I see you there, in the surf, splashing about with your sister on holiday. You are ten, going on twenty and as wonderful a person as a dad could hope for. Normally I write fanciful stories of when I was a boy. Stories about growing up in the hills and the silliness I did. Today, well…today is different. Today I want to tell you about when you were a girl.

            When you were a girl with your sun-drenched hair and sun-bright smile, so full of promise and hints of the woman you will become, we vacationed every year at The North Myrtle Beach Travel Park the first week after school was out. It seemed to make the last days of May a whirlwind of activity that both flew and dragged by.

            Finally we would load up the wagon and head south, sometimes watching the rugged southern mountains of WV, sometimes playing slug-bug but mostly you and Sissy with your heads in your I-pods or watching a movie. The inevitable choruses of “Are we there yet?” would make your mom and I smile a little on the inside, even as we scolded you for the constant haranguing. I’m sure you rolled your eyes more than once when I told you we would be there when you could see the ocean.

            First order of business when we checked in was how soon we could go to Broadway at the Beach so you could build your annual Build-A-Bear creation. You always put such thought and care into your selections, a careful and emotive mind at work. I remember them all, even if I forget the names sometimes. You always managed to talk us into getting the baby version to go along with your new wolf/dog/dragon. Don’t think for a minute we didn’t know you were angling for a second stuffed animal instead of one. And, don’t think for a minute that we ever regretted it.

            Sometimes, back at the camp, we would spend days at the beach or lounge in the pool. You and your sister always seemed to make new friends and were delighted to meet old ones from previous visits. You always were shy to start, but made connections there that were deeper than expected, often surprising in their intensity. I like that about you. I like that you are easily moved to tears, that you feel the world around you in such a unique way, that you are so present in your relationships.

            I know you have struggled with finding your way sometimes, especially with the girls at school and learning to navigate the cliques and meanness of young girls. I wish I could tell you it gets better soon, but it doesn’t. The way you have handled yourself so far gives me faith that you will do well. You are stronger than you know, regardless of having the lowest pain tolerance in the world.

            I see you there, when you were a girl, a bit self-conscious about being so much taller than your classmates and a little resentful of having grown-ups treat you like a much older girl. You have had to grow up a bit faster than the other kids and it makes you more of a leader than you know. That’s a good thing, but I know you sometimes wish the lady at the movie counter wouldn’t single you out with her questioning eye when we tell her you are still only ten.

            You handle it well, mostly. That little surly pout only comes out from time to time. You wouldn’t be a kid if you didn’t know how to pout. It has also made you funny. I wish you knew just how funny you are, with your quick wit and easy laugh. You can say the most insightful and hilarious things. It shows how well you see people and what occasionally ridiculous things we are.

            Watching you in the surf, I had visions of the woman you may become, a mom, an executive, a veterinarian. The images flashed by like the sun sparkling on the waves each one seeming full-blown and tangibly real. Flicker and flash of what might be spinning inside my head. And I wasn’t worried at all about any of it. Yes, I know there are hurts and struggles to come that will break your heart and try your spirit, but I’m not worried. You see, I knew you…when you were a girl.

Mom

       The faithful reader of this blog will know all about my mom and her issues with the DC police and Federales. If you missed it, catch up here…http://wheniwasaboy.wordpress.com/2011/04/29/my-mom-the-felon/.  I just want to take a moment to fill in the mental pic of the woman who gave me birth. She is more than the felon on the lamb you have been introduced to.

       When I was a boy, my mom was always there. In the magick-heavy valley of Sinking Creek, mom filled the traditional role of house-wife. Today that seems less than it did in the 70’s. Back then, most mom’s in WV stayed home. Kids needed tending to, as did the garden, house, laundry, etc. The value of a rock to which the house could be pinned was like air. Always there, constant and sure.

       Mom came from a very musical family and taught me to sing and the beginnings of piano playing. I can still remember sitting on the piano bench with Mom, learning the finger positions of the “F” chord. Like a stumbling first step, I may not be running yet, but at least I can walk and to that I owe a great debt to mom.

