--just the soft, warm, enveloping sense of home and the promise of a bright tomorrow.

The Facts of Faith

Kate, Helen and Susan at Oak Street, 1960.

Faith, we are told, is the substance of things hoped for, the evidence of things unseen. And while it may seem ephemeral to some, real faith is a thing of fact--not possibility. At least it was that way for my grandmother Kate.

Few people have impressed me more in the course of my life than she did with her steady, firm walk with God and her distinct, clear viewpoint that continually weighed matters in God's terms. Her personal strength and unimpeachable character were second only to her unswerving faith, and she continues to serve as an example of right living to me and the rest of my family.

Things were never gray with Kate. Either they were pleasing to God or they were not. And yet, she wasn't rigid or unbending. She was experienced enough in life and wise enough about people to only feel compassion for those around her and an urgent need to do what was necessary to improve their condition.

Once, I am told, she stood before the Elgin Bible Church congregation after the Sunday morning service offering had been taken to announce she would be at the back of the church with the Pastor to take a second offering to send to the Petersons, longtime missionaries who were headed back to their posting in Taiwan. Short of funds, clothing and supplies, they were stuck in California. As family friend Betty Rommel recalls, "Kate said she knew we had money left in our pockets."

Later, at the evening service, it was announced that enough money had been collected and wired to the Petersons to pay their passage and to outfit the entire family. "It took a lot of courage to do what she did," said Betty.

Courage, in fact, was one of Kate's many traits. She was also bold, intelligent, determined and generous to a fault. In the mid 1930s, after she and her children had returned to Elgin from the family farm, her home became a neighborhood ministry of sorts to the homeless drifters that ranged up and down the nearby rail lines. "Hobos," as she called them, would come to the back door asking for food. Kate would sit them down on the back steps while she fixed them a generous plate. While they ate, she would hand them an inspirational tract and talk to them about Christ and the transformative power He offered for their lives.

While Kate's cooking earned their gratitude, her message held their interest because she spoke to them from her own personal experience. She knew the pain and constraints of poverty. She, too, had experienced inexplicable loss and grief. She, too, knew the struggle of doing what was best rather than what was easiest. How many of those men sought God in response to her sharing I don't know. However, I do know that she held them responsible for the message she'd imparted, and I know that, having planted the seed, she was certain that God would do the harvesting.

Faith was the backbone of Kate's life, and it grew out of the facts of her personal experience. It's hard, sometimes, to equate my own personal struggles with hers because they pale in comparison. Hers was, at times, a hardscrabble life and yet, looking back, I am hard pressed to recall the evidence of it. Good food, laughter, fellowship and prayer overflowed in her home. To my eyes and my recollection, there was never any lack--only an abundance of blessings from God and the concrete evidence of things unseen.