       Besides the mere physical and emotional aspects, mom was the spiritual garden in which I was planted. I have grown to be what I am because of her. Funny thing is, she is the off-spring of her mom and often told the story of her salvation and the beginnings of what it means to seek the face of God. So to tell mom’s story, I have to touch on Grandma Wine’s story too.

       When my mom was a girl, she lived up a holler in central West Virginia as one of the middle of 10 children born to Melvin and Eddie Wine. Think pre-TV, rural Appalachia with all the crushing poverty that implies. Boonies and beyond.

       One day, as mom was walking to church with grandma, they had a conversation about God. Grandma told a young Rita, “My salvation won’t stand for you. You have to find God on your own and not depend on me to see the face of God.” I want to expand on that….but I can’t. It is the essence of “Work out your own salvation with fear and trembling before the Lord” from a woman who had very little formal education, but was as wise as you could ever hope to meet. And yes, I know how blessed I have been to have such spiritual giants in my life.

       So even though I grew up in church, mom never let me be complacent about my spiritual growth. Never let me be complacent about much of anything, really.” See what isn’t there….look beyond what your eyes can see.”  Rita could give lessons to Mr Miagi in confusing mysticisms. That and the yodeling lessons pretty much summed up my youth.

       Not really. There are no words to describe the sense of safety and reassurance I have from my mom. That unconditional love and painful longing for my security and happiness I have seen pour from her eyes both lifts and pushes me forward. Today, when I get to spend time with Rita, it is invariably an uplifting time when we both walk away refreshed and happy with where the other is. For that, and so much more, I am thankful.

       So happy Mother’s Day, Miss Rita, and all you other mom’s out there. What you do is not in vain regardless of how it seems on those dark days, when everything seems to crash down around your ears and you are filled with despair for your offspring. As a very wise woman once told me, “There is no way to be a perfect mom, but a million ways to be a good one.”

       Here's to all you ladies looking for one of those million ways.

My Mom...The Felon.

       I have to beg your indulgence on this one. The events that I am about to relate are true. They happened after I was a boy, but not yet married. I apologize in advance to my mom and a few other people for dragging this out of the closet. If you see Miss Rita after reading this, try not to tease her too much.

      I come from a long line of famous-in-their-circle musicians. My great-great grand pappy was a fiddle player who is often credited with composing Soldier’s Joy during the Civil War. His boy taught his boy (Melvin Wine) who influenced my mom, who raised me. I learned all sorts of cool stuff from mom: gardening, milking cows, music and a directness with people that is sometimes to our detriment, which is a big part of this story.

      In 1991, my Grandpa Melvin was honored by the National Endowment for the Arts as a National Heritage Fellow for his lifetime of work at playing and preserving Appalachian Folk Music. It’s kinda a big deal…http://www.nea.gov/honors/heritage/fellows/fellow.php?id=1991_16&type=bio   The award came with a big poster, some pocket jingle and an invitation to play a tune at the Kennedy Center. Not too shabby for one of the most humble and peaceable men I have ever known. Seriously, he could have taught Gandhi a thing or two.

      The Wine family being what it is, we loaded up a tour bus and went along with Grandpa for his visit to the big city. If you are hearing the theme song from The Beverly Hillbillies, then you are on the right track. As a brief aside, if you ever have the chance to ride 6 hours in a tour bus….don’t. Seriously, trust me on this.

      So we roll into D.C. and check into the hotel with the admonition from mom not to raid the mini-bar. It’s a Friday and not much else is going on. My little brother and I, along with our girlfriends, decide to take in some of the sights. Walking along the Mall and seeing the spotlighted Vietnam Vets bronze statues appear out of the gloom of a summer evening is a vivid memory that I hope sticks with me forever. That and The Wall, and the Lincoln Memorial, and….well, you get the picture. Of course, the P.O.W.M.I.A. people looked at us askance, it being dark in D.C. and we being very white on the Mall. They feared for our safety and made us call a cab to get back to the hotel.

      The next morning we boarded the bus to go to a reception for that year’s honorees in some Federal building. Milling around in the lobby, I was a bit starstruck to note B.B. King was also being honored that year and we would later get to meet him. So imagine the scene: A hundred or so people in a Federal building, waiting to go thru the metal detectors and hang out with various Senators and fellow honorees with their families…when all of a sudden, momma Rita turns to me and says, “I’ve got a gun in my purse.”

      Let that sink in.

      Gun. In. Her. Purse…..Federal. Building….Washington, D.C.

      Holy. Crap.

      I quickly offered to take it back to the tour bus, but whipping out a pistol seemed a poor idea at the time, given the crowded venue with looming guards and men with ear-pieces who were talking into their sleeves. So mom and Melissa went back out to put her purse on the bus and be done with it. Of course, the bus is gone. Of course, they can’t come back in and face the metal detectors. Of course they decide to toss the little .22 caliber pistol in the bushes….outside a Federal building….in Washington D.C. ….in broad daylight….within a couple hundred feet of a police box.

      No. I am not making this up.

      So mom comes back in, just as cool as a cucumber and rejoins the tour group. All is well. We pass the detectors and meet the other honorees and marvel at the cool artisanship of their work. The quilts were stunning. B.B. King was gracious to anyone who wanted a picture. The displays of traditional artwork were impressive, as were the men in suits who eventually accosted Miss Rita.

      Just as a public service, let me point out that when approached by D.C. police it is never a good idea to spout off, “Oh, I see you found my gun.” It is a weak opening gambit that leaves you little room for debate or discussion. This we learned from mom’s example. We also learned that the D.C. police and the Federales despise each other and love nothing else so much as a good pissing match over jurisdiction, which is exactly what we had since mom’s clever repartee had been heard by representatives from both forces.

      So my mom, 50-something widower from the hills of WV, who wouldn’t say “poo” if her mouth was full of it was caught up in the machine of D.C. justice. She was booked and searched like a dangerous felon. I’m sure a few of you understand what that means. Not Fun.

      Also not fun was the pre-cell phone era chase around town trying to catch up with her and bail her out. Eventually, Senators Byrd and Rockefeller got involved to expedite the process. So my mom was convicted of weapons possession and run thru the system in record time. She managed to make it to the concert at the Kennedy Center just in time to see her dad play.

      Overall a pretty standard trip for my family.

      If you would like to hear a few of Melvin's tunes, here's a link...http://www.myspace.com/melvinwine ... Cold Frosty Morning is a personal favorite. Pretty sure mom is a big fan of I'll Fly Away.

Ringing the Bell

I was looking back at some of my earlier posts on this blog, smiling at this, shaking my head at that and wondering how I could even publish some of those other things. Something all writers do. Well, not just writers, any creator looks back at his creation and sighs sometimes or laughs. “Wow, that didn’t turn out the way I expected.” Or maybe, “That looks better now than it did when I started.”

When I was a boy, my father worked with his hands. He spent years working as a welder and craftsman at Murray’s Sheet metal shop in Parkersburg where his mates eventually made a little wand with a star on top that they gave him due to his wizardry with metal. It was made of stainless steel and rather heavy. I wonder what became of it? He had a unique way of seeing problems and often came up with surprising answers, which is why the really hard jobs came to him so often. He was a creator.

When we boys were born, he decided he didn’t want to raise us in the pollution of the Ohio Valley, so we settled in the magick-heavy valley of Sinking Creek near Glenville. For awhile he continued to work at Murray’s, but the commute was too long and he felt like he was missing out on raising his sons and so, Chapman Sheet Metal was born.

It was a small operation, dad and us boys really. But it put food on the table and kept us connected. Back then, air ducts for heating and air conditioning were made by hand at a metal brake. Bent to spec and installed by hand. Not cookie-cutter tubes that get tacked up in basements or slung thru attics. It was custom work. Individualized and special. It was an act of creation every time dad put in a furnace.

Dad created tons of things: tall bikes, winch-powered cranes, an underground house, solar heating systems, a metal bed….one of mom’s least favorite things. His creations weren’t always pretty or even functional, but he never stopped making something. He always had an idea for how to make it better. Everything.

He was a church leader, yet was for legalization of marijuana, quite the shocker during the 70’s. He thought the criminal element was worse than a few stoners eating pizza all night. He wanted to sing, but couldn’t carry a tune, so he worked like crazy at it. God bless JoAnn McHenry for her enormous patience. He knew, at an instinctive level, that The Church had gone wrong somewhere along the way and he applied all his work ethic and creativity to trying to fix Her.

He wasn’t always right, but he was always sincere. Thousands of people came to know Christ thru his ministry. He touched the lives of people wherever he went with a message that was accessible to working men and professors. “Try to do just a little more next time” was one of his main themes. “If you can say ‘Pray for me’ in church, then next time say ‘Please, pray for me.’” He was joining a long line of theologians who saw that something was amiss and worked to advance The Church as best he knew how. Something more than simple human failings was to blame, in his mind. There was some fundamental flaw in modern Christian teachings.

I think Earle Chapman would have liked Rob Bell.

For those of you unfamiliar with Rob Bell, he is causing a bit of a stir. He has a few books out, most notably Velvet Elvis and Love Wins that re-examine current doctrine and teachings. He is looking for that fundamental flaw in The Church and stepping on some toes while doing it. He, like my father, is part of a long line of discussion that has shaped and formed the church for ages. He, like my father isn’t always right (ask mom about that clunker of a metal bed) but he seems sincere and asks questions no one else wants to answer. Earle and Rob wouldn’t have agreed on everything, but it seems to me they think the same way.

I have only read thru the two books I mentioned earlier, just a single reading so far. I’m not buying his conclusions, but I’ll amen a lot of what he says about the love of God and the exclusion mind-set of The Church. He answers a lot of questions I was poorly asking in an earlier blog you can read here…http://jc-wheniwasaboy.blogspot.com/2010_07_01_archive.html.

So, if you are disenchanted with The Church or have left entirely, I am going to recommend you pick up a copy of Velvet Elvis: Repainting the Christian Faith by Rob Bell. Does it have all the answers? No, but it asks questions you never thought of and answers some you are too afraid to voice.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=UBSr-2THXxQ&feature=related

Ringing the Bell

      I was looking back at some of my earlier posts on this blog, smiling at this, shaking my head at that and wondering how I could even publish some of those other things. Something all writers do. Well, not just writers, any creator looks back at his creation and sighs sometimes or laughs. “Wow, that didn’t turn out the way I expected.” Or maybe, “That looks better now than it did when I started.”

      When I was a boy, my father worked with his hands. He spent years working as a welder and craftsman at Murray’s Sheet metal shop in Parkersburg where his mates eventually made a little wand with a star on top that they gave him due to his wizardry with metal. It was made of stainless steel and rather heavy. I wonder what became of it? He had a unique way of seeing problems and often came up with surprising answers, which is why the really hard jobs came to him so often. He was a creator.

      When we boys were born, he decided he didn’t want to raise us in the pollution of the Ohio Valley, so we settled in the magick-heavy valley of Sinking Creek near Glenville. For awhile he continued to work at Murray’s, but the commute was too long and he felt like he was missing out on raising his sons and so, Chapman Sheet Metal was born.

      It was a small operation, dad and us boys really. But it put food on the table and kept us connected. Back then, air ducts for heating and air conditioning were made by hand at a metal brake. Bent to spec and installed by hand. Not cookie-cutter tubes that get tacked up in basements or slung thru attics. It was custom work. Individualized and special. It was an act of creation every time dad put in a furnace.

      Dad created tons of things: tall bikes, wench-powered cranes, an underground house, solar heating systems, a metal bed….one of mom’s least favorite things. His creations weren’t always pretty or even functional, but he never stopped making something. He always had an idea for how to make it better. Everything.

      He was a church leader, yet was for legalization of marijuana, quite the shocker during the 70’s. He thought the criminal element was worse than a few stoners eating pizza all night. He wanted to sing, but couldn’t carry a tune, so he worked like crazy at it. God bless JoAnn McHenry for her enormous patience. He knew, at an instinctive level, that The Church had gone wrong somewhere along the way and he applied all his work ethic and creativity to trying to fix Her.

      He wasn’t always right, but he was always sincere. Thousands of people came to know Christ thru his ministry. He touched the lives of people wherever he went with a message that was accessible to working men and professors. “Try to do just a little more next time” was one of his main themes. “If you can say ‘Pray for me’ in church, then next time say ‘Please, pray for me.’” He was joining a long line of theologians who saw that something was amiss and worked to advance The Church as best he knew how. Something more than simple human failings was to blame, in his mind. There was some fundamental flaw in modern Christian teachings.

      I think Earle Chapman would have liked Rob Bell.

      For those of you unfamiliar with Rob Bell, he is causing a bit of a stir. He has a few books out, most notably Velvet Elvis and Love Wins that re-examine current doctrine and teachings. He is looking for that fundamental flaw in The Church and stepping on some toes while doing it. He, like my father, is part of a long line of discussion that has shaped and formed the church for ages. He, like my father isn’t always right (ask mom about that clunker of a metal bed) but he seems sincere and asks questions no one else wants to answer. Earle and Rob wouldn’t have agreed on everything, but it seems to me they think the same way.

      I have only read thru the two books I mentioned earlier, just a single reading so far. I’m not buying his conclusions, but I’ll amen a lot of what he says about the love of God and the exclusion mind-set of The Church. He answers a lot of questions I was poorly asking in an earlier blog you can read here…http://jc-wheniwasaboy.blogspot.com/2010/07/for-love-of-god-usually-i-post-cute.html.


      So, if you are disenchanted with The Church or have left entirely, I am going to recommend you pick up a copy of Velvet Elvis: Repainting the Christian Faith by Rob Bell. Does it have all the answers? No, but it asks questions you never thought of and answers some you are too afraid to voice.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=UBSr-2THXxQ&feature=related

Fox and Hound

       Today, I took my daughters and their friends sledding on Quincy Hill. The snow was fluffy and light with the sunlight pouring down, fighting a losing battle with the frigid temps to melt the snow. As I watched them load into their plastic sleds and rocket down the slope, I was reminded of when I was a boy, skidding down the hills up Sinking Creek holler.

       I know I have written about tubing off the mountain after we moved out of the valley, but today, the memories that flooded back were of when I was a little boy, down in the valley, where magick hung heavy in the air and each breath steamed with possibility.

       The 70’s were the coldest and snowiest decade of the past 100 years. I remember one year when we had snow around Thanksgiving and never saw the ground again until St Patrick’s Day. Where Mr Heckert crawled under the school bus and put on chains to get us to school in a half-foot of snow. Winter had teeth and we learned to avoid getting chewed on.

       One of the ways we dealt with snow was to play in it. Sledding was a first option, but sometimes a kid needed more to do than just trudge up the hill time after time. Thrilling as it was, sledding grew old after awhile. That is when we came up with “Fox and Hounds.”

       Imagine a game of tag played in snow, on a track made by tramping out grooves in the newly fallen snow. We would slip on our four-buckle arctics (remeber those?) and start making a design, a little train of young boys chug chug chugging after each other to fashion a web in the snow. The idea was to play a classic game of tag and stay in the confines of the pathway we had stamped out earlier.

       Often, we would start with a hub and wheel formation, but would eventually have a wider design with many rays and long winding paths that radiated off into the drifts. It seemed like hours were spent chasing each other around the labyrinths we had created, although I’m sure a few minutes passed for each seeming hour.

       What strikes me most, looking back thru the lens of time, is how we would often include a few paths outside the main wheel. Paths that would be just beyond reach, that paralleled the the paths most tred. Often we would be leaning out over those paths to desperately try to make that connection across the gap, fingers aching to touch another, to complete the game.

       It seems to me that we worried about those moments most of all, those times of near connection. And I came to realize that the fulfillment wasn’t from just catching someone to not be “it,” to not be the fox; but to play the game, to strive, to make the connection. Sometimes we have to be content to reach across the void and get close to someone else before drifting away on a precocious whim of the path we are on.

       Relationships are that way sometimes. We get close, but despite how much we strain and reach out to connect, we must eventually be content with running a parallel path. Friends are sometimes just a breath of a finger width away, to drift away and be drawn together thru the funnel of events and time.

       I miss those days of innocence and joy that shaped who I am, but even more, I miss the friends who stretched out a hand that was a whisper of a breath from mine. Friends I have lost, and friends I have found who reflect what I am. No matter how we drift apart or near, know that you are in my heart.

       God bless you all.

GPS and Banjos

     When I was a boy, we lived out in the boonies of West Virginia (yes, it’s a whole other state) where roads frequently became paths and those paths often stopped in someone’s yard. I know that concept may be unfamiliar to many of you, so let me repeat it. THE ROAD ENDS!!! No intersections, no round-abouts, just a car on blocks in the middle of an occasionally mowed area we will call a lawn. Usually, the owner would look darkly in your direction as his half-wit son would stop playing the banjo, prompting a quick wave and u-turn to get out of there in a hurry.

     Not really. That’s the sort of stuff we tell the tourists to keep them from moving in and setting up another Starbucks. More often than not, if …no no…WHEN you found the end of a road, there was no one home or you could have a nice visit and make a friend (not the Ned Beatty kind of friend.) Seriously, who believes that stuff? The boonies can be dangerous, but hanging up your truck in a ditch is about as bad as it gets.

     Actually, holler hoppin’ was a frequent pastime for me and Lori. I had a little Subaru wagon with 4-wheel drive that could put a young hormone-driven couple in the remotest areas. Not that parking was the only goal of our drives. We had no money, and gas was cheap, so random drives were our best entertainment. Even when we were out of college and could afford those fancy picture shows, we would often rather take a drive down a new road just to see what was there than spend a couple hours in a dark smelly room with a hundred strangers.

     As a quick aside: somewhere in Braxton county there is a back road that has a wooden bridge over a railroad track. It is on a little dirt road and the bridge arches steeply, leaving a blind drop where you just have to pray there is no turn at the bottom. If any of my WV peeps knows where that is, drop me a line.

     Flash forward to Fall of 2010. The family is loaded in the Freestyle AWD on our way to a wedding reception, when daddy decides to try out the GPS function on his phone. I know how to get where we are going, but I just wanted to check the toy out. Lo and behold! The GPS says there is a shorter route which will cut 20 minutes or more off the trip. What it doesn’t show is that a bridge is out on the chosen path. No problem, I’ll just hit this handy dandy “re-route” function and viola, a 4 mile detour pops up.

     I hesitated when the detour started with a left turn onto a gravel road, but forged ahead. I was a little nervous when the road narrowed and we bounced over some rock ridges, but pressed on. The GPS was with me and was my guide and comfort. When the GPS said “turn here” and all I could see was a deer path, yea verily, I was filled with doubt and misgiving. I looked over at my wife of 20+ years and saw the sparkling eyes of that little red-headed girl in a belly shirt from the 80’s and knew in that moment, that we were taking the kids on their first off-road experience.

     What Sprint Navigation called a road was a series of welltender paths meant for ATV use only. Two narrow mud ruts casually defined our new route across the ridgeline of some unknown hill in Doddridge County. The squeal of brush scraping down both sides of the Ford was matched by the two girls in the rear seats. For awhile, I thought we had lost them when we splashed thru a couple hundred yards of creek bed as a road, but they were just drawing in breath to squeal again. Good times, good times.

     Eventually we found a house (no banjos) and gradually the road led back to pavement. We had a good time at the reception and when the time came to leave, we considered the detour again, for about a second. The mud quickly washed off the roof of the truck, but I hope the memory sticks with the wee ones. It was a good trip, and a great reminder that the boonies are never more than a couple of turns away.